Category Archives: Love Anonymously

Dating a Trans Man: Negotiating Queerness And Privilege [Love, Anonymously]

Courtesy: The Aggressives and Elixher.com

By Guest Contributor Aja Worthy-Davis, cross-posted from Elixher

“Such a Black man.”

It has become a catchphrase around my house. Guaranteed to elicit an amused (and possibly annoyed) eyeroll from my partner. An inside joke that might seem odd to someone who didn’t know us–a Black heterosexually-presenting couple. Those who do know us know there’s more to the story.

I’m a queer Black femme prone to dating middle-aged divorced hippie White guys due in equal parts to my upbringing, my personality, and my personal baggage. He’s a Black man who has dated more than his share of middle-aged divorced hippie White lesbians. And (I guess this is the kicker) when we met in our staunchly Catholic high school over a decade ago, he was a girl. He was also my laid-back butch best friend I couldn’t stop thinking about when I kissed my boyfriend. We skipped after-school activities and hung out in the Village holding hands. We giddily queered-up our Drama Club performances to culturally-sheltered teenagers who wouldn’t recognize queer if the Gay Pride Parade marched in front of them. We identified with Willow and Tara, which I think says it all. Watching Pariah was like watching our relationship played back at us, only we were Annie On My Mind chaste.

Skip eleven years later, my Black butch Dawson Leery is now a man. A boxers-wearing, heavy-things-carrying, messy, shaving, will-you-buy-me-a-wave-brush-Honey Black man.  When he made the physical transition, it was not all that surprising to me—he was never really comfortable in a woman’s body.  And he had long been identifying as “genderqueer” in LGBTQ spaces. This seemed like the logical next step, and I was happy for him.

But that’s easy to say because we weren’t in a monogamous domestic partnership (complete with the gentrified-Brooklyn condo and standard lesbian cats) back then. Even three years ago, it seemed like our story had forever to unfold. But once we were on the same wavelength, things moved quickly. My personal life sped up to where I thought it would slowly lead, and my mind was so wrapped-up in the practical questions (Where will we live? When will we go to graduate school? Who will do the cooking?), that it totally bypassed the more personal introspective question about how it would change my personal and relationship identity to be perceived as straight and be with a Black man.

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“No blacks. No fems.”: Hooking up and Black/Femme-phobia [Love, Anonymously]

by Guest Contributor TQ, originally published at Trans Queers: A Transfags Sex Journal

Do Not Hump

    Disclaimer: In this post I mainly focus on black-phobia because that’s the type of racism I can speak to the most, however I recognize that racism plays out in many ways for different races on these sites. This piece speaks to my experiences as a black man of African descent, and not necessarily those of black people of other descents or ethnicities.

“I’m a masculine guy and I like the same. No fems! Into whites and Latinos. Not into Blacks. (Sorry no offense).” I looked at the picture next to the profile, which showed only the torso of what was obviously a white guy. A hooking-up newbe, I’d been perusing this sex site for a couple weeks, barely able to get a bite. By now I’d seen enough “no femmes” and “not into feminine dudes” warnings in numerous profiles to get wise to the fact that the more masculine you looked, the more ass you got. The race issues I noticed during my initial introduction was also jarring, when, in retrospect, they really shouldn’t have been all that surprising. It quickly became obvious to me that the hook up scene, because of the anonymity it affords, is where oppressive attitudes and ideas about race, gender, and bodies, play out in the most unabashed way.

Signing up for an a4a account was one of my first declarative steps into the nsa/hook up scene. I was newly on hormones (again). Newly out as a transfag – a trans man who is attracted to other trans and nontrans men. I wanted to explore my sexual attraction for nontrans men in particular. Meeting nontrans men in real life proved to be difficult, since they were usually put off by my, then, gender ambiguity. I ventured into the world of a4a and manhunt because I liked the straightforwardness of these sites – you meet someone, message for a short bit, and eventually fuck if your interests are aligned. After my first few times perusing, I was blown away. So many profiles were like warped responses to gay male stereotyping around manhood; phrases like “no fems” or “I’m a masculine man. You be the same,” abound. I noticed a lot of black and brown men included these phrases in their profiles. On one level, this rejection of femininity was demoralizing, especially for a black trans man who was already grappling with notions of masculinity: what it meant and how to authentically express it. Continue reading

Fucking Like There’s No Tomorrow [Love, Anonymously]

by Guest Contributor TQ, originally published at Trans Queers: A Transfags Sex Journal

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.
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Rewriting Herstory Through Erotic Romance [Love, Anonymously]

By Guest Contributor Kama Spice

*TRIGGER WARNING*
I recently remembered a first time. It was at a most inopportune moment of intimacy. I wouldn’t call it a flashback, but it was one of those sly memories that you have to worry like a bone before it makes itself clear.
I remembered that the first time my breasts had ever been fondled like that—and that I experienced pleasure from—was by my grandfather. The memory left a hollow feeling, as if a hole had been blown open in my chest. I had to grieve, of course—grieve the loss of innocence, the absence of choice in an awakening that should have been filled with wonder and magic and spirit as well as sensuality and sexuality. In its stead, I was left now, for life, with a memory that would leave me quaking with a revulsion that was laced through with arousal and shame. A crime of the gravest proportions—and one that would go unpunished by any state, federal, or cultural laws because I would not tell. Because I would swallow the shame and believe it mine until I was decades away from the crime.
I’d always yearned to have those kinds of innocent sexual awakenings I’d read about in coming of-age stories or watched on TV or in the movies. The kinds with white girl angst and supportive parents or adults who helped teens accept themselves and work through their problems. The reality is that all of my firsts happened before the age of thirteen—most before the age of seven when my parents weren’t looking. Continue reading

Race-Based Dating [Love, Anonymously]

by Guest Contributor Emmeaki

Before we jump into a conversation on race-based dating, let’s start by showing how not to do it, with a short film called “Dragon of Love.”*

I’m a black woman who has always been attracted to Asian men. Perhaps it started with all those Hong Kong action movies that I used to watch with my mom as a teenager. After all, movie stars are often our first crushes – it made sense that it would make some impact on who I found attractive.  But growing up in a segregated city in the Midwest, there weren’t many Asians around. In four years of high school, there were only three Asian kids, including a cute Chinese boy that I was hot for in tenth grade, who transferred to another school just as we were becoming friends.

So, recently when a friend of mine invited me to an event he was hosting at his house for black women and Asian men, I was all for it. My friend (a Vietnamese man who likes black women) had been listening to my boyfriend drama for the last few months and he thought this would pull me out of my funk. Boy was he right!

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Exotic Taboo [Love, Anonymously]


by Guest Contributor Tiara the Merch Girl

I often feel that I’m not taken seriously as a full well-rounded nuanced person when it comes to things related to eroticism, burlesque, sexuality, queerness, and so on. I have grown up constantly being the Other, having everything I do viewed through the lens of the Other, assumed to be the representative of the Other, rather than just a representative of myself and my myriad views and backgrounds. I’d make a piss-poor representative for any other culture or background anyway, given how I stick out like a sore thumb in all of them. Too foreign for Bangladesh, too Bangla for Malaysia, too Asian for Australia, too X for Y.

I have been introduced at burlesque revues as the “Bollywood Princess”- which ticks me off a lot, particularly since I have yet to do a piece that involves Bollywood in any shape or form. Not even a subcontinental song! Anything I wear automatically becomes “exotic” on me. For example, I have a beautiful red dress, with some gold embroidery, that I bought from an op-shop for a performance project. When I first wore it to a rehearsal one of the other girls there said “wow! It’s just so YOU!”. “Me” doesn’t tend to go for dresses very often (it’s only been in the last year or so that I’ve started wearing dresses and skirts more regularly). It only looks exotic because it happens to be red with some gold embroidery and on me it looks like I’m wearing sari cloth. On a Chinese person it’d look like a reimagined cheongsam. On a white person? A Snow White or Red Riding Hood dress. The dress itself isn’t especially exotic; what makes it exotic is the lens brought on by people’s perception of the wearer.

Similarly, I think people in queer scenes are so mystified by the presence of a Racial Other that they fail to comprehend that I could also be a Sexual Other too. I swear, I’ve been to so many queer events with a bevy of straight people, and THEY get the attention. There’s probably been two queer girls in my entire life that have shown even a smidgen of interest in me as more than just a friend. I don’t ping anyone’s gaydar. As my Redhead Girl said one time, here I am proclaiming to the world my sexuality and hardly anything’s opened up, while here she is denying her sexuality until very recently and already she’s got a strong support network and even a relationship or two. I suppose having a boyfriend doesn’t really help (“yay, another barsexual”?) but at least talk to me beforehand and not make assumptions?
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Guilty as Sin [Love, Anonymously]

confessionby Guest Contributor Brandann R. Hill-Mann

I think there are many things that have ruined some perceptions of what The First Time should be like for people delving into the more amorous acts of relationships. Especially for young people, I would say. There is the TV magic of wandering off at a party somewhere into a beautifully made up and wondrously never drunkenly stumbled into by giggling party-goers room. There is the blog article written by the well-intentioned author who means to prepare the multitudes of people out there ready to get into the saddle by telling them that a few condoms and some water-based lube will be all they need to pop that cherry. People in movies almost never seem to have to worry about the dynamics of bad sex education and having been told their whole lives that women don’t need orgasms or are worth less if they have been “spoiled” before marriage. How often do we get to hear the nagging in their heads of how years of conservative religious indoctrination has told them that enjoying sex will make them less worthy of love and respect, or see how that will affect their self-esteem and mental health? I think the effects of Christian teachings is an important lens through which to view the topic of first sexual experiences, and how to best prepare young followers (or any people, really) for them.

I remember my sex education in high school, and have written about it. I remember being split into the generic “boys” and “girls” groups with no mind whatsoever to orientation or the gamut of gender possibility, and being taken into separate rooms to be given the big secrets that the other team wasn’t supposed to know. Somewhere in the girls’ playbook was the ever-important “’blue balls’ don’t exist and are just a ploy to get you into bed” chat. We learned about the basics of STIs and not being a slut because you would get pregnant and never amount to anything because, then, who would love you? I was out the day we played with condoms, and no one had the memo back then that spermicide was bad for you. Summed up, there wasn’t a lot that was going to help, but a lot that would put fear into you. If anyone had been willing to admit that 95% of adults confess to having premarital sex perhaps comprehensive sexual education might have been on the rise, but alas, it was not to be for me or many of my classmates.

Added to that was the supplemental education I received from the Christian church of which I was a member at the time, and surprisingly, there was a bit of cross-over. Be careful not to give yourself away, lest you be soiled like duct tape, and who would ever want a dirty roll of duct tape for a spouse (ahh…the ultimate goal, amirite)? Sex, was supposed to be awful because even wives had to be commanded to submit to their husbands, and for all of the time we were supposed to spend not talking about, thinking about, or doing It, we heard about It all the time. It was bad, dirty, and shameful.

But sex was all I could think about, because it seemed like it was all that was coming down from the pulpit some days. Continue reading

Talking to Kids about Sex [Love, Anonymously]

by Guest Contributor Brandann R. Hill-Mann, originally published at Random Babble


I was eleven years old and it was the summer before I began the sixth grade.

I woke up alarmed.

The bed was wet, and I was so embarrassed thinking that I had wet the bed. I got up out of bed and turned on the lamp to make my way to the bathroom connected to the bedroom. My younger brother and I were staying the summer with our dad, who was at work, so we were spending the night at our grandparent’s house. “Crap,” I thought, “Grandma is going to be so angry that someone my age wet the bed. It wasn’t uncommon, as I had grown up with a small bladder and many infections, I had wet the bed before. As I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror alarm turned to panic. In a very My Girl moment, I freaked out because there was blood everywhere. It couldn’t be good for that much blood to leave my body all at once. My bed looked like a murder scene. I was dying. There was no other option.

I ran up to my grandparent’s bedroom, and hurriedly and woke my grandmother. I told her something was horribly wrong. She got up out of bed and followed me to the bathroom. I remember the look on her face, something mixed between amusement and annoyance at having been woken up. She handed me a towel, a clean night gown, and a thick white thing. She told me to shower up and change while she changed my sheets. When I finished, she showed me how to stick the thing in my underwear, and sent me back to bed, still bewildered and half crying. In the morning she told me I had just “become a woman”. She gave me some books, which I am certain were written circa 1965, and told me to read them, and that tampons were bad for my body (and it was years before I was convinced otherwise). She took care of explaining to my father when he arrived to pick us up after breakfast the events of the past night. I spent the next few nights holed up in my room reading about female and male anatomy, puberty, necking and petting, snickering to myself and re-reading the part about intercourse and ogling the scientific drawings of penises. The books were full of pictures of sanitary napkin belts and never even mentioned STIs or contraceptive. I am absolutely sure it taught that one should abstain from sex until marriage.

And that was that.

That was my big sex talk.

My big lesson on the “birds and the bees”.

I didn’t even know that periods didn’t last forever. Shit, until that moment I had never even heard of a period. I thought I was going to have to wear this miniature diaper every day for the rest of my existence. I spent the next several days lamenting the end of my swimming days and how I would never ever be able to speak to my guy friends again. I was mortified, and angry that no one had ever thought to warn me that this was coming.

And I so did not need this shit going into Junior High. Continue reading