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"Now I know I’m demisexual, this knowledge has helped me recontextualise every sexual encounter I’ve ever had"
When I was a teenager, I didn’t think I’d ever be in a ‘real’ relationship. I was the only one in my friendship group who didn’t get excited about flirting with boys at parties; but I did it, because it was what everyone did. I hooked up with people because I didn’t want to get left behind in the race that was centered around which ‘base’ we’d each managed to get to, rather than because I was actually attracted to anyone. After lights out at my all-girls boarding school, my peers would whisper on the phone to guys they’d met at the weekend, their half-smothered laughs flitting their way around the dormitory — while I lay there, fixating on how to get a decent role in the school play. It wasn’t just that I had no interest in covert digital flirting or that I was too scared to break the rules — I never fancied anyone.
Studying for my GCSEs at the peak of the Gossip Girl hype, I tried hard to hide my lack of attraction to the male sex symbols my classmates were obsessed with. To fit in with the all-pervasive, school-wide infatuation, I randomly picked Chace Crawford as my ‘Gossip-Girl-guy-I-was-obsessed-with’. I pinned a photo of him to my wall as tangible “evidence” of my celebrity crush, and tried to inject my voice with some sort of plausible lust and longing whenever someone brought him up. But inside? I felt nothing.
This was all a decade ago, and I know something now that I didn’t know then: I’m demisexual. If I’d been aware of demisexuality at school, I might not have felt the need to cosplay as Chace Crawford’s number one fan. I might not have lain awake at night while my peers furiously texted their crushes, wondering why I’d never had a crush on anyone myself.
If you’re not 100% sure what demisexuality means (I didn’t know the definition for a long time), it’s a sexual orientation whereby people generally only feel sexual attraction to a specific person or people with whom they have an emotional connection. It’s how I’ve always identified, really; I just hadn’t found the words to describe it. Until the pandemic set in, that is; when all the time spent indoors gave me a chance to reflect on my identity in a new way — no longer pushing aside my suspicions.
For a long time, I struggled to see where I fit in the spectrum of attraction — even though I knew that I don’t fancy people in quite the same way that most of my friends do. When I first read about it, I always knew that asexual wasn’t the right term for me — I have a textbook high sex drive when I’m in relationships. And I knew that I wasn’t aromantic because I’ve been in relatively traditional relationships with men I was previously friends with: relationships bursting with the kind of romantic love that made me happier than I ever imagined I’d be, like I was perpetually living the scene right before the credits in a Richard Curtis film.
"Struggling to establish a place for myself in the dating world has long been the norm for me"
But I now know I’m demisexual; and this knowledge has helped me recontextualise every sexual encounter I’ve ever had. Whenever I’ve kissed men in clubs or had one night stands, these experiences made me feel alive in a celebratory sort of way; after so many school years spent wondering endlessly if I’d ever have sex at all, it took me a long time to shake the feeling of wonder that I was actually tumbling into bed with someone who wanted to have sex with me. But I’ve never felt any sexual attraction for any of the random men I’ve kissed on dance floors or the strangers whose hips I’ve wrapped my legs around in bed.
Now, I know that the thrill of connecting with someone you’ve just met — that heady rush that comes from pressing your lips to someone else’s in a club just because you’re both there, you’re both alive and you’re both caught up in a moment of inexplicable, fleeting connection that doesn’t (for me, at least) last more than a few seconds — isn’t the same as feeling the searing sexual attraction that I’ve felt in my relationships.
My continued lack of interest in casual sex and dating following the three UK lockdowns (compared with most of my single friends, who’ve been embracing hot girl summers and autumns this year with joyful freedom) gave the term a newfound clarity for me; when I stumbled across an article about demisexuality a few weeks ago, I felt my shoulders come down from my ears as a wave of peace washed over me. Finally, I could stop scrambling for the words to describe why I never feel any sort of flicker — either in my libido or my emotional register — when I’m dating people I don’t really know.
Because struggling to establish a place for myself in the dating world has long been the norm for me. In my experience, there are facets of modern dating culture — facets that particularly affect those who identify as women — that are incompatible with demisexuality. Carrie Bradshaw did wonders for female sexual liberation; but she didn’t do as many favours to those of us for whom sex holds little (or no) attraction unless it’s with someone who already sets our soul on fire.
Prior to the pandemic, I went through a period of time when I hadn’t had sex for over two years. I was happier this way, and the lack of sex didn’t bother me in the slightest (though even my kneejerk description of this period as something I ‘went through’ automatically makes it sound like a hardship); but many of my friends were outraged on my behalf. I was met with various manifestations of incredulity —“How do you do it?”; “Do you want me to wingwoman you?” — and I couldn’t seem to convince anyone that I was truly happier not having sex than when I was having sex with people I barely knew and wasn’t attracted to.
Our dating culture often pushes the idea that — surely?! — all women want to be having casual sex, when feminism is really about choice. If a woman wants to be able to explore her sexuality with one night stands and casual partners, she should be able to choose to embrace and experience that. But if she doesn’t, that’s just as exciting; because both scenarios see a woman exercising her right to choose what works for her.
"Our dating culture often pushes the idea that — surely?! — all women want to have casual sex"
Identifying as demisexual doesn’t mean I’m categorically stating that I won’t ever feel sexual attraction for someone I’ve just met. We’re all constantly evolving, and I have no idea what the future holds. What it does mean is that I can finally make sense of my experience and the way I feel about sex and dating, together with knowing that I’m part of a community.
After so many years of trying to find the words to convey my feelings about sex and romance, I’m so grateful to be able to say: I’m demisexual. I wouldn’t last long on Love Island — like many aspects of our dating culture, it wasn’t created with demisexuality in mind — but I’m hopeful that our society will continue to develop its elasticity when it comes to celebrating all approaches to dating, sex and romance. I’ve often had it gently inferred to me that I’m losing out by not having casual sex (particularly post-lockdown); but since realising I’m demisexual, I truly couldn’t be happier.