We Are Not The Same

I got a message today from a guy I rode with once — just once.

We’d talked a bit at a local bar where I sometimes hang out with my best friend and her husband. I don’t drink, but I tag along for the company. He’s part of that orbit, one of those guys who’s always around.

One weekend, he asked if I wanted to go for a ride. I wasn’t even sure if it was supposed to be a date or not, but I said sure. I led us to the destination, a bike show up in Eldorado. We had coffee, saw some amazing motorcycles, then headed back to Santa Fe through Galisteo, NM — a long, scenic ride.

I’d been taking it easy because he’d told me his bike wouldn’t do more than about 70 mph. At some point, he jumped up in front of me and started riding like he wanted to impress me. His bike was in rough shape though — parts loose, stuff dangling off, the kind of machine that tells you a lot about the owner. And if you don’t take care of your bike, maybe you shouldn’t ride it like you’re invincible.

Side note for non-riders:

To ride fast, your bike has to be in top condition. You’re always inspecting it, fixing it, maintaining it. There isn’t a lot of cushion between you and the pavement, so every piece matters.

Even a mirror — seems harmless, right? But if it’s loose and hanging on by a thread, and it comes off at 100 mph, that’s a projectile. Not because you can’t see behind you, but because it could hit you, or distract you at the wrong moment. Every little thing matters.

Back to the story — and why that side note is important. His bike was a piece of garbage, and he shouldn’t have been pushing it that hard. He ended up wiping out. Not bad enough to total the bike, but bad enough to shred his jeans and bloody him up. I checked on him, made sure he was fine, and followed him home to make sure his bike made it.

That was that.

We’ve chatted a few times since, but nothing serious, just the occasional one-line text. He acted like he was into me, said he wanted to take me out. I flirted back a bit, but never took it seriously. I’m in a new role professionally that demands presence, and I’m pouring my heart and soul into it. I don’t really have time to explore right now, and honestly, I’m not sure how much I’m into men these days anyway.

So a couple weeks pass with no communication. I’d asked him to call me — not text — because I don’t look at my phone all day when I’m at work, and honestly, I hate fucking texting.

But a few days ago, what do I get?
A text. Or more precisely, a picture.
Of himself … in drag.
As if to say, “See? I’m like you.”

And all I could think was: fucking really?

This is going to sound harsh, but I have to say it: This bugged the ever-loving shit out of me. Still does, days later.

We are not the fucking same.
At all.

And I don’t appreciate the not-so-subtle bait and fucking switch. Don’t bait me into a social exchange under the guise of a date, then push me into forced allyship on execution day. It’s dishonest. It’s fraudulent. And I don’t even know what the expectation is.

I already pour my heart into the service of others all day in my leadership role — because that’s what real leadership is. I don’t have the energy to help someone else through their personal shit, especially someone I barely know.

So no, I don’t want to be an ally — especially when it’s forced under duress.

I already came out. I did the hard, ugly, terrifying work. I live as myself every damn day — in public, at work, in life. And I pay for it in ways that people playing dress-up in private will never understand.

He doesn’t have to face the bathroom decision — that split-second pause when you scan for risk instead of a stall.
He doesn’t have to wonder whether the next election will strip away access to healthcare.
He doesn’t have to question whether he’s being passed over because of his identity.

I do.

And sure, maybe he feels powerful when he plays dress-up in private. Maybe he looks in the mirror and thinks he’s brave.

But that’s make-believe.
I don’t get to unzip who I am when the night’s over.
I live this. I breathe it. I risk shit for it every single day.

What he’s pretending to explore, I’ve already bled for — and that should fucking matter.

Sometimes I just want a normal date.
Someone who sees me — not someone looking for therapy, validation, or an emotional sponsor for their self-exploration.

And trust me, you wouldn’t want me as your therapist anyway. There’s a reason I didn’t go into psychology: I fucking suck at people.

So don’t fucking try to force me into this shit.
It’s not fucking nice.

So no — we are not the same.