Before we begin, I would like to state that this is just my experience. I am only speaking here for myself, from my perspective. No one else’s.
Aces have a variety of attitudes towards the act of having sex. Many who are uneducated on asexuality believe that asexuality is simply not wanting to have sex, and ignore that it is in fact a sexual orientation that is defined by an experience of little to no sexual attraction. Not wanting to have sex could apply to anyone of any sexual orientation, as that is a choice. Rarely, if ever, experiencing sexual attraction is not a choice.
If your takeaway from reading this is that all aces want or enjoy sex, then you have not understood the purpose of my writing this. If your takeaway from reading this is that I’m not a “real” ace, then I’m sorry that you feel the need to gate keep from your own community to prevent new hurts while your old wounds heal, but your personal wounds do not dictate my right to talk about my experiences. You don’t know me better than I know myself. Heal your wounds on your own time, not by trying to hurt others.
This post will not be going over the terminology like “ace” or “demisexual” or “asexual” the way I normally do. I have many other blog posts that explain each of these and other terms in depth. You can also check out a multitude of resources on asexuality if you’re interested. I recommend The Asexuality Visibility and Education Network, The Asexual and Aromantic Advocacy Project, The Asexuality Handbook, and demisexuality.org. These are just a few of the resources available online. If you’re curious, or this is new to you, I highly recommend you do some reading.
Lastly: while this post will not go into detail about sexual activities, they will be mentioned, and there are some descriptions of physical sensations where I felt it was needed. While this essay will not be overly detailed or graphic, I say this for my sex repulsed friends who don’t want to read about that. Or anyone else for that matter who decides it’s not for you. That’s perfectly fine. Your boundaries are your own.
And finally, thank you for reading.
Summer, 2008.
I’m fifteen. And I am in love.
My heart flutters when I hear his voice. His arms create a weight around me and hold me tightly against his chest, where I can feel his heartbeat through his T shirt. At night, it still feels as if my scrawny body is shielded in his arms, even as I fall asleep.
Or maybe not. Maybe I don’t know the difference between love and a crush and the moment I’m given positive reinforcement, something that is not consistent in my life, I become addicted. Or maybe only he thought that he was in love with me and used it to his advantage, to convince me that I was in love with him. Or maybe he just thought I was hot. I don’t know for sure where the truth between us is.
Here is what I do know:
He is about a year and eight months older than me. He spends his attention on me whenever he can, even memorizing minute details of the songs I love or the little ways my body moves when I’m nervous. He talks about me as if he were worshipping me, the way that true believers in the Bible I’m made to read and study talk about the beauty of God. When he holds me, I feel as if I’m falling from a tree, spinning wildly, a helicopter seed in the wind waiting to find the right ground and be planted in it, only to start the cycle again when I bloom.
At this time of my life I also deeply believe in the conditional to get into paradise love of a savior. I wonder if being close with him will eventually to send me to an eternity of misery and torment, a lake of fire, where the “bad kids go”. I’ve spent my entire life in Evangelical churches, doing everything from youth group to Christmas musicals to Bible Quizzing tournaments. Every week, sometimes multiple times a week, I’ve had to read something from the Bible. It’s clear about sex — or, at least that’s what my Sunday school teachers tell me. Don’t have sex before marriage, don’t make the choice to be gay, and be sure to give sex to your future husband when he asks. But I knew it wasn’t safe to actually ask about sex. It itched at me, a mystery that I could not let of. What is all this sex stuff I keep hearing about?
I’m fifteen, caught up in the insidious spider’s web that I’d been told was love, too wrapped in the silk to realize I needed to try and escape. I was curious about the carnal pleasures of the flesh, about the riddle of sex that all of my peers seemed to inherently understand when I hadn’t even seen the puberty’s purpose yet. His parents, neglectful and spiteful as they were, didn’t give a fuck what we did in his room as long as we stayed away from them.
I’m torn between conflicting ideas, both from the secular and the religious worlds I’m shifting between each day. The Bible described sex as something where “the two become one”, as if it was this amazing, beautiful, rare thing. The world around me showed that sex was anything but rare. The Bible also described sex in a cold, detached manner, writing about how a woman just “became pregnant”, and had a child. It sounded like operating machinery, not like something that I’d want to be a part of. So how could this weird, cold, detached act also be one of pure pleasure? The narratives didn’t match up. My body and curiosity were far outstripping my emotional development, and I didn’t have the safety needed to ask any authority in my life about sex. I needed answers, and I reasoned there was really only one way to get them.
And so, in that sweaty summer of 2008, I had sex with my boyfriend.
To my disappointment, this did not solve the riddle.
There was no spark in my body, no click of understanding, no immediate grasp on the intricacies of sex. That look I’d always seen on the faces of others when they talked about it, the pleasure that my friends giggled about excitedly in the halls between classes, the anticipation of eventual climax and release… it wasn’t there. There wasn’t anything there for me. I enjoyed the closeness, but, it left my body, and ego, rather sore. I wondered if I had given up my chance at eternal paradise only to find that the possibility of sex was the interesting part.
It was not the last time we would have sex. We kept at it, as if my orgasm were a knot that he was determined to unravel. It was a way for him to say he loved me, and he did every time, connecting puzzle pieces in my still developing neurons. Over time, I began to enjoy the intimacy, the closeness, and being able to directly satiate my curiosities. There were times that things felt great, even amazing — but my image of sex in my head only drew on those memories. I didn’t think about sex outside of our intimate encounters, just as I hadn’t considered it beforehand. Now, it was a priority to the man I loved, so I would need to keep at it to prove I loved him. I didn’t know the differences between sexual and romantic attraction, or that they aren’t woven as one in every tapestry.
In a way, it was like a massage. I liked massages, and could provide one for myself without an issue. I didn’t think about him as a masseuse before or after. In fact, I’d never been able to conjure that image up concerning anyone; each time I’d tried, something was missing from me. But when the massage was happening, it still worked out the knots in my back.
One day (I don’t know how it was arranged) a friend and his girlfriend came over to his house for the purpose of all of us having a rendezvous in his bedroom. She was quite beautiful, with long, dark hair, large brown eyes, and black square glasses contrasting her button nose. At our boyfriends’ mutual encouragement, I found her drawing me in to kiss her. Her lips were soft against mine, warm, inviting. She drew me into her, pulling my body to hers, making me forget for a moment that we were in front of two teenage boys who wanted the spectacle of our kiss more than they wanted to respect us.
It wasn’t the first time I’d made out with a girl. Years earlier, I’d gotten in trouble for playing Spin the Bottle at a Halloween party. I had the same thoughts when my friend had snuck in a kiss before her mother picked her up that I had when I was kissing the girl in glasses in that bedroom: women kissed as if the kiss itself was the point. It was as if they could keep kissing you and explore how that felt and never go any further, and that would be more than enough.
To kiss, just for the sake of kissing, not wanting anything more… that was something I realized right then that I’d always wanted.
The boys started whooping. We pulled back, to which they booed. We exchanged a look of mutual understanding. “I enjoyed that, but they’re looking at us like we’re objects.”
This boyfriend and I continued dating for another several months. We also continued to have sex. The longer we were dating, the more and more often he would abandon me to whatever was more interesting as soon as this had finished. I tied my self worth into his sexual attraction to me, never considering if I was in turn sexually attracted to him.
This is not a sustainable foundation for a romantic relationship. He began to act as if me not carrying out the smallest of sexual acts, whenever he asked for it, was me saying I did not love him. I began to feel as if my body were the only part of me that mattered. It went on like that for two years. Long after I’d begun crying myself to sleep, when I could no longer deny the misery I was living in, I broke up with him.
I’d had sex.
But I hadn’t solved the riddle. If anything, I was even more confused.
February, 2013.
I’m twenty years old. My legs are quivering, unstable, as snow falls lightly on the darkest part of the parking lot. I cannot tell if this is because of the frost coating the windows of the car, or because for the first time, my boyfriend’s hand is inside of my tights.
He holds me so close to him that I can feel the moisture of his breath on my ear. He is also trembling, though with the cold or the newness of the situation, I cannot tell. My face is buried in his neck, my arms wrapped around him so tightly it’s as if I’m trying to anchor us to the ground, lest we fly away. I don’t want this adrenaline rush to end. Not yet.
“What do I… do?” he whispers.
Oh, no. What should he do? What does this situation call for? My mind is blank.
“Just… uhm… I’ll tell you if it feels good.”
There’s a pause. He makes a guess. A movement. I feel a spark. Electricity. Excitement. Something stirs. I bury my face into his chest in a vain attempt to muffle my voice, and fail.
Over the next few days, my body remembers, and craves, that sensation again. I’m giddy, walking to every class as if the drab outdoors have already given way to spring. It’s as if I’ve developed some strange sweet tooth, but only for one type of candy. I daydream about the closeness, the delights of his touch, the feelings that overtook me in the back of his car. But I also come to realize something else, something I’ve known on some level for some time.
I didn’t think about being with him, him touching my body, him bringing me to that point, before that night. I hadn’t thought about sex or anything near it with him. Not until it was happening.
I had thought about him. I’d thought about the way he held his mouth open like a moray eel when he told a bad pun and was waiting for me to laugh. I’d thought about the way my stomach fluttered the first time I’d seen him, making me forget where I was, if only for a heartbeat. I’d thought about the time he loaned me his jacket and it was still warm, how for a few days after I’d hugged it to my body to feel him near me. I’d thought about when he leaned his head on my shoulder at the 24/7 McDonald’s in Loves when we were writing a paper, how I felt my face flush, but didn’t dare push him away.
It strikes me that while what we did felt good, I invited him to take the step because I thought it was the most logical thing to do, the way romantic relationships progressed. But when he and his roommate talk in front of me about their sexual attraction to women’s bodies (he does not degrade me or describe my body in any way), my stomach knots.
I realize two things:
1) I’m so insecure that some part of me that is not comfortable with the idea that he is attracted to other people, even though I also know it would be illogical to assume he wasn’t, and 2) that I fundamentally cannot relate to what they’re talking about. I love looking at the paintings of John William’s Waterhouse, his siren and his Soul of the Rose, spending hours admiring their beauty. I catch myself staring at people of all genders who I’d love to draw, whose faces present something to me that can only be captured by showing them the beauty that shines out from their face, often sketching strangers without them noticing. More than someone being sexually attracted to me, I want someone to draw me, to paint me, to capture that indescribable something that makes me me. This is the most sincere act of love of the appearance, the most logical act of desire, I can think of.
But the sexual attraction they speak about so casually, so confidently, so assured that everyone else experiences some level of it every day— it isn’t inside of me.
Spring, 2015.
I’m with a date that I met on OkCupid. We’re at his apartment, which is just a room someone sectioned off so that they could rent to each person on an individual lease. It’s barely even a studio. The humidity makes kissing him and being close to him a sticky, sweaty ordeal that I’m not sure either of us really believes is worth it. In spite of his passion and determination to push through the heat, it feels like I might as well be kissing a wall.
With one boney hand, he begins to feel my back, under my shirt, and works his way up to my bra strap. My heart lurches in my chest, sputtering out a panicked cry of “stop! wait! stop!” I push him back from me, say I’m going outside, and pick up my purse. He nods, but doesn’t stop me. Out on the porch, I light a cigarette, breathe in the nicotine, and stare into the empty street.
My brain is whirring, rattling, trying to find answers to the tracks it runs on. Surely he expects me to have sex with him, I think. But the truth is he’s said that he doesn’t mind if I don’t want to, and respects me when I say I need to stop. His expectations are not the issue. The real issue is that I expect me to have sex with him.
Never mind that before him I hadn’t thought about sex with anyone in months. Never mind that I don’t consider sex a priority unless it’s a priority to my partner, or I always assume that it must be because that’s what I’ve been taught. Never mind that growing up I just pretended that I knew what everyone was talking about.
Never mind any of that. The problem, I decide, must be with me.
I put out my cigarette and go inside.
“Okay.”
“Okay?” He asks. He can tell something is bothering me. “We don’t have to do anything. We can just go to sleep.”
“No, no, I want to.” I nod. “I want to.”
As he makes love to me, there is no spark. No arousal. I’d thought about “what if sex was an option” in the abstract when we were at the movies earlier. I hadn’t expected it to be a possibility. Now he’s sweating, pushing down on me, my body moving back and forth on his little sofa. All I can think is “Wow, that ceiling texture is interesting.” That’s not what I’m supposed to be thinking about. This isn’t fixing me. It seems like nothing can.
Later, when he asks about seeing me again, I can’t take the idea of it. I confess that I agreed to have sex because I just didn’t know what else to do. I thought that was what I was supposed to do. I apologize profusely.
He is surprisingly emotionally mature about it. He reassures me that I do not need to apologize and tells me, “Your safety is more important than my pleasure.”
We part ways.
Those words shake my perception, my sense of self. No one has ever said that to me. I carry his words with me, tucked safely in my pocket. They are a fundamental truth. I am not just a body. I’m a person, too.
June, 2015.
I’m flirting with a coworker over text that I like. I got drunk at a party he hosted about a month ago and in spite of this, we hit it off. I learn that he’s liked me for a long time, but we were both quiet so it didn’t go anywhere. He’s telling me that if I come over, he’ll make me breakfast the next day.
I show this to a coworker. “Look! I can’t believe it! He likes me!”
She raises her eyebrows and tilts her head at me. “Elle, you know he wants to sleep with you, right?”
“No, that’s not what that means.”
“Yeah.” She nods, hands me back my phone. “It’s what it means.”
I ask him. He responds by asking, “What did you think me saying I’d make you breakfast meant?”
I stare at the text for a long time.
We start going out. We see Inside Out, and he doesn’t make fun of me for crying. When the movie ends, it’s raining so hard the parking lot is starting to flood. He says, “I’ll bring the truck up to the door.” Before I can even say anything he walks out of the theater and heads to his truck, as calm as if he were bone-dry.
We spend some weekends at his house, where we make out while watching educational documentaries about space. When we have sex, it feels good in that I’m close to him, but that’s also the reason I’m doing it. I know that, but I don’t say it out loud for fear of ruining that little bit of heaven we’ve made together. How do I say “I enjoy making out with you, and if you want to have sex that’s fine, but I’m not sexually attracted to you and I don’t know what’s going on with me”? I didn’t know, so I didn’t say anything.
I enjoy our time together while it lasts. He does, too.
Months later, after he has deployed to basic training and joined the army, I find an old shirt he loaned me in the back of my closet. I pick it up, put it on, and suddenly realize how much I miss him.
Early autumn, 2015.
I’m on another date with someone I met on OkCupid. The night has been going well. We’re in his bedroom when we start kissing.
Up to this point, I’ve liked being with him. But I haven’t thought about anything like casual sex. I’ve never just done a casual hookup before. I’ve never even thought about seeking one out.
I’m not sure what it is about the way he touches me, but, it feels good. It makes me want to be touched more. He seems to enjoy the way I’m touching him, too. We had agreed not to have sex, but it was clear we were both getting aroused.
It’s strange. I didn’t start to feel anything like this until we were kissing. I wanted to kiss him, but, that was about it, next to holding hands. I wanted the sensual before. Now, I don’t mind the sexual. I don’t crave it, but I don’t mind the idea of it. He puts a hand between my legs and I let him, and it doesn’t feel like drywall — it feels good. It feels really good.
We don’t have sex that night. But I do think about him. My body remembers the high he gave me. When my libido is high, and I’m alone, I let my body remember that night.
November, 2017.
I’m standing in the shower, thinking about my ex from the year before. We were supposed to get married. We were engaged. He told me he loved me, but seemed to not understand that my emotional problems wouldn’t conveniently go away because I was loved.
He was not the first person I had been with who had displayed this behavior. It was a pattern with many men I had dated in my life. I would become close with someone who kept talking to me, almost obsessively, and finally trust them enough to let my guard down. I’d tell them my past traumas, and they’d tell me they would be there. When reality kicked in at six months and they were able to look past their crush and see that it would take years for me to fully recover, and that I would need support to manage my mental health problems for the rest of my life, they checked out. He told me he was an exception. But that’s something they all did.
His failed rescue attempt isn’t what I’m thinking about. It was at first, but not anymore.
Now, in this shower, I’m thinking about how this is the first time since I was fifteen that I’ve taken a long break from dating at all. I’m thinking that I haven’t felt sexual attraction to anyone during this break from dating. I’m wondering if I’ve ever felt it at all.
Hot water drums from the shower head onto my body and runs through my hair as I stare at the shower wall, dumbfounded. I’d never let myself think about if I was sexually attracted to my partners. I’d been raised to believe one was the other, and the physical was the way you proved you were in love. Ever since I was fifteen, I had never given myself the break to think about who I was or what I wanted. I’d always just jumped into the next relationship with the next person who said they loved me and done my best to make myself love them back. Without the constant distraction of dating, serious or casual, I no longer had the distraction from what had followed me all of my life.
“Am I asexual?” I whisper out loud.
I sit down and let the hot water run over my body, over my skin, making me both feel present and dissociated, somehow, at the same time. This thing I’d been taught I always had, that we all had… did I have it at all?
“But I like sex,” I mutter to no one. “So… I can’t be asexual.”
I turn the water off, lay down, and stare at the bathroom ceiling until my hair is nearly dry.
May, 2018.
“Can you pass me the pepper?”
I’m cooking dinner with the two people I’m dating. I’m not a very good cook, but they’re both fairly patient with me. Because I’m forgetful and often drop things, I spend a lot of time washing dishes or waiting for instructions. Right now I’m washing a small stove pot in the sink and trying not to show how hungry I am as a large pot of soup bubbles on a tiny stove.
There’s some talking, laughing, and teasing — there always is. Right now, these are two of my favorite people to spend time with.
One thing that two out of the three of us have in common is that we are part of the LGBTQIA+ community. My girlfriend is asexual. I say out loud that I am pansexual, keeping uncertainties to myself. The third one of us is straight — cisgender, heterosexual, and heteroromantic, in this case — no ace or aro pairings with a hetero orientation. He is also a staunch ally to both of us and is always willing to participate in discussions about our queerness. Sometimes we get into playful discussions about who is more queer, the pan or the ace. I’m still not sure what the answer is.
There is so much I want to learn about asexuality from her. My asexual girlfriend seems to have the same curiosity about my pansexual experiences.
So she asks, “What’s it like being pansexual?”
I pause as I consider how to answer, looking at her instead of myself in the large mirror behind the kitchen counter. The water spots create small dots all across the mirror, freckling the sunlight that filters in from the tiny window where the basement goes above the street above. I can do this.
“Well… gender doesn’t really matter to me. For a long time, I thought I was bi, because I thought that bisexual was like, two or more genders? But gender just isn’t really a factor at all for me. But I don’t necessarily always correct people if they say I’m bi. I just prefer pan, for myself.” I chew my cheek a moment. “When it comes to sex… I don’t really think about it, I guess? I don’t fantasize about it with another person. I mean I might, later, like, if we become close, but generally it’s not necessarily a priority for me. I used to think it was, but I just had low self-esteem, and it turns out I’m fine without it.” I look down at my hands. “I mean I like having it — but what I fantasize about is more like going to the movies and having a good conversation. I don’t really… think about it for a long time while I’m dating someone. Later on down the line, I might start thinking about sex with another person, but mostly it’s more like… I just want to go on a nice date and hang out. Sex might be a part of the equation later. I dunno.”
There’s a pause. A beat. No one says anything.
The two of them exchange a knowing look. Then, my asexual friend speaks. “Elle… it sounds like you’re demisexual.”
My heart jumps.
“No, no — I’m pan. I’m pan.” I insist. I need these people to believe I’m allosexual. I need to believe I’m allosexual. I’m not sure what I’m so afraid of, but whatever it is, I’m not ready to face it.
“I dunno, that sounds like demisexuality to me, too.” The other member of our cooking party, the only one of us who is not queer, edges around me to get something from a drawer.
“I’m pansexual,” I insist again. “I’m not demi. I’m pan. I like sex, so, I can’t be ace.”
“That… doesn’t necessarily mean you’re not ace.” The asexual says.
I think about the charts I’ve read about what makes a person ace and what doesn’t. That a person can have libido, can have sex, can enjoy sex, can watch porn, and still be ace, that the delineating factor is the actual sexual attraction.
I want to be anywhere else, in any other conversation, than this one here and now.
The asexual of our group shrugs. She and the other member of our little group exchange another look — a we-are-going-to-talk-about-this-later-after-you-go-home look.
I excuse myself to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face.
Many demisexuals I read about had never been curious about sex or kissing and had not seen it as a stepping stone to true intimacy or some kind of price you pay and give for the ones you love. To me, it seemed strange that so many had said they had never even been a little bit curious about it. I then considered the possibility that they hadn’t equated sexuality with self worth the way that I had.
Like many aces who grew up without any education or knowledge of the asexual spectrum, I internalized my differences as a flaw to be corrected, perfecting my acting skills as best I could with what knowledge I had. I am reminded of a lyric from the song Jane Says — I want them if they want me; I only know they want me.
A few months later, I find myself thinking about sex with the boyfriend of our little throuple. I actively want to have sex with him. It’s a new feeling. I’d only had it before pursuing sex a few times in my life to that point. I ask him if he’d thought about it, expecting that he hadn’t. He assures me he has. The first time, I am struck by the difference in my experiencing sexual attraction to him, how I’m excited for things before we even start to kiss. I want him to feel good and I want to feel good with him. It’s the first time I’ve waited and tried to figure out if I wanted sex with a partner, instead of giving it as an act of affection before figuring out if I enjoyed it.
A few months later I walked up to my now ex-girlfriend and roommate and said for the first time to another person, out loud, “I think I might be demisexual.”
December, 2018.
I’m in a southern state visiting my boyfriend, who is still dating the asexual of our little group, a sort of a V of polyamory. She’s gone to bed. We won’t be going to bed for a while yet. We’re on the couch together, already exposed. This will be the first time I will be doing anything like this with the knowledge that I’m not sexually attracted to the other person, and with him also knowing this and accepting it. The sexual attraction I did have for him has faded, but I’ve been looking forward to this all the same. He seems thankful to touch my body and treats sex as a privilege, not a right implicit in a romantic relationship. He kisses me. I find myself worrying about his apartment’s soundproofing.
Spring, 2023.
I’m thirty years old. I’m at my date’s apartment. We met for dinner earlier that night. The intent is to have consensual, casual sex, and I’m wondering to myself if it’ll be alright. I’m not sexually attracted to him, but there’s something about sex I missed, but I’m not sure exactly what it is. I don’t want a relationship at the moment. He knows I’m not sexually attracted to him, and although he’s admitted he doesn’t understand it completely, he doesn’t mind as long as everything is consensual.
This will be a new experience. I’ve never had casual sex just for the sake of satisfying my libido. When I had casual sex in my early twenties, it had mostly been boring, numbing, nothingness, someone near me masturbating. But now I’m going into it knowing that I wasn’t sexually attracted to the other person, knowing myself, knowing my sexuality and romantic orientation. I know that I am a sex favorable to neutral graysexual and demisexual. I know that I have, at most, had sexual attraction less than ten times in my life. I know that many aces engage in activities to satisfy libido, though for many of them this does not include partnered sex. I’ve spoken to many allosexuals about how they experience sexual attraction and the differences in our experiences, and confirmed, over and over again, that while my own experience is not that of the aces I read about, it doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.
“So… you’re attracted to me?” I ask, cutting him off of a kiss.
“What?” He blinks. “Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I think you’re really hot.”
“Oh.” I smile. “Okay then.”
I like looking at him, but I don’t think about if he’s hot, or sexy, or anything like that. He’s handsome and kind, and that’s enough. It dawns on me that I haven’t really thought about if I was sexually attracted to him at all, and he has been thinking about the fact that he is sexually attracted to me all night.
He distracts me from these thoughts as he touches me. Kisses my chest. My back arches, and I let it. I don’t try to silence myself. There is no need to pretend anymore. Not for anyone.
I’m ace. I rarely experience sexual attraction. I respond to arousal, and I have a high libido. But the sex I have isn’t sought out for the sake of sexual attraction. I wish that I had known earlier in my life that arousal was a response to things that were happening in that moment, and that this is what asexuals who engage with pornography mean when they talk about it. They aren’t “supposed” to enjoy watching it, and I’m not “supposed” to enjoy casual sex on occasion, but that doesn’t stop both of us from existing. I do find myself wishing now and again that my experience was one where I never even was curious about sex at all. Sex and my quest for answers about it has certainly caused a lot of stress in my life. There’s a lot I still don’t know and I a lot I will probably never understand. But I know that sex without sexual attraction, and enjoying it, is possible. I know that won’t make sense to some people. I know some of those people will be members of my own community. That will hurt. But it will not dictate what I experience. And if this is similar to your experience, I hope that it helps you feel just a little bit less alone.
Elle here! I just wanted to say a big thanks to my patrons and readers for your support in making posts like this possible; thank you. If you’d like to help me write more keep the lights on and keep writing, consider supporting me on Patreon, supporting me on Ko-Fi, or share this blog with your friends and foes on social media. You can follow me on TikTok, Instagram, Threads, Twitter, and subscribe to my channel on YouTube if you’d like. You can also contact me directly at secretladyspider@gmail.com — I do interviews about demisexuality, asexuality, ADHD, and disability, and more! I also just like it when people say hi. To take a look at my publications, interviews I’ve done for media, podcasts, and keep up to date with new stuff, check out my linktree. Again, thank you for reading my words; it means the world to me. Have an amazing day!
