Page 7 of Fibre and Ink

I would never be the kind of trans guy who could pass as cis, and I wasn’t interested in that at all. I liked the softness to my face, I wanted to be the kind of guy who was in touch with his feminine side.

I was a gender explosion which bordered on deep confusion, and that was a weird thing to put on your dating profile.

I’d had guys interested in me, but they’d turned out to be drag-and-trans chasers who only saw my body as a fetish.

I wasn’t interested in that.

What I was interested in —

I stopped myself.

had to do was put away my foolish, ancient crush on Mickey and get on with the day.

After a pleasant afternoon of walking the farm with Mickey, meeting the alpacas and unpacking my room, I settled down at the picnic table with my laptop and notebook and looked out over the fields.

Instant anxiety.

I took a deep breath, relishing the fresh air and faint scent of alpacas.

Maybe I should journal?

I picked up my pen.

I didn’t particularly subscribe to the idea of ‘morning pages’ but I did like to free-write and get what was in my head out onto paper.

Serenity slowly crept up on me. It wasn’t necessarily productive work in the sense of getting something I could publish, but it felt good.

I wrote about my feelings for Mickey. I wrote about my relationship with Harlow and the rocky patches we’d had.

Then a poem came to me about the summer sky and the profound quiet. The farm was far enough back from the highway that I didn’t hear traffic sounds unless a really big truck went past, or a freight train.

My shoulders relaxed.

I guess they’d been tense before, I hadn’t really noticed?

I leaned into the sunshine and slowly, the knot of anxiety in my stomach unwound.

Maybe, just maybe, my muse could find me out here?

When it got too hot outside, I packed up my things and headed back into the farmhouse. Something smelled delicious.

I made my way to the kitchen.

Mickey stood at the stove, frying chicken. He looked over at me.“Hey. Have any luck writing?”

“Kinda, yeah,” I said. “It’s so peaceful out here. I managed to get something down.”

“Cool. I’ve done green salad and fried chicken, and potatoes are boiling to mash. Sound good?”

“It sounds divine, thank you. I can cook tomorrow, maybe?”

Mickey shrugged. “I’m used to cooking all the time, but sure. If you want to.”

Not a huge vote of confidence but I had to do something to kinda pay my way in terms of staying. I started planning what I’d cook in my head.

We had beers with dinner, sitting out at the picnic table again. I looked around, imagining how much fun little Scrooge the kitten would have out here. He loved chicken, that was probably what made him pop into my mind.

He was happy at the apartment in town, but out here he could really stretch his legs. I remembered the Coopers having a pretty brown tabby when I was younger, but I hadn’t seen a cat bowl out anywhere.