Vulnerable

-I find you very attractive. Would you like to go to bed with me?

I was nonplussed. Even were I not gynæphile, I doubt I would find Steve attractive. I found myself saying I would not completely rule it out, but we had only just met at the house of a mutual friend. I don’t know, now, why I might want to let him down gently. I felt disrespected. I am beautiful.

Six months later I find myself thinking about that. My thought could go in different directions. I am vulnerable: just because I am trans does not mean that I am available to any passing bloke, however unattractive, in need of a quick shag. Resentment that I be seen in that way, and fear it might happen again, combine in a miasma of depression.

I could argue myself out of it. He took my no in good part. He did not force himself on me-
-Take it as a compliment?
-No, just no, it really isn’t, but
it is not that bad an experience…

I could picture him as pitiable. Poor man! What an endless round of humiliation and desperation his life must be! But that is not quite it-

The only way I could deal with this is Love. I wish him well. I recognise that I am unharmed. I have felt so vulnerable, yet so little has happened to hurt me. I love, and wish him well. And care for myself by getting away as soon as possible.

This Love is who I am. I was burgled, and after I found burnt matches lying about my box-room. The thief had found his way by match-light, not having thought to bring a torch, and seeing them burned down to the end thought, Oh! He burned his fingers! I thought of the fear he would feel.

Love could be my protection from hurt and resentment, just as it has been with my mother. And, perhaps, honour: I am not sure what honour is, and will consider it.

I had a lovely morning at Stanwick Lakes with Lisa: a coffee, a stroll, an ice-cream. I met her lurcher, a rescue dog she thinks was rejected by travellers as insufficiently aggressive. I heard of her lovely relationship with her daughter aged 17 and her cancer. She had been to the house of a major collector of Bacon‘s paintings, and seen several on his walls. Then I stood entranced by the colours of the water, how so soon the bottom became invisible, the ripples on the surface. There is so much beauty, and however hurt one is beauty heals. I stood and looked at those lovely bullocks, and they looked at me. I wondered about petting the one near the fence. I love the pictures, but they illustrate Steve perfectly.

bullock, not long for this Earth

bullock and barbed wire

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