As You Are: Chapter 13

Of course, life is what happens when you're making other plans, and two weeks before I was scheduled to fly to Rome - where I'd spend the month of July backpacking, bicycling and taking the train and staying in hostels in Italy, Switzerland, France, Luxembourg, Belgium, the Netherlands, Germany, and then Denmark, before ferrying over to the Scandinavian peninsula in August - everything went to hell in several handbaskets.

When Michelle gave me The Talk in May, she'd brought up that her stress over my mental health issues had been causing problems with Kim. What I didn't know at the time was that Kim had not been doing well for awhile, and it was not entirely because I was living with them and had turned into a depressed, anxious recluse. Kim had bipolar disorder and had been stable on meds for several years, but sometimes meds just stop working, and one day in June, Kim had a meltdown at work that was bad enough the police were called and brought her to the hospital. Kim's treatment team decided she needed to go inpatient for a week or two for a med adjustment, which okay fine.

Nobody likes being in the hospital, especially not for psych reasons, and while Kim's treatment team felt she needed to be there, she got more and more agitated in the hospital. Enough so that she blew up at Michelle when she came to visit... and accused Michelle of being in love with me, and accused me of trying to "steal" her.

Obviously, I'm gay, and Michelle was a lesbian. We were close friends and loved each other platonically, but that was it. However, when Michelle came back from that visit with Kim, she sat me down and had another talk with me and told me that I would need to find other living arrangements when my European holiday was done.

I felt absolutely devastated. I knew that Kim was unwell and not herself and the accusations were her mental illness talking. But I also felt like the accusations were a form of emotional abuse - more accidental than intentionally malicious and hurtful, but still abuse - and that Michelle was giving into an abuser and throwing me under the bus.

It was a complicated, messy situation. I didn't want to be angry at Michelle - I didn't know what I would do if I were in that situation, either - and I didn't want to be ableist, especially considering that I myself had, and still have, PTSD. The anxiety and existential despair of my trauma had affected my behaviour and clouded my judgment at times, so I didn't want to be too harsh with Kim, yet it still made me uncomfortable that Michelle was not only choosing to end her friendship with me to appease her, but also I was being asked to leave on such short notice.

There was also the fact that, even though I would be "roughing it" with my time on the continent and would only have the luxury of a hotel my first few nights in Iceland, traveling abroad still wasn't cheap, and I had put a large chunk of my savings into the trip when I wasn't entirely sure I wanted to go back to law when I returned to the States, being I continued to feel like I had a target sign on my back with my name out there with the ACLU.

Statistically I knew I probably had greater chance of being struck by lightning than being stabbed a second time. But my trauma felt that the people my attacker was allied with might try to finish what she started, or at least try to completely break what was left of my sanity in the process. There were plenty of jobs in New York, and I knew I could do whatever while I tried to figure out a new life path. But the cost of living in New York is expensive, especially housing, and I wasn't going to have enough money left after my trip to find a new place to live alone within the New York City metro area. I had banked on staying with Michelle and Kim at least through the end of the year.

I wasn't quite destitute, but I was either going to have to leave New York - and hope wherever I ended up had jobs available and my Cambridge-educated arse wasn't overqualified - or I was going to have to look at Craigslist for Schrodinger's Fucked Up Roommate/s. I knew that when I left England years back, my uncle Nigel had told me I was welcome to come back and stay with him if things didn't work out. So if worst came to worst, I wouldn't be homeless, but the prospect of returning to the UK and my ex-husband finding ways to make my life miserable was not appealing to me, nor was the likelihood of Brexit and the ensuing fallout; things would have to get dire for me to be willing to take that risk of "going home".

To give myself a little more of a cushion when I came back to the States, I decided to sell my Audi. Having a car made it more convenient as I wasn't always having to rely on Uber or public transit - I was especially paranoid of taking the subway after what happened, whether that fear was grounded in reality or not - but in New York City in those days it was also about $500 a fucking month to park the bloody thing and I needed the money. Then I downsized... again. I only had a small studio apartment's worth of possessions, which fit into a single bedroom - and I was still angry about losing my books and vinyl records to my ex-husband, years later - but I would need to put my stuff in storage while I was in Europe, and the larger the storage unit, the more expensive it is to rent one. So I had a garage sale to sell off some of my stuff, and brought other things to consignment shops, and then I had a good fucking cry as I put Sterilite containers of clothing and some personal affects into a tiny storage unit in southwestern Connecticut - a reasonable drive from New York but without New York storage unit prices, and with less risk of theft.

Some of the sale of the Audi went towards renting a storage unit through September - paying three months in advance - but I had at least enough left for one or two months' rent and a deposit and a few weeks of groceries in a major city like Boston where I could start again. It was too late for me to cancel my trip and get any refunds, or all that money would have gone into moving, and when I hugged Michelle for the last time - while Kim wasn't looking - before seeing myself off to the airport, I felt angry with myself, like I had been foolish and impulsive and shouldn't have spent this money.

As it turned out, what I found on that trip was worth more than gold or diamonds.

I stopped regretting my decision soon enough when I was in Rome and seeing famous landmarks like the Sistine Chapel, bicycling and taking the train through the scenic countrysides of Italy and Switzerland and France, seeing Paris and places of historic importance like Étretat, Neolithic sites in Dordogne. I saw the places Van Gogh had walked and lived in the Netherlands. I smoked weed in Christiania in Copenhagen and managed to not get arrested. My tour through part of the continent was exhilarating, and it got even better when I went through Norway and Sweden, communing with nature. Life felt like it was worth living again; it was as if some dark festering wound in my soul was being cleansed.

Because I was camping and staying in hostels, I packed only a carry-on and one large duffel bag the size of a small suitcase. With the small number of personal belongings I took with me - including medication and toiletries, my laptop and external hard drive full of digital books and other things, my mp3 player with headphones and my USB stick of music, and a few small fidget/stim toys - I had my clit pump and a sucker vibe and a few weeks ago I'd bought a strap-on to replace the one I'd tossed out the window at Evan, and packed it on the odd chance I had the opportunity to get laid, knowing my libido might come back as I relaxed and enjoyed myself. But because of the lack of privacy I had in hostels, and being tired from bicycling around continental Europe and Scandinavia, I spent that portion of the trip celibate, only occasionally masturbating for relief when I camped.

And then, finally, I arrived in Reykjavik.

I had planned to spend the first two to three nights in a hotel after "roughing it" through July and August, and after my first night in the hotel - where I rested after my flight and weeks of more physical activity than I'd had in months - I woke up horny, and even after getting myself off I still felt horny. I resolved to do something I never did, and visit a gay nightclub that night. While I was still wary of cis gay men after my bad experiences with Evan and Xavier and seeing cis gay guys say transphobic things on various forums, acting like queer trans men were interlopers "forcing" gay cis men to fuck them, acting like being gay was about liking dick instead of liking male-aligned people... most of these remarks were coming from Americans, and my fellow Brits. I'd heard that Iceland was one of the most progressive countries on LGBT issues, especially trans rights, and had been for some time, and I was willing to take the risk that there might be some queer Icelandic guy who wasn't hung up on what I had downstairs. And being hornier than I had been in months - being surrounded by hot Viking-looking guys - helped lower my inhibitions and give me a boost of courage.

Because I traveled light, I didn't bring many dress clothes with me, but I put on a black blazer over a light blue button-down, with black trousers. Dressy enough for the nightclub without being overdressed.

Despite my raging libido and feeling empowered by the knowledge that I would probably have an easier time cruising a non-transphobe in Iceland, I still felt like a fish out of water as I made my way through the club, being quickly reminded why I didn't do this sort of thing besides the fear of harassment: it was noisy, and the lighting hurt my eyes, and crowds make me uncomfortable. I'm an introvert whose idea of a fun Saturday night is staying home with a good book and a nice cuppa. I came very close to turning around and going back to the hotel.

And then I saw him.

For years, my go-to masturbation fantasy had been Jon Snow from Game of Thrones. Here was a guy who bore a startling resemblance to him, his black curly hair hung past his shoulders and his facial features were softer. Otherwise - he had a short, neat dark beard, and brown eyes, and full, lush lips, and a kind of smoldering intensity to him. We were roughly the same height and build, and he looked to be somewhere in his twenties. "Jon Snow" was wearing a glittery black jumper that caught rainbow sparkles in the light, with black chinos, and what appeared to be Doc Martens boots. He had two small silver hoops in each ear, and his nails were painted with sparkly black glitter polish that reminded me of a night sky. He also looked as uncomfortable as I felt, standing by the bar, awkwardly fidgeting and glancing around.

My jaw dropped. I couldn't believe I was looking at my fantasy made flesh. I pinched myself to make sure it was real.

As if I was in a movie, suddenly the DJ started playing "Alright" by Jamiroquai, one of my favourite songs. While I was an agnostic and not prone to magical thinking, it felt like a sign.

You, give me light
So tonight, take me there
I feel your sun
Start to glow and I know it
Let me show you that
I want your love
I need your touch
For the rest of our time together
Baby, come fly with me, eternally
You and me
We were meant to be

I took a deep breath, steeled myself, and walked over to Jon Snow. Once I was next to him, I cleared my throat and practiced one of the Icelandic phrases I'd learnt in anticipation of the trip. "Hæ glæsileg. Má ég kaupa þér drykk?"

Jon Snow's lips quirked, he raised an eyebrow, and then he replied in English, "I don't drink, but you can dance with me." He had a deep, soft voice with a beautiful accent - rolled r's, breathy, lilting.

I nodded, smiling. "I don't drink either." I decided to spare him the infodump that I was on an antidepressant and my mum was an alcoholic. "We can dance."

Jon Snow took my hands and pulled me onto the dance floor, and then he started disco dancing like he was in Saturday Night Fever except he looked really dorky, with random kicks and bends and jerky arm movements, and I couldn't tell if he was dancing badly on purpose or if he really was a bad dancer, but either way somehow it made him even more attractive to me. I found his lack of self-cringe refreshing, after years of pretending to be someone I was not, both with gender and with maintaining a suave, sophisticated facade to the public when I was a bullied nerd masking my way through life to not get bullied some more.

But if we were going to make our way from the club to the bedroom - which I was already hoping for - we wouldn't get there just by dancing. I needed to break the ice. "So... you're from around here?"

"Akureyri, but I moved to the city as soon as I turned eighteen."

I swooned at the way he said "see-tee". "I see."

"You're... British?" Jon Snow cocked his head to one side.

"Yeah, though I've been living in the States since late 2013." I nodded. "And you replied to me in English when I addressed you in Icelandic." I found that curious.

"Jæja, your accent is fucking terrible and it gave you away." Jon Snow rolled his eyes. "Foreigners come here and they try to impress us by speaking the language and they're not good at it, and... we all speak English, this isn't some Third World country cut off from everywhere. I started learning English in school when I was six. I also speak Danish."

I had been warned on Reddit weeks in advance that Icelanders have a reputation for being rude by non-Icelandic standards, but it was one thing to know that and another thing for Jon Snow to be blunt that the phrase I'd practiced about a hundred times over the last two months still sounded "off" to a native Icelandic ear. And yet, I wasn't offended or even annoyed. Again - I found that kind of forthright honesty refreshing, after years of feeling obligated to play "the game of thrones" with all the unwritten societal expectations. I also started to wonder if he was a fellow autist, from the lack of eye contact and the fidgeting and the infodump about what languages he spoke.

I already liked him. And he could infodump on me all day, about anything, with that accent.

"I didn't mean to cause offence," I said sincerely, hoping that I hadn't come off as condescending with the attempt at Icelandic.

"Nah, you didn't." Jon Snow grinned. "And anyway, you're cute, so even if I was... you'd be forgiven."

I felt myself smiling so hard my face hurt, cheeks on fire. He thinks I'm cuuuuuuuuuuuuuuute! I would have flown across the club if that was possible. Instead, I grabbed him and pulled him close. Jon Snow giggled, then wrinkled his nose and bit his lower lip, put his arms around my waist, and we started a sensual grinding dance, working our hips together, as sexy as we had been dorky a few moments ago.

A couple of songs later, I did need water or something else cold to drink. Jon Snow followed me back over to the bar, and recommended I try a bottle of Appelsín - he wanted one too, and I didn't mind treating him. We clinked bottles and Jon Snow said "Skál" before we sipped in unison. It was very good orange soda.

After a few sips, Jon Snow said, "Takk for not asking me why I don't drink. Some people get weird about that."

"I don't like to be intrusive," I said. I knew I had a habit of asking too many questions when I got going - it was deeply ingrained in me as a lawyer - and I didn't want to make him feel like he was on trial so while I was curious, I also felt I would be out of line. I went on, feeling self-conscious - not wanting him to think I didn't care, either - "I mean, you can tell me if you want but I'm not demanding an explanation from you. I promise I won't judge, though."

Jon Snow nodded. He looked out at the crowd and then back at me. "I know Icelanders have a reputation abroad as being drunks, but I was raised by alcoholics. This is actually my first time coming to a nightclub. Not just the drinking, but. Ah." He gave a nervous little laugh.

I breathed a small sigh of relief - while I also felt a twinge of sympathy, hating that he went through that - and I put a reassuring hand on his arm. "My mum was one so I know how it is, and same. I have social anxiety so even if I was more comfortable with booze, this normally isn't my kind of place but I was hoping to meet a hot Viking guy tonight." I gave him a pointed look.

Jon Snow threw his head back and laughed, then he crinkled his nose and bit his lower lip again, which gave me that thrust in my loins. "Jæja, you might get pillaged if you play your, ah, cards right." He attempted a wink that was more of a clumsy blink, and I found it adorable.

It was my turn to be a dork. "Tonight we're gonna party like it's 793?" I was referring to Lindisfarne.

Jon Snow's laughter rang out, enough that it turned a couple heads, then we finished our drink and he pulled me back out onto the dance floor... and kissed me.

I almost came right then, feeling those full, soft lips on mine, our tongues playing together - twirling, sliding, fluttering. I had a feeling he was good with that tongue. And I liked tasting the Applesín on him.

We made out, kissing passionately, and got handsy, caressing each other, groping each other - he had a juicy arse and I loved grabbing it, squeezing it. We started rubbing against each other - we were far from the only couple on the dance floor doing this - but I lamented wearing my usual soft packer, since a hard packer gave me too much of an obvious bulge which was inappropriate in public, and I didn't want him to feel the lack of hardness down there and think he wasn't turning me on. Because he absolutely was. My t-dick was rock-hard and throbbing, my boxers were drenched. I could smell his arousal and it was driving me wild.

There were two last orders of business. The first would determine whether I even brought him back to my hotel at all. "So..." I breathed against his neck, before taking a playful lick, pleased at the way he shivered against me. "Are you a top or a bottom?" My mind began to play the Sorting Hat scene from Harry Potter [also: fuck JK Rowling 🖕], except instead of "not Slytherin", my brain chanted don't be a top, don't be a top. Truth be told, I was horny enough that I probably would have let him fuck me, but...

Jon Snow smirked. "I am whatever you want me to be."

So a bottom AND submissive. Fuckin' score. I initiated another kiss, then I started kissing his neck and my thumb found his nipple and rubbed it through his jumper. I could feel he had a nipple piercing and I almost came again, untouched, my cunt throbbing at the thought of him with pierced nipples. God, that was fucking hot. "I have a hotel room. You want to go back there with me?"

He bit his lip, which made me want to do bad, bad things to him. "OK."

I took him by the hand - giddy that we were that much closer to hooking up, burning with sexual need, relieved we were getting out of the noisy, crowded club with its harsh lighting... and nervous, because I was going to have to disclose to him I didn't have a penis, and I didn't want to do it here in public, it was safer at the hotel.

I really hoped my assessment that Iceland was a safer place to cruise while trans, was correct. I didn't want to pay with my life.

We stopped at the area where people checked coats and bags - a bouncer opened a locker and brought Jon Snow a black leather messenger bag. While I had come to the club with nothing but my wallet, I didn't think this was unusual; maybe Jon Snow packed a "hookup kit" with condoms and lube or something.

I had taken a bus to the club, rather than going by taxi or walking, and apparently so had Jon Snow. "I usually bike or take the bus around Reykjavik," he explained as we waited at the bus stop.

So we behaved ourselves on the bus, but the minute we were past the concierge at the hotel and on the way to my suite, we started making out again, kissing feverishly, running our hands over each other. When we arrived at the door and I fumbled with getting my key card out of my wallet, Jon Snow began unbuttoning my shirt, with a hungry look in his eyes. He paused to let me put the key card in the machine to unlock the door - with trembling hands - but he kissed my neck while I did so and my knees turned to jelly, my entire body electrified.

I knew I was going to have to tell him before we got naked anyway but I had hoped for at least a few more minutes to compose myself. Once we got inside with the door closed behind us, he resumed unbuttoning my shirt, and before he could unbutton too much of my shirt and reveal more of my exposed chest - and see my top surgery scars - I took his hands, looked him in the eye, and said, "Before we go any further, there's something you need to know." I swallowed hard. "I'm trans."

chapter 14 | return to A Place Called Home | return to Original Works | return to index