An unusual introduction; or, A trans guy walks into a bar

The bar is crowded and dimly lit. Chappell Roan plays too loud over the speakers. Rainbow flags hang on the walls and from the ceiling.

I look around for someone I know. Instead, I lock eyes with someone I don’t. He smiles; I smile back. Then, he walks over.

“Hi, uh . . .” He leans in toward my name tag.

“Dylan,” I say. “He/him.” I’m male-presenting, but I still like to say my pronouns.

He tells me his name and pronouns and we shake hands.

“Is this your first time coming to this event?” We’re at a monthly mixer for transmascs over 30.

I tell him no—I’ve been coming for about a year. “But not every month,” I add. “I’m also on a bocce league, and we usually play on the same nights as these.”

“Bocce!” he says. “Tell me more.”

He nods as I explain the rules of the game to him. We fall into an easy conversation after that. He asks where I’m from (backwoods North Carolina), where I live (Brooklyn), and if I have any pets (the best dog in the world, named Fish). We talk about our partners (his is in school in LA; mine is an editor) and how we met (both at work).

“But I’m not in publishing anymore,” I say. I take a sip of my cider. It’s not as cold as I’d like.

He steps toward me to let a few people by, then steps back again. “What do you do now?”

My heart beats faster. “I’m a writer,” I say. My palms go sweaty.

“Cool!” He looks genuinely excited. “What do you write?”

Another sip of cider, then: “For work, I’m a freelance copywriter. I write email, web, and blog copy for different companies.”

He waits for me to say more. I decide to tell him the whole truth.

“But I also write short stories. And some personal essays. I really like speculative fiction and fantasy, and a lot of my writing has a kind of supernatural spin to it. Like, I wrote one story inspired by a recurring nightmare I had as a kid, and another about the ghosts in the cemetery across from my apartment.” I add, “I’m also working on my first novel.”

A bead of sweat slides down my back.

“That’s amazing! Congratulations!” He smiles big; I smile big back. “I’m a huge reader. Is there somewhere I can read your work?”

A feeling like honey fills my chest. It’s sticky and warm.

“Thank you so much,” I say. “I share most of my stories and essays for free on my Substack. There’s also a paid option for people who want to help support my writing monetarily.”

“I love that,” he says. He sounds like he means it. “Can you send me the link?”

We exchange numbers then. I tell him I’ll send it after the event.

“What about you?” I ask. “What do you do?”

Before he can answer, a familiar voice yells from across the bar.

“DYLANNNNN!” 

I turn around; so does everyone near me. My friend is making his way through the crowd, hair pink, arms spread wide. He wraps himself around me in a big bear hug. The honey feeling in my chest spreads.

When he lets go, he asks, “Who’s this?”

I introduce my new friend to my old friend. They shake hands and start chatting. I excuse myself.

In the bathroom, I look at myself over the chipped sink. The walls are painted black and covered in stickers. 

“That wasn’t so bad,” I say to my reflection. “I’m proud of you for that.”

Then I wash and dry my hands and get back to mixing.

Later, on the train ride home, I text my new friend the link to my Substack. I try to sound casual.

He texts back immediately: “Can’t wait to read!”

Then, a second text: “It was so good getting to know you tonight. :) Hope to see you at the next event!”

I smile at the tiny screen and think, He’s right. Think, It’s good to be known.