My brother is having a baby because his body just does that. Our mom said he said he’s “always wanted to be a dad” and that he and his fiancé just “stopped trying to prevent it.” But I’ve never heard him say that in my life.

My girlfriend at the time of my niece’s conception has a massive breeding kink and begs me to cum inside her even though she’s not on birth control, even though we aren’t using a condom, even though she’s never done this before. She’s not on birth control and we aren’t using a condom, because we’re both transgender and nothing we do together in bed could ever generate a human life. Also we’ve done this a million times before. But I fuck her with my fingers or a strap-on, and I swear I’m putting a baby in her. I work my Acting BFA raw—really sell it. It drives her crazy every time. She cries at babies when we see them at the grocery store or the park. I think she wishes we could do what my brother and his fiancé did. Just…slip and wind up parents. Partake in the glorious accident of creation.

There’s this picture of my dad I look at when I need to feel unconditionally loved. He’s lying on the sofa horizontal, low-slung, his neck at an absurd angle so as not to disturb my sprawling slumber. He looks like a baby himself, silky golden hair splayed across his pristine forehead, hand skin taught, forearms free from the freckling of a life. He’s holding a book; I can’t tell if it’s a parenting tome or something he would’ve been reading for business school. I was born on his first day. He loves to tell the story of his run-in with the bursar who was so enraged by his absence, then so charmed by his excuse (the baby, me). In my memory he’s holding the book upside down. We’re both sleeping—he, vaguely maintaining the posture of fatherhood, scholarship, alertness—I, blissfully unaware, passed out on his chest, an un-self-conscious little worm. We both look like angels. He’s younger than I am now. My mom always describes him as being so sure he wanted me. “As soon as possible,” she says. I could never tell if this meant she felt pressured, but I’m beginning to understand why he felt so certain about becoming a father.

There’s another photo, this one wallet-size, I can barely conjure in my mind’s eye, but I know my father’s father is wearing a flight suit and he has the haircut I keep now—regulation, high and tight, masculine, practical. He went down in a U.S. Air Force plane when my dad was a toddler. Having witnessed his mother endure a profound loneliness, getting it in his lungs and belly early, sealing it in as a family value, my dad must contain a molecular imperative to complete himself. To close the gap of that love and mentorship towards manhood he never received. He must’ve passed it on to me.

Breeding Kink Girl and I have a heart-wrenching breakup. I thought she was the woman I was going to marry, probably because she was the first woman I dated after realizing, once all my hormones and traumas were sorted, that I am and always have been a red-blooded heterosexual man. I’m trying to use my singleness as an opportunity to explore at 32 instead of feeling so behind everyone else that I wish I were dead. I fly to Oregon to meet my niece. As I hold my brother’s baby to my own flat chest (she screams to indicate she prefers breasts—too late, queen) I wonder if my anxious, transgender body is giving her the same comfort I imagine absorbing through the rhythm of my dad’s breathing in that photo. I wonder if being a father would complete some unfinished ancestral identity-trauma puzzle in me, or if my brother closing that loop is sufficient and I’m just here to fulfill my ancestors’ wildest dreams of writing auto-smut and performing live for applause.

At dinner one night in Oregon, my brother tells me he’s researching our paternal grandfather’s death. Our dad understandably doesn’t like to talk about it, so we’ve been privy to very few details. My brother has a hypothesis that goes something like this: Grandpa is stationed in Vietnam with the Air Force. The U.S. government has a secret side-agenda to support the radical communist overthrow of the Cambodian government (ultimately leading to the genocide of nearly 2 million people). Grandpa is tapped to secretly drop bombs over Cambodia (we know for a fact he was later questioned as part of an investigation of these carpet-bombings). Grandpa, guilty or not of following ill-intentioned orders, is politically assassinated under the guise of a random plane malfunction to protect classified information from reaching civilian families.

I fly back to New York. My brother sends me photos—Grandpa standing in front of the Officers’ Club with his squadron, fighter planes flying formation; documentaries; Robert H. Lieberman’s Angkor Awakens; archival pages from the Air Force internet; USAF, 602nd ACS, BienHoa, Oct. 1964-Jun. 1965. I sit in my Brooklyn apartment and toggle and swipe and text on girls. As many girls as I can think of. I download all the apps, message all the insta-hotties I’ve been banking in a dusty corner of my brain and ask them out. I make dates with friends of friends. I buy a 22-year-old choreographer a pickleback and kiss her after the dance show. Her piece is set to Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, which reminds me of my dad and makes me get all misty. She has hairy armpits and two pronouns, so I’m not sure if they’ll be hot for the same gender games as me, but as the night wears on I have fun captivating them against the tide of their cute roommate’s advances. I ask Choreo Girl if the two of them are in love and she says “I don’t know…it’s a bad idea, right?” which would make me want to die if my future wife were saying it, but I’m not supposed to care about that sort of thing right now. Or am I? My brother’s fiancé told me if I’m serious about finding a wife I need to not waste time dating people I know aren’t going to be good in that role. This dietician in a sleepy beach town on the Oregon coast told me to be a better fucking casting director of my own girlies.

As my little brother, now practically my twin (our dad can’t tell us apart on the phone since my voice changed), spends his paternity leave scouring the web for answers about our paternal lineage, I’m spiraling, desperate to make a connection with someone ASAP who can reinforce my masculinity in that special way that gives me the will to live. I meet a girl at a Halloween party. She’s dressed as Barbie and arrives with a gaggle of other women—a girlypop high-femme girls’ girl. I’m dressed as After Top Surgery and my nonbinary best friend who still has tits is dressed as Before. Shirtless in an open hospital gown, fake blood dripping from my real scars, I sort of assume none of these cisgender heterosexual women will give me the time of day, but this one is intrigued. She asks at girl-decibel if she can take a picture of me and my friend to send to the one trans person she knows because they “would love it.” I return the favor by taking one of her and her friend (also Barbie), and we exchange numbers to text each other the party pics. As soon as she leaves, she’s texting me wishing she hadn’t. We make plans to meet up.

On our first date, she shows up late with a story about how a man was looking at her on the train so she had to get out and call a car. She’s wearing a bralette as a shirt and pays for all our drinks. She’s an uptown princess, an aspiring actress with no day job. I can’t wait to smear her perfect makeup and shove my tongue in her mouth. We dance till late. I drunkenly tell her there’s a dick in my tote bag. She laughs like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard and asks if she can put that in her pilot.

The sex starts out good, if quiet. I’m kinky as hell, but shy at first. A byproduct of having lived most of my life as a “woman” and endured more than anyone’s fair share of sexual assaults is that I’m extremely sensitive to consent. I’ll wait to learn someone’s subtle cues before I go absolutely off treating them like a slutty baby who deserves to be punished. Keeping everything 95% vanilla, I make her cum like an animal in heat and she tells me, breathless and unprompted, that this is the best sex she’s ever had. Bolstered by the glow of a job well done, I start to loosen up. I give her a playful little slap in the face while she’s sucking me off, and she pops up, looking stunned. “I…don’t think I like that,” she tells me, wide-eyed. “Okay,” I reply matter-of-factly, and she returns to her endeavor. I cum eventually, delicately balancing my rabid pubescent sex drive with the pious intention of not doing anything else to shock her. I kind of can’t believe she’s letting me touch her at all. I’m new to dating women, and newer to being seen by everyone around me as a man, so I don’t have a ton of data about what sort of straight women I can have sex with, or what sort of man I come across as. So far, I’m pleasantly surprised.

A few weeks later I double-fist seeing Barbie in an industry workshop of a new musical and attending an audition a few blocks away. Walking through midtown on my way home, I wander into a gift shop and buy my niece an I <3 NY onesie. The shipping costs more than the outfit, but I want her to know I was thinking of her when she looks at her baby pictures, even if I don’t move across the country to watch her grow up. I want her to think my dreams are cool and noble, not that I’m a loser living on a prayer, my nude modeling side hustle, and the table scraps of her grandmother’s income. Speaking of, my mom quits her job and flies to Oregon for a month to be a full-time grandma. I feel like the world is moving on without me.

Barbie and I begin seeing each other a few times a week. She tells me she thinks she was wrong about the face-smacking thing. She wants me to try it again. Before I know it, she’s begging me to choke her, slap her, spank her harder. Orgasming all over my fingers-dick, her ample ass covered in my handprints. It turns out I’m an ambidextrous, multitasking legend. One day while she’s pleading with me to fuck her “to death,” I pull her towards me by a handful of her hair and whisper “say ‘please, Daddy’.” She giggles, her lips quivering but her tone cautiously indignant when she says “I’m not saying that.” Approximately 2 weeks and 12 orgasms later, the training wheels are off and she’s doing it all on her own—making Daddy proud.

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It might seem ridiculous to you, reader, to hear a man compare queer kink to biological fatherhood, but I’m trepidatiously taking the stand in defense of duality. We are both becoming, my brother and I, on parallel but diverged paths. Who’s to say which is more legitimate, more profound? Why should I perceive my manhood as beneath his in some sort of hierarchy? Am I not excelling per the very metric by which masculinity is measured? The fear of being unlovable kept me from myself for decades, and now I’m drowning in grade-A hot girl pussy. How top-of-the-food-chain is that? How man-my-father’s-father-hoped-I’d-be? How unsettling is this dialectic?

I am at once a throbbing adolescent, relishing the spoils of my hard-earned standing in a society that rewards cravenness in boys, and an adult man with a nurturing streak yearning for a future where I’m a devoted husband, maybe even father. Pulling ahead on my hero’s journey, falling behind on the timeline of a life. Maybe my friends, my therapist, and my brother’s fiancé are right and I need to focus my efforts on the right kind of woman, but—I’m sorry—what does that even mean? Why can’t the mother of my future children like being choked during sex and read Jean-Paul Sartre? My ancestral wounds get healed by moving the needle of everyone’s gender toward eternity. Picking up and putting down tropes because we want to, not because they’re forced upon us.

Gender scholar Kate Bornstein says that even genders that seem the same can often, upon examination, contain a multitude of distinct subdivisions. Superman and Clark Kent, to use her example. Girl and woman. Madonna and whore. Fuckboy and father. Cis man and trans man. Although I’m (problematically) proud to pass as cisgender now, the gender gap between me and my brother can never truly be eclipsed. It has become smaller and smaller until almost imperceptible to the outside eye, but we know. He has a biological daughter. I have a sea of girls screaming my name. Perhaps, for now, that is my miracle of life.