I'm Yasmin Benoit (@theyasminbenoit), a British model, aromantic-asexuality activist, and the creator of the #ThisIsWhatAsexualLooksLike campaign. The campaign began with the inception of this series, which I started in the hopes that I could use my platform — and Qwear's platform — to amplify the voices of other asexual people, our art, our businesses, our style, and show the diversity of our community.

The last week of October is Ace Week (formerly known as Asexual Awareness Week), an international, annual campaign for asexual visibility, education and empowerment, founded by Sarah Beth Brooks in 2010. October is also Black History Month in the UK, which is one of the reasons why this article is going to be different from the others. 

This edition will shine the spotlight solely on Black voices, uplifting an experience of asexuality that we still don't hear much about. The representation of asexuality is overwhelmingly white. Those who openly and loudly identify as asexual are more likely to be white. Those who are more likely to have their voices and work amplified by the asexual community are white. Those who are seen as being more relatable and palatable representations of asexuality are white.

These are hurdles that I encounter continuously in my work as an activist, and the issue of racism and a preference for whiteness within the asexual community has become an even more prevalent issue this year. I know that my more negative experiences within predominantly white asexual spaces aren't unique. We all have to deal with being a minority within a minority, and the way in which anti-Black racism impacts our lives, the way our identity is perceived, and how much our experience is valued. 

So please take the time to read this article, uplift Black aspec voices well after October is over, and remember that anti-racism comes from your actions, not your hashtags.

Chenise (@a_feminist_page), 24, USA, foreign language tutor & graduate student

I'm proud of my sexuality as I am proud of my race: I can't change them and I would want to. I embrace them, and I love the communities that come with them. Having marginalized identities makes you see the world for what it is, so in a way, they're like having superpowers. I've been in relationships where I've felt judged for my sexuality or guilty for being who I am, and that state of self-loathing is toxic and damaging. Similar to being a Black woman in America, I should not have to feel shame for being. Simply being.

Darius (@smsdarius), 20, USA, student, he/they/she

The intersection of being asexual and Black masculine-presenting made it hard to initially come out to my family because of expectations that were placed on me when I was young to grow up and be a big strong man and have kids. Learning to love myself for who I am took quite a while but luckily my peers and the environment I’m in are very conducive to being able to comfortably be myself.

Nyisha (@Nyishageedoubleu), 36, USA, Radical Birth Worker/Doula & Activist

My experience as a Black Ace has been to feel invisible honestly. Most of the ace spaces I have been in, I am the only Black person there. It feels lonely most of the time and why I became super excited to see people like Yasmin be in the public eye representing the Black Ace experience. I am a Black cis woman, I am expected to be hypersexual, and it is confusing for people and potential romantic partners (I am Asexual romantic) when I am not. But we're here and we exist. We deserve brave spaces for just our experience because it is unique. Anti-Blackness is pervasive in the LGBTQIA+ community. Black Aces deserve their seat at the table too. And when not invited make sure you leave us be when we build our own table! 

Ashabi, 28, USA, artist and graduate student, founder of @aceingrace

As a Black Fem Queer Asexual person, my experience has been one of constant awareness and growth. I can honestly count on my hand how many other Black Aces I've met in my life, and, each time I do, it's felt like a breath of fresh air and relief knowing that there are others who share similar experiences to mine. As Black Fem, society tends to hypersexualize our bodies before we even have the chance to discover ourselves, and seeing as I've been pretty sex-positive throughout a majority of my life people & partners see this as a way to invalidate my identity as a whole. There are hetero/homo/pan/bi/other queer people who are sex-neutral/negative who have been able to live their life with little to no questions, so why has there been so much for me? I'm so glad that we're approaching a time where more conversations around the Asexuality identity are occurring so comfortability can be fostered in our truths. I love dressing in all sorts of clothes that makes me feel confident, I love being romantic with partners, I love time to myself & with friends, etc. I'm a multifaceted being and there should be more support in my Asexual experience because it aligns with the Human experience. We all deserve space to explore what that means to us without judgment & scrutiny!

Nyala Carbado (@nyala_carbado), 25, USA, queer & trans

I navigate this world, as some others do, through liminality. In terms of my gender—somewhere between, or perhaps entirely outside, the categories of “man” and “woman.” With respect to national origin and its intersection with race—I was born in the United States, but of Italian and Ethiopian descent on my mother’s side and Jamaican with Afro-Cuban descent on my father’s side (both immigrants). Going to a predominantly white “all-girls” high school, these were the identities I had to navigate. Despite the institutional harms I experienced, I learned to love my Blackness and my transness through my connections to friends, family, and community. This love did not extend to my asexuality. After all, I was already Black, trans, and queer outside of asexuality. Adding another non-normative category to the mix seemed unmanageable. 

Though I did find a few asexual communities online, I ultimately avoided them. Being non-normative in other ways, the pressure to conform weighed heavy on my soul. Moreover, there is often a heightened pressure and expectation in queer spaces for individuals perceived to be masculine to be more sexual—an expectation that derives from heteronormative notions about the relationship between masculinity and sex. Blackness compounds these pressures and expectations because of the historical hyper-sexualization of Black bodies. I did not meet those expectations. This meant that in both normative and non-normative spaces, I ended up falling through intersectional cracks on the floor of social relations. Only recently have I stopped (at least consciously) looking at my asexuality as it relates to others (i.e., Am I fitting in enough? Will I find people who love and accept me in a purely romantic context?). 

Instead, I look at my asexuality as an unavoidable self-truth that I can either accept or not. But one thing remains true: Denying its existence won’t change its reality. I am a long way from loving every aspect of my identities, but I am closer than I have ever been before.  Surely that counts for something.

Marshall John Blount (@ace_gentle), 28, USA

"Being a Black Asexual person in this world has landed me between two spaces,space number one being a predominantly White space with little to no representation,and space number two being assumed to be Heterosexual in my own community (African American) because of our cultural expectations and stereotypes (which is perpetuated by general society/media outside of our community)...This is why it's important to created spaces for us to be open and free from such experiences because it can be harmful to our well being...There is absolutely nothing wrong with being Black Asexual and it needs to be said loudly"....

Tiffany D. (@tragic_couturist), 28, Canada, graysexual 

I identify as grayasexual (well at least in the simplest terms anyways! I also have a few identities within the ace spectrum, but they are lesser-known) as well as neurodivergent. And while I have known that I was one for several years now, I’ve only started to be more open about my identity more recently. Growing up, I always figured that I was different from other people whenever they would talk about certain topics pertaining to sex and I would never understand what they would be talking about. Like it was just an alien subject that would always fly over my head and it was a subject that I just feel disconnected to. When it comes to my family and anyone else that I’ve told about my sexuality they’ve all said that it was a joke and that I’m just waiting on the right person to come and that it was all a phase and that I’ll come to my senses to myself soon and whenever I would hear these things I would feel very invalidated and ashamed of myself at times because they make it seem like I’m hysterical and crazy and I’m just making things up but I know deep down that this is truly me and I can’t change the feeling that I have. 

And as someone who is both Ace and Neurodivergent, the feeling of being different is even more pronounced and at times can feel a bit isolating since nobody really gets me. Or at least I felt like I was always misunderstood. As time went on and I looked deeper and deeper into myself and tried to figure out where exactly I land in the ace spectrum and basically, I fall into the grey area. While I do have fantasies from time to time, most of the time I really don’t feel the need nor the desire to share that with anyone. I also feel very uncomfortable with been seen as sexy and I tend to view things from a detached and abstract third-person perspective. 

As someone who’s newer to the community, I haven’t really gotten the chance to know meet others who are in the ace community especially since there aren’t that many people who are like me where I live (or at least in the city that I’m in) and so my experiences are limited and I also wish that there were more people out there with similar experiences so that I could feel more understood and not like someone who seems misunderstood and only out for attention. As the days go by I try to learn more about myself and what I stand for and just accept the fact that I’m different that there’s nothing wrong with me. I express myself through other means that keep me happy whether it be through my fashion or my baking and I really do hope that one day I am able to meet more people who are like me so that I can understand myself even better, which is especially important for me right now since I am more of a newer person in the community and also be more accepting instead of having those fleeting feelings of shame that I get from time to time thanks to the words that I get from others who don’t truly understand who and what I really am.

Coley, 31, United States, Queer Transgender Neurodivergent Drag Monarch @Queerkohl

Invisible in plain sight is the best way I can describe being Black and Ace. In Black communities, I’m assumed to be hetero-romantic and allistic and a cisgender woman. In predominantly white LGBQA, spaces, there’s an expectation that I’m hypersexual and attracted to them. Some people are offended that I don’t reciprocate sexual attraction for them just because they express it to me. That can be dangerous because Black MaGes are expected to reciprocate to anyone who demands it, and if we don’t that refusal to soothe/mammy/mule someone turns violent.

Grace B Freedom (@madquestionasker), middle-aged, Canada, queer & genderfluid

Much of mainstream ace talk is all about what we are not and what we don’t experience and that is not my ace experience. In so many online mainstream ace spaces (read: white), I am reminded of the lack that defines whiteness and the inherent delusions of supremacy therein.My gray demi asexuality is not about what I am without but more like where I am full.  My asexuality is embodied. My gray demi aceness is Black AF, is nonbinary AF and queer AF. My gray demisexuality is aesthetic, spiritual/emotional, and sensual attraction forward and exists inside of the immeasurable yearning to be present to unplumbed emotional connections. It shows up as interdependence and curiosity inside of intimate connections that are reciprocal, where I can practice the vulnerability of my wholeness. While the seat of my erotic does not rest on the legs of white supremacist cis heteropatriarchal allosexuality, there is indeed an erotic seat and it is indeed hot.

Kiana (@kianinwonderland), 24, USA, Non-Binary

My experience within the Black-ace intersection is something I'm still new to. I didn’t realize I was ace until the end of last year when a lot of the feelings I had in the past began to make sense. I will admit that I haven't thought about being Black and Ace. But I am reminded of that whenever I come across an Asexual-themed post that makes me feel ‘othered.’ Being Black-ace is not easy, however, it’s who I am and I couldn't be anything else if I tried. 

Jamal Wilson (@vinylexile), 52, USA, Librarian & Podcaster

Being born mixed-race always puts you under a judgmental microscope. Judged for your skin tone. Judged for the way you speak. Judged for everything. I knew at 4 years old that I was basically different from everyone else and had to figure out how to work with this on my own. Sexuality was a mystery to me and America is not the best place to get a decent sex education. I probably figured out I was Aegosexual when I lost my virginity at 21 years old and wanted it back 5 minutes after it was over.

Asexuality is barely talked about in the media. You’re either gay, straight, or bisexual, and I didn’t fit into any of these categories. I was the type of man that saw the physical act of sex as boring but I enjoyed everything else that led up to it. I also collected porn and enjoyed masturbation more than sex with another person. Trying to explain this to people that you’re dating led to lots of friction. So, I just kept to myself with my movies and vinyl.

It was wonderful to find out about the asexual community and experience how supportive they were. I also discovered that I was sexually attracted to women that were trans and that gave me real peace. I usually tell people that are trying to figure their sexuality out that sexuality is complex and fluid and only you can make the final decision and you can take as long as you want trying to figure it out. The people that casually judge you don’t matter. They’re not the ones who make your life decisions. They don’t pay your bills. They don’t control your happiness. The person that you see in the mirror is who you answer to. Not some casual critic who barely knows you. It took me 46 years to figure that out.

I’m now happily married to my wife of three years who just happens to be trans and is also asexual. We have a wonderful marriage and life together. There’s millions of us out there and we’re all important to have our voices heard. Being Ace is just as sexual as anything else and its okay to embrace that.

Lyric (@lyricbsweet), USA,  song-writer/beatmaker, demisexual/gray-asexual

Being Black and Ace can feel like living under a microscope because societally, Black women get the most scrutiny for failing to meet an unrealistic often Eurocentric standard of sexuality while having our body parts sexualized and sensationalized. There are so many binaries that have begun to dissolve in our society but growing up I found that for no reason, a lot of Black women were/are still held to a lot of those unrealistic either-or’s. You’re either a proud no-nonsense matriarch or sexually deviant and cold-blooded man-stealer. You either date exclusively Black men, or you’re making a political statement. You’re “wife material” or a hoe. Feminine or loud-mouthed. I felt regularly burdened with combating expectations like these, even as a child. Growing up, It was always just assumed I would be “fast” and sexuality/sexual expression was something that was strongly discouraged by my family.

I was kept from learning about sex while being sexualized by my peers and teachers so I found myself regularly managing a burden I was not allowed to even really understand the weight of. And when I did have meaningful and healthy sexual relationships as an adult, it took years for me to accept that I wasn’t as interested in sex as some of my partners. My experiences being blamed in adolescence for having the body I had, drilled into me that I was at fault for being an object in someone else’s eyes. For me, sex was somehow more about me letting others have my body, than me having pleasure because if everyone else is enjoying themselves, then there must be something wrong with me right? WRONG!

Learning to grant myself freedom from the burden of managing other people’s expectations, helped me to stop cushioning peoples egos with my body, and strengthen my sense of self.

Kadeem Beresford-James (@kadzbjames), 30, UK, asexual, aromantic, agender/gendervoid

Sexuality has never been on the table as a discussion topic in my family; I never had a “sex talk”, and everything I know about sex and sexuality has been down to books, tv/film, the internet, my peers, and lived experience. As recently as this year I’ve been asked my opinion on butts and breasts, and even in my 30s I don’t know what the big deal is. Being AMAB I've often felt a deep sting from the stereotypes about Black men’s sexuality, and I’ve often wondered if people believe me when I say I don't know or care, or if they think I’m just being polite/coy, especially after years of pretending to have an opinion to avoid more questions I couldn’t answer. Having children and/or getting married is so expected in Black culture, it’s taken until this year for me to realise I’m not sure I want either. I’m certain I’ve always been ace, but I never saw the way I felt reflected back at me by anyone that looked like me, fictional or real, so I assumed I would understand later – people have always said I’d understand later. Well, I do. 2021 is the year I discovered there was a Black ace community, and it was like waking up from the Matrix.

Mars

Finally, I wanted to include a tribute for Mars. Mars used the hashtag and his image was included in a documentary I shot in 2019, where I spoke about the #ThisIsWhatAsexualLooksLike campaign. Afterward, we found each other on Instagram and I asked him if he would be part of this series. Mars (@cosmicnoir) was included in #ThisIsWhatAsexualLooksLike: Part 6 - In Celebration of Ace Week 2020, after kindly and bravely sharing his story. 

Mars identified as demisexual and panromantic, and was an Accessioning Specialist for an Advanced Genetic Research company in New York at the time the article was written. He said that it was a "fancy way of saying I play with blood all day." Mars was born in Jersey and raised in a Cajun-Creole/West Indian home. When not playing with blood, Mars was part of a gaming/cosplay collective called Glitch Vybez — content creators who do skits, reviews, and play video games. He passed away during Ace Week this year. I hope that his journey can help to inspire others and his story can live on through his contribution to this series. Rest in peace, Mars.

"I knew at 24 I was ace through research, but didn't know where on the spectrum I fell. I felt like an imposter in my own skin, because I had felt this way all my life and didn't think it was possible to be a Black Ace. I told myself I wouldn't compromise my spirit for something meaningless. I didn't need to be with anyone, but I crave a level of companionship. I wanted a life I could share with someone truthfully and honestly. If I couldn't, it would also be okay. The biggest thing that helped me was finding other POC ace folks and sharing our stories. It was mind-boggling how different we all were, but a breath of fresh air how we all had similar experiences. I didn't feel alone anymore. So now at 30, I am much more comfortable with saying I am Demisexual and Panromantic with my full chest. I'm proud to be ace."