Why I Don’t Identify as Demisexual — Even Though I Could

A GenX take on rock stars, identities, and proclivities

Photo by Tsunami Green on Unsplash

Have you ever had a chance to sleep with your favorite rock star?

I have, twice.

And I declined, both times.

I’ve got no regrets.

But I do have stories to share, stories now enhanced by years of reflection, evolving sexual norms, and my views on the blurred lines between identity and preferences.

First, the juicy stuff…

Selling the drama

The first time I declined a rock star was in 1994 when I was in my 20s. I lived in Atlanta, but my love affair with Seattle had already begun, and I was out visiting my two best friends who’d already moved there.

I changed my return flight and ended my Seattle vacation a day early — because the band Live had just released their second album, Throwing Copper, and I needed to make it back home for their Atlanta show.

I was 100% obsessed with the band and, in particular, its lead singer, Ed Kowalczyk.

The show was totally worth it.

Afterward, my friend Kathy and I gathered with throngs of fans outside the backstage door, eager to meet the band. They wanted to party at a bar; as luck would have it, Kathy and I were the only ones of legal drinking age. We suggested a spot — no idea what place it was; Atlanta has faded too far back into my memories— and to my delight, Ed walked in.

And my God, he was gorgeous. He approached me at the bar with his long, unruly hair, an angular, earnest face, and a wiry, strong stance. His up-close-and-personal physical beauty and his rapt attention on me were all just captivating.

Being from Alabama, Kathy possessed amazing charms as well as the drawling confidence to use her southern powers for good. She leaned into Ed and said, “My friend is such a huge fan. You should give her a little kiss.”

Which he did. Men could never say no to Kathy.

Then he invited me back to his hotel room. Oh. My. God.

I showed up, so excited but also unsure I would find.

He opened the door. In his underwear. That’s what I found. Grey boxer briefs, if memory serves.

He looked like a work of art, a very physically forward work of art. The details are fuzzy now but I know we get at least halfway naked, rolling around on the bed, and it was glorious and I was enthralled.

But I didn’t sleep with him.

I gave him my number as I left, and I hoped desperately to hear from him, so we could connect and get to know each other — so that the next time I saw him, we could. So I could.

Because I really wanted to, but also I didn’t. Not yet.

Lover, reveal love

My second rock star experience happened in 2001. I was a bit older, wiser, more experienced — and this time said rock star crush lived in my city, so he was more viable as a romantic interest.

I was on the cusp of launching Three Imaginary Girls when I met this crush, but at the time I had no idea I had a music website in me, just waiting to be born.

All I knew was, I wanted to get to know this beautiful, talented man with his angelic voice and gorgeous high cheekbones. We exchanged contact info after a show and to my surprise, he emailed me.

We agreed to meet for karaoke.

I was dazzled.

And nervous. I invited two close friends, including Imaginary Liz, whom I’d only recently befriended and who was also a superfan, and we headed to the diviest dive bar in town to go sing with a gorgeous rock star.

He was hilarious and audacious on the mic, hamming it up. At one point, whilst singing “Band on the Run,” one of the grizzled regulars approached him and said, “You sing pretty good, boy!” We all giggled and drank some more.

And more. This bar was known for its cheap, heavy pours and while I realize it’s not cool to glamorize excessive drinking, we were all absolutely hammered and it was the kinda giddy-whirling-spinning-boozy-magical late night you might tell your grandchildren about, should your story end as a romance that produces children and eventually grandchildren.

Ours didn’t. But it produced an enduring, life-sustaining friendship with Liz, who not only got up there and sang “Funky Cold Medina” completely unironically but also apparently drank till she went to the bathroom and puked and then came out to drink more (she only confided that last part years later).

I might not have noticed because the rock star was moving closer, touching my arm, his leg against mine. He smelled amazing and was clearly also heightened by an evening of wild merriment and attraction as I was.

I was intoxicated in every sense of the word.

We all tumbled outta the bar and onto the street at closing time, and I don’t even recall how it started but we kissed madly right in front for all of our friends (and any other passersby in Greenwood after 1 a.m. on a Tuesday morning) to see.

Then he went home, presumably without me.

And I went home without him.

I wasn’t ready for more, as I never am that soon.

But I was ready to get to know more of him in the hopes I’d grow to want more.

Why am I like this?

I’ve never slept with someone the first time I’ve met them, not ever.

I’ve always been wired this way.

In 1994, we had no vocabulary for this. We still didn’t in 2001. I’m sure I’ve been called a tease more than once, but I wasn’t ever teasing. I just — couldn’t. Or didn’t want to, not so soon after meeting.

The word exists now. It’s demisexual.

I’m grateful for the modifier.

But I don’t identify as demisexual. It’s an important distinction.

What is demisexuality?

Demisexual can either be a noun or an adjective and according to my friend Merriam-Webster, it means:

“feeling sexual attraction towards another person only after establishing an emotional bond with that person”

Yep, this resonates.

Demisexuality describes the way I’ve dated and had sex my whole life. To me, it’s never seemed like anything out of the ordinary. I just see sex as important and intertwined with trust, emotional safety, and connection. I don’t feel true sexual desire until I get to know/admire/respect/enjoy someone’s mind and heart, at least a little.

It doesn’t mean I need to be in a long-term relationship before I’ll sleep with someone. I can feel that connection and trust pretty quickly.

And while I haven’t had a one-night stand, I’ve had a few two- or three-night ones, usually because my initial sense of connection doesn’t hold.

But even when faced — or um, bodied — with a super sexy rock star, sex is never gonna happen until we’ve established an emotional connection. And that takes time and effort.

Ed never called me.

Seattle rock star guy did, but barely. It wasn’t enough. And thank goodness, as the years have proven that guy to be a super creep, with credible public allegations to show for it.

Their losses, truly.

All that said, I still don’t identify as demisexual

Wait, what? All that semi-lurid build-up only to say, not it?

Yep. And here’s why:

Demisexuality falls on the asexual spectrum. This part doesn’t resonate at all for me. I’m not asexual. I love sex. Sex is amazing. I’m not not sexual.

I also have a language problem with “asexual spectrum.” As a word nerd, the prefix “a” means “not.” And not mean no; it’s not a spectrum. If someone identifies as agender, it means they’re genderless. They aren’t on a low gender spectrum. Am I the only one here who gives a shit about the (vocabulary) rules???

If I ruled the Word World, I would issue a royal proclamation that reads: if you’re willingly sleeping with people for pleasure, then you’re not asexual, you’re graysexual. I’d be okay adding demisexuality to the graysexual spectrum. But asexual? Nope. You can’t be both “a” and “demi.”

Those are just the rules.

Demisexuality doesn’t define me. As far as adjectives go, I have countless attributes that feel closer to my identity than demisexual. I’d like to think I’m creative, extroverted, iconoclastic, busty, outspoken yet non-confrontational, wordy, and wise. As a noun, I identify as: a GenX woman, a writer, a mama, a word nerd, a tech worker, a feminist, a music enthusiast, a responsible hedonist, a karaoke queen, and a community builder. And so many more things.

I’m grateful to have demisexual as a word to modify how I date and have sex. But my sexual habits are no one’s business — unless we’re dating.

They’re not part of my identity.

In fact, I don’t identify as demisexual because I don’t believe it’s an identity.

Wait, demisexual isn’t an identity?

WebMD thinks it’s an identity. The BBC thinks it’s an identity. So sure, fine, it’s an identity.

But I believe a key element of identity — while deeply personal — is that it aligns you with others who share your sexual and/or gender preferences and therefore creates a shared experience from a social, political, medical, psychological, and/or historical perspective.

I’m having a hard time bridging the gap for how demisexual meets this bar.

To me — admittedly an outsider—living with a queer identity involves a sense of gravitas. It comes with high visibility. To live an integrated, authentic life, it means…

• Your sexual and/or gender identity permeates every relationship in your life — family, friends, coworkers, all of it.

• You face prejudices (and increasingly, laws) that can put your safety, family, and livelihood at risk.

• You’ve had to fight to have the same basic freedoms we all deserve — the freedom to marry, work, rent a home, parent and adopt, access needed medical care, and so on. And that battle never ends.

As an ally, I will always fight for equal rights for marginalized communities, and especially LGBTQ+ folks.

I will not, however, fight for someone’s right to not sleep with someone on a first date. Not even my own. There’s simply no fight there. There’s not even a shared lived experience that bonds me with other demisexual people. Demisexuals face no oppression other than the weight of using our words to express our desires (or lack thereof).

It’s nothing we bring to other aspects of our life outside of dating.

I don’t want to be rounded up and counted on the LGBTQ+ spectrum or celebrated during Pride because I’m demisexual. That’s not inclusive. That’s taking up space from those who have true stories of identity to share.

And I want to ensure those stories get heard, now more than ever.

I work for a large international company. During Pride month in June, our internal TVs broadcast stories from LGBTQ+ employees around the world, sharing how our company has supported them as well as other details of their lived queer experiences — gay, lesbian, trans… and also, demisexual.

I gaped when I saw that last one on-screen.

I didn’t feel seen. I felt cringey and a bit confused.

How is demisexuality relevant in the workplace? How could any employer make a demisexual person more comfortable at work?

How could this demisexual’s narrative compare in any way to the others, those who’d faced workplace discrimination and who now benefited from our employer’s generous benefits for LGBTQ+ employees (including paid adoption and sperm donation programs, as well as gender-affirming surgery)?

To me, announcing one’s demisexuality at work is no different than sharing a foot fetish or bondage kink.

Demisexuality is not a sexual identifier that an employer or colleague needs to know about, as it has no impact in one’s work life.

I’m happy the LGBTQ+ acronym has continued to expand, that the queer community has found ways to embrace additional colored striped flags to the Pride collection. If demisexual is a term that helps people feel seen, then I’m all for using it. Vocabulary is amazing; words can and do make a difference.

But Pride is not our space. Demisexual dating choices deserve no focus there.

I’m proud of the choices I’ve made, to be true to myself when it comes to dating and sexuality. We should all feel this way — cishet, queer, or otherwise. It’s healthy to feel a sense of pride in our preferences — but not to take up Pride space with them when we don’t belong there.

So I choose not to consider demisexuality as my identity, but rather as a proclivity.

All male rock stars, please make a note of it.

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Greetings!

I’m Dana DuBois, a GenX word nerd living in the Pacific Northwest with a whole lot of little words to share. I’m a founder and editor of three publications: Pink Hair & Pronouns, Three Imaginary Girls, and genXy. I write across a variety of topics but parenting, music and culture, relationships, and feminism are my favorites. Em-dashes, Oxford commas, and well-placed semi-colons make my heart happy.

If this story resonated with you, why not buy me a coffee?
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