My First Cis Boyfriend

I am short for a man. 5 feet 4 inches. Puberty never hit me in the right ways. At least, not in the ways I wished it to. I am scared of my curves and my narrow face. They make me look like a woman. When I go out, I pick clothes that hide my form. Loose-fitting slacks and a green flannel shirt, unbuttoned. 

When I go out, I constantly wonder what people are paying attention to. I get cat-called by men on the street and hit on by men at bars and stores. The other day, an older man called me “Baby” and said I have “beautiful eyes.” Every day, their words and stares cut me down much harsher than they used to. I feel violated like women do every day. 

But I also feel violated as a man who clearly doesn’t look the part. 

Art by Francesca Polistina

The idea of dating a cis person, specifically a cis man, makes me nervous. How would they see me? Am I seen as a kinky fantasy? Am I an exception to a rule? Do they only see me as a trans person? A woman? A man? The process of explaining myself to so many people while dating is tiring. I don’t want to be forced to explain my deepest thoughts on my identity. I just want to be accepted and loved. 

Trans people understand my experiences to an extent, as many of us have similar ones. Most of my current friends identify as trans and all of my exes do, as well. It’s easier and more comfortable for me to be around other trans people. I have to do a lot less explaining. 

That’s why, when I first started dating a cis man, I was nervous and scared to be in that committed relationship. Now, we have been dating for more than two years. Griffin is tall and thin. He has the biggest smile and the kindest eyes. His hands and feet are much larger than mine, but we can wear the same pants. 

Griffin is also my biggest advocate, from the little things like calling me handsome to the larger things like defending me to family and strangers. He always makes me feel safe in situations where I have previously felt unsafe, like public transportation.

A home, to me, is a sanctuary; it is a place where I am protected. My apartment walls are plastered with art by trans artists and prints that illustrate people like me. A screen print hangs above my bed that reads “GOD IS TRANS” in gold letters. In my home, I don’t have to wear baggy clothes in order to feel comfortable. I can be fully naked—boobs and all—and still feel like a man. At home, I am the most like myself. 

Letting someone into a space of such security and comfort requires a lot of time, patience, and trust. I was lucky to find someone who wanted to put in that time and patience. And I am lucky that Griffin has taught me a lot about healthy relationships and the importance of communication. He has taught me that I don’t need to demand respect to deserve it. Not once has he ever misgendered me.

We are sitting in his mother’s kitchen, talking about his grandparents. I get it, grandparents are tough. Sometimes it doesn’t click right away. I haven’t even talked about it much with my own grandparents. But the truth is, if people don’t use my pronouns or refuse to learn how, I don’t want to be around them. It’s not my responsibility to teach everyone how to respect me. 

“If she can’t handle being around that, then she doesn’t have to go,” Griffin’s mother’s boyfriend says, misgendering me in the process. 

But family is family, and I want to spend time with my partner’s family because they are great people. And they are so important to him. I want to celebrate New Years and play games with his dad and grandparents. I want to cook and play poker with his mom. But I also want to do that while feeling like me. Griffin knows how much I have to defend myself at work and in class and at my family’s house. He takes it upon himself to defend me in his home. 

When I leave the room to use the bathroom, or when he takes his mother to work, he has that conversation. The one that goes “It’s your job to make my boyfriend feel welcome in your home and out of it.” The one that goes “correct yourself next time” or “I will correct you in front of him next time.” He knows I stress out when it’s talked about in front of me. I don’t want to defend myself or be the point of conflict. Every day I feel as though I am a point of conflict. 

My identity is not an argument.

Everyone is learning, so being able to trust and care about your partner’s experiences is important. Over the course of two years, Griffin and I have grown into people who prioritize comfort and communication in our relationship. I don’t assume he understands how I experience the world as a trans person and he doesn’t assume he gets it. 

Even when we are alone in our queen-sized bed, he will ask me about myself. He asks about what words he should use to talk about me—like boyfriend, partner, and handsome. During sex, he asks what I like and how he can make me feel comfortable. Genuine concern and care about each other in moments that are public to ones that are extremely intimate has helped both of us learn to care for one another in a deeper and more meaningful way. 

I always thought that maybe being in a relationship with me was too hard or required too much work for cis people. But the truth is, all relationships are hard and require work. It just depends on whether or not you trust each other to work hard together.