Adventures in Gaytown

In which I prove that I don't need a therapist because I'm more than capable of psychoanalyzing myself, kthanxbye.

July 16th, 2007

The problem with being in limbo is that you are no one's preferred sexual object except for a very small subset of people who find androgyny totally hot, and we hardly count. If transitioning is what you've gotta do then that's what you've gotta do, but it still starts to fuck with your head after a while.

Straight guys aren't into me, and I'm mostly okay with that -- they look at me and either read me as male, which they're not into, or read me as a dyke, in which case it doesn't matter whether they're into me or not so they don't bother. But Friday evening I was hanging out with some friends of Kate's, among them an absolutely gorgeous straight boy named Taylor, who drove it home -- more than anything else I'd experienced lately -- that being a trannie may not be an easy choice, but it's the only one I have.

He's a straight guy; I'm biologically female and primarily attracted to males, I should be his target audience. It hurt like hell, watching this mind-blowingly beautiful man and watching his eyes slide over me with absolutely zero interest, knowing that if I could just STOP this terribly inconvenient compulsion for masculinity then I could be what he wanted.

But I can't do it. Even wanting straight guys like him (desperately wanting guys like him, you should have seen this boy), I can't do it. It's confusing as hell, because I look at them and think, That's what I want, and at the same time, That's what I want to be, while knowing that the two are mutually exclusive. And unlike actual gay people who are cut off from the majority of their preferred sex by birth and not by choice, I do have the choice of being heterosexual -- I'm just tearing myself in half trying to make it.

Of course, the only cure for being spurned by het boys is to go gay clubbing, so Kate and I left the aforementioned gorgeous straight guy behind and took off for ni-choume.

"You're a woman??" one rather plastered British guy at Advocates exclaimed in dismay. He'd been chatting with Kate until I finally turned around and introduced myself. "I thought you were a man! I rather fancied you! I thought you had a big cock!"

"If only," I said, not as dismayed as he was. He was old and slobbery-drunk, so being rejected in advance just saved me the trouble.

"I like cock," he confessed sadly. Sad, because that meant I was now off the list.

"That's a risk trannies run," I agreed.

He was drunk to the point of incoherence so he didn't get it, but that is a very real issue in weighing the prons and cons of being-a-straight-woman vs. being-a-gay-man: that a sizeable percentage of gay men can't accept a boyfriend without a cock.

In any case, we lost the sloppy drunk guy at Advocates and moved on to Arty Farty -- ridiculous name, but a den of iniquity like nothing to be found in my home state. A dance floor where people actually dance, where people get drunk and initiate naughty touching with absolute strangers, where I was once invited to be the American end of an American-Chinese-French sandwich, where if I take the lead I can dance dirty with pretty boys and they never have to know that I don't have the equipment to ravish them the way they so clearly want to be ravished. (There was one such guy on Friday and Kate assures me that he was quite hot, though my beer goggles had turned into beer blinders by that point and I'll have to take her word for it.)

At Advocates they can tell what I am, though they usually assume that means I'm into girls. At Arty they invariably have to ask, which is somewhat flattering. Long story short, that night I somehow ended up sitting outside on the curb making out with a fantastically hot Brazilian model parked in my lap.


Kate took the picture. Can't say I mind having photographic evidence to back me up.


I'd sobered up significantly but I still don't remember the whole of how he got there; I'm assuming the liquor made me smooth. It was really nice, though it only lasted until an older gaijin dude wandered down from the club and was like, AHEM, at which point my lovely Brazilian had to go dance attendance on his sugar daddy instead of me.

Don't get me wrong -- I find this awesome.

Because if I had a cock? I'd totally be that Brazilian model, mooching off rich gay dudes to pay the bills. And since I don't? What a compliment! I'm the other man, the one he actually wants to make out with instead of the one who's paying him for the privilege. Everybody likes to know that they're desireable but trannies are ALL ABOUT that validation, a result of the terrible "who would want my incomplete self?" insecurity.

This phenomenon relates directly to my sex drive, such as it is. I was discussing the concept of sex drive a with a friend once; I'd told her I had none, but this was right on the heels of a similar story so of course she countered with, "How can you claim to have no sex drive??"

Well, because it's not about the sex. The act itself is rather a let-down, and not just because I haven't had good sex. I don't have enough hormones, testosterone or otherwise, to make me horny enough to prefer sex to, say, cruising google image search for pictures of mountains.


Denali park in Alaska. Quite nice.


There's a documentary kicking around about the FTMs who work at the onabe host clubs in Shinjuku, frequented primarily by straight women who are fed up with biological men. The three hosts featured all date women and have sex with women, but it's almost overwhelmingly uni-directional; they pleasure their partners but -- laden with transsexual body image insecurity -- don't even let their own clothes come off. Clearly there's something else at work here besides lust, because strictly speaking, they're not getting anything out of these sexual encounters.

I am very driven to have sex -- it's just not about lust. It's about marking one's territory and not even in a "Gabriel wuz here" way; more like "Gabriel could be here if he wanted to be." For me, it's proving to myself that these people I'm attracted to -- even though I may not be interested in actually dating them -- are attracted to me as well, that I never have to be lonely if I don't want to be. That I can forge ahead with this transitioning business, searching for grand passion and epic gay love, because even if one day I wake up and find myself incapable of going it alone, I have options. They may not be my top choice, the passion may not be the stuff of legends, but there are people I can fall back to.

Which is slightly horrible, but I never claimed to be anything else.



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