I’ll never forget the day my routine dental check-up turned into the most unexpectedly wholesome — and mildly mortifying — confessional I’ve ever witnessed involving trans and shemale cams and trans dating sites online.
It was a Tuesday afternoon, the kind of gray that makes you nostalgic for sunshine and also for flossing more regularly. I had checked in, filled out the forms with the usual lies about how often I floss (every day!) and how little sugar I eat (none!), and sat in the waiting room pretending to be engrossed in a magazine about houseplants I didn’t own. The receptionist called my name, and I shuffled back, imagining the familiar whirr of drills and the polite condescension reserved for people who think whitening strips are a dental plan.
Dr. Patel was a charmingly ordinary man in his forties — reasonable bedside manners, bifocals, and a laugh like a friendly whoopee cushion. He greeted me with the kind of warmth that made me immediately regret the amount of toothpaste I’d applied that morning in a caffeine-addled haze. After the usual small talk about work and the weather, he asked if I’d had any problems since my last visit.
“Just the usual,”
I said, “sensitive teeth, and my dentist keeps judging my candy intake.”
He chuckled. “I only pass judgment when it’s warranted.”
While he fussed with the X-rays and the little mirror that always makes me look like a chipmunk in a tiny circus act, the conversation drifted into that cozy, career-adjacent zone where dentists talk about flossing like politicians talk about tax reform. Then, as he adjusted the light and the probe hummed ominously, Dr. Patel dropped a line that derailed the entire sterile train.
“You know,” he said, very casually, “I follow a lot of interesting people online. I’m actually on a few dating apps. I… tend to date trans women.”
There it was, flung into the fluorescent air like a confetti cannon. My brain, mid-hover over the open mouth and dental tools, performed a comedic triple axel: surprise, curiosity, and a consciousness of the ridiculousness of my own expression. I mumbled something between “Oh” and “That’s great,” which is to say I was wholly unprepared for an adult human being to volunteer their dating preferences while my molars were being inspected.
He sensed my awkwardness and grinned, which somehow made the whole moment better. “Sorry, I don’t mean to overshare.” He paused and then, with the giddy earnestness of someone telling a slightly scandalous secret at a PTA meeting, added, “Also, I watch cams sometimes. There’s this whole community — it’s actually really respectful. The performers are amazing.”
That line could have been the ending to a thousand sitcom scenes: dentist admits to being human; patient learns new facet of their healthcare provider’s social life; everyone awkwardly agrees to disagree and returns to flossing tips. But Dr. Patel didn’t tuck the moment away. He leaned in, as if he were confiding the location of a hidden chocolate stash, and began to tell me about his experience online with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for craft beer or obscure podcasts.
“It’s surprisingly normal,” he said. “People are just people. There’s performers who are kind, funny, and very clear about their boundaries. It’s not what people assume. I learned a lot about consent and communication. Actually, it improved my dating life a lot.”
I was trying to process this while keeping my mouth open so he could continue prodding at my gums. “Improved your dating life?” I managed, which I assume sounded less judgmental than it felt in my head.
“Yeah,” he said. “If you watch someone perform and they’re clear about what makes them comfortable and what they don’t want, you start respecting that language in real life too. Dating apps? It’s the same. The profiles are often conscientious — pronouns, boundaries, very upfront. It forces you to be better at asking the right questions and actually listening.”
There was something disarmingly sincere about the way he framed it. Here I was, expecting a dentist to offer me a lecture on the perils of energy drinks, and instead I got a modest TED Talk on how online communities like
YOOCO can teach empathy. The irony was not lost on me: a man whose entire job is to tell people they’re using too much Force with their toothbrush was now the one educating me about emotional hygiene.
He continued, eyes crinkling with amusement. “Also, the memes are wild. There’s this whole meme culture around cams and dating that is chef’s kiss. Like, people have these inside jokes and running gags. It’s delightful. You’d probably enjoy it.”
At this point, my brain had filed Dr. Patel under “multidimensional humans I had not appreciated until now.” I tried to return one of his friendly beats with something equally genial. “Sounds like you’ve found your niche fandom,” I said, which came out more like “Sounds like you have a hobby” but at least was coherent.
“Exactly!” he exclaimed. “Hobby, community, learning experience — plus everyone’s very good at moderating their spaces. It’s taught me so much about consent and respect. And the performers deserve so much credit; they run their shows with such dignity.”
I grinned. “Do you have a favorite meme?”
He made a little face, then leaned back and, with the gravity of someone revealing their fantasy football lineup, said, “There’s one where it’s like, ‘When you respect boundaries but still bring the energy.’ It’s just… surreal.” He laughed like a person who had found comfort in the absurd.
At some point during the crown check, a dental hygienist breezed by with the invisible stealth of someone who’s tuned out of small talk and into maintaining your enamel’s dignity. She smiled at us and left, blissfully unaware of the intimate confessional taking place under the halogen lamp.
When Dr. Patel polished one of my teeth, he continued with this disarmingly candid commentary about social norms. “People make a lot of assumptions about cam communities and trans folks, but in my experience, they’re not only normal but often kinder than other places online. The moderators are strict, performers set expectations clearly, and the patrons that stick around tend to be the respectful ones.”
I’ll confess: part of me wanted to demand a pamphlet titled “How My Dentist Became a Better Person via Internet Communities,” but the rest of me, which was either more grown-up or afraid of more probing, settled for a thoughtful, “That’s surprising but makes sense.”
After the exam, he offered me a feather-light fluoride treatment and a piece of floss like a ceremonial token. “By the way,” he said as he handed me the floss, “if you ever want recommendations — non-judgmental ones — I can point you to some respectful communities. The folks I follow are really great about privacy and boundaries.”
“I appreciate that,” I said. “I might take you up on the meme recommendations.”
We laughed. There’s a peculiar joy in the universe’s tendency to break scripts: the guy in scrubs who could extract your wisdom tooth without flinching, offering dating tips like a late-night radio host who also happens to be invested in your oral health. I left the office feeling oddly lighter, as if my tooth had not only been cleaned but somehow polished a little on the inside too.
On the subway ride home, I scrolled through my contacts and imagined a world in which small talk and
read frequently included candid confessions about online communities and dating preferences. It felt refreshingly human. Think about it: in a society where we silently nod through surface-level niceties, here was a professional gently dismantling the taboos around consenting adults’ private lives. There was empathy baked into his admissions, and frankly, that was more novel than the dental floss he’d given me.
A week later, when I went back for a follow-up, we joked about starting a book club that only discussed forums and memes about respectful online fandoms. He smirked and reminded me to floss. “And if you want that meme list,” he said, “I’ll email it to you.”
I didn’t end up asking for the list — partly because that felt like stepping into someone’s inbox without a formal invitation, and partly because the memory of that conversation was enough of a mood-lift. But I did start thinking differently about small talk. Instead of treating it like a verbal placeholder, Dr. Patel’s candidness made me realize it can be an opening for genuine connection, even in a fluorescent dental chair.
The anecdote spread in my head like a good campfire story, and over time I told it at parties with all the dramatic timing of a stand-up comedian who’s deliberately underqualified. People laughed, then got thoughtful, then laughed again. Every retelling emphasized different parts — the confessional under the halogen lamp, the surprising earnestness, the flourish of floss as a parting gift.
Years later, I still remember that check-up not because of my pristine molars, but because of the unexpected kindness of someone who simply refused to be boxed into a tidy professional stereotype. He could have nodded and said, “Everything looks fine,” and handed me a pamphlet about gum disease. Instead, he chose to be human, to be vulnerable in a small, socially sanctioned way, and to model a kind of openness that made the room feel safer for both of us.
And whenever I floss now — which, full disclosure, is still not as often as the dentist would prefer — I think of Dr. Patel and his meme list. I picture him chuckling over an inside joke about boundary-respecting energy, polishing a crown, and somehow making the world a little less awkward and a little more sincere, one dental appointment at a time.