La Federación Estatal LGTBI+ (FELGTBI+) denuncia que una de cada diez personas asexuales ha sido agredida física o sexualmente en España durante el último año.

Los datos provienen de la investigación Estado LGTBI+ 2024, elaborada por 40dB para la FELGTBI+, que además revela que el 75 % de las víctimas no denuncian los hechos ante la policía.

“Existe la falsa creencia de que las personas asexuales no sufrimos violencias, pero los datos revelan que tenemos tasas similares a las del resto del colectivo”, explica Leticia Rey, miembro de la Comisión Ejecutiva de la FELGTBI+. “De hecho, al margen de las agresiones, el 25 % de nosotras hemos sufrido acoso y discriminación”.

Según el ACE Community Survey Summary Report de AVEN (2022), casi el 50 % de las personas asexuales ha recibido comentarios inapropiados, el 43 % ha escuchado sugerencias de “curación” y el 35 % ha sufrido agresiones verbales.

En España, según el Censo de la Comunidad Asexual (2021/2022), una de cada cuatro personas asexuales ha mantenido relaciones sexuales por presión social, y tres de cada diez lo han hecho para sentirse “normales”.

Comúnmente definida como la orientación sexual caracterizada por la ausencia de atracción sexual hacia otras personas, la asexualidad, aunque pueda ser considerada poco común —se estima que representa aproximadamente el 1 % o menos de la población—, no es un concepto nuevo.

El espectro asexual es muy amplio y diverso, e incluye a personas asexuales (que no sienten atracción sexual) y grisexuales (que pueden sentir una atracción sexual poco intensa, infrecuente o bajo circunstancias específicas). A las personas que sí sienten atracción sexual de forma “normativa” se las denomina alosexuales.

Al igual que la heterosexualidad, la homosexualidad, la bisexualidad o la pansexualidad, la asexualidad —también conocida como “ace”— es una orientación sexual, y las personas que se identifican como tales pueden, además, identificarse con cualquier identidad de género.

En el marco del Día Internacional de la Asexualidad (que se conmemora anualmente cada 6 de abril desde 2021), la FELGTBI+ hace un llamado a la concienciación sobre el espectro asexual: “Las personas asexuales necesitamos reconocernos para darnos a conocer. Para que se sepa cuántas somos, y para poder, junto con nuestra comunidad LGTBI+, reivindicar nuestras necesidades y alcanzar la igualdad de derechos. Eso solo se conseguirá si se habla de nosotras desde el respeto y se nos deja hablar por nosotras mismas”, defiende Rey.

“Por eso, reivindicamos que se promueva la visibilización y sensibilización social de nuestra realidad. Que se eduque desde la infancia, tanto en el ámbito familiar como en el escolar y sanitario, en el consentimiento informado y libre, diferenciado del consentimiento coaccionado, viciado, no dispuesto o pasivo. Hay que cuidar a nuestras infancias y adolescencias asexuales para que no vivan una vida que no desean, solo por la presión del sistema. Necesitamos espacios seguros y apoyo en los entornos clave”, concluye.

The post Una de cada 4 personas asexuales ha sido víctima de agresión en España el último año appeared first on GAY TIMES.

Photographer James Klug captures the incredible performances from asexual and aromantic creatives at The A Show.

WORDS BY ZOYA RAZA-SHEIKH
PHOTOGRAPHY BY JAMES KLUG

In 2023, GAY TIMES sought out emerging queer photographers and help them break into the world of arts, media or advertising. 

The lack of funding and opportunities in the arts is one of the key reasons we see a shortage of LGBTQIA+ representation in media and advertising. Breaking into photography as a career can be difficult, especially with the associated equipment costs and a need for experience. 

For James, who has been photographing London’s queer scene for over two years, they’ve found joy and community in connecting with events like The A Show. “The reason I wanted to highlight the A-Show is that it is perhaps the only cabaret that I know of that represents the intersectionality of Queer, A-Spec and neurodivergent communities,” they explain.

“As someone who is on these various spectrums, it is joyous to be able to be in a room with others who are also part of these communities and to watch an amazing variety of A-Spec performers doing things ranging from singing and poetry to dancing and the distinctly chaotic drag of East London.”

Following the closure of The Glory, which we had Photographer Lydia Robinson capture its final night of queer celebration, James found photographing The A Show, at the newly opened The Divine, much more meaningful.

“The Glory is where I first saw and photographed drag and where I learnt to become a photographer and met so many wonderful people,” they tell GAY TIMES. “So, it was a sentimental choice to share photos from my first time at the new venue.”

GAY TIMES also spoke with The A Show organiser and drag king Landfill to hear more about the show’s beginnings and connection with the A-spec community. “I created The A Show because as someone on the asexual spectrum, I didn’t see myself in the community or queer drag scene in London, or really anywhere in society,” they say. 

Landfill adds: “The Asexual and Aromantic spectrum is very misunderstood even amongst the queer community and we’re subject to one of the highest rates of conversion therapy in the community.

“I created the show and space for A-spec people to come together in a safe space and express ourselves, as well as allies to come along and support us and learn more about our community.”

The post Vibrant photos showcasing A-spec cabaret brilliance appeared first on GAY TIMES.

“In a most general sense, the more a fraysexual gets to know a person, the less sexually desirable that individual becomes”

WORDS BY BOBBY BOX
HEADER BY YOSEF PHELAN

If you’re someone who routinely finds yourself becoming less sexually attracted to somebody the better you get to know them, there is a chance you may be fraysexual.

Of course, I cannot label anybody’s sexuality apart from my own, but I did somewhat recently post about this sexual orientation on social media and messages came flooding in from grateful folks who were relieved to discover that there was terminology for the unique way they experience sexual attraction.

Fraysexuals are individuals who are sexually attracted to strangers, or people they don’t know very well. In a most general sense, the more a fraysexual gets to know a person, the less sexually desirable that individual becomes. The degree to which this happens will vary by individual, of course, but that is the gist.

Fraysexuality is a sexual orientation on the asexuality spectrum. Contrary to popular opinion, this isn’t because they don’t experience sexual attraction, rather they experience sexual attraction in a very specific way.

Fraysexuality is considered the opposite of demisexuality, a sexual orientation describing someone who experiences sexual attraction only after they’ve established an emotional connection. For example, where a demisexual may require several dates before experiencing sexual attraction, a fraysexual would likely lose sexual attraction the better they get acquainted with someone.

Like most niche sexual orientations, people often dismiss the legitimacy of fraysexuality, insisting the person simply has “commitment issues” or an avoidant attachment style. This isn’t true, and the result of a lack of information and visibility. A fraysexual can have commitment issues and/or an avoidant attachment style, but sexual orientation is its own entity apart from these traits.

“How one feels about committing to a relationship–particularly feeling anxious, nervous or avoidant of making relationship commitments–is not connected to our sexual orientations and how bodies function within our sexual orientation,” Cody Daigle-Orians, asexuality educator, author and creator of Ace Dad Advice, explains. “[Fraysexuality is] a physical experience that has been demonstrated as a pattern over time, and is how this person functions concerning sexual attraction. There isn’t going to be ‘The One’ who will be different for them. This is who they are to their core.”

The Good Men Project offers qualities folks who think they may be fraysexual should consider: First, although you long for a stable and loving relationship, you gradually lose interest in sex. Second, early on in a relationship, you have intense sexual desire, which gradually fades as you get to know the other person better. Next, no matter how committed you are emotionally, you cannot rekindle the flame. And last, you are more attracted sexually to strangers than to those you know well.

Ben, 33, identifies as fraysexual, and says he’s never been the type to need a romantic or emotional connection to enjoy sex. If anything, these emotions would detract from it. This became particularly evident in his prior relationship, where he’d regularly cheat with strangers instead of having sex with his partner.

When they split, Ben decried he’d never be in a monogamous relationship again, and instead pursued his ambitions of becoming an “ethical slut.” Ben is now happy in an open relationship, and fully discloses the sex he has outside of his relationship with his partner. In fact, it’s become foreplay. “We both love hearing about the other’s random hookups during sex, and it’s sort of a way to bring that thrill of unattached sex into our loving sex life,” he says.

Jasper, 35, is a fraysexual who feels similarly about monogamy. “As a fraysexual, committing to monogamy is equivalent to celibacy; I cannot find sexual satisfaction inside a relationship,” they say. “Over the last ten years, I’ve been able to find rewarding and fulfilling non-monogamous relationships that have given me the freedom to express my sexuality outside of my relationship.”

Jasper first caught wind of fraysexuality when listening to Savage Lovecast, a sex advice podcast from Dan Savage. Though it was mentioned just briefly, Jasper was intrigued by what he’d heard and rushed to Google the term.

“The description validated the many confusing feelings I have experienced with everyone I have ever dated,” they remember. “My relationships always start hot and heavy, but my sexual interest dwindles after a few months, even as emotional intimacy continues to grow.”

Not long after, Jasper sat down with their partner and explained the discovery. While their boyfriend wasn’t thrilled by the news, he was grateful to know that the lack of sexual desire wasn’t about him. They decided to navigate Jasper’s new discovery together.

“The conversation helped us temper expectations about what our sex life has to look like,” they say. “Like all relationships, it requires constant communication about our wants, needs, and desires to make it work.”

As a fraysexual, committing to monogamy is equivalent to celibacy

While Jasper and Ben happen to be in open relationships, fraysexuals can thrive in any type of relationship style. As Jasper said, the key is being clear about your wants, needs, and desires.

“The partners have to be clear about how they function in relation to sex and sexual practice and are committed to being frank about changes in the dynamic,” Daigle-Orians says. “Relationships are about compromise, and as much as a fray partner should understand and make space for their partner’s experience, the partner needs to make space and understanding for the fray partner to be fray.”

Both Jasper and Ben admit one of the largest and most frequent hurdles about fraysexuality has nothing to do with them, but explaining their sexual orientation to others. Jasper says it feels like they are constantly feeling pressure to convince people that fraysexuality is different from “having less sex with your partner as time goes on,” which, of course, is very common in relationships. Both often feel judged following their disclosure as many will absentmindedly dismiss fraysexuality as some selfish excuse to sleep around.

This closed-minded perspective is sex-negative, queerphobic, and reinforces heteronormative, homonormative and mononormative (the idea that monogamy is more natural than non-monogamy) structures that are harmful to everybody. “We have a very harmful idea that sex is only valuable when it’s connected to emotional or romantic feelings, and it’s preferable if those feelings are exclusive to one other person,” Daigle-Orians says. “But sex can be beautiful, powerful, fulfilling, and valuable without deep feelings. Queer folks need to stop thinking that we achieve some sort of nobility when we mimic heteronormative values and standards for sex.”

It isn’t mentioned much, but sexual attraction isn’t necessary in a relationship. It can be an important and helpful component, but it isn’t essential for a relationship’s success. Normative sexualities have led us to believe the only good relationship is one where sex, romance and all types of attraction are firing all at once, forever. But that’s not true, or all that realistic.

 

View this post on Instagram

 

A post shared by Bobby Box (@bybobbybox)

Though it’s not surprising, very little (if any) research has been written on fraysexuality. So unfortunately we don’t exactly know how common it is, though the Good Men Project did casually toss out that one to five percent of the population is fraysexual without citing any sources. Considering one to two percent of the population is asexual, this figure probably isn’t too far off.

Of course, there could be many more fraysexuals out there, they just don’t know such a thing exists. Being visible, vocal, and patient (oh, so patient) has proven to popularise and legitimise lesser known sexualities throughout history. Much like Dr. Joe Kort has recently accomplished when popularizing “sides,” who represent individuals that prefer non-penetrative sexual acts.

Fraysexuals: If it feels right, satiate people’s curiosity by educating them on your sexuality. Advocate for asexuals everywhere. Who knows, maybe they can relate. One of my closest friends now identifies as a fraysexual after we had a frank chat about it on a road trip. Maybe this article has done the same for you.

The post When less is more: Let’s talk about fraysexuality appeared first on GAY TIMES.

Britain’s first report into the lives of asexual people has triggered a national conversation about the difficulties they have in coming out at work and raised the question of whether they should be legally protected.

The research, carried out by Stonewall and asexual activist Yasmin Benoit, calls for the orientation to be specifically named in legislation aimed at protecting LGBTQIA+ people from discrimination.

Here’s what you need to know:

What does it mean to be asexual?

Asexuality is described as the quality of experiencing little to no sexual attraction. An asexual person may still experience romantic attraction and in doing so could also use other terms – such as straight, lesbian or gay – to describe their orientation.

According to a 2023 survey, conducted by polling firm IPSOS, an average of one per cent of adult respondents across 30 countries said they identify as asexual.

There are 28,000 people in England and Wales who identify as asexual, according to the 2021 census, published in January this year.

What challenges do asexual people face?

Asexual people are vulnerable to conversion therapy practices, experience difficulties in accessing healthcare and are likely to be discriminated against when they come out in a work environment, Stonewall’s report said.

Young asexual people in the United States were also found to be more likely to encounter higher rates of depression and anxiety compared to their LGBTQIA+ peers, research by The Trevor Project showed in 2020.

Other research has shown that asexual people are often stigmatised due to societal presumptions that all people experience some form of sexual attraction, making it more difficult for them to come out than it is for other sexual minorities.

Just 17.6 per cent of asexual people said they had received “only positive” responses after coming out at work, according to Stonewall’s analysis of Britain’s 2018 National LGBT Survey.

Asexuality currently remains pathologised under the International Classification of Diseases (ICD) as Hypoactive Sexual Desire Disorder, meaning asexual people are at risk of being directed towards medical intervention if they consult their doctor or GP.

A campaign by activists led to the disorder being amended in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM) in 2013 to protect asexual people from being misdiagnosed in the United States.

“Conversion therapy usually starts off coming from GPs; it often comes from gynaecology and particularly smear tests, and the lack of provisions for people who haven’t had penetrative sex before,” Benoit, who co-authored the Stonewall report, told Openly.

“That process can often lead to the medicalisation of [asexual people’s] experience.”

Where do asexual people have legal rights?

While asexuality does not face the same criminalisation risks as same-sex relations or gender transitioning, the orientation can fall victim to loopholes in legislation intended to protect members of the LGBTQIA+ community.

In Britain, asexuality is not regarded as a sexual orientation under the 2010 Equality Act, which only refers to heterosexual or same-sex attraction. Asexual people were also not included in the government’s plans for a conversion therapy ban.

New York became the first area in the world to specifically protect asexual people in 2003, when it included the orientation in its Sexual Orientation Non-Discrimination Act.

In 2023, Tasmania became the first Australian state to officially recognise asexual people, adding an ‘A’ to the term LGBTQIA+ in government documents.

“We know from our research that asexual people often face harassment and discrimination because of who they are and are often excluded in discussions on LGBTQ+ rights,” said Robbie de Santos, Stonewall’s director of communications.

“There are widespread societal misconceptions of what it means to be asexual and the issues they face, including a lack of explicit protections.”

Reporting by Lucy Middleton.

GAY TIMES and Openly/Thomson Reuters Foundation are working together to deliver leading LGBTQIA+ news to a global audience.

The post What is asexuality and what legal rights do activists want? appeared first on GAY TIMES.

Just Like Us ambassador Iona Makepeace-Lott explores how asexual people don’t conform to romantic conventions.

Words by Iona Makepeace-Lott  

I’m asexual. I don’t experience sexual attraction, and that’s perfectly fine. Who cares, right? It would be reasonable to assume that asexuality only affects whether or not a person has sex. Reasonable, but sadly wrong. The problem is how interweaved sex is with our society’s way of viewing relationships and intimacy. Let me explain.

Picture a romantic relationship. These imaginary partners are very much in love. They fall asleep in each other’s arms, they spend evenings together watching TV, snuggled up so that one person’s head is resting on their partner’s chest listening to their heartbeat. Their relationship has all the hallmarks of a typical romantic partnership.

Now add to the narrative that they don’t have sex. No particular reason, it’s just that neither of them have ever wanted to. Is that difficult to picture? Nothing just described was sexual in any way. It was about love, and physical intimacy. It’s difficult to imagine physical intimacy without sex because society says they can only come together as a package.

This is why asexuality affects my life, and why I’m annoyed about it. It is still difficult to even picture a future for myself where I am in the kind of relationship I want. Even though asexuality is about a lack of sexual attraction, not necessarily a disinterest in love or relationships.

Part of the problem is the assumption of sex in our cultural understanding of relationships. We have romantic conventions that provide a convenient shared idea of what dating a person will look like, even before we get to know them. This is like a culturally-agreed shorthand, and without these shortcuts and shared expectations, figuring out a relationship from scratch can be somewhat overwhelming.

One of these pieces of shared understanding is that sexual attraction is an essential marker of a healthy or viable relationship. We always hear advice that if there’s no “spark” then a potential relationship is probably not to be. Even if everything else is perfect.

Even figuring out what romantic feelings look like when you’re asexual can feel difficult. Most people don’t need to think about it too much because sexual attraction can be a useful barometer. For lots of people, romantic feelings are a glorious fusion of close friendship (i.e. love) and sexual attraction. This makes life slightly confusing for people who never experience sexual attraction.

I don’t need advice. Clearly what is needed if you can’t fall back on romantic conventions with your partner is lots of frank conversations where you forge what you want the relationship to look like. This seems like a simple solution. Talking to your partner or crush is always sensible advice, and yet there are always barriers. Maybe it’s fear of rejection, or awkwardness, or maybe you just don’t know what you want. With conversations around asexuality, these may still apply, but with the added difficulty that there aren’t many templates for how to have these conversations because of the lack of nuanced asexual representation.

Happily, there is another side to this coin. The beauty of being asexual is that because your whole existence breaks what others assume to be the “rules” of romantic relationships, you are forced to create new ones that are bespoke to you. There is a necessity to have that radical conversation with your partner, that while sometimes uncomfortable, results in a stronger relationship that is better for the very reason it’s uncomfortable; it doesn’t rely on other people’s scaffolds for what a relationship should look like. It’s what you want it to be.

The post ‘Asexual relationships require radical honesty – that’s what makes them so beautiful’ appeared first on GAY TIMES.

For Asexual Awareness Week, writer Allie Daisy King explores how she came to terms with her asexuality and the need for ace individuals to be recognised by the wider queer community.

WORDS BY ALLIE DAISY KING 

I spent so much of my life wondering when I was going to get my foot-popping kiss, ever since I first watched The Princess Diaries. Everything I came across had me poised to expect fireworks. Then, when it finally happened, aged 18 in the back of an Uber in Melbourne, I was confused. I was expecting my first kiss to awaken something inside of me. I thought there would be fireworks. I thought I would hear Sixpence None the Richer’s ‘Kiss Me’ on a loop in my head. But, there was nothing. No hunger or desire; there was only neutrality.

As you can imagine, this was bewildering to me. I had been falling for this person over the past year. I had romantic feelings for them, so I just assumed that I was physically attracted to them as well. After all, that’s usually how it’s supposed to go. The difference between physical and emotional attraction was so unfamiliar to me and I didn’t want to confront these feelings.

Looking back, during my late teens I had an inkling that I did not experience sexual attraction like the people around me. I considered every feasible possible label that I had heard of. I questioned if I was attracted to women, but I wasn’t wired that way. Little did I know, I was not wired in any way. Nobody around me spoke of asexuality outside of it being the butt of a joke, so I continued living my life assuming I was allosexual – that is, that I experienced sexual attraction in a manner that society deems to be “normal”. 

Despite what I was beginning to realise inside, I tried so hard to prove to others that I was a sexual person. I went from wearing turtlenecks and cutesy dresses to wearing low-cut tops, in an attempt to appeal to the male gaze. I had such a desire for male validation and to have men find me attractive, in an experience that now feels disingenuous to me. In some ways, I relate to the experiences of women who love women. Not only does the world assume that most women are straight, pushing them towards prioritising potential sexual and romantic relationships with men, it also assumes that women are allosexual – something I’ve experienced first-hand.

Due to these external pressures, I continued to ignore my growing awareness of my own sexuality. That was until a few years later, during a YouTube deep dive in lockdown. Scrawling Buzzfeed videos, I stumbled upon a video on what it means to be demisexual – an orientation where individuals only feel sexual attraction after developing an emotional or romantic bond with someone. Intrigued at this new phrase, I sat through the 8-minute explainer and, by the end, felt like I had solved a mystery about myself. While demisexuality and asexuality aren’t interchangeable identities, the exposure to alternate ways of experiencing attraction was eye-opening.

Memories of years of repressed asexuality came flooding into my mind. From refusing to hook up with people at parties and the discomfort I felt around masturbation, to the utter neutrality I felt during my first hook-up, it all started to make sense. I suddenly knew why I was more concerned with other people’s sexploits than my own – and I now had the language to distinguish between romantic attraction and sexual attraction. I finally understood myself better. 

After all, when I was growing up, my queer peers were able to look to gay and bi characters on mainstream shows like Glee – but I didn’t have the same privilege of seeing my asexual experience reflected back to me on screen. In more recent years, coming-of-age queer dramas, featuring ace characters, have made me feel understood and accepted. I even came out as asexual online after discussing how Ca$h from Heartbreak High helped me come to terms with my identity. 

It is not overexaggerating to say that moment was the smartest choice that I have ever made. By sharing my experiences, I felt empowered to challenge how the media depicts asexuality and help other people come to terms with their own identity. Now that a new ace generation is opening up about our identity and demanding more on-screen representation, I hope this will bring more discussion and awareness and that asexuality will no longer be the lost letter of the queer acronym. 

The post It’s time that asexuality stopped being the lost letter in the LGBTQIA+ acronym appeared first on GAY TIMES.

To mark IDAHOBIT, Philip Baldwin speaks with activist Yasmin Benoit about ‘expanding the conversation’ around asexuality and acephobia.

WORDS BY PHILIP BALDWIN
PHOTOGRAPHY BY SOPHIA PAGET

Yasmin Benoit is blazing a trail through her work highlighting asexuality. Yasmin and Stonewall launched a ground-breaking project last year.

It’s not unfair to say that, going back half a decade, some of us might have been unable to tell you what the “A” in LGBTQIA represented. It was fascinating chatting to Yasmin for International Day Against Homophobia, Biphobia and Transphobia, which is marked on 17 May.

I began by asking Yasmin what IDAHOBIT means to her?

IDAHOBIT is a yearly reminder of how asexuality and acephobia and other forms of aphobia aren’t recognised by other people, which is a shame because that’s not what the occasion is about. As someone who is asexual and aromantic, we’re not really included in the way “IDAHOBIT” is phrased. Asexuality often isn’t recognised as a sexual orientation. Many people don’t even realise acephobia exists or how it manifests. Unfortunately, every year we look to expand the conversation, if we’re going to be tackling discrimination, but then it happens again the following year.

Are attitudes towards ACE people changing?

I think that the awareness around asexuality is getting better. I like to think that people are becoming more accepting of it as existing. In comparison with the attention other orientations and identities get and the emphasis placed on support and recognition, progress is slow. While I can say things are getting better, there is still a remarkable lack of interest which has left asexual people 100 steps behind everyone else and in a much more vulnerable position.

What piece of advice would you give to your younger self?

I would tell my younger self to stay true to who I am. There were a lot of people who would have preferred that I changed or at least pretended to change. I’m really glad that I did stick it out and stayed true to myself, not compromising who I am at any aspect of my life. After a decade or so, people started to get it and it started to work out for me. That wouldn’t have happened if I’d morphed into someone more palatable and acceptable.

What would you like to say to our readers?

Because this is going out to an LGBTQ+ audience and there is a big lack of understanding from the wider queer community when it comes to asexuality, I always say that if you’re discussing sexuality and you’re not including asexuality then you’re only getting half the story and really limiting your perspective.

Can you expand on this?

I would encourage everyone to be more aware and understand that asexuality is not incredibly niche. We’re around 1-2% of the population, at least. It’s not a community of people who are anti-sex or are going to stop others from expressing their sexuality. We are just part of the community who need the same amount of attention and care as everyone else, because we’re a really unprotected demographic. I think the queer community needs to do more and it would be good to have your support.

Find Yasmin on Instagram. 

The post Yasmin Benoit: ‘Asexual representation is 100 steps behind everyone else’ appeared first on GAY TIMES.

“As an asexual person, I can often feel excluded from the wider LGBTQ+ community,” writes Just Like Us ambassador Sarah Sharp this International Asexual Day.

WORDS BY SARAH SHARP, A JUST LIKE US AMBASSADOR

In the early days of discovering my asexuality, I had several openly LGBTQ+ friends, which you’d think would have helped a questioning ace. But compared to them, I didn’t see myself as LGBTQ+. Even surrounded by those people, it would be a long while before I even heard the term ‘asexual’. They didn’t see me as ‘one of them’ and neither did I, making finding out who I was that much harder.

Today I identify as asexual and queer. But even now, I am constantly questioning whether I only use the ‘queer’ label to feel more LGBTQ+, to feel like I’m allowed access to LGBTQ+ spaces and social circles. I still find myself questioning whether being asexual on its own is enough.

As an asexual person, I can often feel excluded from the wider LGBTQ+ community. It can feel as if we are tolerated rather than welcomed, and sometimes even like we’re outright rejected. Having our validity disputed by LGBTQ+ peers is the most hurtful form of exclusion I have experienced.

I’ve had a bisexual friend tell me I can’t be asexual because “everyone experiences some sexual attraction”. A group of so-called ‘friends’ thought that if I went out and had a drink with them that I might suddenly not be asexual anymore. I’ve had LGBTQ+ friends who thought that saying I was asexual was somehow an expression of disapproval or their sexuality or the wider queer community. I’ve had a hard time coming out to people, often having to come out several times before being thought of as LGBTQ+. Months after I came out to someone close to me, it became clear that they hadn’t even realised; that was heart-breaking. You can only be talked down so many times before you start expecting the worst and become hesitant to even mention asexuality.

But the reality is that we are many, and we are valid. We deserve to take up space. But currently it feels like the world – even the LGBTQ+ community – isn’t designed for us; we don’t quite fit yet.

Asexuals experience sexuality differently from the heterosexual majority, and I therefore have always seen being asexual as a LGBTQ+ experience. The community, however, sometimes seem to disagree. It feels like this is often based on the idea that asexuals are ‘not really oppressed’, that because our issues are different, we don’t belong. But this thinking completely ignores the societal problems and pressures that negatively affect aces, for example the assumption that everyone wants to get married and have children, and the pressure on happily single aces who are often put into uncomfortable situations or made to believe there’s something wrong with them for not wanting those things.

Though the issues we face might be different from some of the LGBTQ+ community, this is true of all LGBTQ+ identities – we don’t all face the exact same problems.

I once attended a LGBTQ+ online event which included a treasure hunt game. In groups, we had to track down various objects and take a screenshot of us holding as many as we could. One of the objects listed was a Pride flag. I held back, afraid that the other people might not recognise or accept my asexual Pride flag, but it soon became clear that no one else had a flag to hand. Hearing the group agree that we should use my ace flag was a game-changer for me. That was the first time I had seen other people within the LGBTQ+ community explicitly recognise and accept the asexual Pride flag. Sadly, the fact that asexuality was accepted this time round felt like the exception, not the rule.

Since I first moved to London in 2018, I sadly haven’t seen a lot of progress on asexual inclusion. Most LGBTQ+ events appear to be open to all identities, but make no mention of asexuality. Few asexual Pride flags are displayed either in person or on social media. I only really go to events that are specifically for the ace community because I worry about being an imposter. I feel I am one of them but do they feel the same?

The times when I feel most comfortable are when people have perhaps read up on asexuality, or know a bit about it, and so believe and welcome me when I mention I’m asexual. I particularly feel included when the full LGBTQIA+ acronym is used by peers, or an asexual flag is displayed. With a little education, I believe the wider LGBTQ+ community has the ability to be more welcoming, and I hope to see more inclusion in the future.

The post The ‘A’ is not for ‘Ally’ – As an asexual, I sometimes feel excluded by the LGBTQ+ community appeared first on GAY TIMES.

In paid partnership with Hinge

Header: Liv Lawrence

Taking place on April 6, International Asexuality Day provides a time to honour people around the world who fall under the ace (a shortened term for asexual) umbrella, including those who identify as demisexual, grey ace, and other ace-specific identities. 

Founded in 2021, International Asexuality Day was formed by a global coalition of different individuals and organisations. It is built around four main themes: advocacy, celebration, education, and solidarity. This day joins Ace Week in October as an opportunity to build visibility and awareness for ace people, whose experiences and intersecting identities can sometimes get erased or sidelined when highlighting the lives of the LGBTQIA+ community. 

International Asexuality Day offers a dedicated time to centre and lift up ace people so they can live authentically and with happiness. A key part of this is ensuring that people who fall under the ace umbrella have space to explore their identities. It’s why GAY TIMES and Hinge have partnered with AroAce educator, content creator, and social worker Zoe Stoller (they/she/he) to provide insight and advice for a Not-so Frequently Asked Question (NFAQ) around dating and relationships for ace people. 

There are many intersections and differences when it comes to people under the ace umbrella, which can lead to asexual people sometimes facing misconceptions or a lack of understanding around their identities. For example, one question that arose from the community was: does being asexual equal being celibate? 

One important thing to remember is that asexuality is a spectrum. “This means that there’s no one right experience, or one right way, to be asexual,” explains Zoe. “There are some asexual people who are celibate and don’t enjoy sex in any capacity. But there are many asexual people who do.” 

@gaytimes“Does being asexual equal being celibate?” 🤔 GAY TIMES and Hinge asked Zoe, an asexual creator, about their asexual experience for this latest Not-so Frequently Asked Question 💜

♬ original sound – GAY TIMES

As Moe Ari Brown, Hinge’s Love and Connection Expert and licensed marriage and family therapist, notes, the choice to engage in sex or not is independent of one’s sexual orientation. “Romantic and sexual attraction are two distinctly different ways of experiencing attraction, and for asexual people, the distinction is an important one,” Moe adds. “Many asexual people experience romantic attraction and prioritise romantic connections when dating.”

When it comes to their own experiences with asexuality, Zoe says that there have been times in their life when her comfort and desire for sexual intimacy have fluctuated. “This means that there are periods where I have engaged in sexual relationships and periods where I haven’t,” they add. What’s crucial to remember is that how you choose to live your life does not negate your identity. 

“Regardless of my levels of attraction, desire and my ultimate action, or lack thereof, I am still asexual and completely valid in my identity,” says Zoe. “The same goes for every other experience.” 

Given that the foundations of International Asexuality Day are education, advocacy and solidarity, it’s essential that all ace people have the support and space that they need in order to celebrate their lives. If you have a Not-so Frequently Asked Question around self-discovery and creating a meaningful connection, leave it as a comment in the TikTok for Zoe. 

80% of LGBTQIA+ daters on Hinge have struggled to find answers to their questions about relationships, self-discovery, gender, and sexuality. See what other inspiring voices like Zoe have had to say at hinge.nfaq.co and submit your own.

The post Does being asexual equal being celibate? appeared first on GAY TIMES.

Monty Benning reflects on their asexual journey and how Alice Oseman’s novel Loveless made them feel “validated” in their identity.

Words by Monty Benning, a Just Like Us ambassador

I’m Monty, I’m 21 and last year, just after Ace Week, I started using asexual as a label.

I wanted to try the word out for myself, staying consciously open to the thought that I would likely change my label again. I thought I would quickly realise it wasn’t the right word for me.

I was not prepared for the intense, immediate relief I felt in that label. Apparently, I had tried very hard my whole life not to be asexual.

When the topic of crushes first came up as a teenager, I was sure we were all just trying to be more grown-up. Everybody else faked, and then so did I.

I picked a person, someone people had made comments about for me anyways, and tried to make myself feel all the emotions I’d read about. I faked the shyness, excitement and then jealousy when they started to go out with someone else, trying to dislike the person they were going out with.

But as we got older, “I don’t have a crush on anyone” seemed to be an even more glaringly unacceptable response. And maybe it was me, maybe I just didn’t understand what a crush entailed. No one ever explained it, so I’ve probably had crushes all along and just couldn’t decipher them as such.

And so I reflected on all my past relationships (all platonic), and the close friendships I had had that ended and became retrospective crushes. I was sure, next time I got a crush, I’d know.

Then a very close friend told me they had a crush on me. I didn’t know what to answer – we hung up the phone and I was shaking. I knew they meant a lot to me. I knew I didn’t want to lose them, I was very scared that I might. The thought that they might want to kiss me made me shudder, a friend laughed at my innocence but I could barely say it aloud.

My brain couldn’t comprehend more than that. So probably not a crush back, then.

The situation resolved itself and, for a few months, my mind wandered away from any stresses about crushes.

Looking back, everything makes so much sense. Writing it now, it seems ridiculous that I ever thought I could be anything other than asexual.

But for most of my time growing up, I didn’t know asexual was something I could be. It wasn’t a word I knew, an option I was given, or had ever seen represented.

Even when I first learned about identity, I couldn’t connect to it. The definition was vague and unclear: “someone who feels little to no sexual attraction”. How I could I relate to that when I wasn’t sure I knew what sexual attraction was? It was also (falsely) talked about as people who don’t want sex. I don’t want sex. But I really wanted to want sex.

Seeing asexuality represented, and represented well would have made me grow up feeling a lot less lost.

I thought I was wrong or somehow already failed at being human. I still hoped to wake up one day, a new me, someone who has crushes, who wants to have sex and who understands this world we’re in.

Every piece of media I consumed, every book, every movie, every song, was either completely focused around a romantic/sexual relationship, or had them in the background. There was never someone who didn’t want that without it being a big deal. Worse, characters who weren’t as outrightly sexually or romantically inclined were depicted as completely emotionless and robotic.

Seeing asexuality represented, and represented well would have made me grow up a lot less lost.

It was only last year after Asexual Awareness Week that everything became really clear for me. My social media was full of content regarding asexuality – and I realised it was all just a little bit too relatable to push away anymore. It made me rethink all the crushes I thought I must have had, why someone having a crush on me filled me with such dread and so on.

And it made me feel a little more OK with maybe being this, and it made me a little sad about the long journey it had taken for me to get there.

I recently read Alice Oseman’s Loveless. We follow the main character on her journey to realising she is aro-ace, and coming to terms with that. I read the 450 pages in half a day – unprepared for just how validated it would make me feel.

And thankfully I know now that asexuality is normal. I forget sometimes, too (it’s very easy to forget), but it is. And there are so many ways to be asexual – there’s not a universal experience for all asexual people, it’s a very broad spectrum. We need more representation that mirrors that.

Through Just Like Us, the LGBTQ+ young people’s charity, I get to be part of creating that positive representation. As ambassadors, we go into schools and talk about who we are, how we grew up in our LGBT+ identities, and what would’ve helped us. We get to put faces to definitions, and be to others what we so desperately needed when we grew up.

Monty is part of Just Like Us’ Ambassador Programme for LGBTQ+ 18 to 25 year olds – sign up now to get involved.

The post ‘Asexual Awareness Week helped me understand why I wasn’t having teenage crushes’ appeared first on GAY TIMES.