Zemaye* (28) spent years trying to make relationships work, but they always seemed to crumble around the same thing: sex, or more specifically, her lack of desire for it. Each attempt at love ended with her being misunderstood or pressured.
Now, after coming to terms with her asexuality, she opens up about the failed relationships that pushed her to this realisation and how embracing her truth has changed the way she sees love and companionship.
What’s your current relationship status, and how do you feel about it?
I’m single, and for the first time, I genuinely feel good about it. It feels like this is who I’m meant to be. It took me a really long time to accept that.
What do you mean?
I’ve come to understand that I’m asexual. I don’t experience sexual attraction, and sex itself has never stirred any emotions for me. That has shaped a lot of my relationships. I tried (and failed) to make it work in the past, but it was never really anyone’s fault.
Hmm. When did you realise this about yourself?
I’ve always been this way; it just took time to manifest. I grew up in a strict Christian home and took my faith seriously as a child. I was very active in church, even as a teenager and had little to do with boys. The closest thing I had to a relationship was with a boy I liked after graduation from secondary school. We barely held hands, and I never had sexual fantasies about him. Honestly, I never had any. Sex scenes in movies didn’t move me, and I was generally uninterested in the subject. Back then, I assumed it was normal because of my religious upbringing.
It wasn’t until university that I really began exploring relationships in a sexual context. From my first, I realised I was different.
Tell me about that relationship.
It was during my third year in 2017. I had this really good coursemate, Isaiah*. He was kind and smart, and he helped me with physics assignments, which I really hated. Over time, we got closer and decided to give dating a shot. We spent a lot of time together, cuddling and making out, so after a few months, sex seemed like the natural next step. He wanted it, and even though I’d never been that keen on sex, I was curious, so I considered it.
I expected it to be exciting, but when it finally happened, it was awkward and very underwhelming. I was anxious throughout, cried my way out of the situation, and it wasn’t just about pain. It took two failed attempts before he could even penetrate, and I detested every second. My experience was rather shocking because my friends seemed to enjoy sex — at least that was what I gleaned from the way they spoke about it. When I shared my experience, they said it was probably just first-time problems. But many more attempts with Isaiah confirmed I hated sex.
Initially, I thought it had to do with feelings of guilt from my religious background, but it was more than that. I just didn’t enjoy that form of intimacy. I eventually started resenting Isaiah because each sexual encounter felt forced. Later, I avoided sex with him altogether. We never really talked about how I felt.
Why?
Looking back, it was partly because we were young and didn’t know how to have those conversations. I also tended to avoid addressing what was happening to me because I didn’t fully understand it myself. In the end, we broke up after a year.
How did you handle that separation?
I felt guilty most of the time. Isaiah wasn’t at fault, and I knew things were just different for me. I had shared my concerns with a nurse a while ago, and she told me it was natural for some women not to like sex. So, I held on to her explanation for the longest time. Still, I couldn’t relate to how others talked about sex like it was the best thing in the world. I was almost relieved I didn’t have to do it.
But I had to face it again in 2020 when I got into another relationship.
I met Chuks* during my service year at a work retreat. He was reliable, caring, and I fell in love with him. I put off having sex with him at first, hoping that when it eventually happened, it would feel different since I liked him more, but I was wrong.
Like with Isaiah, I barely enjoyed kissing him. Physical intimacy in general never excited me, but sex was the worst part. With Chuks, I coped by mentally detaching. I’d talk myself into it beforehand and zone out while it happened. If I didn’t detach, I felt disgusted. He soon noticed and complained that I was passive in bed. I couldn’t explain that it didn’t feel good.
The experience with Chuks also helped me confirm that this wasn’t a phase; my libido was barely existent. One of my friends, who was aware of my situation, mentioned the concept of asexuality. She had come across it in a book and said it sounded like what I was experiencing. I took an interest in what she shared and did my own research. Almost immediately, I felt understood. It captured exactly what I was going through.
Did you tell Chuks?
No, I didn’t. I was still figuring it out myself, so I convinced myself sex was just necessary. I started to read about how asexual people navigate sex. I learnt I could focus more on the emotional bond than the act itself. It was something I could give because I knew my partner enjoyed it. It didn’t mean I started enjoying sex, but it made the process less overwhelming, and things got a little better between us.
But when he moved abroad on a scholarship in 2022, I felt relieved. The distance meant sex would no longer be an issue. I thought it’d make our relationship stronger. Unfortunately, he stopped texting me, and the relationship fizzled out a few months later.
I mourned it because I genuinely loved him, but knew I had tried all I could. That’s when I decided that before getting into any new relationship, I’d be honest about how I felt about sex.
I see. Have you tried dating since then?
Yes, I met David in 2024. We were seated next to each other on a flight. He was friendly, and we realised we lived in the same city. We went on a few dates, and I told him upfront about my asexuality. He quickly said it was fine, and I was surprised he didn’t probe further.
But over time, I realised he didn’t really understand. He believed I just hadn’t had “good” sex yet. He’d say things like, “You can’t know till you try”, and “It’s all in your head.” He insisted he could change my mind. That irritated me because it wasn’t a choice. After barely two months, I blocked him. I’ve been single ever since.
Fair enough. How have all these experiences shaped your idea of love?
Honestly, a lot of love is tied to sex, and that feels almost cynical to me. Every relationship I’ve had crumbled because of it. We underestimate emotional connection outside of sex, and it makes me question the sincerity of love. I’ve realised love alone is never enough. There’s a level of intentionality that should go into being with someone.
Do you still have hope for dating?
Yes, but cautiously. I’d like to believe I could meet someone who’d love me enough to find a balance and put in the effort to be with me. I’m very loud about my asexuality now, from the first date or even before. I’ve learned some people can be dismissive about it, so I establish boundaries early. Love and companionship would be nice, but I’m not desperate.
So, how would you say the streets are treating you? Rate it on a scale of 1-10
Can I give it an 11? I actually love being single. I have no worries, and loneliness isn’t overwhelming because I have a strong community of friends. Love is fine if it happens, but it’s not a priority.
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