The Erotic View of Asexuality

The Erotic view on asexuality is that there is no such thing as asexuality. Not in the way we conceive of it. We are in the throes of the universe making love with itself. We are sex. The real question is not whether one is sexual or asexual, but rather: To what degree, and in what form, do you engage in this fundamental process?

Eroticism is not just about physical sex—it is about the energetic movement of life itself. The Erotic view holds that within each of us is a unique blueprint, a karmic design encoded into the larger web of existence. And flourishing—what we think of as happiness—is not about conforming to an external standard, but about how well we align with that blueprint.

I once saw a documentary where a Mongolian shaman was asked, “What is happiness?” And she laughed, as if the question itself was foolish, and answered, Happiness is discovering what happiness is. This is the essence of Eros. It is not a fixed state, not something imposed from the outside—it is the precise, ever-shifting play of our own karma, unfolding in alignment with the larger whole.

For me, Eros has always meant movement. I was born a woman, which means I was given a particular set of circumstances—certain advantages, certain limitations. That is my game, my hand to play. My happiness does not come from trying to eradicate sexism, though I may engage in that struggle—it comes from how well I play with the karma itself. It is a dance, a love affair with what is.

This is the key: whatever your karma is, when you truly align with it, no matter how unconventional it looks, it turns you on. And I don’t just mean sexually—I mean it lights you up, enlivens you. This is why people sometimes feel so much inner conflict. When you hit upon your true nature, it often doesn’t match the world’s expectations. Maybe it doesn’t even match your own.

I learned this myself. I was raised by a mother who wanted nothing more than for me to find a husband. She cooked for every boyfriend I ever had, prayed I would marry. But I knew—that is not my karma. I am meant to be in flight. That is my nature, and when I honor it, everyone benefits, even those who might have preferred a different version of me.

To be aligned with your true nature is to be original. And the world doesn’t need more Xerox copies. It doesn’t need more people repeating ideas they heard last night on CNN or Fox. It needs you. And the only way to transmit something real, something sacred, is to be real. When you strip away conditioning, expectations, and imposed identities, what remains is the raw signal of who you truly are—unfiltered, undistorted, and uniquely yours.

Which brings us back to asexuality. If we look at it through the Erotic lens, the question is not whether someone identifies as sexual or asexual, but rather: How is their life force moving? How is their energy circulating, expressing, engaging with the world? Because to be alive is to be in relationship—with oneself, with others, with the forces that shape existence. Without Eros, you die. Maybe not a physical death, but a death nonetheless—a kind of slow shutting down, a dimming of the light. We see this truth in movies, in stories: the woman who is lifeless until she finds desire again, the moment someone steps into their full self and suddenly becomes radiant. We know this intuitively, yet we resist acknowledging it because we live in a profoundly control-based culture. And Eros—the force that dissolves control—is dangerous.

We talk about the singularity as if it’s a technological phenomenon, but it’s also a human one. You can only build so much in a state of control. At some point, you have to leap into the unknown. That is what Eros is. It is the point where control gives way to something larger, where you surrender and breathe.

That said, I should acknowledge my own bias here. I am, at heart, a skeptic. I don’t believe that non-circulation of sexual energy is beneficial to anyone. In Tibetan Buddhism, there are deeply profound sexual engagements with otherwise invisible deities. There are practices where one takes on an energy and engages with it as a lover. So, in that sense, I believe it’s entirely possible for someone to live a rich Erotic life without engaging physically.

But what concerns me is the idea of not circulating that energy at all. That would be like saying, “I don’t believe in fire.” Well, fire burns—whether you believe in it or not.

In Buddhist tradition, there is a teaching called one taste—the idea that everything, ultimately, has the same essential quality. The story goes that the Buddha was once given food that was thought to be impure. Instead of rejecting it, he placed it in his mouth, chewed it, and returned it transformed into ambrosia. The teaching here is that what is healing or harmful is not inherent in the thing itself—it depends on how it is engaged with.

So what is the taste of truth? It is the taste of joy, of flourishing. And if we are not engaged with Eros, if we are not circulating that energy—then something vital is being blocked.

Does this mean everyone must engage sexually with another person? No. But there must be some form of engagement. Some recognition of other, of interplay, of movement. Because that movement is life itself.