What’s up in this trans girl’s life?

I sure do love life these days.  Somehow the more f’ed up things are, the happier I become.  I have no money, no job, no prospects…and I’m not really looking.  I am, just not for the same things.  

I am in this weird twilight zone of having to ask my wife for money.  It should be humiliating.  Asking for it is like asking to brush the teeth of a bear with a toothache.  And don’t ask how we got to this place.  I got to listen to a really cogent explanation of it the other day.  My mother would roll over in her grave.  My friends scratch their heads, but now they know me better.  They know what happens to submissive men who give everything to their wives.  Oh well.

I couldn’t have stayed married to her any other way I think.

What I do have is a pussy in waiting.  And that has become the number thing for me.  Surgery is just a few months away.  I can’t wait.  I have one doctor now who is in the right place, right time, with the right reputation and skill levels, and she makes me feel really good about her competence.  I haven’t been able to find anything bad about her, even in the toxic edges of the internet.  She has a superb track record.  There are other surgeons I am talking to still, stalking horses, who would also be happy choices, but they have the disadvantage of not being soon in the dates that are available.  And at this point in my life, and the possible change of administration, there is no way that I will wait for my kitty or wait to change my gender markers.

I have signed the papers.  My doctors have written letters to support me.  It was funny.  After I had everything pulled together, I carried it all around in my handbag for a few days.  It felt momentous to post off my info.  Something worth celebrating.  There were lines that I really loved in the notarised affidavits which had to accompany my application and thank goodness I was born in a US state which allows for a relatively easy change—UK, please take note.

I am also on a path to citizenship in Italy.  And you know what?  The idea that I will naturalise in Italy as a woman, never having been a man, is so unbelievably delicious to me I can wait and wait for that because the waiting is going to taste good.  Sometimes when you want things really badly but you know they are going to happen, you have this positive version of a slow-moving train wreck, with ecstasy at the end of the rainbow.  That’s kind of how I feel.

The sentences I loved in my application to change my gender markers on my birth certificate was the doctor “has made certain irreversible changes”…and on my own, the reference to it being a one-way street without a court order “I understand that my gender markers can only be changed once.”  Oh boy.

I’ve been doing a lot of group therapy lately.  It feels so last millennium.  Almost like something you might have seen in a 1970’s movie.  There’s lots of hugging, lot’s of tea and tissues, painful sharing, tons of crying, more hugging.  I’ve been on a retreat lately with 20 women and one man—poor thing.  My kids said, ‘he’s the lucky one’, but I’m not so sure, he looks kinda tired.

This woman who I rather like, in fact I rather like almost all of them, who was next to me, gendered me male, and for some reason, I don’t feel like that anymore.  I guess there reaches a point in transition where you have crossed some new line, and look in the mirror and see something different.  Changing my gender markers was a big one.

Another big one is that tucking has become second nature.  Not only that, but whatever I had almost never leaves a bulge of any kind.  I hope this isn’t too much information, but my balls have practically shrunk to the size of peas.  And my you know what is generally half the size it used to be.  What’s weird, however, is that I have started getting hard again—like really hard, but its smaller, much smaller—maybe 30-40% thinner and at least an inch or more shorter.  I can’t think it’s kinda cute, but maybe it is.

What is weird too, is that for someone who could never masturbate as a guy, I don’t have that problem anymore.  If its hard, I know how unusual that is, so I stop everything and take care of it.  The head of my penis has become so insanely sensitive…my brain is telling my body that it is a clitoris, and nerve is actually happening and will continue to happen.  In a way, wearing boy underwear and not tucking would be too much sensation.

So when I strip down to my short shorts or whatever I am wearing, there is not much there anymore to tell someone that I am/was ever male.  I’ve been exercising less, but my efforts have become more purposeful, and I feel its lack so strongly that I realise I have to live somewhere warm that is exercise obsessed.  It makes life easier, and I love having so much revolve around taking care of my body.

Well, after I had a big share with my group about being trans and what that’s like, the one man in the group made his sharing about me.  And I know he meant well.  And when men struggle to understand us, or a woman for that matter, it seems like they want a big fat pat on the back for making the effort.  And now he’s all awkward with me.  Hugging and kissing me, and I’m thinking, ‘this has nothing to do with me, but has everything to do with you being able to tell yourself that you’re tolerant.’

During his share, he persistently gendered me he/him.  And each one was like a scratch on a chalk board.  And I’m trying to figure out which part of me saying “I am not a man” did he not understand.  And I know he means well, but wtf?

What else?  Well, one of the things that I have always loved most about exercise is the chance to wear hot exercise gear.  I love lycra, love leggings, love sports bras, love short shorts.  It was exercise that were my first steps coming out.  Running in particular.  And it also helped me feel better about my body when I needed it most.  I have too many yoga clothes, too many hot little outfits.  I have no ballet clothes, so I wear leggings to dance class.  I don’t own men’s clothes anymore except for a few which I keep in reserve for when I am decisively female (I tried on a men’s suit the other day that looked so hot now that I have curves. It was wild).  So I go to ballet in women’s workout gear.

Ballet is one of the few places where people still gender me male.  I am okay with that because it is a hyper-feminine environment, and relatively speaking, exercise gear is unisex.  Ish.  Of course, I would like to wear something more feminine, but I don’t ready feel ready.  I have baggage about a guy in a tutu or wearing a spaghetti strap top, but I am sure it will come.  My very first girl’s clothes in life were these: leotard, wispy black tie at the waist dance skirt, tights.  I’d probably start shaking if I felt comfortable in those.  I believe that will come after surgery.

Little by little, though, many of them are figuring it out. Painted nails are one thing, but boobs are another league of commitment!

All I can think about is lying on the beach in a bikini with no more bits between my legs to interfere with how I feel about myself.

I’ve also come to terms with how I feel about being connected to an FSSW, wanting to have lots of sex even though the equipment isn’t right yet. And dating. I think I will finally get onto an app. One of my favourite dominatrix teachers offers this as a service. I look forward to that.  I love being submissive.  It seems that nobody believes me.  Or even that I’m a doormat.  Stealth submission.

And yet, the butterflies I feel when she so much as taps the seat next to her.  The more gentle the signalling, the more subtle, the more powerful they feel.  The unspoken electricity of dominance and submission is unreal.

What else, my desire to be whipped grows by the day.  My love of women grows ever stronger.  I find that I am attracted to so many different body types than before, seeing what’s inside the person so much more clearly.  I think that is oestrogen.  It has made me feel and be attracted in ways that I always felt women were better at than men: to love how someone makes you feel more than what they look like, to love them for they are as people.  There is something divinely merciful about women, which comes from being the givers of life.  I feel this inside of me even though I have no uterus, never will.  Our sex hormones are the master controllers of everything.  My body was so primed for this.  My mind is drinking it up like a desert in full bloom.

Today, I dance.  Tomorrow I fly.