He was my first date from Hinge. I’d been on first dates before but none in a really long time. And none where I wasn’t looking for a long term relationship to come out of it. I was nervous, the standard feminine fear of abduction, rape, murder. I went on the date anyway. I liked this restaurant, it was good, and worst case I could walk back home. I trusted myself enough, my intuition. And my shoes had laces so I could run away if need be.
There wasn’t much to his profile. Two things about himself and the one standout that made me match with him in the first place. He was leaving the country soon, and he also wasn’t looking for anything serious. I commented on a photo of him with his long hair in space buns. I like men with long hair. I like feminine men, men who paint their nails and wear makeup. Men who sometimes wear feminine clothes. I feel like I can trust them more. Our queer experiences bond us. Our feminine nature but opposing gender unite us.
I dressed up. I wore my favorite jeans and debated between my best t-shirt or a shirt that showed more skin all while wondering how the date would go. He would probably be boring, and we wouldn’t get along. I would probably want to leave immediately. He would probably look nothing like his profile picture and I wouldn’t be able to find him. I would probably have to text a friend to call me crying. I definitely wouldn’t have sex with him. I chose the second shirt. I put on makeup and clipped butterfly clips in my hair.
I liked that when I messaged him “cool hair,” he called me cute. He stroked my ego. I liked that we quickly talked about meeting up at the Thai restaurant I mentioned on my profile. I don’t like chatting over dating apps, it’s so fabricated, stylized, perfected. I liked that immediately after picking a day we were both free, neither of us bothered to talk to each other until the day before to confirm. I didn’t like that he was nineteen, that’s too young for me. My sister just turned nineteen. I didn’t notice it until I was about to leave, when it was too late. But part of me liked that I was older, that I held my years to my advantage, that he probably wouldn’t take advantage of me.
I got to the restaurant first. I waited for him at the bar and saw his fluffy hair coming in through the giant windows. When I saw him, I thought he was wearing sweatpants, like he didn’t bother putting on real pants. Like I wasn’t worth the effort. I was wearing a coat and left it zipped all the way up; I kept my scandalous shirt hidden. I tried too hard. Women who try too hard are desperate. I’m not desperate. I’m not a woman. Men should come to me.
We talked. I don’t remember anything other than the basics—movies, music, hobbies. At one point I realized we were getting along. I thought about unzipping my jacket, I was getting sweaty and the restaurant felt like it was getting warmer. But I didn’t. I couldn’t let him have all the power, to know that I put in effort. But I thought to myself, I would have sex with him.
After dinner, we walked back to his car. I wasn’t sure if we were going to keep hanging out, or if he was going home. I liked when he told me without prompting that he’d like to keep hanging out with me. I liked how he said it a bit timidly, that a six foot man could be intimidated by someone who was five foot four. I brought him back to my apartment. He complimented it heavily, relishing in a place of one’s own. He was so young. I sat him out in the living room, unsure of myself. If I wanted to bring him into my room. If I wanted to bring him into an intimate, private place.
I finally took off my jacket—I was in my apartment. My shirt was out, my cropped, purple sweater with a deep v-neck, held together with one button. He immediately complimented my shirt, how cute it was, probably wondering why I kept it hidden. How he would wear something like that. I remember how I looked at him in surprise. How I offered him to try on my clothes. How readily he agreed. How I led him into my room to strip and try on a pile of crop tops. How I paused at my favorite crop top, worried he would stretch it out permanently but brought it out anyway. How much he enjoyed it. How he strutted around the room. How I felt bad for him, like he couldn’t express himself the same way I could. How much a cut-off shirt meant. How masculinity held him back just as femininity held me back. It kept us scared. How my four walls and pink lights were safe.
He dropped his deceptively oversized, corduroy pants for my long skirt. We sat next to each other on my twin sized bed. He rubbed my denim covered legs while his wore polka-dots. I sat there still. I sat there disassociating. I sat there nervous to make a move, nervous about what to do but knowing exactly what would happen next. I didn’t compliment him, that’s not what I’m supposed to do. He told me I was so pretty, that I looked like a god, that I had perfect skin. Anything for me to initiate, to confirm I wanted this too. I wasn’t sure—if I wanted him as a number on my list of bodies to prove I was pretty and worthwhile and experienced, or if I wanted him because I was attracted to him. But I was the one who brought him into my room, took out my butterfly clips, dimmed the lights, and got him to strip.
He kissed me. It was bad, like he wanted to consume me, wet and rough and his breath was worse. I even leaned away at some point because it wasn’t enjoyable, merely tolerable. He leaned with me. I kept kissing him anyway. He put his hand on my chest. I hate my chest, but I don’t wear a bra or a binder. I like pretending that I don’t need one—that my chest is flat enough to not need one. I like the feeling of my shirt against the skin on my back, unobscured by another piece of fabric. I didn’t like that I liked what he was doing with his hand, that I wanted him to keep touching me, that I wanted to give into him.
I was naked. I hate being naked. Even completely alone, I wear clothes, at least a t-shirt. I feel exposed, I wonder if he feels the same. If he relishes in stylish clothes to hide his body too. If he loves how clothes can hide his most problemed features. It doesn’t matter. He was naked too. We were naked. We both liked the way the other looked. We didn’t mind for a moment.
We remained naked afterward. Laying there next to each other on top of my sheets. He still wanted to kiss me. He called me pretty again despite already having had sex with me. He told me my hair was the best kind of hair when I told him I don’t like how the ends flip out and in. I was beyond flattered. I didn’t compliment him, I’m not good at it. I don’t know what to say to a man—handsome is too corny, attractive is too formal, hot is too much. I thanked him instead. I asked him my burning question, if he’s also bisexual. He told me he didn’t know. I asked him if he could be romantic with a man. He said yes but didn’t know if he could be sexual with one. I did; he can. It’s so easy to let something as small as that get away from you when you’re with someone. Sex is easy. I told him to call me when he figures it out.
I told him the reason I asked my burning question is because I’m nonbinary, that must’ve meant he selected nonbinary people to show up on his profile. I usually don’t talk about my gender, it’s confusing for most people. It’s easy to just be labeled a woman and move on. He backtracked, stuttered. I told him it was okay, I appear feminine. I know what I look like. He told me that it wasn’t because I looked female.
I liked how we could lay there and let our thoughts become speech without a filter. I craved his mind, I wanted it to reach out and touch mine, no air between our thoughts to blow our words askew. The clothes between us fell. The ugly laugh tumbled out of my mouth. The revelations that spilled from his. The fronts we put up didn’t matter because we couldn’t see them anymore.
He left, and as he dressed, he said that he might have to steal one of my crop tops. I clammed up. I didn’t want him to. They were my clothes, something he could try temporarily. I didn’t want him to keep it. I told him he could put the pile of abandoned clothes on my desk. He didn’t take anything. He kissed me goodbye. After he left, I worried that he liked me too much. I worried that he got caught up in the moment. I worried that my unattainability was attractive in a salacious way.
I worry that I got too caught up. That I was a woman. That in the moment of brief connection, the moment of pure self expression, I confused my euphoria with him. That I accidentally entangled myself with him like men claim—women get too attached. That when my clothes briefly adorned his body, we shared our masks, our creative expressions, we saw each other. That we understood each other, we walked in the other’s shoes. But we didn’t really know each other.
