A few years ago, when I first started this writing project, I wrote an essay about men and my own relationships with men, one year into being poly with my wife. It was, to put it mildly, heartfelt but horrendously cringeworthy—mostly due to the sheer amount of romanticization of the interactions I had with the men I was sleeping with and dating, and how I treated what should have been bare minimum behavior (such as not making me feel disrespected for being trans) as something to be applauded and placed on a pedestal.
I remember reading it aloud a few times at various events and parties, and I can still picture the look of confusion on people’s faces—objectively, I can say I was looking at dating men through rose-tinted, post-transition, second-adolescent trans-girl lenses. It was everything a modern woman in 2026 is told not to be—pick-me, validation-seeking behavior.
And the truth is, I was leaning heavily into that territory.
And you know what? Why wouldn’t I have?
⸻
When I was growing up, I didn’t feel even remotely “attractive,” and I’m at peace with that. It’s hard to find yourself attractive or even desirable when you don’t like what you see in the mirror on a foundational level—the world saw me as a gay twink, and that’s what I saw too, and I didn’t like it.
And the men who did like me were not the men I wanted—primarily creepy dudes who got off on the idea of a femboy twink. I wanted the hot straight guys I met on my nights out in the East Village to rail me, to talk to me the way I saw them talk to my straight girlfriends—all the dating clichés that so many women genuinely (and rightfully) loathe, because what I looked at with envy was probably borderline harassment for them on a daily basis.
But that’s the thing with desire—we can desire things, interactions, relationships, even if we know they’re fundamentally incompatible with our own desire for a healthy relationship with our inner self.
I loved when guys would mistake me for a girl, but my heart would drop the minute I told them I was “gay” (which was a lie—I was just deep in the closet about being trans), and the look of disappointment (or even disgust) I’d see wash over their faces would absolutely kill me. And on the rare occasion that I hooked up with or dated a cis straight guy, it was never how I wanted it to be.
It was less “let’s go to a fun cocktail bar and talk politics,” and more “hey, my roommate’s out, come by, but be discreet—let’s not talk about this and just keep it on the down low”—existing as a secret, something they simultaneously wanted to fuck, but were also ashamed of wanting.
It sucked.
⸻
And mind you, this was all happening when I was between 18 and my mid-twenties, before I transitioned—before the world looked anything like it does today when it comes to trans visibility and conversations around queerness.
Back then, we didn’t have terms like heteroflexible, “queer” was still largely a slur, nobody called themselves a doll, and nobody asked for pronouns in public spaces. The easiest way to explain being trans was “I’m a girl trapped in a boy’s body”—not “sex and gender are different things, and gender exists on a spectrum.”
And I promise, this ties into men.
⸻
So when I did transition, about one year later, everything in my life shifted.
From a cultural perspective, it felt like a trans renaissance—Kim Petras blowing up, Caitlyn Jenner everywhere, I Am Cait, Pose, RuPaul’s Drag Race, them launching, and trans medicine becoming more accessible than ever before.
And for a young trans girl who had finally taken the plunge to live a life she actually wanted, it felt like I was getting a second chance at life—especially with men.
Because for the first time, I felt pretty.
Best of all, all the men who I used to wish would just not be ashamed to hold my hand were suddenly telling me I was beautiful, taking me on dates that would make most of my former girlfriends jealous, and agreeing to date me on my terms, not theirs.
And as the years went on, my body changed, my life experience deepened, and my relationships with straight and bi men began to feel like an alternate universe compared to the reality I’d known just a few years prior.
⸻
By the time I turned 30, five years into my transition, the little gay twink I once knew was nowhere to be seen.
Five years of hormone therapy gave me 34B breasts, a 27-inch waist and 30-inch hips, the softest skin I’d ever had, thicker hair, a face completely reshaped by fat redistribution, and most importantly, a half-a-million-dollar pussy that was modeled after one of my favorite porn stars; if you’re going to do something, then you might as well go all out.
Not only did I pass—I was pretty.
I had never felt pretty.
Yes, we can all feel pretty from our own internal validation. Still, I’m not here to bullshit anyone—a large factor in feeling beautiful was that, for the first time in my life, the same archetypes of men who had once rejected me were suddenly kind.
Not just before they fucked me.
Not just after.
But even after we stopped.
That was wild to me.
⸻
It’s also important to note that I wouldn’t have been ready to accept this shift if it weren’t for my wife. She taught me not to accept the bare minimum—from anyone.
I always say the reason I married her was that, pre-transition, she was the first person who was genuinely proud to be seen with me in public. I knew a month in.
⸻
Since pursuing polyamory with my wife, I’ve dated well over 30 men in three years—some of whom remain beautiful, fleeting memories, some reminders of the kindness I was owed and later received tenfold, some cautionary reminders that many men are still cruel if you let your guard down, but mostly, many have become inseparable anchors in my life that I’ll always appreciate.
⸻
But I was no longer 22, and the men in my life now were not the same.
There was one guy I met on a night out—a night I had no intention of meeting anyone. The venue was uncomfortably loud, shoulder-to-shoulder, and I was genuinely anxious standing too close to people, god forbid someone started moshing and I got punched in the face.
In between sets, I started talking to one of the few cute guys there. He was easy to talk to, joking about how hilariously homoerotic the band’s name was compared to how painfully straight the crowd felt.
We exchanged Instagrams. I was excited—but already bracing myself.
“Maybe he just wants to be friends,” I thought. Not because I wanted that, but because it meant I wouldn’t have to have the talk.
An hour later, he DMs me something flirty. So I just say it.
“Also I should say—I’m trans and poly, totally think you’re cute, but don’t wanna lead you on or anything.”
I figured if I got rejected, at least I tried.
Instead, he just said it wasn’t an issue. He thought I was hot.
That was enough.
⸻
And then there was another guy I met off Hinge.
We spent nearly a week texting constantly, then had a 20-hour first date—brunch, coffee, cocktails, and then an all-night rave outside Paris. And not once—not between the kisses, the cigarette breaks, or even across multiple dates—did he make my being trans a thing.
What I remember instead is the way he brushed my hair off my face while I wrote this essay, the way he realized I liked having my face aggressively grabbed while kissing, the way his fingers felt gently slipping inside me while his other hand pushed my breast up so he had more space to bite into.
And even now, as I write this, he’s texting me about how next time he’s in town, “after we fuck,” I can stay in bed while he cooks for me.
Is it bad to say that after four dates I’m hooked?
Not only because he made me cum eight times in a row, not only because he was an incredible kisser, or even because he got along with my wife—but because around him, like with so many men I’ve dated recently, he didn’t make me feel desired because I was trans—
he made me feel desired because I was hot.
You can call me a hot slut.
But don’t call me a hot tranny.
Because I choose to be a slut—but I didn’t choose to be trans.
Big difference.
⸻
Some of the men I trust most today are ones who, after a single date, told me they’d rather just be friends. At first, those messages felt like rejections of my personhood.
Did I not pass enough? Was I not desirable enough?
I could feel my brain spiraling in all the ways women—especially trans women—are told not to.
⸻
But here’s the thing we don’t like to admit:
sometimes, you can’t just heal on your own.
⸻
Why are we so forgiving of people who say they need closure from breakups, yet dismissive when women say they need healing from how men have treated them?
We accept “my partner taught me how to see myself differently,” but call it superficial when I say I healed my trauma around men by surrounding myself with men.
Because these men didn’t disappear.
They stayed.
⸻
I remember one night in Paris—drinks, rain, no umbrella. I was out with a new friend I’d met off Hinge, one of the men who said he’d prefer something platonic. I believed him, I believed him—but I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t heard that before, only for something to happen anyway. Well. That night, in the middle of me worrying how I’d get home without ruining my suede boots, he casually invited me over to “wait until the rain stopped,” and I knew exactly what that usually meant.
So I went.
And to my surprise, nothing happened.
We sat on the floor, talked for hours, rain hitting the windows, cigarette smoke drifting out. He didn’t touch me. Didn’t flirt. Didn’t try.
We just existed.
It was beautiful.
I didn’t have to perform, nor did I have to shrink — I could simply be.
I consider this man one of my closest friends now.
⸻
When I first started dating men post-transition, I believed men’s kindness was tied to my desirability.
So I leaned into it.
Hard.
I had a lot of sex—not always because I wanted to, but because I thought connection was conditional.
Put out, or get put aside.
But over time, I learned that some men just genuinely like me.
⸻
I love my ex-boyfriends. My former lovers. My friends with benefits. My guy besties.
I love them for teaching me that I deserve kindness and respect—no matter how fuckable I am.
Do I thrive off male attention?
Absolutely.
And I won’t apologize for it.
There’s a freedom in being able to say: I want men to want me. Because after spending more than half my life being hurt, used, or reduced to a fetish, it’s beautiful to know there are men who see me in my entirety—
whether I’m reading them an essay, out for drinks, listening to me cry about another guy, walking me home so creeps will leave me alone, helping them flirt with someone else, or getting absolutely ruined in bed.
For so long, men made me feel like the world would only ever see me as a one-dimensional slur.
Now I know I am anything but one-dimensional.
And for the first time in my life, instead of being dependent on male validation, I get to choose when I want it, and what that attention means to me.