To ensure that I earned myself a follow up interview I scrubbed the internet of my social media presence. When combined with my professional (and likable) demeanor, that precaution worked, and I made it to the second round: the awkward group interview....
Of the five worthy candidates, one was a trans female. Naturally I googled the names of my competition at the interview's conclusion, and as the trans person had a unique name I was able to find their photography portfolio quickly.
The subject of the portfolio was her nude body; only a black censorship bar hovered over her genitals. She was otherwise posed in explicit and compromising positions, bending herself over and stretching herself out to maximize sex appeal by accentuating her curves to make herself look as female as possible. Messages from users of an online dating site captioned each image, to demonstrate the difficulties a trans person faces when dating. Discrimination is expected when anyone dates, and transsexuals experience it one billion fold.
From an employer's perspective the entire portfolio was inappropriate. My first thought was, "How did this person make it to the group interview with this gallery so easily located?" My next thought was, "The standards for this job must be very low." Then, my brain began to judge this person's nude body. (Don't want people to judge you? Don't put nude photos of yourself online.) Her breasts were small, estrogen enhanced bubbles that did not look believably female, and her nipples were puffed unnaturally. Her body was doughy, like mine was as a pubescent middle school boy. (Clearly this person did not believe in exercise or nutrition.)
What was the purpose of this photo shoot? To convince a straight male such as myself that I could find a trans female attractive? That, behavior and personality aside, I could date a trans female on looks alone? I was morbidly curious for what lurked beneath the black censorship bar (probably not its intended purpose). From an "art" perspective the entire project was a cringey and confusing failure, lacking thoughtfulness in exchange for superficial provocation. Finding a similar portfolio from a male or female applicant would be equally unprofessional and equally inappropriate, but I would not find it viscerally disturbing.
After I closed the gallery I understood "transphobia." Then promptly and unapologetically, labeled myself a "transphobe." I did not feel ashamed by this label, nor did I feel pressed to undo this newfound "bigotry." It was a natural response to the lie I had been told: that trans-women were women.
This trans-woman was not a woman, and no photographic technology could ever be deceptive enough to make me believe that this male was doing anything more than role playing as a female by showing off her body. (A woman would only pose in a lascivious position as directed by a male photographer anyway, because only a man knows which angles a fellow man can completely lust after the female form...exactly the way this "trans woman" was self posed!) I did not feel any animosity towards this person, or any desire to physically hurt them like the transphobe label suggests. (I have no desire to physically hurt anyone.) Instead, I felt a deep sadness for them. They want to be something that is not in their nature and will never be in there nature, in much the same way I once wanted to be a big shot film director.
My self labelled transphobia is neither a real phobia, nor a reasonable fear. (A reasonable fear of transsexuals would be disagreeing with them en masse at a protest.) "Transphobic" is the silly term I will gladly own to describe the visceral disturbance when my soul, in anguish, cries out that something is deeply wrong with this person. Something is deeply wrong with our culture when this type of behavior is not seen as the mental disorder that it is.
Whether a person wants to believe it or not, everyone has a soul...and those that are made numb to visceral disturbances--to the point where they celebrate one's ability to choose their own disturbance--may be politically correct, but they are morally incorrect.
Admitting I am wrong politically doesn't somehow make my opinion permissible by transsexuals, whose philosophical relativism is a one way street. No, to be correct politically I must celebrate a person's chosen disturbance. But my soul will not let me, as this nightmare demonstrates:
I was having anal sex with my black boyfriend. I couldn't see his face, only the beads of sweat on the back of his bald head.
He was moaning with pleasure, but something was very wrong. 'I'm not gay,' I thought. 'Why am I having sex with this man?'
"You can fuck my pussy," my boyfriend said. Something was very wrong indeed. "Yeah, fuck my pussy," he said again. It was now an order. I obeyed. I didn't want to be a bigot. I took my dick out of his ass, but before inserting it into his pussy I stared into it.
The pussy was a gaping wound where his penis used to be. Ragged, bloody edges looked sawed off with a serrated knife, and dilapidated chunks of red and white flesh hung from the sides of the cavern. His pussy was deep in darkness...strands of mucus hung from the pussy walls, connecting the two sides. I could see a small pile of entrails way in the back of the cave of his pussy.
'I don't think I'm gay,' I told him.
What is one to do when their instincts are so warped that they choose to mutilate themselves to superficially become the opposite gender? When everyone they talk to celebrates and enjoins them to follow their instincts, regardless of how unnatural and dangerous they are?
Pray
