Over the last decade, higher education institutions have made great strides in fostering LGBTQ+ inclusivity. The College of William and Mary is no exception, with the campus receiving a 4 out of 5 stars rating by the Campus Pride Index. Yet, conversations about LGBTQ+ visibility tend to leave out asexuals — a small but significant group. Asexual students at the College enjoy the same umbrella of welcoming sentiment from the student body, but entrenched misconceptions about desire and romance prevent asexuals from achieving full recognition.

The Asexual Visibility & Education Network defines asexuality as the lack of sexual attraction. In practice, asexuality exists on a spectrum, and people can fall from sex-repulsed to sex-neutral. Characterizing sexual attraction as a trait that one either possesses or lacks only further marginalizes asexuals from the mainstream, especially for college students exploring their identity in an open environment.

A common assumption presumes asexuality is a “phase” that will eventually pass. A narrative of compulsory sexuality further posits that sexual attraction is an innate characteristic and that people who do not experience it at first merely need time for it to activate. As a result, many asexuals unwittingly conform to such normative views. For Zoe Hutcheson ’23, it took meeting open-minded students at the College for her to affirm her asexual — or ace — identity.

“I had suspicions before, as early as middle school, but I sort of figured, you know, ‘I’m young, maybe I don’t know what sexual attraction is,’” she said. “It wasn’t until I came to college, and I started talking to other ace people where I was like, ‘Oh, wait. No, I’m right. I’m not just crazy. This is what I am — ace.’”

The asexual community exists primarily online, so it can be difficult for adolescents to access relevant educational material. Before coming to the College, Riley Moffatt ’24 began pondering her sexual orientation after realizing that the demisexual label didn’t quite fit.

“Because I didn’t know anyone ace at all, I read a lot,” she said. “I asked people who weren’t ace as well as my friends what [sexual attraction] felt like, and according to them, it’s obvious . . . . I’ve never felt that.”

Even at the College, where many students identify as LGBTQ+, asexuals still feel alienated from the larger community.

“My first semester when I joined [Rainbow Coalition], I was really excited to be part of an LGBT group, and they just never mentioned [asexuality] at all,” Moffatt said. “Everything that we did was kind of centered around other queer identities, especially gays and lesbians . . . . They never talked about it and never [brought] it up. There’s no focus on it. At all.”

There is also an ongoing debate over whether heterosexual aces can fully claim the LGBTQ+ label. Sarah ’23, who chose to be pseudonymous, acknowledged the awkward, gray area that asexuals inhabit, not quite feeling comfortable within either group. 

“All the other LGBT people I know have been really supportive … but I’m also a lesbian so I always have fit,” she said. “Whereas I have friends who … are ace, but they’re heterosexual and their orientation is heteroromantic, and I know sometimes they feel like they don’t fit in the community or they shouldn’t be taking up space in Lambda [Alliance].”

The biggest challenge for asexuals is attempting to verbalize their inability to feel sexual attraction — something often assumed to be intrinsic to human behavior.

“There’s a lot more resources on ‘What is bisexuality? What is pansexuality?’ — a lot of this sort of stuff — and asexuality is sort of a more recent community … separate from the rest of the LGBT community and is still a lot of times associated with mental disorders or physical disorders, sexual disorders,” Hutcheson said.

Society expects sexual attraction to naturally follow romantic attraction, usually considering the two interchangeable. Hutcheson explained how many people impose their own assumptions on her identity before she even gets a chance to explain.

“A lot of times, it means talking directly about sex, whereas saying, like, ‘Oh, I'm gay, I’m bi, whatever,’ you can talk around the sex aspects . . . . Whereas [explaining asexuality] sort of makes people … be like, ‘Let's talk about sex in a very personal matter,’” Hutcheson said. 

Asexuals are not on a crusade to preach celibacy or abstinence; rather, they want more narratives that push against the saturation of hypersexualized media and discourse.

“I definitely feel like when I realized I was ace, I felt kind of isolated by that, because I was just thinking about how you see portrayals [of] romantic relationships and love in the media, and how it’s so tied up with sexual attraction,” Sarah said. “Love is so tied up in sex for so many people. And knowing that I don’t have that kind of attraction, or don’t really want that inside of a relationship as much, just felt like I was missing out on something.” 

Nor are asexuals trying to claim special status for their lack of interest in sex. Moffatt expressed bewilderment at her high school friends who said she wasn’t “wasting” time on sex.

“You can always choose to not have sex with people — anyone can choose that,” Moffat said. “But to think that that makes it easier for people who always have to deal with being in a world where everything is sexually charged, [it’s] ridiculous.” 

Just as allosexuals can have healthy, mutually appreciative relationships, so can asexuals. Hutcheson wanted her partner to understand her expectations from the start.

“I wanted to make it very clear that I don’t feel sexual attraction, and then we had deeper, longer conversations about it afterwards, like what does that mean, for me? What are the boundaries that I’m comfortable with? — that sort of thing,” Hutcheson said.

Other asexuals may prefer to get more involved before sharing their identity. Sarah said she didn’t tell her girlfriend about being ace until the second date.

“I never really tell any of my dates beforehand, just because … I get worried about it,” she said. “I don’t want them to think they can’t make any moves on me or like, can’t kiss me or anything like that.”

By decentralizing sex from a relationship, asexuals find that their previous doubts and anxieties were unwarranted, and, in turn, their relationships affirm their sense of self-worth. In a media landscape that typically depicts sexless characters as outliers or outcasts, asexuals must seek alternative avenues to see that they deserve love and intimacy like everyone else. 

“I think it’s made me realize my version of love [and] a relationship will be different from most other peoples’ and from what many people may expect, and that’s okay,” Sarah said.

Along with a greater need for inclusive narratives, asexual students also hoped to see a stronger community presence on campus.

“It’d be nice to let people know that they’re not alone,” Moffatt said. “I think that’s helpful because a lot of people don’t realize they are ace, that that’s what they’re going through.”

Sarah added that there are more asexuals at the College than one might expect, so the foundation for a more structured ace community is very much there.

“I was talking to one of my friends … and she was like, ‘At one Lambda meeting … they asked us how many of us were ace, and like, half the group raised their hands, or like, a third of the group raised their hands,’” Sarah said.

Beyond regurgitating that not having sex is perfectly normal, ace inclusion is critical to asexuals’ mental and physical wellbeing against a backdrop of online vitriol and essentialist discourse.

“While there are so many good people and discussions [online], and like, it really helped me discover my identity, there’s also a lot of really mean people and a lot of discourse that’s just full of hate and exclusion,” Hutcheson said.

Above all, acceptance and inclusion allow asexuals to live their lives without shame or guilt — freely and defiantly.

“I think a lot of environments like bars and clubs can have a sexual connotation to them,” Hutcheson said. “Being ace, you either have to go knowing like, ‘Okay, I’m going to be confronted by sexual discussions, [so] I have to be ready to either come out, or sort of mask and hide that I’m ace and blend in, or avoid those spaces entirely.”