SISSY: When friends judge who you date, aren’t they also judging you?

Words: P.Eldridge

I’m at the Tate, scouring books at the fair, when I spot a zine titled The Men I Would Do. I laugh and approach the seller – a polite-enough guy with a pleasant smile. He beams as I press an acrylic nail to the cover. I hum, eyes shifting from the bold sans-serif font to his pupils. We linger, eyes locked, until he breaks the tension and asks, “What?” I giggle – first a little, then a lot. “None,” I reply. Confusion flickers. His smile falters. I walk away, cackling.

All my girlfriends are either in long-term trysts or celibate. I’ve stopped talking to them about my dating life. Honestly, I’m tired of it too. Rather than make them endure my half-hearted stories, I’ve pulled back. When I do speak, I’m met with sympathy. “He’s not good enough for you.” “He won’t keep up.” Or worse: “He’s not hot.”

Their comments aren’t cruel, just casually offered, like warnings I didn’t ask for. I get the instinct – to protect, uplift – but it leaves little room for uncertainty, for desire that doesn’t arrive in a presentable form. Sometimes I want to say: I’m not asking you to approve, just to listen.

They mean well, trying to protect a version of me they think they know. I know how chaotic my infatuations can be. I can see beauty behind flaws. Call me naïve, but when friends judge who you date, aren’t they also judging you?

Last year, I hosted a fundraiser for a publication with SISSY ANARCHY. My then lover helped run the night. During a break, I stumbled off stage to some friends on a couch. Before I could speak, one asked, “Are you sure?” Her face tight with disdain, glancing at him. I flipped my hair and looked his way. Time slowed. He was lining up a video for the screening. Our eyes met. My gaze was the only way I could touch him. I melted. He winked. I smiled.

I don’t operate best in opposition, but I do seek my friends’ perspectives – not to follow, but to notice what they focus on, and what they miss. Of course I wasn’t sure – just as they weren’t sure about their own relationships, even years in. But no one dares admit that aloud.

It makes me wonder: when does love become a guarantee? When does choice stop being free just because you chose someone? I’ve never held that standard. So when my friends looked at me, eyes wide for reassurance, I smiled and asked, “Are you having a nice night?” What they didn’t see was my heart breaking  – not for me, but for him  – and that only made me love him more.

I was in the throes of eros, building something tender after years of untethered sex. Her tone said everything: she thought he wasn’t worthy. But I’m not a prize in need of protection. I’m a girl, still budding. A woman with a complicated relationship with men – especially those whose softness isn’t on the surface.

As a trans woman, this gets more complicated. I think part of their fear is I’ll be mistreated – a fear I may have fed by sharing past horrors. But judgement isn’t just about the past; it signals the future we imagine. If their concern is only a mirror of my pain, how can I allow myself the softness of being loved now?

For trans women, dating is rarely neutral. Desire is politicised, fetishised, erased, or scrutinised. Love often comes warped by projection and fear. There’s an unspoken script that casts us as victims or symbols, rarely as ordinary lovers. So when I bring someone new into my life, scrutiny falls on everything – on him, on what it says about us. My friends may mean to protect me, but sometimes their concern sounds like disbelief, like I need permission to be loved.

Pause.

I can’t believe I’m writing a defense of a man who turned out to be difficult. Maybe my friend was right. Maybe her instincts had weight. But I’m still pissed she asked; that she planted doubt. Is friendship about revealing what you can’t see when dating? Or about trusting your friend when she says: ‘I’m happy’? And when is it safe to voice concern?

She hadn’t even met him. In hindsight, her worry was superficial. Recently, at a book launch, I was giggling with a guy when she tapped my shoulder  – interrupting me  – to ask about a celebrity’s Coachella set. I turned back to the guy, fluttered my lashes, quickly telling her I loved it. She barely listened. “I hated the way they walked,” she said. I was mortified.

I fear I’m judged in the same way – by my look, my dress, how I carry myself. I see it in glances that linger too long, or not at all. In silence after laughter, in polite redirections, in strangers trying to place me. Mostly, I writhe in the shame of revolution – because I know just existing as I do unsettles people. My body, my peace, signals a flaw in the blueprint; a glitch in the gender binary they’ve built their lives around. I am proof it was never fixed. For that, I’m both punished and romanticised.

I tried to explain why I loved the performance – the movement, the rawness – but she dismissed it. Her interest shifted to another friend’s date. Within moments, she was dissecting his vibe.

I finally asked her about the fundraiser night. “Is this what you thought of my lover?” Without hesitation: “Yes. And I was right, wasn’t I?” It hit me hard. I stood, smoothing my skirt. “I need to freshen up,” I said. “You look great, babe. Don’t go?” she replied, clueless. She didn’t know I was about to cry – that I needed a cubicle to breathe, to piece myself back together.

How much of a friend’s judgment leaks into your relationship, quietly corroding it? If they don’t like them, am I meant to shrug and move on? If I stay, must I feel shame asking if they can come to the party?

Maybe the hardest part isn’t defending your choices – it’s believing you’re allowed to choose. To be desired without defense. To be witnessed without correction. Maybe it’s not about whether they like them. Maybe it’s about whether they can imagine you being loved in the first place – not in theory, not in safety, but here, in the mess and thrill of the moment.

I think the only thing I need is the grace to find out for myself. Even if I get it wrong. Even if I do it again. I may not be talking to them about my dating life now, laughing privately about the tragically low number of men I ‘would do’ – which, let’s be honest, is very low – but I’m still here, open. Still hoping for a love that doesn’t need to be justified to be shared. One that’s messy, surprising, unremarkable in the best way. One that’s mine.

***

P. Eldridge is a curator, writer, and cultural agitator working between London and so-called Australia. Her practice is a soft weapon, a sharp tenderness carving space for queer embodiment, defiance, and reimagined ways of living. 

As a contributor to Gay Times Magazine, she invites readers into a reflective exploration through the intricacies of modern love and the tender unfolding of personal growth. Here, she writes her monthly column, SISSY, that delves into the complexities of gender, sexuality, and subverts societal expectations on identity and love. @pierceeldridge