It had been in that moment with Ming, some months before, that all the small stuff had weighed up to something insurmountably large. Larger than it had felt when she’d told me she was trans, because the threads of transness had danced into something that was no longer a hypothetical scary, but a big and present and undeniable thing. It was there in front of me, on her naked body and on her painted and scalpeled face. And then I couldn’t keep it up, and so my dick seemed to measure the distance between the new Ming and the old Ming. And still, I didn’t leave.
