The amount of serotonin it gave me to watch this grandma react to her new galaxy light 🥺

It’s dark in here- *gasps in excitement* OHH SARAH!

OHH SARAH! *giggles like a little kid* OHhHhH!!

My ceiling is filled with blue lights… and stars and everything!!

OH Sarah! I can go to bed at night looking at this. OHHHH it’s beautiful!

It has a buncha colors but these are my faves

Purple bc insanely gorgeous 100/10 just beautiful

Then the light blue/green makes me feel like I’m underwater, 11/10 love to imagine I’m drowning

Okay, since it seems this question pops up a lot from cis mlm who are interested in having a sexual relationship with trans men, I decided to compile a list of tips for approaching safe, enjoyable, non-dysphoria inducing sex. Sorry about the length:

1. Ask about terminology:

This is such an important first step and why I listed it first: if you don’t know what to call a partner’s body part–ask them! Don’t assume they’re totally fine with one thing or the other. Getting it wrong can be awkward at best, incredibly dysphoria inducing at worst (and a relationship ender right off the bat). Some guys like to call a part of themselves their “clit”, while others prefer to call the same part “dick/cock” or just “junk”. The best way to phrase this question is to make it neutral, something like “what terms do you use for your body parts?” rather than something like “what do you call your vagina?” which implies that one term is already more valid/”real” than another. Of course, this is after you’ve already established that sexual stuff is going to ensue–don’t make this your first message to the guy on a hook up app.

2. Ask about boundaries:

Especially if you are dealing with a dysphoric person, but also just in general, knowing which parts are okay to touch, which parts are 100% off limits, and which parts may have certain conditions for interacting with them is a must. Again, communication is very important. Maybe your guy really likes using his front hole, but butt stuff is off-limits. You never know until you ask, and maybe you have boundaries as well you want to go over.

This goes the other way too! Don’t just automatically assume something will make your partner dysphoric–it may very well be something they actually enjoy.

3. Don’t make assumptions about our bodies or preferred positions.

I’ve already said it multiple times already, but open communication rather than making assumptions is really key. I’ve seen many cis guys who have assumed that all trans men want to strictly bottom, and even a few who thought the exact opposite. The reality is that trans men have as much variety in sex preferences as anyone else–some bottom, some top, some are verse, some don’t enjoy penetrative sex at all. And for those of you wondering how a trans man could top, or worrying that it might be less enjoyable for either party than a cis man topping–don’t knock it till you try it. There are plenty of toys, strap-ons and other sex technology wonders that you have yet to explore, not to mention that many trans men do have flesh and blood penises that they are more than happy to use. 

4. If you use toys, strap-ons, and prosthetics:

Don’t assume everything is a “toy”. For some trans men, their prosthetic is a natural part of their anatomy, and it can be upsetting and disorienting to refer to it as a toy.

If shopping for toys or prosthetics, make sure it’s something your partner actually wants (again don’t assume!) and make sure your partner actually likes what you pick. I know it can seem nice or sexy to surprise your partner with a gift, but toys and prosthetics can be extremely personal, so whoever is using the product should have a say what it’ll be like. If you still want to go for the surprise element, think about giving them a gift certificate or an I.O.U. for a sex shop instead. Then you can make it a fun outing together.

5. Don’t ask them about surgeries, hormones, or their life “before”: 

This should be a no-brainer, but unfortunately too many guys make this mistake immediately upon meeting a trans person. Maybe you’re going into a very committed, long-term relationship with the guy. Maybe just a one night grindr hook up. Doesn’t matter. If he wants to talk to you about it, he will. Otherwise it’s none of your business.

6. Don’t bring up passing.

Really, the amount of guys that think they’re being helpful when they tell us how we “look so much more manly than other trans guys!” or how we’d “pass so much better if you just did x”. It’s obnoxious and upsetting. Trans people know a hell of a lot more about the intricacies of passing than whatever you think you do, and we don’t like back-handed compliments that come from comparing us to other trans people. You’re not winning any brownie points from these comments, they just make you seem ignorant and rude.

7. We are not an encyclopedia of trans knowledge.

If we’re on a dating website or app, we’re there for the same reason as you: to meet people for sex, romance, friendship, etc. We’re not there to answer questions that you have about trans people, especially when almost all of them are easy to answer on a cursory google search. We don’t want to be asked to help write your gender studies essay, or asked how we feel about [insert trans celebrity]. Really, just don’t do this. It’s an immediate block for most people.

8. Don’t tell us we’re brave.

Kinda on the same note as the last one, don’t tell us “we’re so brave” for existing or that you’re “proud” or even about the trans sibling cousin roommate friend neighbor teacher etc that you have. We don’t need cringe-y condescension when we’re trying to hook up. And c’mon, you should know this already from when straight people tell you this.

9. We’re not your experiment.

Don’t have sex with us just because you want to “experiment” with having sex with a trans person, and especially not because you see us as some kind of stepping stone to having sex with “real” men.

10. Don’t assume we all think the same.

Again, should be obvious, but it unfortunately isn’t. Just because you dated a trans man in the past that was comfortable with x, doesn’t mean your new partner feels the same way. We aren’t a hivemind. Trans people are individuals with varied experiences, pasts, preferences, and levels of dysphoria. Follow all the above steps again every time you engage with a new partner.

11. You won’t always know you’re having sex with a trans person. And that’s okay.

Yes, you read that right. This is something that actually happens. Some trans men are “stealth”, meaning that they live their lives with little to zero people aware that they are trans. This doesn’t mean they’re trying to “trick” you, and this doesn’t make them a bad person. Many trans people do this for a variety of reasons, such as safety and their own comfort–some guys just think of being trans as part of their medical history, and not worth mentioning. Regardless of reasons, it is an incredibly personal decision. Don’t be offended if a trans man chooses not to come out to you. He has his reasons, and you should respect that.

12. Have fun with it.

Seriously, this may seem like a terribly long list of responsibilities, but almost all of these are things you should be doing with any partner. And once you’ve got them down, they become surprisingly more natural than you’d think. Remember that you’re doing this because you want to share an enjoyable experience with another person. And yeah, you might occasionally slip up, but we know that, and it’s usually pretty obvious when you’re trying. So relax and have fun.

If any other trans mlm have something to add, feel free to contribute.

There’s a running joke among people who know me personally that I unwittingly go out in public with a sign on my forehead stating “I Am Non-Threatening. Come Talk To Me.” Because if there’s a chance a bizarre conversation with a total stranger is going to happen, I’m typically the person it happens to.

Some context: I have been pretty darn sick this week. (It’s not Coronavirus, don’t worry.) Since the work in my queue for my day job is comprised entirely of audio narration right now, and I currently sound like a waterlogged Demi Moore, I haven’t been able to work these last couple of days. As a result, I’ve been using my down time to knock out as much of Manu’s redesign as possible. Today, to ensure I didn’t spend the day languishing in sinus misery, I medicated the crap out of myself and took Manu to the Starbucks down the block from my son’s day care.

I hit the bathroom, then picked an empty table, but as soon as I sat down with my venti Comfort Tea and started tweaking the inks on my iPad, I felt the eyes of the man next to me looking over my shoulder.

When I looked up, he had his phone out. “I’m sorry,” he said (in a thick accent I couldn’t place geographically), “I don’t want to disturb. I notice you art. You are artist!”

I tried to smile. “Yes, I’m... Well, I’m trying to be,” I croaked.

He leaned in, like he was sharing a secret.

“I am artist, too.”

He stuck out his hand.

I gently took it, grateful for the bathroom trip I just took in which I washed the scourge off of my fingers.

“Can I?” he asked, holding his phone up.

“Take a picture? Uh... sure,” I said. It’s not like he would be able to steal Manu out from under me or anything, I figured. The panel I was tweaking was magnified out to Guam.

“I am artist. Architect and Designer,” he clarified while he steadied his phone over my iPad. “I am Ilker. What is your name?”

“I’m Venessa” I said, trying to be polite. This, I thought warily, is precisely how I get myself into trouble. I’m too damn nice.

“You know, I come to America twenty years ago from Turkey...”

I put down my stylus. This was going to be a while.

“I like Turkey,” he explained. “I like the country and I like the people. But I am artist. I am not... religious man.”

I nodded.

“I told my wife I was going to go to America and she said, “what are you going to do? You don’t have job! You don’t have money! No Visa!” And I said, “I am artist and architect. I will paint and sell my paintings.

“So I come to America alone. To New York City. I sit outside, and I paint. And people, they liked my paintings. They bought them. This one for $30, that one for $50.

“One day, a man comes over to me and he say, “I like your painting. I see you are also architect.” And he gives me his number and asks me to go to meeting at his office. Because he wants to offer me a job. He starts to talk about a building contract.

“I tell him I don’t know anything about contracts. I have no Visa. I am not American citizen. But he says, “That’s okay. I will take care of everything. You will have nothing to worry about.” And this man, he gave me a job. $173,000 a year. And my wife, he gave her a job too. She was project assistant. I bring her and my two daughters over from Turkey.”

“Wow,” I said, not fully believing the veracity of what sounded like a full-on immigration fairy tale.

“Here,” said Ilker, unlocking his phone and opening up his Facebook app. “I show you my work.” He paused and looked up at me. “I am interrupting. You don’t mind?”

At this point, I was invested. I had to see. Because whatever he was about to show me would either prove or disprove this yarn he was spinning. “Please,” I said, gesturing for him to go ahead.

He opened his photos and my jaw dropped. His work... was UNREAL.

“This is building I designed on Madison Ave.... And this one in Chelsea...”

Holy crap. I had just been to Chelsea with my sister last month on a trip to see a broadway show. I had crossed the intersection of the building he was, at this moment, telling me he designed.

He flipped through more buildings. These, he’d designed in Washington, DC. In Bethesda. In Arlington. All beautiful, streamlined, modern structures I had visited and parked my car in front of. He told me he did much of his concept work freehand. That he worked exclusively in natural media. His preferred media was pen, ink, watercolors, and chalks.

Between photos of his wife and daughters, he went on to show me photos from the RUSSIAN EXHIBITION OF HIS ARCHITECTURE ARTWORK.

Y’all, I was stunned. I couldn’t believe the talent I was sitting next to. Scattered among these gloriously rendered images of some of the most beautiful building concepts I’d ever seen were paintings of scenes in Central Park, the National Mall, and nudes from a life-drawing session he attends from time to time.

When he was done flipping through his phone, he looked at me and smiled. “I hope you don’t mind that I interrupt you. I show you all this because what you are doing is very good. And you should be encouraged. To draw is to make beauty.”

I nodded, a lump in my throat. “Thank you,” I managed. “Your work is astonishing. I don’t even know what to say. What is your name again?”

He held out his hand once more. “Ilker Kocahan,” he said. “I am getting more coffee. Can I get you one?”

I looked at my still-full venti cup. “No thank you. But here, please take my card.”

He held my dinky business card like I’d handed him a treasure and thanked me.

Then Ilker got his coffee, and left the coffee shop.

At some point in his ramblings he talked about America as a place of dreams. How he credits this country with helping him rise to the top of his field where he is now able to sell his paintings for $800-$1000 a piece now that he’s retired. My heart ached to hear him talk about that, knowing how our leadership’s positions on immigrants have taken such a dark and horrifying turn.

Imagine the buildings and museums and public places that would never have been if a business man in the park hadn’t lifted up a Turkish painter who spoke little English.

And now that painter was paying it forward on me.

I still feel pretty darn sick. I’ve still got body aches and a nose that has taken the rest of my face hostage.

But today was a really good day. And I just wanted to share it with you in case you are looking for reasons to keep drawing/painting/dancing/writing. It all counts and it is all good.

If you would like to see Ilker Kocohan’s work, please click here.

As luck would have it, I saw Ilker one last time before my area received the mandate to start social distancing. I came into the Starbucks to work on the “Simon Is On the Ground” comic while waiting to pick up my kid from day care, and there he was, happily chatting with the Starbucks manager, who gifted him with a Starbucks hat while I ordered my tea.

A week had passed since our first meeting, so I wasn’t sure he’d recognize me. Lo and behold, as I turned the corner, I caught his eye, and he waved at me. This time, I asked if I might sit with him, and he warmly offered the seat beside him.

While I settled in, he told me that his project was being delayed and that he was going to leave the area and fly home before COVID-19 could make it impossible to travel. The hat was for his wife, whose only understanding of Starbucks was that Ilker really liked the coffee.

As one might expect, we immediately fell into another conversation about art, except this time, I eagerly abandoned my work to hear him talk.

And friends, did I ever get a master class.

He pulled up a painting on his phone which he’d sold for $800. It was a life drawing in ink and watercolor of a woman in a demure gesture, barely detailed and colored in but for her rose-tinted lips and the shadow cast across her neck. He said he felt sad that he’d sold it because he really loved how it came out.

“This is no detailed like yours,” he said, comparing his painting to my panel of Simon and Baz. “Mine is simple. But in a few strokes, I can capture the life of the lady.”

He took his napkin, turned it over, and pulled a pen out of his chest pocket. “Look there,” he said, pointing to a man sitting a few tables away. He began to scribble away on the napkin, lines and lines and more lines. “You see,” he murmured as he ran his pen over the napkin, “I can, with speed, capture the man. I don’t have hours to ask him to sit. I must let go of the planning.”

In seconds, the man across the room took shape on the napkin in a series of confident if also messy lines. It was incredible to watch.

I could instantly see what he meant. He had not produced a photorealistic version of this person on the napkin. But he had captured the man’s essence. The aura of a real person sitting contemplatively with his coffee while reading the Washington Post. I could feel the life of the drawing radiate from the paper.

(When he was done, to my horror, he crumpled up the napkin.)

I shyly mentioned that I’ve been working hard on my own gesture drawing, but had a long way to go, so he asked to see my sketchbook.

I mean... is there even a word in the English language to describe the combination of dread and embarrassment that precedes showing an art master your crap-ass sketchbook that no one sees but you? I didn’t know what to do with myself as he sat there and flipped through the pages.

Eventually, he nodded approvingly and said, “Okay! Is good. But this is sketchbook like every other.” He gestured at the page. “Where are you?”

I was lost for how to respond, but lucky for me, he’s a talkative guy seemingly incapable of awkward silences.

“The world needs to see you in the lines,” he explained. “Someone can look at my work and know, ‘that painting is from Ilker Kocahan.’ You need to draw more and more so that when people look at your drawings, they will know: this work is Venessa’s work.” Then he shrugged and said, “And who knows. I will maybe see you in two years at this Starbucks, and by then, your drawings will be truly yours.”

I’ve shared this story with some close friends who took mild offense on my behalf at his observations, but I really think it took sitting there watching him draw to understand exactly what he was talking about.

Ilker Kocahan has no imposter syndrome. He is supremely confident in every possible way where his art is concerned. The lines that flowed from his pen were fueled by his soul, not his brain. I didn’t think artists like him existed anymore until I was sitting there looking over his shoulder while he scribbled a man into existence, like it was nothing. When I asked if he plots out the perspective on his building sketches in advance, he shook his head no and doodled this on my cake pop wrapper while he rambled on about the components he likes to include in his architecture concepts:

(Don’t worry. I kept it.)

So when he talked about “finding me” in my sketches, I really think he could sense—by the light scratch of the pencil, the trace evidence on the paper of my erasing and failed attempts—my own lack of confidence, my second guessing and self-doubt. My desire to be as good as other artists instead of my desire to express myself.

And in that sense, everything he was saying about my sketchbook was correct. He urged me to get off the iPad as often as possible. To sketch with ink, which is riskier because you can’t erase it, and in that way, give myself no choice but to commit to the lines.

The conversation turned to lighter things after that. He’s apparently an extremely talented basketball player who loves hanging out with his wife and kids. His daughters are both designers. He thinks quirky viral videos are the best thing about the internet. (I agreed.) He’s weak for New York pizza.

Eventually, he bought me a refill for my tea and asked if I would meet him again in a couple of days so he could talk to me about my artwork and help me with my sketching. He even added me as a Facebook friend. When I left the Starbucks to pick up Colin, I was so excited and overwhelmed and grateful to the universe for bringing me into his acquaintance, I texted everyone in my family about it.

But as fate would have it, that night, the local government released its mandate regarding social distancing. He’s likely in Belarus right now with his wife.

I won’t lie and say I’m not devastated that I lost the chance to be his student for an afternoon. But the impression these coffee shop chats left on me was profound. I think about it all the time. For one who struggles with feeling like the artist version of Pinocchio waiting around for permission to be a real boy, it makes all the difference in the world to linger in the huge, unstoppable energy of someone who lives without an inner critic.

I hope I get to see him again after the quarantine is over. I’d love to see if I can fulfill Ilker’s prophecy and meet back at that Starbucks in two years with a different sketchbook in tow. One that I can hand over knowing without doubt or trepidation that anyone looking for me in the work need look no further than the bold stroke of my hand.

Taken the last time we chatted: