I used to flirt with yoga every Sunday morning and enjoyed attending Self Realization Fellowship. At some point during the monk’s sermon, I’d inevitably get distracted. When I’d attend the Self Realization Hollywood Center I’d be disturbed by the ancient white-haired monk whose words barely carried over wispy breaths and whom I was certain was going to topple over the pulpit and into death at any moment. I never sat in the front row because of this fear.

Whenever I’d attend Lake Shrine Self Realization Center in the Palisades, I’d get distracted by the younger, more handsome monks, wondering how they swore off women so completely. They were still virile after all, and could probably snag a Palisades princess easy enough. They’d share stories of their days before monkhood, when they were ordinary civilians on a non-spiritual path, and I would ache for their lost sexuality, feeling they must be missing out. What is life without love…or at least a lover?

I felt this same way about Jane Austen and Mother Teresa. These poor women who went years without the touch of a man. I simply could not understand why anyone would chose love of the Divine—a sterile love that calls for restriction and abstinence—over human love and companionship, an expression of the Divine!

Years later, I find that asexuality has tapped ME on the shoulder, and I no longer feel sorry for those who choose a loverless path. I applaud them. I understand them. I relate to them.

You see, I have lost all interest in sex. I have lost all interest in the opposite sex. And there’s been no desire to swing in the other direction either.

Perhaps asexuality has come calling because my rhythm is tuned so precise, there is no room for an alternate drum beat. Perhaps I’m dancing with the asexual because I’m more successfully living in the present, and there’s no room for desires that don’t feed my present moment. No room for desires fueled by imagination and the promises of a pretty future filled with roses and Chardonnay.

I recently went on a retreat to Mexico. Before I left, my girlfriends encouraged me to “take a lover…or two.” I turned my nose up (which is hard to do because it’s already pretty high in the air). I was physically revolted by the idea of being intimate with a stranger (with anyone really, but I didn’t share that with these sexually charged beings).

“I won’t be doing that.”

“Why not! Have fun! You deserve it!” they cajoled. “It’s healthy!”

I agree that it’s healthy to give and share love when you feel so inclined. But it’s not healthy when you’re in an asexual state of mind.

When you’re all dried up.

Having sex with a stranger wouldn’t make me happy, it would leave me drained, depleted, raw.

My asexuality has put a kink in some of my friendships. Girls talk about boys. A lot. Girls would rather focus on boys and boy trouble then on their own blissful selves. Boy talk = female bonding, and it’s a wonderful source of engagement.

These days, I find myself less understanding of this boy talk. It’s not a subject that interests me much anymore, and I really have to concentrate to stay focused on the convo and in the interplay of energy.

I want to say, “Why bother with men? Focus on yourself and become asexual like me! There’s no drama and everything is breezy!” But I know you have to be bit by the asexual bug yourself in order to appreciate its comfort and convenience.

I must admit: I’m a bit worried about wearing my asexuality too snuggly. The energy I put forth in the world is no longer sexual, which is fine, but I fear I am losing my femininity as well. My softness is fading alongside my sensuality, and that will not do.

I no longer wish to dance, and that makes me sad. My limbs no longer swim around me with grace, but move instead in a functional nature. They are too long for mere function and will atrophy with waste, and that is a shame.

I am happy in my asexuality…but that doesn’t mean I am comfortable with it. But tossing it aside would be inauthentic, and I’m entirely comfortable with my authenticity. So asexual I will remain, hoping that one day, someday, I will feel like dancing again.

Written by Amy
I am a film, TV and voiceover actress and a fiction and nonfiction writer. You've seen and heard me on television, movies, radio ads and video games. I'm the author of 5 books and counting, and my award-winning short stories have been featured in acclaimed literary journals.

    1 Comment

  1. Anonymous May 27, 2014 at 9:51 am Reply

    You need to get laid

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