Wifesy and I ran into some people in the big city the other day. Well, I should say wifesy ran into someone she knew and then I ended up knowing them by proxy.

We ran into this sweet, obviously gay girl, on the street and ended up taking her and her two flaky companions into the next bar for a drink. Wifesy and I were stopping for a cocktail before we went to see a show anyway. Hell, wifesy and I don’t get out as much as we should any more. So, the new friend was a nice diversion.

We all sat down and the one guy friend with the two girls was clearly tweaking. Hard core. He was on something and I was not in the mood. You know those guys who are bordering on hipsters and bordering on drug addicts. He had the perfect clothes and the perfect haircut and just a dab of dirt under his fingernails that said to me, “At any moment, all of this, in front of you, could go wrong. Horribly wrong.” The hipster-almost-druggy was up and down and then up and down again. That would’ve been fine because we were mainly focusing on wifesy’s new acquaintance except every time hipster-almost-druggy sat down he tried to strike up the most inane conversations possible WITH ME. I’m always that person – the poor soul stuck across from the energy-sucker. There was talk of an elephant that somehow spilled out of hipster-almost-druggy’s drug addled brain. The subject had nothing to do with anything. In fact, it was so random and so desperate of a subject that it screamed, “Listen to me. Listen to me NOW. I am raping this conversation. That’s what’s happening. I’m taking it.” It was violent like that and me, I’m horrible at maintaining any kind of poker face, ever. I kicked my wifesy under the table. She turned to ask me something, but she couldn’t even think of a question to ask me, so the whole thing looked like what it was – me wanting an intervention from hipster-almost-druggy dude. He got the hint and went outside for a cigarette or to do more meth. I’m not sure which.

With drughead-hipster gone, we went back to the lovely conversation with the original girl we had run into. Wifesy knew her from work. She was a client at wifesy’s job.  We were all mid-titillating conversation when the tit got titillated into a tizzy with the following:

Wifesy to new acquaintance:

“Wait, tell me your name again. I’m sorry I can’t remember it.”

Acquaintance:     “Well, you know me as Jen, but it’s John. I’m trans.”

Me to my head:     HOLY SHIT.

‘Cause I just did not see that one coming.

For the duration of the remaining 40 mins that wifesy and I chatted with Jen/John both of us fought with pronouns. Wait, did I just say her to him-her? I need to say him. I think she wants me to say him. I mean, HE wants me to say HIM. Blats! I just did it again. Ahhh.

Jen/John is a lovely person and she/he definitely wanted to strike up a friendship with both of us. We’re new to the area and therefore, all game. I realized, very quickly, that Jen/John would be my first truly trans friend and I thought COOL, much like I would think – cool – if I were suddenly asked to ride in a Trans-Am. Vintage, of course.

My brain started to go into complete overdrive when thinking about Jen/John. Wifesy and I had a brief debate as to whether or not John/Jen was crushing on wifesy.  I decided that it didn’t matter. Wifesy and I are secure in our oneness. However, if there was indeed a crush my head started to fry over with whether it was Jen or John or both who had the crush. I’m assuming it’s both. But, this is important! For me, anyway, I like to know whether it’s a guy or a girl flirting with my baby because they are both to be handled differently. Both to be cut off, but both to be handled differently nonetheless.

And then I thought, shit, this is what John/Jen goes through every day. She, I mean, HE believes he’s a boy, but the world sees him as a girl. I feel like a boy, but the world refuses and only sees me as a girl. That’s his every day thought process. Man, oh, man, to be a trans-man. I am Sam, I am…or am I when the world sees me as Samantha? As I repeated the term, trans-man, to myself I kept thinking how close trans-man sounded to Trans-Am again and wouldn’t it be cool if every trans-man were a Trans-Am expert. Wouldn’t that be great…if your deepest struggle automatically came with a super power or a finely tuned skill? I’ve often felt that way about lesbianism…that it would be great if once you came out as a lesbian, you also automatically became a pirate. A frilly shirt, leather boots and leggings, sword jousting, swashbuckling pirate. It would make the gay pride parades even more interesting – Trans-Am after Trans-Am followed by pirate captain after pirate captain.

But, the world doesn’t work that way. Trans-man has to come out twice. First she came out as gay, now she has to come out as a dude. It’s too much for one person, yet god, supposedly, only gives us each what we can handle. I say if the almighty is going to do that then she could at least provide transformer bodies, so trans-man doesn’t have to go through those intense surgeries. Want to get rid of these boobs? One, two, three – transformer! It’s more than meets the eye. Boobs shoot out of trans-man’s chest and impale a bigot. Chest plate slides out and covers boob launching chutes. All is concealed. Everyone feels safe.

The stuff down south, I can’t even think about. Removing genitalia to me is akin to creating a centaur. Sure, as a man, you wanted a horse body. But, did you ask the horse if he wanted a man’s head? I realize it’s not even my place to judge it. If you want to complete that process, who am I to say no?  However, I can’t even figure out the mechanics of it without wincing. How do you conceal the real door behind a sliding bookcase for that one? So, instead, right now, I’m going to see a montage of dancing, pirate, lesbians in my head. Not the shitty-killer-Somalian kind. But, the swishy, mustachioed, Johnny Depp kind.

Trans-Ams and Pirates – they can fix your cars and save your ships. One likes girl and the other shape shifts. Who cares. It’s delightful and if you set it to music even your kids will like it. That’s how I like to think of trans-man anyway, as jolly and giggly like a newborn baby. She’s changing like a baby and most babies don’t know what damn sex they are anyway. They just need love.

Photo creds:  carbutch-girl

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