Tag Archives: trans

random love

I love

Jealousymy bitches.
My right-hands.

ARGH.
I can’t fit it all in one post.
There’s too much- chats, saving my ass, working, sharing, bitching, whiskeying.
Too much fun, crying, laughter.
Too much love.

So.

It’s cold in February.
Tokyo’s chocolate heart explosions have come and gone (by the way the focus here is chocolate from the females on Valentine’s and the guys reciprocate on White Day, next month.  This country loves hetero-consumerism).
Which reminds me of my favorite V-Day tradition…

My bitches and I wear unglamorous but soft, flannel-y, fleece-y things and cheers to brown drinks on the rocks.
The oven is preheating and we do this:

Um…I’m in love with an alcoholic.
You used a condom right?
…
Did you use a condom?!

The one who can cook (motto: no babies, only beards) puts cookie dough on baking sheets as my young, pre-professional right-hand and I peruse the containers of magical toppings that will turn simple, golden sugar cookies into delightfully inappropriate treats to be shared with our work family in a number of hours.

We have red, pink, purple gel and cream icings.
Multi-colored sprinkles, red and pink glittery sugar dust.
Cookie dough goes in the oven.

I’m excited and feel the whiskey gently warming my cheeks…cozy times.

I blurt:
I think I’m pregnant.

These two are my damn truth serum, as my worry thought just spills out of me.

Really?
When are you supposed to bleed?
Not soon enough.  Fuck.
Plan B time.
Sigh.  I know.
Want me to go buy it for you now?
Damn they’re so sweet and waste no time taking care of fucking business.
Basically, they ROCK.
Nah…I’ll get it tonight and take it.

Ding!

As the cookies cool, we test out different icing tips and ready all the little containers.
And the fun begins.

V-A-G
CUNT- yes.
I think my penis looks weird.
I can’t fit the balls on this thing.
Uh…this tip is messed up.  I think I broke it.
It’s too big!
God, this gel icing is gross.  EW.
Chlamydia or gonorrhea?
You can fit that shit on there?
So…the nips are melding into each other.
Just sprinkle a shit-ton of glitter on it.
How do you spell—
Boobs.
Just boobs.

We turn into Valentine’s elves, gleefully creating dirty sweets that taste like total crap but will get eaten nonetheless because: the love, people.
Who doesn’t want to eat some sweet cunt on this lovers day?

More than a few 2.14s have passed since we’ve baked cookies and goofily giggled like pubescent tweens.

We’ve gone from living in the same house and/or across the street to different states and continents; we see each other a fuck of a lot less but they’re still my truth serum.

We witness big and little changes of the work, heartbreak, marriage, graduation variety.
We take pregnancy tests together, 7,000 miles apart.
We grow some and stay the same.
When I’m broken, they help.

And even though we 10,000 word-text each other and have marathon video chats, sometimes I just want a fucking whiskey with my bitches.
At a table.
In person.

Love y’all.

P.S. Also, shout out to my bitches in SF/Oakland, DC, Spain, Bahamas, Colorado, SoCal, Cambridge/NYC, Montreal, Memphis and Tokyo…thank you.

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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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trans talk

Did I ever tell you

HOW can you think it will stay the samethe first time I saw S en femme?

***

She is so nervous.  So much so that the first time I’m supposed to see her as a lady, she can’t do it.  So we put it off for a few days.

S is afraid I will reject her, judge her, dismiss her very early steps into transitioning.
I have my own insecurities.

Will I instantly feel differently towards her?
What will my reaction be?
Will my face give away any number of emotions- disappointment, relief, apprehension, rejection- that hit my heart?

I text her a heads-up and slowly make my way home.

Usually when I enter the house, I receive an insta-greet but tonight, we are both beyond trepidatious.  I have to call out; she’s nowhere in sight.  She’s in the bathroom, readying, steadying herself to come out.

It’s one thing to tell me she’s trans.  It’s another thing when I see evidence in the way of heels, makeup, clothes strewn about.  It’s another league of confrontation when I am about to see him attired undeniably as a female.

I am so anxious, I feel queasy.
I tell myself to calm it because odds are, S is more nervous than me.

And she is.

She super cautiously opens the bathroom door and so gingerly steps out.  She can’t look at me.

I take her in.

I give her an honest, deliberate once-over, starting with her nude pumps and traveling up to her above-the-knee dress.  I gaze at her bare arms, her wrists and her poor hands are trembling.  It hits me just how nervous she is; I look into her eyes and I barely notice her makeup, which I know took serious time to apply.

She is wide-eyed and terrified.

I immediately take her in my arms and give what I hope is the most reassuring hug ever.

“You’re so nervous…”
She can only nod, fear still screaming from her eyes.
“It’s okay.  Really.  You look different, more natural than I expected.  I love you.  We’re okay.  I’m so glad you came out to me.”

She finally starts breathing.

Phew.

This is the first time I’ve seen this side of S.  I’m not talking about her physical transformation; I’ve never seen her so vulnerable before, so unsure and emotionally scared.

It then hits me.  The emotional transition process will be a time to face feelings that we often choose to deny or gloss over because they’re rather uncomfortable little fuckers.

And thus the adventure begins.

***

Happy New Year, beautiful readers!!!
2014’s adventures will be decidedly different but no less honest- yikes and cheers!

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random love, relationshipping

Let’s jump ponds

Sex changesIt’s time for an adventure.

But why does anyone do an international move?
To find themselves
or to run away.

Before I started dating S, I knew I’d move from the American South but that was to be a decidedly domestic decision between my beloved NYC and possibly Philadelphia.

Then when S and I got serious, so did the international-ness of next destination- Spain or Japan.

Why Japan?

I used to give what I thought was a well thought-out answer:
I wanted to get in touch with my cultural roots.
I wanted to be in a big city again.
I wanted to be in a more creative city.

As the move-out date approaches after S comes out as trans, I begin to doubt.
I ask S on occasion, “We’re not pulling a geographic with this move, are we?”

She’s not.
She’s fulfilling her original goal of living abroad.
She’s had enough of America and her mostly very conservative and narrow-minded hometown.

But me?

I think if I name the thing I don’t want to be guilty of, it will keep it at bay. Except every time I want reassurance that I’m not running away, something in my gut sends an, uh-oh alert to my brain. As in, I’m definitely running away. Because these days more than simply wanting an adventure, I want to be in a new place. I want to consider my transsexual relationship away from the trappings of a small and (too) familiar town where everyone who finds out about S’s transsexuality has a pointed opinion they are not shy about sharing; usually it’s ultimately supportive (after many questions) but sometimes it’s downright mean.

A year and some months pass and I think about living in Japan.
I haven’t run away yet as I haven’t escaped the confrontations that come with a rigorous raking over of me and S’s future.
Case in point: we are no longer coupled and despite moments of wanting to jet on the immediate, I stay put. I work out the highs and lows of living in a far-off unfamiliar that still doesn’t feel like home. I’m also at peace knowing that I may not ever feel completely at home here; Tokyo was never intended as a final destination.

As for finding myself, that’s certainly happened and continues to, thank goodness. This life is an often funny and delightful little mindfuck in that just when I’ve figured something out, made the hard choice and breathed a sigh of, “Okay…that bit is finished,” I am shocked at what comes next.

So the next side of my never-ending relationship Rubik’s cube?
I’m just beginning to unpuzzle this one but it revolves around a specific notion of control as a new adventure begins…

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relationshipping, trans talk

She doesn’t hear me

She doesn't hear me anymore

because she’s got her own issues.

Which I understand because I get consumed by hormonally induced insecurities but I swear, these days I’m listening to my former mirror and it’s jarring, understandable and kinda hilarious.

2011:
Me: I can’t fit into my jeans.  Any of them.  I’ve gained like 10 pounds since yesterday.
Him: That’s impossible.  You did not gain 10 pounds.
Me: It feels like it and I still can’t fit into anything.  I’m crazy bloated.
Him: No, just crazy.
Me: I look pregnant.
Him: Well, you’re not.  You’re beautiful and aren’t you going to be late for work?
Me: I can’t find anything that fits!  And I’m always late, which means I’ll be on time.  I have to maintain the routine; otherwise it’ll confuse the work folks.  Besides I can’t wear this.  This would be a housecleaning outfit that I bet BF has already taken a secret blackmail picture of: yellow and orange striped knee-high socks, green leopard print underwear, some bizarre hand-me-down thermal crop top and weird mid-calf boots.  I do this.  Cleaning is way more fun when I play some deranged version of dress up.
Him: Huge eye-roll, big smirk.  Dammit, he did take a photo…so fucking opportunistic.

And now:
Me: Arrrghhh!!!  I’m going to be so fucking late.  Crapshitfuck!!!  I hate this part of living in Tokyo.  I’m always late because I’m not early.  Since when is being on time late?!
Her: Do you see THIS?!!, pointing to her head.
Me: Huh?  What are you talking about?
Her: Seriously?  You don’t see it?
Me: Uh no…do you have something in your hair?  Check the weather.
Her: Unbelievable.  My hair was perfect and now it’s totally wrecked.
Me: What?  It looks fine to me.  I don’t get it.  Crap, where’s the umbrella?
Her: This is sticking straight out, pointing at the same spot on her head.  I look ridiculous.  I can’t believe you were going to let me leave the house like that.
Me: Is she pointing to a curl?!  I thought it looked all natural and purposely kinda messy.  Really, I have no idea what she’s talking about; I don’t see it.  Why don’t you pin it?  Snacks!  Pack snacks.
Her: Because that would look even more ridiculous.
Me: Okaaay…ponytail?  Ready!  Gotta run.
Her: Totally unimpressed eye-roll and…sliding tatami room door.

I believe I have been (r)ejected from this conversation.
Great, are we both PMS-ing?

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