A week on Feeld with Robin, a trans man rediscovering desire after a break from dating

Welcome to a week on Feeld with Robin, 33, a bisexual trans man living in London. Join as he explores his reawakened desire and changing relationship with sex—using Reflections, Feeld’s self-discovery tool, to uncover more about himself through the process.

Monday

A cloud of uncertainty hangs over me at the start of the week. I wake up feeling an equal mixture of excitement and anxiety at the prospect of a week spent dating and reconnecting with my desires—I must admit, I’m uncertain of what my desires even are anymore.

It has been a fallow period: two years since my last relationship broke down, and about six months since I last had sex. My sexual desire has been in limbo as I’ve navigated a difficult period of mental health and, recently, it has cooled to a near-nothingness. I miss the high sex drive I used to have, but so far attempts to coax it back (through watching porn, sexting strangers, and taking half-hearted nudes) have failed. I have a sneaking suspicion that it will only return through real-life interactions, so I open up Feeld.

I’ve been messaging a non-binary person named Alex* for the past few days and conversation has been sliding into sexting territory. They’re hot—a lithe, androgynous graphic designer and switch based in Hackney—almost painfully my type. I suggest a drink tomorrow night, and within a few minutes, they reply with an enthusiastic “yes.” 

As I roll out of bed and get ready for work, my mixed feelings of excitement and anxiety seem to magnify. I’ve been sexting Alex for the past few days and I hope I haven’t accidentally set the expectation of a hookup—truthfully, I’m just testing the waters to see if I still desire sex at all.

Tuesday

My day goes by in a blur of meetings, emails, and stealing away to check my phone to see if Alex has messaged. By the time the evening comes around, we’ve exchanged a little flirty banter and agreed to meet at a cocktail bar in Bethnal Green. 

I arrive, flustered and nervous, to find them reclining at a table in the back of the bar. They look handsome and relaxed and I can feel my palms beginning to sweat.

“Hey, I’m Robin,” I wave nervously. They stand up to give me a kiss on both cheeks, a gesture that feels impossibly elegant and sophisticated. They offer to buy me a drink, and I nod as they peel away to the bar.

As the evening rolls on, they become flirtatious, and then sexual. I notice that I don’t know what my own boundaries are or whether I want to have sex, which makes me nervous. By the end of the night, we’ve kissed and they’ve squeezed my ass, and they invite me back to their flat. 

The thought of being naked and vulnerable with someone I barely know makes my stomach tighten and a feeling of dread washes over me, so I decline, and head home alone.

Wednesday

I reflect on last night’s date and look back at Alex’s profile, and notice that they’re looking for casual hookups rather than a relationship. I wonder if I’ve defaulted to the kind of connection I enjoyed a few years ago, rather than giving more serious thought to what I’m looking for now.

If I don’t want casual sex right now, what do I want? During my lunch break, I open up the Reflections tool on the Feeld app and answer a series of questions probing my desires, boundaries, and relationship preferences.

“Your desire might rise with the right mood or person, and fade otherwise,” Reflections tells me, “You struggle to form emotionally satisfying and safe relationships and connections.”

I feel seen. I had been blaming myself for not feeling sexual enough and not being “normal,” but now it feels obvious that I need a strong sense of emotional safety to feel horny again. My sexual needs have simply changed.

My mind buzzes with this newfound realization. I connect with a few people who are looking for relationships rather than hookups before I go back to work. 

Thursday

I forget to check my messages until the afternoon, when I’m walking along an East London canal to get a coffee. Squinting at my screen in the bright midday sun, I’m surprised to see that one of my connections, named Georgia*, has already messaged me:

“Hey! How are you doing? :),” she writes, the words hovering next to her profile picture. She’s pretty—with black, curly hair to her shoulders, dark eyes, and a broad smile. Her profile says she’s looking to take it slow and that she ultimately wants a relationship.

I tell her how much I like her hair and ask how her day is going in return. Over the next few hours, we message back and forth about our jobs, our lives, and the time we’ve spent in London. She’s kind, curious, and a little reserved: Our messages are less overtly flirtatious and more akin to a gentle conversation. I quickly notice how this helps me feel at ease and lifts any pressure to perform.

“I’m really enjoying talking to you,” I write. “Would you like to get a drink tomorrow night and get to know each other better?”

She replies and, within minutes, we have a date scheduled. A colleague asks what I’m smiling about as I put my phone away.

Friday

I wake up thinking about Georgia and her wide, beaming smile. I think about her as I go downstairs to get my morning coffee, and I think about her when I walk through my local park to see the spring flowers in bloom. Excitement bubbles up inside me, coursing through my stomach and into my chest. My usual nerves and anxiety are nowhere to be found.

Ah, I think, this is how I want dating to feel.

We both live in North London and work from home on Fridays, so we’ve agreed to meet at a local pub known for having a large garden that overlooks the flat, verdant marshes and canals that run through the area. 

When evening rolls around, the sun is hanging heavy and low in the sky, turning the clouds a dusty pink and casting an orange glow over everything. I arrive at the pub and immediately spot Georgia in the garden. She turns to greet me, her dark eyes full of curiosity as she smiles. She looks even more striking than in her photos.

“I thought you’d abandoned me to the marshes!” she laughs as I apologize for being a little late. I promise to make it up to her, and offer to buy her drinks for the night. She agrees, and we settle into conversation.

As the night goes on, we talk for hours, only interrupted when the staff tell us the pub garden will be closing soon. We reluctantly leave and, on our way to the station, we share a kiss and a promise to meet again soon.

I walk home in the cool night air; the world feels open, and I feel a little lighter.

Saturday

It’s the first truly hot day of the year, so I go to the lido, but it seems like every other person in London has had the same idea. After a few lengths spent swimming around and bumping into others, I give up and sit in the shade to read.

The characters in my book are sensual and hedonistic, and as I read through a particularly detailed sex scene, my mind wanders to Georgia. There was no discussion about sex last night, but there was an undeniable chemistry between us that felt like an electric current each time we touched. 

I now know that I don’t want to have sex with someone new until I’ve got to know them and developed a sense of safety, but it’s surprising to me how erotic the act of waiting feels. There’s time for the chemistry to build without pressure to have sex right now or do anything before you’re both ready. I’m left to imagine what sex would be like, and find that the anticipation is just as pleasurable as the act itself.

I close my book and pull out my phone to send Georgia a message about how much I enjoyed last night, then make my way back to the pool for a cold plunge.

Sunday

I sleep in, and wake to the sun streaming in through my window. I let my mind wander, and think about my new approach to sex. I’m still figuring it out, but this week has shown me that casual hookups just aren’t right for me anymore. I need something slower that allows me to feel safe enough to enjoy myself, with a longer period of build-up and rising erotic tension. 

I’ve spent a lot of the past year feeling like something was wrong with me for not pursuing casual sex like I used to. I thought I was somehow broken or defective, or that I’d lost the ability to want sex altogether. Now I know that nothing is wrong. Instead, my relationship to sex has changed. I have the ability to choose connections that fulfill these new needs, rather than beating myself up for changing.

I check my phone, and Georgia has messaged. I’ve also got two new connections on Feeld. I can hear someone mowing the grass outside—it’s hot again, and I lie in bed enjoying the warmth for a while. It was a long winter.

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