I’ve always been super fem, even before “officially” transitioning, and that has always put me in a weird place as an observer, watching my presumably cis, straight friends and associates play “musical partners.”
I had some fun with bisexual and curious straight guys, but I honestly never had much luck with actual gay men.
Within the last decade, though, the femboy and trans conversation has exploded. And now, in my mid-30s, it’s something almost everyone wants—pre-op, “girldick,” mind you.
From 20-somethings to those well beyond, I hear so many stories of people having no problem getting sex, just no commitment.
I can’t help but feel resentment when I think about the possibility that, by the time I’m in my mid-60s, straight and bi men might turn another corner—finally ready to settle down in a committed relationship with one of us. That thought PISSES ME OFF in advance.
We’re expected to endure their games, their lecherous comments, and their disgusting looks until, at some arbitrary point, society deems it more acceptable to openly date one of us.
We can have so much love to give, become obsessive in self-improvement, and even find people who are 99% compatible with us. But it feels like it means nothing because of our predicament. We’re left vulnerable, watching less compatible people—abusers, cheaters, addicts, thieves, and bad-built, butch bodies—easily couple up, while we, as paragons of femininity, catch their eyes but not their hearts.
So many of us are desperate for love, spending our prime years pining, waiting for the world to come around. And when that happens, it won’t be on our terms. Instead, these traumatized, divorced, lonely, and broken men will have their pick of the litter, while we stand in line, still eagerly hoping for a chance.