I had a seriously kinky dream about my gender transition last night, and boy was it hot!

Trigger warning: there are discussions of male and female genitalia, surgical procedures, sex change, reference to castration, and a kinked-up version of this process.

I haven’t been sleeping so well of late.  At first, I thought it was my period, and yes, transwomen do have periods.  We don’t bleed or get cramps, but we get most of the other symptoms: in my case that is a spike in my libido, a desire to compulsively clean my house, having a ton of energy, and sleeplessness.  It usually lasts for four or five days.

I have two apps that track it.  One reads my body vitals, the Oura Ring, particularly body temperature, heart rate variability, sleep patterns, but also oxygen saturation in my blood, and this predicts my cycle according to data it sees.  The other is an app called Stardust which I really love, and should probably review, where I can log my symptoms, track the dates, and then see the consistency of reporting.

My first period was in the cycle of the full moon, and this stayed for a while.  When you bleed with the full moon you are a Red Witch.  Wise, a Priestess, a Healer.  But this flipped to White Witch, bleeding with the new moon, with a small wobble in the Pink Witch zone.  What is interesting to me is that these changes in my body, following the lunar cycle one way or another, have also corresponded to the hormone medications I am on.

When I say I am taking hormones, I really mean it.  They are bio-identical, meaning that they are the exact same chemicals that would be found in a natal body body.  The oestrogen I take is oestrogen as the natal female knows it.  This was not always the case, and the availability of bio-identical hormones is a relatively new thing.

When I started on this journey, my dose was low, similar to what a woman post-menopause might take to maintain healthy bones.  It was a maintenance level, and being a Red Witch, in a way, fits with that lifecycle parallel.  She is the Crone.  But when my doses increased, and I really stepped into second puberty, the cycle flipped.  Bleeding with the new moon means that I become fertile when the earth becomes fertile.  It is just like having an internal spring every month, and yes, it feels just like it.

At my last consultation with my endocrinologist, she took me off of spiro (spironolactone), a puberty blocker.  This is a drug that is very strong with many side effects, most importantly that it is punishing on the liver and kidneys so I was eager to get off it.  But it also is a very powerful tool in the trans-feminine arsenal, as it is a very effective testosterone suppressor, and also a blocker of DHT, the type of testosterone that causes hair loss.  Can you imagine being a man with a man complaint and having this drug prescribed to you?  Can you imagine that the conversation with your doctor would have to include, “side effects will include a total loss of libido.  You will be inoperative down there.”  For many men that would surely mean feelings of not being a man anymore.

As a transwoman I was all in for that feeling.  But no amount of mental prep can teach you what it feels like to just go from randy to chemically castrated in the matter of an hour or so.  That’s what it felt like to me.  I did lament about the loss of libido, particularly since being horny is one of the great delights of life.  After all, how can you be a libertine if you are not horny?

Well, going onto progesterone began to bring my libido back some six months ago.  A welcome return from the prodigal son.  Quite literally, since that is still my plumbing.  But stopping spiro has returned my libido to full strength, only it is definitely not the same anymore.  Did any of you ever change schools growing up, but then return to your old school?  You find people you know are still there, but they have changed so much, the friendship groups have changed.  Everything is different, yet familiar.  That’s what this feels like.

In my libido’s period in exile, where ‘he’ became ‘she’ as she wandered lost in the wilderness, has brought this kind of change.  She has returned to my body where he had resided before.  And what is that like?  I have much less control over my libido now.  I can’t consciously think about something in order to turn myself on, which was something that I could easily do as a mean.

No.  Now there has to be an element of surprise.  As if only my unconscious desire can cause arousal.  It’s a bit like a maiden hiding in a maze of shrubs, peaking her head out, playful, dashing to the next one, inviting desire to chase her, but it always begins very faint.  And if desire does not grab her by the hair, then she gets away and all is soon forgotten.  But when desire does grab ahold, the burning passion that ignites within her is as strong if not stronger than anything I ever felt as a man.

I don’t have this penile need anymore for release.  And anyway, I shoot blanks now, which is surreal.  The pulsing feeling of an orgasm is there, though it tends to last longer, only nothing comes out.  Nothing at all.  I am also ready to go again.  As in, non-stop.  There is no lull, no feeling of being tired, or exhausted or sleepy…just the opposite.  I’m ready to leap from bed and tear around the house.

There are real physiological changes to my sensitivity as well.  My nipples are much larger now, and extremely responsive.  My whole breast area is sensitive, as is my skin more generally.  But as a man my breast area was certainly sensitive, but not in the same way…I am thinking of the word ‘intent’.  It is as if my breasts have agency, that they almost have a mind of their own, and can speak of the desire to be touched.  If someone plays with them for just a few seconds, they can light me up.

The change between my legs is even more pronounced.  My equipment, though much reduced in size, has become way more sensitive.  New nerves are actually growing, and my brain is already beginning to perceive touch as it will when I am post op, and as my surgeon says, everything according to your brain will be in the right place.  What an incredibly beautiful and ornate operation this is.  I can only think of how this surgery might evolve, become capable of, in a world of tolerance where it is allowed to continue.

The lack of sleep I have been getting I initially linked to my cycle.  But after what should have been the end of my cycle the sleeplessness continued and I realised that it was stress, divorce-related stress.  I will write about that separately at some point as we are reaching a critical phase and what I hope will be the end, but it is a lot to carry right now.

I mention this because high stress levels are correlated in my life to wanting to step into little space.  To feel like a baby again.  And sometimes, not always, that means dressing the part.  The desire to do this has come and gone through my entire life.  I love it, but most of all, I love that I don’t need it anymore in the way that I did when I was in my early 20’s, just starting out in life, was self-destructive, occasionally suicidal, and just so darn lost.

Now, it has become integral to how I relate to an intimate partner.  And I don’t mean that need or even want to bring those kinds of games into the bedroom.  Indeed, I want this less and less, as it is so deeply private for me, and that there are very few people I have ever been willing to see me this way.  And this holds as true with a Sex Worker as it does with a vanilla partner.  Intimacy is always core to my interactions.

The not so obvious point in this for me is that there is a deep vulnerability which comes with this practice, this feeling.  It is a limitless love feeling, being totally open, totally dependent for everything on someone, of having the sensation of falling, falling, falling, but it being okay, because the other person is there.  When I am in this space, I don’t like to talk.  It isn’t that I decide to stop talking, or even rationalise it, but words just disappear.  I am a chatterbox.  Always telling stories, speaking nonsense.  Little space silences me.  And what I most like to do, how to feel, how to be, in those moments is in tender and intimate touch.  It is the anteroom of heaven.

It is exactly what I imagine the feeling of a baby suckling on her mother’s breast.  Faith, reliance for everything: warmth, nourishment, love, comfort all felt in the skin and body sensations, in the smells that come with it.  It is what I equate with innocent love.  Innocence.  Wanting to express that with someone is as elusive as a Will-o’-the-wisp.

And quite literally it is.  It has been almost two years since I played this way.  Or even felt the need.  And this is something also which is having the female run stronger in me…as a male, I might have returned to the same fantasy or just thought about little space, and I would just go there.  My female body and mind doesn’t work that way.  The stars had to line up.

So, two things are happening.  I am feeling libidinous because it’s that time of the month.  And I am feeling the need for little space because of the stress I am under.  Once upon a time a witch who changed my life gave me a formula for a potion to drink at night when I was feeling this way.  It is a blend of herbs and is usually prepared with oat milk or similar…I have taken a particular liking to either buckwheat or hemp milk as these taste an awful like my memory of what my bottles tasted like when I was little.  There is honey, it is warm, and it is drunk from a baby bottle.

It has strong properties.  It is magic.  One of them is that it helps you sleep.  Another is that it relaxes you.  But the kicker is that it gives you wild dreams.  And last night it delivered.

Here is where it gets weird.

I woke up in the middle of the night with an urgency between my legs that I have not felt in a while.  Even if the scale has changed, the hardness was unmistakable.  I still get over how I am okay to touch it, when this has never been part of repertoire for all my life.  But my brain no longer sees it as it is physically but knows what it is becoming…knows that my scrotal skin will be labia, knows that the skin of the shift will be inner labia and the entrance to my kitty, and that the head, that sensitive crown will be the clitoris and hood.  And because they feel so different to my touch already, there is no dissonance for me.  I feel them this way.

I think also because I never not tuck any longer, my front is completely flat when I walk around.  My relationship with the male vestiges of my body are becoming memories even while they are still here.

Along with the physical arousal came a flood of thoughts, each kinkier than the other.  I have spent a good deal of time with The Companion of late.  Her journey into becoming a dominatrix is inspiring me and giving me the courage to do it.  She also knows that I am a slave.  And while we do not do anything or play, my desire for her is conscious enough to have ended in a failed kiss.  But last night, what was running through my mind was that all the men that had been at her feet, under her feet, on leashes in her hands, were replaced by me.

And these words, “you do know that if I collar you, we will no longer be friends.”

“I understand,” I said, knowing how much I would be losing.

“You will become my slave.  There is no turning back.”  I closed my eyes and felt the collar on me.  And in my aroused state, I realised both that I have only ever been collared twice, both times by two of the three women I wrote about loving.  I also reran the moment of collaring in my head twenty times at least, such is the way withwakeful dreams.

But then it crept into my mind that all of these women are working together to enslave me.  That somehow they know each other.  That somehow they are in cohoots, a coven, a witch’s pact.  The Companion is a witch herself, and I can feel her magic in daily life, but in my dream state, it was very powerful indeed…it owned my body and the incredibly juicy sensations emanating from my guts and perineum.

And my mind shifted to how gorgeous I find my surgeon.  And how all three of the surgeons I have spoken to strike me as utterly commanding and dominant women.  I don’t think of doctors typically like this.  But they are truly dominant in ways that brook no dissent.  I wonder if that is not a side effect of removing men’s jewels and fashioning them the prettiest pussies possible, and doing it for a living.

And I wonder if this whole thing is just one big sexual fantasy for me.  That having my male bits upcycled into a vagina is the ultimate sexual and existential fantasy for me.  It might be.  Gosh, what if?  I wonder if any other trans women have ever thought about it.

But the bridge is there.  You can watch this fabulous video of one of NY’s most well-known dominatrixes, Lucy Sweetkill, where she mentions how hot it would be to castrate a man.  Or this interview between Mistress Blunt, another of New York’s top providers, and renowned porn star Goth Charlotte, where she speaks of her desire to castrate her husband, a porn film producer, and wear his balls as earrings.  It is pretty hot, and given that her then husband has now changed sex, it speaks to the power of desire.

I suspect that in the eyes of society this is truly “sick”…and very wrong.  I have alluded to my own occasional fetish of castration.  I don’t think it is that surprising for a trans woman to have fantasised about this act, not least because the possibility of a sex change seemed so remote post puberty, like I had lost my chance.  So in this way, castration was just a way of reclaiming agency.

And while part of me is sad to not have an intimate relationship that could encompass some playful steps in this direction, I have to say that the inescapable feeling that my surgeon is a dominatrix, and one whose practice is of another order of magnitude from any that I have ever met, is reassuring, but also arousing.  I feel like calling her Miss instead of Dr.  But that’s okay, I am unlikely to play with her in that moment before she puts me under, only to wake me many hours later with my new anatomy.

All of this was running through my mind as I approached orgasm.  All the dominant women that I know, they were all there, being encouraging.  It was like a giant witch’s gathering.  And I felt that I was their slave.  I loved it; I came. And then I finally slept a deep, delicious sleep which has eluded me for days.