romancing the aromantic
the grief and joy of letting yourself be who you are rather than who you wish you were
With Pride month at an end, I find myself still reflecting on queerness. Probably because it’s a lifelong thing, contrary to all the brands who try on a rainbow profile pic for thirty days. This year makes my eighth year out, four years since I committed to my label of aroace person. And I feel like every single year I’m still learning new things about what it means to be queer. There’s so much history I missed out on that I need to learn, but more than that, I find that my present views and ideas about sexuality are always changing. As I age, my experience becomes both more concrete and more fluid. Somehow I know myself and my sexuality better than ever, and yet I still find myself changing the definition of what I want and what I need.
And what I’m realizing this year, at this moment, is that even though I’m happier than I’ve ever been with who I am, I am also still trapped in a cycle of grief about my sexuality and my future.
A lot of times when people talk about queerness and sexuality, there’s this underlining message of joy about discovering who you are and who you get to be going forward. We talk about PRIDE and how everyone should be allowed to express themselves in their own way, to love who they want to love unabashedly, to feel all these beautiful feelings without shame. And this is all well and good - queer people should be free to be themselves, to be loud and proud and happy. But one of the most difficult things about coming to terms with my sexuality, my asexuality and my aromanticism, was the sorrow that came with it. I’m proud now, and I don’t feel shame for being who I am, but god if I’m not still a little sad. As annoying and ridiculous as it is, I am still mourning the heterosexual self I was promised.
For those who are new to the alphabet gang, the A in LGBTQIA+ is for aspec, which includes asexuality, aromanticism, agender, etc. In basic terms, asexuality is a lack of sexual attraction, or rather, people who experience sexual attraction to few or no genders. It’s a very broad umbrella, even more so than bisexuality or pansexuality, if only because there’s such a diverse experience within the aspec community. Not only do asexual people label their sexual attraction (asexual, graysexual, demisexual, etc) but they also tend to label their romantic attraction (aromantic, biromantic, heteroromantic, etc). When you experience limited attraction, or very specific attraction, it’s a lot more difficult to label yourself in general terms.
All of this is to say, the aspec community is vast and varied, and it can be a lot more challenging for asexual people to understand their sexuality than others. While I don’t think it’s valuable to pit sexualities against each other or to claim that one sexuality has it harder than anyone else, I do think it’s important to recognize the unique challenges of the aspec community. Even though there’s been a huge shift in awareness and knowledge over the last decade, asexuality is still one of the least recognized sexualities, and it’s not nearly as mainstream as something like bisexuality. (Although there are many similarities between these communities. An essay for another day.) Aspec people not only struggle to know that asexuality exists, but they also struggle to understand the differences between allosexuality and asexuality. We deal with internalized heteronormativity like many other queer people, but we also deal with allonormativity. There’s layers to sexuality that a lot of allosexual people do not realize because it’s mostly irrelevant to their experience, but for aspec people, these minute differences are the key to understanding who we are and how we are different from our peers.
I’ve been out online since I was twenty-one. I started questioning my sexuality as early as middle school, but I didn’t learn about asexuality until I was fifteen or sixteen, and I wasn’t committed to the aroace identity until I turned twenty-five. Now, at twenty-nine, I’m shocked that I ever had to question who I was. My sexuality feels concrete and stable, a foundation that always existed, a truth that never wavered. But that doesn’t mean it was easy to get here. It also doesn’t mean that I’m always content.
One of the reasons why my journey took so long, why sixteen year old me refused to accept that she was actually aroace rather than just heteroromantic demisexual, is because I did not want to let go of the concept of a romantic partner.
When I was a teenager, I felt like a significant other would not only fix me and keep me safe, but also that it would bring me a certain joy that nothing else could. I’m a 90s baby which means I was raised on the Disney Renaissance, so my earliest memories were of princesses falling for princes. Not only that, but my family had a very limited number of divorces (frankly I can only think of one or two in a tree of 15+ couples) so from a very young age I was surrounded by people in love who stayed in love. I had no reason to think I wasn’t promised the same.
What I did not understand at the ripe young age of fourteen (when I spent a year writing letters to my future husband, who I now know does not exist) is that deep down I did not want a husband or a partner or a marriage. Not because I didn’t believe in marriage but because the idea of a partner made me supremely uncomfortable. I always joked that if I had found a boyfriend, I wouldn’t know what to do with him, and I’d end up dragging him behind me like a little puppy. But I still spent years assuming that it would all pan out, that one day I’d find The One and he’d sweep me off my feet and all this fear and confusion would fade away and we’d just Make Sense.
As I watched my friends fall in love, I got jealous. Fast. I didn’t necessarily want their partners (because honestly, most of my friends’ high school boyfriends were idiots), but I wanted the joy that sparked across their faces when they had someone. I wanted someone to tell me I was beautiful, I wanted someone to protect me and pay for me and pick me over anybody else. I was promised a partner, so where was mine?
Another reason I had such a hard time accepting my aromanticism (not so much my sex-repulsion, that was always easy to recognize) was because I love reading romance books. And I know what you’re thinking, “But sex makes you uncomfortable! You’re not romantically attracted to anyone! How can you enjoy smut!” Now you understand my dilemma, why sixteen year old me was so utterly, hopelessly confused by her sexuality. Because I did genuinely get that butterfly feeling while reading Slammed by Colleen Hoover. (What? It was 2012, that was all I had access to. Let me live.)
Here’s the truth. Part of why I am so intrigued by romance books (and movies and otherwise) is because they are tangible ways to understand allosexual people. It was like playing pretend: I could try on the costume of being in love, having sex, being attracted to someone without actually doing it. Because I couldn’t do it. And more than that, I didn’t understand it and it terrified me. Allosexual people are really frustrating because the answer to the question “How do you know if you’re attracted to someone?” is truly “You just know!” But those of us who’ve never experienced it don’t “just know.” We’re searching for a feeling that we’ve never felt, that doesn’t exist in our bodies or brains or hearts. We’re grasping at straws trying to see something that’s invisible. And romance books are a how-to guide on what that looks and feels like.
Granted, it took me a long time to feel comfortable reading about sex. The romance part was always easy, read about a nice guy who just wants to care for his girl, how sweet. But then when you go into specifics of taking off clothes and kissing and other things, I felt like I was standing naked in front of the whole school. I was disgusted. I was embarrassed. I was trying to put myself in the shoes of these main characters, and it made me want to throw up because I never wanted to be in a room naked with a guy.
Then there’s the other side of the coin. The more I read about male love interests, about hetero sex and straight love stories, I started to wonder if I’d just made a big mistake. I’d read so many straight romances, maybe I just needed to read about queer sex. Maybe if I read about a female body instead of a male one everything would click. Because I did always believe that the biggest problem was that I didn’t comprehend what sex was like or what a relationship was like. Maybe I just didn’t know how girls had sex so that was the problem.
It was not the problem. But, I did discover that female sex was not nearly as excruciating as male sex. (I really just don’t like the male anatomy, I’m sorry guys.) While I couldn’t ever imagine myself being attracted to a woman or interested in having sex with a woman, I could at least read about women and not feel totally grossed out.
But that’s just physical sex. The romance was the part I read these books for. I wanted to see what a relationship was like, I wanted to watch people fall in love. Romance is compelling to me because it forces two people to be vulnerable and intimate, to care for each other and understand each other and ultimately learn about themselves in the process. It’s about the human spirit, through and through.
And unfortunately, I just never felt very connected to female love interests like I did male ones. I always relate most to the broody man who’s learning how to open up to the bubbly girl. I always just wanted to see two people learn how to be vulnerable, maybe because I have a hard time doing that myself. Maybe a part of me chased a romantic partner because I just wanted someone to push me to be vulnerable. Was I attracted to the men in these books or was I attracted to myself? Was I actually secretly straight? Did I want a relationship with a guy and I just couldn’t find the right one? What was the truth! Why did I enjoy reading about romance and watching it on a screen, but then when faced with romance for myself I felt not only indifferent but fear?
I’ve been on exactly one date in my life. When I was twenty-four I was determined to experience the thing that everybody has experienced, so I got on a dating app, found a guy who was kind of sweet and not horrible, and then ten seconds after I walked into the coffeeshop to meet him I thought, Oh shit, I do not want any part of this. (Not to worry, we got coffee for an hour, watched a movie, then got dinner afterwards. I almost ditched him during the movie when I went to the bathroom. I texted him immediately after getting home that it was not going to work out. Yay.) True, part of it was that he wasn’t the kind of guy that I’d consider myself attracted to (hypothetically, in my mind when I’m reading a romance book I feel like I have a Type) but he held my hand at one point and I wanted to vomit so…is that him or is that me?
(We all know it was me, obviously.)
I’ve always been terrified of talking to guys, and I just assumed that the fear was attraction. I felt butterflies, but I never realized they weren’t whimsical fairy creatures in my gut, they were actually fretful moths trying to fly directly into the light. Attractive men in real life make me want to throw up. In part, because I feel deeply uncool, but also because I don’t know how to act around them (it’s the neurodivergence). I don’t feel the same unease around attractive women or nonbinary people, the thrill isn’t the same, but there is still some kind of a weird feeling there. When pretty people pay too much attention to me I feel like I need to hide or divert their gaze or shrink myself. And I can only imagine how I would feel if I had to deal with this in a real romantic relationship.
For a long time after I discovered asexuality, I felt disappointed. True, there’s nothing wrong with not being attracted to anyone, but have you read a romance book? Have you watched someone fall in love? That shit is the coolest thing in the universe. I love watching people’s walls crumble, I love watching someone learn another person inside and out, I love watching two people create a life together. I wanted that, dammit, and it wasn’t fair that I couldn’t have it just on a technicality.
So, for a long time I searched for loopholes. I tried to find the only exception, I tried to teach myself how to be allosexual or alloromantic. I reasoned that surely there was one person out there who would date me without having sex. I met a guy who was aesthetically perfect, who did pay attention to me, who for all intents and purposes befriended me and gave me butterflies, but even then it wasn’t enough. It stopped being about me and how pretty I was or how cool I was (because I’m almost thirty, I know I’m fucking amazing) and it became about the other people in the world. No one was right for me. There was nobody I could conceivably let my walls down around, who I’d want to date. And that was frustrating as hell.
I moped around. I spent plenty of Valentine’s Days being sad and depressed. I studied sexuality like it was my major, hoping that surely one day I would find the missing piece of my puzzle and I could finally live the allosexual life I craved. I spent years of my life devastated that my parents were so lucky to not only find each other and commit to each other, but also to be born inherently heteroromantic. That they didn’t have to do a single thing and they were just created to fall in love.
But in the end, the thing I discovered is that all those things I wanted from a romance book, the intimacy and closeness and vulnerability and care, already existed in my own life. I had actually already fallen in love. Many times. I just didn’t realize that’s what was happening. And I was so focused on how beautiful certain celebrities looked from afar that I couldn’t appreciate another kind of beauty.
If I’ve learned anything in the past decade, it’s that all of society’s views on romance and love and sexuality are wrong. Queerness exists to make our lives exactly what we want, and that means learning who we are to understand exactly what our own version of love looks like. Even after I came out, even after I met more queer people and read queer books and learned more about sexuality, I never fully understood that my version of love is completely unique and it is defined on my own terms.
I’ve written plenty of essays on friendship and its intersection with queerness, but it took me a very long time to understand how friendship intersects with romance. At least in my life, maybe not in yours. Because all those times I fell in love, all the things I’ve craved from romance books? I have them in my friends.
Ultimately the thing I was craving when I sought a romantic partner wasn’t a kiss or someone to do my taxes with, I just wanted someone to see me. Even if it was painful, even if I did everything in my power to fight against that. I’m really just the brooding guy in the rom com who won’t open up, who wants someone to take the time to tell me that it’s okay to not be emotional but that they want to spend time with me anyway. I’m the girl who’s fiercely independent who won’t let anybody take care of her when she’s sick, who gets uncomfortable when someone decides to pay for her dinner, who doesn’t know how to talk about her feelings. I don’t enjoy being perceived (an essay for another day) and I have a hard time being loved, but romance books made me want that. It made me want someone that I could put all my love into. And I still wanted the butterflies.
But I do get butterflies…it’s just not quite the same as a Colleen Hoover book.
I’ve had great friends my entire life, and every phase of my life has given me some amazing people to hold onto. I love my friends because they’re funny and smart and nerdy, and they love me for me. But I didn’t realize that if I asked my friends to be my significant others (figuratively, I’d never actually talk so bluntly about my needs, duh)…they would show up. Over and over and over again.
Unfortunately, the people who love me the best are very perceptive and I can get all those silly Oh god, he sees me moments without ever having to touch another person. And maybe the “he” in question isn’t some pretty boy who looks like Chris Hemsworth but rather a pretty girl who often looks like a normal human being with greasy hair and no make-up. If the vessel is different, if there isn’t that physical attraction, can there still be connection? Abso-fucking-lutely.
It’s when my best friend agrees to drive an hour out of the way to pick up my developed film on her day off. When my best friend listens to my obnoxiously long forty-five minute voice memo about the book I’m writing or the relationship drama I’m living or the show I’m watching. When my friend texts me on my birthday not to wish me well but to make sure I know I am allowed to cry if I feel out of sorts. When my friend willingly drives me to the airport or helps me move or gives me their extra COVID tests or checks up on me when I write an overly-dramatic Substack newsletter. When my best friend casually says, “Well, I told him that no matter what happens between us if we start dating, it’s me and Jenna until we’re ninety because she and I are going to be best friends forever,” and I can tell she actually means it with her whole heart.
Honestly, sometimes all it takes is a moment where I realize that my best friend has told all her other friends that I’m completely amazing, that strangers know who I am and what I do because my friend talks about me so much, so highly that other people perceive me as this Wonderkind Extraordinaire just because she adores me so much. That’s some romance book shit.
I spent so much of my youth watching friendships fizzle or fade or light up like wildfire that I accepted long ago that we only borrow our friends for a time, that you’re not allowed to keep them because eventually they will take their heart away from you and give it to a partner. And if my friends are just my friends, then that’s not all that special because even allosexual people have best friends that they snuggle with or cry with or tell their deepest darkest struggles to. But then why do I get that bubbly feeling when my best friend texts me that she appreciates how thoughtful I am? When I know that I get to spend a whole weekend with my other best friend, watching movies and going to her favorite places in her home city? When my friend boldly asks how I’m feeling today?
Why can’t the butterflies come from connection rather than attraction?
Sadly, it’s one step forward two steps back sometimes. I still love romance books, and I still have days where I sit back and think Man, I really wish a big guy with a six-pack would take care of me. But then I remember that my best friends are actually super hot and funny and they take care of me in their own ways and I feel better. And then I remember that if a someone like Chris Hemsworth actually did try to hold my hand or cook me dinner or ask me why my last few Substacks were so depressing I would probably light myself on fire and walk into oncoming traffic. I keep reminding my brain that I DO NOT WANT A PARTNER (or a man, for that matter) but the internalized allo-heteronormativity still reigns supreme.
And that does mean that the grief comes and goes. If I stare too long at my parents or listen to too many stories about my best friend’s cool new guy, I start to get the itch. The jealousy. The sadness. The frustration. But then I shake myself out of the trance and open my book and thank god that I never have to have sex with anybody, that I can always go home to my own bed alone.
We spend so much time encouraging people to be who we are that I think we forget that sometimes coming out is the death of another version of you. The death is necessary and ultimately for the better, but that doesn’t change the fact that you have to kill a part of yourself to be happy. Sometimes it takes a long time to kill that part of yourself, and even then, it doesn’t entirely disappear. Queer people always say that you spend your whole life coming out because you constantly are meeting new people and forming new relationships, but we’re also spending our whole lives coming out to ourselves, learning new bits of information about who we are and what we desire and where we want to go. Every day we are new, and that means putting pieces of ourselves to rest over and over and over again. The grief of aging, etc.
It’s exciting to know that even though I know who I am, I will spend a lifetime getting to know myself. That even as I lay parts of me to rest now, they may grow again or resurface or become something new. And all the things I’ve learned in my twenties are setting me up to have a truly romantic thirties. Maybe in another ten years I’ll discover that some friendships do last for decades and that contrary to a lot of allosexual friendships, my friends will actually continue to take care of me even if we aren’t married. Who knows! That’s life!
If you want to know what some of my favorite romance books are, here’s a fun little list. Not all of them are winners and not all of them are romcoms, but they are all swoon-worthy.
This post brought to you by my chaotic first read of The Love Hypothesis. Say what you will, but if this is Reylo fanfic maybe I am a Reylo girl because it’s entertaining and swoon-worthy as hell. Sue me!!!
a lovely read! it’s nice to read something that, although describes the feeling of wanting to be heterosexual, is overall very positive about aromanticism and asexuality.
reading this like it's preaching truths like a religious text (it is)