Shifting boundaries and conflicting needs

The night between Sunday & Monday, after rehearsal with the gay men’s chorus, I barely got four hours of sleep. The interactions with the guy on whom I have an intense, albeit aro-ace, crush had thrown me for a loop. Basically, we seemed to intentionally ignore each other during most of the evening both during rehearsal/breaks and at the bar across the street where many of us go for social time afterwards. Then, at the bar, we finally did interact and the type & level of touch between us was of the sort that I, personally, allow or reserve for the rare instances of “liking” someone in the sense of wanting to cuddle and/or snuggle with them. Which is the desire I feel towards this person but I don’t know whether it’s mutual in that way. And not knowing this is something that throws me for a loop. 

For better or for worse, I have the type of brain that cannot let go of a question or problem until it’s solved, which is why I had a sleepless night but I also processed the events and my thoughts and feelings with some trusted close friends. And my friends’ reactions and opinions helped me process the circumstances further and reach some, at least partial, clarity for myself. 

When I described the events to my friends, a couple of them replied something along the lines of “all you can really do for now is wait and see”, i.e. see how it evolves, how the other person in the chorus continues to behave, etc. I didn’t like that thought: my body tensed up, my whole being balked at the idea of “just waiting and seeing what the other guy does”. My friends’ advice was wholly well-intended and it also gave me information about myself: I cannot, or don’t want to, just passively “sit and wait and observe”. That’s not my personality but also my brain doesn’t deal well with that, partly because I don’t trust how my brain interprets certain signals from other people, especially in queer environments and/or in situations that could potentially be “beyond platonic”. 

A couple other friends, instead, replied more along the lines of “you can say something and ask for clarity without necessarily making it (too) awkward” and/or “you can set your own boundaries if this type of touch is too much for you”. While uncomfortable, that advice sat much better with me. 

I don’t dislike or disapprove of the type of touch between me and this other “genderqueer boy” in the chorus: on the contrary, I like it, I yearn it, and maybe to a certain extent I’m seeking it and/or inviting it. But it’s true that I don’t want it, or am not ready for it, unless the level of “liking” is mutual between me and this other person. If for them it’s just the way they interact/behave with everyone, while for me it’s something “special”, then I need it to stop. And if I want it to stop, I need to communicate it explicitly, either verbally or with clear body language. 

This is my boundary. This is “my style”. This is how I function. This is what I need. 

I want, and to a certain extent I even need, that “special”, intimate touch, those hugs that are really embraces, that brushing of the hands, that brief playing with each other fingers. But I don’t want it if the “special feeling” isn’t mutual. In the future, I might be ready/up for that type or level of intimacy without there really being any “special feelings” with someone, but now I’m not. And I need to respect this need of mine, this boundary of mine. It might be a shifting boundary, and there’s definitely a conflict now between what I need and what I want, i.e. between what I need and where I’d like to place the boundary. But the only safe thing for me to do now is to place that boundary with some extra buffer and seek clarification as soon as possible. 

How to get clarification specifically with this person is the real conundrum now… text message? email? ask to meet up outside of rehearsal? wait a week or two or until after the holiday concert cycle?

The gift of friendship

A few days ago, one of my closets friends here in Colorado said to me that I “have a gift for friendship”. 

That’s one of the highest compliments I could be given, one of the loveliest things I could be told. And I’m not sure I deserve such a compliment. 

More simply, I would say that I “have a need for friendship” and “have (received & given) the gift of friendship”. 

As I’ve often mentioned, friendship is the only mutual/reciprocal way I know to get really close and intimate to other people. I can get close as a mentor or mentee — but that isn’t a peer relationship. I can get close in certain communities where one can share special/vulnerable experiences and/or empathy and/or camaraderie — but that tends to be circumstantial. When it comes to deep intimacy, for me friendship is the only key. Or it’s the key that I use, adapting it to each different case, person, relationship. 

This birthday has been the best one I’ve had in years. And it’s been so because I’ve been surrounded by friends and showered by love, community, and friendship. 

Maybe what my friend meant the other day when he said that I “have a gift for friendship” is that, although I’ve messed up with friends more than once and let people down sometimes, I do put a lot of energy, intention, effort, and care in relationships and I show up authentically (which is sometimes precisely the cause for my messing up!).

And maybe it’s also that “simply being my quirky self” that made it so that many different people showed up for me to celebrate my birthday with me in a variety of ways over the course of the past ten days. 

I have definitely been receiving an abundant gift of friendship lately. 

Aro-ace crush

I have a crush on one of the guys in the gay men’s chorus. 

Admittedly, I hardly know this person. But there have been more direct interactions between us than with other choir members and there seems seems to be a mutual liking, although I don’t exactly know of what sort on their part. 

I hardly know him and yet I instinctively feel a very intense draw towards them that in some way is beyond, or different from, platonic while still not being romantic or sexual. 

Why do I feel this way? 

Because they’re a queer, AMAB, gender-bending, slightly-more-masculine-leaning person and that’s “my type” (or “one of my types”)? Or because he reminds me of my European (gender)queer ex-lover, who was a “similar type”? Or because they’ve shown some interest, or at least friendly affection, towards me, and maybe I’m somewhat recipro-romantic/recipro-sexual? 

The way in which I “like” them or am “drawn to him” is beyond or different from platonic for me in the sense that I’m not just curious to get to know them better and/or just hang out with him; I also want to touch/hug them and want him to touch/hug me a lot, too; I would like to cuddle with them and I can even feel the desire to sleep or lay in bed with them and explore what might happen, including potentially sex. But not in a sense that I feel sexual attraction towards him (like I did for the guy at the climbing gym or my fuck-buddy in grad school). The sex would rather be from a sense of curiosity mixed with an instinctive feeling of being safe with him and a desire to get close/intimate with them. And it partly also might have to do with my desire & need not only for physical closeness/touch but to actually be held and/or be liked as a genderqueer boy by another genderqueer boy — with all the affirming validations that would entail for me.

For lack of a penis?

[Trigger warnings: misgendering, potential transphobia; nude modeling; references to naked body parts, incl. genitals.]

In my nude modeling session yesterday I was heavily misgendered by the instructor (a woman in, I’m guessing, her mid-forties). And it was one of the most upsetting experiences I’ve had.

We started out with a standard set of gestures and short poses; for all ten of my 1-minute gestures I was in standing poses, rotating for the whole room to get views of my full body from different angles. Then we moved on to the long pose which, as requested by the instructor, was sitting. I sat upright, leaning a little backwards, on a chair with my legs stretched out on a low stool, so my whole body was still visible. During the second iteration of the long pose, the instructor was going around to help the students with their drawings, as is often the case. And suddenly, as she was standing with the student right in front of me, I heard the professor refer to me as “she”. I was so surprised (this rarely happens anymore) that I thought she might actually have said “he” and maybe I had misheard. But only a moment later, with the same student, I heard the instructor clearly use the pronoun “her” referring to me (she said something like “she has her legs in this position…”). I was extremely upset, of course. I took a quiet, deep breath. Then I said out loud, politely but firmly, “My pronouns are ‘he’ or ‘they’” while still posing immobile. The professor said “Sorry” and I continued posing. I took another deep breath to quiet my mind but I was too upset by the incident — this unacceptable incident. So I said that I needed a break, put my robe back on, and went up to the instructor and asked her to please talk with me. We left the room and I told her, again in a composed but firm manner, that what had happened was extremely upsetting for me and that I therefore couldn’t resume the modeling. The professor apologized profusely and seemed sincerely chagrined and took full responsibility for the incident. But the problem remains and it is huge. I am still feeling traumatized from this incident. 

My identity is nonbinary transmasculine and clearly stated as such, as are my ‘he/they’ or ‘they/he’ pronouns on the modeling website. I rarely get misgendered with female pronouns at this point, partly because I “really look like a guy” — although that shouldn’t be a necessary requirement for me or anyone else to be addressed with my/their correct pronouns. 

This instance is particularly upsetting because it involves nude modeling: if someone misgenders me, referring to me with female pronouns, when I’m stark naked, the only thing I can think is that my genitals are causing such misgendering — which is awful. It makes me feel disrespected, unseen, objectified, sexualized, and naked in a horrible way. 

Until now the nude modeling for figure art drawing had been a wonderfully affirming experience for me, validating my nonbinary maleness and helping me revel and rejoice in it in ways that are different from usual and special for me. But yesterday’s incident reactivated one of my worst nightmares: that of being “seen as a woman” because I don’t have a penis. 

Nobody should have to feel that way. Ever.

Turning the sieve into a bucket?

Last night I had the first full, regular rehearsal with the gay men’s chorus again after the retreat two weeks ago. And it was lovely. 

Having reached out to a few trusted members before the retreat and then going to the retreat itself have really helped me feel more comfortable with myself within this choir. 

I think the major thing for me has been to feel safe & comfortable enough to be my true trans self within this choir. The moment I was able to internalize that as a wonderful thing (one of my superpowers, e.g. when it comes to the range of my voice), on the one hand, and to see it as something not only accepted but even celebrated by those around me in the chorus, on the other, everything shifted for the better. 

I’m learning to let go with(in) this group of people in ways that are truly, authentically mine and some of which rarely have outlets. But I’m also just being myself, less afraid or worried of them not liking me because I’m trans. 

I’m slowly discovering and enacting ways of being myself that I cannot fully enact with any other group of people. There’s the singing, of course, and my voice getting more confident and louder, at last, even thanks to the encouragement of more established members in my section. There’s the dancing and the gender-bending in the outfits (including my own); the playfulness; a sort of generalized flirtatiousness or affection that isn’t necessarily sexual but merely a way of expressing our belonging to a community. And then there are also deeper, more vulnerable or intense ways of showing this belonging to the community, like the ease with which many of the chorus members cry and hold each other in their tears; how they openly share anger and pain as well as joy. 

And I’m finally doing it, too, letting go and just being myself, doing or saying things in my own way. 

At rehearsal last night, I cried and laughed. And sang out with all the voice I had, when I had it. I wore my skinny gay-boy jeans and my tight gay-boy T-shirt with one of my trans pins: the one I got at Salt Lake City Pride with the colors of the trans flag and the words “Won’t be erased”, wearing it high on my chest. And a few of the cis gay men in the chorus were wearing T-shirts or pins in support of trans folks, too — which really warmed my heart. 

After rehearsal, I went to the bar across the street to socialize with other chorus members. I teased those who said “We haven’t met before” when we actually already had and I reminded them by showing that I already knew their names. I joined conversations without necessarily waiting to be explicitly invited (& it was totally OK); I didn’t hesitate to make the first step to say “Hi” or ask “How are you doing?” to guys that I knew even just a little bit — i.e. I behaved as I usually do when I feel comfortable. When some of them were joking about the negative side effects of Viagra, I openly said, “Well, at least being trans I don’t have that problem!” and we all laughed. And when we started commenting on the dire consequences of the election results and someone (a cis gay guy) was lamenting the fact that probably one of the first measures will be to exclude trans people from the armed forces, I exclaimed, “But we don’t even have to go that far: people like me might not be able to get their meds!” and the silence and empathy that followed were just so powerful, so heartwarming… 

I am a nonbinary trans gay boy and I’m finally learning to be myself authentically within this group of people, too, and this means so much to me because from these persons specifically I can get some forms of love/care/affection that I cannot get elsewhere: mainly that closeness and physical touch that I’m unable to get from other groups of people or friends. I love the touchy-feeliness so many of these guys have with each other and that they bestow on me, too, when they can tell that it’s OK for me. They’re actually really good either at reading my body language or at asking me for permission for hugs/touch. And I’m feeling a lightness and ease in being touchy-feely with them, without double guessing myself like I usually do with other demographic groups — and this feels extremely liberating and healing to me. 

I am hopeful that the specific combination of being accepted & liked as a nonbinary trans gay boy by a group of cis gay men and of having these experiences of physical touch & physical affection that are consensual (without always having to be explicitly negotiated in words) & mutually sought out will help turn that sieve of mine into a bucket — or, at least, a cup… 

I was given a sieve when I needed a bucket

If my right wrist weren’t injured still, I’d be on a birthday climbing trip with my closest buddy. 

We finalized plans ten days ago and then I finally told him that I wasn’t sure how much, if at all, I could climb because of my wrist injury. It was hard for me to actually say this because I was afraid of losing what to me felt like “one chance of intimate time” with him. His response was to try and find alternative activites we could do in case I couldn’t climb. And then he made another suggestion: a rain-check for the climbing trip (even proposing some specific locations and crags) for when my wrist has healed and a hike & dinner for my birthday. He wasn’t bailing on me, he was actually trying to find ways to see each other while also having fun and celebrating my birthday. And on Saturday, he drove up to my town where we went for a beautiful hike in the snow and then he took me out for my birthday dinner and we discussed logistics for a winter climbing trip when my wrist has healed (& dodging holiday commitments). 

As I almost always do, I had a lovely time with him. So lovely that I then, like other times, needed a while and some intentionality to self-regulate “back to normal”. Self-regulate “back to normal” because our time together had been — as it almost always is — so intimate despite there being absolutely no sexual or romantic attraction between us. Self-regulate “back to normal” because he had shown me, concretely, so much care & love that I didn’t really know what to do with it, where to put it, how to hold it. 

This is a difficulty I have in general, with all my close friends: I struggle to let the care & love sink in, I struggle to hold onto it in a permanent way so I often end up feeling “unloved” or “not loved enough”. But it happens even more specifically with my cis-het male friends close to me in age. So I don’t really think this is a “daddy issue”. I think the problem is that I was socialized as a “cis-het girl” and thus taught to interpret love and/or care and/or attention and/or admiration from (cis-het) male peers only in terms of sexual and/or romantic attention/attraction from them. I fought this notion for decades, as early as elementary school, I can remember vividly. But still cis-heteronormativity along with amatonormativity have been polluting my brain since my youngest age. So now that I’m actually living my dream, i.e. of receiving love and/or care and/or admiration from (cis-het) male peers as buddies or comrades, on the platonic level, devoid of the romantic or sexual layers that I/we don’t want from each other, I’m unable to really hold that love because I was given a sieve when I needed a bucket.

Existence is resistance

I am queer. 

I am a transgender person. I’m nonbinary transmasculine. I’m gay but also asexual and aromantic. 

I’m polyamorous and believe in consensual non-monogamy as well as in a universally expansive definition or application of the term “marriage” as a union that can be formed/undertaken between two or more adult persons who care for each other, of any sex, gender, or sexual orientation (and that “care” can be platonic, doesn’t necessarily have to be sexual or romantic).

I am “pro-choice” where that choice entails anything and everything regarding one’s own body: contraceptives, abortion, hormonal therapy, gender-affirming surgery, euthanasia. 

I grew up in a family where almost every single thing I just mentioned about my identity and beliefs was considered wrong or, worse, “sick”, “to be fixed”, “to be cured”, to be changed or avoided. My mother and sister would tolerate gay couples in a patronizing way while also saying they would never allow them to adopt children; they were less gracious about lesbians. My father straight out said “homosexuality is against nature”, quoting the Bible (or, at least, some Catholic interpretation thereof). Marriage could strictly be only between “a man and a woman”. Transgender didn’t even exist (or wasn’t considered).

And now I’m living in a country where more than half of the population sees everything I am & believe in as monstrous — or, at least, endorses an individual who ignites hatred and encourages violence against anything and everyone who’s “different” or “other”. In a country where evidently more than half the population wants to be led by a man who, among other things, endorses limiting other people’s freedom of choice over their own bodies, over their own lives.

Let’s not forget history, horrifying events that are barely a few decades in the past, ongoing horrors in some unfortunate parts of the world even today against anyone who’s “different” or “other”. 

In other times and in some places even today I could not choose the gender-marker on my documents, I could not walk into the men’s room, simply because someone looked between my legs when I was born and decided I was a “girl”. But I will continue to use the men’s room, if I want to, and I will continue to put that Pride flag on my locker — in the men’s changing room — at the climbing gym. 

I am queer and I am here.

We are queer and we are here. Our simple existence is resistance. 

Sensory immersion: memories from a year & a half ago

Loud music. Deafening loud music in a hot room with dazzling lights. The air is stuffy but not with that musty, moldy stuffiness of old age: it’s stuffy from youthful life, exceeding life and sexual energy. It smells of sweat. Loud music and dazzling lights in the darkness, heat and sweat. It’s crowded, one can hardly move, bodies bump into each other while dancing, bare skin on bare skin. 

The cool air outside in the back patio is almost a shock. It’s not cold, not even chilly, really. Just cool and fresh – so fresh after the heat and sweat inside. People talk, almost in whispers – it feels so quiet. Silence – at least, relatively. 

And then back inside, into the crowd, bodies pressed together, sweat dripping down my forehead, my chest, my back. My tank-top and jeans are soaked – when I finally leave, in the dead of night, I can wring my dripping tank-top. The clean, dry T-shirt feels so fresh on my sticky skin. 

By the time we get home, to their place, the sweat has dried in the cool night air leaving a cold layer on my skin. The hot water pours down on my head, running down my body, cleansing and warming my skin. And then the smell of sweat is gone, replaced by a more neutral smell of freshness and cleanliness. 

I slip into bed, under the clean, white sheets, so clean they’re almost crunchy. They’re smooth and fresh, almost ecstatically pleasant on my skin. They smell nice, too. And so does my European (gender)queer ex-lover: we both do now, after our showers. 

The light is dim, soft, warm. The sheets are white and clean. My heart is pounding in my chest – “Darf ich näher kommen?” – “Ja, natürlich”. 

Their skin is so soft on mine – our skins are so soft – and so is their beard. And so are their hands as they lightly cup my chest, the scars, the breasts that once used to be there – as they hold my boy chest.

Horror

I’m in shock, in disbelief still. 

That’s probably just because I’m naïvely optimistic, to a fault. 

The brief moments when reality sinks in, I feel devastated.

Fear and fury. That’s what I — and many of us — are feeling now. Which is not a healthy or “normal” way to feel in a democracy. If the “other side” wins in a democracy, we shouldn’t feel devastated or afraid or furious. And yet, we do now. And rightly so.