Straight, But Make It Ace

Am I Under the Queer Umbrella, or Just Nearby with Snacks?

It’s Pride Month, and I’m thinking a lot about identity, invisibility, and where a heteroromantic asexual like me fits in the queer community.

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Let me just get this out of the way: I’m heteroromantic and asexual. I can and have had feelings for men, just not the kind that make me want to jump into bed with them. And yes, I’m fully aware that sounds confusing as hell to people who live in a world where romance and sex go together like peanut butter and jelly… or at least like two things that are always sold in the same supermarket aisle. (Have I mentioned I used to work in the market as a checkout girl?)

Now, do I walk around waving an ace flag or introducing myself as queer? No. I mean, I haven’t been on a date since I was 33 or so, and I’m not exactly updating Hinge with “Fun fact: I’m not gonna wanna sleep with you.” (I don’t even have a Hinge profile, but if I did, I probably would’ve tried that for about two minutes in my thirties.)

The truth is, the only people who really need to know about my asexuality are potential dates… so what does that mean for visibility? For years, I thought "coming out" was only necessary if it served a practical purpose. But now I’m wondering: is there value in naming it anyway, even when there's no immediate reason to? Is staying quiet a form of comfort, or invisibility? Maybe both. And maybe that tension is exactly what queerness forces us to confront.

So, while this essay is about whether straight aces are queer, I’d be remiss not to mention that I don’t exactly go around announcing I’m ace. Maybe that’s its own essay. Or maybe I just want you to know that I know it’s a thing worth unpacking.

Anyway. Where was I?

Just because I don’t slap the queer label on my forehead doesn’t mean I don’t belong under the umbrella.

Let’s talk about why that question - does heteroromantic asexuality count as queer? - even matters. Because for people like me, it’s not just a thought experiment, it’s about whether we’re seen, heard, and welcomed. It’s about whether we’re allowed to exist in spaces that don’t always know what to do with us. That question carries weight, whether we say it out loud or just carry it quietly in the back of our minds. It’s less about labels and more about permission.

Let’s talk about the weird in-between space that is heteroromantic asexuality - or as some people love to (mis)label it: "straight, but boring." Cute, right?

Here’s the actual deal: being heteroromantic means you're romantically attracted to people of a different gender. Being asexual means you experience little to no sexual attraction. Put the two together and boom - you’ve got a person who might want to date someone of the "opposite" gender, but doesn’t necessarily want to sleep with them. Or anyone. Ever.

Daria: Can you picture me making out with anyone? Ever?

That’s enough to confuse the heteronormative crowd - and now we’ve got the bonus round: does that make someone queer?

Is "Ace" Automatically Queer?

The word "queer" has had a wild ride. It used to be hurled like a weapon; now it shows up on resumes under "community involvement." For some, it’s a badge of honor. For others, it still stings. But let’s zoom in: is asexuality - specifically heteroromantic asexuality - enough to fall under that umbrella?

A lot of people would argue yes. Asexuality challenges the assumed default: that everyone experiences sexual attraction and is supposed to act on it. So when someone doesn’t? That’s already a radical departure from the norm. That’s... well, queer.

But here’s where it gets dicey.

Passing as Straight — And Still Feeling Erased

A heteroromantic ace person might date someone of a different gender. They might even marry them. From the outside, it can look very straight. But internally? That person might be navigating a ton of alienation, dissonance, or discomfort in a sex-obsessed culture. They might feel invisible in queer spaces and misunderstood in straight ones.

So... do they count? Can they pull up a chair at the queer table? And if they’re not offered one, what does that say - not just about inclusion, but about the emotional toll of being left out? It’s not just about a seat; it’s about feeling like you belong in the room at all.

Some folks say no. "You’re not oppressed enough." "You don't face homophobia." "You’re just celibate." (Oof.)

Others say: hey, queerness isn't about measuring pain like trauma currency. It’s about living outside heteronormativity. and ace people absolutely do that.

The Spectrum Gets Messy (And That’s the Point)

Not every ace person is heteroromantic. Some are biromantic, panromantic, aromantic, demi, gray - or not even sure what box to tick. But even the so-called “straightest” of aces are often dealing with a deep dissonance from the dominant culture. They don’t fit the scripts they were handed. That alone is reason enough to explore queer identity, if it feels right.

But here’s the other side: not everyone wants to. Some ace folks - especially heteroromantic ones - don’t feel comfortable using the word “queer.” That’s valid too. Maybe the label doesn't resonate. Maybe it feels too charged. Maybe they just don’t want to join a club where people are side-eyeing their membership.

Why Is This So Hard to Grasp?

It never makes sense to me when people get confused about the difference between romantic and sexual attraction. We’ve all had crushes before, right? Like childhood crushes? The ones where you adored someone, but sex wasn’t even on your radar?

So why is it so hard to believe that adults can have the same experience: romantic attraction, just without the sexual part?

Identity Isn’t a Math Problem

What if queerness isn’t a scorecard or a set of criteria? What if it’s a feeling - the one you get when you realize you’ve always been a little off-script? When you finally hear your experience echoed in someone else’s voice and it clicks: Oh. That’s me. That’s my shape. That’s my truth. A community. A weird little club for anyone who doesn’t quite fit the template.

I don’t have a final answer here, and I don’t think there is one. But I do think the question matters. And I think we have to keep asking it.

So... What Do You Think?

Are heteroromantic aces part of the queer community? Should "ace" always be a queer identity? Should the gate even exist in the first place?

I think heteroromantic aces absolutely belong under the queer umbrella. We live outside the norm, challenge assumptions, and complicate things. While I might not use the “queer” label in everyday life, I know it’s mine if I want it. But most days, I’m not focused on labels - I’m just trying to move through a world built on different blueprints than mine.

I’d love to hear what you think. Drop a comment or just sit with it. Let’s keep the conversation going.