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On New Year's Eve 1985, my husband surprised me with dinner at a new, World War I-themed restaurant about an hour's drive from our home. When we pulled into the crowded parking lot near an airport runway, I spotted two rusty, canvas-covered trucks that were actual surplus vehicles from WWI. A slight breeze ruffled their shredded fabric tops, the exposed bars groaning as if in protest of the passing of time.After entering the building, it took my eyes a moment to adjust to the dimly lit foyer of the old farmhouse that had been converted into a restaurant. It was named after pilot Eddie Rickenbacker's famous flight group, the 94th Aero Squadron. Musty, wood-paneled walls were decorated with relics from the era: yellowed maps of Germany, France, and England; propellers, saucer-like helmets, faded flight rosters on a corkboard; and the black and white photos of pilots who served in the Royal Air Force during 1917. From the rafters hung the torn wings from a French Nieuport biplane, in addition to rusty railroad lanterns, gas masks and a dented bugle. A staticky recording of George Cohan's "Over There" drifted from the speakers near a battered Tin Lizzie. Behind the car was a wall covered in old liberty bonds and American recruiting posters.

The Moment That Spurred My Past Life Regression Experience

The hostess seated us at an intimate table next to a large, plate glass window that faced the executive airport. Tiny blue lights near the landing strip glowed in the darkness to guide the incoming Cessnas on the runway. People were laughing and filling their champagne glasses all around us in anticipation of ringing in the new year. I scanned the menu for a moment before a strange, buzzing sound filled my ears. I glance up to see a man in uniform staring back at me. Everything stopped at that moment. The noise around me disappeared, swallowed by the sound of my heart knocking hard against my chest. I knew the man in the photograph—the dark, arched eyebrows, thick lower lip and the creases that bracketed his mouth. His penetrating gaze under hooded eyelids. I knew it all too well. But I'd never met the man.I thought of Richard Collier's reaction when he first saw Elise McKenna's photo in the 1980 romantic drama, "Somewhere In Time," and assumed it was my writer's imagination that caused the odd tingling at the base of my neck. But when I closed my eyes, I saw a burst of flame, heard the low drone of an engine whining in my ears and smelled the pungent odor of petroleum stinging my nostrils. "Are you okay?" my husband asked as he put his menu aside and studied my face. "You look like you've seen a ghost.""I think I have," I laughed. We joked about the photo and went on with our New Year's Eve celebration, but when we returned home, I couldn't get the pilot's intense gaze out of my mind. That night I dreamt of flying over makeshift trenches that gutted fields of mud and blood. Bullets whizzed past my wings as I frantically grabbed the control stick, pressing the blip switch with my thumb until I felt myself falling into a blur of blinding light.I woke up on bedsheets damp with sweat and knew I had to go back to the restaurant.

James died on the same day I was born.

After My Dream, I Was Committed to Finding Out the Pilot’s Identity

Two weeks after purchasing the mysterious photograph, I was no closer to finding out the pilot's identity. This was long before we had access to the internet, so my research consisted mostly of trips to the library. I flipped through dozens of WWI books, pausing on the old photos of pilots until, one day, the hair rose again on the back of my neck. I found a picture of a pilot standing beside a biplane that had taken a nosedive into the ground. I recognized his dimpled smile and the familiar arched brows under a woolen cap that he wore at a jaunty angle over his short-cropped hair. The caption read simply, "James Allen Joseph, Royal Flying Corps, 1917." (In order to protect his identity, James Allen Joseph is a pseudonym.)I immediately mailed inquiries about the pilot to the military archives of numerous museums across the U.S. When the first thick manilla envelope arrived from the Smithsonian, I anxiously tore it open and scanned the papers. I was surprised to read that James shared my father's birth date in July (although 31 years earlier). But it was his death date that made my heart lurch and tears sting my eyes. James died on the same day I was born, just thirteen hours before my mother delivered me unexpectedly two weeks early.

I'd never met the man.

My Past Life Experience Mirrored My Own in So Many Ways

The similarities didn't stop there. During WWII, James worked at the same airforce base where my uncle was training to pilot. More than likely, the two would have met on the base. And in a strange twist of fate, my uncle died from a sinus infection while James was at that base. When I was born years after his death, my parents honored his memory by giving me his middle name. I was also surprised to discover that James had a son who died in an aviation accident, precisely 47 years earlier on the same date that I had a miscarriage. Before this experience, I never believed in past lives; it went against my Christian upbringing. But there was no denying how much James's life eerily paralleled my own. We were both Presbyterians raised by business tycoons who were strict authoritarians and, at times, verbally abusive. Like me, James constantly sought his father's approval and started a writing career by publishing small articles in magazines until his first book publication—the same career path I chose. When it came to reading and writing, we both preferred humor. There were further similarities in our personalities: we were both stubborn, controlling, energetic, anxious, yet extraordinarily organized and highly efficient. We even shared the nervous habit of biting our cuticles until they bled. James loved hosting parties and was known for his creativity behind the bar. It is a passion we share—I've always been interested in mixology and enjoy nothing more than hosting parties. I smiled when I read of his fondness for waffles and eggnog, which are two of my favorite foods. And stranger still, his best friend during the war shares the same name as my husband. After everything I learned about James, the only thing that didn't match up was his love for flying, since I have had an irrational fear of it since childhood. My parents loved to travel and scoffed at my anxiety, which meant I spent much of my youth traveling with a bag over my nose and mouth.

Eventually, I Decided to Try Past Life Regression Therapy

I read everything I could find on James, and after I'd exhausted all of my resources, I did something I never thought I'd consider: I visited a psychic. Several, in fact. Back then, I thought of psychics as charlatans. Still, their knowledge and predictions during my readings with them were jarringly accurate. Without any prompting, every psychic I visited envisioned an entity that fit James's description. I left those meetings more confused than enlightened. I was raised to believe that psychics and past life exploration were considered a demonic influence. My research went against everything I'd learned in the Christian church—that karmic retribution and reincarnation did not align with the theory of Christ dying for our sins. After confiding in a friend about my experience, she contacted a hypnotherapist she knew from California who agreed to work with me. I spent several hypnotherapy sessions with him learning how to relax and open my mind.But it was during the third session that things took a turn. Under hypnosis, I was looking down at James's lifeless body on a bed. I knew his soul had left and I felt a heaviness in my chest until suddenly I was being whisked through a long, drafty corridor. I stood at the end and shielded my eyes from a blinding, bright light. An engine roared to life, the sound coming from a plane, a newer WWII model that I didn't recognize. James stood beside it, a clipboard in his hands. He was chatting with another man who I was certain was my uncle. The therapists asked what I was wearing while standing in the tunnel, but all I could see were low-heeled shoes and the hem of a dress. Tears rushed to my eyes. I lifted my arms and yelled, "He's leaving!" Once the therapist realized I was distressed, he woke me from hypnosis. Staring at the clear blue sky outside my window, I was filled with a profound sense of calm.

My Experience Was Enlightening as Both a Human and a Christian

We shared several more sessions that week, but neither the therapist nor I were any closer to answers regarding the mystery of James Allen Joseph. We had several theories: a past life, a guardian angel, memory transference, or possibly soul recognition while passing simultaneously between realms. And there was always the possibility that it was all part of an active writer's imagination. But my gut told me differently. James and I were somehow connected. However, I had to accept that the answers might not be forthcoming until I passed from this life. Despite my fear of flying, there was one last thing I needed to do before I could let go of James. I arranged to fly with a pilot in a biplane over the ocean on my birthday. Speeding down the runway, I was terrified at first, but the moment we climbed up to the sky, I felt the sun on my face and my fear turned into exhilaration. For that brief moment in time, I knew the freedom James experienced when he soared the skies in his Sopwith Camel. I no longer need proof that we are inexplicably intertwined. I have faith in God's plan. For that reason, I'm grateful for discovering James and for my spiritual adventure into past life regression. It has changed my perspective on traditional Christian beliefs and, in many ways, has brought me closer to God. I don't struggle in the stifling confines of my religious upbringing and can now freely embrace a dual belief system. Yes, Christ died on the cross for our sins, but there are also karmic lessons in the universe that need to be taught—sometimes repeatedly—until we get it right the next time around.

As a disabled person, growing up in a hypersexual society always hasn’t always easy for me. Though I identify as non-binary now, I went through puberty as a girl inside a Catholic family in the Midwest. Not only that but I was born with a rare neuromuscular condition that has caused my voluntary muscles to deteriorate over time. Because of this, I’ve used a power wheelchair since the age of three and have always needed assistance with all aspects of my day-to-day personal care.Being disabled was never an issue for me, but it certainly was an issue for others. This was none more apparent than when I entered the world of dating and sex. In middle school, when many began to explore their sexualities, I only faced rejection. I remember asking out a boy for the first time who replied, “Well, I would date you, but everyone would make fun of me.” The first time I went on a date, I heard my brother from the other room admit to my mother that he “couldn’t imagine who would want to have sex with someone like that.” While these statements might sound outrageous now, they were common. These comments shaped the way I viewed myself as a sexual being and, for a long time, most of my relationships were online where I could choose to share my disability after trust was gained. It wasn’t until I moved out of my abusive parent’s house and lived independently that I was able to begin dating in the real world. At the time, my internalized ableism had me utterly confused. I loved my body, but I kept hearing that no one found the 400-pound wheelchair underneath me attractive. I decided to try online dating anyway and quickly realized that not everyone was as ableist as the people I grew up around.

Having Sex With Me Requires Intimacy

Finding someone to have sex with me as a disabled person wasn’t hard, especially since I was interested in sleeping with men. Getting them to stay has always been the hard part. I lost my virginity on a one-night-stand, and most of my sexual encounters after that followed the same equation for a very long time. Any person can learn to lift me out of my chair, and push through the awkwardness of moving my body for the sake of getting off, but it’s impossible to get close to a disabled person without getting intimate.After my initial run of quick and fast, one-time sex, I found a partner to sleep with regularly. I had never had sex quite like it before. The act of talking in-depth about what felt good, what didn’t, and then problem-solving positions all made for better sex, as well as a deeper connection. This person had a magnetic attraction to me, and I believe now that the act of taking someone as they are is a recipe for intimacy. They never once judged me, and in return, I never judged them. It allowed for honesty.Still, this person couldn’t get past their toxic assumptions, and things fizzled out. After this, I entered a nearly two-year relationship with a narcissistic man who only faked intimacy. It was the most confusing two years of my life, but after the breakup, I jumped back into the world of casual sex. It was then that I had my first sexual encounter with another disabled person, and the intimacy was palpable.

For a long time, most of my relationships were online where I could choose to share my disability after trust was gained.

I Started Dating Only Those Who Saw Me For Who I Am

For the first time in my life, I could put words to the things I was feeling. Sex with a disabled person isn’t just different because of the help I need physically moving my body. Disabled people are better communicators and more creative in the bedroom. Ultimately, sex with a disabled person creates an intimacy that can’t be found elsewhere. To have sex with a disabled person is to set aside what society tells you about disabled bodies, and see them for what they are—beautiful.The world tried to squash my sexuality, but after sleeping with a disabled person myself, I realized that non-disableds were wrong all along. They were misguided and scared to be seen in the way that disabled people aren’t allowed to hide. This realization allowed me to put my whole self into dating once I was ready to get back out there. It was so easy for me to see who valued me and who had preconceived ideas about me this time around. It wasn’t long before I found someone that truly saw me for who I am. We talked about disability from the beginning and they weren’t weird about it. They were excited to talk about disability justice and cognizant about their own ableism.

Sex with my partner today is the most passionate, intimate sex I have ever had. I believe it’s because they don’t see my disability as awkward or a burden, but an asset.

Loving Myself Healed My Internalized Ableism

Sex with my partner today is the most passionate, intimate sex I have ever had. I believe it’s because they don’t see my disability as awkward or a burden, but an asset. They find it so sexy that we have to communicate about our sex, and they see my body as beautiful. My partner is demisexual, so they only have sex with people with whom they connect. Pair that with a disabled person who can only have intimate sex, and you have one of the strongest connections there is.I didn’t start here. To begin with, the world told me for a long time that I wouldn’t find a partner. They told me that my body was broken, undesirable and that disability was a bad thing. As cliche as it sounds, it took loving myself before I could see my own desirability. I have always known that I am sexy and lovable, but it took getting real about sex to realize that others can see me that way, too. Now, I will never be ashamed.

As someone who’s grown up in Israel, living on the border with Gaza and serving in the Israel Defense Forces (IDF), I have been affected by the Israeli-Palestinian conflict in various ways over the years.I’m a 24-year-old Jewish Israeli woman who grew up in a small village. I feel fortunate to have been brought up in a loving, close-knit family with a strong Jewish and Zionist identity. My grandfather is a Holocaust survivor and both my parents immigrated to Israel when they were younger.

My Life in the Israeli-Palestinian Conflict

My first serious encounter with terrorism occurred was when I was 15. Three of my friends were injured in a terrorist attack; they were deliberately run over by a Palestinian from Hebron while they were standing at a bus stop after school. This shocking event had a devastating effect on me. In that instant, my sheltered bubble abruptly burst and I felt I wasn't safe in my own country. I couldn't understand why my innocent friends had been the target of such a brutal act of violence and hatred, their only “crime” being Israeli Jews living their daily lives.In Israel, there is a policy of mandatory military enlistment for both men and women. At age 18, we are drafted into the IDF to serve our country. Men enlist for a minimum of two years and eight months, and women for at least two years, unless they are combat soldiers, in which case they serve the same amount of time as men.It might sound odd to people outside Israel, but here that is the norm. Although this policy is a necessity generated by Israel's precarious security situation, I see army service as a privilege. The responsibility of keeping our country and people safe is shared among all of us and creates a bond that is hard to explain to people who haven't served in the army.

On the Border With Gaza

My military service was both fascinating and extremely challenging. I was assigned to an intelligence department that was part of a larger combat unit. As a part of my job, I gave combat soldiers information about terrorists who were to be arrested. I had access to information that helped me to understand just how many potential terror attacks are thwarted by the IDF before they happen. On the one hand, this realization was terrifying and hard to cope with—so many people want to murder Israeli citizens on a daily basis. On the other hand, however, I was greatly reassured that our army is strong enough to handle this threat, and I was inspired to do whatever I could to further the noble cause of protecting my family, my people and my country.During my first year in the IDF, I made the decision to move to the Gaza border with a group of friends. I moved to a very small kibbutz, called Kerem Shalom, which had at the time about 25 families living there. During the week, I would live at my army base and, on the weekend, instead of going home to my family, I made a new home in Kerem Shalom. The kibbutz is situated 30 meters away from the border with Rafah, which is inside the Gaza Strip, and approximately 500 meters away from the Egyptian border. Over the years, this kibbutz and many others on the border with Gaza have suffered from rocket and mortar fire, causing loss of life and damage to property. This is not only the situation during wartime but a perpetual threat that hangs over the lives of citizens living in this area. There is at least one bomb-proofed room in every apartment, and every few meters throughout the kibbutz, there are bomb shelters. The reason for this is that from the second the siren is sounded that alerts residents of a bombing attack, we have between five to ten seconds to find shelter. Everyone's door is always unlocked, and it's not unusual to have someone bursting in to share your safe space. Children are taught at a very early age to run to the first available shelter, even if this is in someone else's home.In 2014, during Operation Protective Edge, the residents were advised to evacuate, and in the years following the operation, it was understandably not easy to increase the kibbutz population.So why would I move specifically to one of the most dangerous locations in Southern Israel? Why would anyone choose to live there? I firmly believe that the borders of our country are defined by where there is life, and not by walls, fences or military presence. Israel faces hostility on several fronts. If we allow the threat of terror and violence to scare us away from our borders, eventually our tiny country will disappear.After the most recent operation, Guardian of the Walls, during which fifteen mortar bombs fell inside the kibbutz perimeter, and dozens just outside, our community started a project to plant trees. A tree was planted in every hole left by a mortar bomb. In my opinion, the real victory is to increase life where Hamas tried to cause death and destruction. By planting these trees, we bring new energy, light and hope. This is our message.

A tree was planted in every hole left by a mortar bomb.

Why My IDF Service Led Me to Move to the Border

Today, over 40 families live in Kibbutz Kerem Shalom, and I am proud to have been part of this process of renewal.I completed my IDF service 18 months ago. Today, I'm still living on the Gaza border. I currently work in a very special program, preparing Bedouins to enlist in the Israeli Police Force. I teach Hebrew and mathematics and am a group counselor. I am privileged to teach and accompany an amazing group of students, all of whom want to contribute to society. This time around, the military operation was a very different experience for me. No longer a soldier, I was now on the homefront, and it literally hit "close to home.” The program I teach in is also located on the Gaza border; therefore, we were forced to conduct our lessons via Zoom, each of us sitting in our own bomb shelter. Some of my students don't have protective shelters where they live and were as exposed and vulnerable to Hamas fire as we were in our kibbutz. One of my students, who is married to a wife in the advanced stages of pregnancy, was one of those unlucky people who didn't have a safe room in which to shelter. I invited the couple to come and stay in my family's home, which is situated in a comparatively safe area. He was so touched by this gesture, and it led us to a heartfelt conversation in which we shared our experiences. Clearly, we come from very different backgrounds, but we have a very important goal in common—doing good within our own circles, and in this way, creating a positive influence on our society and the world around us.

I have always lived amidst the hustle-bustle of cities during my whole life: a fast-paced existence where everyone remains in a hurry throughout the day. And then last year, when lockdowns and travel restrictions were about to be put in place, I made a spontaneous decision to move to a small secluded village in the hills of Dehradun, India. The village is in Uttarakhand state of India, which lies on the southern slope of the Himalayas: the climate and vegetation vary greatly with elevation. I didn’t plan much about the journey—or how I’d get settled there. And now I have been living here for the last 14 months, and with days passing by, I am more and more convinced that I'll live my whole life here.

I am more and more convinced that I'll live my whole life here.

The Village Is Extremely Small

After I reached it, I learned that the population of the village is just 58. When I arrived, the person who was head of this village came to ask me why I had come. (The pandemic had just started and information about it was scarce.) After some more questions, the head of the village offered me a place to live. Though I was a complete outsider, they were quite welcoming toward me.In the first week, I discovered that the people of this village practice permaculture— the development of agricultural ecosystems intended to be sustainable and self-sufficient. It is an integrated design system that's modeled on nature. The design of their farms saves the villagers a lot of work, energy and eliminates waste. The village has a renewable energy infrastructure, with biogas and solar panels.

The Villagers Are Teaching Me More Than I've Ever Learned Before

I work in the IT sector and all of my work is remote. In the last 14 months, I have explored so many new things, like organic farming, milking cows, running and maintaining a biogas plant, and exchanging fruits and vegetables with wheat and rice from other villagers. I go trekking in the lush green hills beside the waterfall. I am involved in local festivals and rituals. Because it’s very far from any city area, there’s hardly any access to any public transportation. I've also learned how to cook some of the local cuisines. I've participated in some of the local music festivals. People are quite lively here. Villagers are hard-working but are never in a rush. From these people, I am learning how to appreciate all that one has, and to do everything with all your heart.Till now there hasn’t been a case of COVID in the village, mostly because hardly any individual from the outside comes here. And the villagers hardly ever go to the city areas. The village is self-sustainable. But we are now quite aware of the outside situation, and how the pandemic is raging in the country, so the villagers have increased the use of medicinal plants in food and drinks, which they believe are immunity boosters for the body. Though all the families have access to the internet here, most of the time people spend outside in the fields—away from screens. Younger kids are mostly homeschooled. There is an emphasis on reading. While having dinner with one of the families, I discovered that they spend around an hour reading together daily or watching documentaries before retiring to bed. And it’s true with almost all the 11 families.

From these people, I am learning how to appreciate all that one has.

I Am Living My Best Life Here

I hope to stay here for another year at least. I want to explore more of the culture. I have befriended some younger kids, so I would like to spend some time playing cricket with them.For the past 14 months, I've been living close to nature in a pollution-free environment. I have improved my health, both physically and mentally. I have become more productive in my work. I never could have imagined that coming and living in a very small, secluded village would change my life.

I have worked as a state government education consultant for the last five years, solving grass root-level problems and loving my work. But in 2017, my life took an adventurous turn when I was transferred to a remote village in India for a new project. I was tasked with visiting the village's 80 schools, all set in a semi-rural area, to assess various parameters like infrastructure, health and hygiene, learning outcomes, management and community involvement. Until that time, I had always lived in cities and was totally unaware of village culture. The place was completely new for me. Initially, I was very reluctant and skeptical of moving there, but after my friends motivated me to explore “rural India,” I was ready to experience it.

I Was Forced to Hitchhike to Work

In the very first week, I realized that the village’s public transportation system wasn’t good. In some places, roads were unpaved and there was no bus network. Around 60 percent of people owned kutcha houses—houses built with unburnt bricks, bamboo or loosely packed stones—even though there were a lot of Neem and peepal trees. But the project was important, and somehow I had to visit those 80 schools in the timespan of three months and complete all the documentation.On the first day, I decided to hitchhike to a school. To my surprise, the plan worked well, and I got a ride within ten minutes of waiting. As I was navigating my way there, I realized I needed to take four rides to reach my destination. All four times I got free rides very easily. Soon, I got questions about living in a new place. Why did I come there? Where did I come from? How am I managing lodging and food? I appreciated the concern they were showing towards me and I’d quickly met four new people on the very first morning. Working in the school was also smooth and people were quite welcoming. During lunch, one teacher very quickly noticed that I was struggling to eat with my hand without a spoon (that’s how people eat there, with their hands). It was both funny and embarrassing for me, but the teacher empathetically taught me the art of eating with hands. People there believe that eating with hands adds extra taste to the food, which gets missed if eaten with a spoon. I found the logic both innocent and funny. Later that evening, another teacher offered me a ride for about nine kilometers, and after being dropped off, I had to take another two rides to reach my residence. I hardly had to wait for those either. Having met so many new people in just one day, I was euphoric.

It was different here.

I Began to Make Friends With Neighbors and Local Drivers

This continued over the following days, sharing rides with strangers and hearing their stories. It was so much fun to hitchhike seven to eight times each day.One day while returning home, it was raining heavily, and very few people were on the road. I was completely drenched. Then a tractor came into my sight (I was in an area of agricultural fields) and the driver gave me the sign to hop on board. It was the first time I’d seen a tractor in real life and we spent time sharing our stories. I wasn’t in a hurry to reach home, so I also asked about his work and how he spent his day. Sitting beside him, on the front of the tractor, having a conversation, amid torrential rain and high-speed winds on my face, was a beautiful and completely new experience for me. I loved being in the countryside. After a month, neighbors started inviting me for meals with their families. They knew I was living alone and was still new to the place. I got to know them better, but the best thing was the food. I ate so many different types of local dishes about which I’d never heard before. Everything was so surreal. I was completely overwhelmed by their gestures and gradually also started feeling more comfortable around them. In cities where I have always lived, most people aren’t aware of even those who live next to them. It was different here.

My three months there were some of the most beautiful days of my life.

Hitchhiking Has Changed My Perspective

Hitchhiking on a daily basis has also taught me lots of tips and tricks to do it successfully, such as:

• Be prepared to walk all day. One should be ready to approach hitchhiking as a walking adventure with a chance of getting a ride.
• The most important factor for getting a ride is location. One needs to find a place where it’s easy to be seen early (to give the driver time to decide to pick you up), and where the driver can safely pull over. Ideally, there should be some traffic, but also not too much, as this makes pulling over difficult and makes drivers assume that you can always get a ride with somebody else.

My three months there were some of the most beautiful days of my life. The experience changed my perspective towards so many things, and now I appreciate small things around me and in my life.

In September 2019, I boarded a plane with a one-way ticket from LAX to Ho Chi Minh City. My plan was to use Vietnam as a base and travel around Asia for a year. That world was open to me. I had friends in Taiwan, Bangkok and China whom I could visit. I had never been to Malaysia or Indonesia, so Kuala Lumpur and Bali were options. On the top of my list, however, was Japan. I wanted to see the crowded megacity of Tokyo, the majesty of Mount Fuji, and the soft beauty of the sakura festival in Kyoto. I spent the rainy season in Da Nang, where I had settled, planning the trip with a fellow traveler I had met. We had tickets to Studio Ghibli, rail passes and flights for March 8, 2020. Of course, news of the new coronavirus originating in Wuhan, China had already begun to filter in, but we were going to Japan and not China. That wouldn’t be a problem, right? Once Italy began shutting down cities, and then the entire country, we had a decision to make: scrap the dream trip we spent weeks planning or take the risk and go anyway. My intuition told me not to go. Although it was still early on and we didn’t know the full extent of how contagious or deadly the disease was, something told me it was a bad idea. This turned out to be the best decision of my life. Vietnam closed its borders on March 22. Our return ticket was for March 24th. We would have made it to Japan, but we would have found ourselves stuck there with no way to return to Vietnam.

People in Vietnam did not protest because there is no system for protesting.

Vietnam’s Authoritarian Government Handled the Lockdown Beautifully

Then began a different kind of adventure —figuring out how to live in a foreign country during a global pandemic. As the severity of the virus became clear, many of my friends and family expected me to return to the States immediately. However, it turns out that a developing country with an authoritarian government was one of the best places in the world to be. While the citizens in the United States refused to wear masks and argued that a shutdown was untenable, the people and government of Vietnam took a different tack. In addition to refusing visas to tourists for the foreseeable future, Vietnam shut down domestic travel and closed non-essential services such as massage parlors, karaoke rooms, bars, dine-in restaurants, beauty salons and shopping malls. Restaurants were open for take-out and delivery and, of course, supermarkets remained open. Public spaces, including the beautiful beach I live next to, were shut down. Masks were required in public and gatherings larger than 10 were discouraged, and even then with a two-meter distance between. And it worked. Unlike the U.S., everyone complied with the guidelines and our first lockdown was only three weeks long. After a few weeks of no community transfer, everything opened back up. While the world was falling apart, we were able to eat at our favorite seafood restaurant, celebrate a birthday at a karaoke parlor, get a haircut and a manicure and swim in the ocean. As the deaths in the U.S. rose past 200,000 and the infection rate reached one million, we were able to forget there was even a virus to worry about. People in Vietnam did not protest because there is no system for protesting. The government makes the edict with no input from the populace. There is no town hall meeting; there is no petition to sign; there are no representatives to call. As an American, this type of authoritarian government grates against my trained sense of freedom and recourse for redress of wrongs. However, during a pandemic, the authoritarian government handled the pandemic beautifully.

It Was Safer to Stay in Vietnam Than Return to the U.S.

It was more than a government order, though. The Vietnamese people I spoke to took the virus 100 percent seriously from day one. It may be that they had some experience with similar viral outbreaks (SARS in 2002 and Avian flu in 2013). There is a genuine understanding that social distancing, closing businesses and wearing masks work to help the spread of disease. There is genuine buy-in for the process. It also may be that the communist history of Vietnam created a different culture. In contrast to American individualism, Vietnamese culture emphasizes community. There is an understanding that everyone needs to do their part to ensure the health of those around them. As the virus raged on, my friends continued to ask me when I was returning to the United States. It was hard to explain that I was far safer here than I would be there. It seemed ridiculous to return from a country that was COVID-free to a country that could not agree that there was even a pandemic. A second wave hit Vietnam in July 2020 and it recorded its first death. (As of May 2021, there have been just 35 COVID-related deaths.) The second lockdown was more strict in Da Nang, as the outbreak originated here. We were given tickets for the market to avoid crowding and all restaurants, including take-out and delivery, were closed. It was much more emotional as well, as I watched the social upheaval and wished that I could participate in the many peaceful Black Lives Matter protests. We were in lockdown for a total of six weeks. Six weeks of my own cooking and my own company, listening to podcasts and stress drawing. Even so, I would gladly trade six weeks of complete lockdown for months of complete freedom than the continual half lockdown the United States went through for a year.

Vietnam is a microcosm of life after the pandemic.

International Travel May Never Be the Same

By the fall of 2020, life began again in Vietnam and everything reopened. Vietnam is a microcosm of life after the pandemic. I know when COVID cases pop up somewhere in the country not from the news, but by the sudden wearing of masks in public. People resume their life as before, but are cautious and ever ready to shut it down if necessary. At the beginning of 2021, I felt safe enough to travel around the country. I took a week-long motorbike ride along the Ha Giang loop in the north, visited some friends in Ho Chi Minh City, and took a retreat in quiet Da Lat. With the new administration and the efficient roll-out of the vaccine, it seems that I could safely return to the States this summer. However, with the increase in anti-Asian violence, staying in Vietnam still seems like the safer bet. Looking back, I envy that woman who boarded that plane in September 2019. She lived in a world full of possibilities and with so few restrictions. As an American, the only barrier to any destination was a lack of time or money. It seems now that international travel will never be the same. Even with the talk of vaccine passports, there will still be many countries that will be off-limits, require testing and quarantines, and have limited activities available. There is no going back.

I hop in the car, tear off my sweater and slide the window down, letting in the fresh Florida air. The cab drives us away from Miami International Airport and I’m greeted by the driver in a thick Spanish accent. He’s a giant of a man, filling up his entire seat. A tribal tattoo straddles his heaving bicep. A huge hand with two gold rings grips the steering wheel. His mouth is hidden behind a mask. Masks are like underwear now, concealing my favorite part of a man’s face: his lips. I greet him back and he looks at me in the rearview mirror, sitting in the backseat with my dark, curly hair hidden beneath a bucket hat, wearing a tight, thin-strap tank, with accents of gold adorning my ears and neck. He looks away quickly and drives in silence for the rest of our 20-minute ride. Is he repulsed by me, or afraid that he’s not?Later, the tropical sun beats down my neck as I trail along South Beach. I make eyes with a chiseled jogger in tiny purple shorts. In his round eyes and raspberry lips, I see the teenage boys I once knew. Not the white boys who danced around me in the locker room like rabid baboons chanting "faggot," but the Black, Latino and mixed boys I met during quinceañera practices. The boys I taught how to dance, and in doing so, raised their stock with the girls. They didn’t avoid me the way grown men did, or look at me with deficiency like my peers. Instead, they warmed to me, offering me respect and a vague sense of protection. I saw another side of masculinity, one that wasn’t tyrannical. After the quinces ended, I fantasized for years about the men they would become. I look for them in the men I’m intimate with. They must all have this compassion living inside of them, I thought. It’s just a matter of finding how it’s triggered and seducing it.

Usually, the sex is rough and empty.

I Want to Have the Effect on Men That My Mother Did

I first saw the power of seduction as a child at Mami’s side during our errands. As a young, curvaceous woman with long, dark curls, Mami stopped men in their tracks. They would open doors for her, give her discounts at the register, offer to help with her bags as if I wasn’t there. Her playfully flirtatious nature and girlish laugh got her out of more than a few speeding tickets. I saw the world blossom for her. I thought if I carried myself the way Mami did, then the world would open up for me too. In Miami, all my dating app engagements confirm “no fems.” Some guys will suggest that I not wear earrings or wear masculine clothing. That doesn’t work for me. In adulthood I’ve enjoyed cultivating a feminine atmosphere: form-fitting tops, floral body oils and a physique I maintain through dancing. The desired effect: to feel pleasure just by having it sit across from me. The reactions from men are mixed. Back in New York, I’m met with a bit more grace. I feel much freer in expression, and more desirable, even if the man hiding behind a faceless Grindr profile considers himself straight. I’ve played the game of cat and mouse in the past, being the passive mouse who strips away the feminine, takes off all my jewelry, “butch up” my clothing and is happy to consider men a shiny piece of cheese. Usually, the sex is rough and empty. I’m most comfortable playing the cat. I command their attention without demanding it. I question no part of myself especially if I’ve invited you into my home; you’ll take me as I come with the promise of satisfaction. One six-foot-two Georgian man from Tinder meets my warm, wistful demeanor with confusion, trying to convince manhood into me by wrestling. I meet him back with force, grabbing him by the shirt and pulling his lips to mine. His muscles relax as he eased into me before finally surrendering—the sex that followed felt deserved. Months go by before he reaches out again, this time coming over with chocolates—something he’s never done before. He embraces me and we very quickly make our way to bed, with him having me in every position I knew of, and some I didn’t. The Georgian claims to come for sex, but stays much longer for pillow-talk. He doesn’t have to say he missed me for me to feel it. As I rest on his chest, he vents to me about a jealous friend, tells me a bit about Georgian history and, as he’s done in the past, brings up the conversation of gender, as if I’m the American authority on the subject. I taught him about the concept of androgyny, a word he’d never heard before. He asks if I would grow out my beard, I keep from telling him I get it lasered. He mentions he’s not been in love before but wants to marry a woman to procreate. “If daddy ever needs a babysitter, you know who to call,” I joke. He swats my cheek with a smile and kisses me. We have sex again. Each time he’s persistent in making sure all the curtains and doors are closed.

I feel untouchable.

Men Fear Femininity, but They Also Desire It

One night a torsoed profile reaches out. After exchanging photos I realize his profile reads “masc4masc.” Disappointed but stern, I tell him that I don’t regulate myself on the basis of masculinity, so best of luck. He insists on coming anyway. When he gets to my apartment I’m lounging in baggy, hip-hugging sweatpants and a tight tank top, freshly bathed, my skin slathered in coconut oil. I feel untouchable. He’s six-four, Colombian, with prominent lips and bedroom eyes. We exchange a few words before he kisses me, ferociously, as if he’s been bottling up the urge for a while. I grab him by the balls to calm him down and give him an indulgent blowjob. Once it comes to sex, he enters me hard and fast, until I stop him. “Be nice to my body,” I tell him. We kiss again, only this time without pretense. So I lay him down and start riding slow, then fast, and on again. After climaxing, we lay side by side, looking up at my ceiling, and to my surprise he initiates pillow-talk. He goes from gym talk to him admitting he’d never been in love before. He grows silent but looks like he has more to say. As he dresses I ask for his number, he tells me he doesn’t do that.Sliding my underwear on, I give him a quick hug before letting him out. It would be nice to see him again but the chances are unlikely. Oh well. As I look in the mirror to wash my face, I find all my jewelry intact and my lips swollen from kissing. I make a bowl of cereal, light incense and sleep like a kitten that night.

When quarantine first began, I remember being in disbelief. I remember the countless nights I spent crying into the night exclaiming, “Why is this happening?” Denial, shock, anger and acceptance, the stages of grief took over during the first six months. I had been grieving the life that never happened and grieving a life that will never be known. During one late, cold night, I took the time needed to ponder and remember the life that was. It was there that I remembered and missed my commutes, especially my morning commute. The 20-minute walk from my home to the train station allowed me to answer emails, get lost in the rhythms of my favorite playlists, message the occasional international friend and finally arrive at the bus stop. After two buses and yet another short walk to my workplace, I had done all the processing necessary and would be ready for a long day of work. It was not until the dark night of grief that I realized that my commutes were more than just the undervalued space and time one uses traveling from point A to point B. Rather, they were a chance to gather my thoughts and transition into the next moment of the day. A welcoming of sorts. Like many folks, due to the pandemic, I now have the privilege of working from home. As someone that identifies as a bus rider, I had to reconcile with the fact that working from home was only a manifestation of my own privilege. In order to best honor the life that never happened, I thought it was important to also honor the commutes that never happened. And in this process of remembrance and honor, I realized that much of my queerness reflected the commute.I am not the same queer I was at eight years old. Now that I am 30, I can look back and process the metamorphosis of my queerness through what I long for the most: the commute. And just like traveling between work and home, my queerness has involved multiple routes and transfers. Welcome to my favorite bus ride—the ride of my sexuality, the one discovered on the streets of Los Angeles, my hometown.

The bus taught me that I was different in the eyes of everyone.

At the Bus Stop, I Always Assess the Intersection

Growing up, my favorite bus stop was the intersection of Vernon and Vermont. I waited for the 204, the bus running northbound on Vermont Avenue, or what I like to call the “central nervous system of the city.” Every time I wait for a bus, I assess the intersection: How many people are waiting at the bus? Are there any benches? Where do I run to if it gets too late while I am waiting? It’s this same assessment that best explains the first formative years of my young queerness. I think about the number of times I assessed my mannerisms at home. Was I being too femme? Was I not being enough of a boy? I constantly examined my surroundings and environment that allowed my young queerness to live behind closed doors, behind bus benches and in the fantasies of my imagination. Maybe that explains why I constantly read while traveling on the bus. During the early stages of my queerness, I was quiet. I was waiting for a bus that had no destination. I just wanted an opportunity to leave my home.

The Bus System Is a Microcosm of My Queerness

The bus system in Los Angeles is an intricate web of routes that, unbeknownst to many, connects neighborhoods and peoples across the city. In many ways, it’s a microcosm of my queerness. There is a route for every love I’ve found, and every insult I’ve received. The moment I boarded a bus, I made sure I found seats next to the back exit. I always looked for an exit strategy in case I needed to flee. I made sure to never take up too much space—I was always afraid it would draw attention to myself. And though I may know how to command attention now, there was a moment in time when I didn’t like it. At this point in my life, I had expected to only receive homophobic remarks from people my age, but the bus taught me that the otherness of my queerness knew no age limits. I received homophobic remarks from adults and young people alike. The bus taught me that I was different in the eyes of everyone.Aside from being accustomed to the rampant homophobia on my commutes, there were some happy moments—when we as queer bodies recognized each other. Yes, there were gazes that pierced through—you just knew when you were being looked at with disgust. And then there were these gazes that just hugged you based on their eyes. We caught glimpses of each other from across seats. In a jam-packed bus, we found a way to see each other and somehow the city felt less lonely knowing that there were more of us roaming freely on public transportation.I never realized that the moment I acquired a bus pass, I had acquired a passport to the city. I slowly learned to navigate it, but I also learned to silently decipher shadows, seek shelters at stops and learn to be the cartographer of my own queer city. Being from South Central, I mostly associated my hood with trauma due to bullying, but I found refuge in other communities. Whether it was the tar pits of Mid City or enjoying a coffee and a book at the farmer’s market, I escaped my hood and became grateful for the buses that allowed that to happen.

But where are we getting off?

My Trips Were Transformative Because I Knew My Destination

My favorite bus was the 105. It traveled from Huntington Park to West Hollywood, connecting two different parts of my identity. My Latino identity was personified by quinceaneras and all of the shops along Pacific Avenue in Huntington Park. My queerness was defined by West Hollywood’s smell of lube and the cacophony of bass and catty calls. I now never set foot in West Hollywood. But that’s a different story.There are countless more stories like this. The bus route conveys the best part of my queerness—the mistakes, the loves, the lessons. And you might ask why I am still a bus rider. I’m still learning and evolving and changing, which takes us to the end of the line, but where are we getting off?I miss commutes because they are transformative when you know your destination, when you allow yourself to get lost at any intersection only because you know your destination. I’ve been riding the bus for so long now that the map of the city is ingrained in my body. Los Angeles is my hometown, after all. In the same way, I have been living my queerness unapologetically for such a long time now that it is now embedded within my body and spirit. Thirty years later, my body is craving for a new queerness, one that celebrates my brown skin. My internal map yearns for a new city that reflects the same way my queerness is changing and growing. My queerness now responds to joteria, a term that was born out of Mexico, the country where my mother comes from. I’m excited for new commutes, new buses and new bus stations. I’m hoping to find my joteria sitting at a bus stop along La Reforma that reflects my queerness in Spanish, in Mexico City. It now yearns to reconnect my displaced spirit with my mother’s home.

When I was 15, I started sending nudes to a boy at my Catholic high school. He was several years older than me, and we were only connected by tangent: the friend of a friend’s older brother’s friend. This boy was on the football team, preeminently handsome and a little bit short, which I liked. He also had a six-pack which meant a lot to a 15-year-old homosexual having spasmic, orgiastic fits in his bedroom to the idea of Fight Club Brad Pitt tensing his impossibly well-defined abdominals.Naturally, our digital correspondence bled over into reality. On Thursday nights, he would pull his Ford F-150 up to the side of my house and I’d sneak clumsily out of my bedroom window, through the mass of foliage in my front yard and into the passenger seat of his truck. The two of us would drive around for a bit, small-talking, chit-chatting, shooting the shit one could say, while we searched for a place to smash our bits together. I hated hearing him speak. Actually, I hated him, period. In all fairness, he always treated me with respect, and was in most regards a very nice boy. I think I hated him mainly because he was boring. Our conversations reminded me of two faceless people interacting in some kind of perved-out online chat room, more like an inquisitive “A/S/L?” ("age, sex, location?") come to life than a dialogue between two humans. Eventually, once the car had idled into one of many spots by the lake that offered privacy by way of tree and shadow, he would pull me into his sloppy and always overeager arms. I had fun with him, mostly. He was hot, I was young, we both had penises, etc. At that age, I couldn’t—and didn’t—ask for more.

I hated him, period.

Of Course, I Wanted My First Time to Be Special. Of Course, It Wasn't.

On most occasions, usually during a logistical interlude, he would modulate his voice into what he must have thought sounded seductive and say, “Let me fuck you.” And every time he asked, I would flash my teeth like the little faggot I was and smile coyly before responding, “No.” The heart emoji was vocalized in spirit.It wasn’t that I didn’t want him to fuck me. At that point, I had only ever had sex with one person before, a girl lying prone beneath me on the floor of my parent’s living room. Needless to say, neither of us finished. More to the point though, nobody had ever been inside of me. I needed, not wanted, that moment to be special. I knew in my soul that my first time was meant to be some kind of mythic and carnal expression of passion. The boy would beg and beg as I used my mouth or my hands or, on one occasion, my feet to distract him from the fact that he wasn’t inside me. One night, I gave up waiting 'til it felt right. This time, when he asked his perpetual question, I said “Yes.” I closed my eyes and prayed to God it would feel special. It didn’t. Mainly it felt painful. In hindsight, it was probably dumb of me to ask God for anything, what with the categorical sin we were committing with one another in the backseat of that truck. Afterward, as I lay in bed, sore and unsatisfied, I wondered if the girl I’d been inside felt the way I did then. As an adult, I’ve returned to this memory many times to confront why I wanted that moment to be more than what it was ever and always going to be.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want him to fuck me.

All of Us Are Living a Myth

The word I often land on is "myth." We are always surrounded by myth, a grand tapestry of history unfolding and sullying itself against our cum-stained bodies. Girls snap selfies in white boho slips that recall Greco-Roman womanhood, nymphs playfully evading the penetrating eyes of gods. Crucifixes adorn the walls of churches and schools, reminding us of Christ’s sacrifice, the ultimate penetration. Sexy, dark-eyed teen vampires romp across screens and the pages of books, alternately fucking each other and drinking from the throats of unsuspecting victims. In youth, it feels impossible to separate our desires from the continual dunking of our heads into the fractured, kaleidoscopic pool of mythologies stretching out around us. We want our first forays into sexual proclivity to be memorable, magnificent, meaningful. You want to be the maid running from Zeus, transformed into a lustful bull or swan, or you want to be the god himself. You want to be like Christ, suffering for the salvation and stimulation of others. You want to be Bella or Edward, young lovers unable to consummate their relationship because they literally will fuck each other to death on account of their unholy strength.Separating reality from myth is where people run into problems. I myself have reclined beneath a sizeable list of men, hoping that this particular penetration would wind up meaning something. I have stared past many a shoulder, up at popcorned ceilings, and realized that this man being inside of me meant nothing at all. This ironically hollow, almost cosmic realization used to cause me plenty of grief. So, frequently, I would stumble out of passenger doors, hotel lobbies and the odd bush here and there feeling like something had been taken from me but I never knew what it was that had been taken. It took time to realize that this nothingness in turn means nothing. The car crash of my own personal mythologies colliding with the warm and sticky reality of another body was actually the thing that set me free, if you can forgive the cliché. We all arrive at the conjugal bed with our own preprogrammed expectations and ideations regarding the myth of our own body. I can’t help but wonder what fairy tales were playing out in my partners’ subconsciouses as they looked down at me beneath them.

How Do We Learn to Let Go?

We don’t have to let go of our internal folklore, we just have to hold it up right next to the reality laid bare beneath or above us, as if they were two makeup compacts in either hand, held adjacent to one another. Or better yet, vocalize what twisted little narrative is unfolding in our heads. Speak it aloud and allow your partner the opportunity to try and fuse your competing mythologies together at the groin. Honor whatever particular stories have infected your brain—always. Just make sure you’re honoring reality in equal parts. Now, as an adult, I am no longer asphyxiating in the miasma of fable and allegory. But sometimes, I still find myself yearning for an Achilles, a Jacob, to raise me up and out of the mundanity of tongues and hands and dicks and into that place where myth and reality touch nervously at the finger-tip.Controversial poet Lana Del Rey said in a song once, “In the land of gods and monsters, I was an angel looking to get fucked hard.” Same.

When I joined Tinder, I wasn’t looking for a serious relationship. Perhaps it was the seeming endlessness of COVID-19, or maybe I was just going through a lonely period of my life. Either way, I’m getting ready to go on a date with this guy. It’s a bright summer's day in June. I’m bored and want to try my luck. He pulls up in a black Tesla X, wearing a nice fitted blue shirt. Cute. White.I’ve always been interested in power dynamics, growing up looking for a place to belong, both culturally and socially. He looks superficially like a well-rounded person: blue-collar job, well-traveled and a much better communicator than I am. But if you look closely, this appearance of safety is not the same as stability.We go on a couple of dates. Over meals, he tells me about places I’ve never been to, and I can’t help but be fascinated. When my birthday comes, he wants to take me to a spa out of town. He tells me my calm demeanor helps him fall asleep. It's strange how a man with so much experience doesn't necessarily have the same level of understanding of love, intimacy or romance. Small things irk him, how I remind him of his last husband. I am not his ex, but he still sees those qualities in me.

It’s apparent that this is not based on actual love, but more like a forced idea of it.

He Wanted to Sweep Me Off My Feet, but I Just Felt Unstable

After knowing each other for just a couple of months he sends me a detailed email explaining why he loves me and why we should live together. This is a red flag for so many reasons. Having a man proclaim his love for me is validating, but I can’t help but feel uneasy about his overexcited willingness to commit. It’s apparent that this is not based on actual love, but more like a forced idea of it. His recent lovers all looked something like me. Brown-eyed, dark-haired ethnic boys. There is something about the way he eats chocolate as a way of flirting that is, in its own special way, almost perverse. He gives me the keys to his apartment after knowing each other for just a couple of days. Bright, blue eyes and a deep voice saying, “I trust you with this.”I start to feel trapped, both emotionally and physically, when we’re seen in public together. The awareness of my brown figure next to his, and what that would mean for others culturally and socially. What I’ve been looking for is a challenge or a way to learn. Intimacy has always been an issue for me since I could remember. It’s not that way for him. He has been married before while I am fairly new in the dating game. He is good-looking and idealistic. I am a young, creative and pragmatic being. He is a white man, clearly in a state of depression. I can’t help but feel bad for him. “This was good timing,” he says, but for me, it might actually be the worst timing possible. I am newly single and just ready to meet people again. “I am not ready to date as seriously as you want us to,” I reply. “I mean this is becoming too much, too fast.”

His Gaze Was a Trap That I Needed to Escape

He makes me quite aware of my appearance, my exotic looks. I enjoy our acts of intimacy and feel good about seeing my appearance seen so desirably. But there is something else in this external gaze of myself. My ethnic body is being seen as foreign, other, and because of that, desirable. He dresses me up in white pique shirts and colorful shorts. (We clearly have different tastes in style.) When he walks in on me showering, I feel reduced.He admires how I can talk about the arts, culture or absolutely nothing for hours. I can’t tell when he zones out or just doesn't know what I’m talking about. He compliments my dark eyes, tells me they look just like the buttons on a teddy bear. I've always tried to stand up against stereotypes. Victimhood is not something I am proud of. But maybe what makes me uneasy in the relationship is how it perpetuates these differences. Latin stereotypes equal spicy housemaids; temperamental. I can’t escape the notion of being looked at as dirty. He says he loves me, but every kiss he gives makes me feel ice cold.To keep me in this dynamic is almost disrespectful to me. I tell myself in the mirror, I have to leave him, there is no other way now.I take one of his cigarettes and walk outside to the balcony to think. The weather doesn't make sense. Through our differences, I still see myself in him. How we both cling to things for dear life. But we are not a couple, and this is not love. How do I leave a man who has decided I’m the love of his life? How do I leave a man that needs me around every day, but has only known me for two months?The exoticism narrative that I feel is in one way oppressive and unjust to my being. On the other hand, it is a great source of my identity. There is something with being looked at as exotic that I take as a compliment. This is where my power lies.Standing there, the gentle breeze makes me realize how utterly unhappy this relationship was making me. I turn around and slowly go inside the three-room apartment. The key to the apartment must be in the bathroom. I remember I saw it there. I open the door, knowing full well he’s in the shower. “Babe, do you love me?”I don’t answer. He asks the same question again. “I can’t hear you. The water is too loud.” It's the best lie I can come up with. I mumble to make it believable. “Jump into the shower and kiss me, babe.”On the counter I lift up the pants he was wearing. Correct. The keys are underneath.

He compliments my dark eyes, tells me they look just like the buttons on a teddy bear.

Being Objectified Made Me Lose Sight of Who I Am

There is a sense that my ethnicity is preventing me from coming across as genuine or real. When I communicate with men through social media, their view of me is much more controlled. I make myself into a character for their benefit and mine.In certain situations, I am not exotic enough. My knowledge of food, language and culture do not always reach where they’re expected. I am ashamed of my ethnicity. But having it be seen in a positive light, even though it might feel degrading, still gives me some notion of value. I've become quite aware of my own physical appearance. Am I pretty now? Am I desirable? Am I being looked at? In bed I am passionate; being wanted gives me that extra edge. In ways, it helps to think of myself as an object. Not a human being, but something more decorative.I know what I have to do. I undress and jump into the shower with him. This is erotic power play, where I present myself as just as clean and just as equal as him. Still holding the key in my hand, I look into his bright blue eyes. His face expresses something between shock and lust. I know getting wet like this is counterproductive, but it’s a decision I only could make if I was sure of my case. I am leaving him, no matter what it costs. I stop the shower and hand him the keys. Before he understands what this gesture means, I exit the shower, grab my belongings and get dressed. Another power move, as I escape out of the door.

It’s a weekend in May 2016, and I’m driving into Brooklyn from my home in rural Pennsylvania to meet K. She and I have met face-to-face only once, but we’ve been texting and emailing for months, in the odd rhythm of relationships that start on the internet. That one time, she was visiting her family in a nearby town in Pennsylvania. We went to see the skinhead bloodbath movie Green Room in a multiplex, then flirted at a chain restaurant, then I drove her home to her parents. It was very cute and it was definitely not a date. This visit isn’t a date either.For a long time, I was scared of everything. I had very real things to be afraid of; I have experienced real violence in my life. But the biggest fear was for anyone to find out how inexperienced I was. I was scared of my body.A lot of that terror was never letting anyone know that I was a virgin.

I hated myself.

I Bought Into the Myth of the Adult Male Virgin

In our culture, 31-year-old virgins shoot up movie theaters. They don't have or deserve anything resembling a cool, exciting life. I had internalized all of these cliches and decided that I deserved my misery and shame. I was ashamed of myself for many reasons. Virginity is a spiral, self-perpetuating and metastasizing. The longer you allow that vision of yourself, the more real it becomes. So this isn't a date. We’re not attracted to each other. The change in our interactions online—talking to each other all day for months—that’s not anything. Her inviting me to visit her in the city—that definitely isn’t anything. K. and I are the same age: 31. She works a day job for a repertory theater in NYC. and I’m a journalist. We both work in comics on the side. She's won awards and published multiple books, while I’ve recently had my first story published. Her work is a lot like her: brilliant and horny and ambivalent. Aquarian. I’m passing through the Holland Tunnel in the Chevy Impala I bought from my sister when she went away to medical school. It will not survive the year. The Pennsylvania-to-NYC drive is a miserable and stressful commute, one that kicks the legs out from under my towering anxiety every time. I do not care. I go anyway. I park in a sketchy garage in downtown Brooklyn and wander into the theater just after K. finishes delivering her lecture about the lasting iconography of 90s anime in modern culture. She grabs us beers and we duck out to get food. I have lived within two hours of the city most of my life and have barely traveled there on my own. The previous time was about a year earlier to go see a restoration screening of Heat at the same theater. I’m so anxious, I didn't even realize I was in the same building. The organizer of the conference continues to send K. confessional texts for the next two hours about how much he hates the party, not realizing we'd already left. A theme in our brief relationship is that everyone quickly falls for her. She accepts that part of her job as a creative woman on the internet is having strange men obsess over her. Later she will tell me she's sold her underwear on Craigslist to make rent. I should have learned a lot from this, but most importantly, I should have picked up from our in-person chemistry that I wasn’t just some random person on her phone. I must say, from my perspective, K. is light-years out of my league. I will find out I’m wrong about that too.

I Couldn't Wait to Have Sex, but the Anticipation Only Made It Better

Being a virgin didn't make me radioactive. I just hadn't related to people up until this point. I hated myself. I had no real understanding of who I was and fell into preexisting narratives. After some BBQ and industry gossip, K. leads me back to her neighborhood in Greenpoint and takes me up to her apartment. It's tiny; she lives alone with a cat, in a kitchen and a single bedroom. She has a drawing table at the end of her bed and Japanese movie posters from the 60s on the walls. We sit in her room and talk for another couple of hours. She plays Yoko Ono's Approximately Infinite Universe. We talk about catching the 70s porn retrospective screening at the Quad. Instead, we go to a nearby bar and spend a few hours there. The DJ plays the Church's "Under the Milky Way" and we keep drinking and accidentally touching each other. A couple gets kicked out of the bathroom for fooling around and we laugh. This is not a date. Rationalizing that I have to sober up before I drive home, we walk back to her apartment to get my bag. We sit on her bed, just inches apart, and talk, imperceptibly moving closer. She says, "I haven't felt this way about anyone in a long time". All day long we’ve been dancing around how closely we've been watching each other, the hyper-awareness of the other's gestures. I want to live forever in this moment of anticipation, the expansion of time before the act. It's the most cinematic experience I've ever felt. Then we finally meet and kiss, moving swiftly. More intimate than the kissing was how intensely we stared at one another. We both start to say out loud how we feel, an expulsion of horny demons. "I jerked off to you." "I jerked off to you," she says. "I came home from work the other day on the train and couldn't help myself. I didn't even take off my headphones." She lays back on her bed. Her skirt falls in a way that I can see her panties. "I just laid down right here and did it in my clothes." I get very handsy. She puts on Portishead's second album; she puts on Roxy Music's first album; she puts on Nick Cave. She stops midway and says "We're not going to have sex tonight." I say okay. "You should spend the night." We grind against each and messy-drunk make out. After I lick her neck, she says, "This is like a Jess Franco movie." We eventually decide to go to sleep and recline in the dark in silence, spooning, pressing our bodies closer. Her cat scratches me in the dark and I very silently hold my cut fingertip in my mouth so I don't get blood on K.'s white bedspread. I don't think I slept more than an hour.

When It Finally Happened, It Happened Fast

K. wakes up before dawn, in the morning half-light, and turns to me "Get up, we're going to have sex." Before I can react and ruin the moment, I just go with it. I put on a condom and she climbs on top of me. I kiss her nipples. She leans her hair down into my face.Still, I am very awkward at first. Early on, I feel like the condom has slipped off and stop to check. She says "Did you come?" I instinctively parrot back, "No, did you?" and she laughs exasperatedly, like "No!" with an unspoken Jesus fucking Christ behind it. I kiss her neck and she climbs back onto me. I feel myself shift gears into something less self-conscious, my body chemically allaying my normally all-consuming self-analysis. As she pulls her hair back, I notice she has a tattoo just below her elbow on her forearm. She starts breathing heavily. She's moaning as I grab her ass and pull her closer. Her expression shifts to ecstatic and she's fully in her body for a moment as arches her back and climaxes. She slides her knees up to my ribcage and squeezes. She says, "I love this" and I say without stopping, "It's my first time." She’s incredulous, but I nod so earnestly that she believes me. We both laugh, and she rocks back on her elbow like Catherine Deneuve. "If I had known that, I would have put on Kate Bush.” I ask if she wants to change positions and she says, "No, I want to see your face when you come,” which is still one of the hottest things I've ever heard. She keeps riding and climaxes again. "Let's stop,” she says, lying down on her bed next to me. "Do you want to come on my tits?" I rip the condom off and stand over her at the head of the bed. She sucks my cock briefly and then angles her chest towards me. The sun has risen and I can see the semi-unhinged want in her eyes as she looks up at me. I am so hard I can't come, which is an experience I had not had before. After a few minutes, she shoves her fingers in her pussy and uses her wet hands as lube to jerk me off. I ejaculate on her collarbone. She smiles. I feel time skip.It didn't last. We long-distance dated for the summer then hurt each other's feelings. I moved to NYC a couple of years later after saving up. I don't talk to K. anymore. She is incredibly successful and, I hope, happy.

If you're scared, do it anyway.

Losing My Virginity Brought Everything Else Into Focus

That night set off a domino effect of seismic realizations. Five years on, I have separated myself from my family. I no longer work in or even pay much attention to comics. I am sexually active (and bi, if that means anything). I have a lot of friends that I see face to face, not just online. Everyone I have talked to about this since doesn't care at all. What was shocking wasn't that losing my virginity had changed me, but that it had become a non-factor.If there is anything I'm still ashamed of, it's how much of myself I had locked away. Sectioned off. There were tangible reasons, of course. Child abuse and inherited mental illness and poverty, but they all shake out to how little I understood about myself. I'd struggled with my sexuality and my own body, my relationship to my family, my job, even where and how I lived my life. It doesn't matter what you think about yourself and what your circumstances have dictated. That day, I realized how little I knew about what I was capable of, and have spent the past five years doing things that scared the hell out of me and only have become more and more myself. Your mental image of yourself can be dangerous, and it can be wrong, and you can turn out to be a completely different person. If you're scared, do it anyway. After that night with K., she tells me she lost her virginity at 17. She played Air's first album. She says "I have some self-esteem issues," then goes to her kitchen to make coffee and blast Can's Ege Bamyasi. We then go to breakfast; she's beaming and wearing psychedelic yoga leggings and a Les Rallizes Dénudés tee. She tells me in depth why she loves J.G. Ballard even if he's a bad writer, and goes back to downtown Brooklyn to get my car with me. We make out in my car one more time, take pictures of one another and don't know what to do in our overwhelming excitement. I drive back to Pennsylvania.

“Have you seen Glee?” one of my high school classmates asked my friend and me as we sonorously sang “Telephone'' by Beyoncé and Lady Gaga. We both shook our heads. “How can you not have seen Glee when you look so much like some of the characters?” But wait! I look like an actor? As in someone on TV? Unbelievable! At the time, as an effeminate man in an extremely conservative and femme-phobic country, people like me were being raised to constantly question what we thought and felt, and dismiss any ideas that there were others like us. This had, in more ways than one, put an image in our heads that we were alone regarding certain things, and that we'd be alienated from all environments and rewards if we didn't "act right." On my way from school that evening, I hopped into a movie store to purchase the DVD. I needed to see that person who looked like me. It felt important. Why? Well, I was a really young but not-so-naive boy who was just trying to play and navigate through life, subtly fighting for acceptance and against the insecurities that came with being young, effeminate and Nigerian.

Every piece and play was a reality I'd struggled to live with in my early teen years—a total reflection of all my experiences

Movies and TV Showed Me Who I Was, and Who I Wanted to Become

At home, I slotted the disk, and there it was: a very beautiful young man who sang to the admiration of everybody. He was effeminate, struggled with toxic masculinity, had a very supportive father, didn’t make very close friends (at least until later on in the series), lied to stay invisible, and had a relationship life that didn’t quite fall through (at least until the story further progressed). I was stunned by how the scenes made me feel. Every piece and play was a reality I'd struggled to live with in my early teen years—a total reflection of all my experiences, so much so that I could not tell the difference. Too good to be true!The next day, I went to school feeling refreshed after watching about eight episodes. I honestly couldn’t stop, but there was really no way I was going to skip school. Because why would I? I needed to show these verbal bullies—since physical bullying had strict rules—that I had found strength in something, and this might just be the birth of a bolder, stronger person. (Also, because my mom would literally sweep me out into the street if I’d refused to go to school.) That was indeed the end of it—or if not totally, then at least to a reasonable extent. It felt brand new and refreshing.As I grew older, into a season of newness and awakening, I began to seek out movies that had a level of cultural inclusion and expression to them: Black, indigenous, queer, marginalized. I found that these movies projected the courage and knowledge I needed to wedge into an argument—critical arguments, I mean. My next queer-dedicated movie was Freak Show, based on the book by James St. James, where Alex Lawther effortlessly plays Billy Bloom, a nonconforming teenager who pays endless tribute to the words and life of Oscar Wilde. Freak Show was such a great watch. I obsessed over Billy’s androgynous style, how he wore a wedding gown to class and ran for homecoming queen. He had the level of confidence and awareness I needed. I googled his looks and the designers he wore, learning what that style was and how to boldly pull it off. In doing so, I inadvertently found the power of fashion and realized that we're limited only by our minds. I found confidence in the beauty of expression, and I totally needed it.

A lot of us are finding ourselves, defining our own paths and feeding off the experiences we see represented.

Screens Showed Me Queer Struggle and Introduced Me to Queer Joy

Because Nigeria is a country filled with very dense ideas of what should and shouldn't be, it was difficult to not conform. Here, there's a template of how to live, how to react, what attitude to show, how to process and how to receive information. Anyone who doesn’t show the desired level of conformity is harshly shoved to a corner. This way, they kept everyone on their desired tracks, and in so doing, purposely kept the keys to expression, exploration and nonconformity. No one wants that, especially a growing teenager. Although I do not remember sequentially all of the queer movies that came in after that, I do remember that Alex Strangelove and Love, Simon—and the beautifully talented actors Daniel Doheny, Nick Robinson and Keiynan Lonsdale who starred in them—made me find strength in love and communication. I played more than a few scenes in my head about my crush after seeing those movies. There’s so much beauty in queer love and culture, and I truly cannot wait to have a genuine lasting experience.Also, after 24 years of existence, I am finally finding true strength in the power of family and friendship after seeing the movie Boys in the Band and the TV series POSE. I’m pretty sure these were the first times I saw and understood what a ball or a house mother was, and now I’m all the more intrigued by how queer culture experiences and celebrates itself. I didn’t even think we cared so much about ourselves to organize hangouts, parties and houses just to rejoice in our existence. Those movies and shows had a lot of twists and turns, but they were exactly what I lived for: the untethered, unscathed truth, the very raw and unrefined exposure, the renderings of queer life. They are everything for me.These things need to be displayed more on our screens. Young queer folks and the successors of queer ancestors need to have some sort of guidance because whether or not these truths are accepted, all of these things we see on-screen are like a life manual for us. There’s so much to learn. A lot of us are finding ourselves, defining our own paths and feeding off the experiences we see represented. There’s an obvious truckload of experience, and it is up to everyone to follow through. It’s inspiring, to say the least. Please do not stop!

My first encounter with makeup was watching my mother getting ready in the morning. I stood outside my parents’ room on the landing of our sunlit apartment and listened to her humming to jazz. The music drifted into other rooms to open the day.I began by observing, watching YouTube videos of girls cooing over the textures of eye shadows, lipsticks and Egyptian magic creams. The hunt was on for the perfect product that would bring out a better version of me. It was exciting to become familiar with the aesthetic of different brands, and every item I tried was another chance to hit the jackpot of the perfect one. I searched for items to achieve the kind of lips, brows and complexion I desired. Endowed with the confidence I felt wearing makeup, the items I used were no longer disposable commodities with a shelf life, but talismans I called upon for the spark I needed.As I grew up, looking presentable and pristine became the conditions of me taking up space in the world. A sense of not being enough as I am had always been with me, like an old friend. I felt uncertain about myself in public settings, but when I’m made-up, I am certain of my appearance. Behind a screen of beauty, I looked out and I knew that other people would see this prettier version of myself that I had created. I couldn’t be a girl who never had her you-know-what together, was Chinese (whilst living in a predominantly white society) and ordinary. At least if I were beautiful, I had partial control of how I was perceived. I could be in any room and breathe easier, knowing that I am safe under the cloak of my appearance.

At least if I were beautiful, I had partial control of how I was perceived.

I Lost Sense of Who I Was Without Makeup

After a decade of seeing my bare skin only in the process of putting makeup on or taking it off, my brain started to interpret makeup as a part of my face. Being barefaced wasn’t like being naked without clothes on, but being naked without skin. I had forgotten that pores were normal. Anything that marred the smooth canvas of my skin irritated me to an irrational degree. My bare skin was a mistake to be corrected and restored with foundation to the way that I was supposed to look. Arriving at the recognition of my own reflection as someone who resembled me, but was not me, I had placed my own likeness in the uncanny valley.Before going on a date once, I felt so uncertain about myself and the other person, I stood in front of the mirror routinely scanning my face with my fingers and picked at the bumps on my skin. Before I could stop myself, I had wounded my skin deep enough that no makeup could cover. When I look my best, I extend myself easily, there’s a tone of certainty in what I say, and I have faith that my appearance will carry me over any first date jitters. Looking at myself in front of the mirror and seeing just how far I am from the version of myself I had to summon in the morning, I felt emotionally exhausted to go through the drill again. On that night, when my inner and outer realities diverged to a point beyond my ability to bridge them, subconsciously I removed the option of showing up as someone more complete than I was feeling. I called in sick the next day and canceled the date.

I felt more and more at home in my body as each day went by, and as new skin was revealed underneath the shedding.

A Freak Accident Made Me Show My Real Face to the World

I was in my early twenties when I became conscious of my belief that if people found out the truth about me, they would be appalled. My selfishness, my anxieties about the future, my indecisiveness, jealousy, pettiness and mood swings all had to be hidden. I had to earn the right to be loved, and if I weren’t pretty, polite, achieving good grades and fulfilling whatever other expectations appropriate for that time, I would not be loved. As more people became attracted to my appearance, the more alienated I felt from myself and others. I wanted to be enough as I am, to be seen as I am, and loved as I am—yet I doubted the affection of others when I knew they never interacted with the real me, only the actress. Thus I turned my attention to people who made me feel as bad as I felt I deserved.The routines which were cemented in my brain started to come undone almost by accident. In my second year of university, I visited my best friend on the island where she spent her childhood summers and discovered that my concealers were no match for the Caribbean Sea. My makeup routine was discarded upon arrival when I acquired a sunburn by day two. I couldn’t apply anything even if I wanted to. Aloe vera only! I felt more and more at home in my body as each day went by, and as new skin was revealed underneath the shedding.A few years later, I met a boy who saw me and loved me for who I am. He forgave me for big and small things, and he raised a shelter over the weakest parts of myself. Months after our relationship had ended, I still can’t explain to him why I haven’t moved on as efficiently as he had. To have loved without any masks on, and for the space we created to have caved in under me as abruptly as it did has left me untethered. I know that my capacity to love remains the same, but our love was the first home I came home to. Like my mask, I’m still learning to leave it behind.

In January, I took my first dose of estrogen. I decided to start my transition and embark on my own journey with gender-affirming care, also known as hormone replacement therapy (HRT). The estrogen I’ve introduced to my body will achieve a certain level of physical change. I have never been happier in my entire life. I don’t believe giving the reason behind my transition is required, but I do want to talk openly about what motivated me to do this because I have a strong feeling that someone, even just one person, might benefit from my story. I know when I was first struggling with the decision to begin HRT that I felt that there was hardly anything out there that spoke to what I was personally feeling. My intention with this piece is to encourage people to take a deeper look into the meaning of identity, our self-imposed limitations and ultimately expand our understanding of what it means to be trans or to transition.

Our identities are forever changing, growing and expanding, and exploring my gender is simply the next chapter of my journey.

The “M” and “F” Boxes Didn’t Apply to Me

I’ll start by prefacing I came out as a gay man when I was 17. I came out as non-binary when I was 24. And now I’m coming out as trans at 28. It is very important to mention that there isn’t just one way to be trans, something that I even had a hard time understanding at the beginning. Our identities are forever changing, growing and expanding, and exploring my gender is simply the next chapter of my journey. I want this to be super clear: This is where I am presently with my identity and this may change, and that’s OK. It’s my journey, my own experience, and it is by no means meant to be representative of all trans experiences. I hope you will afford me the same leniency and space to explore my identity that I had to learn to afford myself. Today, I identify as queer, non-binary, trans, trans-feminine and transgender. I no longer identify as gay. And, transparently, I’m having a hard time identifying as a trans woman at the moment because I believe the term “woman” is indicative of wishing to achieve yet another level of the gender binary. Although, like anything mentioned in this essay, my feelings towards this may change in the future. I learned from past mistakes to never speak to my identity in finite terms; rather, I embrace my continuous growth and evolution. For the sake of this piece I will be using the term "trans" when referring to myself, my experience and the transgender, GNC (gender-nonconforming), non-binary community. In our society, regardless of how much I wish it wasn’t the case, there are two recognized genders: man and woman. And while there have been strides made to be inclusive of trans individuals, I feel that a lot of people's understanding of what it means to be trans is, simply put, a man trying to be a woman, or a woman trying to be a man. It is easy for people to understand that because it's just a matter of checking the “F” box instead of the “M,” or vice versa. But it’s so much more than that. What I’d like to pose is, what if there were more options? What happens when the “M” and “F” boxes feel like they don’t apply to you?If you’ll bear with me, I want to recount what I’ve experienced and the moments that ultimately led me to start gender-affirming care. I think we can all agree that 2020 was a hard year and, truthfully, I wasn’t prepared for it. Like for many of us, the solitude led to a lot of thinking. Fundamental questions would arise about my life and the life I wanted and, this time, I was forced to address them head-on.

I Often Prayed Not to Be Gay

Since I was a child, I’ve questioned my gender hundreds of times throughout my life. This is nothing new. The question of whether I was trans or not has come up for years and I would often satiate its persistence with “I don’t think so,” or, “I don’t have a hatred for my penis so I must not be.” These answers would suffice until a few months or years would pass and that question bore its way back into my mind. 2020 forced me to look at it and address it. For the first time, I couldn’t distract myself from that line of questioning. My heart knew that it needed answers and it absolutely petrified me. I haven’t told a lot of people this, but growing up, I used to spend my time after school in the shower crying, praying and begging God not to be gay. Growing up Catholic, I thought that would work. I remember promising myself that I would never be gay, as if it was a switch that I could just turn on and off. I was so afraid of not being “perfect” in the eyes of others. Think about how crazy that is. Let's just say, as I started to look back on my past, I began to see a pattern of denial.One morning, I decided to give myself permission to explore this side of myself. “Maybe I am gay and so what?” I said on waking up. At that moment, everything changed, and I came out to my mom that morning. I literally woke up from a sex dream of a guy I had a crush on in high school, and when I woke up there was no denying it anymore. I loved men! It was like a eureka moment to me, even though my queerness was probably obvious to everyone except myself. I just hadn’t come to accept it.

Trans People Are Rarely Considered Loveable in Pop Culture

My journey with gender identity has felt similar to this. And this time, as the questions around my transness would arise, my denial would slowly erode. I’ve always been someone who was different in both the straight world and even the gay world. I’ve never really felt connected to gay male culture, and even in that world I’m not the “standard.” It was like I came out of the womb just looking for somewhere to belong. But as I’ve gotten older, I care less and less about belonging and care more about being happy. Oftentimes, my desire to appear perfect to other people has led me to cater to what I believe other people want instead of actually listening to what I want. The fear of no longer seeming perfect, or no longer being desirable to others, was enough to dictate my identity, and ultimately have ramifications to my mental health. In short, I was deathly afraid of being considered unlovable. The sad truth is I didn’t believe that trans people were considered “loveable” to other people. It’s the reality that I, until recently, hadn’t seen a trans person in pop culture or in real life that experienced the type of love that all other people are free to experience. It was the irrational belief that if I were to transition, no one would love me, and I would just need to be OK living a lonely existence. In reality, I was in such denial of who I was that I believed I would be happier being what I thought someone else wanted just to be considered worthy of their love. This is the farthest thing from true. Trans people are loveable. It took knowing that real trans people of all experiences have fulfilling, healthy and loving relationships that I was able to finally address this fake belief. I had to reprogram my own mind and deconstruct this fallacy, one that likely came from the often sad and tragic narratives about trans people force-fed through the media. Many trans characters in mainstream entertainment are cast in such a negative light—most get murdered, find addiction and die, or get a disease and die. In this context, how is someone supposed to believe they are worthy of things as simple as a loving relationship? The lack of inclusion and variation in trans narratives is the very reason I knew I needed to share this vulnerable part of myself with you.

I Experienced a Different Kind of Gender Dysphoria

Another dangerous belief that delayed my gender-affirming care is that being transgender means having an aversion or hatred for the sex with which I was biologically born—that a hatred for my body was required in order to qualify for the right to transition. To really drive this home and make it as simple as possible for you: I do not hate my penis. Confused? Here’s the deal. Most of us trans and non-binary people have complicated relationships with our bodies to begin with, and most people often assume we just detest them, that we simply view ourselves in the mirror with disgust, loath our genitals and regard our bodies as something we can never accept. That we might happily use these parts for sexual pleasure is often shocking and hard for some to compute. And while my genitalia is not a source of gender dysphoria for me personally, it can be for many trans individuals. But it is not the default, and it is not a qualification to determine whether you are trans enough.For those who don’t know, “Gender dysphoria is the feeling of discomfort or distress that might occur in people whose gender identity differs from their sex assigned at birth or sex-related physical characteristics.” It’s nearly impossible for me to explain how it feels to experience, but I will do my best. I didn’t experience gender dysphoria in that way, but I did when it came to other parts and aspects of my male body. From the beginning, I was born in a body that was “non-traditionally male.” Meaning, I’m not tall, don’t have big muscles and I don’t have a lot of body hair. My body innately started at a more feminine baseline, which is not the case for many trans-feminine people. And while I never developed that hatred for my male parts in a similar way to what common trans narratives portray, I still experience gender dysphoria. The onset of secondary male sex characteristics, like hair loss and thicker body, has affected me. I think it’s often been used as a joke in my family because my level of anxiety when it comes to these things has always been extreme and can appear comical to someone on the outside. And, please, before your mind confuses this as an issue of mere vanity, let me explain.These particular secondary sex characteristics aren’t the only thing that has prompted gender dysphoria for me throughout the years, but the impact of these particular traits has left ramifications to my mental health and has left me to venture into the dark spaces of my mind where I would rather not go. As these secondary sex characteristics became more prevalent in me over the years, I realized I was ultimately going to have to age like a man. No matter what I did, I was destined on a course towards an inevitable end I knew that I didn’t want for myself. Suddenly, the feminine disposition I was born with, which comes naturally with being young, didn’t matter. In fact, it was slipping away from me with each passing day. There was nothing I could do to hold onto what femininity I did have. The amount of anxiety I felt waking up would grow in intensity with each buzz of my morning alarm until it became debilitating. I was bedridden, in a weeks-long depression. I felt trapped and subscribed to a future I didn’t want.

I now see my transness as my superpower. I believe that I am neither man, nor woman, but simply me.

I Hope My Story Helps Others Like Me

The hardest part of all of this has been coming to personally accept this part of myself. It took months of fighting, trying to convince myself that this wasn’t who I am, and doing my best to justify why I am not trans. Looking back, I think I would have inevitably gotten to this point in my life and possibly would have gotten here earlier with my current understanding. And I’m very sure that no one chooses this life for themselves—quite honestly, it’s not easy. This is just truly and purely who I am. And as I continue this journey, I have begun to love my transness. Once ashamed, I now see my transness as my superpower. I believe that I am neither man, nor woman, but simply me. I believe trans people transcend our understanding of society and experience life beyond the limitations of most people. I feel as though I have achieved a "me" who is completely uninhibited and untethered from society's expectations, and I believe I am capable of anything, endlessly. While my path and journey are hard ones, I feel so blessed to be transgender. I believe through my vulnerability and sharing my story, I may possibly help someone, possibly even save someone. And I fully intend to commit my life to the visibility and inclusion of transgender people of all backgrounds. I realize where I am privileged, and I intend to use my privilege to uplift my community. I will share my story, loud and proud, for all of us to hear and to remind people, we are here. And for those people who have struggled with their identity like I have, or identify as anything of than cis-gendered, I want to let you know that I see you. It doesn't matter if no one else can, because I do.

Back in 2012, I started taking an interest in Tantra to learn about the capacity for our bodies to transmit energy in subtle and overt ways. As a cis, heterosexual guy, I saw the potential to alchemize my sexual obsessions into powers. I believed these powers could draw women to me and, when interested and open, could even bring them to ecstatic states with little to no physical touch. This was my deliverance, an evolution beyond the trifling games of dating and unfulfilling casual sex and into the mystical magic of deep, real human connection. I took myself, and this exploration very, very seriously.I would go to workshops and meet Tantricas, breathwork guides, masculinity coaches and energy practitioners who would speak of orgasms occurring in non-physical ways through the sheer movement of energy. I would conspire in my journal and amongst friends to create group touch circles, where we could explore these realms in open, consensual ways. Looking back, I wasn’t sure how consensual I was in sharing these circles with other men but I was definitely keen to find a few ladies to “journey” with.

I couldn’t believe what I was watching.

I Tried Giving Women No-Touch Orgasms

One day, I followed my curiosity down a Google hole of Tantric videos until I came across a demonstration of “Tantric massage.” I couldn’t believe what I was watching. Here was some schlocky guy, dressed in white, hovering over a massage table where a beautiful blonde woman—also in all-white spandex— was getting a “massage.” The man didn’t touch the woman in a sexual way at all—to my recollection, he didn’t even touch her. He moved his hands up and down her body about an inch to two inches from her skin, waving and pulling air around her, moving it with both hands like he was pushing water from her legs up to her neck, then pinching it away like he was sprinkling salt on her from afar. He held one hand over her head and another moved and swished around her torso and gut. It was all very surreal to watch. Slowly, but very clearly, the woman started to move and make noise. Her back arched and she started to moan. There was no doubt she was enjoying the experience and the massage was arousing her. I repeat: I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Without any real physical touch, this normal-looking guy was bringing a woman to orgasm by moving air and energy around her body. I was blown away.I vowed to figure out how to do what this guy was doing. I wanted to learn how to use my energy to make a woman cum without touching her. This felt like the ultimate power. I began feeling this desire when I would talk to women, trying to energetically bring them into arousal through sheer will. When I had the opportunity, friends or dates would give me the chance to practice with them on the couch. I’d have them close their eyes and then mimic the motions and movements I saw on that YouTube video. After five or ten minutes of movement, I’d inquire, “Did you feel it?” Some said they felt something, or maybe they heard my hands moving around them; others didn’t feel anything. I persisted and kept practicing every chance I got.

I Felt Superhuman After a Successful Attempt

One night, I was at my house with a new friend. We had kissed once before but she articulated that she just wanted to be friends and, though a little bummed, I let it go. Somehow in the course of the evening, I mentioned my studies in Tantric massage and her ears perked up—she wanted to try. I was a little hesitant at first, as she said she wasn’t interested in romance, but I thought I could keep things PG and maybe have some energetic success. She got on the couch and closed her eyes. I slowly and intentionally brought my energy into my hands by rubbing them together and orienting my attention towards them. Then I began to move them above her body. I swooped and pushed, drew back, held steady and continued for a while, my knees getting sore as I remained knelt over her. After what felt like a while, I saw her beginning to perspire a bit. She was moving and breathing audibly. I could sense a change was occurring. Excited by her body’s feedback and ignoring my physical discomfort, I continued to move my hands and circulate energy from her head to her pelvis to her heart and even her feet. Finally, she opened her eyes. “Wow, I really felt that,” she said. Then she asked if she could kiss me. I was pleasantly surprised. Not only did I get the magic to have an impact on this woman but now she did want to make out. We began kissing and, while fully clothed, the physical touch seal was broken. Through the thick denim in her jeans, I was able to bring her fully to climax. I felt superhuman.

I felt superhuman.

Tantric Massages Still Need Consent

This wild experience motivated me to play with my energy while having conversations with women or just hanging out. Sometimes we’d both be interested in energy work but our definitions weren’t always the same. Maybe we’d move or meditate together and I’d start to raise this out-of-body strength. Once I was sitting in meditation with a friend and she stopped us by saying she felt my energy overtaking her. It freaked her out and she was uncomfortable. I realized at that moment that consent still matters when it comes to energy work. Just because we can expand beyond our bodies doesn’t mean we always should. In fact, it’s very important to know when it’s appropriate to use this kind of sensual energy in an interaction and when it’s not. Since that “call-in” with my friend, I haven’t really found myself “playing” with this sexual energy in random spaces. Now that I have someone I plan to spend my life with, we occasionally practice “sex magic.” We light a candle and bring intention, breath and our own focused energy into our intimacy. I feel grateful to have someone who is game to exchange energy with me instead of a one-way massage, and we can break the physical touch barrier to deepen our experience from the get-go. Nevertheless, I’ll always be proud of my ability to transmit sexual energy without touch.

I lost my virginity at 21 years old. Funny, right? You’re supposed to lose it in high school before your parents got home from work, or in a hotel room after prom. Except, I never had a boyfriend in high school. And my prom date was gay.I was a late bloomer. I had my first kiss at 18 and was sexually intimate for the first time at 20. It wasn’t because the opportunity never came up; I just never had the confidence to do it. Because I lacked experience, I drank to have the courage to flirt and hook up with guys. I was so afraid of embarrassing myself. I thought if I wasn’t good, they’d be too drunk to remember. The last thing I wanted was a reputation as the awkward virgin. My younger sister had sex before I did. I was a virgin sophomore in college, and my 17-year-old sister had been deflowered. I wasn’t surprised, given my sexual history, but it hurt. Any bit of confidence I had was gone. Finally, at the ripe age of 21, I lost my virginity to my then-boyfriend. We were both virgins, so I felt comfortable being intimate without fear of being judged. Of course, it took a while to get the hang of it but, once we worked out the kinks—no pun intended—we were pros.

I made a list of every man I’ve ever slept with.

Using Sex to Boost My Self-Esteem Was Empowering

A year and a half later, I moved to Chicago, and after a few months of long-distance, we decided to call it quits. Since I got a late start sexually, I thought I needed to catch up, and that’s exactly what I did. I went on a sexual shopping spree. I made my way through dating apps, bars and the men in my community. I made a list of every man I’ve ever slept with. At first, it was something my friends and I could laugh about later but, eventually, it was a reminder I wasn’t a loser anymore. As the list grew, so did my confidence. I craved the attention I was getting. I felt empowered. I finally had the upper hand, after being intimidated by men for so long. I was surprised by this newfound confidence. All the fears I had about being judged by my inexperience disappeared. Everyone looks for validation and I ran with every inch I got.Word got around about my promiscuity. Now, I had a different reputation. “She’ll fuck anything.” It wasn’t true, but you can’t defend yourself when someone’s mind is made up. The people close to me expressed their concerns. They wanted to check in and see how I was feeling. I never felt out of control or that I was putting my health—mental and physical—at risk. Everyone sleeps around, right? I thought your 20s were about having fun. Sex was “just sex” to me. I thought all you needed was physical attraction to sleep with someone, so I never understood why people made such a big deal about waiting for “the one.” It wasn’t until I added my heart into the mix that I knew it was something more.

Disassociating Sex and Self-Worth Meant Being Vulnerable

I changed my attitude toward sex by choosing to put my emotions before my body. Unfortunately, I went out with guys who told me what I wanted to hear, who said we wanted the same thing: a relationship. I trusted them when they said they liked me, that they wanted to see me again. They didn’t feel like one-night stands, but I quickly learned I wasn’t getting the happy ending I wanted. I was just another piece of ass. When I called them out, they made me think it was my idea, but I didn’t want to be someone’s Friday night—I wanted to be their Sunday afternoon.They took advantage of my vulnerability but, then again, I gave them the opportunity. I gave myself away. I put myself in those situations, with no one’s help but my own. I slowly lost the confidence I had gained so quickly. It affected my self-esteem, making me think I wasn’t good for anything but my body. It wasn’t until I met my boyfriend that everything changed.

I blew it, again.

My Self-Worth Is So Much More Than a List of Names

The first night I met him, I thought I’d never see him again. I told him I wasn’t going to sleep with him that night; I couldn’t ruin another chance with someone great. He never pressured me. I told him I wanted to wait to sleep together. He was more than respectful, but I let the alcohol take over, and I caved. When it was over, I went to the bathroom and cried. I blew it, again. I lost self-control after I tried so hard to keep it. I knew the deal: He’d get what he wanted and leave. Instead, he stayed. We spent the entire day together and fell in love not long after that.Now, it’s his attention I crave. He tells me how beautiful and kind I am. He makes me feel sexy and tells me all the reasons I’m a good person. He loves me for my heart and my mind, not just my body. I wish I’d have given him more credit that night we met. I assumed he was another hookup who’d be gone before the sun came up.I finally have my Sunday, my Monday, my every day. I feel important every day of the week, and I never worry about waking up and that feeling’s gone. I also deleted the list. It isn’t important anymore. I don’t need a list to know my self-worth. It’s a number. It doesn’t define me. It doesn’t make me a lesser person. Maybe I should’ve done things differently. Maybe I should’ve put myself first. I grew into my sexuality quicker than I thought I would, but I don’t regret it. It led me to the man I’m going to marry someday.

In my defense, I had no idea how sexy my feet were. Had I been aware, I might have been on my guard against kinky strangers trying to prey on them. But for better or worse, I was totally clueless about the ravishing appeal of my lower extremities when I met a charming stranger at the farmer's market and was seduced into an affair of the feet. There I was, picking through the heirloom tomatoes when I suddenly felt a pair of eyes on me. Looking up, I met the gaze of a terribly good-looking stranger. So handsome that I had to glance subtly over my shoulder to be sure he was looking at me, and not some L.A. model standing behind me. Flustered, and with my curiosity aroused, I pretended to focus on the piles of fruit in front of me. When I worked up the courage to take another peek, my mystery dude was still staring. But now a feeling of familiarity began to wash over me. “Have I seen this guy on TV?” I thought. “Or do I know him from somewhere else?” But because I couldn’t place him—and also because I was in a long-distance relationship—I decided to simply enjoy the ego stroke and walk away. And this is where my feet got me into trouble. Instead of marching me straight back to the office, they turned me around to take one last look. Mischievous little beasts. Now Mr. Seriously Handsome was walking straight towards me with a broad smile on his face. And that’s when it hit me: OMG, that’s the flirty French waiter from the wine bar I went to last week! Flattered that he would cross several tables of produce to talk to me, I thought fuck getting back to work on time, and decided to stay and have a chat.

Who the hell was I?

A Photographic Proposition Turns Podophilic

After the whole “Hey, do you remember me?” thing, we officially introduced ourselves and had a perfectly normal, mildly flirty chat. And just when I was thinking I should probably get back to the agency, he came out with it. “Hey, I noticed you wear a lot of open-toed shoes, and I’m doing this project where I photograph people’s feet. Would you mind meeting me in the park one day so I could take some pictures?”You’d think by this point there would have been alarm bells warning me to abort the mission, but no. The only way I can explain my lack of freak-dar is that I worked in an advertising agency full of edgy designers, all of them with side projects that seemed equally weird. The wine bar guy was also at least ten years younger than me, and I couldn’t imagine he was really interested. So I gave him my number and headed back to the office thinking he was just another crazy L.A. artist/waiter.The next day, he called me and we arranged a day to meet at the park. But when that Tuesday rolled around I had to call and cancel our little photo session because a long-awaited Indian trunk was finally being delivered to my house.“That’s OK,” he said, “I can come to you.” Caught off guard, I gave him my address. And this is where a mild panic began to set in. Number one, because he could have been a serial killer. Number two, because I wasn’t sure my nail polish was right for the shoot. Number three, because I had never quite gotten his name straight. So now some nameless French serial killer was on his way to my apartment. What the fuck was I thinking?!He showed up within the hour and was so cute and charming that I immediately relaxed. And I came clean about the name confusion which he finally set me straight on. (But in order to protect the names of mildly kinky Frenchmen, we’ll just call him Jean Doe.)He was super easy to talk to, but as we chatted I noticed he didn’t have a professional camera on him. When he did finally get around to taking pictures he just whipped out his cell phone. Then he posed my feet on a chair. Click. On the terrace. Click. Coquettishly crossed on the carpet. Click. It was all starting to feel a bit odd, but the conversation kept flowing naturally as we took a seat on the couch. This is when he reached out, ever so suavely, and took one of my feet in his hands and began to massage it.It felt vaguely wrong, and yet so incredibly good. And though I kept telling myself I should stop him, I could never get the words out of my mouth. I mean a Frenchman with movie star good looks was giving me the best foot massage of my life, and I was supposed to resist? Come on.

My Resistance Was Futile

And then it happened. Just when I wanted to groan with pleasure, he bent over one of the objects of his affection and started sucking on my big toe. I gasped and pulled my foot away without thinking. But did he flinch for even a second? No. He just pulled my foot back to him like an errant little sheep that had wandered from the flock and started caressing it again. All the while, we talked about music, work and life until he moved over to my other foot—this time with no toe-sucking.When he finished, he thanked me as if nothing weird had transpired, kissed me on the cheek and left. I assumed that the pictures he took were for his spank bank and that I would never hear from Jean Doe again—something that filled me with a sense of relief, and my feet with a vague sense of disappointment.I was ready to write it off as a funny anecdote when he called me again a few days later and told me he was looking at my pictures. Uh oh. I should have hung up, but did I? No. Nor could I resist when he invited me over to his place to cook me dinner. What can I say? My feet are sluts. He was also a perfect storm of temptations: French, a cook and a wine lover, who I now knew gave a killer foot massage.With more than a twinge of guilt, but unable to resist, I agreed to what was obviously a footy call. Merde!I showed up at his place the next night. Just like before, we joked around and had a perfectly normal conversation. The pasta, cabernet and strawberry tart were also amazing. But I knew where all of this was heading.So as the evening progressed, I allowed my wayward feet to meander over to the couch and place themselves in his lap. They were, of course, given the royal treatment. And when he began to kiss them, I didn’t pull away this time. Nor did I hit the ground running when he unzipped and pleasured himself while fondling my tootsies.Oh, the thrill and shame of it. Yes, the wine probably helped, but there was no denying that I had essentially whored my feet out for a good meal with a handsome stranger. Who the hell was I?Aside from the kinky foot play, the whole evening seemed perfectly normal. He was considerate and utterly charming the entire time. Still, when I walked out the door I decided that this bipedal affair must come to an end.

It felt vaguely wrong, yet so incredibly good.

Our Footy Affair Had to Come to an End

That is until he invited me to have lunch at his place the following week. Oh god, this was becoming a thing! “But if there’s only action below my ankles,” I told myself, “It’s not cheating.” And with this rationalization, I promptly accepted his invitation.This time I was treated to shrimp with smoked paprika and a nice white wine from his collection. Before I knew it, we were kissing on the couch. There went the whole “below the ankles” theory out the window. Eventually, he did move south to my feet, which were like putty in his hands. He caressed them while he got off again, and then asked if there was anything he could do for me. Racked with guilt, I forewent the offer and instead asked him a question.“Why feet?”“I’m just built that way,” he replied, nonchalantly. And while I felt more curiosity than anything about his fetish at this point, my little tryst with Jean Doe began to feel rather sordid. Especially since he had to rush off to a friend’s wedding right after we finished. My feet might be a little slutty, but they definitely deserved more. This time I walked out, and never crossed his doorstep again, despite him calling me from time to time for about a year. (Apparently, my feet had that certain je ne sais quoi.) When I look back now, I cringe a little bit, not at his behavior, but at mine. He was perfectly OK with who he was. But I was obviously a little more of a freak than I was willing to admit—not to mention in a relationship.So why did I do it? The food? The wine? The foot massage? Because it was forbidden? Or was it just the attention from an incredibly handsome man that made me pimp my feet out? I’m not sure I have the answer. But I do know my feet will always remember him fondly.When it’s all said and done, I suppose it could have happened to anyone. At least anyone with attractive, naughty feet. What can I say, friends? Vive la foot fetish!

In my experience and research, and in the historical precedent of aesthetics as a tool of both domination and liberation, blondeness is one example of how my supposedly banal, everyday visual identity felt like co-signing a colonial mindset. As a beauty industry worker and critic, I’ve been noticing that there are these things we do to acquire personal power, but we may not want to acknowledge how those choices are enforcing old, negative systems. To unconsciously categorize, rate, judge and classify ourselves and others based on physicality is something that happens every day. I feel it. I read about it. It’s classist, racist and patriarchal. And when I trace it back in time, I find that it’s why the salon industry exists in the way it does today. I’ve recently been considering the difference between beauty and aesthetics. I think beauty is a subjective projection onto someone. “Oh wow, you’re beautiful’’ is a classification, an observer's appreciation of characteristics that has everything to do with context and culture. I have been told I’m beautiful. I have been told I’m ugly. On the other hand, aesthetics are what we choose to express with our own bodies and adornment. Aesthetics are how we create our personal vibration. Both aesthetics and beauty are social phenomena, and tools of communication, dependent on the perception of ourselves and others. It’s another piece of the human tendency to organize, control and classify one another and everything else we encounter on this planet. In questioning the concepts of beauty and aesthetics, I’ve turned an analytical eye toward the idea of blondeness.

I am a blonde, I am glamour-fem, imbued with power, ambition, soft and sharp, innocent.

Blonde Hair Symbolism Is Everywhere

Blondeness is much different than simply being a blonde person. It’s Madonna, Lady Gaga, Marilyn Monroe, even Ivanka Trump. It's larger than life, frequently a signal of class, status, the pursuit of “perfection,” designed to inspire aspiration. I like to think that one hundred percent of the time, blondeness is achieved by applying a series of chemicals to the hair to remove and oxidize the melanin molecules in the hair follicle. To intentionally acquire it is to endorse and acknowledge a perception, a “standard” of feminine beauty. I’ve had many experiences stemming from an unconscious bias concerning blondeness. In politics, in Hollywood, in media, in queer culture and in salon culture—every time—it’s a statement or a reference: I am a blonde, I am glamour-fem, imbued with power, ambition, soft and sharp, innocent. I can afford blondeness, and that has more than a touch of domination in the cultural-historical, racialized, patriarchal, exclusionary kind of way. We have inherited blondeness as a code for hyper-whiteness and privilege; it holds space in colorism and hierarchy.

I Inherited My Fake Blondeness

I’m a caucasian, beige-skinned, white woman. I have a big body and skeleton. For about half of my life, I had a fat body. I always have felt beautiful and have cultivated and varied intentional aesthetics over different periods. I was born with light brown hair and it got a bit darker as I got older. I’ve even had two eras of blondeness in my own life. Looking back, I can see how those eras of blondeness happened around times of extreme pain and loss, when I needed a crutch to help me become something else. In the first era, I was 20. I remember this kind of high-femme superiority, which satisfied a sense of being apart in a way that felt powerful. I got a lot of attention. I actually became something else by having different experiences in the world. I noticed this glamour-fantasy-image part of my identity being nourished. In that era, I was deeply related to my maternal grandmother, my main role model in all things feminine and a woman deeply committed to blondeness as a thing: elegant, long nails, jewelry, shoes, a smoking cigarette, a style-centric vibe.I recently interviewed my auntie to discuss blondeness in our family. She has very clear memories of our familial fake-blonde inheritance. She spoke of my grandmother, who married at 16 and rapidly had four children and became a widow at 41. After her husband died, she arrived home from the salon “with her hair in a french twist and the softest blonde.” My grandmother had discovered that she got a boost from her blondeness, and she decided she wasn’t going to let that go. She went steadily blonder until achieving platinum. She kept the platinum color until she passed at 92. Over her 50 years of blondeness, she wore blonde hair, blonde wigs and drawn-on blonde brows. She became the thing, the image, the identity.

Blonde Power Is Real

The second era of my personal blondeness lasted almost ten years. It took about a year to change my dark, color-treated hair into absolute platinum power blonde. It wasn’t only the physical process of removing color that took time, it was also the mental-emotional process of progressively wanting to be more blonde. I was committed. I even bleached my brows. At points, I went over the edge of blondeness into a kind of subverted-fantasy-alternative version of my blonde self, and admittedly, I loved it. In times when I wore a more classic blonde tone, it was easy to inhabit the image of being blonde. It made me feel soft. I was in drag, wearing a prosthetic that allowed me to avoid doing the work of standing precisely in my voice, relevance, beliefs and contribution to place and history. Who was I really, beyond a consumer of culture, eating nice treats from cafes and restaurants and feeling like I was supposed to feel good about myself for it? Who was I, as a person, beyond being an artist, where I lived and how much I was earning? The crisis is easily avoided until it can no longer be avoided: What impact am I making? What do my choices mean to the social ecology and the environment, and not only in relation to the gentrified neighborhood or scene of the city/place/space?

I was becoming committed to disempowering myself.

Deciding to Give Up My Blondeness

Five years ago, I moved to Mexico. I noticed that blondeness was everywhere—on billboards, advertisements, television, with people selling makeup, fashion, mattresses, cars. It also appeared in churches, deifying the blue-eyed, blonde-haired Jesus. Colonization of the American continent expanded the reach of the Euro-Western classification philosophies of the time, and their contemplation of an ideal human image.In this country, I’ve met a lot of non-Mexicans who are utilizing blondeness as a power play. I’ve had conversations with some of these women, who consciously choose to engage in a sense of superiority based on the fake color of their hair as an indicator of their whiteness. The entitlement is visible and palpable, and it’s extraordinarily clear that it is founded in the perception of their self, and the exploitation of (literally) color-treated blonde hair. Isn’t that absurd, how tenuous and propped up one’s self-perception can be? About five months into my life in Mexico, I took my blondeness back into the territory of subversion, wearing unnatural tones. And then I cut it off. I knew it was time to step away from blondeness and go natural. I had been observing and witnessing the dynamic around colorism and bias. I was becoming committed to disempowering myself. Once I began to see, I chose to decodify. It was a powerful transformation—not the hair color and length, and not even the shift in people’s perception of me, but coming into a crystal clear understanding of what aesthetic codes and symbols were seen to make me who I am.

You may have read recently that Willow Smith has come out as polyamorous. As the young cultural icon herself explained, polyamory—sometimes called consensual non-monogamy or ethical non-monogamy—is an arrangement between a couple that they can become romantically and sexually involved with other people.I have been in a poly relationship for seven years now. When I first raised the possibility of seeing other people with my long-term male partner, I was in my early 20s and we had been together for three years.

Despite knowing all this, when he first told me that he had been with another woman I was gut-wrenchingly devastated.

Monogamy Doesn't Make Sense

I argued that the central promise of monogamy is a lie and that by buying into it we degrade our own critical thinking and shrink the possibilities of our lives. The promise of monogamy is that that if you form a contractual agreement with your partner that you will not have sex with or act on any feelings of attraction to another person, then the two of you are saved from loneliness, despair and jealousy. You will be together as partners and comrades, and the agony of dating and the terror of singledom will no longer be the scourge in your life that it once was. A cursory glance at separation and divorce statistics makes for a salutary lesson in this regard. High incidences of infidelity are a reminder that monogamy does not come easily, and anthropological arguments suggest that it may not even come naturally. My partner and I discussed how many other harmful ideologies are passed down to us by way of tradition, like white supremacy, misogyny, hatred of fatness, hatred of poor people and the imperative to define ourselves by what we buy and what job we have. We pride ourselves on dissecting these ways of thinking, assessing the evidence and coming to our own conclusions. Why should monogamy be any different?These conversations were fraught and frightening. “I want to see other people” is a very difficult thing to say and an even more difficult thing to hear. We have been trained to believe that this means we’re in jeopardy, that our relationship must be failing and that we are no longer attractive or lovable. My partner’s masculinized ideas about owning the rights to my body came to the fore, since it was the thought of me being with men, not women, that hurt him so much. But ask yourself, what diseased notion of love would have us believe that by forbidding someone from making meaningful connections with other people, we can prove that they really love us? In fact, it is by knowing that we are free to choose anyone else at any time, and yet keep coming back to each other, that shows a real connection—one based on freedom and trust, not fear and control. In what other realm of our lives would a monogamous arrangement be acceptable? One of the great joys of our friendships is the variety of people we can know and learn from and share with. Indeed, research shows us that a diverse social life is a core predictor of longevity. It is the variety in our diets that protects and vitalizes our health. It is the range of music, the different styles of art, the diversity of our book collection that enriches our lives. And yet, despite knowing all this, when he first told me that he had been with another woman I was gut-wrenchingly devastated. I sat down on the floor, the wind knocked out of me. I cried and then felt deeply embarrassed by my reaction. I felt rage at him (How could you do this to me?), I felt fury at myself (Why have you invited this onto yourself, but also, why aren’t you woke enough to deal with it?) and I felt anger at a cultural context that had taught me to have this reaction. Jealousy of a partner is a poison which has been drip-fed into our cultural diet through every romantic comedy we have seen, every news headline of an “INFIDELITY SHOCKER,” and all the archaic religious hangings-on of the sanctity of marriage, rooted in women as property.

Our Relationship Has Room for Multiple Partners, but Not My Ego

Two years ago I met my girlfriend. One of the key draws of a poly relationship for me is that I am queer, and being in a straight-presenting relationship felt like a loss of something important to me. She’s seven years younger than me, and I’m in my late 20s, so the age difference is sometimes quite palpable. It is difficult to understand if some of the problems we encounter are because of our poly arrangements (she also has a boyfriend), or because of our age difference (I am frustrated at her childish tendency to manipulate and play the victim rather than to communicate with confidence and clarity) or because our personalities are simply not compatible (I am emotionally aloof and do not tolerate anything that feels like manufactured drama). I am jealous of her boyfriend. This is ridiculous because I have a fiancé and a shared history with him going back a decade. My girlfriend and her boyfriend spend a lot more time together than she does with me. She tells me how much she loves me and how special our relationship is. I feel the same way about her. I continue to be jealous of her boyfriend. I think things like, “If you love me so much, why did you ask your boyfriend to go to the seaside with you instead of me?” I think things like this despite the fact that if she had asked me, I would not have gone, because I was too busy with work. She knew this, which is why she didn’t ask me. I am ridiculous and pathetic. This is quite a fun and refreshing realization in a contemporary moment that is obsessed with projecting toxic positivity and a veneer of performed self-esteem.

We need variety to make a good life.

Polyamory Isn't the Answer

I was a strange and bookish child, like Wednesday Addams but blonde. When I was eight years old I started writing an instructional guide on the meaning of life. This pensive tendency has stayed with me into my adulthood and has led me to experiment with many different things in an effort to understand what is going on, why I feel so weird and what to do about it. Drugs are not the answer, travel is not, solitude is not—neither is company, working, writing, illustrating or performance art. Polyamory isn’t the answer either. Perhaps though, they are all little pieces of the answer and, just as the core message of polyamory teaches, we need variety to make a good life.

Prostitution is found in almost every culture, yet the topic is still taboo, and people still look at sex workers as heinous criminals. Society holds biases against people like me who do sex work without ever trying to know about the reasons we do it. Many sex workers choose to participate in sex work to explore and express their sexuality, while some participate in sex work due to its flexible working conditions. Some individuals don’t have the luxury of choice and pursue sex work due to poverty, inadequate education or lack of an economically viable job. I do it because I am really good at what I do. It makes me feel alive. Like any job, my work requires skills like creativity, emotional intelligence and time management. Often sex workers are respected confidantes, making sex work one of the more acceptable forms of therapy for stressed-out professionals. My clients have always respected and valued me for my services. During, and even after, the physical intimacy, they respect my body and my feelings and want to make sure I’m comfortable with what they want to do. It can be a very strong bond that we form with our clients. Many of mine struggle emotionally because they have lost loved ones or are going through a rough relationship or career crisis. They need someone else's perspective on life, with whom they can be honestly themselves, and let someone else be in control of their existence for a moment.

Like it or not, there’s nothing inherently wrong with prostitution.

Sex Workers’ Rights Are Nonexistent in Most Places

Society has historically used words like “sex worker” and “prostitute” as insults, a way to treat individuals as second-class citizens. They treat us as not worthy enough to even glance at, let alone talk to. Even normal tasks like getting an apartment are very challenging for us. I am completely devoid of a social life—nobody wants to be my friend, nobody wants to even have a normal conversation with me. It’s hard. Having to depend on oneself for everything, and not having friends and family to talk to, is emotionally debilitating In the Netherlands, which legalized its sex trade in 2000, all sex work is performed through businesses, and the rights of employees are very well respected. It’s perfectly legal for driving instructors to offer lessons in return for sex, as long as the students are over the age of 18. Like it or not, there’s nothing inherently wrong with prostitution. What is wrong is how people like me are treated in places like India, where sex workers are often labeled as less than human, both in cultural attitude and in public policy. We are often forced to operate out of dingy houses in seedy neighborhoods, without proper protection or oversight.

I have no idea how I’ll survive if the pandemic continues for much longer.

Support Sex Workers by Giving Them a Voice

Society's judgments and biases are reserved for sex workers, and not for the people who pay for sex. There is a huge demand for it everywhere—in India, in London, in New Zealand, in Australia. In the pre-pandemic era, clients used to have to book my services two months in advance throughout the year. During the pandemic, when there are so many becoming unemployed or jobless, nobody is talking about the situation for sex workers. Just like other jobless people, we are also suffering financially to cover our basic expenses. All my savings of the last five years are on the verge of being exhausted. I have no idea how I’ll survive if the pandemic continues for much longer. I imagine a world where we will be treated as normal humans, worthy enough of the respect given to others and the right to live with dignity. Individuals can help sex workers by not devaluing our work and the effort that we put in. This means not using derogatory terms, like calling people a whore for the way they look or the sex they have. It extends to not saying things such as, “Ugh, I’m going to drop out of university and become a hooker,” because our work is not easy, and for some people in our industry, it isn’t empowering or enjoyable, but a necessity in order to feed ourselves. Of all the ways to respect sex workers, the most effective might be just listening to our stories and experiences and thus empowering our voices. Sex work is work, and sex workers are workers.