The upright speakers at the front of the reception hall invite the couples up to slow dance. I sit beside AJ at our table, next to his mom, watching the new husbands and other couples file onto the wooden dance floor that reminds me of the blocked flooring you might find at a grandparent’s house. I watch them all until my hand is grabbed— have you ever slow danced before? My cheeks warm up the same way they tend to do when my anxiety disorder takes control, but they are quickly cooled: come on, I’ll teach you. AJ leads me onto the stage, putting one hand on my waist and the other holding one of my own. At first, I see it all: his family around the entire room behind us, the other couples amongst us, his mother; her glare I assume she wears. I feel it—
He starts to sing, gently, like he’s singing a lullaby. I meet his eyes: some things are meant to be. Everyone fades away. These words, his eyes, his touch— for I can’t help falling in love with you.
~
My high school day started as normal: awake at 6 am, off to the bus stop at 6:40 am. At 6:41 am, with my Michigan basketball shorts on, my dad stops me. He won’t let me leave for school. Put on some pants or you can’t go to school. This was before I told either of my parents that I was transgender, that I wanted to grow up to be a man. In an effort to ease my gender dysphoria, the medical diagnosis for being trans, I stopped shaving my legs. Years ago, my mom was ecstatic when I asked her how I’m supposed to shave like the other girls at school did. She was glad to explain the process to me. When I stopped, however, both of my parents were very unhappy. To them, I was rebellious, trying to make the family look bad; that’s what they told me. They wouldn’t have me be like this in public— they were ashamed of me. They sent my sister off to catch the bus while my dad physically blocked the front door. He was in his typical stance, the disapproving arm cross, the glare, the scowl. He ripped my backpack from me. I will never forget the feeling of the roughly-padded straps being scraped across the back of my arms. I put sweats on over my shorts so I could go to school, but I planned to strip them off when I got to school. I knew what awaited me if I forgot to put them back on before I left at the end of the day.
I searched for approval elsewhere; I started talking to Diego, who lived about 15 minutes away from my parents’ house, on Grindr. He was fairly attractive: his head was a sort of pear shape, complimented by his dark beard and flashy earrings. We both loved horror movies, so after our first date, we arranged to hang out at my parents’ house while they were on vacation. We watched 2018’s Halloween, and not even halfway through the movie, Diego’s hand began to journey around my body. He eventually made his way between my legs and beyond. We couldn’t finish the movie, which I might have been a tad bummed about, because we’d made our way into my bedroom, leaving clothing and all behind.
Was this the acceptance I wanted? He’d send me text after text telling me how sexy I am, all the things he wants to do to me; every conversation was an arrangement to schedule sex. Sex— that was my acceptance. This was how I could avoid that shame; maybe I just need to find someone who wants my body. But it wouldn’t be Diego, he didn’t have his own car, and neither did I, and I had to go back to school. Within a few months, he’d find someone else.
After I told them who I was— my dad came up from behind me as I searched the basement fridge for my lunchbox and then stopped. He didn’t even have to say anything for my heart to begin to warn me; I’d learned to do my best to avoid meeting him in a room alone in the morning. After having grabbed my lunch, I turned to walk back upstairs, but there he was— with those same eyes, beaming at me. I tried to walk past him, eager to avoid any interaction, but he again blocked my escape. You know, all your classmates think you’re a freak, but they just won’t say it to your face. But I will. I say nothing and push past him. The bottoms of my feet throbbed against the cold, pink-flowered tiles.
While I was visiting family over Christmas, this guy from Baltimore, Stephen, messaged me, very up-front about his intentions: sex. Perfect, me too. He picked me up from my parents’ house and took me to an old, abandoned asylum. I very much enjoy creepy, abandoned places, and always wanted to explore one, so I was totally down. He led me through the dense woods, explaining the history of the property to me and pointing out the operational jail down the road. The path to the back of the property was marked out by ribbons, so you could get in and out with no problems. The property itself looked straight out of a music video or Hollywood movie, felt absent, even smelled so too; all the windows of the large, brick buildings were gone. There was shattered glass, beer cans, and graffiti everywhere. We came upon one room that even had a handful of hospital beds in it, still 100% intact. One bed had a large, perfectly-shaped icicle hanging from the edges, almost touching the ground. We found a concrete slab to sit on and relax some. To my surprise (and excitement), he pulled out a whole blanket from his backpack, laid it down, and motioned for me to join him. I sat beside him, and he immediately wrapped an arm around me and laid a hand between my legs. His hand stayed there, moving slowly as we chatted. His voice was calm, a bit quiet. As expected, the pants eventually came off. In the middle of the day. It was forty degrees outside. At the end of our asylum date, as we were walking back to the forest to make our way back to the car, he put his arm around my waist and pulled me close to him, turning me slightly to land a kiss on my lips with a smile. I smiled and giggled back at him. We did more at his apartment the next night; as we laid beside each other between our “sessions,” we talked. So how long have you been you? How did your parents take it? How do you feel about that? My heart wretched from inside my chest— it wanted this. It wanted this and more.
And again— I was sitting at our family desktop, maybe on YouTube, maybe doing homework, maybe a little bit of both. Their stance was clear: they didn’t care what I was to others, but they wouldn’t call me by anything different than they have been for the last 15 years of my life. This afternoon, I heard my dad’s footsteps approaching me. I couldn’t go anywhere. I braced myself for what was to come. He stood beside me, I looked up at him. Suddenly, bombarded—
You’re not a boy, you know
You’re really upsetting mom with all this
So are you gay or something then?
I do my best to defend myself, answering his questions and giving my explanations; well not biologically, but it is a real medical diagnosis- I don’t mean to upset anyone- I guess so, I only like boys- he walks off with, yet again, a glare back at me.
I met Cody on Grindr after I moved to Minnesota for grad school; he was a hint taller than me, lean, and had a sort of early Justin Bieber-esque haircut. He invited me to his one night: I sat on the couch beside him, eventually leaning my head on his shoulder as we watched Hereditary. The movie is a long one, so it must’ve been close to midnight by the time it ended. The last hour or so of the movie, he stopped responding to my little talkings. He seemed to scowl towards the TV a little, annoyed that it wasn’t over. I asked him how it was after it ended, he just responded with okay. The next day he apologized for his behavior at the end of the night, that it just happens when he’s tired. I forgave him. At least once a week, I spent a night at his apartment. We made dinner together, would go shopping together, would watch Grey’s Anatomy together. I liked this guy, more than the other guys I’d been involved with. He was kind, cute, funny. One day, he told me we could have sex that night—
The movie ended. The two of us got up from his couch, me untangling myself from him. It was late at night. We wandered into his bedroom. He put another movie on, to my confusion; wait so are we not doing ya know, that? I thought to myself. I gave him a firm kiss on the lips once we’d gotten into bed, my body and mind gearing up for what was to happen after. He laid there, watching the movie for maybe half an hour before he reciprocated. A couple weeks later, Cody told me he didn’t know if we were dating or not.
I’d lay in his bed beside him, smiling over at him, worming closer. It was like trying to be affectionate to a gingerbread man. I’d come over, we’d watch tv, never cuddling all the while, eat dinner, and go to bed. If I hinted at wanting sex, he’d simply say I’m not that into sex. Sometimes he had me drive him to do errands. I gave him rides to work in the Minnesota winter, when there was more snow than road, and he’d kiss me goodbye as he left my car. I asked him again when we would officially be dating; I got the same answer every time— I don’t know. I’d find out months later that instead of being intimate with me, he instead opted for random Grindr guys, all while still giving me kisses every time I dropped him at work.
The shame returned; no sex, and no relationship. All I could hear bouncing around in my head were his words—
And the final straw— I was sitting alone at the kitchen table when I recognized the sound of my dad’s footsteps inching up behind me. He knelt beside my chair, like how a parent would crouch to talk to a small child. I knew what was coming, my dad had been trying to convince me to not have a mastectomy for the past few months. I didn’t need to even acknowledge him before he began:
You’re mutilating your body— how will you ever find a partner?
My throat felt like it just gulped down a marble. I continued to eat. I couldn’t even cry. I just sat, silent. I had the procedure done a week later.
~
I’m at my grocery store job, working in the online orders department. It’s about 9 pm, so I’m finishing up the last few orders of the night and getting things ready for the team in the morning. As I examine all our varieties of orange juice, I notice one of the service managers making his way over to me. He stops, smiling, when out of nowhere he asks me Hey Aarron, wanna see my Nips? I pause. He pulls out two small caramel candies labeled Nips and sets them in my hand. Now go show someone YOUR Nips he follows up before wandering off.
You’re mutilating your body—
It’s nearly 11 pm at night. I sit beside him on the couch, watching TV. The atmosphere very much reminds me of going over to a friend’s house for the first time; just sitting there, unmoving. After maybe half an hour, AJ looks at me. You know, you can come closer if you want. He opens an arm up and I accept his offer, resting my head on his chest. My lips release a small breath, and by the end of the night, he’s spooning me on the couch, his arms around me and holding me close; I fit perfectly.
How will you ever find a partner?—
I lie entwined with him and the covers, huddled close to his chest, right on top of his large clock tattoo, my face pressed against it as he holds me, gently scratching my back. The words well up in my gut. They want to jump out. But they wouldn’t. I’m silent, AJ’s silent, and the only noise in this room is our breathing. Still pushing my face close to his chest, I take in a deep breath. All I can hear is my pulse drumming in my ears, matching his own. My voice is muffled, but I finally manage to tell him I love you. He pauses, I can feel his eyes glance down at me. Instead of a glare, I can sense a small smile on the side of his lips. Huh? He asks, making sure he heard me. I say it again, this time my eyes locked onto his, returning a smile of my own. He plants a kiss on my lips, his red beard brushing against my skin.
How will you ever find tranquility?—
Like this: In his bed, he holds me, my face buried warmly into his chest. My phone dings on his bedside table and he turns it over to examine it; it’s a text from my dad: Hey Tania. Below my dad’s text is one from AJ that reads I love you cutestuff. He tells me that it’s not important before he turns back to me. He leaves a kiss on my nose, then my cheek, and then my lips. I embrace his body with all the strength I’ve got. He runs his fingers through my hair as a last kiss is planted on my forehead before he squeezes me like a lemon.
Aarron Sholar is a transgender writer who has had pieces published in Sierra Nevada Review, 45th Parallel Literary Magazine, Hobart, and Polaris Magazine. He holds a BA from Salisbury University and is an MFA candidate in CNF at MNSU, Mankato, where he is Head CNF Editor of Blue Earth Review.
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