I have ulterior motives
(CW: transcribed F slur)
I met up with a close friend today. He has not seen me since before my transition. This is not his fault, but mine; manifested as a horrible urge to hide from people who have known me longest. It feels there is more of a history to dispel. There is a subconscious desire to go back in the closet and pretend everything's okay.
I asked to meet him today, to have lunch during our breaks, like old times. He chooses a nice, cheap Japanese place and orders a Karaage Don, while I get the Teriyaki Salmon.
He confesses, off-handedly, that he's glad I asked to meet up. It's been a while.
I hide the fact that I have ulterior motives.
The thing about having a tattoo is that, well, people always want to talk about it. Sure. Whatever. I'll take the icebreakers.
"So that sleeve--" he starts.
Heh. I have focus-tested this story enough times. I have distilled it down to an essence. I have him bawling with laughter within seconds, especially because I can be as animated and silly as I want while telling the story in person.
"...It really hurt."
"I'll fucking bet!"
It is good to start out with laughter. Occasionally, I catch him looking me up and down, as if he doesn't quite believe this is the new me.
I am staring only into his eyes. I am checking for something.
It breaks my heart that I have ulterior motives.
We are in high school and we are two awkward lonely boys.
We meet by chance, talking about the manga we have been reading. He asks me for recommendations. I list off the popular ones as a defense mechanism. I am signalling that I am cool and up to date.
He tells me he likes romantic comedies.
I brighten up instantly. I tell him that I love them too (even though inwardly, I feel that I shouldn't, because isn't that stuff for girls?). And then, in shame, in utter embarrassment, I somehow find the courage to tell him that...
Well.
The type of manga I really like reading is this genre called 'Yuri'. But I'll understand if he doesn't like that kind of stuff--
He tells me instantly that he does. He says it's great unless it's under this weird category called 'Touhou' because then the storylines don't make sense.
I do not find out what 'Touhou' is until a week later.
I ask him how things are going. I tell him that I love him.
He smiles awkwardly. He shrugs it off. It is normal for both of us to do this. We are not deserving.
He says work is good, blah blah blah, and HR wants him to take time off. When he didn't, HR hounded his manager to tell him to take time off. Then HR hounded his boss to tell him to take time off.
"...Do I have to tell you to take time off?"
"Nah. I will. Maybe I'll visit Australia."
The food arrives. I am surprised at the free bowl of miso soup. We dig in.
"You're looking great," he says. "Honestly."
I know.
I cut a very nice silhouette. I dress well too. I considered a longer, more formal skirt today, but unfortunately I gave in to vanity and chose a short, flared one because I like showing off my legs.
It's nice receiving compliments.
"How did you--"
"Pilates. Three months."
"Figures."
"I've been slacking like hell recently, though."
We laugh. And then, I take my chance.
"Would you like to know more?"
We are still in high school. He invites me over to play games. His house is a mere five minutes walk after school.
Despite the invite to play, well, mostly he plays some cool single-player game he wants to show me and I watch, all enraptured. This is fine. I do not need to be in the pilot seat. I am having fun. His company pleases.
We discuss silly things. In the heat of the moment, he tells me, "Yeah, I pretend I'm a girl a lot. Like, I look at things from the perspective of a girl all the time--"
Oh, I think. I'm not alone in doing that. It's normal. It's totally normal to dream about being a girl. He does it too. All the time.
We are just two normal boys in school.
A few years later, I start dying inside.
I know this because my university photos all show a man with sad eyes hanging over a smile.
I tell him about my journey. He listens.
I tell him that I cry every day. But it gets better every day too.
I tell him that I have never felt so loved in my entire life. That it almost feels unreal the people I have met along the way.
I do not tell him about that dragon, dysphoria. I do not mention how it might be killing me.
"So, like, HRT, right?" I say. "They always say that anything up to six months is reversible--"
"A fucking free trial, you say?"
We burst out laughing.
"Yeah," I reply. "I think most people know if it's right for them after a single week."
I tell him that the mental changes come first. He asks me for examples.
I say that I've lost my capacity for anger. It's not like it existed much in the first place--I am not one to hold a grudge, ever--but I genuinely can't be angry now. I count one instance in the past five months (I am not ready to talk about it publicly yet) and even then, it lasted less than a minute.
"What do you feel then?"
"Uhhh, that horrible thing a lot of girls do. Inward self-blame. Even when it's not my fault."
He hugs me. (If it helps with the visual image, we are sitting side by side at the bar.)
"What are you doing the rest of the time?" he asks.
"Crying, I guess."
"Damn."
"You know, every transwoman I know tells me puberty shouldn't hit me this hard. Not unless there's a precedent."
"How was your first one?"
"Fucking terrible."
"Ah, yup. Same for me."
We laugh.
And we talk about sex. It's a topic I'm rather comfortable with, especially with him.
He asks me if HRT changes my sexuality.
I told him, absolutely not. All it does--I mean, this happens once you start questioning heteronormativity--is that you just become more honest with yourself.
"...There's, like, 10% of me that likes men now. I think."
He laughs. I know he's experimented with bisexuality in the past. I think he might be more of a kinkster than me.
We talk about genitals and other stuff. We talk about my entry into polyamory.
I am an open book.
"But what's really been taking up your time these days? I'm still on Genshin, are you playing anything?"
I haven't.
After a moment's silence (the teriyaki salmon don is actually pretty great), I tell him that I've been trying to learn how to live.
I do not know how.
HRT does not magically fix what's broken inside. I explain that just because I am finally 'true' to myself, it doesn't mean I know what to do next. Things feel so empty. Your prior actions, your old personality, all that feels like a mask and--
"Maddie, that's just everyone," he says.
"You feel that?"
"We're all dead inside."
I look at him. My heart breaks.
"Yeah."
I do not push.
We are in the final year of high school. His actions have changed. I watch his personality become softer, girlier, and I can tell he is exploring.
I should've been proud. Instead, inwardly, I tell myself to never do that. Men don't need to explore. Men should never embarrass themselves in that way.
The kids in our class start calling him a 'faggot'. The coolest kid tells me, specifically, not to hang out with him anymore. I regret that I almost do. I wanted to fit in so bad. My friend notices that I am distant for a few days. I end up hurting him.
That cool kid is now a misogynistic, right-wing bastard who is (unfortunately) married with a kid.
And that 'faggot' remains one of my closest friends.
We have both graduated from university.
He has become stronger, tougher. At some point, he shot up to 194 centimetres. He makes short jokes about me constantly. I remind him--ahem, ahem--I am at least, if not above, average height.
He grows a beard, a fantastic looking one too. But he dresses like a lesbian.
I rib him gently on this.
He admits it.
I think nothing on it ever again. Until now.
"What's the worst part?" he asks. "Did you ever think what would happen if you end up ugly?"
There's the rub. If this question offends, please know that he is good natured in every way. I do not need to sell you on the virtue of his character, but I would testify for him in court if it ever came down to it.
"Of course," I told him.
It's that famous tumblr meme again: gifted boy who believed he didn't deserve love unless he was smart turns into a girl who believes she doesn't deserve love unless she's pretty.
I am always surprised at how universal this is. It supercedes everything else, even the fear of transitioning. The question is always some form of: Will I be pretty? Will I pass?
"...You just have to trust it, I guess."
"Do you?"
"Fuck no. I'm terrified being almost six months in. Logically, I know there's more changes to come. Every day I think to myself what if the changes stop here--"
"What if you plateau!" he says with a laugh.
"Yeah! Look, everyone's going to tell you to trust the process. It's just hard to actually believe them."
"What do you do?"
"I lie to myself."
"Yeah?"
"I'll lie to you now, too, if you want."
"Go on."
"...I'm gonna be so hot in one year, just you wait."
He bursts out laughing. After a moment, I do too.
Haha.
...I'm dying, squirtle.
Again, I am afraid to bring up that dragon, dysphoria. I do not tell him how violently it hurts.
I do not tell him that I cannot stop crying.
His lunch break ends. I walk him back to his office.
"Jesus," he says. "What brands are you wearing? Where are you shopping from?"
"Macklemore."
The empty silence tells me this is the wrong crowd.
"I thrift," I say. I tell him that I like things from small designers because they can take more risks, so their clothes give more interesting cuts. Other than the basics, my entire wardrobe is thrifted.
"It's fun!" I tell him. "You should see my coats!"
"I bet."
We reach his office too fast, too early. I know he worries, so I tell him that I'm better now. Truly. It is a privilege to even transition in the first place.
I am staring at him in the eyes.
I do not push.
Instead, I remind him that if he ever wants to talk, I'm here.
He gives me such a tight hug when he leaves that he almost squeezes out some tears.
We part.
I do not look back. I am afraid of what I might see.