The warm summer sun was beating down on me and my friends as we sat on our blanket in the park, each of us with a book in hand. Casually we would look up at each other or around the park, taking in our surroundings. The trees were a vibrant green that spread down to the long fresh grass, somewhere a band was playing and the music twisted over the hill to us while we chatted about our novels. I was content with the day but I was also tired and was considering heading home for an early dinner and bed.
My cell phone started to ring, for the umpteenth time, it was a friend of mine calling once again to ask if I was free that night. I decided to answer, even though I felt too tired to make any promises about the evening. I told her there was a big queer party at a bar later on, and that I was considering going. She took my consideration as an absolute and told me she’d meet me there at 9 PM. Rolling my eyes I reluctantly agreed.
My other two pals were packing up their books and the blanket, they invited me over for dinner and we agreed to go to the Big Queer Party together afterwards. Dinner was a home-cooked meal and a made-for-tv movie, after which we got our things together and set out for the night. It was nearly 10 by the time we arrived, my friend from the phone was waiting for me outside. She stood over me at roughly six feet, she wore a wispy red shirt that matched her long, straight red hair. She smiled when she saw me and followed us down the stairs into the bar. The four of us, the two bookworms and the party girl, sat at a table and played ‘Would You Rather…’ while we waited for the bar to fill up so we could start dancing.
At one point the Party Girl and I went for a walk to a park and she pulled out a small pill which she opened up and poured the contents on to some paper. She split the powder up into two piles and gave me one. I learned that this was MDMA, something I’d never tried before. I was a little nervous, but as the cool summer breeze played over my back and the bright city lights grew brighter against the night, I felt something tell me that this was a night of adventure; I had no idea how true that would prove be.
Once back at the club we reunited with our buddies and danced the night away. I wasn’t feeling very high but I was happy and decided to let my inhibitions go for a while. I pulled out every move, even the silly ones, and danced to every song. Soon the Bookworms went decided to go home, but the other two of us stayed behind. The Party Girl had the hots for some butch blond and, after I encouraged her to say something, she went up to her conquest and said, ‘I really like your hair.’ The Blond Butch replied, ‘Me? Darling, you are the gorgeous one,’ and embraced her. It was that small interaction that led to all of us, Party Girl, me, the Blond Butch and her friends, standing outside for a smoke break.
I started chatting with one girl who had short, dark black hair and pale skin that was covered in razor blade marks and burn scars. She had eyes that looked like rivers and thin lips that had two circular piercings through them. She smiled like she had nothing to hide and danced like she knew everyone was staring but couldn’t care less. We started talking with a story, she told me about a friend of hers who had a rooster come after him every day after school until one day when the boy broke the rooster’s neck, only to be met with the rooster the very next day after school, it’s head hanging, waiting to go for his ankles once again. I told her the story of how my father rode our family’s pet pig in a mad, slapdash attempt to prevent a burglary in our home, only to discover the ‘burglar’ had been the screen door slamming in the wind.
Adventure, as I would grow to call her in mind, grabbed my hand and led me inside where she promptly bought me a drink and took me to the dance floor. We danced with a girl who had a panda on her shirt and I started to feel the hyper, manic state that hits me when I let myself be free for a little while.
Despite the fact that I was hoping to hook up with a guy that night, I couldn’t help but sneak a few glances over at the strange girl I’d met outside. She danced like I did, moving her feet all over the place and letting her arms catch up with the rest of her. She wore all black, a tight black tank top and black jeans, with grey sneakers. She had a figure somewhere between tomboy and hourglass and I wanted to drink it in. Knowing better, of course, I focused on simply being her friend and having a good time dancing. At one point the Party Girl dissapeared and the Panda Shirt Girl asked, ‘Hey, where did our tranny go?’ At first I had no idea who she was talking about and, before I could even say anything, Adventure leaned over and whispered something in her ear. I couldn’t hear it exactly but, though their body language and what followed, I knew what she’d said. The Panda Shirt Girl apologized asked where my friend was, this time using her name instead of a slur. I thanked my new pal but she didn’t make much of it. Soon enough the Party Girl was back and we continued on with our wild ride. The music pumped and the crowed gyrated, the room was full of sweat, desire, and spilled beer by the end of the night.
At 3 AM I was yearning for rest but couldn’t pull myself away from the night just yet. After the bar Adventure wanted to spend more time together, ‘Let’s go looking for trouble,’ she said to me. I suggested we go somewhere after hours or possibly just urban exploring. The next thing I knew I was walking with a crowd of girls, including Party Girl and Blond Butch, as we were lead by an odd, buff, bald, military man towards some sort of underground after hours bar. At the front there was a metal gate that looked like it had been forgotten and left there ages before. A large, muscular man opened the gate and spoke to our man briefly, he was told to ‘let these ladies in’ and I was included in the count. It didn’t phase me that I’d been called a lady, I knew that I was a androgynous guy, so I simply walked with the other folks down the cement steps that led towards pulsating music from a place below. Adventure goofed around with the bouncer a little bit, luckily he was friendly about it but I was sure if it had been me asking for a pat-down we would have been thrown out before even going inside.
The bar felt like a mystery itself. There were curtains in between the rooms, and one large dance/bar room with leather couches. The walls were faded cement that had a lazy blue line painting vertically on one side. The place was full of smoke of all kinds, adding a foggy effect. The people were either people who had money or people who acted like they did. There were some buff guys, many of them quite tall but one who was exceptionally short (and he seemed to be very important), there were curvaceous women in skirts milling about the bar, a handful of other party-goers in all kinds of eccentric outfits, and most of the people there were people of colour. There was one particularly large man who was smoking a cigar and smiling like he’d won something. There was a white woman with bleached blond hair in a white, tight low-cut dress, she had a fake tan and probably in her 40s.
The group of us danced and drank and smoked weed, at one point I was offered blow but did not accept, though I was tempted to. The people were generally friendly, though a few had some rough edges. Adventure asked me to show her the bathroom, in line someone asked if we were lesbians. I laughed and said, in my lowest voice, ‘Well not me, but I think she might be.’ When the woman who’d asked us heard my voice and saw my facial hair she just smiled and said, ‘Aren’t we all lesbians?’ I didn’t know what to say so I shrugged and tried to laugh a little. Presently, the bathroom door opened and I ended up inside it with the wild girl(at her request) during which I turned away so’s not to violate her privacy. As we stepped out for a moment she pulled me to the side and looked me in the eyes; I thought she was going to kiss me, but she laughed instead and I felt my cheeks turn ruby red. I sheepishly followed her back to the dance floor and we spent the remainder of the night, until about 5:30 AM, dancing on that slippery black floor in the smokey place.
When the group of us finally piled out, Adventure got us all to agree to go to the park together and watch the sunrise. There, on a structure of sorts, we all sat: Adventure, Panda-Shirt Girl, Party Girl, Blond Butch, and their drunken friend who had purple in hair and wouldn’t stop talking about this cute straight girl she’d been hitting on.
The party dwindled until it was just me, Adventure, and the Panda Shirt Girl. We shared stories of compassion, of hate, of loss, of riddles and mystery. The sun peaked through the trees and cascaded down upon us as birds tweeted along to signal its arrival. We shared a cigarette and looked at each other, overwhelmed by the chaos of life. ‘Good morning,’ I said. ‘Good morning,’ they said to me.
On the walk home Adventure and I were left alone with each other. She was headed to a place not far from my own and we passed the time talking about the paradox of the isolation that is being alive and the interconnection that life is. I was telling her about the idea of ‘the big crunch’ which says that, just like there was a big bang, there will be a big crunch and the universe will return to nothingness (probably only to repeat itself again). I was about to tell her about how there are some theories that say that the universe has a uniform pattern to it when she grabbed my hand and put me up against a lamp post to kiss me. Her lips felt like flower petals and stainless steel clacking around. I wanted to grab her body and pull it against me, but I decided not to push my luck. This was all I wanted, all either of us needed right then.
When we finished I was lost, my head spun as I tried to regather myself. She flashed me a grin and I told her she had nice lip piercings. She told me I had a nice face. I didn’t know what to say so I just said, ‘Thanks, it’s all mine.’ She also told me I had nice eyes, that they were a sparkling blue in the morning light. I think I blushed again then.
Shortly after that, I was home, and we hugged goodbye. I smiled at her and asked to see her again, she said we’d see each other very soon. She walked away, strutting off into the big mess that is this city. I couldn’t help but think, perhaps we are alone in this world, perhaps there is only chaos and disorder. But damn, sometimes it feels pretty damn designed.

I arrived in a small inlet of downtown, there was a supermarket and a few small businesses surrounded in a circle with an otherwise average set of grey apartment buildings. It was raining and I had no coat nor umbrella so I simply walked in the rain, slowly feeling the droplets run through my hair and down my cheeks. I was there to meet someone, a director, for a film shoot. I’d done a porn film once prior, as well as several nude photo-shoots, but I hadn’t had sex for money since quitting The Business that winter. I was nervous, I felt a bit like I was failing my commitment to leaving, but I supposed that if a camera was involved it didn’t count. It could be filed under ‘alternative forms of body-positivity activism’ and that worked for me just fine.
I found the Director and he lead me to a wedding photos studio, the front was empty and in the back there was a large cement-walled room with a camera set up and a scruffy little man sitting in a chair at a desk. I knew the Director through a friend, we’d met at a couple events previously, but I didn’t know who the small man was and assumed I should. Throwing on my smile, I walked up and shook his hand, introducing myself. He returned the favour, shaking my hand vigorously. We exchanged pleasantries, ‘Oh, so who do you know?’, ‘Who’ve you worked with?’, ‘What kind of sex do you like?’
Me and the Co-Star chatting sexual preferences, like protection, turn ons, no-gos, and even just style. I had to - very quickly so that I could seem professional - describe if I came easily or if it took work, what positions I liked best, if I was a top or bottom or switch, if I did kissing, and whatever else might have come up. It started to sink in, I was really about to shoot a porn.
The room was a little cold and there were some muffins on a plate along with a box of bottled water. I took a bottle and upon my first sip I realized I had to use the bathroom. I was embarrassed, although looking back I can’t remember why, but I went and did my business. I came out and we were ready to shoot.
The scene was two office workers whacking off on either side of a desk, and then fucking. I rubbed myself while trying to check out the other guy, he was definitely not my type but I knew that didn’t really matter. I hadn’t done any acting since coming out as trans in my teens, so I was scared my ‘sexy turned-on face’ was really more of ‘creepy sort-of look’ but apparently it worked fine for the two guys involved. I was a little surprised it was just us, I wasn’t sure if a full crew would have made me more or less nervous.
Awkwardly, I moved around to his side of the desk. I was so distracted by unbuckling my belt that I bumped my hip into the side of the desk itself. Not allowing myself to break-character, I continued over to the Co-Star and planted a kiss on his lips.
Soon he whipped out his strap on and I began to suck him off, he was reacting so realistically I thought for a moment that perhaps it really was his fleshcock. I ran my hand up his body and cupped his chest, upon which rested two hairy, slightly sagging breasts. I sucked his nipples and ran my fingers through his short dark hair. I got up and took off my own shirt, and pants as well, putting a condom on him and then sitting back to lower myself onto him. He groaned as he entered me, and I gasped. I rubbed my dick as I moved up and down his shaft, feeling him kiss my back and neck. It was then that the batteries for the camera died.
The director cursed and looked around for his second camera, which he found while I made yet another trip to the bathroom. The pills I was on were diuretics, which meant I had to urinate frequently. It was rater awkward to say, Excuse me while I dismount your cock, I’m just going to go pee and then I’ll be back.’ None the less, that’s what I did. The bathroom had strange fluorescent lighting and was both obviously tailored be relaxing (a soft photo on the wall, fancy toilet paper, all the things you might expect) but was too industrial to really let you relax. The result was a surreal feeling that hit me hardest when I looked myself in the unclean mirror and saw my naked self staring back at me. Getting involved in porn was a good way to make money, and to share my trans male body with a wide audiance, but was it really something I wanted to pursue? I supposed it was a bit late for that question now and I exited back to the shoot.
Back to work, I was fucked for a while, and then leaned over on the chair and fucked some more. My entrance felt raw and worn out so I faked an orgasm and went back to work on the Co-Star. I sucked him off, then he disrobed and I grabbed a glove so I could penetrate him. The scene ended a little awkwardly as the Co-Star was unable to achieve orgasm. I was already in a rush and happy to end it, but not comfortable to saying so. It was relief to hear the director call cut and within moments I was nearly fully dressed again.
I was paid well for my time and after I would learn that they were both very impressed with my work. I wasn’t sure how to feel about that news, proud I suppose would be the right word.
I was approaching ‘Porn Star’ status at this rate, and if I continued shooting films all summer I had a real chance at making a name for myself in the industry. This left me conflicted, but over all I was just excited to see what might happen next. I’d never thought I would have a life like this, and it was fascinating to see this part of the world from the inside.

Often I find myself lost in a crowd of people only to look around and silently wonder, ‘how many of you would hate me if you knew?’

I am a trans person, a gender incongruent person, a walking, talking trans-medical history. I am a boy who earned it, I am a man who has a secret. Most of the time it doesn’t seem strange at all to me, but that doesn’t mean I can forget how strange it is for everyone else. I live a life where my body-type is nearly completely invisible, even among my LGB(silentT) community.

Each trip to the gay bar results in the awkward whispered conversation or grope-gone-wrong, letting another cis boy walk home with my secret burrowing around in his mind. I can’t help but wonder if he questions himself for hitting on me… There’s a vilification of genitals like mine among the gay cis men, a fear of the ‘va-jay-jay’ that I’m always going to be brushing up against.

And that’s another thing, how exactly does one explain in a crowded bath house or stumbling walk to my apartment that, ‘No, actually I identify that as my dick and bonus-entrance.’ I can’t even say that with a straight face (good thing I’ve got this queer one instead). I’ve been told a million times who I am and what I am and what to call myself and what I can do with that.

What makes thing difficult, I think, there’s no real widely recognized social signifier I can use to present my transliness in a subtle (or not-so-subtle) way. When I want to tell someone I’m queer, it’s pretty easy. Sometimes people might get the wrong impression that I only like men, but that’s alright because I mostly do anyways. I can stand a certain way, or wear a style of clothes, or out-and-out cover myself in rainbow paraphernalia. Even on days when I’m not trying, most people can spot me as queer. I’m a pretty flamboyant little guy.

So, how can I tell people I’m trans too? Aside from wearing a shirt with the words ‘TRANS MAN’ printed on it (as if most cis people even know what that means)? Can I stand a certain way that means, ‘if you don’t call it my cunt, you can fuck it’, what about a style that says, ‘I have scars on my chest and you better think they’re hot’? Is there a code word or hanky that I can put out like a radar and let them come to me? And even if there was, would I only get fetishists and the bi-curious?

It can be draining to be invisible, and even more so when openly hated. My body is never on TV, it’s never talked about on the news unless someone wants to make a joke about Chaz Bono. I am tucked away in the back pocket of society and told to quiet down for a while. Maybe in 20 years I’ll be allowed to be out-and-proud like the tokenization and co-opting of gay culture has allowed for the first few letters in the ever-growing acronym that is the capital-c, ‘Community.’ But I am sick of patiently waiting for permission to exist.

When our bodies are othered they become worthy of fear by the mainstream, and it is through that fear that we can build them into weapons of both radical love and destruction. We become their joke, their threat, their worry. Through that fear we can weaponize our bodies and ourselves. Through an attempt to break us they give us the sharp edges we need to fight back.

And you better believe I’m fighting back.

The Golden Boy was moving back home to his small town outside the city. He wasn’t sure if he’d be back in the fall for school, which meant I wasn’t sure if I’d ever really be close to him again. I wasn’t very good at long distance, after too many painful attempts, I was sure that the only thing to do once a person left the area code was to move on and call them if you were ever in town. 

I took him out for his last night in the city, promising him the queer-world on a silver platter. We mossied into a bar down on the west side of the Big City, they were having a night for ‘trans men and their admirers’. At first I was embarrassed, the party seemed a bit flat to say the least. The dirty tiled dance floor in the tiny club, which was barely bigger than my kitchen, was bare and nearly all the clientele were either boys who looked to cute to notice us and butch dykes looking for a tranny boi to take home.

I smiled meekly at The Golden Boy before excusing myself to the bar to buy us a few drinks. I knew once I was well lubricated I could relax. We’d spent the eavening watching old cartoons with one of our friends, the three of us just having a ‘boy’s night’. I was one of the ‘boys’ now, which meant GB and I were ‘bros’ I think. I didn’t really understand this masculine subculture quite yet, and I wasn’t sure how to ask if we could try the ‘lovers’ title again as that didn’t seem all that different (except with that one I got to hold his hand in public). He flashed me a smile when he saw I had a beer in hand for him and we planted ourselves down into a booth.

We meandered through a semi-forced conversation, mostly consisting of niceties (‘how was your day,’ ‘did you see on the news that…’ ‘did you hear that so-and-so got together with…’). I was so worried about disappointing him I don’t even remember when it stopped being forced and when we started getting along as usual. I just know that the drinks kept coming and the bar started filling up, and we just kept chatting or laughing or whispering together. I introduced him to a few pals of mine.

I so desperately wanted to make his last night in the city memorable. Maybe if I could make him remember it, and me, and maybe even miss it, he might move back for school in the fall. He might move back and be with me. Most of me knew we were over, even if we were still fucking on occasion. But when the flirting started creeping back, when the naked spooning rolled around, when I caught myself forgetting that I couldn’t call him my boyfriend anymore, that’s when things got confusing. He’d told me he didn’t have romantic feelings for me, but I also knew he was afraid of commitment and his own emotions. Was there a chance that I could break through to him? Why did I even want him this desperately?! He wasn’t anything special, he was a great friend, a good lay, and that was it. Or, at least, that was my mantra. I couldn’t let myself really care for him, I hated cliches like unrequited love. I was a live-fast and try-not-die kinda guy, I was a slut and porn star, I was the charmer who could never be held down. What was I doing practically begging for this 20-something new-out queer boy, how was he any different than any other spindly wannabe-writer in this city?

I popped out of my thoughts long enough to notice the dance floor was still empty. Without thinking I grabbed his hand and shouted, ‘Let’sparty!’ He was shocked for a moment and then, with a wide grin, he leaped to the floor with me. I stopped worrying or wondering what was going to happen, I let my body move and closed my eyes, I didn’t want to care about anything. Just for one second, I just wanted to be one of a million twinks in the world dancing away his troubles.

As we moved around, dancing like we knew how, a funny thing happened. It was like we’d set off some sort of trigger mechanism, because next thing I knew the whole places was so packed and everyone was gyrating all around us. The drinks kept coming and, soon after, so did the kissing. I chatted up this sweet girl in a sparkly top who shared a quick make-out session with me a few times, and then this sexy cissy from New Zealand snuck me off for a snog in the booths. The Golden Boy ended up making out with this foxy older lady, who I later discovered was themotherof a friend of mine. He called her ‘the literal Milf’ all night.

After he missed the last bus home, GB agreed to crash at my place and leave early for his move. We had a slurring conversation outside, I can’t remember about what at all but I do remember the way his eyes looked in the fluttering city lights. I remember the way it smelled out there, cigarettes and hot spring air, the sound of blaring music every time the door to the bar opened. I was happy then. And he was too, I think.

Later that night, after much more dancing, we made the trip back to mine and collapsed on to the mattress. I was hoping for a quickie but he passed out before I could get up to anything. Smiling, I wrapped my arms around him and we held each other close until the morning light.

Once we were awake, and mostly sober, we did some fooling. It started with a hand across another, or maybe a kiss on the cheek. We played with each-other’s hair and mumbled nothingness into ears. Then, all of a sudden, he was on top of me and I was pushed back into the musty pillow on my bed. Our bodies so close together, loosing each-other in raw energy, we submitted to our urges.

I grabbed his arms and threw him into some of our favourite soft restraints before turning him over and lubing him up. I loved the way it felt to have my cock slide into him, even if it was just a strap on. His growing, unsteady gasps and moans were orgasmic enough for me. I pulled his hips tightly towards mine, sinking into him with pleasure. After a good while I couldn’t take it anymore, I pulled out of him and climbed on top, lowering on to his stiff prick. I rode him for a bit before bending over and letting him take the lead. I wasn’t sure what he was doing with my hips but it was absolutely perfect, I was near cumming in seconds. After a fierce orgasm on my side I got to work sucking him off and rubbing his out. Running my finger around his asshole I got him to cum all over himself, which he promptly ate (I’ll never understand his love of eating his own splooge but there you have it).

Laying in our nakedness and post-orgasmic state, we held each-other silently. It was a subtle goodbye, I think, but it sufficed. Soon he had to run out the door, I walked him to his cable-car stop and I gave him one last hug goodbye. He seemed out of it and when I asked he simply said he had a lot on his mind, his misty eyes aimed skyward. He thanked me for a wonderful last night in the city and blushed a little.

And with that, The Golden Boy rolled out of my life as strangely as he had come in. I lay on my mattress without him, satisfied, happy, and heartbroken all at once. I could still smell him in the air and it ached me in a way I knew I’d crave for long after.

Hell yes, you made the wrong choice. You fucked up my life. You literally gave me no other option but to try to work nights, go to high school, and pay rent at 17 with basically no experience in the ‘real world’. You ruined my self esteem and most of my hopes of ever climbing above the poverty line. You broke me in so many ways, and for what? Because you were so sure that I’d come home and be your little girl again?

When you found out I was cutting, that I was suicidal, was that not a clue? When I was sobbing, begging you to understand that it wasn’t a choice, that I couldn’t help who I was, why was that not enough to make you believe me?

When I put my body through immense pain, just for the fleeting happiness that it gave me when I saw it in the mirror, why didn’t you stop and think about what you were doing to me? Why was it more important for you to have a homeless daughter than it was to have a well-loved son?

Why did you get so angry when you saw them take me in, after I’d tried for three long months to survive on midnight minimum wage and a growing debt to my landlord? Why were you so furious to see someone love me, and support me, even if they didn’t totally understand what I was going through. They ignored their misgivings and focused on helping me finish school, and go to the post-secondary, and live comfortably, and eat, and breathe and love and they were everything you failed to be. Is that why you were so angry? Because it was so clear how it could have been so easy for you, but you made it so hard.

It wasn’t me and I don’t care what you said. I didn’t choose this, but you chose your reaction to it.

And you ask me why I haven’t forgiven you yet. When still, to this day, you stand by the man who verbally and emotionally wrecked me. You hide your children’s eyes, lest they see their brother. I am their brother and you can’t hide that anymore, can you? Now that I have sideburns and boyfriends and I deep, loud, booming voice that shouts at you, “I TOLD YOU SO.”

Can I just ask, you tell me you ‘can’t respect my choices’ but you ‘still love me’, what the hell do you mean? Just what the actual hell does thateven mean?

So now it’s up to me, again. It was always up to me, in a way. You set the boundaries and the rules, and I either agreed to went my separate way. Once again you’ve presented me with two options, I can see you, him, and the kids, or none of you at all. No halfway, no negotiations, no male pronouns.

And if I refuse?

I’m tired of these games and back and forths and fuckups.

Admit it.

You never should have thrown me out.

And I’m the one who’s better off it now.

What do I do if I said yes, but meant no. What do I do if I said yes based on a lie he’d told me, a lie he didn’t know he’d promised.

What if, when my body screamed in pain and tears welled up, I still stayed quiet, still complacent, waiting for my payment, waiting for it to be over. Is it still non-consensual if he thought I gave consent? Is it still rape if I bit my own tongue?

Are these flashbacks or regrets? Who gets to decide? Can I still feel outraged if I think it is my fault? Can a whore be violated and still ask for his rights?

Can a man be a survivor? Is there space for me here? Can I heal this wound if it was self-inflicted?

If no one saw?

If no one believes?

If, when I trust someone with my truth, I can see it in their eyes that I deserved it, that I had asked for it. And what if I had?

What do I do if I did ask for it? But on false pretenses.

When does my yes begin to mean no? Is it when my voice cracks turn to quiet sobs, is it when my cough and sputter on his sickening taste, is it when I feel so battered I go home without putting up a fight?

Is it real enough now?