Asexuality—an orientation that involves little to no sexual attraction—is often misunderstood. For some of us, part of the process of coming out as ace involves dealing with rude comments like: “You’re just being celibate or abstinent” or “No one is going to be with you if you don’t put out!” And when you’re Black and asexual like me, you also get racist statements from non-Black folks like: “You don’t like sex,…but you’re Black!”
Given that Black asexuals get twice (or even thrice) the amount of grief, I was happy to learn about SoulAce Day, a new upcoming holiday on February 16th dedicated to celebrating African American asexuality and our contributions to art and activism. The holiday was founded by Black asexuals Marshall Blount, Kimberly Butler, and Alyshia Rodgers.
I first learned about SoulAce Day via the Tumblr blog @black-ace-culture-is, a culture blog specifically for Black asexuals that celebrates us in history and culture. Both this blog and SoulAce Day are vital for other Black asexuals like myself who have felt overlooked or out of place. I want to also add that my experiences of asexuality as a mixed, light-skinned Black-Asian genderqueer person are different from monoracial dark-skinned Black asexuals who deal with colorism. However, this doesn’t negate the fact that it has still taken me years to reconcile my Blackness and my asexuality.
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I first realized that I was asexual back in 2018, after reading the young adult book Let’s Talk About Love by Claire Kann. It tells the story of Alice, a Black biromantic asexual young woman coming of age and experiencing romance in college. Reading it on release opened my eyes to things I had brushed aside, such as the expectation of sexual attraction that I went along with as a closeted queer person in high school. The book also helped me start figuring out what type of attraction I did experience, such as aesthetic attraction.
Since that time, I’ve taken steps towards embracing my asexuality. I’ve written a poetic ode to aesthetic attraction for the asexual, aromantic, and agender literary magazine The Aze Journal. I’ve given gifts to my Internet friends for Palentine’s Day to express my platonic love. Yet I don’t think I realized how my Blackness and asexuality were intertwined until I recently started interacting more with Black ace culture and reading Sherronda J. Brown’s book Refusing Complusive Sexuality.
In this book that discusses and affirms Black asexuality, there is one sentence that sums up the reason why I’ve struggled to embrace different facets of my asexuality as a Black person. It reads: “Blackness negates the need for consent in the social imagination since we are constructed as always consenting—either passively or enthusiastically—to the sexualization imposed onto us.”
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Looking back I wish I had embraced demisexuality without pathologizing my identity and trying to rationalize it.
Due to my Blackness and the fact that I was socialized as a woman, everyone assumed that I wanted to have sex with boys. It didn’t matter that I just happened to befriend boys more than girls because they shared my interests. Both my parents had a cow when they found out my best friends in middle school were Black boys because they assumed that I eventually would have sex with them.
Sadly, my experience is not an isolated one. Last year, Black asexual activist Yasmin Benoit faced backlash for wearing a revealing outfit while leading London’s Pride Parade. Since she is a Black woman, people assumed that she wore the clothes because she wanted sexual attention.
Not only does the hypersexualization of Black bodies affect Black AFAB folks, but it affects Black men, too. In a 2023 essay for LGBTQ Nation, writer Tyger Songbird explains how it difficult for him to come out as asexual. He writes, “So often, I’ve had people assume that, due to my being Black, I must be having sex constantly with any and every thing that moves. Even when I come out and say I’m asexual, some people actively dismiss the possibility of my statement being true, because of their stereotypes about Black men.”
Yet despite the complusive sexuality enforced onto Black asexual folks, we are still existing, surviving, and thriving. Black asexual writers like me, Tyger Songbird, and Sherronda J. Brown are telling our stories.
On this inaugural Soul Ace Day, I want to celebrate my Black asexuality and other Black asexuals, because we are here and queer.♦
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