Is asexuality a lack of sexual orientation and analogous to other sexual orientations and identities?

One of the most inescapable social assumptions is that all humans possess sexual desire (Cole, 1993; 192). A related assumption is that sexuality is not only something one does, but an identity or something one is (Weeks, 1986; Foucault, 1978, cited in Scherrer, 2008; 621).

Most inquiries into asexuality have approached it as either behaviour (lack of sexual acts) or a lack of desire for sexual acts. However, Scherrer argues that the complexity and variability of asexuality also encompasses those who are interested in romantic attachment but with limited or no physical contact, along with others who are simply not interested in sex (Scherrer, 2008: 634), a discourse appears frequently in which self-identified asexuals participate. It is in this context where identity labels such as demisexual, hyposexual, romantic or aromantic asexual, hyporomantic, straight-A, gay-A, bi-A, grey-A, etc. take on meanings, as asexuals attempt to position themselves not only according to the genders of people to whom they experience romantic attraction, but also according to the degrees to which (and the ways in which) they do so (DeLuzio Chasin, 2011; 713). It is already clear from the language of asexuality that it positions itself as an alternative to sexual, instead of as an alternative to straight or queer, with significant variations in both ‘romantic orientation’ and the degree to which romantic and sexual attraction is, or is not experienced. While the emergence of asexuality as a separate identity has disturbed the limited equilibrium that has developed between heteronomativity and queer identities in the last few decades, asexual non-conformity to either hetero or queer normativity has resulted in asexual agitation against perceptions of sexual normativity in order to encourage asexual legitimacy – debunking the assumption that sexual desire is an essential component of sexuality (Cole, 1993; 188). This brings into question exactly what is meant by asexuality and forces investigation into how the chameleon-like asexual identity co-exists with hetero and queer identities, an if it is analogous to other sexual orientations and identities (Storms, 1980; 782).
Given the deceptive heterogeneity of asexuality, there is no reason to believe hetero asexual identity, queer asexual identity or pan asexual identity should be described by the same set of characteristics or theories simply because they share the same sexual/asexual qualifier, just as we already take for granted that heterosexual and queer sexual identities do not represent a single uniform community (Przybylo, 2011; 446). For example, there could be a set of relevant sub-groups that are needed for one kind of asexual generalisation - asexuals who have engaged in sexual behaviours with men, women, trans, pan or with none, but only two relevant groups for another - asexuals who do or do not experience romantic attraction (.DeLuzio Chasin, 2011; 713).
To enable the recognition of asexuality as a separate identity, both exclusionary heteronormative politics and exclusionary queer politics that are both founded on binary logic is required. This will, in turn, facilitate a process of rejection of their respective, but reactively formulated definitions of asexuality that have largely relied on viewing asexuality as pathological. However, for asexuals, the ‘sexual world’ is akin to what patriarchy is for feminists and heteronormativity is for queer populations, in the sense that it constitutes the oppressive force against which some sort of rebellion must take place (Przybylo, 2011; 445). Although the fight for queer validity in a heteronormative world continues, the challenge for hetero and queer communities is to reassess and accept an asexual identity that seems foreign and unsound to both, in that socio-sexuality must be redefined to include those without sexual desire.
The widespread assumption of contemporary society is that “sex is a natural force that exists prior to social life and shapes institutions” (Rubin 1984: 275) If this is true, the ‘asexual other’ who does not want sex with any gender is therefore seen as betraying the basic tenets of sexuality –sexual attraction and desire. This view gives impetus to hetero and queer normativity’s denial of a non-sexual entity, compounding the asexual’s perceived need for closeting their lack of sexual desire. Asexuals who do not act in accordance with the norm know that failure to comply with normative sexual protocols involves consequences, such as further marginalisation, for failing to repeat them (Przybylo, 2011; 446). The asexual’s non-response to sexually normative stimuli, in a world that is saturated with sex at every turn, is treated as a travesty towards socio-sexuality. Consequently, a sense of asexual difference (i.e. an awareness of not experiencing sexual attraction while being surrounded by those who do experience it) is incorporated under a prior and independent sense of being different, in respect of not being sexual within the normative perception (Carrigan, 2010; 463). To demonstrate this, Hinderliter (2009) points out that for the asexual who may not yet have self-identified, significant distress over their low sexual attraction (perhaps due to perceived stigma from others) may have devastating psychological results such as low self-esteem and perceived sexual inadequacy (Hinderliter, 2009; 620). Regrettably, such fears of non-acceptance have forced many asexuals to remain closeted, hidden from both hetero and queer scrutiny and continuing to publicly pass as sexual.
This brings into question the notion of the in/visible difference of asexuality. While physical attributes and presentation may simultaneously mark the asexual as sexual and keep the true identity hidden from view, chameleon-like invisibility both puts and keeps asexuality on the periphery of ‘the space between boundaries of terms and labels that the word queer attempts to destabalise’ (Moran, 2004, cited in Burgess, 2005;232). As Burgess asserts, this becomes a question of invading space, especially if the space is predominantly for sexual cruising or marked as sexuo-culturally specific (Burgess, 2005; 234). If the asexual fails to display socio-normative tropes of desire, then they are likely to be rejected; ignored at best, and treated with hostility at worst (Burgess, 2005; 234). For example, as much as the queer community reassess who should be included in the LGBTQ acronym, the community remains centred on the sexual, making identities function as ‘instruments of regulatory regimes’, perpetuating the oppression of the non-sexual entity (Butler, 1989; 151, cited in Burgess, 2004, 235).
Traditional psychological understandings of sexual orientation coincide with broader cultural presumptions fusing romantic and sexual attraction. These notions position sexual orientation as an individual characteristic, like blood type or eye colour, which comes in several distinct and mutually exclusive varieties (DeLuzio Chasin, 2011; 719). This perspective corresponds with particular attitudes, beliefs, stereotypes, and ideologies about sexuality and sexual orientation that are so culturally persistent that they are literally taken for granted. For example, sexual stereotyping may lead to the exploration of emotional intimacy in lesbian relationships, or sexual promiscuity in gay men’s relationships, presuming these to be the most relevant features of these respective relationships (Carrigan, 2010; 465). No matter how (in)valid the stereotypes happen to be, results will be generated pertaining to intimacy in lesbian relationships and promiscuity in gay men’s relationships, thereby perpetuating stereotypes (DeLuzio Chasin, 2011; 719 ). For this reason, it is essential to study asexuality by questioning assumptions of dominant/normative sexual attitudes such as the desire/no desire binary (Gergen, 1973; 311). While both heteronormativity and queer normativity contain cultural, social, and ideological bias that normalise active participatory sexuality as a universal ‘default’ way of being, their hidden assumptions of the ‘asexual other’ negate the variability and validity of asexuality (Bogaert, 2006; 280).
The largely unchallenged assumption of ‘sexuality as the norm’ dictates that asexual people are frequently forced to pass as sexual people in everyday lives whether they want to or not. Asexual people therefore live a biculturalism parallel to that described by Brown (1989; 445) for lesbians and gay men, thus involuntarily incorporating the perspectives of asexual people into the domain of normative sexuality. This is particularly the case with research related to sexual behaviour, identity, and intimate relationships, since these (for anyone) are complex phenomena where subjective experiences are meaningful (Brown, 1989; 446). Within the conceptual paradigm in which asexuality needs to be explained, sexuality is merely and invisibly presumed to be normal (Przybylo, 1992; 455). However, if asexuality remains invisible to the sexual majority, the continuation of closeted concealment forces asexuals to ‘fake’ being sexual in order to be considered normal or to (sexually) placate others. This signifies the way sex becomes invested with an assumption that ‘the goal (of normativity) is to be sexual’ (Cole, 1993: 192).
With Brown’s critique in mind, theories governing asexuality appear problematic in that they treat asexuality as a special marginal topic, without incorporating implications of asexual perspectives into the mainstream study of sexuality (DeLuzio Chasin, 2011; 719). While the founder of ‘Asexual Visibility and Education Network’ (AVEN), David Jay’s 2003 paper ‘A Look at Online Collective Identity Formation’ provides insight into the role of the internet in formulating asexual identity, as well as the importance of community building for a marginalised asexual population, Turkle (1995) argues that the internet has made virtual space available for highly stigmatised, marginalised groups to find community and support for their identity (Turkle, 1995; 210). Similarly, McKenna and Bargh (1998) argue that the internet has been helpful for constructing marginalised identities:
“For the first time [members of marginalised identities] can reap the benefits of joining a group of similar others: feeling less isolated and different, disclosing a long secret part of oneself, sharing one’s own experiences and learning from those of others, and gaining emotional and motivational support” (McKenna and Bargh, 1998: 682).
Similar to queer sexualities, the privacy provided by the internet is beneficial to the formation of asexual identities. Individuals can practice their narratives of asexuality in a safe space, as well as find community and support. To this end AVEN’s website offers ‘FAQs’ about asexuality, community building space, and encourages discussions of identity and associated politics However, the construction of asexual identities problematises the boundaries between the sexual and the non-sexual. Redefining traditionally ‘sexual’ behaviours as non-sexual challenges the sexual/non-sexual binary as it questions how and why certain behaviours are designated as sexual and others as non-sexual. Asexual definitions of sexuality reveal the construction of sexual acts such as cuddling and kissing as unattached from the sexual meanings that are often attributed to these behaviours. In this way an exploration of asexual identities contributes to a larger social constructivist project as the discourses of sex, sexuality and physical intimacy are challenged and re-written in the construction of asexual identity.
Like others, Prause and Graham (2007) have hypothesised that individuals who identify as asexual have a specific lack of sexual desire, although when sexual participation occurs, it is likely to be driven by external cues, such as the desire to satisfy a romantic partner (Basson, 2001; 381), indicating the pressure to perform normative sex. This highlights the probability that it is not enough to simply have sex, but for the sex to be immensely enjoyable, ending with the product of orgasm, or what Seidman has referred to as the ‘new tyranny of orgasmic pleasure’ (Seidman, 1992, cited in Przybylo, 2011; 448). Clearly, such pressure to ‘perform’ normative sexual acts undermines the asexual’s need for autonomy from dominant sexual discourses that prescribe to the edict that ‘all humans possess sexual desire’ (Cole, 1993, 188). While essentialist notions of sexuality may be useful for legitimising sexual identities, asexuality simultaneously challenges essentialist understandings of sexuality as naturally being part of a human experience. Even when sex is explicitly out of the equation, identity still revolves around the gendered object choice. This reveals the phantasm of the sexual project, unveiling the ‘natural’ to be an imitation (Butler, 1993: 3–4). The ‘sexual assumption’, which sees sex as a culmination of and perquisite for human flourishing, is a pervasive verification of the normality of sex, and the perception that it is characteristic of a healthy life. However, this can prevent self-acceptance as a culturally available option for asexuals because of the associated normative rejection of asexuality as invalid (Carrigan, 2010; 463). This inadvertently gives weight to the asexual argument that hetero and queer sexual desire and asexual lack of sexual desire are equally valid components of normative sexuality, as both are ‘natural’ (Scherrer, 2008; 622).
In order to understand the universality of sexual difference that encompasses all variant sexualities, it is useful to look at Halperin’s (1993) contention that: “sexuality generates sexual identity; it endows each of us with an individual sexual nature, with a personal essence defined (at least in part) in specific sexual terms; it implies that humans are individuated at the level of their sexuality, that they differ from one another in their sexuality and, indeed, belong to different types or kinds of being by virtue of their sexuality” (Halperin, 1993; 417). Although Halperin does not specifically mention asexuality, this hypothesis upholds the validity of sexualities and identities that do not include sexual desire as essential.
The development of peripheral sexualities and identities such as asexual involves accurately identifying and articulating desire. This may involve (re)defining culturally agreed-on ‘sexual acts’ such as cuddling and kissing as non-sexual, highlighting Prause and Graham’s (2007; 342) research which suggests that asexuals interpret fewer behaviours as sexual, as compared to non-asexuals, possibly due to the lack of pleasure associated with them. Moreover, Prouse and Graham’s work asserts that asexuals are not averse to, or afraid of, sex but simply uninterested/bored by it (Prause and Graham, 2007; 341), an analysis that contributes to the subtle distinction not only between variant asexual identities, but to understanding different dimensions of sexuality.
There are numerous connections between asexuality and other fringe sexualities. Yet, asexuality has been largely unnoticed by sexual-normative hierarchies, perhaps because of its combined lack of sexual behaviour, participation and desire. This illustrates sexual-normativity’s lack of willingness to embrace new sexualities – echoing the previous experiences of other marginalised communities. Although established queer communities now have visibility in physical spaces such as bars, bookstores and social organisations that accommodate queer identities, asexuals are not only marginalised by heteronormativity, but suffer marginalisation by the queer communities as well, with neither readily recognising the ‘asexual other’ (Prause and Graham, 2007; 638). Hence, asexuality is forced to continue its habitation of space anonymously while passing chameleon-like as alternate identities, be they straight or queer. Although there are cultural symbols that represent the desires, identities and behaviours of queer identities and subcultures (such as rainbows or pink triangles), there are no such commonly identifiable symbols of asexual that create community solidarity or widespread awareness – perpetuating asexuality’s invisibility. As Rust articulates, sexual identity is ‘a description of the location of the self in relation to other individuals, groups and institutions’ (Rust, 1996: 78). Given this understanding of sexual identity, hetero and queer entities all draw on existing language, their current social situation and the social and cultural meanings associated with their identities to place themselves in relation to other individuals and institutions and to accurately describe their internal sense of self. The acquisition of a communal identity then serves to ward off pathology and ambiguity, as an individual sense of difference gives way to the sense of a shared communal trait (DeLuzio Chasin, 2011; 720 ).In this way, marginalised sexualities have achieved varying degrees of heteronormative recognition. However, the fact remains that both hetero and queer normativity maintains a dependence on an ethos of sexual desire. In rejecting the validity of sexual desire, asexuality is positioned as an alternative to sexual instead of an alternative to straight or queer, who both continue to enforce the notion of sexual desire as inseparable from sexuality. This policing of sexual desire has encouraged asexuals to rebel against assumptions of sexual normativity, thus empowering them to shed their chameleon-like camouflage of ‘false’ identities. If, in the Foucauldian sense, asexuality is condemned to non-existence and silence, then the mere fact that an asexual discourse exists indicate deliberate infringement of normativity, upsetting established edicts of socio-sexuality (Foucault, 2008 [1978]; 100). Furthermore, if sexuo-society’s recurrent belief is that sexuality is ‘a natural force, akin to eating and sleeping, and built into our biological make-up’ (Seidman, 1989: 299), then sexuality signifies pathology, and sex therapy becomes invested with an assumption ‘that the goal is to be sexual’ (Cole, 1993: 192). This firmly lodges heteronormative methodologies’ attempts to identify the lack of sexual desire as pathological, in a position that opposes the normalisation of asexuality - due to sexuo-noamativity’s ability to ‘place subordinated knowledges and voices on the same footing as that of sexuo-society’s dominant groups’ (Miller, 2000; 319).With this in mind, asexuals should not be considered passive victims of a pervasively sexualised social world but rather as actively and creatively renegotiating the boundaries of the platonic, the intimate and the sexual, with ramifications that will potentially overturn socio-sexual assumptions of the necessity of sexual desire (Carrigan, 2010; 476). The dominant distinction between romance and sex, which may be counter-intuitive from the perspective of mainstream sexuality, regards the latter as the culmination of the former (Carrigan, 2010; 476). As Scherrer (2008; 636) puts it,‘asexual identities make explicit a romantic dimension of asexuality as distinct from an asexual identity based on lack of sexual attraction’. Many asexuals feel attraction but without any sexual component to it, instead regarding it as romantic and/or emotional. This encourages asexuals to ask: “if one can have sex without love, why is it that one cannot have love without sex?” In turn, this can be answered through the legitimisation of the asexual concept of love without sexual desire, which will inadvertently force the reconceptualisation of sexual normativity, thus breaking the assumption that sexual desire is intrinsic to human sexuality. While socio-sexual normativity requires that asexuality should conform to the ‘regulatory regimes’ that Butler (1999 [1990]; 181) speaks of, such change will facilitate an inclusiveness that recognises asexuality as an autonomous identity, while simultaneously allowing it to be analogous to other sexual orientations and identities (Storm, 1980; 782). In turn, identity labels such as demisexual, romantic or aromantic asexual, hyporomantic, straight-A, gay-A, bi-A, grey-A, etc. take on meaning, as asexuals locate themselves according to the degrees to which (and the ways in which) they experience non-sexual romantic attraction to people of other genders (.DeLuzio Chasin, 2011; 722). The authentication of these variant asexual identities by hetero and queer hierarchies will, in turn, generate acceptance of an asexual identity without sexual desire, and in the process, normalise asexuality.

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[ 1 ]. The very term asexuality directly references and embeds sexuality, suggesting some (de)form of the original. It also simulates primordial, often single-celled, ‘primitive’ life forms such as bacteria, mapping onto planes of evolutionary logic, of more evolved versus less evolved life forms. Interestingly, early self-identified asexuals referenced themselves in relation to amoebas, such as in the 1997 online article ‘My life as an amoeba’ (O’Reilly) and the first asexuality related blog, the Yahoo group ‘Haven for the human amoeba’ formed in 2000 Asexuality is a term that is thus inherently referential to binaries of evolved/primitive, culture/nature (‘Asexuality: The history of a definition’, 2000).
[ 2 ]. The logic of the ‘sexual world’ ‘out there’ and not ‘in here’ is profoundly based on a dualistic thinking which enables oppositional definitions, and delineates the ‘we’ and ‘them’, the ‘I’ and ‘not-I’. It also assumes, to a certain extent, that the asexual can step outside of the ‘sexual world’, or more accurately, that he or she is not a product of it (Przybylo, E. Crisis and safety: The asexual in sexusociety; 458).
[ 3 ]. Although Burgess writes about personal experience in the marginalisation of black hypatian women in white lesbian space, her article parallels the invisibility and fear of ostracism experienced by asexuals in sexual space.
[ 4 ]. Bogaert (2006) addressed arguments speculating that so-called asexual people may in fact be subject to physiologically defined sexual attraction (i.e., respond physiologically to sexual stimuli) but may either lack subjective awareness of this or may wish to conceal their awareness.
[ 5 ]. Brown (1989) explained how gay men and lesbians live a marginalised sort of ‘‘biculturalism,’’ occupying gay and lesbian spaces, but also sometimes ‘‘passing’’ as straight, either deliberately or by enforced heteronormative presumption. Because of this, Brown argued that logical positivist inquiry with its promise of a single truth does not fit well with the experiences of lesbians and gay men. Brown called for alternative approaches and methodologies which would permit psychologists to explore the complexities of experience and meaning. Brown observed that since gay men and lesbians are simultaneously part of dominant culture and outsiders to it, their unique perspectives might reveal what insiders could simply take for granted.
[ 6 ]. ‘My people are a definite minority group who wish to be recognized like all the others. We want a coloured ribbon, a national holiday. We want the world to know that we are out there’ (O’Reilly, 1997),