The transfem is inherently touch starved. We didn't get to be little girls or teenage girls or regular college-age girls. We tried to meet our needs through rough-housing, but it only goes so far and lasts so long. Mom and dad stopped holding us when we stopped being cute and little, but we watch long into our teens as our cisters curl up on the couch next to their parents who pull them in for a snuggle in front of the tv well into their teens. We watch cis girls do each other's hair and makeup and hug and hold hands and yern for that freedom of touch. We think we'll get it from partners, but even those TME people who love us are afraid to touch us. They take our touch and our holds because they fit better as the little spoon and they're used to it, and we weep inside. "This is good enough I guess," says the transfem. "This is better than nothing. This is better than a kick in the teeth." We're doomed (unless we luck out real hard and live near lots of other transfems) to a life of low contact, of being treated like a threat or a pillow or a sex toy with very little in-between or outside those categories. Do better for us. Put a hand on our shoulder. Put your hand on ours when you ask how our day is and look into our eyes. If you really view us like women, treat us like one.
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