Making sense of desire and desirability

Until recently, whenever Phoring*, a 28 years old trans nonbinary masc person who works in the development sector, desired other trans-masc persons, they found themselves wrestling with the idea that the others might be into feminine people. Then, they matched with a trans-masc person on Tinder in Chennai, where they were working that time. They went on a date, where the person introduced them to the autobiography of Lou Sullivan. 

An American author and trans activist who was active in the 1970s and 80s, Sullivan was the first widely-known person to embody the identity of transhomosexual — a trans person who is attracted to other people of the same gender identity.

Going on dates with more trans persons has been a turning point in their life, Phoring told me. “We went to galleries, art spaces, and spoke about our lives, queerness, and strangely, about our relationship with our mothers,” they recalled. “Both of them offered me a place to stay, as the place that I was staying at that time wasn’t very safe for me. That meant the world to me. Though I didn’t take up the offer, knowing that I have such possibilities helped me survive [deal with mental health challenges]."

Phoring’s experience exemplifies how T4T and TLT often transcends romantic-sexual desires to also accommodate a sense of community. 

In the trans context, conventional articulations of homo, bi, and heterosexuality often lose their meaning. Paresh, 27, a trans non-binary scholar at Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi, had exclusively dated straight cis women for the first four years of their dating life. But at age 21, when they began to think of themselves beyond the gender binary and started coming to terms with their asexuality, their conception of desire also shifted. “It started off with some experimenting,” they recall. Going on dates or making out with people—not only cis gays but also trans* persons (the asterisk refers to all non-cisgender gender identities which might include transwomen, transmen, gender non-conforming, genderqueer, gender non-binary, etc), they realised that they find many of those people attractive.

Currently, Paresh are seeing three people, two of whom are non-binary persons like themselves, and one is a cis straight woman. “Since I don't think of myself or my desires in cisheteronormative terms, why should I confine my attractions to those references?.”

Such realisations, many trans people I interviewed told me, helped them affirm what they always knew about themselves. For example, Noori*, a Dalit trans student in Kolkata, never had any doubts about the fact that she was sapphic. Derived from the poet Sappho, who wrote about love for women, 'sapphic’ refers to romantic or sexual attraction between women. Noori was attracted to women from her school days. But, she said, people would often perceive her as a man because of her presentation and assume that her relationships were heterosexual. 

“Throughout my life, even now, as I assert my identity as a trans woman and am transitioning, I have always been attracted to feminine-inclined persons and women," she said.

‍What makes one a ‘Fake Trans’? 

Historically, trans people’s expansive desire and love for each other have been misunderstood and erased. In a thread on the TransgenderIndia message board that originated in 2017, trans lesbians described how their desires were often dismissed and viewed as threatening. “Cis folks will never treat us (as) women. Whichever way you educate them,” said a user who goes by the handle Amy. While acknowledging that a lot of trans women are attracted to men, they expressed hurt at being mocked for not experiencing desire in the same way.

The irony of a trans person — who has already fought a draining battle to embrace their gender identity in a cis-dominated world — being forced into a rigid box of sexuality by socio-cultural norms is palpable. The fact that this boxing-in can also happen at the hands of queer persons compounds this grief for trans persons who love other trans persons. 

For example, in 2023, UN Women posted on X : “Remember, trans lesbians are lesbians too. Let’s uplift and honour every expression of love and identity.” That statement was met with hostility from some queer groups. Lesbian Bisexual and Queer (LBQ) rights groups and anti-gender activists accused UN Women of promoting an unsafe environment for cis-lesbians. Women’s Declaration International (WDI), an international advocacy organisation for Women's Human Rights in the United Kingdom, told The Telegraph that UN Women’s post on X was “offensive and degrading to women because it told lesbians they should consider approaches from biological men.”

The idea that trans persons can’t be lesbians or gays is often rooted in the bioessentialist understanding that biological factors determine both gender identity and sexual orientation, often overlooking the complexity of human sexuality.

While the Indian context may not have precise parallels, the trend of gate-keeping through reinforcing gender binary, permeates international borders. In 2021, when model Sruthy Sithara and theatre artist Daya Gayathri publicly came out as a trans-lesbian couple, they were met with vicious disapproval by trans-exclusionary radical feminist (TERFs) who dismissed such relationships as “female erasure” and asserted that “two men who claim to be women can’t ever be lesbians.”

‍TERFs, also known as gender critical feminists who do not believe that trans people's gender identities are legitimate, and are hostile to trans women's inclusion in the feminist movement and women's spaces, often accuse trans women of invading and occupying women's spaces including reservations, opportunities and washrooms. According to Noori, “this gatekeeping has nothing to do with being a lesbian but has everything to do with the ‘trans woman’ identity and the transmisogyny surrounding it.” 

While exclusionary behaviour is the norm when it comes to TERFs, it is significant to note that this sort of resistance is widespread even within trans communities in India. Krishanu points to Hijra gharanas as spaces where trans desires can be curtailed — sometimes violently.

"There has been significant violence from the Hijra community towards trans lesbians. I have been targeted," said Krishanu. "While I can push back and hold people accountable in other queer-trans activism spaces, the same may not be true for those within the Hijra gharanas."

Ritu, a queer rights activist and non-binary trans fem Hijra person who belongs to a gharana in Lucknow, told me that numerous Hijra women confessed to her, albeit in hushed tones, that they are attracted to hijra women. But they are not able to express their love openly. This intimacy is sometimes expressed “under the influence of intoxicants or touching each other while sleeping—an unhidden secret within the gharanas," said Ritu.

While there may be many reasons for this internalised homo- and bi-phobia in hijra gharanas, the one that stands out to Ritu are the negotiations that hijra persons are forced to make with the cis-heterosexual world outside the gharanas. According to Ritu, Hijra persons often fear that if they desire other femme persons, including cisgender women, the world would insensitively conclude that "Hijra people are just men in disguise." In the quest to be the “ideal Hijra”, desire often ends up being sacrificed at the altar of gender identity.

The messiness of desire 

When Noori gets on a dating app, she often finds herself in conversations that revolve almost exclusively around her transness, which she finds disappointing. 

"My understanding of womanhood differs from cis-womanhood," she said. "There are instances where the other person might perceive me as a 'failed man'—the fact that I transitioned and yet desire a woman." 

In her experience, cis-women tend to express intrigue towards transness and trans bodies, but rarely take the conversation beyond frivolous curiosity. The idea that a trans woman is interested in them, a cis-woman, seems to be the only aspect they focus on. 

“They see trans as one identity and being lesbian as another separate identity," Noori said. "Often, the conversation leads to whether I have undergone gender-affirming surgery or not.” This sort of curiosity around their bodies — and specially their medical procedures — is offensive to many trans people.

In contrast, engaging romantically with other trans women brought Noori a sense of shared understanding. There was no need for her to be suspicious of the other person's intentions or worry that she was being reduced to a ‘fetish’. 

The invisibilisation of "trans for trans" desire and the intolerance that society exhibits towards it can end up fostering an environment in which shame is inescapable for trans people who might experience desire differently.

Teteli*, a transmasc person involved in queer-trans activism in Assam, often feels that how people around them perceive their relationship with other transmasc people affects how they interact within that relationship. “When my ex partner and I decided to adopt a cat together, he automatically assumed the role of 'dad,' while there was an unspoken expectation for me to be the 'mother,' given that my expression of masculinity is perceived as more subdued than theirs.”  

What this illustrates is that in many queer relationships, gender roles end up conforming to the traditional norms of heteronormativity, since society enforces it as the only way of having a legitimate relationship. In order to sustain the relationship, Teteli carried the enormous grief of compromising their authentic gender expressions, often appearing and adhering to more feminine attributes to complement their partner's mascness. They also sensed their partner's conflict with their desire to present a more heteronormative image of their relationship to the outside world. 

As for Krishanu, her experiences of romance and intimacy with Ambar have helped her escape the shame of “not feeling fem enough” while desiring other fem persons. Now she finds joy in the knowledge that her desires have the capability of taking her to unknown places of euphoria and discovery. 

Whenever Krishanu has dated men, she has often felt self-conscious, constantly wondering if she appears or behaves feminine enough. She thinks that many trans feminine people might feel similarly, always trying to figure out how to act around men they are romantically or sexually interested in to ensure they are perceived as feminine and desirable. 

While being intimate with Ambar though, Krishanu experiences none of the fears she was so used to. She now feels secure in her body. "With Ambar, many of my feelings don't need words or explanations because our experience of being trans feminine is shared,” Krishanu told me“I understand what it means for a trans feminine person to engage in intimacy. Knowing that territory gives me confidence in exploring." 

Desire is messy, and so are its many endeavours. But messiness should not delegitimise any form of desire. Trans desires in their myriad forms have existed in our collective histories, they exist in our present, and they will continue to exist in the future.

Krishanu fondly shared, “I don't feel the pressure to perform femininity or anything as such around Ambar. I can talk about what I actually care about—my research, my work—and that feels amazing.”

Ultimately, the only thing that matters is to know that there's someone just like you, offering you the possibility of love, as you do for them.

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* Names of some people have been changed in this story to protect their identity

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