Sex with a fellow trans person put me off cis men for life

When my date used my correct pronouns, I felt a sudden surge of happiness.

He was a cisgender guy, and since most men had misgendered me on dating apps and on actual, in-person dates, this gesture gave me a glimmer of hope.

Telling my friend about it, however, gave me the slap in the face I needed. ‘Getting your pronouns right is the bare minimum, Dee,’ she said, shaking her head.

It was then that I realised how little my identity had been affirmed in my previous relationships with cis men, and how this simple act, which should be the bare minimum, felt monumental. 

I had praised these men for being ‘so inclusive’, put them on a pedestal and showcased them to my friends and family.

But in reality, many of them were just telling me what I wanted to hear and would misgender me behind my back for fear of coming across as ‘gay’.

I knew I deserved more than simply being called ‘they’ and ‘partner’, but I didn’t realise how much I had been missing until I met my trans boyfriend.

I always knew I wasn’t cisgender. As a child, I enjoyed both boys’ and girls’ toys, clothes and activities. I would wrestle with my dad before going to dance class with my mum. I wore Disney princess dresses with Timberland hiking boots underneath. 

It was only during my teens that I started to feel pressure to appear more feminine, and I tried to be what I thought the ‘perfect girl’ was. I wore makeup, dresses, push-up bras, copied all the latest trends that my friends around me were doing.

And when that didn’t work, I thought I must be the opposite – a trans man. I binded in secret, created private profiles as my ‘boy self’, and even had a boy-name. But that didn’t feel like me either. 

It wasn’t until my early twenties that I discovered the label ‘nonbinary’ – and that’s when it all fell into place.

Coming out as nonbinary felt like coming home to myself. I finally had a word to describe how I felt about my gender. I came to the realisation that not everyone feels like a man or a woman, that some feel like a mixture, or in-between the two.

For me, I’ve always felt somewhere in-between a man or a woman, sometimes more masculine, other times more feminine, but beyond just clothing.

And sometimes I don’t feel like either. For me, nonbinary means being genderless and genderfull, I can pick and choose what elements of gender that I want or that make me feel more ‘me’.

It was a slow social transition, telling one group after the next, until I was finally out in all spaces, including to my family. And surprisingly, they already knew I was ‘different’.

I was prepared for confusion, tears, ready to explain myself out of an argument or disapproval but I was met with acknowledgement. I realised I had waited all this time to tell them in anxiety when in reality, I was already accepted.

In my early twenties I went by they/she pronouns – only because I knew most people around me wouldn’t use ‘they’ for me, so it was a way to protect myself.

But after being out for a year I realised I was only using multiple pronouns for the benefit of others, and that they/them pronouns were actually the right fit for me.

And if someone won’t use my correct pronouns, or try to, I didn’t want them in my life.

Navigating my gender identity and sexuality has been an intertwined journey, with my queerness becoming more prevalent the more I delved into my gender.

I no longer had to squeeze myself into a label or box that I thought I should put myself into, rather I could explore beyond those labels and when I did, ‘queer’ felt like the right identity for me.

I met my boyfriend on a dating app in 2024. Conversation flowed easily and we decided to go on a date. At the time I wasn’t seeking out non-cisgender folks, and randomly came across my boyfriend’s profile – at first, I didn’t even realise he had the trans flag in his bio. 

Not only was this my first queer date, but my first t4t (trans for trans) date. I travelled over an hour to see him for the first time, and we kept it rather casual with a stroll around his local town.

Before we got intimate for the first time, we had spoken in depth about our identities, what makes us euphoric and dysphoric, boundaries and hard limits.

I’d been slightly anxious about our first time – I was worried about doing things ‘wrong’, or not being good at pleasing someone with similar genitalia to my own. I could hear all the messages I had been told growing up about how sex ‘should’ look and feel, and how our time would measure up.

But when we did have sex for the first time, it felt like how sex is depicted in movies: dreamy, whimsical, and a little silly. It was magical. Almost like the first time again.

Suddenly, the realisation came to me that I didn’t want to be intimate or date a cis man again. And this felt like whiplash as, until then, I had always described my sexuality as ‘I find women and AFABs – people assigned female at birth – attractive, but don’t think I could have a sexual relationship with one.’ 

Perhaps this was my internalised homophobia speaking, the messages my parents had raised me on, and now I had finally dipped my toes into this new sexual realm, I didn’t want to leave it. 

Being intimate with my trans partner was not only a huge step towards my queer acceptance, but my gender too. Gone were worries that a cisgender male partner would misgender me in the bedroom, or in the relationship in general. 

My trans boyfriend made me feel safe to be my full trans self, and safe to explore things in the bedroom that I may have previously avoided because of dysphoria. He made me feel safe to ask questions about giving head, and where to touch.

I had gone from being misgendered in the bedroom to being celebrated. I was no longer the teacher, having to explain to a partner why I didn’t want my chest to be touched, or why calling me ‘girl’ in the bedroom was inappropriate.

Since being with my boyfriend, I am now able to be truly present in the moment, knowing my partner understands my dysphoria and navigates it with personal understanding as a fellow trans person. 

I still had to flag my dysphoria, but I didn’t need to explain it. It took such a weight off my shoulders that meant I could simply enjoy the moment and not enter ‘teacher’ mode.

After we had been intimate, we spoke for hours about what we enjoyed, what we would like to try together next time, and how sex relates to us as queer and trans people. It was a conversation I cherish; the moment all my anxieties about being bad in bed with another AFAB person or not being queer enough vanished. 

My only regret was not meeting my trans boyfriend earlier; it would have saved me a lot of time soul-searching and beating myself up for not feeling queer enough. It would have also saved me a lot of time praising cis men for bare minimum trans allyship.

Now, every intimate movement encompasses our transness, whether it’s a ‘no-chest’ day, or a day I feel most comfortable being intimate with a binder on, or even the non-sexual intimacy like cuddling on the sofa and dancing in the kitchen. 

My identity isn’t the only thing about me, but being in a t4t relationship opened my eyes to the reality of being truly accepted for who I am and that someone using my correct pronouns is the bare minimum. 

As queer, trans people, we deserve to be loved fully, and for me, I will never go back to cis men.

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing M.Navarrogriffiths@metro.co.uk. 

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