Juno Roche, from “Queer Sex: A Trans and Non-Binary Guide to Intimacy, Pleasure, and Relationships”, Jessica Kingsley Publishers, 2018:
“I needed to have control over my newly created vagina. I put up metaphorical barriers and warning tape signalling to the world that this was still a fragile place.
Over the next few months I felt elated, depressed and confused in equal measures. I imagined that I was the kind of woman who wanted to feel a penis slide inside of her. I was definitely heterosexual and I imagined that this would all be straightforward and that questioning my sexuality or even my gender makeup wouldn't ever be something that I'd have to face or deal with. The script was simple: Bits of my body felt wrong, so change them and then get on with being an incredibly binary heterosexual woman who happens to be looking for a husband, hopefully one with an average-sized penis that my vagina can comfortably accommodate. I assumed that now I had the body, a much-more-in-line-with-the-way-I-felt body, things would be easy: I would find a man. He would desire all of me, not just some of me. He would be a nice man, a kind man, a handsome man. We would make virtual babies (lots of them) and then in turn spoil my dogs, making them our family. It would all be plain sailing. Post-vaginal landing, everything would work out fine. I assumed binary and I assumed heterosexuality.
That was the script. The truth was that as time went on I just didn't know anymore who I fancied, desired, or wanted to be fucked by. Did I even want to be fucked anymore? Was I heterosexual, bisexual, was I a lesbian or was I all of the above and then some? It seemed as time went on, my vagina rather brilliantly posed as many questions as were answered.
I assumed very early on, by the way, that my vagina must be nonbinary— poetically so due to their possession of two symbolically different representations: penile and scrotal skin made vaginal, perfectly inter-binary.
I knew that my being HIV positive might get in the way. For many people it's still an unknown hurdle that they are unwilling to step over. Sometimes it's because of fear, sometimes because of ignorance. I can't blame people, as I do not know how I would react in their shoes, and besides, blaming is shaming and it leads nowhere. Yes, it hurts to be rejected by someone because of my HIV status, but in truth there is no loss because they would never be right for me. For some people I think that the intersection of trans, HIV, and middle-age is just easier to walk away from than negotiate.
But I don't think my current dilemma is due to that intersection. In truth, I never get close enough to anyone for them to find out. I honestly believe that my dating, relationship and sex dilemmas are centered around my own feelings of confusion about my sexual identity. I'm not sure who to approach or how to approach them. I'm not sure if I have to tell someone I'm trans or that my vagina has a different construction, or how to have sex with someone who may have a trans body like mine. I assumed simplicity and didn't prepare myself for new levels of ambiguity and unexpected exploration of new lands.
(...) So, and this is a confession, I think that I am probably quite inexperienced at becoming more experienced. I, for many years, did versions of the same very limited repertoire.
My lack of experience prepared me to be a binary, vanilla heterosexual, which is exactly what I presumed I was and would be in my post-vaginal town.
I'm sure that there would be some people interested in me but I am bewildered by my emerging world of choice and, if I'm honest, slightly terrified about how to have the kinds of sexual and loving relationships that have opened up in front of me. When it comes to these new frontiers, I am hopelessly naive and despite my past— it's well-documented, I feel quite timid about the spaces I have never even imagined exploring.
Nothing is a given anymore. I seemingly find lots of people attractive, and the further I have moved away from focusing on my own genitals as being key, I have had to move my focus off others' genitals as being a place to find love, sex and desire. Genitals alone weren't going to provide the answer.
If I find lots of different people attractive— cis men, cis women (especially handsome, butch lesbians), trans men and some of the nonbinary community— what does that make me and what should I do about it? What dating site should I join? Is there a dating site? Is there a label for me that fits at 50 and naive, and at 50 should I really be open to a new label?
Am I not being silly to be over 50 and experimenting with new labels?
I'm sure there is a word, or a label, and I'm sure there are spaces into which I could fit, but part of this exploration is about allowing myself all of the options without tagging myself or restricting myself to exist in one box. If I look back, I can only see restrictions I placed on myself, further implemented by society, which operates in an incredibly limiting way. I can only see transparent yet rigid boxes in which I placed myself, often for no reason, other than for fear of experimentation.”
