It's time for another installment of Ask a Tranny. Yay! This time we're talking about relationships, and appropriately, there are two questions this time. Ohh yeah! Ahem.
The first topic comes from reader Gwen. Gwen doesn't really have a specific question I can quote. She's been full-time for about five months, and is curious about dating guys, and would like to know about my experiences. She is also, understandably, concerned about how the trans thing comes into play.
For the pre-op MtF, dating can get a little complicated. While there's no perfect way to do it, it can still easily be done!
If one passes, my preferred method is arranging a date in a very public place and meeting them there, then going home with a trusted friend or on your own afterwards. If you decide you'd like to see them again and they feel likewise, only then do you come out to them. Over the phone. If there's a hugely negative reaction, you are physically safe, and they can't come bother you at home because they don't know where you live! Or, it could go over very well with them. Better than well, even.
Pre-op, the best luck with getting dates to begin with will be had with guys and girls who identify as bisexual. Good luck can be had finding dates on online dating services, but results are probably as mixed as for any other girl. I had a few potential guy dates that never happened, but they easily could have, and some almost did. On these services, I prefer to identify as trans in my profile. Transgendered-specific dating services can bring chasers out of the woodwork, but they do work.
Honestly, I haven't dated many guys for very long yet, but it'll surely happen. I briefly dated a guy in Pittsburgh before I lost contact with him to circumstance. This was years before my transition, back in '96, but he treated me like a girl, which I certainly didn't mind! I felt different with him than I have in my relationships with girls. It was a safe, cared-for feeling. He was a pizza driver at a joint I liked, and he picked me up on my way home from art school and gave me a ride to my apartment in the rain. *sighhhh*
I'm very happy in my relationship with Connie, even though it may not last forever. Dating a cissy girl can tend to make a tranny girl feel mannish sometimes, but it's great if you swing that way. Dating a caring guy who treats you right is also wonderful. How to choose?
---
This second question comes from a trans friend of mine who wishes to be anonymous. She asked me recently, "Is it bad to respond to a w4w personal ad and not tell the person that you are trans?"
I have strong opinions on that subject. It's not wrong. But hiding candy is generally a bad idea, especially when dating large, straight men.
I believe trans people really are who we say we are, and we have just as much right to privacy and dignity as anyone else. We don't (well, shouldn't) have to disclose the status or history of our genitals.
But if your parts don't currently match your gender, it's far more courteous-- and safer-- to tell your partner. It's no moral obligation, though. Some post-op girls (and guys?) live in "deep stealth," not even out to their partners. I think that's great! They've become themselves about as fully as they can.
Connie and I agreed our relationship was ending on its own yesterday. While we're still very much best girlfriends, and we still love each other, we're no longer a couple. I'm pretty sure it's for real this time.
It's not like it couldn't have been seen coming a mile away with a marching band.
It's rough, though.
Edit 8/11/06: Uh... scratch that. We're back together again. (Sorry... Transgurl readers/subscribers will be spared further announcements regarding our mutable relationship status. Promise!)
I was struggling to keep my job. Not that there was any danger of me being fired, but I was going through sort of a c'mon, Milla, hang in there just until you find something else thing on a daily basis.
But I was employed, functional, passing, and even quickly getting rid of my damn facial hair.
I felt as though my transition was really finally taking off. I envisioned myself straddling a red rocket straight out of a violent cartoon. It roared upwards for that big Suporn Clinic in the sky, the final stop in my journey to selfhood. (Yes, I'm a lunatic.)
The rocket was an Acme product.
Right after I began to develop shoulder bursitis, I was moved from children's pricing to the "cashier" position, which actually involved even more carrying and lifting of clothes. This in itself wasn't quite enough to make me tell the bosses to shove it, but I sniffled through one full day, after which my bursitis was so aggravated by being a "cashier", I just called in and quit the next morning, without notice.
Fuckers.
Meanwhile, a mysterious thrift store customer whose name I won't reveal here (but it starts with T and rhymes with Tom) had been talking to and visiting Connie at work at the other store. I'll refer to this person as "Tom" so as not to reveal that his name is Thomas.
Tom kept visiting Connie. Our relationship had previously been declared open and undefined. I'd already visited and started considering Mike and Melissa here in Chicago my partners. Connie seemed bemused but oddly non-creeped-out by Tom's visits. Eventually, she wanted to "find out why" he was doing this, and they went out for coffee.
Be sure to tune in next time for the exciting conclusion!
As a (now formerly unofficial) member of the Unitarian Universalist church that Mike, Melissa, and I usually attend, Melissa and I did the cooking for a handful of Wednesday "Community Nights" over the winter and spring, where church members or any other folks could come in and have a large, decent meal for a suggested donation of five dollars.
As none of us drive, we liked to buy the ingredients and such at a certain local supermarket that offers delivery for a fee. This makes it possible to buy the large quantities needed and still shop for ourselves and not break our backs carrying it all home. The church would reimburse us, but we tried to ask for less than we spent unless money was particularly tight.
On the third anniversary of my starting hormone supplements (3/10/08), we bought all we needed and scheduled a delivery. A few hours later, a delivery man came by and carried everything upstairs for us.
Okay. *sigh* I think I'm ready to write about this now.
While Melissa was downstairs, outside on the sidewalk near his car, he carried a few plastic bags in through the apartment's front door, and saw me lying down on my bed through my door, exhausted. He greeted me and I came out of my room.
"Um, just leave them here," I said, both of us right by the front door.
He smiled at me. "Ooo.. muy bonita (very pretty)! Hablas Espaňol? Muy bonita!"
"Thank you," I replied, flattered, "No, no hablo mucho Espaňol." I only took two years of Spanish in high school.
He was cute, and he wanted to go out with me. As our relationship at Casa 3M is open, and I found him attractive and friendly, I agreed, and we exchanged phone numbers. He left.
I explained all this to M&M. They seemed surprised, but okay with it. He called me later on asking me in broken English (his English was slightly better than my Spanish) to call him at 10:15 because he got off work at 10. He called me again at 10:14 and said he was waiting outside. I grabbed my purse, said bye, and went downstairs and outside. I got in his car. It was dark out.
As soon as I closed the door he immediately got frisky with me. He started unbuttoning my long wool coat and grabbing my breasts, both through and then beneath my velvet blouse. I got really uneasy. I pulled his hand away. "No, no." After a failed attempt at communication, and another "no, I don't do that on the first date," (no means the same thing in either language), he started back up again and even started trying to stick his hand down the front of my jeans.
Fuck. I was afraid, especially of what might happen when he found something he wasn't expecting, however diminutive and nonfunctional. I wanted to run, but I was afraid of what he might have in the car, or what he might do. I was giving in.
There were people about in the neighborhood now, so he drove a short distance to a quieter, darker, more secluded area. He pulled my hand over to his lap and rubbed it. I pulled it away and looked at him. He started sticking his hand down my jeans again and I panicked. To reduce the risk of getting hurt or killed, I tried my best to explain to him in Spanish "yo soy transsexuale." Sure, that's not specific, or even entirely accurate, but that wasn't the point. He didn't understand, but didn't react much at all when he finally did come upon my Something Extra.
He pulled my hand back. He opened his pants, and put his hand behind my head and pulled it down towards his lap. After he was satisfied, he leaned back for a moment and starting driving again.
"Adonde vamos?" I asked, nervous and numb at the same time. (Where are we going?) "Do you want to go dance?"
He seemed amused I'd asked in Spanish. He said, "No, no." And without another word, drove back around the block and stopped at the apartment.
After some mild relationship drama before I told M&M what had really happened, and brief reactive psychosis on my part (including a good half hour bawl), I called a rape crisis line and they told me to go to a nearby ER. M&M went with me and made the whole ER experience a lot less horrible.
A rapekit was done by an obviously untrained nurse (with the constant verbal assistance of my advocate) and my blouse was taken for evidence. I was asked some questions by a cop and a detective, and six hours or so after checking in, around 6-7AM, we left the hospital and had "breakfast" at a diner and came home. My memory following this incident is very fuzzy, and I functioned very poorly for some time.
I didn't end up getting additional doses of prophylactic drugs either (as required by Illinois state law), but that's a story for another time. And happily, according to testing, I probably didn't catch anything from him anyway.
As a victim of violence, I'm receiving free intensive therapy (one hour twice a week) at a local LGBT clinic.
The investigation is still ongoing. My assailant gave me a false name. He tried to call me several times on two different occasions. The detective got a subpoena on his cell number. Right now I'm waiting to do a second line up, in person this time, and the DNA test could could take years.
As a gender variant woman, statistically speaking, I had an 80% chance of being the victim of assault at least once in my lifetime. I didn't expect it to be quite like that, though.
It's time for another installment of Ask a Tranny. Yay! This time we're talking about relationships, and appropriately, there are two questions this time. Ohh yeah! Ahem.
The first topic comes from reader Gwen. Gwen doesn't really have a specific question I can quote. She's been full-time for about five months, and is curious about dating guys, and would like to know about my experiences. She is also, understandably, concerned about how the trans thing comes into play.
For the pre-op MtF, dating can get a little complicated. While there's no perfect way to do it, it can still easily be done!
If one passes, my preferred method is arranging a date in a very public place and meeting them there, then going home with a trusted friend or on your own afterwards. If you decide you'd like to see them again and they feel likewise, only then do you come out to them. Over the phone. If there's a hugely negative reaction, you are physically safe, and they can't come bother you at home because they don't know where you live! Or, it could go over very well with them. Better than well, even.
Pre-op, the best luck with getting dates to begin with will be had with guys and girls who identify as bisexual. Good luck can be had finding dates on online dating services, but results are probably as mixed as for any other girl. I had a few potential guy dates that never happened, but they easily could have, and some almost did. On these services, I prefer to identify as trans in my profile. Transgendered-specific dating services can bring chasers out of the woodwork, but they do work.
Honestly, I haven't dated many guys for very long yet, but it'll surely happen. I briefly dated a guy in Pittsburgh before I lost contact with him to circumstance. This was years before my transition, back in '96, but he treated me like a girl, which I certainly didn't mind! I felt different with him than I have in my relationships with girls. It was a safe, cared-for feeling. He was a pizza driver at a joint I liked, and he picked me up on my way home from art school and gave me a ride to my apartment in the rain. *sighhhh*
I'm very happy in my relationship with Connie, even though it may not last forever. Dating a cissy girl can tend to make a tranny girl feel mannish sometimes, but it's great if you swing that way. Dating a caring guy who treats you right is also wonderful. How to choose?
---
This second question comes from a trans friend of mine who wishes to be anonymous. She asked me recently, "Is it bad to respond to a w4w personal ad and not tell the person that you are trans?"
I have strong opinions on that subject. It's not wrong. But hiding candy is generally a bad idea, especially when dating large, straight men.
I believe trans people really are who we say we are, and we have just as much right to privacy and dignity as anyone else. We don't (well, shouldn't) have to disclose the status or history of our genitals.
But if your parts don't currently match your gender, it's far more courteous-- and safer-- to tell your partner. It's no moral obligation, though. Some post-op girls (and guys?) live in "deep stealth," not even out to their partners. I think that's great! They've become themselves about as fully as they can.
Posted in ask_a_tranny, relationships, sexuality by Milla | Comments (3)
Connie and I agreed our relationship was ending on its own yesterday. While we're still very much best girlfriends, and we still love each other, we're no longer a couple. I'm pretty sure it's for real this time.It's not like it couldn't have been seen coming a mile away with a marching band.
It's rough, though.
Edit 8/11/06: Uh... scratch that. We're back together again. (Sorry... Transgurl readers/subscribers will be spared further announcements regarding our mutable relationship status. Promise!)
Posted in relationships by Milla | Comments (2)
So, yeah. Back to the bit where my life got flipped, turned upside down, for only the 17th time in three years.
Holy shit. "Ian" died three years ago and came out to her mother, almost to the day.
I was struggling to keep my job. Not that there was any danger of me being fired, but I was going through sort of a c'mon, Milla, hang in there just until you find something else thing on a daily basis.
But I was employed, functional, passing, and even quickly getting rid of my damn facial hair.
I felt as though my transition was really finally taking off. I envisioned myself straddling a red rocket straight out of a violent cartoon. It roared upwards for that big Suporn Clinic in the sky, the final stop in my journey to selfhood. (Yes, I'm a lunatic.)
The rocket was an Acme product.
Right after I began to develop shoulder bursitis, I was moved from children's pricing to the "cashier" position, which actually involved even more carrying and lifting of clothes. This in itself wasn't quite enough to make me tell the bosses to shove it, but I sniffled through one full day, after which my bursitis was so aggravated by being a "cashier", I just called in and quit the next morning, without notice.
Fuckers.
Meanwhile, a mysterious thrift store customer whose name I won't reveal here (but it starts with T and rhymes with Tom) had been talking to and visiting Connie at work at the other store. I'll refer to this person as "Tom" so as not to reveal that his name is Thomas.
Tom kept visiting Connie. Our relationship had previously been declared open and undefined. I'd already visited and started considering Mike and Melissa here in Chicago my partners. Connie seemed bemused but oddly non-creeped-out by Tom's visits. Eventually, she wanted to "find out why" he was doing this, and they went out for coffee.
Be sure to tune in next time for the exciting conclusion!
Posted in employment, misc, relationships by Milla | Comments (1)
We Unitarians love our food.
As a (now formerly unofficial) member of the Unitarian Universalist church that Mike, Melissa, and I usually attend, Melissa and I did the cooking for a handful of Wednesday "Community Nights" over the winter and spring, where church members or any other folks could come in and have a large, decent meal for a suggested donation of five dollars.
As none of us drive, we liked to buy the ingredients and such at a certain local supermarket that offers delivery for a fee. This makes it possible to buy the large quantities needed and still shop for ourselves and not break our backs carrying it all home. The church would reimburse us, but we tried to ask for less than we spent unless money was particularly tight.
On the third anniversary of my starting hormone supplements (3/10/08), we bought all we needed and scheduled a delivery. A few hours later, a delivery man came by and carried everything upstairs for us.
Okay. *sigh* I think I'm ready to write about this now.
While Melissa was downstairs, outside on the sidewalk near his car, he carried a few plastic bags in through the apartment's front door, and saw me lying down on my bed through my door, exhausted. He greeted me and I came out of my room.
"Um, just leave them here," I said, both of us right by the front door.
He smiled at me. "Ooo.. muy bonita (very pretty)! Hablas Espaňol? Muy bonita!"
"Thank you," I replied, flattered, "No, no hablo mucho Espaňol." I only took two years of Spanish in high school.
He was cute, and he wanted to go out with me. As our relationship at Casa 3M is open, and I found him attractive and friendly, I agreed, and we exchanged phone numbers. He left.
I explained all this to M&M. They seemed surprised, but okay with it. He called me later on asking me in broken English (his English was slightly better than my Spanish) to call him at 10:15 because he got off work at 10. He called me again at 10:14 and said he was waiting outside. I grabbed my purse, said bye, and went downstairs and outside. I got in his car. It was dark out.
As soon as I closed the door he immediately got frisky with me. He started unbuttoning my long wool coat and grabbing my breasts, both through and then beneath my velvet blouse. I got really uneasy. I pulled his hand away. "No, no." After a failed attempt at communication, and another "no, I don't do that on the first date," (no means the same thing in either language), he started back up again and even started trying to stick his hand down the front of my jeans.
Fuck. I was afraid, especially of what might happen when he found something he wasn't expecting, however diminutive and nonfunctional. I wanted to run, but I was afraid of what he might have in the car, or what he might do. I was giving in.
There were people about in the neighborhood now, so he drove a short distance to a quieter, darker, more secluded area. He pulled my hand over to his lap and rubbed it. I pulled it away and looked at him. He started sticking his hand down my jeans again and I panicked. To reduce the risk of getting hurt or killed, I tried my best to explain to him in Spanish "yo soy transsexuale." Sure, that's not specific, or even entirely accurate, but that wasn't the point. He didn't understand, but didn't react much at all when he finally did come upon my Something Extra.
He pulled my hand back. He opened his pants, and put his hand behind my head and pulled it down towards his lap. After he was satisfied, he leaned back for a moment and starting driving again.
"Adonde vamos?" I asked, nervous and numb at the same time. (Where are we going?) "Do you want to go dance?"
He seemed amused I'd asked in Spanish. He said, "No, no." And without another word, drove back around the block and stopped at the apartment.
After some mild relationship drama before I told M&M what had really happened, and brief reactive psychosis on my part (including a good half hour bawl), I called a rape crisis line and they told me to go to a nearby ER. M&M went with me and made the whole ER experience a lot less horrible.
A rapekit was done by an obviously untrained nurse (with the constant verbal assistance of my advocate) and my blouse was taken for evidence. I was asked some questions by a cop and a detective, and six hours or so after checking in, around 6-7AM, we left the hospital and had "breakfast" at a diner and came home. My memory following this incident is very fuzzy, and I functioned very poorly for some time.
I didn't end up getting additional doses of prophylactic drugs either (as required by Illinois state law), but that's a story for another time. And happily, according to testing, I probably didn't catch anything from him anyway.
As a victim of violence, I'm receiving free intensive therapy (one hour twice a week) at a local LGBT clinic.
The investigation is still ongoing. My assailant gave me a false name. He tried to call me several times on two different occasions. The detective got a subpoena on his cell number. Right now I'm waiting to do a second line up, in person this time, and the DNA test could could take years.
As a gender variant woman, statistically speaking, I had an 80% chance of being the victim of assault at least once in my lifetime. I didn't expect it to be quite like that, though.
Posted in misc, news, relationships, sexuality by Milla | Comments (9)