May 2014, a month after I published my first article about being trans, I woke up at dawn between two naked men, on the top floor of a townhouse in Park Slope. I’d followed the rules of straight womanhood for over a decade, and it hadn’t made me happy, so I wanted to test my boundaries, push myself to be with people in ways I hadn’t before. That was when Barrett and Jason came along, a bisexual couple I met online who were interested in dating a woman.
“Oh, God, another Asian girl/white boy couple,” I groan, dropping my fiancé’s hand.
He hates it when I do this. So do I, really. I know it’s unkind and self-loathing, but every time I see another couple of our racial makeup, a little part of me sinks. We live in San Francisco, so this dip is as common as the hills. In these moments, I wish we were anything else ― that he were my gay best friend or we were startup co-founders, that he were Asian and I were white, that we were exquisitely ambiguous races, or that I could sink like my feelings into the sidewalk, be a little worm, and date whomever I want without considering social perception.