As a fem, makeup-wearing queer male, dating is an awkward mix of fetishisation and queer-bashing comments.
Like most queer men, Grindr and other dating apps are an obvious choice – although I use the term ‘dating’ loosely: you are more likely to find yourself swiping through a gaggle of men who turn out to be straight and ‘experimenting’ than discovering a real prince charming.
The problem with Grindr and its ilk, however, is that it has neat little boxes to put you in. Grindr in particular tries to promote a sense of community by using the term ‘tribes’ for its filter criteria, but these are essentially another way of narrowing down someone’s bigoted ‘preferences’ and erasing those who don’t fit their ideal mould.
And in most cases, I don’t.
I never thought I looked like a woman, and I am not transgender, but I am referred to as ‘she’ or a ‘lady’ on a day to day basis. Men will often refer to me by female pronouns on Grindr, while also commenting on female genitalia I definitely don’t have.
I don’t usually class myself as gay, even though I am typically attracted to men, because the word excludes people who don’t subscribe to gender norms.
From time to time, however, I’ll use it for simplicity’s sake – or out of worry about what other people will say about me.
I frequently have strangers in my inbox, often cis, white men, telling me that I am a sissy, a f*g, an abnormality of gay culture. Years ago I would have cried, hated myself, and hidden anything that sets me apart in an already marginalised community. But now, to be frank, I couldn’t care less.
I don’t even refer to myself as a ‘man’ anymore because over the years I have been shunned from that particular label by people exhibiting ‘traditional’ masculine values.
I am biologically male of course, but those archetypes have led to so much oppression, so much hatred towards anyone thought of as ‘other’ – why would I want any part of that?
Bars and clubs are treacherous territory in this regard, especially when you have to tell a guy in a Fred Perry polo that the person he is hitting on is also biologically male. This has happened to me numerous times; fortunately it usually ends with everyone laughing, though I have come close to having a glass smashed against my head once or twice.
Sometimes, rather than degradation, I find myself in the spotlight of someone’s curious fantasy.
In my younger, more naive years, an ex who identified as bisexual very often referred to me by female pronouns. He didn’t want me to be fem (female-presenting) he essentially wanted me to be female, and yet I accepted it because he made me feel wanted, sexy, and seen. This is the reality of many queer kids.
These days, to many men, I am a neat placeholder for their sordid fantasies while they sort out their own sexuality. The ‘discreet’ men that frolic on Grindr are always very keen to make it clear they aren’t gay – that somehow they retain their ‘hetero’ mentality when they pick me up in their cars while their girlfriends and wives are asleep.
One guy refused to meet with me unless I was wearing a full face of makeup, while another insisted I wear something other than jeans as they were ‘too masculine’.
Needless to say I did not meet with either of these fine pillars of society.
My sex life has always been amazing, and perhaps at times, I have taken too much solace in the world of no strings attached hookups when it wasn’t what I really wanted. For years, I believed that promiscuity was inevitable, my only destination. I have come to see casual sex as something that can be healthy and empowering, and even just as fulfilling as ‘love’.
Labels, in some instances, can be helpful, and for people that feel the need to carry one, I have no quarrel. Labels can help root you in place, anchor you to your role in society.
We all have preferences – a picture of an ideal person we want to be with – and that’s OK. But it doesn’t mean that anyone who sits outside of those is invalid.
In a perfect world, my sexuality or gender wouldn’t matter, but unfortunately, we live in a society where labels hold substance. We are pressured to pigeon hole not only ourselves but those around us – arguably it’s even worse when it happens in the LGBTQ community, which is supposed to be diverse.
This pressure only hinders our progress as individuals. I used to be terrified to wear particular earrings because they weren’t what a man would wear; it was only when I said ‘f**k it’ that I truly got a taste of freedom. I didn’t have some almighty awakening – it is something I have to constantly repeat to this day.
My identity is a constantly changing organism in its own right. I am not solely one thing – no one is. I refer to myself as queer, for despite its history as a gay slur, it encapsulates the ideals I believe in.
I see it as an umbrella term rather than a defining label because it covers a huge proportion of people that don’t necessarily fit into one exact box. The unrestrictive nature of queerness allows me to play, to bend the rules to my liking.
I never imagined that I would have romantic love with someone else, and it isn’t anything I consider with glee, although I remain hopeful that I will find someone.
Occasionally I picture that wedding day, that trip abroad, the inevitability of growing old together, but who they are is less important to me than what they believe.
I want someone strong, empowered, who fights for the rights of people who don’t fit their label.
For now, self-love is more important. I prefer the idea that I can look back 50 years from now and be content with my performance as a human. Because I am still human, with feelings, dreams and ideas, even if you don’t necessarily understand them.
Last week in Love, Or Something Like It: I fell in love with my friend over Zoom
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Love, Or Something Like It is a regular series for Metro.co.uk, covering everything from mating and dating to lust and loss, to find out what love is and how to find it in the present day. If you have a love story to share, email rosy.edwards@metro.co.uk
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source https://metro.co.uk/2020/08/29/im-not-gay-trans-man-yet-13187192/
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