My boyfriend was heating up some leftover pasta sauce. He put on some water to boil pasta, but then he couldn’t find the pasta.

Me: “I cooked all the pasta we had yesterday, but there is some left over in the freezer.”

He put that in the microwave.

Boyfriend: “Oh. Now I have a pot of water already halfway to boiling.”

Me: “Could you make some tea with it?”

Boyfriend: “Sure!”

After a while, he held up an unopened box of tea bags.

Boyfriend: “Do you want this flavour?”

I didn’t see what flavour it was, only that it wasn’t something we usually have.”

Me: “Sure.”

Later, we were having our leftover pasta for lunch with the tea.

Me: “This tea tastes a bit like very weak bouillon.”

Boyfriend: “It does!”

After drinking it some more, I came to the realisation that I actually really disliked this tea.

Me: “What flavour is this, anyway?”

Boyfriend: “OH! I just realised! I had already salted the water for the pasta before I used it for the tea!”

We had a good laugh about that.

This is still the most baffling interaction I’ve had in the last year, mostly because of how unprepared I was. I’m nonbinary transmasculine (I use he/him pronouns but I’m not quite a man), which isn’t hugely relevant to the story except to explain why I’d been taking testosterone for about eighteen months at the point this story happened.

I’m heavy-set and hairy, but my face is still quite feminine despite the neck beard I’ve been cultivating. It was also nearly 30°C (86°F) outside, so I was exhausted and sweating like a pig wearing a T-shirt and shorts with my arm and leg hair on full show. Basically, I didn’t look anything like a conventionally attractive woman and certainly wasn’t expecting to be hit on.

I got off the train and was hauling myself up the steps to leave the station when a guy ran past the opposite way shouting for someone to hold the doors. I didn’t react in time and the doors closed before he got on, so I threw out a “Sorry, dude” and thought that was the end of it until he decided to catch up to me at the exit.

Guy: “Excuse me. You’re beautiful. Can I get your number?”

I was fumbling with my pass card and didn’t fully hear him.

Me: “Huh? What?”

Guy: “I said you’re gorgeous, and I want to get your number.”

I was still confused and brain-fogged from the heat.

Me: “My number? Why?”

Guy: “I think you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Can I take you out on a date?”

Me: “Uh, no, sorry. I’ve got a boyfriend.”

Guy: “That’s okay. He’ll understand.”

I finally got my brain into gear.

Me: “What? No. I don’t want your number, thank you. Also, I’m not a woman, so unless you’re bisexual, I think you’re barking up the wrong tree here.”

Guy: “You’re not a woman? So, you’re a man?”

Me: “Close enough, yeah. I’m a man.”

Guy: “Well, I’m very sorry to have disturbed you, then. Have a good day, brother! Stay safe out there!”

Then, he gave me a high-five and wandered off to the platform opposite where he’d been trying to go earlier. I was so bewildered yet pleased it had turned out so amicably that I stood there for a few more seconds just processing until I had to move to let someone else use the card reader.

It’s been months since, and I go to that train station one to three times a week depending on work. I’ve never seen that guy since, but every time I’m there, I wonder what he’s up to and hope he found the hairy, sweaty girl of his dreams that I couldn’t be for him.

I used to use one of the dating/hookup apps. I matched with a guy, we chatted in the app for a bit, and we finally decided to exchange numbers and meet for coffee. The day we were supposed to meet for coffee — right before I walked out the door, actually — I got a text from him.

Match: “Hey, sorry to do this, but I got pulled into a dinner meeting with a client and my manager, and I’m going to need to reschedule coffee.”

Me: “Oh, that’s fine. Stuff happens.”

He (supposedly) worked for an architecture firm of some kind, so I could believe last-minute meetings. The next day, I sent him a message.

Me: “Hey, how’d your dinner thing go last night? What’s your schedule like so we can reschedule a meeting for coffee?”

Crickets. I tried messaging him another couple of times over the following days and continued to get nothing. I shrugged and figured I’d been ghosted as was the way of things for me.

About six months later, I got a text.

Match: “Hey, how’s it going?”

I hadn’t deleted his number for some reason. I can’t remember why; I meant to and then just forgot. I was surprised enough that I responded.

Me: “Not bad. How about you?”

Match: “Pretty good. You know, we never had that coffee.”

Me: “You’re right; we didn’t.”

Match: “Well, how’d you like to try and meet?”

Me: “Um, sure.”

Then, I thought about it and decided no. Too much ghosting had happened, and while I figured his dinner thing had been true, part of me couldn’t help but wonder. I texted him again about an hour later.

Me: “Um, you know what? I know that I said I’d like to meet, but after thinking about it, I don’t think this is worth it. You ghosted me six months ago, and I’m just really tired of being ghosted. So, thank you, but no.”

Match: “What? Why not? I really want to meet you. I’m really, really sorry I ghosted you.”

Me: “Um, no. I’m sorry, but I’m not interested anymore.”

Match: “Oh, come on! I really do want to meet you!”

I blocked his number and made sure to unmatch him. I also deleted the app, although that was more because I was done with the app as a whole than anything related to him.

Maybe he was really wrapped up in work, but the cynical part of me leans toward the idea that he was either already in a relationship and trying to cheat but then almost got caught, and the reason he texted me six months later was that he’d left the relationship. Or, he’d been trying to meet multiple girls at the same time and happened to double-book himself and the other girl he met first.

Who knows what his real reasons were? But after he started pushing to meet when I said no, I was really glad I didn’t meet up with him. (Although, yes, I always make sure that I meet guys somewhere public — somewhere that I know or have at least had time to scope out — and I always mention to at least one friend that I have a date.)

My wife was an elected county official. This story takes place on the afternoon of Halloween. That day, the courthouse employees brought finger foods, and many wore some fashion of a costume to work.

I decided, unbeknownst to my wife, that I was going to dress for the occasion and walk the five blocks from my office downtown to the courthouse and pay her a visit.

I was able to fit into one of her drop-waist, size-ten dresses: an ugly yellow with big black polka-dots. I bought a costume wig at the five-and-dime, wadded up a small bath towel for padding on one side and a hand towel for the other side, and wore knee highs rolled down to my ankles.

When I got to the courthouse, I sat outside my wife’s office door and had one of her girls tell her there was a woman in the outer office with a problem. When my wife came up behind me, I could tell she did not recognize that ugly dress or me until I jumped up to give her a hug. She shrieked and ran into her office.

On the way back to my office, I had to wait for a traffic light at the busiest intersection in our town. Because it was difficult to walk with my stride in that dress, I hiked it up almost to my waist. (I had on walking shorts under the dress.)

A guy in the first car shot a leer at me until he realized he wasn’t being flashed by a woman.

Guys, take it from me. Don’t use lipstick. Boy, that stuff is hard to get off!

CONTENT WARNING: Bugs/Insects

This happened about twenty-five years ago, back when I was engaged to the woman who would ultimately become my ex-wife.

I’m not sure where she picked up these parasitic follicle hitchhikers, but she got head lice. Nit at all funny. Still, these things happen.

I checked my hair, and whilst I didn’t think I had any, I still treated my hair with medicated shampoo and a special comb anyway. My fiancée also treated her hair, but her mother had advised against using the specialist shampoos, instead suggesting more natural remedies. 

She advised the use of tea tree oil to kill the lice and banana conditioner to make the hair more slippery to aid in the removal of the lice and eggs.

So, after [Fiancée] dosed her hair up with the gunk, I brandished the comb and got to work. It quickly became apparent that we were in for a long evening. The first comb-through pulled out a lot — as did all the subsequent pulls. I carefully looked through her hair, and as well as a few lice, there were lots and lots of eggs. 

But were they all eggs?

You know that conditioner we used? It turns out they make it by mashing up bananas. And you know what’s inside bananas? Banana seeds. Which are about the same size and shape as lice eggs.

Oh, I didn’t say how long [Fiancée]’s hair was. It was long — reaching the small of her back. And thick. And about the same shade as the eggs I was trying to find. It was clear that this ordeal was far from ova.

All in all, it took about three hours for me to go through [Fiancée]’s hair to remove every trace of lice, egg, and banana seed. (Conversely, it took her about ten minutes to go through my short banana-free hair.)

Afterward, I pleaded with her to never use that treatment again. Fortunately, she agreed, and that method of treatment was scratched.