Detransition, Baby - Torrey Peters

Wordlessly, she and Patrick both understood the rules - rules that she would henceforth employ for all sexual encounters with men: Neither of them would actually be there for the sex. They would take from each other what they could, each from their own places. They would use what they could of each other's bodies. But encouragement, or solace, or care - no, neither of them wanted any of that. Just give me enough of yourself to put me in touch with the part of me that can believe I'm a girl, and beyond that, you can go fuck yourself, in whatever theoretical dimension you need to be in to do that.

"Baby, why are you crying?" Reese had asked. Because some combination of hormones and poppers had made possible the sex that Amy had given up on. The poppers made her too dumb to flee into herself, to send herself somewhere. So there she was with Reese. Not off elsewhere working to see herself as a woman when she lay on top of a woman, or replacing a man with someone else while he lay on top of her. She simply was a woman present with a woman. It felt like some kind of healing, some kind of redemption. And all she could do was cry. (Detransition, Baby 151-152)

In 2016, I went on a single date with a transwoman poet that I had a big crush on, I'm starting this story not to say anything about her but want to explain some thoughts I had then and still think on. I need you to understand that it's just a story about me and my thoughts and feels weird to include her beyond that it made me have these thoughts and they sit with me.

I had just shaved my head because of a traumatic experience, and remember talking with her about the Torrey Peters episode of Woodland Secrets because I thought it was an interesting and necessary discussion to discuss the ideas of our freakish and horrible sexuality. Our perversity. This was after The Masker had come out, and I didn't go to read it, but talking about it made her uncomfortable in a way that I understood. We so badly want to be hurt and held. We are tired of fetishized existence, beyond my own white fat one that lays outside of we, and reign into beautiful respectful sex. 

We had this discussion after I had read my poem "the way I learned about gender was firsthand" - an old performance poem about a coming out post my dad stalked and then interrogated me on. I was outed and forced to out an obvious thing. A faggot in the family. I link it to a lot of abuse and other treatment/decisions of my goodness or badness. Anyway, we had a nice conversation but after this obvious flirtatious discussion and matching on Tinder we ended up going on the single date. I wore a skirt, and walked myself home after staying nearby smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee for a long time at the obvious coffeeshop of choice. I'm not sure it was a good date. I mostly think of some phrases "I really only want to date other trans people right now" in reference to another friend she had eyes on and how we talked about cooking together and her family calling her in some form of crisis (I think I'm unsure if she was uncomfortable with me and not voicing it, which is okay and is theatre to say that) and: how at parting she asked if we could kiss and I got scared and did not interpret it well, fumbling a lip grace into my neck and an awkward hold. I felt so disgustingly ridiculously seen and yet incompetent.

We texted maybe a few other times but because I literally couldn't afford to go out we stopped talking. I'm sad about that. I have had other trans relationships, longer and more meaningful address the same issues but I feel this was the first one with a recognition of pain and loss and existence that felt very connected to the experience. My high school ex is def a nonbinary lesbian now, which I was faggy but not presenting much of my gender at the time. I was stuck in shameful fat horror. I hope they are okay. I don't think we had enough conversations honestly about our issues. In fact most my exes are nonbinary lesbians, and my random sexual hookups are older and endearing faggot queers. I guess I'm typical.

I think we have discussions about dysphoria or trauma sometimes, but not enough. Or, I don't necessarily get in those conversations. I always can rationalize - it's the leftovers of my body ripping hair across my face. When I told my therapist that no one questioned the year I grew a thick beard and vomited every day, that I felt forgotten. My friend whose top surgery has left them the most beautiful fuckboy told me how they wish I would reach out and how things between our tenders feel one-sided hurt me in both areas. I share this then, the vast pain of representing what is ugly about us. Not knowing to not suck dick when the your poz crush is being made a black bullhead - your very ignorance a contribution of disgrace - the fear of my typical taper haircut, lopsided knots in my hair that I did not know how to pull out without strangeness. Coveting the worst of enemies from childhood friendliness, horror in the rape fantasy, the disregard I had to make someone feel worse by not doing their sexual need the same my own. Are we not messy? Is anything certain. No, obviously. I still can't cry and used to think it was just related to my brother's suicide attempt but the years distanced from that are so great. I have not been crying for a long time. I have not felt safe. I have not spoken for myself and how much I long for that hand on my spine, ripping spirits away from me. How shamefulness overarches all my feelings. I am so depressed. I am chuck of sissification medicines now yet nothing seems to have changed.

I guess, what I'm trying to say is, I think, are we talking about the transvestites. The trannies. The transgender valley of ideas. Those who make a choice to return back to safeties. I think of a story I can't find right now about a girl who drank herself into masculinity again, a lot because it was so familiar and something I needed recognized; the fear of slinking either into obscurity. A punishment. I feel our disgust and fears but I welcome them. I feel disgusting. I feel afraid. I feel ashamed. You do too. I think of my recent ex knowing they did not feel shame because they shouldn't have to and I was so happy for them and still am. I wonder often how honest I can be about myself - I run this blogspot that no one reads for myself? No, I really want the attention. I also run two twitter accounts so hopefully someone can see my most horrid self in crisis. There is a me that is not together. One who fears and accepts the filth openly. Our fears maybe, if they exist, the detransitioners whose damaged goods re-enter the status, are as much ourselves now. That is what I've decided for a long time. I accept your frank filth, mess and disgust with yourself and me. Please hope we all can.

Detransition, Baby is a great read. I'm so glad that our faggot stories, our tranny stories, our fucked up perverse taboos to ourselves are out there. I find disgust that a "cis" person could read this book but pride that someone covering a part of myself I've had to debate with could get bank from it. Imposter syndrome, not really, but maybe these rigid lines are the crypto-trans designation Reese sets through here, a Cogiati result that is unfavorable, or the necessary status of not fitting. I really desire some new form of our lives and hope I can have it. I think I'm working on it. I also want more obvious problematic slut on my radar. This book made me try writing some erotica but I am horrible at fiction. Only poems telling white lies.