My electrolysist really is a sadist, but are they all?

“Are you wearing push-up panties?” she asked, “or do your jeans have a lifting effect?”

“No, why?”

“Your ass is rounder, higher, firmer.  Did you do have work done?”

“No, of course not.  I just work out every day.  Ballet four nights a week.”

“Let me see.  ‘Gira’,” she said twirling her finger, meaning turn.  I did.

“Keep it up.”

“I will.”

“I sure hope that the most painful part of this transition is electrolysis,” I said to my torturess-in-chief as I climbed up onto the table at her clinic.

“Have you put on numbing cream?” she asked of the ineffectual cream that seems to provide no relief.

“Three of them.”

“Where?”

“Everywhere on the diagram,” I said holding up a picture on my phone of where hair had to be removed to prep for surgery.

“That’s everywhere,” she noted.  “You probably didn’t do it right,” she said pulling on my rubbery little nubbin with disdain, pulling it this way and that.

“I put it on, spread it around, and covered it with plastic wrap like you said, before driving here.”

“You didn’t put it on thick enough.”

“I’ll put more on.”

“I’ll do it,” she said slapping my hand away.

“Hand me my purse.”  She did.  I got out the cream.  She applied it, covered it in plastic and left me.

She often leaves me.  Leaves the room.  Or leaves the door open.  But her staff don’t like working on “men”.  “Don’t you want to close the door?” I ask.

“You’re a woman now.  Get used to it.”

Her beautiful fluffy German Shepherd likes to come in.  He can open the door by the handle.  He sort of shuffles in, that’s how big he is.  She groans.  “Oh Max, stop it.  Over there.  Go on.  Over there,” she says gruffly, and points to the ground.  The dog goes there and then watches me with alert eyes as she works on me.

“Ouch,” I say.

“You feel that?”

“Yes I feel that.”

“Good,” she says.  “If you didn’t, it might not be working.  Does it hurt?”

“Yes it hurts.”

“A lot?”

“I don’t know.  It hurts.”

“But you can take more.  Can’t you.  Go on, I’ll turn it up.  It’ll be good for you.”

“You’re not going to burn me this time, are you.”

“You’re such a woman.  It took you 16 days to write to me.  16 days.  And then you write this angry little text.  No ‘Happy Christmas’, no ‘how are you.’  Just like a woman.”

“You burned me,” I said.

“And you didn’t do what I told you to do,” and then she rattled off the names of creams.

“Your text back to me was the first time you wrote it all down,” I said.  “I can’t remember anything when I’m lying here and you’re hurting me.”

“Pay more attention then.”

“No laser today.”

“No, you’re skin hasn’t healed fully yet.”  Indeed, it has been a month and I still have some burn marks, but absolutely zero regrowth.  I can remember just how much it hurt, but knowing that the peri-anal area is now completely hair free and well on the way to healing, I think I could just about handle it again.  “We only get 30% efficacy with the needle.  But the laser cauterises, destroys the nutrient channel.  It works really well on trans people because your body is already trying to suppress the hair growth.  If you ever came off of hormones, you might get some regrowth.”

“I can’t come off, this is for life.  My body doesn’t have the ability to make its own anymore.  Hair is a disaster, because some of that could be inside the vagina.”

“We have to get it all.”

“I don’t know if we will make it if you have to stop a month before surgery.”

“The skin has to have time to heel.”

“You have to come every week.”

“I can do that.  I’m not missing my date.”

“You can come tomorrow.”

“I will.”

“Ouch,” I said, after three particularly painful shocks that made me look up.  “Why are you working over there, you put the numbing cream on the other side.

“I just wanted to see if you could really feel it.”

“Yes, I can, and it hurts like hell.”

“Just a few more, here, hold still.”

Her casual disregard for my male bits, what’s left of them is like disinterested boredom.  This was the first time that she didn’t ask me to hold it for her.  

“A man would get aroused,” she said.

“I’m not a man.”

“I can see that.  Anyway, this little thing would have never done anything for a woman.  Are you serious when you say that you used to be ‘that way’ with your wife.”

“It didn’t used to be that small,” I said.  She looked up at me over her reading glasses and raised her eyebrows before returning to her work.

“Ouch,” I said.  “You keep working where you didn’t put cream.”

“I put cream here.  Your just more sensitive here.  This is the female side of your body.”

“You’re kidding right?”

“No, not at all.  Feel this,” she said and shocked me three times in quick succession.

“Ouch, that hurts.”

“And this?” she said doing three quick shocks on the other side.

“Much less.”

“But we have to clear both,” she said, returning to the painful side. 

“Can we turn it down a little?”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“All right, let me put more spray.”  She waited patiently while I sprayed myself and then took the bottle from my hand.

“You have to do it right,” she said. I lay back.  “Open,” she commanded.  I opened my legs, flats of my feet together, my legs completely flat and wide open, a legacy of all of the stretching I am doing for ballet.

“I became a dominatrix the other day,” I told her, and shared my adventures at the BDSM club in Milan.

“Ooh that sounds like fun, I think I’d like that.”

“I’m sure you would.  You’re a sadist.  You’d have enjoyed hitting these men.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

“You can’t tell me you don’t enjoy hurting me.”

“Okay.  Yes, I probably do.”

“Ouch,” I said, “why do you keep going places where there is no cream.”

“I just noticed a stray hair there.  I want to get it.  Stay still.  Don’t move.”

“Ow.”

“I think you are becoming very sensitive, maybe its too much for you.”

“We have to finish.”

“Oh, I have all day.  I’ll put on more cream, give you a rest.  Anyway, the girls can come and take of your nails.  You look like a maid.  A washer woman.  I don’t know why you go around like that.”  She applied cream, covered me in plastic, placed a towel over me, opened the door, and said, “girls, the Princess awaits.  Come and do her nails.”

I didn’t choose the colour or the shape.  She did.  There was no discussion.  It turned out beautifully.  A very soft pink with just a hint of glitter in it, almost natural looking, but making my nails have a slight shimmer.  “They need practice,” she said as she clucked and fussed over the two of them were tending to my nails, guiding and teaching.  Beautician training.

“I don’t know why most girls won’t work on male bodies.  Where does somebody like you go?  You have a real need.  It’s not like I see it as a penis or a scrotum.  It just has hair and the hair needs to go.”

“It is hard to find someone,” and indeed, it is true.  Most hair removal places won’t take men, and certainly not for the intimate areas.

“There are a few places in cities like London and New York which specialise in trans people.

“But around here?”

“No, that’s why I drive an hour and put up with your cruelty.”

“You like it.”

“I don’t like pain.  I might be a slave, but mean is not my thing.”

“I’m so mean to my husband.  I treat him like a dog.  You.  Sit.  Over there.”

“Wow.”

“He loves it.”

“You are a dominatrix already.”

“I do like to cruel to him.  Mean.”

“That’s not me.  I need to please a woman.  To serve.  To take care of her.  To look after her.  If she gets angry with me, I feel it a thousand times more.  I’m like a baby.  I need her to nurture and care for me, and be gentle, even if she is in control, and we have a common goal of meeting her needs.  It is meeting her needs in the warm embrace of being coached, helped, cuddled, nurtured that becomes what fulfils me.  To do a good job of taking care of her.”

“I’d eat you alive.”

“I’d run away.”

“I had a client who was like you, only he liked pain.  He came here with the dominatrix and they did hundreds of hours of electrolysis and she would watch, and he would get hard.  He even came.”

“Ugh.”

“I know.  It was a bit strange.  I had to tell them to stop.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“I’m here to do a job.”

“I used to be afraid of becoming aroused when I went for waxing, because in those days I was still male.”

“Did you ever.”

“Once, sort of, but she left the room and gave me time to calm down.  It was never discussed.”

“No danger of that now, hey,” she said wiggling my bits around.

“Its funny, and so true, but when you say that, what is strange to me is how much more sensate I am down there.  I feel it much more intensely.  But physical stimulation doesn’t get me off anymore.  It’s my mind and a connection with the other person.”  She just looked at me and shook her head.

We talked about all kinds of things that day, arguing about everything.  The only topic that we got to that I refused was pedophilia—there had been an arrest recently in Italy, but I didn’t want to hear about it.  I asked her to stop it immediately.  Just talking about it other than to say it is the worst crime is too much.  I can’t handle topics that involve the theft of innocence, lifetime emotional scarring, and just how unspeakably evil someone has to be to violate consent, and especially to do so when the victim can’t even know what consent is.  She understood that this was off limits for me, and dropped it.

After, she ordered a pizza and we had a break.  I said I didn’t want any.  She made me eat a few slices.

“Your breasts look small today,” she said.

“It’s just a tighter bra.”

“No, they’re smaller.”

“We need to put more fat on you,” she said pinching my thigh, “but I like your curves.”

Two days of this, and I am mostly clear down there for a week or so.  I have a trans cousin and our families have been estranged, but she suddenly reached out to me, finding my email to tell her that I was coming out too, from some time last year, and wanting to connect.  And then I got a flurry of joyful messages from her, and that’s been great to find I have a sister in the family who really understands what this is like.  She shared that she had done 200 hours of electrolysis.  Holy shit.  Maybe I’ve done 30 plus 5 rounds of laser.  I have a long way to go.  Thank goodness I’ve never been hairy.  But I know my surgeon has zero tolerance for hair down there.  Time to double down.

I have done a few rounds of complete clearing in other cities, and I mention this because I was on a chat thread in the trans community recently and there was a discussion of a particularly sadistic electrolysist.  And I recognised who it was.  Not the one described here, but another I have seen.  And then there was a description of another, and I am beginning to wonder whether the job attracts people who like to cause pain.

At the other clinic I went to, where I sat for two hours straight and had all of it removed, it took her about two minutes to place me.

“I like your tattoo,” she said, surveying my naked body, and my hands delicately covering my privates.  She looked at them and smiled, “there’s no modesty here my dear,” I removed my hands.  “Good,” she said.

“Thank you,” I said in reference to the tattoo.

“I like this too,” she said of the piercing in my navel.  It is now no longer ‘bitch’ but one with rose-coloured diamond encrusted handcuffs.

“I used to have my wedding ring there, but when I came out and my wife decided to leave me, I felt this was better.”

“You’re a bottom, aren’t you?”  I nodded yes.  “I can tell,” she said, “I can feel it in your energy.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.  You’re a slave, aren’t you?”

“Yes, how did you know?”

“I’m a switch.  I’m in the community.  You should come some time.”

“Maybe I should,” I said.

“I like cock,” she said, “really big cock.  Do you?”

“No miss, not at all.  Men are to be beaten.  I like women.  Only women.  I may be a switch too, but I’ve never done that, but I think that if I were to dominate a woman, it would be as an energetic slave.”

She worked fast, and incredibly focussed.  

“Are you owned?”

“I don’t know.  Sort of.  I have someone I see from time to time, just not much recently.  Too much going on.  But I’m very loyal that way.  I would only ever see someone else with her blessing.”

“It’s a nice feeling isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.”

“I know your doctor,” she said.  “When she says no hair, she really means it.  She’s not like the others.  She will cancel on you if you have anything going on down there.”

“Oh no.”

“You can do it.  You just have to stay on it, every week until right before surgery so it has time to heel.  You don’t have much left.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“I am.  And then you can start on your face.”

“Oh joy.”

“Well, you’re lucky.  You don’t have much beard.  But you’re also unlucky, because your fair-haired, so laser won’t work.  You’ll have to do it one hair at a time.”

Do all of you have such fresh and free and totally normal conversations?  I can’t help but think that if I were still a guy, that this sort of thing wouldn’t be happening.  Do you ever wake up and wonder where you are?  Or walk a street you have walked a hundred times before and find something totally new?

Even food tastes different.  Discipline and focus.  Joy.  How I process anything.  How I feel about anything.  The actions I take.  Everything is just seen and felt and done from a different perspective.  It all feels fresh.