Kissed by a man for the very first time and finding sweet innocence

I’m still a member of the 5:00 am club.  I’ve been showing up late recently.  Jet lag.  Summer.  Fun.  Dancing all night.  Today, I’m back on it.  

There are certain time slots in life where our daily routines fall into place.  When we miss them, the whole day can go out.  Just a little off.  All day long.

I get up.  I write.  I run.  That has meant a 10k by 7:00.  4 days a week.  Other days, booty exercise and core strength.  How?  No TV.  When I say that, most people say, “I don’t watch TV either.”  That’s how old fashioned I am.  Supposedly Netflix doesn’t count.  But I don’t watch anything.  That’s what I mean.  Who has time?  Would much rather read a book.

Sometimes when travelling, it is hard to find time to work out.  But exercise for me is more important than therapy.  At least on a daily basis.  Therapy is for the big stuff.  Ayahuasca is for the life-changing stuff.  BDSM is for God.

On a serious note, I’m interested in starting a religion.  A friend of mine and I have put our heads together on a kinky version of Catholicism—at least as far as the clothing goes.  I’ve been visiting religious clothing stores—the quality is amazing—and checking out nun’s habits.  My seamstress will work wonders once I’ve marked it with chalk.

Boot licking and other sexy play will definitely be a part of the ritual.

I recently bumped into a very high-profile Dominatrix.  She was incognito.  I am no longer capable of that.  She came up to me and told me to wear warmer clothes.  So human.  And as I looked at her vanilla self, I could see her.  She told me little snippets of her life.  And then walked off.  Do you know when you wished you had said something but didn’t?  I had that.  In the end, I settled into the comfort of knowing I am a witch.  And such “random” occurrences are not random.  Something is stirring.

I feel profoundly in my body in ways that I have never felt before.  I feel natural.  I’ve never felt that.  Do you know, if you go through life never feeling something, never experiencing something, then you don’t it isn’t there.  And because the felt life is not perceivable by the panoply of five senses, what we “miss” is never missed.

One of the reasons that I have been crying at random times of late, is just this.  For as I settle into my body, and relish how good it feels, I can remember how numb I was as a man.  I had a fabulous life.  Filled with joy and sorrow, but when I look at me in pictures, look at my past life, it is as if through a veil.  It is not disconnected from me, but it is distant.  It is strange, but the years up to puberty, especially the last few, are more present.  It is as if they are more present than my life of just a few years ago.

I have this strange sense of continuity between then and now.  As if the gap of decades, of my male adulthood, was a parentheses.  And that has to do with body feeling.  I can only describe it as memory.  Physical, body memory.  That the flood of testosterone which tore me from myself as a teen, covered over some fundamental truth, what it meant to be me.  And now that is gone, and I find myself again, picking up where we left off.

The feeling of dysphoria, this disconnect between gender and body, has been an every day occurrence for most of my life.  I can remember it already at perhaps the age of 4, the beginning of conscious memory.  This feeling that something wasn’t right.  Not that things were wrong, just a profound longing for something different.

I can’t say that dysphoria is gone.  It is changing shape.  It gives me daring.  The more I drink of it, the further I want to go, the more comfortable I feel on this path, the more natural.  I find myself leaning into the hard parts.  Genital electrolysis is the most painful thing I have ever felt, other than perhaps high-setting laser on my face, after electrolysis and face waxing.  But I have a date with destiny, and my electrolysis has to be done, or the doctor won’t take me.  I don’t want to wait any longer than I have to.

In Italy, people stare at me.  I am made to feel somewhat uncomfortable.  They are micro-aggressions in a way.  My trans experience has been benign thus far, but the daily experience does require a bit of a game face.  And I don’t like that.  On my morning run yesterday, which took place at noon on a sweltering day, I wore something skimpy.  Sports bra.  Short shorts.  I wore what a woman would wear in this weather.  And because I don’t give a damn, they don’t look.  Or at least I don’t look to see if they look.  I’ve been doing my “bikini experiment” now that I have crossed the threshold.  England, USA, Greece.  Italy is next.  So far, the first three are all tied because it feels natural.  Actually, Greece might win.  In Greece I received every type of gaze.  Non-gaze.  Avoidance.  Lust.  From men and women.  Never disgust.  Only welcome.  And no fear that something else might be lurking.  In the US, given the tenor of public discourse, I was afraid to walk alone in places.  That’s a first.

When you are staying with friends, it is important to settle into their routine.  But I know I get up at 5:00.  I know I will be restless.  Like a caged animal.  I asked for a set of keys.

“You don’t need them.  The door just closes.”

“But how do I get back in?”

“Just ring the bell.”

“I get up really early.”

“That’s okay.”

“5:00”

“That’s okay.”  My left foot.  I observed that they did not emerge from their bedroom until after 8:00.

“I’d feel more comfortable if you left me a key.”  They did.

“I’ll put it right here,” they said indicating a spot on the counter, and plopped it down.  When I got up at 5, it was gone.  Was I surprised?  No.  I located their full set after scouring around.  I just figured I needed to get back before they noticed.  What happened. I was back several hours before even the dog woke up.  It’s funny how dogs take on their owner’s rhythms.

I went for a long walk in Harlem.  Looking for a good cup of coffee, and one that was already open.  I wasn’t finding one.  At a certain point I figured I would just head back and settle for the coffee machine at “home”.  A homeless man stood up from the paving where he lay.  I glanced his way.

“Oh my goodness,” he said, “you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”

“You sure know how to talk to a girl,” I replied.  Picture this.  I was rocking boy mode.  Of sorts.  No nail polish.  Hair pulled back.  T-shirt.  Okay.  No bra, perky, but small.  Camouflage capri pants.  Slip-ons—espadrilles.  No make-up. Just me.

I had been walking briskly and slowed my pace just a touch, and he began to walk with me.  He was an elegant man.  His curly black hair was cut short and greying in a dignified way.  His face was round and warm.  He seemed about 50.  He wore a wool sports coat, classic, probably a rather nice make.  It fit him well.  Tweed.  The area just above the pockets was slightly shiny and smooth.  A gentleman’s sleeping bag.  Even at 5:30 am, it was plenty warm out.

He wore slightly tan slacks, a bit baggy.  He walked with me and I linked my pace to his.

“Do you know where I can get a good cup of coffee?”

“Yes.  This way.”  And we walked together.  The conversation flowed.

Homeless people seem to see in ways that others among us do not.  That all the illusions and lies are stripped away and clarity emerges.  I was struck by how he had “seen” me when so many of my white friends, mostly men, say, “you look exactly the same to me.”  Can you see someone’s energy.  Can their energy crowd out what the eyes might be telling you?  Does a stranger see you more clearly than someone who carries the weight of a common past?

Inevitably we talked of God. I found myself having to pay attention to his beliefs and to simply open the door to interpretations of scripture that are not quite so “x-centric”.

“I love God,” he repeated.  “God is beautiful.  God is woman.  God is in the women I have loved.”

“God is in all of us.  God is everything, we are all God,” I replied.  I wondered about fervour and outreach programs and how a meal might come with a sermon.  A quid pro quo of sorts.  Can you blame them?  A chance to proselytise.  Only it seems a bit ironic that the church, with its history of exploitation, should make belief in the institution a condition for beneficence.  

“God is in the women I love.  I can see God in you.  Your grace.  Elegance.  Beauty.”

“Can I get you a cup of coffee?” I asked as we reached the destination.

“No thank you, but could I get a snickers?”

“Yes, of course.”  I got him one.  And I got myself a coffee.  I handed it to him when I came outside.

“Thank you.  My breakfast.” He had a beautiful, warm smile.

We walked together, slowly now.  I sipped my coffee.  He savoured his breakfast.

At the corner, he said, “you’re turning here?”

“Yes.”

“May I kiss you?”

I barely hesitated, thought ‘why not?’, “Yes you may.”

“On the cheek,” he said.  And he did.  “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

“You’re a very sweet man.  Have a lovely day.”

Life sure is strange.