Lowkey, I Chose To Be a Lesbian
I understand why people are often outraged at the idea of “choosing” your sexuality.
I understand why people are often outraged at the idea of “choosing” your sexuality.
My surgeon informed me that I’d have to spend the rest of Pride Month with my hair pulled back, ointment gooped on, and absolutely no hotness allowed.
Did it keep me from texting my ex at 8 p.m.? Surprisingly, yes.
It took me over two decades to readily consider myself a victim of abuse.
Beneath the latex and leather is sacred work.
I rang in the New Year with my friends, watching an endless stream of K-Pop music videos and eating lots of mushroom chocolate.
I was always especially envious of the way movies depicted childhood summers, like in Now & Then.
You always called me angel. At first I didn’t like that. It felt dysphoric, which was confusing, because you were trans yourself, “more” trans than me, having spent years on testosterone, having looked, even before any intervention, more like a guy than I ever could.
I don’t know when I became a vain person, but I swear I used to be better. Becoming a competitive athlete in my thirties has not helped.
The only job a 16-year-old lifeguard really has is to kiss their coworkers and fuck around. Sadly, I took this job far more seriously than I should’ve.
That competitiveness I felt with her, the joy I derived from getting in her head was, I realized later, erotic in its intensity, intimate in its knowledge. I wanted that hotheaded point guard to be my hotheaded girlfriend.
Every day, I get a little closer to having to say that final Goodbye to my gym family.
When I write, when I kiss my girlfriend, when I read Carl Phillips, when I do poppers at the club, all of these things are me announcing my place in the family of things.
We cannot pretend trans people have not been athletes, and we cannot deny trans people access to this important sphere of life.
“Lisbon would make a fantastic apocalypse city,” I said to my girlfriend as we struggled up and down the city’s cobblestone streets. Unbeknownst to me, the next day I would catch a glimpse of what Lisbon might look like during an apocalypse.
I got my first trans surgery a couple months ago, and I went into FFS with as much curiosity about the experience as I had excitement for the results.
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I’m a slob in the kitchen. I’m a slob in most domains of my life, but especially in the kitchen. I’ve always known this, but living with Lola made me forget just how bad I was.
I’ve known for a long time that my mom’s lack of emotional availability was a setup for my romantic relationships.
I can have imposter syndrome and be a good therapist. In fact, I wouldn’t be a good therapist if I didn’t at least try to practice what I preach.