The man standing in front of me on the dance floor of the sprawling 24-hour queer sex club was wearing nothing but flip-flops and a white towel wrapped around his waist. He looked 40s-ish, a little chubby, a few inches shorter than me in my platform Crocs. He was cis and straightseeming, with a short, conservative haircut and neatly trimmed mustache that gave “boring cybersecurity analyst,” although his presence at a trans-centric noise show in a queer sex club—as well as the tall, beautiful woman beside him, also wearing only a towel—made me wonder how boring he really was.