Asexuality isn’t a 'phase': Rethinking intimacy in a sex-obsessed culture

Asexuality isn’t about the absence of intimacy, but about seeking a different kind of connection. In India, where marriage is often seen as the benchmark of one’s worth, asexual individuals are quietly reshaping how we understand desire

In the mountainous landscape of Kashmir, K’s (she/her) understanding of intimacy began with photography. It was through the quiet act of capturing the world around her that she first started realising what intimacy meant to her—not in the way society defined it, but as something softer and much more nuanced. 

"I was looking for intimacy long before I had the language for it,” says K. “I didn’t know what kind—not romantic, not sexual—but something soft, honest, mutual." Photography, for her, became an emotional tether.“I’d take photos of the way the light hit a window or the way someone’s hand rested on a table,” she says. “Only later [did I] realise that I was recording moments of emotional closeness."

K’s perspective on intimacy resonates with Aparna (she/they), who felt disconnected from the world’s standard expectations of intimacy. "I remember wondering if I was gay, mostly because my fantasies were about women, but it wasn’t just that—I also had a fluidity around my own gender. There was so much confusion. Being autistic made it harder to sort through those layers of difference," shares Aparna, from Bengaluru who writes under the name of AV Kakkad.

This confusion wasn’t just about gender orientation. It was having to perform intimacy in a world that expects it to be and look a certain way. “People would talk about crushes, about desire, about ‘wanting’ someone. I’d try to mirror that because that’s what being normal looked like. But, I never felt it," adds Aparna. 

Aparna got married at 22—not out of love, but out of obligation. “I had internalised that marriage was what I was supposed to do—something I read in books, saw in movies, heard from everyone around me," she recalls. "Within months, I hated it. I hated the intimacy, the idea of being ‘close.’ There was no friendship in that relationship—nothing to connect us beyond what society said should be there."

More than physical attraction: Intimacy is real for those who are asexual

Both K’s and Aparna’s stories are framed by a deep sense of emotional alienation from the traditional markers of intimacy. For K, this alienation transformed over time into an understanding of asexuality. "It’s not cold or repressed, it’s just not there," K says, expressing the quiet but potent realisation that sexual attraction was not something she felt. "I remember feeling stunned. Not because I was afraid of the label, but because it was the first time I saw my inner world reflected back at me." This epiphany was liberating for K, as it gave her the language to articulate her identity. "It didn’t feel like a restriction. It felt like breathing out."

Aparna echoes that shift. "For years, I thought something was wrong with me,” she says.  ““I didn’t [even] know that asexuality was a thing until much later. It was like a lightbulb went off. It’s not something broken inside of me."

P (he/him), who identifies as demisexual and sapiosexual, adds a layer to this complexity. For him, intimacy is rooted in emotional and intellectual resonance. "I can have sex with someone I’m not emotionally attached to, but it feels hollow,” he says. Doing so would lack any kind of internal satisfaction for him. "It’s like how a straight guy can have sex with a boy or a gay guy with a girl—it’s not about the physical act, it’s about the emotional connection."

P’s experience highlights a significant aspect of asexuality: It’s not necessarily the absence of desire for intimacy or sexual connection, but a redefinition of what that connection looks like. For P, sex is not inherently meaningless, but it must be accompanied by an emotional or intellectual bond in order to be fulfilling. "Kissing someone I don’t like feels like nothing. But when I’m emotionally connected to someone, kissing them feels different—there’s a chemical reaction, a real emotional bond," he reflects. This aspect of P's identity challenges the misconception that asexual people are simply uninterested in sexual relationships altogether. "It’s about the bond, not just the physical act," he emphasises, showing that intimacy for him is not a simple binary of sexual versus asexual, but a spectrum of emotional connection that can coexist with desires for sexual intimacy in the right context.

Tarun Vejendla (he/him), an advocate for understanding asexuality in India, says most misconceptions are rooted in cultural norms. "In Indian society, asexuality is often dismissed as a ‘phase’ or something caused by past trauma," he notes, pointing to the deep-seated pressures that a heteronormative society imposes. "This is directly tied to the arranged marriage system, where society pressures individuals to fit into a heteronormative model, expecting sexual activity to be a part of that framework." 

The societal insistence that sexual desire is an essential part of human identity exacerbates the struggles of people like K, Aparna, and P, who do not experience sexual attraction in the traditional sense.

The assumption—that marriage will “fix” sexual attraction—can be harmful. It traps people in relationships that meet social expectations but leave both partners unfulfilled.. This sentiment aligns with Aparna’s experience, where the societal push toward marriage left her feeling trapped in a relationship that did not fulfill her emotional needs.

K’s and Aparna’s experiences reveal how asexuality is often mistaken for an absence of desire, when it’s really prescene—of care, of self-awareness, of choice. Tarun notes, "When people say ‘the right person will fix it,’ they’re ignoring the reality that asexual individuals can still have fulfilling relationships without sexual attraction. That kind of thinking frustrates asexual people, making them feel inadequate because they don’t fit into the narrow mold of sexual fulfillment."

P’s narrative, however, introduces a nuanced perspective about the intersection of asexuality and sexual desire. His experiences highlight that asexuality is not a monolith—there is room for individuals on the spectrum to want sexual relationships under the right circumstances. "Sometimes, I feel burdened as a sapiosexual," P reflects, recognising how his need for emotional and intellectual connection complicates the dynamics of attraction. "People often approach me because they think I look great or have an attractive personality. But it’s not enough for me to just be with anyone. I need depth in a connection. It’s frustrating because they might think I’m not interested, or they think I’m playing games when I’m just being honest about what I need."

P’s insights challenge the oversimplified narrative that asexuality equals a lack of interest in sex or intimacy. "It’s about the connection before anything else," he affirms, reinforcing the idea that intimacy, in all its forms, is not just about physical attraction—it’s about emotional resonance, vulnerability, and understanding.

Engendering harmful gender stereotypes

Masculinity, too, plays a role in how asexual individuals—espcially men—are perceived. "In masculine spaces, masculinity is often defined by dominance and sexual success, with endless talk about body counts and conquests," explains Tarun. "There’s no room for asexuality in this narrative. This lack of space for vulnerability means that asexual individuals are often misunderstood as ‘less masculine,’ which is a harmful stereotype."

The assumption that masculinity is inseparable from sexual desire creates a societal narrative that excludes those like P, who are asexual but still value emotional connection and intimacy. "The assumption is that if you’re not having sex, you’re somehow failing to fulfill the standard of masculinity," P says. "But asexuality doesn’t mean a lack of masculinity—it means rejecting the idea that sexual desire is essential to being a man."

Tarun’s commentary on redefining masculinity resonates with P’s own experiences, offering a vision of a more inclusive and emotionally rich understanding of manhood. "Celebrating asexuality could be a way to redefine masculinity, allowing men to step away from outdated ideas of dominance and emotional detachment," he suggests. "We need to create a new definition of masculinity that’s inclusive of diverse sexual identities and experiences, one that recognises emotional vulnerability as strength, not weakness."

Beyond the Binary: Asexuality in pop culture and the path forward

While personal narratives like these offer nuance, asexual representation in Indian media and pop culture is nearly non-existent—or worse, harmful. Films like Satyaprem Ki Katha (2023)  presents its protagonist’s asexuality as a response to trauma, implying it’s a condition to be healed or overcome. This framing flattens the complexity of asexual experience and reinforces the myth that intimacy must always involve sex, or that asexual people cannot pursue mutually reciprocal and consensual sexual relationships. 

Conversely, shows like Heartstopper (2022),offered a rare but meaningful representation through one of its characters, Isaac. In the show’s second season, the narrative approaches asexuality not as a lack or a problem, but as a valid, evolving part of Issac’s identity during his adolescence, alongside his peers’ early explorations of teenage romance. These portrayals are powerful precisely because they make space for quiet, self-defined journeys—ones that do not hinge on sexual awakening as the ultimate character arc, especially of a queer person.

But such examples remain few and far between. The very absence of asexual narratives in mainstream Indian media often mirrors the societal invisibility asexual people experience. The lack of representation reinforces the idea that asexuality is a deviation from the norm, rather than part of the natural range of human identity.

Intimacy is subjective, going beyond just sex

This is why stories like those of K, Aparna, P, and Tarun matter. They remind us that there is no one-size-fits-all narrative when it comes to intimacy and connection. The dominant narratives we hold about desire, relationships, and even masculinity have long neglected the richness of human variation—that desire isn’t the only path to closeness. That love can be quiet, complex, and entirely valid—even if it looks nothing like the version we’ve been sold. 

Asexuality is about a different kind of presence, one that is rooted in emotional resonance, mutual care, and the quiet power of being fully seen. Asexuality is a lens—one that reveals just how much more expansive our notions of closeness and care can be. In a culture that equates desire with worth, these stories remind us that there are infinite ways to be loved. And even more ways to be free. 

Curated by Gaysi Family

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