Several of my trans female friends have told me that cis dykes began to take way more interest in them once they cut their hair short and began to dress more androgynously.About two years ago, my ex and I split up after being together for nearly a decade. On top of that, around this same time, after years of identifying as a lesbian, I came out as bisexual, so I also planned on dating men.She was a cis queer woman who was supportive when I transitioned a few years into our relationship, and we were monogamous during the lion’s share of our time together. With regards to meeting queer women, it seems that traditionally much of this takes place in dyke bars and clubs.While I recognize this is a privilege, as it makes my life significantly easier in many ways, it also means that any flirting, making out, or heavy petting I engage in will eventually lead to a coming-out-as-trans moment, which often leaves me with an awful feeling in the pit of my stomach.While you would think that cis dykes (being more trans aware than the public at large) would take such coming outs in stride, this is not actually the case.
Trans female friends of mine have had to suffer through cis dyke “freak out” moments, or even accusations of deception, that rival stereotypical reactions of straight people.
For obvious reasons, I’d rather avoid this if I can.
The second reason why the bar and club scene doesn’t work for me is that I fall outside of the butch/femme binary, which is a central part of the San Francisco Bay Area’s dyke dating scene.
While I identify as femme, I am not “high femme” or “sexy femme,” which are the only kinds of femme that seem to get read as legitimately femme in dyke spaces.
I’ve spent much of the last decade writing about trans woman exclusion and trans woman irrelevancy in queer women’s communities.You would think that by now, I would have little left to say about the subject, but this is not the case.