Manual Not Included

On Asexuality, Misunderstanding, and the Pressure to Perform Sexuality

In my last essay I wrote about claiming queerness as a heteroromantic ace woman -about finding a label that fits, even when it makes people uncomfortable. That piece got more attention than I expected. Cool. But here’s the other half of that truth: the part nobody claps for.

I’ve heard that I’m lucky because I can pass. Straight. Normal. Vanilla. "Frigid," if someone’s feeling especially ballsy in their misogyny. And sure, on paper, I might pass: I’m a cis woman who doesn’t date, who’s only “long-term” relationship was when she was eighteen, who people often assume is just “not trying.” Some think I’m secretly gay. Some think I’m broken.

I used to think I was broken too.

Ace in a hypersexual world: everyone expects you to know the manual. Spoiler: it’s not included. Photo by Jamie O’Sullivan on Unsplash

I had crushes, plenty of them. But crushes never translated into wanting to do anything about them.

Take my first boyfriend. I was 18 and somehow stumbled into a relationship like I had wandered into the wrong classroom. He was kind, we got along… but I kept dodging our first kiss like it was a pop quiz I hadn’t studied for. When it finally happened, it was like performing a scene I’d only ever seen in movies. Later, after some awkward making out and a cringe voicemail that I left saying I was busy (because I couldn’t just break up with him after six months like a normal person), he told people I bit him. (Which, no. I’d remember that, wouldn’t I?)

I thought I was just bad at relationships. Too awkward. Too picky. Too something.

Then there are the folks who think they’re helping.

Like the person who once told me to “get to know my body.” It was framed as empowerment. It landed like an insult. What I heard wasn’t encouragement. What I heard was: “Go fuck yourself.” Literally. Correctively.

As if enough self-pleasure might cure whatever this is. As if my body were withholding something I just hadn’t unlocked yet.

They even painted the scene: candles, a bath, a whole sensual self-discovery narrative I didn’t ask for. I thought I had been clear about who I was and what that meant. We had exchanged emails. Talked over Skype, back when that was still a thing. It felt like we were on the same page. That moment shut the book. I responded, frankly and finally, and then I wrote him out of my story.

That was years ago, and I still think about it. That’s a kind of violence… not physical, not always intentional, but a violence nonetheless. The kind that says: “You’re doing life wrong. Here’s how to fix it.” The kind that assumes what’s missing is desire, when really, what’s missing is understanding. It’s death by a thousand helpful suggestions: none of them meant to wound, all of them assuming I’m wrong about myself.

And let’s be clear: I’m not comparing my experience to someone who’s been kicked out of their home or assaulted for being queer. I’m not claiming the worst pain. I don’t play oppression Olympics. But I also refuse to pretend these microaggressions don’t add up. The absence of bruises doesn’t mean the harm isn’t real.

Being ace in a hypersexual world is like being handed a manual for a machine you don’t own. Everyone assumes you do. Everyone expects you to operate it. And when you say, “This isn’t mine,” they nod and say, “You’ll figure it out.”

I know marriage laws that require consummation. I’ve read about how a “healthy” relationship needs sexual intimacy. I’ve been the only one in the room not nodding along during conversations about sex, and I’ve learned to bite my tongue instead of saying, “That’s not my experience.” Because speaking up invites questions I didn’t ask for. Or worse: suggestions.

I know there are other heteroromantic aces that don’t identify as queer. That’s valid. That’s theirs. But for me, queerness isn’t just about who you love or how. It’s about being othered, living outside the norm and still insisting on your right to take up space.

So no, I’m not “just straight.” I’m not broken. I’m not repressed.

I’m ace.

And I’m done being polite about what that means.