It may not mean much to you, but one number really grabbed my attention on my first post-GAHT blood work and hormone dosage review. The number was my baseline testosterone level from before I had begun this journey. I don’t look at the number as an excuse or as a way to create space for myself.
Well, there is a range for testosterone for a “normal” male. It is a rather broad range, stretching from 200 to 1,000 ng/dL in the blood. I am not particularly aware of how a different level might affect our levels of aggression, our levels of sexual desire, or even horniness. I should like to find out.
My level was in range of “normal” but just at the low end. Very. I may have influenced this by my dabbling with herbal oestrogens for a year. Or my dabbling with very low doses of oestrogen, spiro and finasteride, obtained OTC on a trip to Mexico. It is kind of hard not to think this made a difference. I do wonder, however, whether my politics, my feelings, my life, my refusal to play the game, my focus on gender studies at University was in a reflection of this. I shall never know. Nor need I.
What I can say is that I used to have a relentlessly high libido. The FSSW I saw spoke of a friend of hers who was asexual. I can’t think of myself as asexual though that may very well be my future. After all, I was an unrepentant teenaged masturbator. My thoughts turned to the sexual on a near constant basis…an affliction that I learned to not only control but to relish. I channelled it into writing, and my legacy from that period is 500 or so erotic stories that are scattered across the internet under various pen names. I call them erotic, but they are anything but. They are smut. Pure and simple. While I might protest to their stylistic qualities, the usual sex acts punctuated correctly and with literate language, the fact remains that they are hard core, not tame enough for any of the more mainstream platforms. My only rule: no non-consent of any kind—drunk or drugged, mentally incapacitated, unwilling, unable to consent. That includes all forms of bestiality or the dead. Most of all, it concerns children or anything even close. There is nothing that bothers me more. The theft of innocence is a hate crime.
What happened during my visit to the doctor? We established that my hormone levels, both my Testosterone and Oestrogen had changed to levels appropriate to a cis woman. I am anxious to replicate female puberty to the greatest extent possible. This will be a five-year journey. I intend to relish every moment.
Practically, she doubled my doses of oestrogen and Spiro…thereby squelching even more my testosterone, and giving my oestrogen levels a chance to fly higher. And boy, does it feel delicious.
Politicians who have decided to make dysphoria a political football make much of the near minimal and almost non-existent transgender regret. I don’t know what percentage of transgender people there are out there who don’t eventually transition, but I won’t be one of them.
I thought to myself the other day, ‘I get to live three lives.’ My first was as an innocent boy. I look back on that period as one of tremendous beauty. I loved that me, and today, when I see an old picture and can see the complex range of expression on my face, I am often brought to tears. I can still feel his feelings as if they were yesterday. He was an intensely emotional and sensitive child. I hate to be reductive, but that is something shared with my fellow ADD peeps. And boy, although it meant things were often emotionally too much, the richness I got to live in feeling, whether of desperation, sorrow, or intense joy is a gift that I have had to savour my whole life.
My second life was playing the part that society expected of me as a torch bearer for the white male patriarchy. And I played it beautifully. All the right schools, trophy wife, material success, enviable career, a chic and jet set life. Should have been enough. Right? But of course, as any transgender person knows, that period was also lined with darkness. In ways, it was a miracle that I slipped through. And now I stand poised to throw it away. Just how much I have to throw away is yet to be seen, but my soon-to-be-ex-wife is playing an important part in that.
I have characterised her role in at this watershed moment mostly through the lens of our divorce, her insults, and her pain at losing the privileged male me. But what I haven’t referred to much is the very positive consequences of her negativity and aggression. And that I can say is that as she seeks to crush me, my strength and resolve, and the pace at which I move to abandon my male self is simply accelerating. It is giving me both the confidence to step into the “she” in me and the conviction that in truth, I have nothing to lose. I said to myself, I don’t want to die in a man’s body. I will transform this shell of mine come what may. And now, I have the beautiful feeling that the space is open before me. And so, my wife has left me with a gift far greater than her nastiness.
What are the hormones doing?
I have written about how hormones are changing my mental and emotional landscape. This is a prize that is so great I can’t even begin to describe it, and know that it is a gift that will give to me for the rest of my life.
Another such gift is the changes to sensation, sensitivity to touch, and the aliveness of my skin. I have always been an intensely tactile person, lover of all things soft. This has ramped up unbelievably, and it has not only helped me to find joys in my changing body—I can’t stop caressing my skin—it has also taught me more about how to touch a woman. And that is a “skill” that every geisha needs.
I am also now a firm member of the Itty bitty little titty club. My breasts are perfect, taut little perky things, as yet unsullied by gravity, with rather present and extremely sensitive nipples. They are in a perennial state of arousal. So appetising are they that they have already attracted unwanted touch from an entitled middle-aged white “straight” white man. “Buddy, you are not straight anymore, you have shown your colours by touching this Queer.”
This welcome transformation, once feared, has now been joined by another change which is most definitely feared by the male of our species. I am now a card-carrying member of the itty bitty little ickie dickie (iblid) club. Once a proud supporter of a substantial endowment. No more. The little worm has gone to sleep forever…no Sleeping Beauty to be awakened from a slumber…no, he is being prepared to become a her…
I love the word “up-cycling”, a trans reference given to me by a most lovely transgender woman about what my iblid has in store…becoming a vagina.
What might it mean to be asexual.
If I am really asexual, then rather than having a vaginoplasty, I might spare myself the complications and choose to have a vulvoplasty instead. Much simpler. Must less complicated. But I lose two things. Openness and vulnerability. And the chance to get railed.
In conversation with a most divine and cherished Mistress, we both shared our love for cock, particularly erect cock. “Cock is beautiful,” she said with a flash.
“Yes, pity it has to be attached to a man,” I replied.
“I know. A woman has so much more to offer. So much nicer to look at, to be with.”
“Yup,” I agreed.
In other words, I fully intend to use my anatomy once I have it, but it will be with a woman strapped in and ready to rock. I can’t wait to feel it. I did some energy work the other day, however, that gave me a taste of what lies in store. But that full-body semi-orgasmic experience is another story…something to look forward to, and almost as elusive as the female orgasm itself.