Welcome to Ella and the City—a new column by Ella Snyder about what it’s like to date as a trans person in New York City today.
In high school, most of my friends were having sex. I never felt horny, but I didn’t think I was necessarily asexual either. I did, after all, have parasocial relationships with both Harry Styles and Justin Bieber. And by the time I graduated, I’d had two boyfriends throughout those four years that I messed around with, and by the end of high school, a sexual awakening had been ignited.
When college came that fall, I was 18 and felt ready to explore sex more meaningfully. I had zero clue what I enjoyed, what to do, or even what I wanted, so there was definitely a learning curve filled with one-too-many awkward hookups (like my freshman year sneaky link who always had whisky dick and couldn’t keep it up) and downright traumatic experiences (like realizing my virginal one-night stand may have been situationally unhoused and just looking for a place to stay that night). Because of all of this, I felt like I was an early teen in high school again and questioning if I even wanted sex at all.
My view of and relationship with sex briefly changed once Cole* and I started dating. He saw me and my struggle and made sex a lot more conversational, and in turn, exciting. Being in a nurturing relationship, I learned that sex could sometimes be enjoyable. But when Cole and I broke up, I became worried that I wouldn’t feel safe enough with anyone else to be able to enjoy it in the same way I had been with him.
My first few encounters post-breakup affirmed that fear. I found myself back in the beds of men who did more harm than good for my relationship with sex, men I felt I had to convince to want me due to my transness. After those experiences, I made the decision to protect my peace and practice celibacy for a full year. At that time, I focused on investing in my identity, learning new skills, and filling my time with hobbies. I started indoor rock climbing, method acting classes, and revisited an old habit of mindful practices that helped me to connect my mental and physical tension. I was focused on my healing, and over time, I felt stronger and a lot more holistically connected to myself. And through it all, I didn’t miss sex one bit.
I had explored the possibility of life without sex and it wasn’t a struggle. I didn’t feel horny, but I did still feel like I was missing something. It was as though I had reverted to my high school self yet again—my only real desire for intercourse being a yearning to connect and belong. I addressed my low libido one day during therapy, telling my therapist I thought I may be asexual and that the possibility scared me. “I’m already trans, I struggle with my mental health, and TikTok is making me believe I’m autistic, or at least have OCD and ADHD—I don’t want to be asexual, too.” All of these labels felt like sandbags on my shoulders, weighing me down and holding me back—but they also felt reasonably accurate to my situation. I couldn’t imagine tacking on one more identifier that signaled that I was, once again, different from everyone else. Hearing the concern in my voice, she responded with questions. “Do you think this could be from repressed sexual trauma? Have you ever pondered or experimented with your sexuality?” (Then she reassured me that I’m most likely not autistic, ADHD, or OCD, despite what my algorithm was feeding me.)
In our next session, I asked her if my gender dysphoria or body dysmorphia could be the trauma that rid me of sex drive? My body is simply different than most, and because of that, my relationships and sexual endeavors will be, too, right? She didn’t know.
The definitive answers I was looking for eluded me, so I found solace in my friends. I asked my other surged dolls (transfemmes who’d also undergone vaginoplasty) if they ever felt this way, but they couldn’t relate: Most had felt sexual in their biological anatomy and their sensuality was only heightened in their affirmed bodies. To my surprise, it was mostly my non-trans friends who had experienced similar droughts—so many cis women in my world were voluntarily celibate because they also thought they didn’t enjoy sex. We all had been plagued by the possibility that we could be asexual only to realize we do desire sex, just not the sex we’d been having. Commiserating in these failed sexual endeavors and feelings of sexual inadequacy with my cis-ters ended up being surprisingly gender affirming. That all-too-familiar high school feeling of wanting to belong felt like it finally dissipated, just not in ways I anticipated or expected.
In time, I longed to date again, and, in turn, I began to yearn for the physical intimacy that came with it. I had done the work of facing myself, and I was ready to face something—or someone—sexier. I set my sights on a male model I had worked closely with a couple of times and invited him out for a night with friends in Lower Manhattan. I think Levi* picked up on the vibe I was putting down, and by midnight, we were kissing on a stranger’s fire escape. Levi knew I was trans, so luckily I never had to come out to him, but when I went home with him, a conversation seemed necessary. Whenever I sleep with someone new, it usually goes something like, “Have you been with a trans girl before? These are the intricacies of my body and this is how I feel pleasure.”
Levi was receptive and eager to explore with me, ensuring I felt seen and safe. But even with communication, the hookup felt awkward and unnatural, albeit not unpleasant, especially because Levi wasn’t a selfish or bad lover. While I didn’t orgasm, I left that experience feeling enlightened. I found so much power in trying again, and I was so proud of myself for confronting, and conquering, my fears around sex with someone new. I showed myself that sex with a new partner can absolutely be exploratory, conversational, safe, and enjoyable. I felt assured that I could do that again, and more importantly, I wanted to.
*Name has been changed.
