By Megan Amato
Content warning: discussions about trauma, rape, and abuse
Even though I primarily dated men as a teenager, I’d had sexual and romantic experiences with women. After talking to a bisexual friend in my early twenties, she showed me a picture of a very beautiful woman in an evocative pose and asked if I felt anything when I looked at it. I said no, and she declared me straight. I believed her. It wasn’t until years later that I realized I didn’t feel anything sexual when I looked at any gender’s body and spent years wondering if I was truly broken. In the last few years—thanks to Twitter—I stumbled upon the words bi/panromantic and demi/greysexual and finally felt something unlock. It was freeing.
In Angela Chen’s Ace: What Asexuality Reveals About Desire, Society, and the Meaning of Sex, she discusses her own experience coming to terms with her asexuality while highlighting the responses she received from other aces she interviewed. One of the things that became clear immediately is that no two experiences were the same—from their knowledge and understanding of what asexuality means, to their dating experiences, to unlearning biases and stereotypes, and to accepting that there was no “normal” when it came to sexuality.
As an avid reader, I often find something relatable in the books I read, but I found myself on the verge of tears while reading Ace. It was a revelation of re-finding myself, of the vocabulary and feelings that I’ve often felt when coming to an understanding—or lack thereof—of my sexuality and the complexities within the community itself. I especially connected with Chen’s own experience of confusing sexuality with the desire to feel special and cherished. As a hypersexual teenager, it took time to realize that I rarely felt sexual attraction. Because of my own traumas, I equated sex with the need to be a part of something, to mean something to someone. Chen’s discussion of compulsory sexuality (like compulsory heterosexuality)—that the societal portrayal of the “normal” way of being is to feel sexual attraction—also hit home because I had no other understanding of how to show my love but through access to my body.
What I really appreciated in this book, and I think is often missed when talking about asexuality, is the consideration of intersectionality. Chen, who is Chinese American, talks to others from different cultural and economic backgrounds; those with different abilities and sexualities and races and ages; and those with and without trauma. All these factors influence how one experiences attraction and one’s understanding of sexuality. Chen explains how the majority who identify as asexual are white, and these people dominate discussions around asexuality. White folks have more societal power to be able to explore their sexuality safely. In contrast, BIPOC have more layers to unpeel in their identities before getting there, including community beliefs, racial stereotypes, racial trauma, fetishization, societal expectations, access to information and queer comminutes, and the fear that asexuality is another way for white people to control sexuality.
Chen wrote this book for everyone. Not just aces like me who can recognize themselves and learn more about the nuances of asexuality, but also those who don’t identify but want to learn more, those in relationships with aces or even those who might relate to aspects that fit into their own sexual desires. Angela Chen’s Ace: What Asexuality Reveals About Desire, Society, and the Meaning of Sex is an important read with topics that anyone can find value in, and I hope this review encourages people to pick up a copy.
Thank you to Penguin Random House for the complimentary copy in exchange for an honest review.