TW more transphobia.
_
October 2016
I was a bundle of nerves as the maître d led me to the table I'd reserved, but I tried to keep calm and collected. You got this, I told myself, followed by an internal scream of AAAAAAAAAAAA.
In March, I'd set up a profile on FetLife, and had learnt of Shibari rope bondage courses starting at a local BDSM club. In April I took a four-week beginner's course for singles - there were separate classes for couples - then from June through August I'd taken a twelve-week partial suspension course. In September, there was another suspension course available only to those who'd taken the beginner's and partial suspension courses, lasting four weeks.
On the first day of the singles' beginner course, the instructors separated the room into those who were interested in becoming riggers - the ones doing the tying - and the "rope bunnies", those who wanted to be tied up, since even being on the receiving end of Shibari was something to train for. To make it fair, we drew straws. I was matched with Xavier, a gay silver bear in his fifties.
There was what I perceived as a spark between us - I liked tying up a big, muscular guy who looked like he could crush me with his thighs, and he liked submitting to a younger, clean-cut guy. But even though there weren't any code of conduct rules about not dating other participants in the class, I didn't want things to be awkward if I was rejected or if we didn't work out. So I kept my interest to myself until the last class in September, when I asked Xavier if he'd like to have dinner with me at an Italian place near Central Park. He accepted.
I didn't phrase it as a date, so I didn't know if he took it as such or if he was interpreting it as a celebration that we'd both made it though the Shibari course and a "let's be friends and stay in touch" type deal. I did know that, while I didn't know him well enough to be in love with him, I did have a crush on him and was interested in seeing where it went.
There was one caveat. Throughout the course I hadn't disclosed being trans. Nobody clocked me that I could tell. There were a couple trans people taking the course - rope bunnies, being tied shirtless or with next-to-nothing on, but as a rigger I kept my clothes on. I was pretty sure Xavier was cis, since I'd seen him in his briefs and he had no visible signs of chest reconstruction surgery nor wearing a packer. While I took what Michelle said about the BDSM community being more accepting of trans people at face value, I hadn't had a lot of experience to say one way or the other yet; I hadn't gone to any of the monthly munches in New York, or other events at the BDSM club where the Shibari course was held - I was an introvert who worked with the public for a living, I was too drained to try to deal with groups of people for fun, as it was I needed to recharge my batteries after each Shibari class and I was only taking that to get hands-on experience. But also, I hadn't gotten a single "bite" on my FetLife profile since March except for two different cis bi dudes who wanted me to dress up in lingerie - how about no - and I wondered if Michelle was basing her statement more on acceptance of trans women, which was a somewhat different playing field than being transmasc.
So I was going to disclose this information to Xavier, since I felt he ought to know before he agreed to date me - I was, and am, a believer in informed consent. while I was cautiously optimistic that I'd read Xavier's flirting correctly and vice versa, and was also cautiously optimistic that as a kinkster he was open-minded enough to give a trans man a try if he hadn't, I was still so anxious I could feel myself shaking as I sat down at the table, and tried not to chug the ice water with my dry mouth.
I was so keyed up that I didn't do my Friday "usual" of going to the coffee shop near work after the day was done, I just went straight home and frantically got the place tidied up in case he wanted to stop by for a nightcap after dinner, and then spent way too much time fussing over my outfit, not wanting to be too casual or too formal. In the end I'd gone with a white button-down shirt, black trousers, solid black tie and suspenders.
I was annoyed that I looked younger than thirty-six, but at least that - and my top surgery scars - were the only issue I had with my appearance anymore; I still felt more confident about myself since I began living as male, than I ever had. I felt like myself.
I kept fiddling with my phone until I saw the maitre d' bringing Xavier over to the table. I put my phone away and stood up in greeting. "Hi," I said.
Xavier gave me a hug, which was a surprise, but a welcome one. "Hi yourself." He looked me up and down. "You look great."
"Thanks." My cheeks burned and I bit my lower lip, feeling like an idiot. Xavier was wearing a fuchsia button-down shirt - I liked that he had enough confidence in his masculinity to wear pink - with a fuchsia, violet and black paisley tie, and black chinos. His salt-and-pepper hair and beard was shorter than usual, it looked like he'd just gotten a haircut as well as a beard trim, and I wondered if it was just routine or if he read this as a date and he was spiffing up. I hoped it was the latter. "You look good, too."
Over appetizers we talked - bits and pieces of our lives had come out over the Shibari course, he knew I was a lawyer and I knew he'd been a firefighter during 9/11 and was now working a desk job for CUNY, so we started off discussing our jobs. We didn't talk about kink, since we were in public, but we did talk about our shared distaste of Trump and what it would mean for LGBT civil rights, since I knew he was going to put conservative justices on the Supreme Court. Xavier asked me about the UK, and was impressed that I had gone to Cambridge. He was also impressed I'd majored in linguistics and spoke several languages fluently, though he was confused how I'd become a lawyer if I'd majored in something else and I had to explain the diploma conversion process, which I realised wasn't a thing here in the States.
"Do you still keep up with the language studies?" Xavier asked.
I nodded. "I try to read an entire book in another language at least once a month and I participate on French and Spanish language forums on Reddit to keep my skills sharp."
Then I felt cheeky and I decided to say something in French - while I was shy mentioning kink in public, I didn't think anyone theoretically eavesdropping would know what I was saying. "J'aimerais mettre en pratique les leçons que j'ai apprises et vous attacher. Peut-être aussi donner une fessée à ton cul juteux." ["I'd like to practice the lessons I've learnt and tie you up. Maybe spank your juicy ass too."]
To my surprise, Xavier got a big, shit-eating grin on his face and replied in French. "J'apprécierais énormément. Tu pourrais me défoncer le cul aussi, si tu le voulais." ["I would greatly appreciate it. You could fuck my ass too, if you wanted."]
My jaw dropped and a hysterical little laugh of delight bubbled out of me. I had a feeling he was a bottom - though submissive tops existed, they were rare - and considering I could use a strap-on, my lack of a penis was less of an issue than if he had been a top and expected me to bottom, which was an automatic dealbreaker, receiving penetration made me too dysphoric. But first... "You speak French?"
"My mother is from Québec," Xavier said, nodding.
We got a bit more flirtatious during dessert, where Xavier sucked on his spoon like it was a cock, and we played footsie under the table. When we left the restaurant I thought about asking him to head over to my place, but it was a warm night that felt like summer and the moon was out, so we decided to take a walk through Central Park first. It felt nice to hold hands with him and lean on each other, and I basked in that warm glow of he likes me, he likes me.
He gave me a kiss under the moonlight, long and deep and full of passion. My hands slid down his back to squeeze his firm bubble butt, then I gave it a playful smack. The thought of making an older, bigger guy submit to me was making me wet, but through the horny haze I made myself exercise caution. When we pulled back, breathing harder, I said, "Xav, before we go any further, I have to tell you something."
Xavier's eyebrows shot up. "Are you poz?"
It took me about thirty seconds to realise what he meant. In the 90s there had been much talk of AIDS and safer sex practises, and while HIV was no longer a death sentence in the 2010s - and many queer men were on Truvada to prevent contracting HIV - it was still out there. I shook my head and I said, "No, it's something else."
"OK?" Xavier cocked his head to one side and waited.
I quickly glanced around to make sure nobody else was in hearing range - while I wasn't ashamed of being trans, I was stealth and out on a need-to-know basis, and these times of MAGA and people feeling emboldened to be public bigots reinforced my opinion that this was the safest decision. When I was satisfied nobody but Xavier was going to be able to hear what I was about to say, I said, "I'm trans."
Xavier blinked. I stood there, barely breathing, not sure how he was going to react. Hoping that he wouldn't care.
"You're... trans." Xavier's brow furrowed with confusion. "Like... Caitlyn Jenner?"
Once again, I felt like trans men were practically invisible, and I felt myself bristling. "Like Chaz Bono."
"Ah. OK." Then Xavier took a step backwards, and I knew just from that step back I was about to get rejected. Here it comes, I told myself. "Well, um. This is..." He gave a nervous laugh and rubbed his nose, glancing off to the side. "Yeah, um... I don't think it's going to work out with us, sorry. Like, I'm gay and you're female -"
Then his hand smacked over his mouth, like he realised what he'd just said, while I stood there open-mouthed, blood boiling.
Xavier took his hand away from his mouth. "I mean. You have a vagina -"
"Oh no. I knew what you meant the first time." My nostrils flared, and I walked off without another word.
I walked away with my head held high - while I felt angry tears stinging my eyes, I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of making me cry. But my heart was breaking. Even though I hadn't been in love with him, it was just a crush, being rejected like this hurt. It was, in a way, worse than what Evan had said to me back in March - even though "the perfect blend of male and female" was gross and fucked up and out of line, it at least acknowledged me as "sort-of-male". Xavier letting it slip that he saw me as female once I disclosed having a vagina... well, that was beyond discouraging.
I fumed all the way home. One of the worst parts about it was that up until the point where I'd told him I was trans, I thought we were vibing. And considering I could put on a strap if he wanted to suck a cock or be fucked by one, I didn't see what the big deal was. We had gone from possibly-boyfriends to him reducing me to my genitalia in the span of two minutes, and that made me even angrier than the times I'd been rejected by randos at a gay club.
And I was tired of trying. I was tired of either finding chasers, like Evan, who perceived me as some sort of exotic breed of woman, or people like Xavier who thought of me as "still female" no matter how masculine I looked on the outside. I had very little sympathy for detransitioners who helped TERFs wage war on trans rights by claiming they had been "forced" into procedures that involved lots of gatekeeping, where condescending doctors would make you wait for ages to make sure you were really, absolutely sure, even if you had been suicidally dysphoric since childhood - a vocal, obnoxious minority making people ignore the statistics that 95% of people who transition don't regret it. But I also knew that nobody tells you when you transition how hard it's going to fucking be to date while trans, especially if you're queer, and I knew I would have an easier time if - even after top surgery - I pretended to be a straight woman. But that wasn't what I wanted. I wasn't a woman, and I had quite literally tried to die to make myself escape that life. I didn't want to go back.
I didn't want to spend the rest of my life single and celibate, either, and I was convinced that was my fate, now, to be seen as male by the world except when it came time to take my clothes off. I could live free, die alone.
I went home wishing I had never been born, even with all the good I'd done - keeping battered women who fought back in self-defence from doing prison time in the UK, fighting for the rights of gay and trans people here in the States.
The next day I went to see Michelle and Kim to eat ice cream and cry. Michelle and Kim had wonderfully rude things to say about Xavier, especially when Michelle said, "He's just jealous you're out and proud of who you are, and he has to hide being Bigfoot." But even though Michelle and Kim made me laugh and tried to give me pep talks about other fish in the sea - "other cryptids in the sea," Michelle snarked - I still felt despondent when I was home alone that night, restlessly tossing and turning in my bed, aching to be touched, aching to be held.
After that weekend I entered a depressive funk for over a month. Unlike 2012 I wasn't actively suicidal, but I was passively having thoughts like "I wish I wasn't alive," "I don't want to wake up tomorrow," that sort of thing. It was tempting to drink like my mother had, and I managed not to drown my sorrows, but I was in a very dark place. Watching Trump win the 2016 presidential election didn't help; it felt like the whole world was entering dark times, and I wanted off.
Little did I know that very soon, I would be fighting for my life.
chapter 12 | return to A Place Called Home | return to Original Works | return to index
