Words by Lottie Lamont & Photography by Katia Schwartz & Mia Maraschino
Ask ten people what they find sexy and you’re likely to get ten different answers, from physical characteristics to personality traits, hobbies and jobs or even foods. But with so many ideas about what sexy is, how do you know if you’re doing it or not? And what if you’re not sure you even want to? This week, Siren student Lottie Lamont explores what it means to be asexual and how she learned to find her own “sexy” through burlesque.
I remember my first burlesque class vividly. I was so anxious as I walked into the room that I was on the verge of crying or throwing up, the voice in my head constantly reminding me, “you don’t belong here.” Burlesque was all about sex, after all. What right did I have to walk into a space that was all about empowering women to claim their sexuality when that wasn’t an aspect of myself I identified with?
Broadly speaking, asexuality is a sexual orientation which is defined as a lack of sexual attraction. Roughly 1% of the population identifies as asexual, although that number is starting to rise. As with all orientations there is a wide spectrum of experiences and no one “right” way to be asexual. A common misconception about being asexual is that you have no interest in sex, even though there’s a lot more to sex than just finding your partner physically attractive. Many asexual people enjoy sex simply because it’s fun and feels good – while on the other side of the spectrum, some asexual people like myself are sex-averse. Asexuals also commonly identify as either “romantic” or “aromantic”, depending on whether or not they’re interested in romantic relationships (which may or may not also involve sex).
All of this means it’s possible wind up identifying as a homoromantic sex-neutral asexual, which is quite a mouthful and why I generally define myself as “queer” instead.
That being said, as a largely aromantic asexual I’ve lived much of my life feeling as though some fundamental aspects of the human experience have passed me by. Sex, romance and relationships are everywhere and it can be quite an isolating experience when you don’t desire those things. When girls in my Year Seven class were drooling over Dean Cain in Lois & Clark, I thought he had nice hair and was aesthetically pleasing, like a particularly nice marble statue. My early dating experiences generally ended in panic attacks as I worried about expectations being put on me to be sexual, and to be truthful I spent years feeling like I was broken.
Much of the media we consume from film and TV to books, music and even advertising is founded on the premise that wanting a) sex and b) companionship is a universal human desire.
Not wanting those things wasn’t even presented as an option. And unlike my other queer friends who were vocal about wanting to see themselves represented in media, it didn’t occur to me that my experience even could be. I’d hear other people talk about pride and wonder what I had to be proud about when I was clearly missing something everyone else understood. Up until a year ago, instead of telling people I was asexual I would instead give vague explanations like “I’m single by choice” or “Oh, I’m a crazy cat lady” because that seemed more socially acceptable to me.
I’m reminded of my sexuality at the strangest moments, quite often in situations most other people don’t think twice about. For example, the first class of each Sky Sirens term involves some kind of icebreaker question and one class asked the question “who is your celebrity crush?” As someone who literally does not get crushes on people, it was a question I didn’t know how to answer. If I just named someone I really admired, would the class think I was physically attracted to that person? What impression would that give them of me? Logically, I’m sure nobody reads that deeply into celebrity crushes, but an unfortunate downside to spending so many years trying to “pass” as sexual means I am prone to overthinking these things. Suffice to say, stepping into a burlesque class for the first time to learn about an artform which is inherently sexual was quite confronting.
Most dictionaries define “sexy” as some variation of “being sexually attractive.”
As someone who is neither sexually attracted to others, nor interested in having others find me sexually attractive, the concept of being sexy never resonated with me.
One of the things I’ve always loved about burlesque is that the focus is on sensuality. To me, that’s the difference between celebrating yourself versus how desirable other people find you.
Although burlesque is accessible to people of all gender identities, a large element of it is about women reclaiming their sexual power. I control how I’m perceived when I’m onstage. It’s a safe way to flirt with sensuality without having to be sexually available. I can explore what it feels like to be sexual without actually having to be sexual. I can tease the audience, then go home to my cats with no sense of obligation.
That being said, learning to embrace that side of myself hasn’t been without its challenges. For a long time I defined myself as “not sexy” and felt very uncomfortable with the idea that burlesque meant presenting myself as a sexual being. Rather than being a performance, I saw it more as a lie. I wasn’t tapping into the sexual part of myself – I was outright pretending to be something I wasn’t.
But as I learned more about what burlesque is, I discovered that there’s a lot more to being sexy than being sexually desirable to someone.
There are so many aspects of burlesque which really challenge the idea of what makes something sexy. I’ve seen incredible routines that are comedic, political, angry, uncomfortable. All of them involve striptease, but their primary aim isn’t to turn the audience on. Yet despite that, they are all very sexy. Strength is sexy. Confidence is sexy. Passion is sexy. Vulnerability is sexy. And burlesque has all of those things in abundance.
I honestly believe there is a place for everyone in burlesque – and there’s a place for me, too. As an asexual burlesque performer I get to challenge the idea of what sexy is in my own ways. It’s okay to be sexy and not sexy at the same time, and it’s okay to enjoy performing something sensual while also not feeling a sense of your own sexuality. That doesn’t make me a fraud who’s betraying my asexuality. Burlesque has taught me that I’m allowed to love my body and that my worth isn’t tied up with how sexually attractive other people find me. Finding burlesque has given me permission to love myself exactly as I am and to share that love with others.