"Sex as a trans guy is expensive": A reflection on the true price of intimacy

They say good sex doesn't cost a thing.

That it's all about chemistry, the right hands in the right places, a well-timed look, a whisper with just the right amount of teeth in it. But you'd be surprised how many people forget that sex starts long before the bedroom. I've found this to be especially true if you happen to be transgender, where sex isn't so much an effortless tumble into bed as it is a carefully choreographed routine, complete with props, adjustments, and the ever-present risk of something slipping out of place.

For years, I convinced myself that if I found the right combination of silicone and prosthetics, I'd finally be able to have sex like a normal person. Sex as a trans guy is expensive, after all. Not in the winking, "romantic getaway" sense, but in a relentless, running tally of costs both financial and emotional. A quiet, ongoing debt paid in binders that bruise the ribs, overpriced prosthetics that never quite fit, and the mounting interest of believing that intimacy isn't something you feel, but something you must engineer.

The message was clear: if you wanted to feel like a "real man," you'd better be prepared to spend. And I did. I accepted the idea that a trans man's body was unfinished. To move through the world as others did, I needed additions and corrections. Even within queer spaces, the assumption lingered. That we as trans men must use prosthetics; that we as trans people must simulate cis bodies.

So, I scoured through Reddit forums, watched tutorials online, and read reviews on niche trans sex sites. I learned which prosthetics worked with which harnesses, which materials felt most natural for her and for me. Before I could even think about sex, I had to think about optics, angles, and silhouette. Binders were essential for that. Fifty dollars or more to flatten my chest with compression material.

Then came the packers.

A packer, for the uninitiated, is a prosthetic designed to create the illusion of a more masculine shape in the trousers. A few were simple lumps, $20 for a bulge that served no real purpose beyond helping my jeans sit properly. Others were high-tech feats of medical realism, $400 or more for a piece. One might be self-adhesive, another with movable parts. Each promised to make me feel complete, which was a tall order for something that spent most of its time stuffed in my underwear. And so, I built myself, one online order at a time.

In my head, I had rehearsed it all. I ran through what might happen and how I'd steer it. I wondered how much could pass as instinct if I stayed ahead of it. And then, without warning, came the first time. There was no planning, no prep, no assembly. No time to reach for the drawer. Just a glance and a touch, and suddenly we were in it. It was the kind of ease I'd spent years trying to manufacture.

And in that moment, I learned something.

For so long, I had been trying to make my body acceptable, trying to meet a standard that wasn't mine and chasing a sense of validation that, in the end, didn't even belong to me. All that time spent constructing myself, piece by piece, trying to pass as ready for intimacy, only to realize that the closest I ever came to real connection was when I stopped trying to be convincing.

After fixating on the perfect product, the one that might make me forget I was trans long enough, I stopped. Not because I found the right fit, but because I stopped believing I needed to be any more "acceptable" or "palatable" than I already was.

Sex wasn't the end of questioning, nor did it silence the undercurrent of gender discomfort that still rises. But it did offer something else, something less final and more honest. I began to understand that sex, like so much else in life, looks different for everyone, and it's an exchange that has little to do with what anyone outside the room thinks.

Sex rarely follows a single script. It can be a sequence of a thousand tiny adjustments made long before any clothes come off. And it can also be more spontaneous, an act done without the need for preparation or precision.

Now, the drawer in my bedside table isn't crammed with mistakes. It holds a few well-worn favorites, yes, but mostly it holds things I like. Things we like. And when I reach for something, it's not because I feel like I have to.

It's because I want to.

Sex as a trans guy is expensive. But the most costly thing I ever bought into was the idea that I needed more than what I already had. Turns out, I didn't, and my bank account could not be more grateful.

Jaheim Karim is a UK-based writer exploring the intersections of identity, culture, and politics.

Jaheim Karimcourtesy Jaheim Karim

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