Having learned almost everything I know about dating from watching teen dramas like The O. But helping my boyfriend in his transition from female to male was not an act of devotion I could ever have anticipated. I first met Liam in a coffee shop in my Bronx neighborhood three years ago. When he started a casual conversation in line, I was struck by his country-boy charm and cute gap-toothed grin. I was born a girl, but I've always known I was a guy. But I wasn't actually so confident. While I'd met other transgender people, Liam was the first to come out to me directly. I felt like I was handed a live grenade—weren't confessions like that supposed to be explosive? His warm eyes lit up. Apparently, I was trustworthy. He told me the basics: He had never felt like a woman and had never tried to look feminine. He played rough sports, worked construction, and trained his voice to sound deeper. Now that he was an adult, he could finally live as a man. For him, that meant using a new name and wearing a binder—a tight, meshy undershirt—to tamp down his chest. In truth, I was in awe of the idea of totally reinventing yourself. I felt myself drawn to Liam's frankness, so when he asked me to lunch, I said yes. Maybe we'd become friends. That next Monday, we met at a café near my apartment. For two hours, we talked about politics and bad TV, how I missed my hometown of Chicago, and his dream to work as a legal advocate for other transgender people, who face rampant discrimination. I didn't realize that Liam thought of our conversation as a date until he walked me home. Outside my apartment, he caught my eyes dead-on, hoping for a kiss. I tried to give him a formal handshake, but he wrapped me up in a hug that stopped my train of thought. His touch felt electric. What would I call that: a whateversexual? Caught off guard, I sped up the stairs. I hadn't expected him to come on to me, or that I would like it. I was straight—that wasn't up for debate. I had never dated a woman before, let alone a transgender man. By the end of the week, temptation got the better of me, and I invited him over. On an unseasonably warm January night, we sat next to each other on my fire escape, where I felt comfortable telling him things I hadn't even told close friends, like about my struggle to get sober the year prior. He told me about growing up in his strict family, how tough it was to come out to them, and how they'd rejected him afterward. He said he wanted to start hormone therapy—weekly shots of testosterone—as soon as possible and get reconstructive surgery on his chest. As we talked, his identity stopped seeming like an obstacle. Instead, it felt like just another aspect of him, like the gold speckle in his left eye or the anchor tattooed on his left shoulder. Somewhere during a lull in conversation, he leaned in and kissed me. My stomach dropped as he pulled away. I didn't want him to stop. And at that moment, any fears about his gender vanished. Before I could think it through, I was dating a trans guy. It might seem like I'd be lost in confusion, wondering what my new relationship meant for my sexual identity—but I wasn't. I was too love-struck to intellectualize it. I couldn't fathom us not spending our lives together; I didn't worry who I'd be attracted to if it didn't work out. At first, I didn't want to tell anyone. The fact that I had fallen head over heels for Liam out of nowhere was big enough to handle; would his trans identity be met with invasive questions? I was attracted to masculinity, to manliness, which Liam had in spades. I liked being wrapped up under his broad shoulders and having him pull out my seat for me at a restaurant. I wound up with the world's best deal, I joked: a boyfriend who could lift heavy objects and empathize about my period. Dating a guy in transition means committing to a moving target, though. Once he started testosterone therapy, his body and personality changed at sometimes alarming rates: His familiar face thinned down and began to sprout hairs; his sex drive exploded; his voice got deeper; new muscles surfaced every day. At first I worried that he'd evolve right past me. But after plenty of long, 3 a. So when he proposed to me last fall, I said yes, prepared to embrace the unknown. Isn't that what marriage means for anyone: committing to an uncertain future, together? Ours may be a little murkier than that of other couples, but I'm ready to be surprised by what's to come.
