In the end, I went back into the closet to preserve my own sanity and remained there until I was in my early 20s, working as a model and building a public profile of my own. I decided to try to fill the gap in Black asexual representation, and it was only when my activism became more well-known that people in my personal life started to believe and understand me. However, I also became exposed to relentless waves of hate, exacerbated not just by acephobia, but by my race and gender.

Alongside the usual racist and sexist vitriol, I was often met with comments saying that asexuality isn’t something that should be talked about. That no one cares, and that asexuality doesn’t lead to you facing any problems. No one would attack you for being asexual. Quite ironically, these comments always seemed to come after the death and rape threats. As they appeared under every post about my work, I couldn’t help but remember the time when I was chased through a dark, empty train station by a man who kept screaming “Do you masturbate?” at me after he learned I was asexual. Or the time an older woman called me a “frigid weirdo” who “just needs to get laid” at a Pride event.

I also thought of the many people who had confided in me about their experiences. Most poignantly, someone I met back in 2019, who cried as they told me about their experience of conversion therapy. During a routine appointment with their gynaecologist, they were asked if they were sexually active and, in reply, expressed not wanting to have sex. As a result, they were referred to a psychosexual therapist, who recommended that they undergo a physical exam of their genitals. Following the conclusion that there was nothing physically wrong, the focus shifted to identifying the ‘psychological issue’ that caused their lack of sexual attraction.

“In 2024, it’s time to talk about asexuality – and to finally tackle the dehumanising discrimination asexual women face”