I chuckled when he ordered for me, pronouncing the drink hesitantly as though his tongue had just woken up. As I gingerly sipped while he downed his rum and Coke, he introduced himself as Alex and told me he had just arrived in Boston to study medicine, after being in the Israeli army the past couple of years.

“I didn’t think the girls here were so pretty,” he said, “and then I saw you.”

Maybe it was the accent, but this didn’t sound like a line coming from Alex. Or maybe it was just that he was pretty himself in that stereotypical way I’d always thought unattainable, until I became a thin blond stereotype of my own, his angled, scruffy jawline balanced by languid eyes, his bulging forearms offering a preview of a muscular build under his black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

“Drink your drink so we can dance,” he said as he took my hand.

Though I usually took just a sip or two whenever guys bought me drinks, I quickly swallowed the rest of my Fuzzy Navel since Alex was watching, and I wanted to be that confident, carefree American girl for him. It was a good thing I’d tucked, less in preparation for dancing this close to someone but because men had already grabbed me without my permission, and I was afraid of what would happen if they touched the wrong place. Before that night, I was also too afraid to engage with men who didn’t know I was trans, so I was content to dance around the ones who approached me at clubs, presenting myself as an alluring yet unattainable creature.

But as Christina Aguilera flirted in song and told a guy she just needed to be rubbed the right way, I found myself dancing close with Alex. With the help of vodka and darkness, I overcame the fear of up-close discovery and found myself with him for the better part of an hour, his hand traveling up and down my back, as we made two more trips to the bar for drinks, until the DJ announced last call. I was more relaxed than I’d ever been with a man who didn’t know I was trans.

“My friend and me can drive you home,” Alex said when last call was announced. And when I replied that I came with a friend too, he offered to also drive Lenora. I was excited by what this implied, wanted to extend the night for as long as possible, so I agreed. Just then, I saw Lenora’s red hair out of the corner of my eye and told her the plan.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Lenora told me, the last strains of ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” in the background. I told her she could get a cab if she liked, but I was getting a ride, and she reluctantly agreed to come.