Every time I book an appointment, there's this moment. This moment where I have to tell them I'm trans. Not just tell them. Explain. Negotiate. Sometimes defend my own existence.
Last week's booking was different. I found Sophie through a recommendation on a trans-friendly sex workers network. She was upfront in her profile about being queer-friendly, which already felt like a relief. But still, that conversation looms.
I always do it before meeting. Always. Learned that lesson the hard way years ago when a worker freaked out mid-session and things got ugly. Now I'm direct. 'I'm a trans man. Pre-op. I'd love to discuss what that means for our potential encounter.' Some workers ghost. Some are curious. Some are wonderful.
Sophie was wonderful. She asked clarifying questions without being invasive. Wanted to know my boundaries, my dysphoria triggers. We talked for almost an hour before meeting, which felt more therapeutic than transactional. When we finally met, her gentleness was a balm.
Not every encounter is like this. Not every worker understands. But moments like these remind me that intimacy can be kind. That my body isn't a problem to be solved, but a landscape to be explored.