Ace, Ace, Baby

Have you ever faked a crush? No? Well, I wouldn’t recommend it…

Sex and love are everywhere. Not just interpersonally on social media, in semi-secluded uni hallways, and in your flatmate’s bedroom. Pop culture is absolutely saturated in the stuff. TV, films, music, everywhere—everyone’s making like Marvin Gaye and getting it on. Growing up with all this lovin’ in my face meant that as young as 12 I was trying to figure out why I felt different about it all. 

At that age, a mate of mine told me he was bisexual. “What’s that?” I asked. 

“I feel the same way about boys as I do girls,” he replied. 

Huh. That made sense.

So then I was bisexual. I wasn’t loud about it, but I liked having a word I could use among friends. They were all figuring themselves out, proudly using their new labels while I awkwardly lagged behind. 

When I was a bit older, a different mate of mine told me she was asexual. “What’s that?” I asked.

“I don’t feel anything for boys, girls, or anyone, really,” she replied. 

Oh. Shit. That made a lot more sense. Turns out I do feel the same way about boys as I do girls: entirely indifferent. 

Thus I adopted a new label, ‘asexual.’ Again, I wasn’t loud about it, but I liked it. I thought it sounded a bit scientific, especially when we learnt about flower reproduction in science, but it felt good. I felt less weird with a Googleable word assigned to my existence. 

But then I was a teenager sitting on the social sidelines, entirely crushless, while my mates ran amuck with their boyfriends and girlfriends, losing their virginities left, right, and centre. I remained utterly uninterested. 

My next decision was, with the gift of hindsight, completely mortifying. I thought I might be missing out on something. Everyone else was flouncing about in lovey-dovey delusion and seemed to be loving it, so shouldn’t I be doing that too? It was the cool thing to do, right? It was like what we were warned about as kids with peer pressure and drugs, except I was being pressured into doing love—a much harder substance (in my opinion).

At the time, surrounded by all my sweet-hearted friends, doing this thing called love was the best way to blend in. Enter my (fake) crush.

I picked a guy, studied the behaviour of girls around me like I was the David Attenborough of high school, and began my Oscar-worthy act. I blushed and giggled at all the right times, stuck to him like a limpet when the opportunity arose, messaged him online constantly, planted seeds with my friends that I liked a boy… You get the idea. Completely embarrassing.

Apparently my act was convincing enough for him to ask me out, causing me to splutter in his face and attempt a few syllables before promptly running the other way and never speaking to him again. Turns out he was a total dick, so I dodged a bullet. 

Despite the relief I felt at leaving behind that strange facade, I felt wrong. I should’ve leaped at the opportunity to have a proper, grown-up boyfriend, my school status easily boosted by the masculine arm-candy. I should’ve been excited by his interest. Instead, all I felt was discomfort. When he started to (badly) flirt with me I should’ve felt butterflies, like the girls in movies do, not heavy rocks settling in the pit of my stomach. 

With sex and love everywhere, I felt wrong, broken, alone, and alienated in my lack of desire for these intangible, trademarked experiences. This boy was fine (as in mediocre, not foine), offering up coveted socio-cultural initiation on a silver platter, but I didn’t care for what he was proposing. What was wrong with me? 

Inscribed in us from the very beginning is the idea that love and intimacy are the true objectives of human existence. Just about every Disney princess (ily Merida, my ace icon), pop song, and HBO show tells us that happiness is directly associated with these abstract concepts. When I was gifted a prime opportunity to jumpstart my happy ending and found that, despite every piece of entertainment I’ve ever absorbed telling me I should crave it, I didn’t want it, I started to understand that maybe I was a bit different from the norm. It was a rather uncomfortable conclusion to come to. 

After all this crush palaver and self-discovery, I inaudibly went back to the old label, adding ‘aromantic’, full of doubt and unease. What if I’m wrong? What if I’m just a late bloomer? What if I just haven’t found the right person yet? What if I just don’t know what sexual or romantic attraction feels like? Sometimes I worry I’ve got it all wrong, and I’m actually experiencing some weird psycho-symptom of a strange childhood, illness, or social anxiety—my thoughts still remaining deeply entrenched in the idea that my sexual and romantic orientations are abnormal. 

My continued self-doubt has been reinforced by limited and unnuanced media representations of asexuality as a caricature of virginity and conservatism. I’m not prudish or repressed. Sex and love just aren’t my vibe. I’m actually very good at ‘that’s what she said’ jokes and apparently my relationship advice is superb. I’m not disgusted by sex, I’m just not interested. I’m not repulsed by romance (although kissing is actually very gross), it’s just not part of my life. I like a decent rom-com and Harry Styles song as much as the next person—About Time is in my Letterboxd top four and I know every word to ‘Medicine’—they’re just not my experience. Maybe I won’t be picking up a Colleen Hoover novel any time soon, but I will be seated for that new Zendaya tennis threesome movie. I can still enjoy stories about sex and love, just more like an allosexual or romantic person might enjoy a nature documentary—with hesitant curiosity and a constant concern as to why the camera operator doesn’t interfere. 

I’ve grown up now, had a couple of months at uni, and continue to be uninterested in the obsessions of many of my peers. I feel pretty safe sticking with the labels ‘asexual’ and ‘aromantic’ (‘aroace’ for short)—the A in LGBTQIA+. I like to call myself a ‘rare collectible’ of the queer community, a member of those beyond the typical LGBTQ acronym. But I also don’t really feel like I’m part of it at all. Instead, I feel like an outlier from the typical sex and love-based experiences of the community. 

I’m also a New Zealander. Pride doesn’t come naturally to us. 

All of this builds up into a feeling of cultural and social exclusion, but I’m trying to find my space. I think this might be a good start. I’m just a bit different and a lot normal. Rest assured, I won’t be faking another crush anytime soon. I shall remain comfortably and proudly off the market.

I’ve also been looking for a way to come out, which has proved difficult without a catalyst. I guess this’ll do the job.