I’m Not Pretending Anymore: An Expression of Ace Joy

A purple background with a wheat field and a pink sunset. In the center is a black rectangle, slightly transparent. There is white text over it which reads: I’m Not Pretending Anymore: An Expression of Ace Joy, by Elle Rose.

When I was younger, I felt like everyone was going to some sort of party I wasn’t invited to when it came to sexual attraction. Everyone around me going through puberty suddenly seemed to know all these things about their bodies and about how bodies worked, and I was sitting in class trying my best to pretend like I had a clue what was going on. It was like everyone got this invitation to start experiencing sexual attraction, but I might as well have been Gretchen Weiners; my candygram wasn’t coming.
My body wanted to be explored, and I wanted company — but I didn’t know why I wanted it other than to satisfy my curiosity. Everyone was talking about sex, everyone was having sex, everyone was saying on TV and in movies and in books how great it was, how it was this ultimate expression of love, how nothing could be as good as sex. That sounded good. I wanted that. Well, not that exactly — but something like that. The party sounded fun because everyone was so excited about it, and I didn’t want to feel left out.
I wanted an invitation to the party more than I can really say. I just wanted to fit in, and I didn’t really know how to do that.
When I was fifteen, I got invited to the party, this mythical place where people had sexual attraction, and I kept coming back to it because I wanted to belong somewhere. Maybe I was searching for an identity and I didn’t know where else to find one. I’m a good actress. I could make myself fit the mold. I liked being wanted; I wanted to be seen as sexy because that meant I was worthwhile.
But I never felt like I fit in. In fact, I knew I didn’t. I’d go home and take my mask off, take a shower, and feel strangely exhausted. I knew I liked other people; I knew I wanted company. I also knew that I felt out of place.
Then, in my 20’s, I sought out a different party — a party where sexual attraction wasn’t required for entrance at the door. Where I didn’t have to pretend I was something I wasn’t. When I found it I wasn’t sure I wanted to stay.
What if no one wanted me?
What if I was a freak?
What if I didn’t belong here?
What if I didn’t fit in anywhere?
The door remained open each time I left, waiting for me to say out loud what I already knew. For a long time I still pretended I wasn’t ace; I put on an allosexual mask and smiled and hoped no one could see my walk home and how relieved I was to be away from there.
I finally…