trans talk

A variation

variation

 

on an unrequited love theme:

Him: I like her.  A lot.  And the fact that she has a penis?  Hotttt.
Her: How do I know I’m not just a fetish object if he’s so damned turned on by my penis?

A conundrum, indeed.

It’s not just about the body parts, it’s not objectification but a turn-on is a turn-on.  Historically, it seems that anything that deviates from the publicly broadcast hetero-norm (ahem homosexuality) is quickly labeled deviant or a fetish.
How conveniently dismissive.
How fucking willingly ignorant.

I sit at a trans bar as my friend crushes on this beautiful-cute woman.
“So…how do you describe your sexual identity these days?”
“I say I’m bisexual.”

I look at him, confused, and we simultaneously blurt:
“But I—you’re not.”

“Right?”
“Right.”

“But what do I say?”
“Hmm…you’re not gay.”

“I’m not gay.  I like women.  I just, you know…”
“Yeah, I know.”
“So do we say transwoman-oriented?”

It’s a tough, lonely world for transsexuals.
But.
In a sad twist of irony, it’s pretty lonely for those who are trans-oriented as well.

I hold this thought and questions happen.

Then I hear S in my head: What’s the point, if he wants me pre-op and my entire aim is to eventually have SRS?
He wants her to stay as she is, honing in on the one thing that causes her enormous grief.

Okay, so probably she ought not date a pre-op-trans-oriented individual but to assume that those who show interest are probably fetishising her for their fun time isn’t the fairest attitude.  People want romantic relationships and usually it’s best with those who turn us on sexually.

And what about the inevitable pre/post-op question?
(Or is she undecided?)
Asking this upfront is an awesome way to lose and get dismissed as a prying fetishist.
Besides, it’s really about getting to know her.
A-n-d…sometimes, say, even though pre-op is usually his type, it doesn’t matter so much when he discovers she’s had SRS.
Because he likes her.  A lot.

They don’t know about lasting into the future but in the here and now, they’re happy.
Maybe they’ll try a happily ever after, maybe it’ll be a damn fine chapter, maybe they’ll make each other shudder in the next six months.

Either way, the romantic in me wants them to have the story.

 

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random love, trans talk

A simple come on

come on
Sometimes it’s like this:
The woman carefully examines the art on the walls of a classic, white gallery cube-style room.  There’s no perceivable order to her perusals but from time to time a smile breaks through as her eyes dart across the canvas, stopping for seconds at particular points of interest: brilliantly saturated color contrast, curious manipulations of media, abstracted sex.

She doesn’t fit in with the usual museum guests; she’s not here killing toddler time yet it’s in the middle of a weekday afternoon…what kind of work does she do?  Does she work?

It’s a quiet day, she’s the only one in this room and there’s something about her that compels me to say something.
Anyt-h-i-n-g.

“Where are you from?”
“Oh…hi.  I’m from around here but I don’t live here anymore, just visiting.”

She holds my gaze for a second then goes back to the work.  She really digs this guy’s art; she must, as she’s oblivious to everything else around her.  I try to take my eyes off her but the floor vents make the hem of her dress flit and tease up, which makes me need distractions, bodies squinting and peering too close to wall labels, daring to touch frames and beyond.  Basically, I need to be working the Van Gogh room.

She’s disappeared into another room and soon she will have gone through this exhibit.
Shit.  Why do I need to talk to her?
I just do.

“My name’s Mike.”
Why I’m reaching out to shake her hand, I don’t know.  Except when her cool hand clasps mine, it’s awesome and her smile is everything.  I want to take her out but that’s out of the question.  I’m lucky she doesn’t see me as a creepy museum guard with stalker potential.

“I just need to tell you how beautiful you are.”
The words that make me sound like a maybe-douche just fall out, I never come on like this.  Maybe it’s knowing that she’s just passing through town, maybe it’s something about her that reads detached openness.  At least I know her name.  And making her smile is incredible.

***

And sometimes it’s like this:
I sit in café.  I don’t give shit for coffee but inside, there is A/C.  August heat makes me sweat before I leave apartment.  I look at people, of course the women.  No one here is my type: too skinny, too much make-up, too much trying to be perfect for fun, I think.  Then I see her— curls, dark brows and beautiful eyes.  I study her, try to catch her eye.  I smile.

Nothing.
Damn.
I try again.

This time small smile.  Good.  I go to her table and try small talk.  I look closer at her and I start wondering…
“Maybe this is odd question, but are you shemale?”
Uh-oh, she doesn’t like this.  But it’s just wondering.

“I don’t mean it bad, I think you are pretty.”
I have offended her?

 

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about Japan, trans talk

Are you…

The other day

a regular woman?

Or at least that’s what the question literally translates to when I’m at a trans party.

Yes.
Yes, I was born with a vagina.

Which is met with with sighs.
These boys are not so interested in cisgender ladies.
But they are NOT GAY, they tell me.

Okay.
Got it.
You’re not gay.
You just like women who have breasts and a penis.

So how about rather than the binary gay, straight or bi (which still revolves around gay and straight as the defining center), sexual attraction be described as male, female or trans-oriented?

It’s interesting that so many guys give such a rat’s ass about being labeled gay.
At first I think the implication is that it’s less of a social stigma to be into transsexuals than to be gay.
But after a hard think and a talk with S, I conclude that maybe those guys don’t want to be labeled gay because they’re attracted to women.
Which would make them not gay.
They’re straight.
Or female-oriented.

The guys also want to know WHY I’m at a trans party.
If I’m not here to pick someone up, get hit on or freely be the woman I was meant to be without the genetic advantage, what gives?
They don’t get it.

The women are less confused and more, “Let’s talk heels and get drunk.”
And I’m like, “Yes, drinks and how are your lashes so amazing?”
So we chat about cars, nature, various trans scenes in Japan while commenting on bearded ladies in scandalous bikinis and Pippy Longstocking wigs.

Simply put, it’s a fun time, visually awesome and I always love to see my homefolk without their well-worn masks of social conformity.
The vast majority here freak out and/or don’t accept non-traditional lifestyles that aren’t meticulously closeted.  Just the other day, this young kid proudly displaying his many tats (which still carry a social stigma) probes me about my personal life.  I answer matter-of-factly and when I reveal that my ex still lives with me, “What the fuck?!” is his response.

Dude, you asked me.
I’m tempted to mindfuck him a bit more with the I married my trans ex-girlfriend bit but decide to keep mum.

There are pearls and swine and at this point in my life I don’t cast those strings so carelessly.

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open relationship, relationshipping, trans talk

I’m the Q

You are a slutpuppy“Bless your heart but you are so not a lesbian,” says S.

The fact that we can have this honest conversation is huge.
The fact that S can have her sense of humor about a hurtful point of conflict is even huger.

Until this moment, S would often wonder why I couldn’t stay attracted to her if she’s still the same fabulous person on the inside and I was in a lesbian relationship for a decade.  In her shoes, I’d wonder the same thing but the best truth I’ve got is: the attraction cooled to something tepid within me and tepid is a pretty lame concessionary temperature for a love relationship.

I nod and recollect, ” ***(my long-term ex before S) said the same thing when we were dating.”
S shakes her head and pats my own.  “It’s really LGBT-supportive and I love you for it but you are not gay.”

I concede this point.

Before S, I maintain that I fall in love with the person, not the gender.  Although that statement pretty much announces my bisexuality, by mentioning gender, I qualify being a lesbian and/or having been in a lesbian relationship.  It’s as though I can’t commit to simply being gay, even though I was in a lesbian relationship for a decade.  No wonder my long-term ex wouldn’t call me a ‘real’ lesbian; it took over half the length of that relationship before I’d say was a l-l-lesbian.  
Then we broke up.

As S transitions, I am forced to dissect how true this ‘not the gender’ assertion is.
It’s not so true.

Without a doubt, my relationship history defines me as bisexual.  However, every person I have dated since S and I have open-relationshipped and broken up has been male, which then makes me feel like a bit of a liar if I call myself bi in the present.  But the second I identify as a straight girl, I have a feeling the universe will find a way to have the last laugh.

So.

In my apparent quest to self-identify, I’ll go with queer.
I’m the Q in LGBTQ.

Because one sure thing is that my past, present and future sexual identity and experiences sure as hell (will) fall outside the hetero-defined mainstream.

Thank. God.

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relationshipping

An impossible love

My eyeballs need cocaine

is not fun.

I was talking to a most awesome individual the other night, playing holiday catch-up, telling him what amounted to tales of a heart-hammering 2013.

At one point he said, “Wow…everyone loves you.  You have all these people who love you.  I have a lot of people I can fuck but nobody loves me.”

This disarmingly honest statement is the most endearing thing he could have said.

But what happens when none of that love is possible?
What good is being loved if life and individual circumstances don’t allow it to be fully realized?

Because that’s my situation.

2013 has been my year of impossible loves.  The love part has been tremendous but being hit with the reality of said impossibility hurts something equally tremendous.

Why impossible?
Physical and emotional unavailability, a waning sexual attraction, a disparity in levels of commitment…factors that can’t be compromised without compromising oneself.

So my year has been chock full.
Of expectations.
Of love.
Of letting go.

And the trade-off?
I stay true to myself and the situation at hand.
This truth fucking hurts me and causes hurt but it’s honest.

But truth?  I want to roll my eyes at pretentious honesty, ignore its gnawing presence and live in denial-land except I am incapable (thank you, fuck you previous life experiences).  I want to rationalize growing chasms in my relationships but I just can’t.  Once I feel that certain break, the one where my instinct high-alerts my heart and brain to prepare for impending sadness and grief, I know an ending is inevitable.  Ignoring my instinct isn’t an option as it has saved my ass too many times; my life, even, on occasion.

After an ending, I am a puddle of grief.

What to do between cathartic cries?

I focus on myself.
I hurt, I think, I grow.

And I appreciate this difficult thing that is love.

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trans talk

Sex changes

Sex changeswith every relationship.
Of course it does.

And when my partner is a transsexual, the sexing definitely shifts.

I expected gay, bi or straight sexual identity exploration to happen because that’s a common part of transition.  I expected the kind of sex we had to change as she figured out said sexual identity.  What I didn’t expect was the change in sexual roles.

As a man, my BF enjoyed dominating me.
As a woman, my GF wants to be dominated.

Hmm…

I sense an incompatibility of the irreconcilable sort sprouting.  I try being more dominant.  This isn’t my natural inclination but I recall one relationship where a very experimental other wanted me (in one of many phases of said relationship) to dom-i-nate; no two ways about it.  Gosh, that was so many years ago but maybe I can embody that mindset and try it out.

Except it’s so not me.
Shit.

The dissonance in roles of dominance and submission teeter-totters our relationship, in the same way that GF figuring out whether she is straight/bi/gay does, as well as my determining how attracted I am to a physically transitioning GF.

And I have to be real.

Me: So I think we need to open relationship like you suggested because, clearly, you aren’t getting your needs met from me.
GF: Okay, obviously I’m okay with that.  But you haven’t really tried having sex with me the way I want.
Me: It’s not for lack of trying.  Really, it’s not.  Stop rolling your eyes, goddammit.  It’s just that…obviously this is far from intuitive for me.  It’s like there’s a block.
GF: Rumi, do you think all the sex I had with you was solely the way I wanted?  I had sex with you the way you wanted it.
Me: Sigh.  And oh.  It wasn’t a chore, was it?
GF: Of course not, I love you.  It was never that but it wasn’t always 100% what I wanted is all- it was a compromise.  That’s all I’m saying.

I feel like I’ve failed my GF.
I wish- I really, really wish- that I could be a different person for her, someone who could fulfill all her new and changing needs.

It’s not for lack of love.

Thing is, I can’t lie in the face of sex, sex roles or sexual attraction.
I have before and what resulted was a stupid mess.  

But that’s another story for another time.

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open relationship

Cheating is needless

Cheating is needless

in an open relationship.

Me: So…I changed my mind.  Let’s try an open relationship.  Is that okay with you?
Her: You know I’ve been okay with (read: wanting) that from day 1 (post coming out); you were the one who took issue with it.
Me: Right…so let’s try it?

It feels so fucking weird.  I would never have thought I’d do this but apparently it’s not so uncommon that even Facebook lists it as an option.  I feel that I have officially become one of those people, you know, the ones who make you feel apprehensive because they’re that  kind of unwelcome-to-the-general-public strange and different.

Well, fuck my self-consciousness.  Who am I kidding?  I was always one of those people.

So why now?  Goddamn sexual attraction.  That inexplicable shit is fucked up in that I can’t control nor sway it.  As GF becomes more bio-femmey, an intangible but very solid something is disappearing.  Aside from that bio-chemical attraction shifting, everything else is pretty damn perfect; we get along (except when I pick fights), support each other and have crazy love and respect for each other.  Perhaps open-relationshipping is the missing link that will make us consummately satisfied?

Historically I’ve said no way for 2 reasons:
1) I don’t like the idea of strangers and their bodily fluids contaminating my cozy, secure sphere or my person.
2) I don’t know how capable I am of this because once I’m into someone, it’s really fucking hard for me to be attracted to someone else.  I’ve never been able to even date more than one person at a time; casual is difficult.

Oh shit. 
Dating.
Fucking dating.

What the shitshitshit?
In typical me fashion, I look up to see my new world order only after I’ve committed to the new change, which I spearheaded.  Seriously, I am the world’s worst dater; I have negative capacity to read between the lines, take everyone at their word and cannot even begin to understand dating etiquette*.

Which means single(ish) me is about to entertain the hell out of my friends and thoroughly mortify me.  Here we go again.  

*Seriously, I thought the best way to show romantic disinterest is to pay the first date resto tab, even if it costs triple digits.  Apparently not.  How do you people know this shit?!

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