— Why the Rise of Sexual, Romantic and Gender Identities is a Good Thing

By Gabrielle Bauer

Do you know what aroace means? Greyromantic? Or cupiosexual? When the boomer generation was growing up, they had three common labels to choose from: straight, gay and bisexual. As the 1990s drew to a close, transgender people began seeking shelter under the same umbrella, and the LGBT acronym was born.

Life never stands still. Today’s young people are carving out increasingly specific sexual, romantic and gender niches. They may feel no sexual attraction toward other people (asexual). They can crave sexual contact, but lack sexual attraction (cupiosexual) or the desire for a romantic connection (aromantic). Maybe they see themselves as alterous, with feelings that fall somewhere between romantic and platonic, or simply as gender-variant or nonconforming, refusing to let traditional concepts of men and women define them. In one way or another, they don’t fit society’s old shoes.

In tandem with the split between sexual and romantic attraction, sex and gender are now understood to be distinct. Transgender individuals have a strong and persistent sense their gender doesn’t match their biological sex, while the term cisgender describes people whose sex and gender align; the kaleidoscope of gender variance includes nonbinary people, who don’t see themselves as exclusively male or female. And, of course, gender-variant individuals can experience the full range of sexual and romantic orientations.

I admitted to Lucia O’Sullivan, a University of New Brunswick psychology professor in Fredericton, who specializes in sexual relationships, that I had trouble understanding the nonbinary designation. Doesn’t every human have different combinations of gender-typical and gender-variant traits? “Ah, but you still consider yourself a woman, right?” she asked me. I agreed. “That’s the difference,” she said. “It’s not a question of behaviours or traits, but of identity. Nonbinary people will tell you they don’t feel either male or female.” On the flip side, you can enjoy romantic comedies and wear nail polish, but feel very much like a man. In short, your gender expression (how you behave) doesn’t dictate your gender identity (how you feel inside).

Increasingly, people affirm and telegraph their gender identity by specifying their pronouns (such as she/her, he/him or they/them) in professional profiles, email signatures or upon meeting new people. This can get complicated for gender-fluid people, who lack a fixed sense of gender and may change pronouns in sync with their shifting identity or use gender-neutral pronouns such as they/them. Canadian actor Elliot Page, who came out as transgender and nonbinary in 2020, uses both “he” and “they,” or what are called rolling pronouns; although he presents as masculine, they identify as nonbinary, so both pronouns apply.

Gender identity has turned political in both Canada and the U.S., spawning heated opinions and divisive policies. In some parts of our country, if a child wants to change their name and pronoun, the school must inform their parents. Some people applaud these policies, while others argue children should have the right to make these choices without involving parents who may be hostile to their decision. Between the noisy polarities lies a messy middle – people doing their best to understand the social shifts and possibly struggling to keep up. To cut through the confusion, it helps to remember pronouns are simply meant to express how people feel inside.

A Generous Umbrella

All told, about nine per cent of people stand somewhere under the LGBT+ umbrella, according to a 2023 IPSOS survey of 22,500 adults in 30 countries. The Q, for queer or questioning, came along to cover people who fall outside sexual and gender norms and those still exploring their identities, with the + added for good measure. Some people use expanded acronyms like LGBTQIA2S, which includes intersex, asexual and two-spirit people, a term used by some Indigenous people to describe gender variance.

If studies are any indication, this group encompasses significantly more young people than older ones. The IPSOS survey found gen-Zers about twice as likely as millennials and four times as likely as gen-Xers and boomers to place their sexual orientation outside the heterosexual norm. Similar findings emerged in a 2022 Statistics Canada report on LGBTQ2+ people aged 15 and over, which drew on the results of a 2018 survey. Of the estimated one million people (four per cent of the population) who claimed an LGBTQ2+ identity, 58.4 per cent were under 35 and 16.5 per cent were 55 or older. Clearly, young people are defining themselves in increasingly expansive ways.

Why is this important? These young people are our children, our friends’ children, our nieces and nephews, our grandchildren and their friends. We meet them when we volunteer at an animal shelter or go to a music festival. To connect with them, we need to understand them. Just as importantly, these new labels, so foreign when they first reach our ears, can help us understand ourselves. If, for example, we felt different from our peers during adolescence but couldn’t put a finger on why, these brave new words can give us some answers.

The Great Divide

Many of us grew up conflating romantic and sexual attraction: If we had a crush on someone, it meant we lusted after them. In recent years, formal studies of asexuality have laid this presumption to rest. Dr. Anthony Bogaert, a health sciences professor at Brock University in St. Catharines, Ont., has devoted a large part of his career to researching the one per cent (more, in some studies) who call themselves asexual. He discovered that many asexuals still want intimate relationships; they crave the closeness and the romance, just not the sex.

“If you’re romantically attracted to someone, you feel a deep emotional bond to that individual and there may be some urge for physical connection, like hugging or holding hands or curling up together,” Bogaert explains, adding that “sexual and romantic attraction represent distinct processes in the brain.” Indeed, in a 2020 analysis of seven asexual studies, led by University of British Columbia, Vancouver, researchers determined 74 per cent of 4,032 subjects experienced romantic attraction. A person may also feel sexual but not romantic attraction, though Bogaert told me this combination is quite rare.

Rebecca Stuart, 39, exemplifies the self-discovery that often accompanies a mixed sexual and romantic orientation. “I waited for my big sexual awakening, which never came,” says Stuart, who lives in Guelph, Ont. She did “a bunch of work to ensure I was sex positive.” She wondered if she was a repressed lesbian. She even explored kink in hopes of finding her “thing.” While she didn’t initially identify as asexual because “my junk works,” she came to embrace the orientation as she learned more about it.  Stuart, who is married, also sees herself as heteroromantic. “From high school on, I had romantic feelings toward guys.”

People who feel neither sexual nor romantic attraction sometimes shorten their label to aroace. Greysexuals and greyromantics, meanwhile, experience their respective attractions only sporadically, while demisexuals and demiromantics only feel it once they’ve established an emotional connection. These nuances remind us that, in the enigmatic realm of human attraction, diversity rules the day.

So what’s the difference between asexuality as an orientation and low sexual desire, which some experts view as a disorder? Dr. Lori Brotto, director of the Sexual Health Laboratory at UBC, offered a clarification. “Asexuals don’t report distress about their lack of attraction, and even if offered treatment to kindle desire, they’re generally not interested. It’s just who they are.” Sexual people, on the other hand, experience lack of desire as a loss they would love to reverse.

Labelling Logic

As society continues to refine concepts of sexuality, people are exploring the nuances of their attractions and creating labels to match. Pansexuals, for instance, are attracted to people without any regard for their sex or gender. Gynosexuals respond sexually to femininity in all its forms, as opposed to lesbians, who feel a pull toward people of the same sex.

Shades of grey also exist within the gender realm. People who call themselves agender don’t connect to any gender at all, an identity that differs subtly from nonbinary. Pangender individuals experience parts of many genders, while omnigender describes people who contain all genders.

With the profusion of identities described and dissected online, it’s no surprise young people seek to fine-tune their own labels. “In terms of sexuality, my preferences have never been based on the person’s body parts or looks overall,” writes one member of the Asexual Visibility and Education Network Facebook group. “If our personalities don’t sync and I don’t feel I can be my authentic self (and same you), then there’s no real relationship to start with. So how do I identify? I am a sapio-demi-ace.”

When I first encountered posts like this, some of the microlabels struck me as forced, even a little silly, but the experts I interviewed melted my skepticism. “The labels can help you find your tribe, to feel like you’re seen,” O’Sullivan explains. Her son Jack, 16, throws in a young person’s perspective. “There can be a lot of stigma to experiencing attraction or gender in a different way. Young people always worry there is something wrong with them. When they suddenly find this identity that perfectly describes how they feel, they feel very validated.”

As O’Sullivan points out, an individual who identifies as aroace but seeks a mate to build a life with, perhaps including children, may “have a hard time finding a like-minded partner in the wild.” The labels are a shorthand they can use, often online, to connect with people who share their inclinations.

Aha! moments happen to older people, too, like American comedian and Let’s Make a Deal host Wayne Brady, 52, who came out as pansexual in 2023. Even boomers like me can gain insight from the new microlabels. When I was 12, giant posters of celebrities like Donovan and Paul Newman sprang up on my friends’ bedroom walls. Who were these men? Why didn’t they stir me as they clearly stirred my friends? It’s only now, more than a half-century later, that I have the vocabulary to describe my difference. While I can respond sexually to men and women, pop stars and strangers have never done it for me; the emotional connection has to come first. That would make me both bi- and demisexual. At the same time, I have never been able to picture myself in a lesbian romance. Heteroromantic, then.

Even if the terms don’t resonate with you, O’Sullivan cautions against making light of them. “It’s important to understand that young people aren’t using the labels for attention, even if they shift over time,” she says. “They’re just giving you a snapshot of who they are right now.”

If a youth entrusts you with such personal information, Bogaert invites you to “show understanding and interest, and maybe ask some questions.” Later on, “you can do research to find out more.” Above all, remember that “claiming an identity helps transmute shame into pride” – and who wouldn’t want that for the young people we love?

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