you will get what you want.”
He brings my hand close to his face—I try to pull away but I’m too late—and plants a wet kiss on my knuckle. That’s Max, sage advisor and uncomfortable-affection giver. I yank my hand away and wipe it on my jeans, pretending to hate it.
“What’s your fear here, Pony?”
“Another Joni situation,” I admit.
“Right,” he says, understanding.
I met Joni online last summer. She was the first girl I dated after coming out as trans. She’s a Goth-lite girl with long black hair and confidence for days. I didn’t see her that often—she didn’t go to my school—but we were in constant contact. Getting a text from Joni became addictive. Each time my phone dinged, my heart would race. I was acting like those lab rats trained to touch a button to get food. You start off slow and steady, but eventually all you do is touch that damn button. That was me and Joni.
We had something—it felt very real—and I was finally someone’s boyfriend. I was so happy, I walked around five inches off the ground until I started to connect the dots. I hadn’t met her friends or family. When we did hang out, she always traveled to me. No social-media mentions with me, not even a snap. And then it hit me: I was her secret boyfriend. That sucked. I finally asked her about it during one of our late-night FaceTime sessions.
I’ll never forget what she said: “Pony, I might be OK with you being trans, but that doesn’t mean everyone will be OK with you being trans.”
It was devastating to hear that, and I should have ended it, but I didn’t. I did start wondering just how OK she really was with me being trans. We hadn’t done much beyond kissing. My gut told me to break up with her, but I stubbornly ignored it. A week after that talk, three months into our relationship, Joni disappeared. I wish I could report that I was completely chill about her ghosting me, but I wasn’t. I continued texting and calling. It was a low point for me.
About a month later, Joni finally responded: Dating a guy now. Sorry.
Not another guy, a guy. That small grammatical error (or choice) broke my heart.
“Earth to Pony,” Max says while snapping his fingers. I look up and see our beloved waitress staring darts at me and tapping her pen against the notepad. For the first time, I understand what stink eye means.
“Burger and fries, no tomato. Please.”
We hand her the menus as she smacks her gum and pretends to care. She taps her pen against Max’s coffee cup. “Do you want me to top that off, princess?”
Max and I make immediate eye contact. “No, thanks,” Max says with a forced smile that makes me bust out laughing as soon as she walks off.
“How’s Wendy?” I ask.
“I think she’s going to be my life partner.”
Max falls in love within minutes of meeting a person. I have seen this cycle all too often. He burns too hot too fast. They will be picking gender-neutral baby names today, and she’ll be gone tomorrow. I give this one two more weeks.
“So, you have sex?” I ask as casually as humanly possible.
Max shrugs. “Yeah, we do.”
I have another completely causal question that I have wanted to ask for a long time. Sure, I have done my fair share of online research about trans sex, but it’s different to talk to someone face-to-face. Even though I can’t make eye contact.
“What’s sex to you?” I ask.
“What’s sex to me?” Max says in mock horror. “What’s sex to anyone?”
“A mutual exchange of bodily fluids?” I offer.
“Yes. Gross, but yes. And—connection. Mentally, spiritually, but mostly physically.”
Our conversation is interrupted by the food getting delivered to our table. My burger is more tomatoes than meat. I remove them and take a bite. The burger is salty but decent.
Back to the trans-birds-and-trans-bees talk.
“But we don’t have the proper equipment,” I say between bites.
Max makes a sour face. “What’s proper, Pony? Sex is about two, or more, consenting people making each other feel good. Usually naked.” He stops and smiles. “Besides, what the lord forgot, the sex shop provides.”
“Do you have one?” I ask.
“No, don’t be ridiculous,” he says. “I have three.”
My face gets as red as those discarded tomatoes. Max continues, “When you’re ready, I will be your trusted shepherd to the promised land, my favorite queer-owned sex shop in Dallas.”
I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. And