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This is my 10^th year anniversary of coming out as a lesbian. Some things have changed in this time and some have remained the same. I am still learning about being part of the lesbian community, about myself and what it means to be a lesbian within society. There’s no instruction manual but there are a lot of opinions on how a lesbian should act, look and how they should label themselves. People ask what type of lesbian I am, and I tell them I am just me; I don’t wear a label.

Although I am 41 years old, I am very new to the concept of asexuality.  I have only very recently discovered, I am actually ‘Triple A’ – agender, aromantic and asexual.  As I am so new to the world of LGBTQIA+, I am not yet fully versed on the best language to use to describe my experiences; and please know that everything that I have written here is a description of my own experience, from my own perspective.  I absolutely believe that each person’s own experience and perspective is valid, and that any labels which that person feels that they wish to attach to their own identity or orientation are valid; as is the decision not to attach any labels.

My first insight into the asexual community was the banner of a Facebook group featuring a photograph of an intricately designed cake.  A chocolate cake, to be exact, slathered in purple and black icing reminiscent of the one I had for my birthday a few years prior.  The meaning of this image was soon to be explained to me by an admin: “Welcome to the asexual singles group, where we prefer cake over sex any day!”

As I sit here in my 33rd loop around the sun, with my so-called virginity attached to my being, I don’t exactly feel that I’ve missed out on any of those milestones one has growing up, you know, having a relationship, having sex, having that intimacy.

My first and only relationship, if you want to call it that, was in the end more of a situational comedy than anything else, and a rather dated and subpar one at that.

Before I get started, I need you all to know that this is just my personal experience. Everyone who has made it to my position has taken a different road from me and has experienced different stops and views along the way.

Unfortunately getting married and having kids was never on my radar, all the other girls were deciding the perfect names for their future babies and I was trying to figure out why I couldn't redecorate my bedroom with my art supplies.

The human race is kind of fantastic in the way that we all have these amazing abilities and perspectives and ways of thinking. And yet, it's so easy to forget that the way we experience the world isn't how everyone experiences it. This is how I experienced the world as an asexual.

I’m fairly sure I was born this way. I first knew that there was something fundamentally different, something wrong with me at about thirteen. I wasn’t a late bloomer, because I did have a “crush” or two on a boy. It was my attitude to sex and relationships that was odd. Weird. My friends used to call me “penis phobic”. I was in two minds about the whole concept of a boyfriend – what with the patriarchy and my low self-esteem, it felt really important to have one. On the other hand, did you really have to see them every single day? And did you have to do all that public holding hands and kissing everyone else seemed to do? What if the boyfriend wanted my attention and I just wanted to watch TV and eat chips? This was a likely scenario.

Yes, Barbie Girl, that Aqua. While their debut album was reigning the world charts and Mattel gathered their lawsuit, an optimistic college student, Matthew Shepard was ready to start his first year of political science at the University of Wyoming. He was described as approachable and ready to accept new challenges. He also had a passion for equality and stood up for diversity.

It took me twenty-three years to come to terms with my sexuality. It took me another year to begin telling people. I expected backlash from many corners, especially after I had cut my hair in a style that was popular at the time and my mother had told me I looked like a… I’m not going to write the word here, but suffice to say it didn’t make me think that she would be accepting of my sexuality.

I’ve felt a connection to the LGBTQ2IA+ community all my life.  I started a youth group back in 2006… back when I believed myself to be an A for “ally” – oh, the irony!

Even back in primary school, it seemed almost every child was obsessed with the idea of romance. It was common to hear children giggling behind their hands and revealing the names of their crushes in hushed voices. On the outside I was just the same, but inside I already knew that something was different. I still distinctly remember choosing who I should pretend to have a crush on, just because not having a crush on anybody was unheard of. I didn’t want to be different.

Like for so many on the aromantic spectrum, conversations initiated by others about the current status of my love life have been had so often over the years, that they’ve all merged into one long and messy dialogue. It isn’t the same pattern from everyone, but it takes place more often than I care to count.

From the moment we can comprehend we are told love is a very powerful thing: 'Love is what you need to be complete. A spouse, a picket fence house, and children are the meaning of happiness'. Books always seem to have love interests for the protaganist. You never see someone staying with their amazingly successful career when it means giving up on a love interest they just met a week ago.

In a world full of romantics, it is extremely rare to come across a person who self identifies as an aromantic (or Aro for short). I am one of those very few people who so happens to identify as an aromantic. Aro what now? The general definition of aromantic is a person who experiences little to no romantic attraction to others. What? People can actually not be attracted to any gender? I know, sounds crazy but is 100% true.

There are still many uphill battles for us and our families. Personally, I feel that it is my responsibility to aid those who are seen as less than or not equal to the rest of us who can blend is more easily. To call out racism, homophobia, and transphobia when and where I see it.

I learned that I was intersex on October 31, 2019 at the age of 41.  I always knew I was different and as a teenager I accepted the label of “lesbian” because it seemed to be the best fit with the information I had at the time-- but I knew deeply that it was not the whole story.  I have explored transitioning to male at various points during my adult life, but always decide against that option knowing that this would merely swap which half of myself was seen by the world and which was suppressed.  What follows is the story of how I discovered I was a person who is intersex.

I was born an only child. I always felt the need to give my parents grandchildren. I planned out my wedding in middle school and picked out names for my children. That was what I was supposed to, right? Those were the things that I was supposed to want, right? As the only child that my parents had, it was my job to continue the bloodline and save us from extinction. I felt as though I had to have children, for the sake of my parents, for the sake of my ancestors, for the sake of my family. I was carrying so much weight on my 13 year-old shoulders.

As a lesbian who came out at the age of 34, I had no experience with the LGBTQI+ community, at all. I grew up in a regional town, moved to an even smaller regional town when I was 28, and only found my feet once moving to Melbourne in March 2019. When I say Melbourne, I mean a leafy suburb that is very family focused. So even though I came out a few months after moving to “Melbourne”, I was still unable to immerse myself in the queer culture.

Pride season or otherwise, I love a good queer story. It’s a central theme in the LGBTQIA+ experience – every “a-ha!” moment, turning point, faux pas, you name it – if it’s a tale of the queer journey, I am here for it.

If you’re a bi+ person in an opposite-sex relationship, this situation may be all too familiar. You turn up to a queer event, hoping to meet some new people and fulfil a desperate need to belong, when the inevitable moment arrives: you must reveal your partner’s pronoun. If you’re a ‘she’ in a relationship with a ‘he’ (or vice versa), your queerness is immediately questioned. If you’re a cis woman with a femme appearance, or a cis man with a masc appearance, you could be treated with suspicion and even anger.

Kimmy grew up in a Wheatbelt country town 40 years ago, and says they first recognised they were “same-sex attracted at the same time I was aware I was heterosexually attracted.” But in this town “there was no such thing as bisexual.”

“Gay was something that happened once a year in Sydney,” Kimmy says, “and violent homophobia was the norm.”

Throughout childhood I was always the outsider. Geeky, socially inappropriate, independent and protective of my freedom, the natural tendency to fit in didn't rule my life. And it's not because I'm a natural rebel. Nothing could be further from the truth. I mean, this was the 1980s and individualism was not yet in vogue.

The vast majority of people around the world are now familiar with the terms gay, lesbian, bi, and trans. Over many decades the familiar acronym that started as LGB has grown to LGBTQ+ (and other acronyms depending on where you are), but less is known about who the “+” represents. As we explore and learn more about ourselves and each other in our ever evolving and rapidly changing world, we coin new terms to include other forms of love and/or attraction (or lack thereof). That “+” is a small symbol with an enormous meaning, and among the many terms included with that little plus are pansexuals like me.