So. Here’s a fun little identity plot twist: I’ve finally realized I’m asexual. Yeah. That word. The one I used to wave off with a nervous laugh and a “haha not me though.” Except, turns out, it is. It’s me. It’s been me for a while. I just didn’t want to admit it because, well, I’m also kinky as hell, and that’s not the sort of thing that fits neatly in the TikTok infographic version of sexuality.
Let’s back up. For years, I told myself I was just weird. I had this long history of erotic roleplay, of exploring kink scenes, of knowing way too much about certain fetishes — and yet, when it came to actual sex? The physical act of it? I felt... nothing. Like, literally nothing. Not disgust, not arousal, just this kind of bemused detachment, like watching a movie where the characters are really into something you’re not.
It’s not that I don’t enjoy sexuality — I love it as a concept. It’s fun to write, to play with, to explore in theory. I just don’t experience it personally. It’s like being a chef who doesn’t eat meat but still knows how to cook the hell out of a steak. I can understand what makes it appealing, I can craft the scene, but I don’t actually want to take a bite myself.
The thing that always tripped me up is that I do have kinks. I have an entire catalogue of weird little switches in my brain labeled “spanking,” “power dynamics,” “humiliation,” “pretty aesthetic of submission” — all of which light up when I think about them. But I realized, recently, that none of them are sexual for me. They’re emotional, psychological, aesthetic. It’s not about the sexual act — it’s about control, trust, vulnerability, ritual, performance. It’s theater. It’s intimacy. But not sex.
And that’s the thing nobody ever tells you when you’re growing up in a culture that equates sexuality with value: you can be kinky and still be ace. You can love the charge, the tension, the storytelling of it all, without wanting to drag it into the physical realm. That doesn’t make it fake. It doesn’t make you fake. It just makes you wired differently — and for me, that realization has been like unclenching a muscle I didn’t know I’d been tensing for years.
There’s this weird sense of guilt that comes with admitting it, though. Like, oh no, what if everyone I’ve ever flirted with or roleplayed with feels tricked, like I led them on? But here’s the truth: I wasn’t pretending. I was just exploring the only way I knew how to express intimacy. Because that’s what kink and roleplay were for me — they were intimacy simulators, spaces where I could connect with people without needing to pretend I wanted something physical at the end of it.
The irony is, being asexual doesn’t mean I’m not romantic, or affectionate, or that I don’t want connection. Quite the opposite. It just means I experience it differently. I crave closeness, conversation, that spark of shared weirdness — not bodies. And it took me a long time to realize that’s okay. Because we live in a world that screams at you that desire equals worth, and if you don’t feel that hunger, you must be broken. Except… I’m not broken. I’m just not hungry in that way.
So yeah. I’m asexual. Still kinky, still weird, still me. Just finally comfortable saying that the part of me that loves the performance doesn’t need to be part of the act. And honestly? It’s liberating as hell.
