Saving myself for no one

The concept of sexual intimacy is not lost on you or me. However, somewhere along the line – growing up in a Christian household, trying to be a good, heterosexual boyfriend to the few girls who gave me a chance, my admittance of being of an agnostic, free-thinking perspective, and embracing my identity as a pansexual transwoman – I lost sight of what I should and should not deserve. Rather, I never had much of a chance to really explore the idea of engaging in sexual intimacy. For specific reasons, I just accepted that my time had not come.

My long-standing belief has been that one should reserve sexual intimacy for the person they have committed themselves to in a monogamous, romantic relationship. I have since realized that this line of thinking has been the last bastion of traditional, Christian-centric thought that had somehow survived through everything that had drastically shifted in my lifestyle. The idea had been deeply engrained into me, despite being “born male”, and the shame of contradicting this thinking loomed near whenever temptation arose. My parents being religious & fairly traditional led me to put my own romanticized take on it, believing that if I remained patient & virtuous, one day I would be able to entrust my body to the person I believed was “the one.”

I recently read a novel that turned me on (pun intended) to the very common practice of two characters meeting one another. After their initial meeting, both of them recognized their instinctual attraction to one another over time with each chance interaction feeding the heat between them. Eventually, one makes a move and the other is equally overcome with ferocious passion. For some reason, the timing in which I was exposed to that story – right around when I turned thirty – caused me to have an alternative perspective. Prior to turning thirty, I would have asked “who could possibly jump into bed with someone who clearly had no romantic intentions to remain faithful to them”? However, in the face of physical aging, sparse intimacy over my lifetime, and the high level of self-love I had cultivated as the woman I was born to be, what I read now appeared almost natural and sensible as my former mindset seemed almost something an insane, brainwashed prude would do.

#1: I can be shallow as fuck about looks.

#2: I am light-years from being a “prude”.

“Turning 30” has been a recurring theme in this blog as of late and sexual expression is not excluded from it. As I often do, I wondered why only I had to be the one sexually frustrated, swearing off intimacy just because “the one” hadn’t come along. I could count on one hand how many times I had believed I would marry someone. This romanticized notion of keeping myself “pure” for “my first time” when I was already perverted, unabashedly playful in my sexuality, and near legitimately considered a succubus among my close friends rapidly became outdated through rigorous self-assessment.

Being met with my cold logic quickly turned to frustration. I was three weeks into being 30 and had yet to experience unrestrained intimacy followed by sharing a bed with my partner. Like an ignorant, virgin teenager, I was still wondering how people [read: my friends] have sex and if there were any steps to follow for a successful romp. And then I was smacked in the face with the truth: This was all my own doing. I repeatedly declined the idea simply because no romantic commitment would follow when there were multiple instances where sex likely would have been welcomed.

Another hard truth washed over me: The combination of my past upbringing and now my present life as a transwoman had somehow made me believe by default I should never feel safe experiencing sexual intimacy other than with someone who had confessed their love for me. An amalgamation of anger and sadness careened through my body. There had to be a way to rewrite this automated preset equation that I had left unchecked in the midst of my gender transition.

I want to be a good woman.

Only sluts sleep around.

How do you take love out of sex? I’m so clingy. I’d fall in love with them and get hurt.

Will I ever be loved?


…why I should starve myself.

I’m desirable. Beautiful. Lovable.

If sex with someone I trust could make sense…

Experiencing intimacy with someone I feel comfortable with isn’t shameful.

Yes, I want to be loved. Sex doesn’t equal love. It never has.

I won’t be young forever. Live your life. 

Fuck who you want.

So I did.


Now you see me

renai_1609Got asked for my number today at work by a male customer while only wearing basic cover-up, eyeliner, and glasses. No, I don’t know why either. I’m more or less convinced that the quality of male trying to pick me up is equivalent to the level of effort I put into doing my makeup and hair.

When did I become so adept at flashing a shy smile and reciting “Thank you, but I’m taken”? I would be lying if I said I have not been flirted with/hit on a number of times since I began living full-time, though I only seem to recall the points which I did not parry some older man’s adverse advances. Though, being well trained to resist romantic interests isn’t something anyone should be proud of. Yes, it would be nice for my precisely cut lie to actually be true for once.

Or better yet, for someone actually attractive to throw a cheesy pick-up line my way. For someone to actually make me think if giving them my number would be worth my while. This has, in fact, happened to me before. Once or twice, but still. My tastes are both wide and narrow. Varied, yet specific. Especially with cis males.

Or better still, to not be terrified of how a man would react to me being not quite the woman they expected. To be desired by a cis male exposes a myriad of internal questions I’d rather not have to answer. Ironically, if a cis male knows I’m transgender, that then adds on even more questions. Many of which broach the matters of my self-worth, gender dysphoria, and faded internalized transphobia. Sad that now I know the moment any male shows any interest in being with me, I am convinced that I have been fetishized or become a curious fantasy.

I’m sure you can imagine the snowballing questions that bubble to the surface from never being loved in the way I’ve always wanted. The way I never believed could be possible for me. The way I’ve longed since accepted would surely be out of my reach. For the ones I could give myself to do not desire me, and the ones who desire me I can only perceive as a cruel joke brought about by a sexual whim.

Such a level of emotional acceptance has brought me to a place where sexuality and intimacy are fickle entities that I could live without indefinitely. My life, in its current form, has little capacity for such things. Not because I am too occupied pursuing my dreams, but because my self-worth is the lowest point it has ever been in my life. Out of frustration of failing to meet my own standards, I have begun hating romance to avoid crying myself to sleep in the midst of my own silent longing.

Kill off that which is meaningless. Nurture that which can grow.

In the end, for my own sanity, I cannot help but cling to what is left of my pride, and protect my self from myself.

Better left unsaid

Art by yukichasoba

My previous entry was something I should have chronicled in my physical diary, not here. I was frustrated, in a lot of emotional pain, and experiencing a deep sense of rejection with a single particular matter that I had blown completely out of proportion. My policy is to never have regrets when writing here – so the entry will not be removed. I do, however, apologize for anyone who may have found it childish or pretentious in any way.

As for my life as of late…it has not been very pleasant. Not terrible, but certainly not pleasant. Continue reading “Better left unsaid”