Sometimes it can take a while for the obvious to come along, slap you in the face, and say “Listen to yourself, stupid!”. Well today I finally listened.
A few months after my “day of revelation” as to my true self, some five years or so ago, I confided in a dear friend online that I felt the need for “a man”, and very soon after that a transman did come into my life.
He is still there, although our relationship has moved on from what it was, and I wouldn’t be without him in my life. But what I also have in my life is “wifey”.
“Wifey”. Now there’s a word!
To say that things between wifey and myself are somewhat difficult would be an understatement, and earlier today my brain finally slapped me in the face and woke me up as to the main reason why.
I’ve been so consumed with the struggle to get wifey’s acceptance of me as transgender, to get her to agree to me being able to dress the way I want, and to give me the freedom to express myself as the “real me” that I’ve been overlooking the glaringly obvious.
Even if she were to finally accede to my request to dress as female there is no way that she would ever say to me anything like “Oh, you look lovely tonight darling” before we went out, or help me pick out clothes, suggest places we could go together with me “en femme”. These things just wouldn’t happen.
And the reason is that word “wifey” is wrong. The word I should be using, assuming I’m not going to refer to my other half by name, is “Hubby”!
Since having recognised my true self I’m not just married to the wrong person, I’m partnered with a person of the wrong gender entirely. I don’t need a “wife”. I don’t need a partner who is female. I need a partner who is male!
Whether that person is cismale or transmale is basically irrelevant because I have no need for a sexual relationship. What I need is someone to take over the stereotypical role of being the “man about the house” so that I can finally assume my natural role of being the fluffy, airheaded bimbo that has been clawing her way out of this body for some 60+ years.
I need a “hubby” who will think me attractive, *cough*, put up with my shoe fetish, enjoy us having a dog and a cat, walk hand in hand with me at every Pride march we can get to, cuddle me when I burst into tears for no reason, tell me I look “perfect” when I’ve spent two hours getting ready to go out but forgotten to shave, and will insist that we have the sports package so we can watch darts, football and gridiron together with pizza, popcorn and a few voddies. (Ok, beers for him).
If I’m being particularly choosy I’d say that he shouldn’t be hirsute because I’m not into men with hairy chests, and if he knows his way around the kitchen enough to make melt-in-your-mouth macaroni cheese or chilli-con-carne then that sure would be a bonus.
Basically my ideal partner is a non-hairy man who can, sort of, cook.
In the meantime I guess I’m just holding out for a hero (who’s going to turn up with one of the backing singers’ dresses for me too) … 🙂