coming out as a trans woman opens a whole array of sexual possibilities – and yet, we can find ourselves missing our relationships pre-transition
navigating something as complex as a relationship can be difficult when you are a trans-feminine person. when it comes to sex, the number of issues multiply greatly, whether it’s the issue of disclosure, fetishisation, the panic defence, genital preference. daily, we are faced, oversaturated, with how people perceive us – and not just on the topic of sex. these opinions from cisgender people are vocalised in public, on social media, through harmful parliamentary bills and legislation, or via scathing anti-trans writing.
when it comes to sex, trans women have been decentred from our own narrative – it has never been about us, it’s always been about how other people feel about us. we are either met with lust or disgust. we have been the focus of many cis people’s “taboo” desires for so long now. throughout history, transgender women have found a way to capitalise on this, whether through solicitation or pornography – sometimes this being their only option. though accessible pornography can be helpful in finding sexual representation of yourself, it can also, for both cis and trans people, cause problems – especially when you’re not its target audience.
specifically, it inadvertently creates unrealistic expectations for sex – especially for trans women. not only do cisgender people pose a threat to us in the bedroom, but we can pose a threat to our well-being ourselves. media, porn and the way cisgender individuals perceive us can warp our sexual identity and our sense of self. we can be made to sexualise ourselves to oblivion or hate ourselves for doing so.
whilst there are commonalities between how cisgender men treat cis women and trans women, there is one crucial difference: shame. often, the shame can manifest into prejudice, and the prejudice can sometimes turn into violence. this threat is why i find myself, as a trans woman secure in my trans-ness, grieving my queer male identity.
whilst there are commonalities between how cisgender men treat cis women and trans women, there is one crucial difference: shame.
i remind myself of simpler times – as a queer man – where i was understood. the amount of security i felt was a product of how straightforward everything seemed, how much easier things were. when i was a man who was with other men, there was an equalising element. i felt more secure in these interactions, reassured that they hadn’t been corrupted by copious amounts of degrading pornography. most of the time, i didn’t feel like an experiment and i wasn’t being perceived as an object of their desire. nor was i a fantasy, or a fetish.
i felt like a human because i was treated as such.
these memories ripple, unfold into the form of grief, which is something that many trans people face during their transition. through the mirage, i peer back to the life i had left behind: the easy option, a willful ignorance. back then, there weren’t as many complexities to be had about who i was. i’m not talking about the grief that our family or friends can perpetrate. no, i’m not talking about that specific, cis-orchestrated manipulation that is used to deter us from transitioning. i’m talking about a disconnect from a place that you used to feel welcomed in. once again, i find myself as an outsider to the community i’d worked so hard to feel part of. i’ve not been rejected, by any means, but i’ve felt a soft nudge.
whilst i am fully aware of how toxic the gay male community can be, and how transphobic members of that community are, i find myself missing it. why am i grieving a community that i’m so critical of? why am i grieving a cisgender identity that i felt obliged to conform to? should i be criticised for missing it? am i allowed this space, this opinion?
in all honesty, do i want to be associated with gay men? i’m not a gay man. i never was – so why does it matter? do i just crave the respect that gay men often afford their partners during romantic and sexual encounters? i think i’m grieving the safety. when faced with massive difficulty, i have to retreat into a place of comfort, a sanctuary. hooking up with heterosexual men, as a transgender woman, can be the opposite of safe. sometimes, i describe this problem as being “fed to the lions”. i think i’m sick of feeling unsafe.
why am i grieving a community that i’m so critical of? why am i grieving a cisgender identity that i felt obliged to conform to? should i be criticised for missing it? am i allowed this space, this opinion?
others’ perception can have a really strong influence on how we feel about our relationship with our body, our sexuality and our gender identities. for me, one minute i was praised for having “girls handwriting”, the next i was called a gayboy. i was praised for having a “feminine” attribute but then scolded for being effeminate. of course, as someone who was effeminate and liked theatre, it pointed out to me that i was queer – before i even knew what it really was. i was assigned a role that i would do my best to fulfil, but i would never be able to do it justice. i was miscast.
honestly, i can’t quite believe the strength i had back then to withstand what i went through. it was an assurance of myself that kept me strong for a long time. when i started my transition, this helped me with the challenges it brought: the gradual alienation, the frustrating ignorance, the covert violence. in spite of everything, i know that i deserve to take up space.
so when, i would get asked on grindr: what are you doing here?
i’d own that space. i would answer, sometimes taking offence, reaffirming my belonging. i would say something about community, about inclusivity, about how the app has now expanded to encompass a multitude of identities. but, i couldn’t help but feel like i was intruding. it was misguided, but perhaps a valid question from someone who didn’t know any better. i felt like a niche, fringe account: a sad, trans woman clinging to any form of semblance she had with the gays.
i was assigned a role that i would do my best to fulfil, but i would never be able to do it justice. i was miscast.
if i was meant to be on that app, why did i feel like i didn’t belong?
it’s safe to say that the once-validating “girls handwriting” became less meaningful once i was greeted with “beautiful” and “gorgeous” – words i had never heard attributed to myself. i fed off this validation. i depended on cisgender straight men to feed my ego. finally, i was given this platform, a place that facilitated my sexuality, a place that was so much more than just some dodgy, exploitative site.
but… it was never about me. it was all about them. it’s never about us.
often, i’m convinced that cis people do not realise the extent that we go to affirm ourselves. sometimes, i stop and think of the lengths i went, the time i wasted on people who came into my life in bad faith. if i’d realised sooner that the people who’d message me on grindr weren’t worth my time, i wouldn’t have as many wildhook-up stories.
am i regretful of getting into these situations? my short answer: mostly yes. lots of the experiences that i’ve had with cisgender men have been so atrocious, they’re laughable. once, after a rather short hook-up, this guy proceeded to tell me that this has been his “fantasy” for a while. what a way to ruin an already-awkward moment! i was out of that hotel room in a flash.
there’s too much to unpack there.
now, with these experiences behind my back, the grief has a new home. currently, i identify as asexual, which is definitely new territory for me, but i’m feeling more comfortable with this label every single day. it’s taken all my strength to step back from hook-up culture, so i can heal and think about what i want, what i like. back then, i was hypersexualising myself in order to seek validation from others.
now, i am free.
it’s safe to say that the once-validating “girls handwriting” became less meaningful once i was greeted with “beautiful” and “gorgeous” – words i had never heard attributed to myself.
as a queer man, i was hypersexualising myself because that’s what i thought was expected of me. growing up, the only mainstream depictions of gay relationships would be centred around promiscuity, multiple partners, an excessive sexual drive. it was never sex-positivity, only stigma. whereas when it comes to depictions of transgender people having sex, there aren’t many at all.
so, when i transitioned, the hypersexualisation manifested from what was expected of me by sexual partners who had been brainwashed my copious amounts of pornography or the few scraps of media that always focused on sexualisation. these ridiculous standards affected me. when enforced, i perceived myself differently: mainly negatively and critically. i didn’t like the person i was seeing in the mirror, so i sought more validation – it became a cycle.
regarding the sexual sphere for trans women, i’d like to see change. unfortunately,there’s only so much we can really alter how cisgender men think and feel about us. so, it’s up to us, dolls! we need to reassess, centre and empower ourselves, to… heal.