I can’t complain of transphobia in the gay community I’m sure it exists, but I haven’t encountered it. I go home, freak out and block them from communicating with me so I don’t have to think about it. I don’t even have to move to New York City or San Francisco - surprisingly, I’ve found several local guys who haven’t cared.īut I never connect with any of them beyond a brief chat online and maybe (big maybe) a coffee date. There are plenty of men and women who date trans men with no qualms. I know my love life doesn’t have to be doomed. Actually, I laughed pretty hard at the time. Then she said: “Wow, this is like super depressing.
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“Oh, honey,” she said finally, “that’s just so sad.” She appeared to be genuinely moved by my plight and on the verge of tears. She stared off at the dark city streets, slightly slack-jawed, looking like her mind had just been blown to pieces. But once again, not wanting to get into a complicated, drunken discussion, I told her yes, that would be pleasant. I spared her why I thought that operation was impractical, not to mention unaffordable for me. One night, drunk and depressed, I sat outside the bar with a heavyset lesbian who was willing to listen to my self-absorbed epiphanies. Melodramatic, I know, but my brain is a hyperbolic bully. I still felt people’s gazes, but I couldn’t help thinking they’d puke or laugh if they saw me naked.
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It wasn’t long before I suggested we stop.Īfter that, going to the gay bar was less thrilling. He was surprised but didn’t actually mind. We made out in his car, but as things got progressively heated, I mumbled, “I have to tell you something.” I knew I’d have to explain eventually, but he was attractive, and I wanted to stall. This was a guy I’d been eying all night, so I happily complied. It was all quite lovely.Ī few drinks and wretched pop songs later, I found myself hurrying to the parking lot with another young guy who told me I had “beer goggles” and that my dance partner was very unattractive. I whipped my shirt around like a flag and was even lifted up in the air by some big, macho dude while we made out. In the haze, I received compliments, touches, kisses and several blatant offers that I politely refused. My surgical scars were somewhat visible, but not enough that anyone in Syracuse would make anything of it. Soon my reserved personality did a 180, and I found myself dancing in the sweaty crowd with my shirt off.
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The free drinks caught up with me, though. (Yes, I said “homosocial.” Yes, I am a humanities student.) It was exactly how I wanted it: a little scary, but mostly just a validating, homosocial environment. One man bought me beer after beer and gave me $40 for (supposedly) no reason.
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I was 22, but entering a room and feeling people’s gazes was something I’d never experienced, at least not in a good way.ĭrinking and talking with eager, mostly older gay men was immensely satisfying. I hated the music, the disco ball, the vibe, but I loved the attention. Therefore, walking into the joint, I actually felt sexy. After spending so much time alone in bland, conservative suburbs, I gave up, gave in and attended a “college Thursday” hosted by a local drag queen. Then I discovered a grimy gay bar and dance club in downtown Syracuse, one that attracts rowdy crowds and even has been featured in our local news for drunken brawls and stabbings.
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Relations with others seemed hopeless in this light. I just can’t remember any experience that didn’t induce more anxiety than it was worth. I’ve repeatedly found physical affection embarrassing and sex a wee bit soul crushing. I have been involved with a diverse array of people, but some key element was always missing. Not that my life was all that sexy before.