trans talk

You’re never going to get hotter.

It’s like this, he says:
We see you [women] and we’re attracted to you or we’re not.  The growing more physically attracted to someone, that’s only for women.  Guys don’t work like that.

He, by the way, is a damn straight-shooting, sometimes fool.  His relationships often have a touch of cray but he thoroughly gets the male versus female perspective, to an almost alarming extent.  So I believe him; his brutal truth hasn’t let me down yet.

Oh.

So the good thing is, if he thinks you’re hot, you’re hot.  The ‘more hotter’ thing doesn’t happen.

post graph

Right.

Except this makes me feel like my attractiveness has peaked.
And it is different for women.  As the general attraction grows, the more physically attractive my potential person is to me.  They get hotter, men and women.

I ask S about this.
Me: When you were a guy, you identified with the whole finding someone attractive on sight and they don’t get more attractive?
S: Pretty much…I mean, I’d like them more but if they’re beautiful, they’re always beautiful.

Me: And now, as a woman, is it different?  Do people become more physically attractive the longer you hang out with them or the more you like them?
S: …  Actually, yeah.  When I dated ***, I didn’t think he was super cute but the more we hung out, his endearing qualities made him cuter to me.

Interesting.

Me: What about with women?  Do they grow more beautiful as you get to know them?
S: Well, seeing as I’ve only been on one date with a woman, I can’t really say.  Pause.  But I don’t think so.

As S has become thoroughly female, it’s not so often that we have before-and-after-esque chats but sometimes— like today— we do and her perspective never fails to amaze me.  It’s fascinating that she can still key into a masculine point of view as her own has shifted decidedly feminine.  As she collects new experiences and continuously expands her worldview, I can’t help but think that her transition has made her a force to be reckoned with.  I keep awaiting the day I’ll be saying, “I knew her when…”

 

 

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about Japan, random love

Happy Birthday!

My little blog is a happy one-year-old.

Woo!

Which means changes lie in wait, which then excites me as I wonder what the buildup of my present actions will bring.

Throughout this year, I’ve maintained that change is a constant and while that will always be a truth, I am so damn grateful for my other constant— my people.

Because I have the best people surrounding me; they burst with love, weirdness, smarts and all kinds of beauty.  And it’s so fucking awesome when my incredible friends from the States meet up with my great Tokyo peeps and they just get each other; the language barrier crumbles when people instantly see and appreciate the core of the other.  Also, a hardcore food challenge (horse sashimi? sea anemone? unnameable prehistoric baby snake-dragon lookalikes?) and delicious alcohol cuts through niceties and enables us to get real…so nice.

And you, lovely reader, thank you for stopping by and even more for following.  I started this blog as a way to process anew all of the dramatic changes the previous year had brought; all of my processing couldn’t stay in my head because…well, it just couldn’t.  What started as an outlet has become a deliberate and active sharing.  I’m automatically held more accountable by your presence which, in turn, makes me a better writer; a most sincere Thank You for that…what more can I ask for?

I don’t know what the future holds exactly.
My inner compass alerts me when it’s time to change but I don’t have a rigid plan.
This being vulnerable thing is a constant challenge but the results are usually affirming.
And when they’re not, my bitches know just what to say to calm me the fuck down.
Then I write some shit because a post-neurotic calm brings fun clarity.

So.
It’s been a year.

All I know is:
My time in Tokyo isn’t up.
My various relationships will continue to evolve in their own way.
I will continue to rely on my friends as they make life so, so much better.
And this blog will continue.

Seriously, thank y’all for reading.
∼xoxo

 

 

 

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about Japan, random love

Beautiful strangers

undo me.
Every time.

I don’t mean some random hot person that conjures feelings of doing it because they look at you just so.
I mean…

Two images keep rising through my swirling, sedated thoughts:

1) a collapsed woman and her husband, helpless before her barely conscious and very drunken body.

Most keep walking, some slow their pace, still others stare or shake their heads, even.
No one stops.
Time passes.

But.
Someone does stop.
The best kind of full-brake stop that starts by demanding of the subway attendant, “what the fuck with the help that was supposedly called?”
Followed by waiting with the woman while husband goes to buy water and kleenex as she’s a snotted mess, but if anyone can be a delicate and endearing pukey mess, it’s this woman.  Finally she is coax-forced to a standing position and pull-carried up steps to street level.  (By the way, taxis can take forever to catch if you need them to pull a u-turn because that’s against the rules and lord knows Tokyoites stay cozied up to a damned rule.)  Hooray for a rogue driver!  As the beautiful stranger negotiates with the driver, the husband marvels at this incredible show of kindness; there are no kinder people in the world, he tells his pouty and apologetic wife.

2) a broken-hearted man on a train; there’s no containing the tears and snot strings that such hurt brings.

Most don’t notice his grief; he’s not a loud crier.  But every stop after the one where she bolted cements the three, five, seven minutes that will turn to hours— agonizing hours— of a sinking in…ex-girlfriend.  And with each stop, he gets more frantic; he’s beyond giving a shit about hiding his tears because he’s hit a high wall of pain.  People next to him start to look away, shift their bodies away from his sad direction.  Except the girl standing directly in front of him; she studies him, his hands dripping tears and salt-mucused sleeves.  She looks thoughtful as she turns to exit but not before tossing a mini-pack of kleenex in his lap.

Four days, three nights and counting.
Weird sleep patterns, damn strong meds and forced quiet time makes for interesting processing.

Who knew I cared so much about random acts of kindness?

It’s what floats to the surface and cuts through my sleepy, painful coughing fits of late.

As our experiences are our constant, a thread of kindness is a nice binding agent.

 

 

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