A Date On Saturday Night

I had a date last Saturday night. At least, I thought it was a date. It was, after all, an appointment, a setting of a time and day, that is, a date, in which two people arrange to meet, and while it is not usually stated that this is to facilitate a possible erotic interaction (soon or in the distant future) between the two people, if this is not contraindicated, then one is interpreting things normatively to assume that such is indeed the case. Long story short: Oh, look, I really don't know what was going on in his head, but he went home with some other man.

Sixteen years ago...A guy I had been dating, in the expected sense, that is, getting together, going out together, and bonking, together, anyway it seemed to be getting possibly serious relationship wise, he started talking about kids, and I had to set him straight, tried to drop some subtle hints, and finally told him baldly why kids were not going to be spawning from my womb. He said he was so angry he could hit me, and I was terrifed of being hurt really badly until he left my apartment, and I resolved subconciously to protect myself from another threatened beating, by making sure that the first thing any man learned about me was not that I had a nice smile, or a warm heart, or any other possibly engaging feature, but to make sure he knew up front first thing that I was a freak, a transsexual, a sex change, a sterile poor facsimile of a real woman. It may not have been a sound tactic for engaging intimacy, but it meant that it was less likely that I would be beaten to a bloody pulp.

And so I am single, but safe.

And I'm a bit older now, and probably harder to kill. And anyway, this guy was not representative of guys in general; he was representative of axe murderers. Yes, there are axe murderers, but they are in the minority by far, and I may do better in the dating field if I stop treating every guy like a potential axe murderer. And sure, this may get me killed, but at least I'll have lived first.

As you may have guessed, it was my safe but disastrous date that led to reexamine my tactics and the reasons for them and whether they served me. Going out with gay guys who see me as woman is safe and pointless, just as going out with straight men who see me as a male is dangerous.

Gender. What a messy conundrum for a single sino-androphilic androgyne. I move like a woman and breathe like a queen and groom like a feral and spit like a street brawler. On the other hand the type of guy I fancy is statistically very common, and I am not locked in a refugee detention centre, or under US invasion or the CCP regime, so life is comparitively pretty good to me. And I'm glad I'm not still crying uncontrollably about last Saturday night.

I just pray I don't have to go to jail to find a boyfriend, but it's good to know that option is there. Guys who have done time tend to be much sweeter to me, and are less bound by mainstream consumerist concerns, and often have done at least a little bit of honest self-examination as a human being. And I am enough of a social justice activist in these times when terrorism is used to justify the abandoning of civil rights, so imprisonment is very possible, and who knows what the Universe has planned for me?

Now I'm worried about my unauthorised performance on the forecourt of the Opera House for the Forbes protests next week... I kind of hope I manage the balance between civil disobedience for the sake of social justice, and getting locked up for dubious motives. I remind myself there are no guarantees, and I could still be single on the inside, and have no comic books, but on the outside, I have comic books. And if I knew a safe place to meet nice Asian guys who are not all gay, I could go there.

The experiment continues. Nearly sixteen years ago (shortly after the unfortunate event mentioned above, actually), I went off hormones, not knowing what I would look like a result, but trusting in my natural resources, trusting that there is a benevolent intelligence in the human body that is far more efficacious than any patented potion, and trusting there is a univeral intelligence that supports me even better when I follow my natural inclinations and univeral love, and disallow external or egoistic fear-driven interventions. I do seem to have well supported as a result, and I am rewarded by having a respected and suffienctly paid job where I can work barefoot and escape corporate hairstyling and be valued as a person without having to conform to a gender.

So, I don't have a normative body, but apart from six supermodels, who does? It's not that odd, half of it is like half of all humans, and the other half is like the other half of all humans. It's quite normal, if you look at it that way.

And if 98% of folk are gender/sex normative and fertile, and 2% variant to this, then if everyone is partnerable, 98% will fancy someone who is gender/sex normative and fertile, and 2% will have broader tastes. 98% of guys will not fancy me because of my gender/sex, and that's quite okay. 2% may like me, and I only need one guy. So, hey, like Camel cigarettes, I'm not for everybody, but someone will like the taste of me.

Or I can just complain about my circumstances and thereby disempower me from having much influence in my own life. (I figure it's rude to talk to God as if s/he isn't there, and once I imagine I am talking to God as a person, I have to be reasonable and stop bitching about their work. It's actually pretty darn good, by any standard I can apply. So, I'm not a Winnie Blue, but I'd rather be a Camel. ("My money's on the camel!" ~ I'm sorry, that is a completely unrelated quote, but isn't it keen?)