London has a population of almost nine million. It is one of the most vibrant, exciting, busy cities in the world. At the same time, most of the people who live here (myself included) have an instinctive distrust of strangers, and a powerful desire to not be bothered by one. So how do you meet people in this context? In the past I’ve relied heavily on dating apps. But as most people on The Apps agree, dating apps fucking suck these days. Let’s examine some potential ways to get laid without dating apps, with the aim that by the end of the year I will have DEFINITELY TRIED ALL OF THEM and if I haven’t you can tell me off for wussing out.

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Regular readers will already be familiar with Jenby’s excellent work. I’m going to keep the intro for this very short indeed, it’s just here to let you know that the following contains references to transphobia and violence, and I’m extremely grateful to her for tackling this. Here’s a piece by Jenby about her first time with a cis woman.
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There’s an ache that I have not yet told you about On Here. It throbs beneath the surface of my every other need. I have no idea if it’s something I’m legitimately allowed to feel, or if publicly acknowledging it is silly and self-defeating. It isn’t something I can actively chase, and it will definitely scare a few men. But let’s have a go anyway: what I ache for is decades of sex. With the same person. I am up for being open, being polyamorous, whatever relationship structure best fits my own needs and his. But fundamentally, powerfully, deeply, I yearn for long-term intimacy. As my life marches on, I find myself growing colder and colder at the thought of sex with total strangers. These days I dream of a man who I can fuck for decades.

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I’m delighted to welcome Emory Oakley to the guest slot today! Emory is a queer trans man who writes fantastic educational content about gender and sexuality over on his blog. He got in touch with a pitch about dating while trans, specifically about how getting hit on by a gay man validated his trans identity. I’m really honoured that he’s up for sharing his story here, and if you’d like to find out more do click the links to some of the other fantastic pieces he’s written elsewhere on all the details of his journey in learning about how own identity.

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Note: this piece tackles some stuff about femininity, womanhood, and ‘worth’. I do not believe that any of the things I say about ‘good girl points’ are true and I don’t encourage you to believe or internalise them. But as with all weird notions, sometimes you have to state it to slate it, so I’m allowing myself to be a bit more open about the dark beliefs that power a lot of my decisions, especially in light of some Twitter discussion I’ve seen about why you shouldn’t just keep trying to be ‘good’ and ‘liked’ all the time. Rest assured I’m working on these things.

The other day, at about 11pm, a guy offered to walk me to the train station. We’d been having a lovely evening together – eating dinner that he’d cooked for me because he knows it’s one of my favourites, watching a weird film that we’d chosen together because he cares about my opinion, then enjoying a teasing blow job because when we started getting horny I specifically requested that he let me be ‘playful’ for a bit. It was fabulous. I felt very content. Very… what’s the word? Very heard. Valued. Appreciated. But when it came time for me to head home, he offered to walk me to the station, and this objectively kind gesture made me deeply uncomfortable.

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