‘You’re not like other boys’

BEFORE HER TRANSITION FROM MALE TO FEMALE, RHYANNON STYLES IDENTIFIED AS A GAY MAN, WHO CRAVED INTIMACY AND GOOD SEX. THESE DESIRES DIDN’T CHANGE WHEN SHE BECAME A TRANS WOMAN FIVE YEARS AGO, BUT, AS RHYANNON REVEALS, NAVIGATING THE TRANSGENDER DATING SCE

ELLE’s transgender columnist Rhyannon Styles on trans dating

On my Tinder profile, I’d clearly stated, ‘I’m a transgender woman,’ but I hadn’t gone into any more detail. Signing up to dating apps had been a huge leap for me, and I was nervous about how much I should disclose. But within days of creating my profile, I was addicted, swiping right on men who ticked all my boxes: tall, with long hair and tattoos. These brief interactions and matches caused butterflies in my stomach and tingles through my body – it felt like being a teenager again. It was the start of my sexual awakening as a trans woman.

When I began dating as ‘Rhyannon’, the name I chose when I decided to identify as a woman, I wasn’t looking for a specific outcome. I was happy with the prospect of enjoying the company of someone who was experiencing me as a trans woman. Shortly after I’d signed up to Tinder, I matched with a man wearing a sunflower hat in his profile picture – a welcome change from the contrived selfies and pictures of men posing with tigers. After several texts, he asked me out for a drink. It would be my first date as Rhyannon, and my body was shivering with excitement.

Sunflower man, as I’ll refer to him, was tall, with scruffy hair and nice glasses. His charisma and enthusiasm drew me in and, most importantly, I felt great sat opposite him in a figure-hugging black dress. I had never committed to online dating when I was a boy called Ryan: I would eagerly sign up to Gaydar or Match, upload some pictures, and promptly forget all about it. I was always more comfortable meeting guys on sweaty dancefloors at 3am: it felt effortless, easy and instantaneous.

But dating as Rhyannon was different. Two hours and two cocktails into our first meet-up, I couldn’t control my urges any longer. I asked him, ‘Can I kiss you?’ He immediately leapt around the table and planted his face in front of mine, with the reply, ‘By all means.’

Coming up for air between kisses, the next move was on both our minds. He lived in Peckham, southeast London, and I lived north-east, in Hackney – so we were either going our separate ways, or one of us was sleeping over. He came back from a cigarette break and we excitedly arranged to go to mine. We couldn’t wait; the desire to have sex possessed us. Casually, almost reiterating what I thought he already knew, I said, ‘I have a penis, you know.’ His face went blank.

He knew I was transgender, although we hadn’t talked about my transition during the date; he hadn’t asked any probing questions about my genitalia because it didn’t matter. My revelation about my body came entirely from my own nervous anxiety; I needed to know he was cool with it. Back then, I’d just started taking female hormones, but I had no immediate plans for gender confirmation surgery because I was on the NHS waiting list, which was more than nine months long.

Moments later, which felt like forever, a smile returned to his face. ‘I can handle that,’ he said.

On my bed, we lay naked and massaged each other. We touched each other’s genitals, and explored each other’s bodies. His lips carefully tickled my newly formed breasts, which drove me insane. The intimate contact with my new body parts created spasms of joy that I felt all over my body, making me even more aroused. He wrapped his body around mine and we floated into a perfect sleep.

The morning after, there was no walk of shame, no awkwardness of waking up with a stranger, and no hopping around red-faced, trying to find our underwear. We’d had a beautiful experience – the first for me as a trans woman – and it felt incredible. Before he passionately kissed me and left for work, he said, ‘Let’s do this again some time.’ Within the week I’d seen him twice, and our sexual exploration continued – we were both mad for each other’s bodies. I enjoyed this interaction: I’d met someone who was totally comfortable with my presence and my body, and I was delighted.

This dalliance lasted for a month, and then, one day, he stopped replying to my messages and I never saw him again. It didn’t worry me: if the intention of our meeting was to have casual, explorative sex, then it had served its purpose. The experience had filled me with confidence and I knew I could find another match as Rhyannon.

I haven’t always been exclusively into guys – as a teenager, I also dated girls. When I was 16, I met a girl called Jet while we were both students at Stafford art college. She had bright-red hair and green eyes, and my mouth fell open every time she walked into the studio. It wasn’t long before she became my first girlfriend. Being the teenage goths we were, we paraded ourselves around college, shackled together by chains and spiky dog-collars, a declaration of our naive love.

One night, while straddling me on her bed, she said, ‘You’re not like other boys. Is there something you’re not telling me?’ The truth is, our relationship was more platonic than sexual. Occasionally, we had oral sex, but we never had penetrative sex and Jet was becoming sexually frustrated. The reality was clear: I didn’t want to be with Jet because I wanted to have sex with her, I wanted to be with Jet because I wanted to be her. Before I could formulate an answer to her question, I was dumped. Our short relationship was over.

I wasn’t like other boys, no matter how hard I tried, but I didn’t know why. As a teenager, my sexuality and gender identity became inseparable and confusing. I fancied girls and boys, I felt masculine and feminine. I loved wearing make-up, dresses and dyeing my hair. Where I grew up in Staffordshire, the word ‘queer’ was an insult. It would be another 10 years before I began to identify proudly with that label.

I carried on having sex, flings and relationships with both sexes until I reached my twenties. Then I started to have sex with men only. I’d begun

to identify as gay once I moved to London aged 18 and discovered an army of students who, like me, crammed themselves into Heaven nightclub every Monday night. Each week we’d hit the sweaty dancefloor, alcopops in hand, gyrating together under UV light as Suede’s Beautiful Ones burst our eardrums. It was a revelation to finally find people like me, who explored all different types of sexuality and gender.

But meeting people in clubs became a thing of the past once I transitioned: it felt too casual and reminded me too much of my former self. I started to think I wanted a more meaningful relationship, not one that was all about casual sex. Swiping like mad on Tinder meant I could start flings easily enough, but after a while, dating apps became white noise, blocking the potential of meeting somebody serious. They had to go.

As I went to delete them all, I logged on to BirchPlace, a site specifically for trans people that I hadn’t looked at for six months. There, I found a message from a guy I’d really liked – he was now single and wondered if I wanted to meet up. My heart raced and those butterflies in my stomach returned.

We didn’t hang about in setting up our first date and, days later, we met in a local bar: he was tall, well dressed, with long, curly hair – totally my type. As he walked through the door, I sensed this could be something. I fancied him immediately and couldn’t wait to have sex with him. Ryan – yes, we laughed when I explained that was my old ‘boy’ name – knew I was a pre-op transgender woman before we met (I spelt it out on my BirchPlace profile), and although he’d never had a trans girlfriend before, his queer sexuality and identity meant he was totally comfortable with me, which was a massive relief.

With a new relationship potentially on the horizon, there was yet another obstacle to overcome. One of the consequences of transitioning from male to female is a loss of libido and sexual function; a direct side effect of the medication taken to aid transition. The combination of daily oestrogen pills and testosterone-blocking injections every 12 weeks had put an end to how I could perform sexually: I couldn’t obtain a prolonged erection and rarely achieved an orgasm, either by myself or with any of the men I’d dated, even though I still craved another person’s touch.

I was well aware this would happen. My trans girlfriends and the doctors at west London’s Gender Identity Clinic stressed the side effects of the medication. I loved the physical effects of the hormones: my softer, smoother skin and developing breasts made me feel much happier about who I was. A lack of sexual function wasn’t a high priority. It was part of the transition.

But, over time, I became sexually active once again with my now-boyfriend Ryan, and the sexual function I thought I’d lost came back. At first, this was confusing – I felt like I was moving backwards in my transition instead of forwards, and I didn’t know if I could enjoy the sensation. After a period of reflection, I realised that enjoying sex didn’t detract from my gender identity. I cherish every orgasm I now have with Ryan. It proves that sexual chemistry and the power of the mind can override the side effects of hormonal drugs.

I’ve discovered a new prowess from having sex with Ryan. Sometimes, our sex life involves dressing up. He gets turned on when I wear heels and silky lingerie, and negligees. We’ve tried different positions, changing who is dominant and who is submissive. I like that my sex life has many layers – physical, aesthetic and tactile. It’s quite different to how it used to be, and this makes me happy because it reflects who I am today. Out of the bedroom, our relationship is just as dynamic. Since last September, we have been living together in Berlin. This adventure, which we both wanted, was born from a desire to explore living in a different city. We talk about past relationships, to avoid making the same mistakes again. But, ultimately, living in the present and experiencing life on life’s terms is the only way to stay connected and present with each other.

As I continue my life as a transgender woman, I don’t feel any need to alter my body. Last year, I decided not to have any surgical procedures, because I don’t believe that femininity will magically appear if I do. Gender identity is something that is unique to everybody, regardless of physical anatomy. It’s taken me a lot of relationships and casual flings to realise that being open about who you are is key to finding someone who will appreciate you, however you choose to identify.

The New Girl, by Rhyannon Styles, is published on 1 June (Headline, RRP £14.99)

‘I loved the physical effects of the hormones: my softer, smoother skin and developing breasts made me feel much happier about who I was’