Twenty-four-year-old Maritza Lopez* does not experience sexual attraction. The genderqueer Afro-Puerto Rican, who identifies as both Latinx and Latina, is one of the estimated 1 percent of people worldwide who identifies as asexual, an orientation that should not be confused with abstinence or celibacy, which are choices. Here's their story, as told to Raquel Reichard.

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Most people can recall the first time they experienced sexual attraction. For some, it was a middle school teacher, and for others it was their neighbor, an actress or the star player on their local little league team that sparked that first sexual buzz, at least that’s what people tell me. I remember having these conversations in my own junior high school in Central Florida when I was about 12 or 13 years old. It was then when I learned I had never experienced this common, "coming-of-age" allure that folks would be talking about for the rest of my life. I also realized then that my absence of sexual attraction made me “weird” and “not normal.”

I learned about asexuality, having no sex or sexual organs, in my eighth grade biology class. At the time, I made a joke that I was asexual, not realizing that this science lesson on animals and plants could also be true for humans. It wasn’t until high school that I discovered people could have a lack of sexual attraction to others, making them asexual as well. I was happy to know that people could identify with this; it brought me peace. But it wasn’t something I’d be willing to call myself for another decade.

I had the misfortune of growing up in a horribly abusive home, which created a lot of trauma. I long held on to the belief that once I received the help I needed and worked through the anguish, that I’d finally experience sexual attraction, that I’d be “normal” at last. That is, at least, what everyone told me. Yet, here I am, years of therapy and medication later, feeling 80 percent healed and functioning, and I still haven’t experienced sexual attraction.

I almost never think about sex. It doesn’t come to mind unless someone else brings it up. I don’t have a problem talking about it. Actually, I can learn about sex in a classroom setting and can chat with friends about their sexual encounters. It even makes me happy when people can find sexual partners that satisfy their physical and emotional needs, because I know that the denial of sexuality and bodies can be such a strong part of oppression. Still, for me, seeing sexual activity is very uncomfortable. I went to Brown University, a very sex-positive school where students held “naked parties” and would go to second base in public. All of this, from watching people make out, have oral sex or air hump, just freaked me out. I felt anxious and sad. I still can’t handle any level of it, though I am trying.

I am a romantic asexual, which means I can and do form romantic friendships. In fact, some of my friendships have been so intense that people tell me they resemble any other romantic relationship, but without the sex. I can have crushes on people and want to cuddle, hug, hang with and know everything about them, and still not want to share a bed with that person. I can also appreciate people’s good looks, but instead of their beauty “turning me on,” I value it as others might appreciate art. This is what usually confuses people. As someone who is both romantic and can be physically attracted to others, it seems like I should experience sexual attraction, but I don’t. The math just doesn’t add up for me. It’s kind of like if everyone tells you that rubbing their elbows does something for them, and you believe them, so you do it, but nothing happens.

It’s not that I haven’t tried to be physically intimate. There was a time after I got through my healing that I thought, “I'm fixed. I can probably be normal now," and I purposely endeavored to seek out romantic and sexual partners in the hopes that something would "click" for me. I had two partners that I experimented with physically during this time. Sometimes, I really enjoyed kissing. For me, it wasn’t a sexual or physical thing but rather expressing affection for each other in a deeply emotional way for a short period of time – the kissing rarely lasted more than a few seconds. But that was it. I didn’t share the desires others talked about. Even with my healing, this part of me hadn’t changed.

Honestly, this brings me a lot of shame. I know it shouldn’t, but I remain feeling inadequate at times because I don’t experience this “normal” sexual attraction. It’s something I’m still working through, even though, as of just a year and a half ago, I do accept it.

It’s really lonely. When you are asexual, you see very clearly how much sex is at the center of everything. From short-term goals placed on hooking up to long-term ones of getting married, gaining a sexual relationship is the primary objective. In that sense, I feel isolated from a lot of people’s everyday experiences. I love talking to my friends about their relationships, but the discussions can only go so far. I love to dance, but I don’t go to clubs because it’s primarily a hook-up site. There are asexual communities online, but these spaces are very white and unwelcoming to working-class people of color like me, making me feel like an outsider even in a space created intentionally for challenging the status quo. I would like a platonic romantic friendship, but my form of love is illegible to most other human beings on the planet. It doesn't seem to make sense to anyone. It doesn't fit anywhere. It doesn't seem to be readable to anyone else but me.

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My asexuality, and what this means for my romantic life, is something I’m becoming OK with more and more each day. I am content with the idea that I may never find a partner who can exist in a connection with me that makes sense and feels good to me on a fundamental level. I've grown to see that my own boundless love is enough for me. I know that when I'm old and I look back on my life, I will see that my love for others, for the world and for myself has always been enough to carry me through this world. I am grateful for my kind of love, even if no one else ever learns how to read it.

*Names have been changed.