LIKE DIRT

‘You’re not going to be able to control your nerves for this one…’

‘You’re screwed.’

If you had a dollar for every negative self-demoralizing intrusive thought popping itself into your head like you owed it money, you’d have… well, a lot of money.

You’ve been dirtbiking casually for a few years now, you can handle yourself well enough but you’re no professional. Only recently did you discover that your city has a ready-to-use indoor dirtbiking track open to the public.

Today is the day you decided to finally use this tax-funded facility. This makes you uneasy. Not only because of the social anxiety, but you’re not exactly like other guys. Not only are you gay, you’re also trans. Kind of a double-whammy, really. Every day is a struggle not to feel ostracized as your rights are slowly being taken away on a judicial level. Your insecurities make you feel like you stand out more than normal despite, being on HRT for more than 6 years, and getting top surgery early on. Your therapist reassures you that you pass as a cis man but the fear is always there.

Always present.

Always lurking.

The thoughts cut off momentarily as you push the doors open and all your energy is now devoted to appearing… normal? It’s only what you’d classify as “slightly busy” right now. Meaning: there’s more than one person here right now.

A couple folks loiter around some cafeteria tables circling the netted and fenced-off centre area of the track. There are a couple fast food shops set up, sorta like a mall’s food court, but most of them look to be closed currently. Faint music is playing on loud speakers, but it’s so faint you really have to strain your ears to barely make out that it’s probably some Taylor Swift song.

Of course, everyone glances at you as you enter with your gear already on and your bike being pushed alongside you. You donned the gear before getting here. Inconvenient, but as a newcomer and a trans man, you are NOT taking any risks with using the locker rooms like everyone else.

‘Everyone normal.’ Your brain unhelpfully supplies.

You repeat a frantic mantra of self-soothing filthy language inside your head as you spot a table full of young men up ahead. You’ll need to pass them if you want to get into the arena. ‘It would look weird if you went around them, right?’

You try to think positively. Motorcycles have been your haven since you came out. The heavy layers of gear, and the large helmet, covers every inch of you; every inch of everyone. So much so, many dirtbikers don’t use any gendered pronouns when they encounter each other in the wild. Until they hear your voice, that is. Thankfully you’ve been on HRT since before puberty, so your voice has been transformed permanently into a nice smooth masculine baritone. You’re so happy you got a prescription before the laws changed.

One young man (you estimate most of the table is around your age) catches your eye in particular. A man sitting on the table, unlike his friends who are sitting normally in a seat or standing.

‘Ah, the bisexual’s choice. Very nice.’ Your brain chortles at the notion, remembering the old jokes you saw claiming that bisexuals can’t sit properly.

‘Too bad he’s probably hetero.’

You keep your eyes down, or try to, but the closer you get, the more… hypnotic this man is. He hasn’t diverted his attention from you yet. Your stomach happily flips at the attention: ‘I’m worth staring at!’ Before the negative thoughts kick in: ‘He’s staring because he knows something is WRONG with you.’