With the Flick of a Thumb
By Giselle Byrd I woke up recently to snoring. I looked to my left and the man in bed next to me was sound asleep, a peaceful expression on his face. It was in that moment I thought maybe this would be my new normal. Had I really reached the point where I could be fulfilled emotionally and physically, and stop the search for what I thought love looked like?
It’s a point every person, no matter your feelings on commitment, wants to achieve: the comfort of waking up next to someone who you love and who loves you in return. Someone who doesn’t fuck you, but instead makes love to you and knows your body almost as much as you do. Someone who takes you in with their eyes and allows you to accept pleasure rather than just expecting you to push through pain. For most of my transition, that’s how intimacy felt: So much pain for just a brief moment of pleasure. But with him, it feels completely different. At first, I attributed it to our age difference. Then suddenly it became clear that I am involved with someone who loves me, loves all of me—and that I must truly embrace it.
It all started six years ago with an online message: “Hi.” There wasn’t any kind of “You had me at hello,” bullshit happening, but there was something vastly different in this message. It wasn’t “Hi, do you still have a dick?” or “Hi, how much for head?” It was genuine, and I immediately felt it. I don’t know if it was his kind eyes or trusting smile, but I felt drawn to respond as I sat waiting to board my flight back to New York City.
It was early January 2016, and I had received a good ole Tinder message from a guy I’ll call J. I had been in transition for a year, still figuring out what Giselle should look like in concept, without an ounce of hormones in my body out of a personal fear that they would harm me. (My mind has changed greatly since then and thank God because y’all—they have given your girl a glow-up of epic proportions!) But as I swiped in that airport, aimlessly moving my thumb to the right to see what would happen, I got to J’s profile and paused. I immediately assumed nothing would happen. Yet the congratulatory “It’s A Match!” appeared on my screen. I was surprised and intrigued, but thought, “Oh he’ll finally read my profile and see that I’m trans.”
As I continued scrolling, I got his reply, and that was the beginning of a journey I never expected to still be on. We immediately jumped into the discussion of who we were, what we did, and why I was at the airport. When I let him know that I was leaving Georgia to return to New York City, he asked if we could exchange numbers and I quickly agreed. He was hot, 46 (I was 23 at the time), and had the kindest, most gentle eyes and dark brown/black hair. As I took off from Savannah Airport, I couldn’t help but wonder what life would’ve been like had I not taken the plane, but instead just met him and explored what would happen.
But that kind of dreaming was for girls with no ambition. I had work to do. I had to find a new job after leaving my former one after the holidays. I had reached a burnout point in just two years and wanted to see what else was in the world. As it turned out, I just needed the opportunity to see way lay outside of those walls.
Later that week, J and I had a FaceTime date, which I now realize it was COVID-19 dating before the pandemic. I beat my face to the gods, because I felt that if I didn’t match my pictures, it would bring the budding relationship to a quick end. The moment we saw each other, (and liked what we saw) we began to trade stories of how we’d both had made Savannah our home. I had gone to SCAD, and he had moved there following his divorce to be closer to his children, who were now in Atlanta with his ex. I found it admirable for someone to follow their children.
We then got to the subject of my transition. He confided in me that he had not ever met a transgender person before. He then immediately talked about how frustrating it must be for me on a dating app where many people were asking me offensive questions and not respecting me as the girl I was. In my experience, this sort of conversation was a tactic employed by someone trying to have sex with me—someone who I would never hear from again. But this time was different. There was significant interest in who I was as a person, rather than what I was. And it was refreshing.
In January, J posed the question, “Would you feel comfortable if I came to visit you?”
“I don’t think that would be a problem at all,” I answered with a smile. About two weeks later, I heard a knock on my door, looked at my roommate’s puppy and said, “He’s here.” The dog proceeded to pee on my bedroom rug. I hoped it wasn’t an omen for the weekend.
J and I greeted each other with a hug, which was so comforting and reassuring. I attributed that to him being a father, which somehow hadn’t worn him down, as I had seen it do to other men I’d been with who had children. After we got him settled (and I got the puppy pee out of my rug), we sat on the couch and started talking while we watched the puppy play. We decided to get lunch at the new noodle shop in my neighborhood, part of the Hamilton Heights transformation in Harlem when new restaurants were popping all along between Broadway and the 150s.
He scarfed down this lamb noodle dish, apologizing that he really hadn’t eaten that day. Neither had I, but at that point, I was accustomed to having only one meal a day. We walked back to my apartment and continued playing with the puppy. As night grew closer, we moved into my bedroom to watch Tangerine—the hottest film at that time—on my laptop (because she was B-R-O-K-E and that’s how we were getting our entertainment.) Renowned for being shot on an iPhone, Tangerine intrigued me because it featured two trans women of color as its leading ladies. I had already seen it, but wanted him to see it too, since I thought it was an important piece of film history.
As the film ended, I shut my computer. I turned to ask him what he thought, and he immediately kissed me. I was caught off guard. And I know what y’all are thinking: “Girl, you two were Netflix and chilling.” But we made it through the whole movie before the chilling, and all of our conversations to that moment had not ever been sexual; they’d always been intellectual and friendly. Now that line was being crossed. I didn’t mind; actually, I welcomed it.
“I’ve been waiting to do that all day,” he said as he moved to kiss me again. Our kissing grew more passionate and the next thing I knew, our clothes were coming off, piece by piece, and dropping onto my bedroom floor. Our hearts were beating fast, knowing that ultimately, we were going to have sex.
The first time you have sex with someone you like is scary as all hell. You wanna be perfect. You want to be the best this person has ever had. But as a trans girl, the first time with a new partner brings this fear all to a whole new level. This wasn’t my first time, but it was his first time with a woman like me. In those moments, you feel that you have to be the equivalent of cisgender women and make a guy feel mighty and powerful. I’ve since learned that is complete bullshit. Any guy that inhabits your bed with you is LUCKY he even got through the front door. You have nothing to prove; you just need to be who you are and be present.
We continued exploring each other’s bodies and we finally became one. It was my first time (bad girl moment) having unprotected sex, and as I felt the pressure in between my hips I actually breathed deeply and embraced it. Now, I know this sounds crazy: “Girl… you let a Tinder guy have sex with you without a condom?” Yes, I did, and I don’t regret it. (BTW, she’s still in great sexual health thanks to the heroes at Callen-Lorde Community Health Center). It was the most intense connection I’d had with someone in my life. I was being embraced for the woman that I was fully, not for having something exotic between my legs. As this moment came to an end, he held me in his arms and we fell asleep.
We woke up the next morning with the light shining through my bedroom windows. Still on the high of what happened the night before, I wondered if this would be a “freak out” morning, when a cis-het man thinks about how he’s had sex with a trans woman and immediately his whole sexuality is now in question. But that never came. We smiled at each other, greeting each other with good morning and gentle kisses. We explored the city for a bit that day before winding up at a friend’s comedy show in the East Village and grabbing burgers from Five Guys with one my close friend, Ross. I felt calm having J around, and later that night when the intimacy continued, it felt right.
For breakfast, we decided to go to Amy Ruth’s, a Harlem classic. I had told him about their amazing chicken and waffles—a dish he’d never had before. After all, this was a man who only just recently moved to the South. Over laughter and more stories, he ate it up. We then walked in the crisp winter air back to my apartment, along scenic Riverside Drive. This felt natural. This felt comfortable. I finally felt seen. Then came Monday.
I left for a job interview, and he prepared to depart for Savannah, but luckily I made it back in time to say goodbye. As he walked out of the door, I thought to myself, “Well… if I don’t ever hear from him again, at least we had these moments.” Moments where I didn’t feel like an alien or less-than, just as a human being. It was a refreshing experience.
In the way of long-distance courtships, we fell off. I got involved with work, going back to my old job, and he grew busy with his. We grew apart. I will admit that it hurt for a while because I had been so vulnerable. I had let someone in in a different way than ever before.
We became Facebook friends, and I noticed a photo of him with this beautiful, older woman. “That explains it,” I told myself. It was clear that they were a thing. I hadn’t conveyed feelings because there was really nothing for me to gain. I couldn’t travel back and forth between NYC and Savannah regularly at the time and I just wasn’t sure if he was ready for anything with me. But as one my dear friend Nate told me, “An assumption is the worst thing you can do in any sort of relationship.”
Find out what happened in the next installation of Giselle’s column coming in January!