Revaa Kotia is a guest contributor for Mustang Media Group’s February edition of the Peak: Crush Club.
As someone on the asexual spectrum, discussions about dating and relationships have always been hard to follow. In fact, one of the hardest aspects of college has been trying to relate to and connect with the people around me when I couldn’t understand such a central part of the “college experience.” In theory, I like the idea of dating. But in my mind, that kind of partnership looks different from how it does for others, and it took me a long time to realize that.
When I was in middle and high school, I didn’t really get crushes the way people around me did. When my friends and siblings became more fixated on the concept of a romantic partner, I played along, occasionally “choosing” someone to have a crush on. Being young, queer and on the internet, I grasped for some kind of label to fit the difference I felt, and I landed on asexual. As I got older, the differences I felt grew more apparent and the concept of asexuality and being on the asexual spectrum started to feel more and more correct.
In my first year of college, conversations with my friends and dormmates were dominated by discussions of prospective partners. There was always some new person, a cute guy spotted from across the way or a new match on some dating app. It felt like nothing mattered to some people except their romantic and sexual experiences, as if their worth rested on it.
I couldn’t relate. While I could understand on a technical level whether someone could be categorized as “cute” or not, I didn’t understand the appeal of (mostly) random guys, or this desire my friends had for a romantic or sexual partner.
In my mind, true friendship and close connections with people were enough to fill my cup. To me, friendship meant looking out for each other and spending time together. Laughing at dumb shows, talking about classwork and sharing our thoughts and feelings. When you had all of that, why did it matter if you had someone to kiss?
But “just friendship” wasn’t enough for the people I was surrounded by. While I was happy to watch TV and talk about whatever, my friends longed for something more than that. No matter how close we were, I couldn’t understand their need for a relationship, because that friendship was all that I needed. And my inability to understand that difference distanced me from them.
I grew frustrated. I didn’t understand why people I knew would dedicate themselves to losers who didn’t care about them. I couldn’t understand the unwritten and unspoken rules of dating and dating apps. I couldn’t understand why some traits in some profiles were “green flags” while the same traits in others were “red flags.” I couldn’t understand the shallowness of it, of deciding if someone was “good” or “bad” based on a tiny window into who they are. It was too complicated, too confusing. Ultimately, it came down to this: how could you know if you wanted to date, kiss or hook up with someone if you’d never met them?
Eventually, I stopped trying to understand, and by doing that, I eventually came to a realization: my take and perspective on partnerships and relationships is fundamentally different from others, because I’m asexual. As I said, I’d been aware of my placement on the asexual spectrum for a while, but I hadn’t realized the extent of difference it would make in my life and outlook. Knowing where the dissonance in my friendships came from made it easier for me to connect with people: I realized I didn’t need to relate to them on this subject.
Now, I know what my vision of partnership is. I still want to date, have a relationship and get married, but I understand that my definition of those terms looks different. To me, partnership is as simple as caring about each other. It’s taking care of each other, remembering details and comforting each other.
Partnership, to me, has less to do with physical intimacy and more to do with unconditional support: having someone you’d do anything for. A partnership is a promise of dedication.

