The Normal Date

As she approached the restaurant, she was radiant. An emerald green dress hugged her in all the right places—the perfect frame for the perfect painting. Her hair was styled up, showcasing her strong frame, classical jawline, and modern undercut. 

I opened the door for her, spoke to the host, and pulled out her chair. Chivalry was on the menu tonight, by design. From the outside looking in, it was a normal date: a man and a woman, fancy clothes, a nice restaurant, a table for two. But for the two at the table, it was anything but normal.

The connection was first made months before—an online pairing from one of those online platforms. After exiting a 13-year relationship, I found myself navigating a whole new world of dating. 

Dating apps, swiping right, more than two genders—where’s the onboarding pamphlet?! I’d been on the sidelines before, helping friends with their profiles or watching them find partners. But this time, it was my turn to dive in and I had my doubts. In the algorithm I trust?

I poured water for both of us. When I ordered, I ordered for both of us. I took the lead and leaned into the masculine role I had been cast for this fantasy date. 

This wasn’t a stretch—I present as very masculine and have always felt comfortable with it. But for our date, I was to fully embody my body and everything it represented. This was all by design–just like the use of she/her pronouns.

Online dating felt like a fresh start. It wasn’t just a new way to meet people; it was a reset. A clean slate after a decade plus of being off the market. For the first year, I stuck to my original selection of "heterosexual" from when I created my profile. During that year, I quietly reflected on my sexuality—and its potential fluidity—but had never acted on it. Hetero, sure. But how hetero? 100%? 90%? Was I flexible enough to admit I wasn’t entirely straight? 

I hesitated, then checked the box: heteroflexible. 

Questioning my sexuality was an inward reflection that now needed to permeate into what I was outwardly attracted to. I decided to dip my toe a little deeper in the pool of possibility by reselecting what genders I was open to pairing with. 

A simple drop-down menu shouldn’t have felt like such a big step, but it did. With those selections, my profile became visible to a new set of potential matches—some who, like me, were exploring their own identities, and others who had already found their way. New matches appeared instantly.

‘I want to go on a normal date.’ 

The request came as a surprise. ‘I want to have that experience. And if you’re up for it, I’d like it to be with you. You as a man, me as a woman.’ 

It was an easy yes for me. My very first date was a normal date. My most recent date was a normal date. They’d all been normal dates according to this definition. Though we had already explored our physical connection, this request felt significantly more intimate.

Heteroflexible connects with non-binary genderqueer—we weren’t in Kansas anymore. From their first message, they stood out—they referenced something in my profile that everyone else had overlooked. That tiny detail caught my attention. 

It sparked a conversation that quickly turned to exchanging playlists and snippets of poetry. It felt fresh—no comments about my looks, no requests for a spicy picture, none of the all-too-common opener, “I want to climb you like a tree.”

While they wore the dress well, it wore on them—betrayed by their body language. Although complementary, the earrings and the necklace couldn’t mask their hidden discomfort.

As our connection grew, I learned about their journey. They grew up in a strict, religious household where questioning their gender or sexuality wasn’t an option. For decades, they followed the path set before them, ignoring the deeper questions that occasionally surfaced. 

Thirty years ago, they might have been described as a tomboy: always outdoors, more comfortable in hiking gear than a dress. When we first met, I had to help tease redwood duff out of their hair. 

A late bloomer sexually, they lost their virginity when they were nearly thirty. They experienced a few partnerships across the following decade. Throughout, their sexuality, and eventually, their gender, came into question. 

They weren’t alone in their journey of self-discovery. I had my own past to reconcile. My formative years happened in the 90’s when toxic masculinity and homophobia flourished. "Boys don’t cry" was the rule, and pick-up football games all too easily devolved into rounds of “Smear The Queer.” 

I was a sensitive child who had to learn to stuff his feelings to assimilate into the culture of the time. Unrealized desires and curiosities that had long been ignored and avoided due to social stigma and shame–were resurfacing. And for the first time, I was feeling ready to explore them.

‘The lady will have the fish.’ 

‘Can she see the dessert menu?’ 

‘Isn’t her dress stunning?’ 

I leaned in, playing my part, layering on pronouns as they naturally came up. Fidgeting with the spaghetti  straps, unsure how their legs should be in a dress, unconsciously pulling at their earrings. 

I could see distress creep over them, so I pulled them back with gentle conversation and comforting touches. But I could sense it—this wasn’t just a date, it was a farewell. A final goodbye to a version of self that no longer applied. 

They didn’t know exactly what they were or what they wanted, but they knew they needed the space to figure it out. Rejecting their birth-given labels wasn’t about certainty—it was about freedom. Their current labels provided breathing room, placeholders for something still forming. 

Their courage to explore themselves—going against everything they were raised to believe—left me inspired. Their bravery gave me permissions I didn’t know I needed. To examine my own sexuality. To question it. To be fully honest with myself in a way that had always been too intimidating. 

Somewhere between epiphany and awakening, they brought me a new realization. 

‘I think I’m trans.’ 

While their sexuality was still In question, a shift had happened on the gender front. "Non-binary genderqueer" had fit—but it was no longer quite right. Introspection led to ownership. 

‘No, I am trans.’ 

A simple statement, spoken with certainty and relief, carried the weight of something profound. Their feet were planted, grounded, and they stood tall in their truth. A quiet finality. 

We finished dinner, I paid the bill, and we strolled down main street, hand in hand. To anyone watching, we looked like an attractive cis couple on a normal date. 

As we walked, I felt the truth of who we were—two souls, meeting at a crossroads, giving each other the courage to confront what had long been buried.

It's taken longer than I expected to truly reflect on this experience, and even longer to write it down. Life got busy. 

But truthfully, I hesitated—apprehensive to examine myself too closely. I entered into this connection with the knowledge that there was an ask of me–to hold space as this person examined themselves. But as the nature of the request evolved, much to my surprise, so did I.

While I held the container, they expanded it with their courage and bravery. And in turn, that expansion challenged me. What started as their trust fall became mine, too. Mutual support became mutual growth. 

I’ve been off dating apps for a while now. And the algorithms are just that—algorithms—but I can’t deny that they have their place. Somehow, through the randomness of online connections, we found each other. It connected me with someone who, in their own way, was searching too. It allowed me to explore a part of myself I had always been too ashamed to examine.

What started with me checking a box on an app, ended with me checking that box in my life. Had I not been faced with such a simple, yet brutal user interface, it's likely I wouldn’t have taken the time to really question and reflect. There’s no drop-down menu in real life to prompt such contemplations. 

While I am content with my current label of flexibility, I am also open to the idea that I can evolve and change, as I’m no longer stuck. It didn’t happen immediately, but this realization and admittance shifted something in me. A hidden truth, an undiscovered authenticity, that I look forward to exploring. 

I’ve been on a dozen normal dates since—some good, some bad, some fun, some forgettable. Candlelit dinners, lively bars, quiet coffee shop chats, and everything in between. I’ve held doors open, pulled out chairs, even stolen a kiss when no one was looking. 

But my normal date? The name only applied to its outward appearance. Its depth, its purpose, its impact, it was all a gift—a chance to see and be seen. As it turns out, my date was anything but normal. I can’t imagine another name for it but like I’ve learned, labels can change and what once was true, may no longer apply. 

But then again, what is normal—if not just a story we tell ourselves until we find a better one?