.jpg)
“T4T” is where trans folks can speak with each other directly, from the heart, without having to make ourselves legible to cis society. Here, we will tell stories that center our joy and our pleasure, our rage and our resilience, our quirks, our dreams, our love. Here, no experience or idea is too niche or too wacky — we care about what you care about. Read more from the series here.
“You two had very different upbringings.”
It was an understatement. I was on the phone talking to a guy friend I’d known since high school about my relationship, which began on a dating app. He was right: at first glance, my boyfriend and I were polar opposites; I’m a Black transgender woman, and he is a cisgender white man. He’s reserved and adorably shy; I’m an extrovert with a rich social life. He had been in the military since he was able to enlist, and I worked in fashion. We have relatively little in common other than our unwavering and intense love for one another, but as we continue our relationship, we’ve learned to understand our cultural differences, which I doubt we could have done if we’d met by happenstance in person.
Some may bemoan the directness of the apps, but these platforms offer a screening process that can make the difference between a good time and a dangerous situation. Sure, there are a number of men I can meet at a bar or club, but for the discerning doll, dating apps can be useful tools for safely finding love. For one, it is much less risky to get to know someone online before meeting up. I always put on my dating bios that I do not dom or top as a way to weed out men looking for those things — or worse, looking to satisfy a fetish. I live a quite binary life in that I am hyper-feminine and traditional in my lifestyle, and I would prefer to meet men who can match that energy by being dominant and masculine. The reality is that I won't necessarily find these men at local social gatherings because they won’t always feel comfortable approaching me while I am with my friends. The apps are by no means a silver bullet to the difficulties of dating as a straight Black trans woman, but they can help build bridges between would-be lovers of totally different experiences. They certainly did for me in my relationship.
I still remember his profile: He was all-American, square-jawed, tall, and classically handsome. I would be lying through my teeth if I said I didn’t know we would match. Two years in, and I still thank the internet for bringing together two people who wouldn’t have otherwise met.
Of course, dating online isn’t without its own set of difficulties. Being a millennial means we grew up with the birth of the internet, and we were the generation that had to learn to navigate it safely. The early aughts were rife with predatory internet behavior, and it takes a bit of experience (even as adults) to know when to leave an interaction. Unwanted nude photos, sexually charged and intrusive questions straight out the gate, and requests for pictures and videos you may not be comfortable sending are always being thrust upon us, especially when femme. Sometimes, we can even be reported for standing up for ourselves and then eventually banned. Despite those pitfalls, the internet can still be a place to find a perfect match.
We went on our first date after a week and a half of talking. During that period, we spoke from the moment we woke up to the moment we went to sleep. My friends and coworkers knew I was smitten; everyone who saw his pictures said we would look good together.
We still hadn’t met yet but I was enjoying getting to know him. It was the first week of October, and one day we spoke on what happened to be Columbus Day. To me, the holiday isn’t something I’d celebrate as both an African American and Native American. So when he asked if I was celebrating, I thought he might be joking. He wasn’t. Although he’s Irish, he grew up in a town that had a solid Italian community, which I could relate to being from New Jersey. Nonetheless, I went off on him, then unmatched on the app.
Luckily, I didn’t block his number, which was how he sent me a text asking why I unmatched. After I explained, he said he was only making conversation and understood why it’s a holiday I wouldn’t celebrate. I appreciated that he was genuinely inquisitive.
We decided on Korean BBQ as our first meal together. As we got comfortable, it became clear with the slight tremble in his hand and line of questioning that he’d never been with anyone like me before. Did I want to be this beefy bro’s first doll? I liked the idea that, outside of porn searches, he’d never seen anyone like me before. I’d started accepting that it would come with a learning curve of sorts. By the end of the date, which was the next morning when he left my apartment, I was smitten, and he seemed worth it.
It’s been two and a half years now. We have come to know one another in every intimate way you can think of. We did the clumsy dance of understanding our similarities and differences the way you can only when you love someone. I learned that, as an Irish Catholic, he was raised to not swear as much as your average twenty-something male, while I curse more than some of the soldiers he’s worked with. There was the conversation about the all-too-real subject of my hair as a Black woman; he wanted to know if he could touch it while we were in bed (of course) and wondered aloud if they were locs (no, they’re box braids), not to mention the conversation I’ve had with every man I’ve dated about why white men don’t use washcloths in the shower. (That’s a mystery I’m still trying to solve.)
There were hurdles we faced as well, like racism and transphobia. There were people who assumed he was gay just because they’d never even considered that a cis straight man would be in a relationship with a transgender woman. There have been people who assumed our relationship stems from fetishization in regard to both my skin color and gender identity. I’ve been asked if my boyfriend is white while mentioning him in casual conversation at a party or event, which I’ve been told is because of the way I speak and carry myself — an assessment that is rife with classist, sexist, and racist implications. Admittedly, he is the calmer and more level-headed of the two of us; through him, I’ve learned to rise above and let some of these egregious accusations roll like water off a duck's back.
Luckily, we live in an age where anyone with an inquisitive enough mind can understand anything if they research and read, and my baby is quite intelligent. He’s an ace at pronouns. If he doesn’t know something, he’s always sure to ask me at home. He is quite a skilled cook and quick to embrace the soul and Afro-Caribbean food I enjoy. I’m still quite impressed with how quickly he adapted to seasoning; as my apartment became our apartment, my spice cabinet became ours — something we’re both proud of. I’m still enlivened by the idea of learning more about the man I chose as a partner. I love the melding of our cultures and exploring what makes him tick. We may come from different backgrounds, but we’ve become a family of our own, down to being one another's emergency contact. I'm grateful to have found a partner, and I know he feels the same.
These days, he has foregone social media and apps in favor of a quieter, off-the-grid lifestyle. I’m still very much involved with the internet, and I don’t see my curiosity being satiated anytime soon. In a time where everyone is inundated with information and people are constantly online, I’m still appreciative of all it’s shown me. Sure, with AI at the forefront of the internet conversation, there comes a new level of safety concerns. Catfishing is everywhere, and it’s harder than ever to tell what’s real. As long as dating as a doll comes with those extra hurdles, I’ll be grateful to the internet for helping me sidestep some of the scarier ones to meet my best friend — the man I love. If I never flipped open that app, I’d be missing out on the richness of knowing him. I can’t even imagine.
Get the best of what’s queer. Sign up for Them’s weekly newsletter here.