“Is your partner like you too?” I get asked this question almost every time I tell people about my mixed-orientation relationship as an asexual person. As a panromantic asexual individual, I am open to romantic companionship – regardless of gender or sexual identity – but I’m averse to physical or sexual intimacy.
The common assumption is that, for my relationships to work, the person I’m with has to share the same sexual orientation. However, in reality, none of my relationships so far have been with fellow asexual people. Often, I’ve had close ones believe that my past relationships didn’t work out because we didn’t share the same sexuality.
Despite not holding this belief myself, it can be difficult to navigate repeated relationship failures without attributing blame somewhere. So, for a long time – especially during my first two relationships with men who identified as heterosexual – I submitted to the belief that maybe things weren’t working out because I’m asexual and my partners weren’t.
Only one in six asexual people have had a “universally positive experience” of being out.
It was my third relationship that began to challenge these views. When we first connected as friends, I was upfront about being asexual, and he was accepting of it. As we developed romantic feelings for each other, I remained forthright – but he became evasive.
Eventually, he admitted to never having been attracted to a woman before me. As a man who had previously only found romantic connections with men, his dynamic with me was challenging his own understanding of his identity.
His confession left us both confused, but for different reasons. For me, the situation felt straightforward – his identity crisis was difficult to comprehend at first. He’d previously only been attracted to men, and now that had changed. Whether I was the only woman or not was irrelevant to me. I simply wanted to be accepted as I was, and I was happy to accept him as he was. For him, it was a struggle to understand not only his own orientation, but how it fit into his relationship with me. It didn’t help that many loved ones in my life discouraged me from pursuing something with someone who wasn’t sure of himself.
Still, I wanted to explore where things might go. I didn’t have a name for what we were, but I sensed there was something worth discovering. A bit of research led me to a label for the dynamic we were navigating – in fact, it described all of my relationships to date. I was in a mixed-orientation relationship, or MORE. Described by Autostraddle as “relationships in which the partners involved have different sexual orientations, including ones that don’t even match each other,” MOREs are common but under-discussed.
Anyone familiar with queer history and research might recognise terms like mixed-orientation marriages or lavender marriages – historically, these often referred to a gay or lesbian person marrying a straight partner, sometimes due to societal pressures. But today, with growing awareness of sexual diversity and fluidity, the narrative has evolved.
This shift in how people experience attraction is reflected in my own relationship. When we first began talking, our conversations didn’t revolve around romance – our spark developed gradually, not because of our sexualities, but in spite of them.
During our time together, he was learning to redefine his identity, and I was learning to redefine my own. Despite my past aversion to sexual intimacy, this was the first relationship in which I genuinely considered a future where it might be a possibility. I was attracted to this person in a way I’d never experienced before – a huge personal shift, and an example of how preferences can evolve over time.
It’s easy to panic when your sense of self is challenged. This is especially true when it comes to sexual or gender identity, where many queer people are stigmatised for “changing their minds.” The fear of being ostracised – especially after finally finding a sense of community – can be overwhelming, and my partner often felt this weight.
“We’re all here to play. We’re in the prime of our football careers.”
He loved me and wanted to be with me. But he was held back by societal projections of what sexual orientation should look like. Understanding and embracing his homosexuality had been a hard-fought journey – particularly in a region where acceptance is still limited. Falling in love with a woman, in some ways, felt like a step back from that journey.
The struggle wasn’t one-sided. As someone who had only dated heterosexual men – with those relationships failing – the idea that my partner had other, more “secure” options did make me feel insecure. Looking back, what Psychology Today refers to as “the infidelity response” played a role in my doubts. According to the article, couples with different orientations often fear that one partner will eventually cheat or leave. Well-meaning, but misinformed people around me encouraged this line of thinking too.
Whether my partner was gay, bisexual, demisexual – or another label entirely – was his call to make, and mine to accept. But the fear that society would make that call for him, and judge him for it, was likely part of why things didn’t work out in the end. After a year and a half of trying, we ended the relationship. Not because we fell out of love, but because of the toll it takes to carve out your own identity in a world that’s already decided who you’re meant to be.
On paper, this may look like just another failed relationship. But this time, I walked away with a clearer understanding of myself. When I first identified as asexual, I rushed to define myself for others. Now, years later, I’ve grown more flexible in how I view my orientation and how it shapes my relationships. My sexuality is for me to define – and redefine – as many times as I need. My relationships don’t have to fit into boxes others expect them to.
So, the next time someone tells me, “You’ll find love in someone just like you,” I’ll respond: I don’t need someone like me. I just need someone who likes me – and who can accept that I like them, too. That's the beauty of a mixed-orientation relationship.
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