Woman*

Be forewarned: this story exposes naked romantic incompetence.

I was at dinner with two friends. Both lesbians, one married, the other single. The meal was outstanding. The conversation simultaneously soulful and piss-yourself-funny. In short, a top five evening.

And, yes, I was flirting with my single friend. Or at least I thought I was. There was eye contact; there were touchings of the arm and leanings-in while making a point; there was mutual recognition that we had a lot in common.

The conversation turned to dating, specifically that for my friend (who is herself stunning) love tends to come in at the eyes. She notices physical beauty first, then looks for compatibility. I said that I don't have that luxury, that I need to rely on other qualities to compensate because no one will ever see me across a crowded room and think, "Gotta have that!"

In adorable unison, perhaps even harmony, they sang their disagreement. "Absolutely not! That is just not true."

What I wanted to say was, "OK, name one. Name one person you know who desires this aging, overweight, queer body." I did not say that out loud.

Instead, I thanked them demurely, and hoped that the immediate response was evidence that my friend might be such a person. [Spoiler alert: she is not.]

As we neared the end of the meal, my friend told us that she was going to give her phone number to the hot young waitress. In case you're wondering, failure tastes like gasoline and curdled milk. In one glass. And you're not allowed to swallow it, just hold it in your mouth until it burns the enamel off your teeth.

I took two lessons from this moment.

Lesson #1: Even at my flirtiest, even sitting right next to her, I didn't even register. I am a romantic nonentity.

Lesson #2: When my friend gave her number to the hot young waitress, it was taken as a compliment. The waitress went home feeling good about herself. An attractive, intelligent woman thought she was desirable enough to risk reaching out. Yay! How flattering!

Had I done the same, the result would have been, not appreciative, but alarmed. I would have looked like every cis/het guy who has ever felt entitled to hit on the waitress/barista/co-worker simply because he has a dick. Had I given her my number, she might well have asked someone to walk her to her car after shift, just to be safe. 

Thom Yorke may be overquoted, but he isn't wrong.

The glaring truth at the table that night was that my friends' kind-hearted encouragement was misinformed and misplaced. Despite my best efforts at authenticity, despite involvement in the queer community, despite a metric shit-ton of money spent on gender affirming care, I am not seen as a woman. 

I am misgendered all day every day. This experience is caused by, not correlative to, my status as a clearly identifiable trans woman. I can disagree intellectually with gender-critical feminism. But at the end of the day, I am seen, at best, as a woman*.