what we're all about:

eggplant tears is a chill online space for anyone of the transmasculine experience. Here, we aim to celebrate the radiant joy of our genders and bodies. We are especially into exploring the unique positioning of the way we have sex + our sexualities in all contexts, including ones we didn't choose.But we also want to cultivate a space where we can really dig in and discuss all the intracommunity issues with transmasculinity. (And don't we all know there's a lot of them.)

we are not a space for:

We are not interested in gatekeeping in any way, shape, or form. We are police and prison abolitionists, so we're definitely not interested in cosplaying the gender police. If you feel that you align with the transmasculine experience in any way, this space is for you.ZERO TOLERANCE FOR: transmed/truscum, SWERFs, TERFs and transmisogynists, ableists, racists, or bigots of any stripe.We are a space for creatives and artists who have experienced being excluded, left behind, or persecuted by traditional institutions and state systems.

A SPECIAL NOTE FROM THIEN-MY:

As a lifelong C/SA victim and SWer, I am especially interested in opening conversation - among SWers and outside of us - about gender performance during sex. Specifically, I want work that engages with conversations about gender performance both during obligate and voluntary sex as transmascs.In my personal experience with SW and transmasculinity, I find that I've had to exclusively perform as an "Asian Woman" in order to attract clients due to the particular way my Vietnamese ethnicity and the unfortunate but profitable racial fetishizing of Asian women as objects of sexual desire intersect.I want to hear other transmascs talk about the way they've had to perform gender during moments of sexual desire, both of their choosing and out of financial obligation.

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masthead

jonah wu:

editor-in-chief + eggplant enthusiast

thien-my:

art director + bnuuy of all time

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how to submit

→ We publish all lengths of written work (poetry, prose, hybrid) and visual media (illustrations, comics, photography, videos).
→ We DO accept work about kink and eroticism that is explicit and intended for mature audiences.
→ We allow simultaneous submissions, as long as you notify us as soon as you can if your piece has been accepted elsewhere first.
→ We also accept previously published work as long as you own/retain the rights (we don't want to get in trouble with your previous publishers!).
→ We are not, unfortunately, a paying market (though we will celebrate you with eggplant emojis).

We are currently CLOSED for submissions. Please check back again soon for when our next submissions window opens!

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issue #1: soft-boiled

soft-boiled (adj.)A method for boiling eggs that cooks the albumen ‘til firm but leaves the yolk runny, sometimes gelatinous, always soft.

on THE MENU

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“Self-Made Man” by Ky Huddleston

There’s a kindness in the skin of my soul.
I keep it tucked close in my breast pocket,
where I was softer once in a different way—
It is shaped like a match strike.Molasses and brown sugar are
poured through white honeysuckle,
the eagle up on the mountain screams
silent and etched in snow to say
it’s time for fishing.My skin is thicker now that it once was.
I don’t have to start with my own hands,
bright in a sea of cypress, like learning to
bait a line the way my father does.My heart is soft and warm in all the ways
that make for weak edges, brittle cracking
until it might chip away under that
immutable influence—I am chasing the taste of a 5 o’clock shadow.
I have it tucked close, in my breast pocket
beside the knife I use to cut trout free from
my lure and line. I always catch and release.
My father is rolling his eyes already.It is carefully crafted, and it burns
with a simple, controlled strike.
I’m not complaining.Having been imprecise edges,
no craft in the forging, it's easy to
forget what being tempered is.

Bio

Ky Huddleston is a reptile-wrangling transgender author working the library night shift, but only when he has the bite marks to prove it. He has too much audacity for his own good, just enough moxy to sell it, and recent publications in pacificREVIEW, The Ekphrastic Review, and Campfire Macabre.

“not masc not femme but water earth & stars” by Kai Minosh Pyle

Bio

Kai Minosh Pyle is a 2spirit Métis and Baawiting Anishinaabe writer originally from Green Bay, Wisconsin. Currently living in the once and future prairielands known as Champaign, Illinois, they yearn for the day they can dip their toes in the Great Lakes once again. You can find their chapbook AANAWI GO and other works at https://mekadebinesikwe.com/.

3 poems by Siobhan Dunlop

Mr. Strong

I would've taken up boxing if it wasn't for
my fear of losing teeth, put my ability to scare
people with lightfootedness to good use,
let those feet transport fists, build up jabs
like a training montage, Rocky ain't got nothing
on me surely, the real turnaround, proper
underdog story as I remove my glasses
for the world to see an unframed, lost face,
eyes blurring before an opponent, stronger
than my 160cm and bookish tendencies would
suggest, now you've got my height you can
calculate what size box I could be caught in,
a box I might've come out of fighting, if only I wasn't
so scared of broken bones, of changing rooms
divided by sex, of being allowed to take part,
then you could've seen me in the ring,
with confidence I'm not allowed, for being
confident might suggest I like this body,
that I feel at home in this form and not trying
to shape it otherwise, blindly dreaming
of a physicality that makes sense, toning
muscles like that matters, I'm not even the one
in the relationship who opens the jars,
imagine being scrappy, scrawny,
a surprise of wiry strength, uppercut uppercut
with an undercut, isn't it funny how
childish dreams and Mister Men
both allow for one personality trait per person?

shorts (non-binary)

I never felt comfortable / in shorts / until I was comfortable with who I amand yet that erases / those years of carefree shorts / 90s style matching with the t-shirtchildhood wonder / at the muscular power / of tennis short-ed legsthe fight to be allowed / to wear shorts to primary school / like the boysthat era of cropped trousers / and striped socks / to be like Avril Lavigneneeding a football kit / to fit in with the team / despite feeling too different from themsurf shorts at the beach / to avoid the sand / and do exactly zero surfinginsistence I could last a winter / only in navy PE kit shorts / as everyone else wore trackiestrying to fit in / with the denim hot pants and tights fad / though it wasn't me at allit was only as I hit / the complex shores of adulthood / shorts became the enemyand now with a new gender / and a renewed sense of personal style / I am cool again

Skipping Leg Day

I'm sorry / I keep skipping / leg day / not in the gym / just here / in our flat / thinking how / I just don't care / about the quads / the glutes / the hamstrings / my legs are fine / clad in skinny jeans / venturing into shorts / a recent discovery / that once you're not / a girl / shorts are okay / in your head / and really / legs are a vehicle / for Doc Martens / to appear / at the end of / so I let them / do their thing / mostly forgetting / they're even there / not like arms / so visible / with useful strength / see me hoovering / in a vest / a t-shirt / with the sleeves cut off / that urge to re-form / recreate / making housework / gender non-conforming / body not conforming / to workout ideals / even if I plank / stiff as a board / unfeeling / or feeling too much / downward dog / taking place / of a real pet / I want core strength / but I'm not an apple / pipped to the post / in the race / of aesthetics / learning the shorthand / outside of the class / breathe in / breathe out / activate / don't procrastinate / working out / would be easier / without relentless motivation / hate the vibe / not the feeling / of power / in the body / sometimes mine / sometimes / other / you see / I'm not / skipping leg day / I just / don't remember / my legs / at all

Bio

Siobhan Dunlop (they/them) is a UK-based poet with poems in 404 Ink, Impossible Archetype, Queerlings, Streetcake Magazine, and elsewhere. Their micro-chap Glitching Al Pacino (2022) is published by Ghost City Press. They can be found on Twitter as @fiendfull talking about poems, tech, and Neopets.

2 stories by Addie Tsai

BABY NEEDS A NEW PAIR OF BOOTS

The fairy wanted those boots for themself. They were of the most delectable green rubber, thicker than the air up high, far beyond the clouds in the dead of summer, even when fairies wore next to nothing. But, they knew better than to try to sneak them away from the master of fairies. First thing first: Their wings would never carry such substantial boots without being noticed, and their spells simply weren’t strong enough yet to cloak them behind a shield of invisibility, or make them vanish, just for a second or two. So, they did it. Just as the master of fairies determined that any wearer of the boots would be placed in whatever time they desired, they spoke it into being that the boots would make the wearer miserable in whatever time they’d always hoped for. Every fairy knew that the minute a fairy spoke a prediction, it made it so. And every fairy also knew that such predictions never applied to them, but only to humankind. The fairy slept on a cloud and kept an eye on their beloved boots, cringing with displeasure at the man who took the boots deep into the mud. Or shedding a tear when a boy roughed them up against rocks and cobblestoned streets. When you’ve found an object that makes you feel more like yourself than you ever thought possible, what’s a little time to wait? So the fairy waited. And waited. They stared at themselves in their little mirror in a house they’d built in the clouds and transformed the image in the mirror to match the one inside. The boots only began the image in their mind. Soon they saw deep red suspenders, chestnut trousers, an oxford shirt the color of the sky they slept in. Their wings sparkled in longing and joy, with such intensity that they fell asleep from the excitement. When they woke, the pair of green boots sat next to them on a cloud, which the fairy assumed was their imagination. But when they went to touch them, they could grab them with their hand. The boots were worn, hefty, sticky with life. How could it be? And then they heard behind them a most distinctive laugh that belonged to the one and only master of fairies. The fairy threw their head back: What? How?! The master giggled again, their wings bouncing with self satisfaction. Silly fairy. If only you’d told me how much you wanted them, I would have given them to you as soon as you asked. The master winked, but the fairy had no clue as they were too busy admiring their beautiful new possessions, now on their feet, which made them feel like always, and also, brand new.

PUT ON YOUR RED SHOES AND DANCE THE BLUES^[1]

Whatever you knew of the name you believe is mine, forget it at once. Instead, consider a name that is dandy and pristine, like Jonah or Milo. Maybe even Theodore. I’d long been abandoned by both my parents for so long I couldn’t sketch portraits of them even if you were to give me all the money in the world. I had no choice but to make my way through the harsh world but by sharing with the rats the food tossed in dumpsters and on the streets. I didn’t mind. They were pleasant enough company, if you didn’t treat them as cursed creatures. Shoes were almost never abandoned, and so my bare feet became accustomed to nicks and barbs of a particularly prickly plant or the sharp edge of a rock. My hair draped against my back, thick and hard as the ragged dress I found to protect my skin from the elements. By the time she came for me, I had built a perfect enough routine to suit me just fine. I knew the best place to hide out from the jailers, the perfect view to watch the musicians and dancers on the streets. How I longed to join them! But without shoes and a suitable look, who would have me? Until she came. What could I say? I had no position to refuse her charity. I knew that the way to a decent meal and a warm bath was obedience, and so obey I did. With clean skin, I held my new caregiver’s hand to lead her out of the carriage like a proper valet. I kept my new room clean, and stayed out of trouble. I was never one for trouble anyway. She gifted me with literacy and new shoes made of silk, the finest gowns that I would have burned all at once if I could have traded them for a suit jacket adorned with brass buttons, trousers to match, and most of all, a pair of men’s shoes with laces and a short heel. One day, she left me at the finest cobbler in the town, while she walked down the street to buy food for our supper, accompanied by a friend of hers. Her eyes were losing their ability to discern details, but she wanted my shoes to sparkle for a wedding we were to attend in a few days. Resting behind the cobbler’s head were the most beautiful pair of shoes I’d ever seen in my life! Men’s shoes made of the finest red leather, the sunlight glinting against the red as though it were made of diamonds. The sweet old man tried to get my attention three times while I descended into my fantasies of the red shoes. Once he realized that no shoes would be a match for my new love, he grinned. A very rich boy couldn’t be pleased with them, he told me. Would you like to see if they are the right fit? When he laced them around my worn and ragged feet, it felt like walking on clouds made of silk. I pinched my cheeks so hard they turned the same shade of red, so sure was I that this must be a dream I was having still in my bed. But, it wasn’t a dream, and I knew that I would never let anything else touch my feet again. I could finally become Milo with the Red Shoes, and that was worth more than any bed, or school lessons, or warm meal my new mother could give me. While she was still out shopping, I pranced over to the barber and despite his resistance, convinced him to give me a proper boy’s haircut, to match my new red shoes. I saw the new me in the cut glass of a shop next door. I was perfect. I never saw that old lady again. I stole an abandoned coat—it would never be fine as the one in my dreams, but I didn’t need it to be anymore. The shoes were just the edge I needed to dance to busk with the others, hoofing out a time step count for the musicians, for always.

^[1] This title is borrowed from David Bowie’s “Let’s Dance.”

Bio

Addie Tsai (any/all) is a queer nonbinary artist and writer of color who teaches at the College of William & Mary. They collaborated with Dominic Walsh dance theater on Victor Frankenstein and Camille Claudel, among others. Addie has an MFA in Creative Writing from Warren Wilson College and a PhD in Dance from Texas Woman’s University. She is the author of the queer Asian young adult novel Dear Twin. Unwieldy Creatures is their newly released adult queer genderswapped biracial Asian retelling of Frankenstein. They are the fiction co-editor and editor of Features & Reviews at Anomaly, staff writer at Spectrum South, and founding editor & editor in chief at just femme & dandy.

“Call it What You Want” by Kit Lascher

Bio

Kit Lascher is the King of Trash Wonderland. She dropped out of the same theatre school as James Dean and has worked hard not to burn out as quickly. Her work has been shown and produced across the US. Favorite artistic projects include creating Recover: A Cabaret by and for People with Mental Illness, publishing zines with WolfShark Press, and writing and directing for Reboot Theatre Company and Copious Love. You can find her work in the latest issue of beestung, in upcoming collaborations as part of her residency with Nomadic Soundsters, and in more spaces to be announced.

“‘boy parts’ (in praise of inverts)” by JP Seabright

We wear it well, this gentlemale exterior,
reaching for respectability in our breeches,
these buttoned down shirts and braces,
bovver boi boots with tightly pulled laces,
playacting our way onto the social stage,
rewriting our sexualities onto the page.
We did not know who we were,
these unwomen, these inverts,
these confused bodies of face and bravado,
pursued by bears and flaming libido,
until we undone ourselves, unbound the parts
we wanted, discarded those we didn’t,
and found our bodies beautiful again.We are always and forever Cesario
causing Olivia to fall in love with us,
as Phoebe swoons for our Ganymede,
we disguised ourselves as Pan and Puck and Ariel.
We were the first fairies, androgynous
fresh-faced slender-limbed fuckboys,
dragging our desires through the forest,
bouncing our quiffs down the street,
while Cindy lathered up the shaving foam
and we dripped with hunger to be seen.
We wear our boy parts well, soft and hard
in all the right places, self-made men
aping no one but our own reverted faces.

Bio

JP Seabright (she/they) is a queer writer living in London. They have three pamphlets published: Fragments from Before the Fall: An Anthology in Post-Anthropocene Poetry by Beir Bua Press; the erotic memoir NO HOLDS BARRED by Lupercalia Press, and GenderFux, a collaborative poetry pamphlet, by Nine Pens Press. MACHINATIONS, a collaborative experimental work, will be out from Trickhouse Press in Autumn 2022. More info at https://jpseabright.com and via Twitter @errormessage.

“hot sugar crush” by nat raum

i bought tigerbeat at the airport like everyone
else in my class but i used to look through
and strike through boys’ faces with sharpie,decreeing them and their fans disgusting
while hanging hilary duff posters on wildflower
pink walls. and it wasn’t that boysweren’t for me, but that i had to be swayed
by coalblack tresses whose long waves would meld
so delicately with my freckles and beachglassblue eyes, whose overdyed skinny jeans looked
just as good on spindly preteen legs as theirs,
whose love was as unattainable as their likeness.

Artist’s Statement

i've recently been thinking about how i was pretty obviously queer from a young age in the way i understand it now, but a heteronormative upbringing caused me not to question my gender identity or sexuality until i was an adult. i kind of think this is partially due to the masculinity i was exposed to being so terrifying, i wanted to run far away from it when i even thought about gender. anyway, i realized one of the ways my queerness silently showed itself was that i was only attracted to men who looked like what i wanted to look like at the time. this is something also explored in a favorite song of mine by Glass Animals called "Hot Sugar." it's not explictly about a queer relationship but many queer fans related to the idea of having a crush on someone they wanted to emulate.

BIO

nat raum (b. 1996) is a disabled artist, writer, and genderless disaster based on occupied Piscataway land in Baltimore, MD. They’re a current MFA candidate and also the editor-in-chief of fifth wheel press. Past and upcoming publishers of their writing include Olney Magazine, perhappened, CLOVES, and trampset. Find them online: natraum.com/links.

“Crew Cut” by inkyswampboy

Bio

inkyswampboy is a traditional pen and ink hobbyist illustrator from the North West of England. He is a queer genderfluid transmasculine person who likes to make art inspired by gender and sexuality as well as his disabilities, autism, and experiences with mental illness. Their art varies from tender illustrations of gay romance throughout history to explorations of body horror, monsters, the sinister and the grotesque: often, it falls somewhere in between. He also loves watching horror movies, crafting, knitting, playing video games, and working on forming his own gender expression to be a beautiful work of art in itself.

“slap slap grab choke shut up bitch” by sal kang

i think i owe it to lots of people to try & be myself a little less.every day i wake up & try to write that poem—
me surfacing from the ocean of his hands grinning, every noose
this world tries to place on me fraying, falling at my feet
as his grip loosens around my neck. i tell the page i do not think
about how womanly or manly i was when we were inside each other.
when we finish, he bathes everything in warm water: first me,
then all the bumpy/long/flat/thick/smooth silicone i took in
& over my skin. we kiss each other’s feet & i realize our sex is trans
-formative in a way that doesn’t scare me. we are beautiful
because beautiful doesn’t exist outside of this room.i don’t mention how his fingertips sharpen into small knives
sometimes, that i cannot distinguish his ***** from the barrel of a pistol
when it’s pressed against my face. my poems are oblivious
to how these two things are true at once: i have the best time in bed
pretending to be a wild flower, voiceless under a shoe & easy
to bend/twist/scratch/snap. also, sometimes i cry during or after
because he is so good at acting & i want to live. i have a good idea
of my limits, i think. also, sometimes i wake up drenched
in a cold sweat, furiously treading the air in my sleep,
trying my hardest to run from everything i want.yes, the logic of my desire refuses the logic of my paragraphs.
playacting a murder victim does not mean your life is suddenly less
likely to be cut & pressed into a faceless obit come tomorrow.
every night, a man tries to hurt me, & every night, i get to decide
when he stops trying. this can only be empowering once we choose
to ignore that i still reek of prey when we escape the covers.there are days when i open my eyes & even this feels like possibility.there are days when i open my eyes & all this just feels too devastating.there are days when my queerness reveals itself to me like it’s this
too colossal thing, bright as a broken tooth being gifted to you
by a child who wants nothing back in return. it says: your palms
will never know how it feels to choke someone like that. so, instead
you must learn how to smother lovers’ heads between your thighs
—let it teach you the weight of softness, what it burns & births.

ARTIST'S STATEMENT

the title of this poem references an andrew tate quote from a video in which he spoke briefly on "how to handle girls." the rest of the poem is an attempt at differentiating queer bdsm from such blatantly violent/misogynistic practices, unraveling kinky sex from its perceived social contexts & trying to engage with it from a much more radical place while still acknowledging the ever-present potentiality of harm. i love queer bdsm & think that it can be beautiful & revolutionary, but i think that the main point of the poem is that it can also be a little complicated (for me)(because society, not because of queers).previously, i wrote of queer bdsm as an almost purely positive escape from a violently binary/gendered world, not always because my experiences with it were exclusively fun & liberating (though many times it was!) but rather because my desire to only paint palatable pictures of my community was very strong. i was afraid to be completely open about this topic in particular because it is such a loaded, misrepresented/misunderstood thing to begin with, & my honesty may just end up adding to that when it reaches readers who are unequipped with the context they may need to not misconstrue the “point” that is being made.i am still scared of all of this. however, i also believe strongly that we owe it to ourselves & others to have these difficult, complicated conversations (quote from jonah). cishet sex is often treated as a difficult topic in writing for many sociopolitical reasons; narratives on queer sex should be allowed to unapologetically take up the same amount of space. we are deserving of so much more than what is already out there. so, so, so much.

BIO

Sal (they/them) is a poet living in New Jersey. They write about sexuality, queerness, Asianness, & their intersections. They are a 麻辣香锅 enthusiast & have a lot of wisdom teeth.

“Stone Butch 4 Stone Soft Butch” by Mx. Butch

In the exploration of my body, I’ve spent so much of my time
exploring the body of someone else…

The trans body.
The dyke body.
The butch body.
The hard, hard
stone butch body.