Latest news with #LoveTranscends
Cosmopolitan
11-06-2025
- Entertainment
- Cosmopolitan
The 5 Best Dating Apps For Trans People
Welcome to Love Transcends, a special project by Cosmopolitan that celebrates the resilience, wisdom, hope, and joy of the trans community as its members navigate romantic love. Through in-depth interviews and personal essays, trans people share what it's like to date, hook up, break up, and fall in and hold onto love in the midst of sweeping anti-trans legislation and attacks on personal safeties and freedoms of expression. Click here to see the entire collection. Whether you've been swiping since the dawn of Tinder or you're brand-new to the apps, success for anyone requires knowing what you want out of the experience, picking the right platform, and, for transgender people in particular, considering a few other unique needs. 'Trans people face the challenge of being misunderstood, objectified, or harassed on dating apps,' says trans dating and relationship coach Kara Chang, adding that daters may also grapple with 'decision fatigue around when and how to disclose our trans identity.' Plus, there's the fact that, as Chang notes, many dating apps simply weren't built with trans people in mind. That makes choosing the right ones all the more important. First, look for platforms that prioritize inclusivity and safety. 'A good dating app protects you as a user, gives you the freedom to express your gender identity authentically, and has a culture that values respect and an equal user experience for all,' says Chang. Of course, as queer love coach Nathan Serrato, founder of Queer Conscious, adds, the trans dating experience is unique to each individual. What works for one dater may not work for another. But this curated selection of dating apps—recommended for trans and nonbinary users by LGBTQIA+ dating experts—is a good place to start. Grindr is best known as a dating/hookup app for gay men, but it's so much more than that. Zachary Zane, Grindr's sex and relationship expert, says the platform is inclusive of queer, trans, and nonbinary folks as well. 'On Grindr,' explains Zane, 'bisexual men are looking to date trans women. There are gay and bi trans men looking for other men. Nonbinary folks are looking for love and there are plenty of queer people on the app looking to date a trans or nonbinary person.' Plus, as one of the first and largest online dating platforms for queer users, Grindr has a long history of providing a space designed specifically with LGBTQIA+ daters in mind. That ethos extends beyond the app itself. Launched in 2015, Grindr for Equality, the brand's social impact initiative, partners with public health authorities and other activist organizations to advance LGBTQIA+ health and human rights. Download Here One of the earliest online dating platforms, OkCupid has long been a pioneer of inclusivity. Back in 2014, the app became the first in the biz to expand gender and sexual orientation options for users, and daters can now choose from over 60 labels. In 2022, OkCupid also added definitions for these labels to help better educate all users. Plus, 'the algorithm actually uses your questionnaire responses to match you with people who are genuinely compatible,' says Chang. This can lead to less mindless swiping and more meaningful connections with like-minded people who know (and love!) what you're all about. Download Here If Grindr is known as an app for gay men, HER is the most prominent app for lesbian women. But, like Grindr, HER is an inclusive platform that welcomes queer sapphics of all kinds, including nonbinary and trans people. HER also boasts a Trust and Safety team, a verification process designed to weed out fakes and scammers, and moderators to ensure all users enjoy a respectful experience. Plus, HER's website specifically mentions keeping the app transphobe-free—a helpful indicator that the platform is serious about the needs and safety of its trans users. Download Here 'Translr is one of the rare apps built for the trans community. It's a space dedicated to trans people and the people who want to date us,' says Chang. 'There is a mutual understanding among users—no need to explain our existence, just vibes and love.' The app also boasts a rigorous verification process to protect users and block fetishizers and catfish, as well as a zero-tolerance policy for harassment. Download Here While apps that are designed specifically for queer and/or trans users may provide a safer and more inclusive experience, they also tend to come with the downside of smaller dating pools. Unfortunately, 'more users can also mean more exposure to transphobia,' says Serrato. Enter: Hinge, a popular dating app that welcomes daters of all genders and sexual orientations and actively works to provide a safe and supportive experience for queer and trans users. 'As trans people, we often feel like our identities are being flattened, with people focusing primarily on our trans identity instead of our full selves,' says Moe Ari Brown, Hinge's love and connection expert. Per Brown, Hinge 'understands that trans people are more than their identities and that meaningful connections happen when everyone feels safe showing up as their full self.' The app includes more than 50 gender options and users can write in their own or not share a gender identity in their profile at all. 'This allows people to express who they are without forcing anyone to disclose any information they don't want to,' says Brown. In February, as a result of conversations with Hinge's community partner TransTech Social, the app launched Match Note, a feature designed to help users—particularly those from underrepresented groups—share important information about themselves with matches only. In testing, Brown says queer daters used Match Notes to highlight key aspects of their gender identity, lifestyle, and relationship preferences, adding that 83 percent of trans people said the feature 'improved their ability to show up as their authentic self on Hinge.' Download Here For an expanded list of resources specific to the trans community, click here.
Cosmopolitan
11-06-2025
- Entertainment
- Cosmopolitan
Expert Answers To Your Trans Dating Questions
Welcome to Love Transcends, a special project by Cosmopolitan that celebrates the resilience, wisdom, hope, and joy of the trans community as its members navigate romantic love. Through in-depth interviews and personal essays, trans people share what it's like to date, hook up, break up, and fall in and hold onto love in the midst of sweeping anti-trans legislation and attacks on personal safeties and freedoms of expression. Click here to see the entire collection. If you're new to dating as a trans person, it's only natural to have some questions about what to expect—from how your identity may affect your love life to where and how to find successful, satisfying relationships. And while there's no one standard 'trans dating experience,' odds are, many of your fellow daters are wondering some of the same things you are. We tapped some of the top queer dating and relationships experts in the country to answer the most frequently asked questions they hear from their trans clients. Keep reading for their insight and advice that can help guide you in creating a rich, safe dating life. Just keep in mind, this isn't meant to be a definitive instruction manual. As always, your love life is yours, and what will work best for you is entirely dependent on your own unique needs and desires. 'This question is at the heart of so many trans people's dating app experiences. It's not just about strategy; it's about safety, self-trust, and emotional capacity. When it comes to dating as a trans person, there is no one-size-fits-all approach. Some trans folks are comfortable sharing their identity on their profile. Some share later, once there's a sense of trust. All are valid. What matters most is that you get to set the terms of your visibility in a way that feels celebratory of you. You don't owe anyone access to your story before you're ready to share it.' —Moe Ari Brown, love and connection expert at Hinge How can I make sure I'm safe when meeting someone new? 'A lot of people begin their journey on trans- and queer-friendly apps, which make it easier to filter and can provide anonymity, if needed. I often tell my clients to create a blank profile and just have a look around to see how it feels before they fill it out. Then, when meeting, it's worth getting to know someone in public spaces before being alone. This means you can get a feel for who they are and whether you might enjoy their company in a more private setting in the future. When meeting someone for the first time, I recommend telling a trusted friend or family member what your plans are and where you're going and checking in with them when you get home. And if you do feel uncomfortable or like your safety may be at risk, try to leave the situation and/or inform someone in the vicinity. You can also report bad behavior on most dating platforms.' —Shae Harmon, queer sex and relationship therapist 'The answer to this can vary depending on many factors including where you live and how you met them. Some people disclose before a first date to filter out incompatible matches early and to help them feel safer from potential transphobia or negative reactions down the line. Others prefer to wait until they've decided there's a connection that's worth pursuing. I always recommend at least disclosing before any intimacy occurs and to have that conversation in a public space for your protection.' —Nathan Serrato, queer love coach and founder of Queer Conscious Is it possible for trans people to find love? 'Absolutely! Some people aren't open to trans dating, but if someone can't accept us on the most basic level, why would we want to be with them? Smart dating is not about attracting every fish in the sea; it's about attracting better fish. Life is too short to convince someone to love you. The right person will love you for all of you.' —Kara Chang, trans dating and relationship coach How can I find other trans people to date? 'Many trans people want T4T (trans for trans) relationships because they feel it's important to date others who have an understanding of trans experiences. It can be easier to bond when someone else can empathize with your experience. That said, dating only trans or nonbinary people means the dating pool becomes smaller, and it can be harder to find new connections. Some places you might find other trans people to date include local queer/trans meetups, queer speed dating events, dating apps (especially queer- and trans-friendly ones), social media, and online groups.' —Harmon 'When your identity has been fetishized, misunderstood, or reduced to a curiosity, it makes perfect sense to wonder: Is this genuine interest, or am I just someone they want to try? One of the most significant signs someone may be fetishizing you is if they only see the label, not the person. They focus on your transness, not your wholeness. You are more than your labels. You are more than your history or gender transition. Watch their language. Are they asking questions that center you, your passions, your joy, and your beliefs? Or do they fixate only on your transness? Being curious about trans people isn't the same as being ready to love one. You deserve someone who sees your identity and interior world—someone who is intrigued by your story and devoted to your peace, pleasure, and becoming.' —Brown 'No. Trans-attracted people seek long-term relationships, are secure in their identity, and respect trans people. Trans-chasers are often on the DL, seek discreet encounters, and objectify trans people. Healthy attraction empowers us; chasing dehumanizes us. By knowing the difference, we can create a dating culture rooted in respect and shift the narrative around trans love.' —Chang 'As trans people, we've had to be strong in ways most people will never understand. That means we sometimes have to guard our softness to avoid harm. So how do you stay open without sacrificing your safety? First, notice how your body responds around someone you're dating. If your breath deepens and your shoulders drop, that's a green flag. 'When opening up to a new date or partner, start with micro-vulnerability. You don't have to overshare to be real. Offer something true but small about yourself and see how they respond. A safe person won't rush your story; they'll honor it and respect your pace. Also, give yourself permission to pause and to pivot. Softness doesn't mean staying open to everyone. You absolutely get to walk away when your peace is disturbed.' —Brown 'One of the best ways to stay hopeful is to build queer and trans community around you. Dating with an affirming community behind your back who's boosting your confidence and meeting your needs can be the stable foundation you need to get through the ups and downs. Additionally, research shows that most LGBTQIA+ relationships begin as friendships, so by building community and nurturing those connections, you might just naturally meet someone who becomes more than a friend.' —Serrato 'You deserve relationships where people celebrate your identity, not just tolerate it. It can be exhausting to manage other people's discomfort, especially if you feel like you're constantly preparing for the worst. One approach is to lead with pride—speak about your relationship with joy and respect, not as someone you need to explain or defend. And remember: Your transness isn't a complication. It's just part of who you are.' —Madison Werner, LGBTQIA+ advocate and the first trans face of a CoverGirl beauty campaign. For an expanded list of resources specific to the trans community, click here.
Cosmopolitan
11-06-2025
- Entertainment
- Cosmopolitan
My Experiences as a Transgender Woman Using Dating Apps
Welcome to Love Transcends, a special project by Cosmopolitan that celebrates the resilience, wisdom, hope, and joy of the trans community as its members navigate romantic love. Through in-depth interviews and personal essays, trans people share what it's like to date, hook up, break up, and fall in and hold onto love in the midst of sweeping anti-trans legislation and attacks on personal safeties and freedoms of expression. Click here to see the entire collection. I have always been a member of the LGBTQIA+ community, but about six years ago, I made the shift from 'G' to 'T.' Before transitioning, dating men was the one part of my gender and sexuality that made total sense. I loved being gay. For me, being a man who was dating other men was a way to bond with my partners; there's a closeness between lovers that comes from having a similar experience in the world. After I transitioned, it was hard to let go of that part of my identity. I tried dating other trans women but couldn't make it work. And so, aside from the occasional sapphic make-out, I had to grudgingly accept that I am a straight woman—and that, while heteronormativity is everywhere, I didn't know the rules. Putting myself out there meant learning new references and dynamics. I took a deep breath and dove into the internet—the place we all go to be collectively, unwillingly traumatized. Ask any trans woman who's been online about how we are hypersexualized by men, especially on dating apps. At first, I imagined these intensely sexual communications would lead to actual relationships. In reality, though, it was just all a fire hose of lasciviousness, with the men I met falling into a few distinct categories. A blank profile pinged me on Grindr. When I responded, the guy sent over a photo of himself, a rugged and handsome man next to a motorcycle. I recognized his face. 'Mike,' as he called himself, was an actor who had played a mythical being in a show I'd watched. There'd been full frontal nudity and let's just say the image had stuck with me. I felt like a powerful sex witch who'd tranifested (a transgender woman doesn't manifest, she tranifests, thank you very much) this gorgeous man. He told me he worked in 'the industry' and in Los Angeles, where I live, everyone knows that means Hollywood. I played it cool—L.A. is full of TV people. He was looking for hookups but ones that could hold his attention. Honestly, it felt like a bad fit, but I took the bait and told him I was 'killing time' on Grindr. 'I hope I survive the slaughtering,' he replied. 'The time won't, for sure,' I texted back. 'It will have its revenge one day, but hopefully not today,' I added, with the fingers crossed emoji. Mike told me that sounded like a line from a J.R.R. Tolkien novel. 'You might be a writer and not know it,' he said. I clocked the patronizing tone but sweetly texted back, 'Lol, I am a writer.' We agreed to connect offline and for a few weeks, I'd meet Mike at a coffee shop, a cute East L.A. corner store, and my apartment—but never for more than 15 minutes or so. At first, I was excited that he was making time for me, but I quickly realized he didn't want to be seen in public together and possibly 'outed' as someone who is 'trans-attracted.' I was jolted by the realization that there's nothing for a man in Hollywood to gain by dating a trans girl. I never told him I knew who he was—I didn't want to seem weirdly parasocial. I thought he'd tell me at some point. Instead, he lied about his last name when I asked him. Another app match, and it was clear from the moment I walked into the wine bar for our first date that no one loves a poly musician more than a poly musician. I pulled up a stool next to him and he told me he'd forgotten his wallet. The bar didn't take Apple Pay and he wanted me to cover the bill. He'd Venmo me later, he promised. This seems stupid but sure, I thought, and ordered myself an orange wine. I told him I don't hook up on first dates and proceeded to watch him love bomb me over the course of the evening. Since I was already in fuck it mode, I decided to bring him home. Horny, chaotic sex ensued. My apartment at the time had a huge balcony overlooking Echo Park, and the next morning, we chatted about how fun it would be for him to fuck me there, looking down on the world. Then we went for coffee with my giant sweet dog at a shop where some of my friends worked as baristas. They did accept Apple Pay, so he got us coffee, we chatted with my friends, and then parted ways. Except he went back to that same shop the next day to tell one of my barista friends, 'You just have this light in you.' Every woman knows that is creep for 'I want to suck your life force.' When I learned he refused to leave until she gave him her Instagram, I sent him a voice memo saying, 'Thank you for the good time. It was really fun, but I heard what happened at the coffee shop and that's really chaotic. I don't want to get involved.' At least I was learning. By the time I met my first Malibu Daddy, I understood the constant anxiety that chasers (people who fetishize trans women and don't treat us like whole people) always carry. No matter that it's the 2020s, I read as a woman in any room I enter, and he was rich enough to do whatever he wanted. I could tell that, for both of us, fear held on tight. Still, this was a chaser with style and money and we had real chemistry. We hooked up at his gorgeous house the night I saw the new Hellraiser. I was inspired, so we played the original Hellraiser in the background and he begged for my cum in his mouth. It was sweet, though, and he held me close after. He said we had a 'good connection' and drove me home in his Maserati. My earlier naivete was gone. I knew by then not to invest. High-profile men may seem interested in you, but they give you almost nothing and act like it's special treatment. Most beautiful women, cis or trans, experience this: The dating is transactional. The men flex their status and can be weirdly uptight about money. Once, when I was sick, I asked this Malibu Daddy to send me sushi. He did and kept reminding me how expensive it was, warning me not to waste it. In my early days as a trans woman on the apps and in the world, it was thrilling and validating when men treated me like a delicate flower or catcalled me on the street. Passing as myself was exciting, but this kind of trans-affirming misogyny was like whiplash. The privilege of assimilation only came at a distance. If my voice were a little too deep one day or a man got a little too close or if I fought back or argued when he said something condescending or misogynistic, would he kill me? I think this is something every trans—and cis—woman has experienced to some degree. Actual love seems rare in this world. It makes me sad to think of these men missing out on deeper, sexier connections. Dating them felt like squeezing a stone and hoping for blood. This is why, last fall, I decided to take a complete break from the apps until the end of the year. I couldn't shake the feeling that I had missed some basic experiences of being treated with dignity by other people. One half of me shrugged it off thinking, That's love and that's life, get over it. Another part of me stopped, looked around, and thought, Is this really the world we wake up to and recreate every day? I clearly needed space. If I were going to establish a connection, it would have to start in my real life and be part of my existence in my community. That didn't happen, but in March, I had a dream that I was getting a piggyback ride from a handsome man in a field covered in wildflowers. My 'boyfriend' in the dream watched us looking sad. My hand was resting on the handsome man's chest. I let it get heavier, and he moaned. I pulled back a lock of his hair, leaned into his ear, and exhaled gently. 'I haven't seen this side of you in such a long time,' he said. 'I know,' I replied. He held my gaze and said, 'It's so nice.' I woke up nodding in response. I felt at peace, like something had shifted. A few days later, I decided to download Hinge. I'd been on it before and liked that the people there are allegedly looking for relationships. Unlike Grindr or Taimi, it sets daily limits on how many people you can Like. I didn't want to get sucked into checking my phone for dead-end responses all day and night. To my pleasant surprise, I matched with a finsexual guy—meaning someone who's attracted to feminine people, regardless of whether they're cis or trans. He was so excited about me, he wanted to meet up the same weekend. He was from a conservative part of L.A. and someone I wouldn't have considered before, but I gave him a chance. On our date, he was thoughtful, caring, and nice. He was openly interested in me and a lot taller than I am (win, I'm 5'11"). He even screenshotted my list of must-avoid foods so he'd remember what I can't eat when we went out to lunch. During our conversation, I mentioned that one of my trans mothers says, 'A man will take you out in public, but will he take you home to meet his family?' He responded that he'd had the 'trans talk' with his mother five years ago. It was wholesome. He even has similar piercing blue eyes as the man in my dream did. I don't know what will come of our time together, but I can tell that my sense of dignity is growing. For the first time, I feel like I can move toward the right match, lay my hand on his chest, look him in his eyes and say, 'It's so nice.' For an expanded list of resources specific to the trans community, click here.
Cosmopolitan
11-06-2025
- Entertainment
- Cosmopolitan
10 Books Featuring Transgender Love Stories
Welcome to Love Transcends, a special project by Cosmopolitan that celebrates the resilience, wisdom, hope, and joy of the trans community as its members navigate romantic love. Through in-depth interviews and personal essays, trans people share what it's like to date, hook up, break up, and fall in and hold onto love in the midst of sweeping anti-trans legislation and attacks on personal safeties and freedoms of expression. Click here to see the entire collection, and click here for a list of resources specific to the trans community. Let's get one thing out of the way: Trans stories have always mattered and will always matter. They're not new, and—despite what some politicians would have you believe—they deserve our attention. It's a good thing, then, that a slew of books by trans writers or featuring trans characters have hit bookstores in recent years. For trans readers, this kind of representation is more important than ever, especially in the face of spreading book bans. And because everyone deserves a good love story, we've gathered some of the best trans-focused ones below. Steamy romances, beautiful tales of friendship, blood and chosen family sagas, and more. Happy reading!
Cosmopolitan
10-06-2025
- Entertainment
- Cosmopolitan
A Long-Distance Relationship Shaped My Sexuality as a Trans Man
Welcome to Love Transcends, a special project by Cosmopolitan that celebrates the resilience, wisdom, hope, and joy of the trans community as its members navigate romantic love. Through in-depth interviews and personal essays, trans people share what it's like to date, hook up, break up, and fall in and hold onto love in the midst of sweeping anti-trans legislation and attacks on personal safeties and freedoms of expression. Click here to see the entire collection. My freshman roommate's side of the dorm was girly and beachy and so unlike mine. I had Scotch-taped a few photos of my friends to the wall. She unpacked short skirts and dainty silver jewelry and countless beauty products I wouldn't know how to use with a gun to my head. I liked how the close quarters put us in contrast, my boyishness stark against her Brandy Melville backdrop. On our first night, she asked me if I'd had a boyfriend in high school, which was a polite way of breaking our summer-long text tension. 'Actually, I'm gay,' I told her, because calling myself a lesbian had never felt right. 'I'm bisexual,' she confessed. Our disclosures hung there like someone had thrown a ticking time bomb in the room and run down the hallway. And so the first few weeks of college were us playing footsie under the dining hall table, her FaceTiming her friends to make fun of my enormous laundry pile of hoodies, me pretending to care about her essential oils, and us finding any reason to be in the same bed. We made out for the first time watching Gone Girl on her laptop in her lofted twin XL bed. The second time in the gender-neutral bathroom at the end of our hallway. The third in the back of an Uber coming home from a frat house off campus. And before we could get to a fourth, I shut down. Because I'd been closeted in high school and opted out of dating altogether, I had no idea what kind of person I would be in a relationship. From the ways I had yearned for unattainable women over the course of my life, I imagined myself as a doting, devoted partner. Someone who'd be waiting outside her class with her favorite kind of sushi and have an ongoing text thread with her mom. But here I had this living and breathing bisexual dreamboat who wanted me, and I couldn't stand the thought of us going any further than the backseat of a Civic on a Friday night. I all but moved out, spending every night in my best friend's room and only coming back to change, fundamentally erasing the first girl I ever had a real option of dating from my life. That was only the beginning of a series of classroom crushes and mutual friends and Tinder dates where I realized over and over that to have a girlfriend also meant to be a girlfriend. My body was allergic to the concept before my brain was able to make sense of the reaction. And so, rather than the doting lover I'd imagined myself to be, I became a goofy mascot in the social scene, prone to 2 a.m. hookups. In my uniform of men's surf shop t-shirts, I walked around the Theta Chi backyard with an uncapped fifth of Tito's, talking about loving women. I was someone guys could talk to without feeling the need to perform and a gay best friend to the girls. And for those who were bi-curious and looking for a guide or crush or experiment, I was happy to be a best friend with benefits. I was a frequently visited stop on the journey of girls figuring out if they liked girls—all while I was gradually, and unbeknownst to them, realizing I wasn't one. Because the women I was seeing had previously only dated men, their interest offered a glimpse of what it'd feel like to be one of the campus bachelors. Experimenting with bisexuals was affirming to me in an almost algebraic sense. They like boys + they like me = I'm like a boy. But in reality, they were experimenting with me for the opposite reason. They craved a girl. Someone who understood them rather than a fuckboy frat guy. I loved being able to give them a taste of the emotional intelligence they'd been longing for, but why did I have to be a woman to offer that comfort? I met Lily senior year, while that sense of my shifting self was still half-baked. A drunken make-out in a bar bathroom stall led to what I sadly have no choice but to call a situationship. She was two years younger, and I was her first queer experience. She liked that I could get her into the bar before her 21st birthday, and I liked that she saw me as someone who could get invited anywhere—a power that made me feel manly. On sleepovers after a night of drinking, I was capable of being intimate and affectionate without pause or fear. Coming home after a long night in the library, though, I felt like every second we lay beside each other was an hour of playing the floor is lava but her body was the floor. More and more, I'd lean on tequila shots and mind erasers to have sex because the alternative meant being aware that I was her new, fun, experimental lesbian experience. Going to college parties with a beautiful girl and falling in love and having sex was everything I'd fantasized about as a closeted teenager. This hypothetical her was able to give me all those things. But in each of those scenes, written and imagined, I'd cast myself as her boyfriend. I imagined us sleeping together, a woman and a man. The reality was that in her bed late at night, Lily would open up to me about how she didn't know if she was attracted to men at all. She was falling for me instead. In all of the times we had sex, I never took my shirt off. She didn't ask about it until one night after we finished her hands were under my shirt and her fingertips were indecisive about where they could and couldn't touch. 'Is this a regular sports bra that's just really tight?' was how she worded it, though we both knew what she was asking. Yes, I said, lying about it being a binder. And I kept lying until I broke up with her. I was graduating, I said, I wasn't ready for a long-term girlfriend, I had things to figure out. Truth is, I broke up with her so I could delay the process of figuring it all out even longer. I broke up with her so I could enjoy the beginning bliss with another experimenting bisexual until I figured anything out at all. It had become a pattern: I'd spend three months getting to know a woman. And then I'd crank down the dial. Hours and then days elapsed between texts that I previously replied to in seconds. I booked out-of-town weekend trips to avoid the expected sleepover. To this day, I cringe thinking of how my avoidance stopped them from pursuing and finding the beautiful transcendent queer experience they ached for and me from accepting the deep discomfort I felt in my body. Though I was cutting my hair shorter and shorter, dog-earing dozens of pages in trans memoirs, and opening up to a few trusted people about my desire for top surgery, I was still too afraid to acknowledge within myself the fact that I wanted to transition. But at a certain point, my conscience knew that instead of vanishing, I had to try and communicate about this. My early attempts were disconnected and performative. The girl I dated after Lily was in my poetry workshop. I daydreamed about her constantly, in the way I always did, seeing myself as this beau who could charm her into loving me. These daydreams never had an ending, much less a happy one. I broke up with her by letter. 'I want to be able to give you what you deserve,' I wrote. 'I want to have sex with you and enjoy it and feel present without insecurities invading. I hope you can understand why my brain intercepts the chances of that for me right now.' Giving up on dating was safer, I told myself. It was increasingly impossible for me to picture love and sex in my life without seeing myself as a man, and so I was ready to find peace in a life without love and sex at all. And that's what I told the next woman I met. We matched on a dating app and quickly began to text around the clock about Survivor and Lena Dunham. When I felt myself start to care about her, I knew I needed to cut off the romantic expectation. I didn't want to trick another woman into thinking I was emotionally available. I made a disclaimer that I had zero intentions of having a serious relationship or even of hooking up, though I'm sure it was obvious that the yearner within me still had hope. 'I really don't want to overstep, but I think you would find a lot of peace in a relationship where your gender is affirmed,' she wrote back. For the first time in my life, a woman wasn't coming to me looking for an answer about her own sexuality. She wanted me to know it was safe for me to find my answer with her. Her friends made up every letter of the queer alphabet and on FaceTime sleepovers before we met in person, she'd share her screen to show me pictures of them. Being with her meant proximity to the type of people I wanted to be around, the type of person I wanted to be. The morning after our first night together, we lay in her bed and her fingers traced the waistband of my sweatpants, knowing just how far they could go. No questions asked. No answers needed. The silk of her fingertips on my lower abdomen stirred something in me far deeper than the countless drunk college hookups. After those, I'd always made sure I had an escape route the next day. I had to call my mom or go to class or do an early interview for a made-up job. I had to disappear. On the way home that morning, I texted her paragraphs. I told her I felt like a teenage boy, both because of how little it took for her to turn me all the way on and because the last time I felt the hope of being a romantic partner was when I was writing imaginary stories in high school. She replied, inviting me the next weekend. Without hesitation, I said yes, and then again, until I was her boyfriend. For an expanded list of resources specific to the trans community, click here.
