I was recently approached by a friend to write for one of those political-social justicey type blogs. For days I pondered over what to write. I searched the depths of my various identities. Pooled together my recent experiences of life-fucked-up-ness. Many frustrating attempts later I resigned myself to the reality of my writing interests. I have no energy to delve into the many reasons life is much more complicated for us trans folks or us queers or us people of color. These days my mind is on other things. Like fucking and the many reasons life is much more complicated for us trans men who like to fuck bio-men. It's weird how this may in some ways be the focus of my life currently: sex. I spent many years afraid of what my body liked and desired. Shying away from any encounter that sexualized me (in the ways that I'd like). Now I seek out those encounters, almost relentlessly. My fellow TQ contributor says the appeal in the hook-up scene lies in the adventurousness of it all. Sure adventure is nice. Me? I just like to fuck. I like the pleasure of it. The anticipation leading up the moment when you first lay eyes on your fuck du jour. When your eyes take all of him in, compare the real thing to the photo that made everything kinda pretty or at least appealing enough to get you off your behind and board a train and a bus or head out to the middle of nowhere. Yes, the lure of the perfect fuck is what keeps me hitting those sites again and again. The disappointment of a bad fuck is merely collateral damage, because when you do find a great lay, it's like being reborn into a gentler, calmer you. A you that's able to breath and exhale unimpeded again. I like to refer to this particular moment as the post-fuck haze. I never allow myself to feel slutty for fucking or wanting to fuck as often as I can. Even saying, writing the word "fuck" is liberating. It represents the stark difference between where I was, the frigid fearful place I was anchored in for years, and where I stand now- able to look at my pussy and like it, able to drive pleasure from my engorged clit and boast about it, where before I might have felt shame. Able to say and get turned on by words like "cock", "cum", "wet", "horny".
How do you write about these things, people, in a social justice-y type blog like the one my friend approached me about? How do I show the empowerment that comes about from sleeping around? How do I also show the pain and befuddlement it also offers? The many nights of logging onto sites and waiting for a bite and nothing comes, because the ideas of a "guy with a pussy" is just too "kinky" for some. The many attempts at putting feelers out there, wanting someone to grab hold of something and give it a gentle tug. Having to explain over and over and over to gay men who haven't even so much as heard the word "trans" before that I have a pussy not a cock, that the only cock I do have comes with my strap and it's an impressive 9x5 inches, that when I'm fucking you with said strap you would hardly know the difference.
I'll admit the hook up scene can be a painful, lonely place for a trans man. When I first started exploring the scene, it certainly wasn't all milk and cookies. Like that night when I couldn't host, and me and that dude traipsed all over downtown trying to find a motel to fuck in. The last place we tried was the men's bath-house that barred me entry because I had "F" on my license. I was so eager to bust a nut by the end of that evening, so ready for shit that never even went down. Luckily, not long after, my roommate and I brokered a deal and my hosting situation changed. I celebrated by having a weeklong fuckfest. That was a damn good week.
So what else can I write about but these stories? So much needs to be said about trans guys fucking. I haven't even unpacked the many conversations I had with the men I have had sex with. Why they like the idea of a guy with a pussy. How many of them refuse to accept their complicated sexualities or sexual appetites. Now that's a good topic to explore in another journal entry...
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