Thank goodness I’m still a pervert

Castration fantasies within the context of being a trans woman.

Trigger warning: this post deals with issues of sexual fantasy and castration.  It also deals with other aspects of sexuality.

‘Pervert’ is a rather plump and luscious word.  I love it.  But it’s true, it has also has a negative context to it, and that part I don’t love.  The common interpretation of that last sentence might be one of degrees…as in ‘one person’s perversion is another person’s turn-off’.  While that statement might be true, it isn’t how it was intended.  What was meant was the idea that some practices are simply unacceptable in any context.  Those are ones that deal with non-consent.  You can’t have consent with animals.  You can’t have consent with people who are mentally impaired, whether that is from drugs or similar, or other reasons.  You cannot have consent with minors.  There are people out there who cross those lines, and some in society might label them perverts.  I don’t.  I call them sick.  By pervert, I mean safe, sane and consensual—and above all, playful and adult.

There is a tendency to regard those ‘perversions’ of men as ‘dirtier’ than those of women.  There is something outrageous about the cock.  About cum.  Sperm.  Something positively indecent about it.  Who knows why?  My guess is that it is out in the open.  A woman’s body may have just as much going on with it, but it is hidden away, and all that might come out is a little squeak or gasp of pleasure.

Perhaps also because we are conditioned to believe that women are less prurient than men.  Now that we are learning the truth, that women fantasize even more than men do, and that their fantasies are just as saucy as male ones…I think we can shake loose the social stigma of the horny, perverted woman.  I certainly hope so.  After all, they are increasingly my friends.  And not to say that the vanilla ones are falling away, but I can’t stand being judged anymore.

I was out with a friend the other day who brought her daughter along.  Her daughter is 21.  They asked what I had been up to.  I told the truth.

“Well, last night I went to a shibari event at the Japanese Cultural Centre.”

“What’s shibari?” the daughter asked.

“Japanese rope bondage,” I replied, “it’s very aesthetic.  An art form.  I got to tie someone up.”

Well, let me tell you, I got an earful the next day from my friend.  And her daughter decided not to show up, or she decided that she wanted to give me an earful in private.  I would say that she is 21.  I would say that it is ridiculous for such an innocuous conversation to be so triggering.  But this same person hates that I love to see a dominatrix every now and again to scratch itches that nothing else can scratch.

But I have gotten tired of hiding.  And I won’t do it for anybody anymore.  Not even a best friend.

Separately, I have been puzzled and alarmed by my own libido and changing sexuality.  My endocrinologist mused at the start of my official hormone journey, that my sexual orientation might change, and that I might end up liking men.  I’ll tell you what.  I like men less.  But I do think about having a big, strong hunk of a man between my legs giving me a good seeing to at some point in the future…but this is also the stuff of fantasy.  Because I also think of the reality of it and don’t want it.  In the end, it will be a woman to deflower me.

I was out on a date recently and both she and I agreed that the only thing to do with men was to beat them.  Men should be allowed in on the premise that they will kneel and get spanked.  I can get my head around this idea.

My ability to get off has returned in the last months.  Strangely, what appears to be the moment of my “period” as measured by body-sensing apps and symptoms (obviously as a trans woman I don’t have a uterus, so don’t bleed, etc)—things like insomnia, energy levels, libido are all cycling with consistency.  I had always thought that the “bleed” coincided with a down time, not a horny time, but not for me.  Neither was it for one of my ex-GF’s, who just wanted to rut during the bleed.  I will say that she was one of the best ever for me, one of only two who could fxxk my brains out and not make me notice that I had a cxxk, that I was the man.

So, I’ve been getting “erections” again, and they are accompanied by a fierce sexual need, but it feels different in so many ways.  It is whole body, for one.  If I surrender to the feeling and masturbate, it is far more of a mental process than it used to be…That my mind has to be engaged in fantasy in ways that would have been sustained by pure physical sensation or just a single, kinky idea.  Now, there has to be richiness, narrative.

And when I cum, I fire blanks.  Nothing comes out.  At all.  The really great part of that is that ‘I can keep going or just do it again, fire blanks again, and then return once more.  And then what?  Sooner or later there is evidence of my desire, but very little.  It’s oh so very chaste.

Well, I woke up the other night with deep needs.  They manifested themselves in my breasts, erect nipples hard and insistent like a pebble in each shoe.  And I was hard.  What are the chances?  Before my rational mind could take over and say, ‘is this normal for my period?’ I sank down into it and wanted it to bear fruit.  

What happened next is the subject of this post.  Earlier that same evening, before going to bed, I had received a phone call from the psychologist who works for one of the surgeon’s who I want to do the operation.  THE surgeon I want most.  And a sensible person would say, ‘just wait for them’.  But the waiting is so long.  Years.  I can’t wait that long.  I waited already 18 months just to talk to her, and that already involved them pulling me forward by almost a year.  So, now I have my consult, I am getting my date.

But during my consult we discovered two things: 1. By their standards I still have hair down there, and it has to go forever, because part of my scrotal skin will be inside of me, and the rest will make labia, and my penile skin will make labia…so no hair.  None.  Back to the sadist!  2. I am speaking to multiple surgeons because I don’t want to wait…and they didn’t like that.  I thought that it might encourage them to give me an earlier date, as I said that I wanted to move ahead and their wait time was just too long.

The psychologist was so chirpy on the phone, but I don’t know if I have ever in my life felt as dominated as I did by the woman on the line.  She made me beg.  And I did beg.  I told her that the surgeon she works for is the only one.  That I want it so badly, want this doctor so badly, and I grovelled for her.  And she said, ‘good’, and all she needed to add ‘good girl’ and I would have been in sub-space…but in a way I already was.

When I woke up in the middle of the night, this conversation had become erotic, and the doctor had become an object of fantasy, as the person who will fulfil a life-long dream and castrate me.  And in my fantasy mind, I was begging her for it, and feeling so outrageously submissive I felt as if I could turn my entire body inside out.

Well, this thought pushed me over the edge, and I came, and came, and was in total ecstatic bliss.

But over the following days my rational mind picked this back up.  For one, it proves my theory about how the erotic is a bridge to our deepest desires, to our shadow side.  The psychologist had humiliated me by making me beg, and my way of processing that was to turn it into sexual fantasy.

I also can’t help but think about how ‘effed’ up the world is that the waiting lists for trans surgery, or even just basic support, can be many years long, when they are even accessible.  There are clearly not enough doctors doing this, and plenty that are should not be in practice, such is the bad work they do.  I will post at some point of my experiences on the UK NHS, which is one of many British institutions that seem to have a process or system-wide bias against helping trans people.  I am not saying this is individual, the individuals seem to be universally supportive, more it is as if the system has a brain, and the brain has decided to hate us and excluse us.  As an example, one of my dearest trans friends transitioned at the age of 16, became legally female at the age of 18, but is almost 30 and for the first time a few months ago was offered a meeting with a doctor to discuss surgery.

Thank goodness for me that I have access to other countries, and to the money that it takes to do this privately.  But most do not.  Do you know what?  Only 18% of trans women actually have the surgery.  The haters and gatekeepers amongst society will say they are fakes.  And while there is a certain % who are non-binary, or don’t feel the need to go that far, most don’t do it because they can’t afford it.  

I don’t mean to overdramatize things, but surely the stats speak for themselves—being stuck in the “wrong” body is a mental illness according to society.  If we accept that as true, why don’t we accept the corollary?  That we should provide these people access to the care they need to fix this.  For many that is hormones, for even more that is also inclusive of surgery.

My sexual fantasy served many purposes.  First, it reminded me that I am still kinky.  Second, it reminded me of the power of the erotic to move mountains psychically.  And third, it reminded me that something is seriously wrong when a surgeon can play so hard to get that it feels okay for them to make me beg.

It reminds me of a little anecdote.  A porn star I am loosely connected to said in an interview many years ago how hot it was to see her (male) partner in panties and hose.  She said she would like to castrate him and wear his balls as earrings.  Pretty hot.  The interviewer was a super-well-known NY dominatrix who said her greatest fantasy was to castrate a man, but that she would wait until she was ready to retire as she was afraid of the legal consequences.  Well, that made me want to reach out to her…I did want to anyway because of her well-known skills with the whip.  

So, I can’t help but think what a shame it is that when I go under for my operation, there can’t be a dominatrix near to hand who has the pleasure to cut them off…I was there for the birth of my children.  What’s the difference?

A good castration is a shame to waste.