“I’ve never been with a t-girl before. Could be interesting.”

I’d been expecting a message like that since I’d changed my Tinder bio to include that fact that I’m a transgender woman. My gender identity is no secret – you can Google me – and, since disclosure is such a dicey area in transgender dating (a person’s bad reaction can get you killed), I wanted to be proactively clear about my identity.

But when you’re trans and on Tinder, it’s only a matter of time before you’re told that you’re just an item to check off someone’s sexual bucket list.

The woman who expressed more interest in the new experience I could provide to her than in me as a person later followed up by asking “how big [I] get” – further emphasizing her lack of experience with transgender people. (Hormone replacement therapy makes it difficult for many pre-operative trans women to get and maintain erections.)

I was on Tinder because I was looking to hook up, and this woman seemed extremely amenable, but I wasn’t sure if getting laid was worth losing some dignity.

Transgender women are often fetishized: explicitly in “she-male” porn, but also implicitly with every mention of Thai “ladyboys” and sensationalist headlines about a celebrity having a “sex change”. We’re cast as mysterious and exotic, repellant but seductive. There are people who find transwomen irresistible, and others who see us as just another illicit conquest ranked somewhere between group sex and BDSM. (A trans-inclusive dungeon orgy would be an efficient way to cross a few items off that list, no?).

“Tranny chasers”, as they are sometimes called, present transgender men and women with a dilemma. It can be hard for us to find sexual or romantic partners in general, especially early in transition, because of our social status as outcasts. Fetishists give us a chance at connection, but at the cost of being objectified and valued solely for kink factor.

Still, it was refreshing to be pursued by someone, even in a somewhat demeaning manner. My own insecurities about being less-than because of my gender identity mean that I treat most dating interactions, both online and in the real world, like an uphill battle to prove my worth and viability as a partner. And while the attention I was receiving was motivated by an offensive understanding of trans people, at least it wasn’t outright abuse – something that’s also far too common on Tinder, and Twitter, and Facebook, and Tumblr, and everywhere else, all the time.

I’ve received messages from men and women who harbor deep hatred for transgender people and relish opportunities to show it. Tinder, by nature of its design, doesn’t allow for bigots to seek out a certain type of target, but that hasn’t stopped them from seizing the chance when my profile is presented to them.

I’m already not a fan of the word “tranny”, and I’m less so when it’s preceded and followed by curse words meant to hurt me. Epithet-filled interactions make each new match on Tinder a cause for anxiety – I’m always wondering, “Is this one genuine, or someone trying to hurt me?” People from every underrepresented community get this type of attention, which is why Tinder has a “report user” option. But this is the internet, where reporting harassment does little to curb it, because the trolls will always find a way.

Though perhaps it’s not quite right to call Tinder abusers “trolls”. When I think of an internet troll, I think of a sock-puppet Twitter account or pseudonymous forum user – maybe a 4chan dude in a Guy Fawkes mask. Tinder doesn’t allow for that kind of anonymous trolling because it’s tied to your Facebook account, but that doesn’t seem to stop people.

If anything, I think there’s something emboldening about the app’s odd mix of anonymity and public identity. While it might be possible to track someone to their Facebook profile using his first name, pictures and interests, it’s difficult. Tinder gives you the benefits of obscurity without having to sacrifice who you are – a perfect recipe for encouraging people to be assholes.

That’s why I’m hoping to make my time on Tinder as brief as possible. I’m looking to find a few women to see casually for dates and sex, not an endless stream of one-night stands. I want to meet some new and interesting friends and potential partners and then delete the app – and all the abuse, the pressure and the worries about whether matches know or care I’m trans that comes with it.



So I thought that maybe – just maybe – the “never been with a t-girl” woman would get me closer to that goal. Maybe she’d be fun and nice, once the inappropriate introduction was done with.



But before I could send a message back, she sent another of her own. “I want to see some pictures. Do you have Kik?”

It could never have worked. I’m a WhatsApp girl.