Finding closeness when your body is a political minefield.
Dating as a trans person is not a game. It’s a job interview with a built‑in lie detector. You try to seem relaxed, casual, charming. Meanwhile you’re scanning: How much can I say before it flips? How honest can I be before I get dumped?
There is no app for that. No filter that separates the people who see you as a human being from the ones who only see you as a project, an experiment, or a fetish.
Sometimes it’s right there in the profile: “No trans, sorry.” Sometimes it’s not, and you only find out after three days of chatting or during the second drink, when suddenly the tone shifts or the eyes go flat.
At first, you wonder whether you should just say it upfront. Direct. Transparent. Maybe even with a friendly disclaimer. “Just so you know, I’m trans :)” Don’t forget to add that smiley, just to make it appear less threatening.
And then it comes, that sentence: “Doesn’t bother me.”
Excuse me? As if you were a stain on a shirt. A compromise. A risk he’s willing to take as long as you “don’t look like it” or “don’t talk about it” or “don’t get too…” whatever.
Others want to know everything. Immediately. Every procedure, every detail. No discomfort at all, as long as you let yourself be dissected.
“So, how is it for you down there?”
“Can I ask you…?”
No. You can’t ask. And yet you answer. Politely. You’re expected to strip without taking your clothes off. For some you’re a surprise. For others a challenge. For very few a whole person.
Some flirt with you to prove how open‑minded they are. Some date you in secret. And others say, “I could imagine it with you, but I don’t think I’m that type.” And at some point, you start asking yourself: Am I even the type for me?
You begin to see yourself through their eyes. Am I desirable? Or just interesting? Wanted? Or only tolerated? You want intimacy, but you know it isn’t neutral. Your body isn’t innocent. It isn’t just skin and bone, it is meaning, projection, expectation, and disappointment.
And then it happens. You meet someone where it actually fits. The conversation flows. The gaze stays. Hands find each other. And you want to believe that this time it’s different. That you’re simply you, not trans, not an exception, not a test of courage.
But there’s always a part of you waiting for the moment when it’s over. When he says, “I thought I could handle it, but…” When he asks, “Can’t you just leave that part out?” When you leave because you’re suddenly feeling ashamed — of yourself, of your wanting, of your hope.
Dating as a trans person is like walking barefoot over broken glass and telling yourself it’s dancing. Because otherwise you’d stop dancing. Otherwise, you’d sit still, go quiet and wonder whether you’ll ever be loved without someone having to look past you first.
And still, you keep at it. You swipe. You hope. Because you know: Love heals nothing, but it helps you breathe. If it’s real. If it doesn’t interrogate you. If it stays.
Keep in mind: Dating while trans is never a romantic walk. Instead, it’s an obstacle course through expectation, rejection, and projection. And you are the applicant, the interview, and the surprise question all at the same time. And while you are trying hard to stay true to yourself without being too much, you are balancing on a tightrope of hope stretched over an ocean of “doesn’t bother me” and “I’m not that type.” And sometimes, once in a blue moon, there is a hand that holds you without checking first whether you feel right.
Tip from Hell: Say it right in the first message, so you save them the time they need to dehumanize you. And don’t forget to be polite when they treat you like a walking taboo. After all, you’re not just trans — you’re well behaved too, right?
Excerpt from “The Signature Trans Experience.” © 2026 by Jessica Krämer and Liz Anders. All rights reserved.