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For years, Amina thought something was wrong with her because she never craved sex. It wasn’t until she found the words to describe her experience that everything finally made sense.
There are some experiences we assume everyone shares. We assume everyone has a celebrity crush they’d happily sleep with. We assume everyone has sexual desires and fantasies. There’s also an assumption that if someone doesn’t, it’s only a matter of time before the “right person” comes along and brings those reactions out of them. That’s the story many of us grow up believing.
So when your experience doesn’t fit that narrative, it’s easy to think you’re the exception and even easier to think something is missing from your experience.
In this week’s Sex Confessions, Amina reflects on the years she spent trying to understand why she never craved sex the way everyone around her seemed to. She enjoyed being in love. She loved acts of affection, kissing and emotional closeness. What she didn’t experience was sexual desire, and for a long time, she thought that made her broken. It wasn’t until she discovered what it meant to be asexual that everything finally began to make sense.
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Amina’s confession
A Black woman wearing a black dress by Tania Mousinho via Unsplash For years, I genuinely believed everyone was being a little dramatic about sexual attractions. My friends would spend hours talking about men they found attractive. We’d be out together or sitting in somebody’s room, and the conversation would somehow find its way back to sex. We could be at the club, and someone would point at a man across the room and say, “I would climb him like a tree,” and everyone else would laugh because they understood exactly what she meant. I laughed too, but honestly, I couldn’t relate.
I thought my friends were exaggerating for effect. Or perhaps they were simply more expressive than I was. I kept waiting for the day I’d see someone and suddenly understand what everyone else had been talking about all those years. That day never came.
Whenever I brought it up, people made assumptions. Some friends insisted I was too picky. A few others confidently told me I just needed to meet the right man. None of those explanations felt right because I wasn’t judging anyone for having sex. I wasn’t scared of it either. I simply didn’t think about it with the same urgency everyone around me seemed to.
Eventually, I stopped saying that out loud because every conversation ended the same way. Someone always had a theory about why I was the way I was, and somehow none of those theories included the possibility that this might just be who I am.
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I loved relationships, but I didn’t crave sex
A Black woman with an Afro via Pinterest (original creator unknown; if this is your work, please contact us for credit) The part that confused me most was that I loved being in relationships. I love romance; I love thoughtful messages in the middle of the day. I love planning dates, holding hands while we walk, resting my head on someone’s shoulder and kissing until we lose track of time. What I never looked forward to was what usually came after.
It wasn’t that I hated the idea of sex; I just never wanted it the way my partners did. We’d be kissing for ages, and I’d genuinely enjoy it. Then they’d try to take things further, and I’d immediately think, “Can’t we just stay here?” Every relationship seemed to follow the same pattern. We’d spend time getting to know each other, we’d become more affectionate, and eventually sex would become the natural next step.
I remember one boyfriend asking me if he was doing something wrong because I never seemed interested in taking things further. That conversation went on for weeks because I didn’t know how to explain something I barely understood myself. Eventually, I gave in because I loved him, and a part of me genuinely hoped everyone else was right. I thought maybe once we actually had sex, something would click. Maybe I’d finally understand what everyone had been talking about all these years. It never happened.
The sex wasn’t painful or traumatic, but it didn’t move me. If anything, I was relieved it was over because I knew I didn’t have to keep wondering anymore. We stayed together for a while after that, but eventually I ended the relationship. I just couldn’t ignore the fact that we both experienced intimacy very differently.
Every time a relationship ended, I wondered whether I was asking too much of people or if I simply wasn’t built for relationships at all.
Read also: Sex Confessions: My first time having sex didn’t hurt — and it confused me
Asexual: the word that finally made sense
A Black woman wearing a black dress by Tania Mousinho via Unsplash One evening, I was listening to a podcast on my way home from work when one of the guests casually mentioned that she was asexual. I’d heard the word before, but I’d never really paid attention to what it meant. She described years of trial and error exploring sex in an attempt to figure out why she didn’t yearn for it. I remember pausing the episode because it felt like someone had reached into my head and started reading my thoughts back to me.
When I got home, I opened my laptop. I had Googled “Why don’t I want sex?” more times than I could count, but this time I searched for asexuality. I spent over an hour reading articles, personal essays and stories from women whose experiences sounded familiar.
Not every story matched mine perfectly, but for the first time, I could see myself somewhere. I was reading about people who were asexual. They enjoyed love, companionship and intimacy, and also didn’t experience sexual desire in the way most people expected.
I closed my laptop that night feeling lighter than I had in years. Although I still had questions about dating and what my future might look like, I no longer felt like I was carrying a secret flaw. Discovering I was asexual didn’t change who I was. It gave me a clear understanding of the person I’d been all along.
Read also: Sex Confessions: I shamed a Lagos man into giving me an orgasm
In conversations with Amina
A Black woman by Nick Owuor via Unsplash When I asked Amina how she feels about being asexual, she smiled. “I’ve always liked who I am, but for a long time, I thought peace would come from changing. It turns out it came from understanding.”
She admitted, however, that there is one part of her future she still thinks about. “I worry about marriage sometimes; I know sex is important to a lot of people, and I wonder what it looks like to build a life with someone when my experience of desire is so different from theirs.”
She explained that the worry isn’t about becoming someone else. “I don’t want to force myself to be a different person anymore; I’ve done enough of that in my head.” Instead, she hopes to find someone who understands there isn’t a universal definition for intimacy. “I still want love and partnership. I still want to kiss the person I love goodbye before work, snuggle most nights and argue over what shows to watch. And I just experience intimacy differently, and I’m finally okay saying I’m asexual without apologising.”
There’s a story only you know the full version of. Whether it’s a memory, a struggle, a ritual, or a revelation, this is a no-judgment, anonymous space where no story is too small or too bold to belong here. Tell us your Sex Confessions.
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