Dating While Trans: The Part Nobody Wants to Admit

The funny thing about being transgender is that people on both ends of the political spectrum are deeply invested in us, just not in the same way.

On one side, they love to love us. They love to protect us. They love to march in the streets with carefully lettered signs, chanting our rights into megaphones.

On the other side, they love to hate us. They love to target us. They love to beat us up, spit in our faces, legislate us out of existence.

But here’s the part nobody likes to say out loud: Both extremes are self-serving assholes.

The people on the left? They’re not marching for me. They’re marching to polish their own moral mirrors so they can say, “I marched for trans rights.” It feels good. It looks good. It costs them very little.

The people on the right? Their position doesn’t even survive a basic thought experiment. They scream about “protecting our daughters,” but somehow can’t explain whether they want a bearded trans man in the women’s restroom, or an ample-breasted trans woman standing at the urinal next to them. Their stance collapses under its own stupidity.

So why am I bringing this up? Because, of course I’m going to weave it into a dating story.

I’ve written before about how every year or two I create a dating profile, usually with low expectations and predictable results. I almost never find my person. Eventually I delete the app and move on.

This time, the app was HER, a dating app for feminine-identifying people in the queer community.

I filled out my profile clearly:

• Gender identity: Trans Woman

• Sexual identity: Queer

• Pronouns: She/Her

Case fucking closed, right?

Of course not. Because dating while trans is its own special circle of hell. All those people who either love us or hate us politically? They share one thing in common: They don’t want to date us.

So I matched with someone. Smart. Educated. Attractive. Lived close. A goddamn trifecta.

We chatted on the app, exchanged numbers, and set a time to talk. She called, I didn’t recognize the number, missed it like an idiot, then scrambled to call her back after the “oh shit” text came through.

And the call? It was great. Forty minutes of easy, flowing conversation. Curious. Engaged. Funny. When we hung up, I was grinning like an idiot.

Now, let me be clear: I don’t expect sparks over the phone. A phone call is just a vibe check. It’s to confirm you’re not a creep and maybe earn a coffee or breakfast date. That’s where chemistry actually shows up: in person.

So an hour later, I sent a simple text: “I really enjoyed talking with you. Thank you for an amazing conversation.”

Eighteen hours later, she replied. Polite. Kind. And then this line: “I didn’t sense a romantic spark.”

Wait. What? It was a phone call. What the actual fuck does that even mean?

And then it hit me. For those who don’t know me: I have a very masculine voice, despite being out for nearly twenty years. It’s the one thing I refuse to disguise. Why the fuck should I have to change my voice to make other people more comfortable?

A lot of trans women do voice training. They learn to soften inflection, adjust cadence, shape their words into something society labels “female.” That’s valid. That’s their choice.

But me? I refuse. I don’t know what that makes me, and I honestly don’t care.

So sitting there rereading that text, the question surfaced, quiet but unmistakable: Was it my voice?

Did she somehow miss that I was trans? Did she not fully register it until she heard me? Because that’s the only explanation that actually makes sense.

I didn’t hide who I am. I selected “Trans Woman” in the gender field. I shouldn’t have to put up a flashing warning sign that says “Before proceeding, please understand…”

And yet here I am, suspecting that I paid the price for someone else’s assumption.

People on the left will march for trans rights. They’ll put our lives on signs. They’ll chant our names. But when it comes to dating us, especially those of us who don’t perform transness in the most palatable way? They disappear.

That’s the part people don’t want to hear. That’s the part that makes them uncomfortable. And if that’s what happened here, if my voice was the dealbreaker, then this isn’t about rejection. It’s about hypocrisy.

Not unlike my motorcycle accident, really.

Different stakes. Less blood. Lower repair bill.

But still paying for someone else’s failure to actually see me.