My last visit to the sado-electrolysist and a tearful farewell

I’m running out of time to make sure I have no hair down there.  Can you imagine waiting for surgery for two years and then missing your slot because the hair removal wasn’t complete?  This is known as the greatest hell in the transgender journey, more painful than the sex reassignment surgery itself.  It is genital electrolysis.

Sadly, the hair-by-hair removal process remains the only true, permanent way to remove hair.  Especially for the trans woman, where hormone therapy is suppressing body hair growth so much that when our doses change later in life, some of that pesky male hair can come back.

And for those of you who aren’t aware of the operation itself, at least the most common one, it involves using the skin of the scrotum and penile shaft to create the labia and the entrance to the vagina, and in some cases, even some or all of the vaginal canal.  The type of operation I am doing is different in that it uses abdominal wall lining, so the risk of hair in the vaginal canal itself is virtually eliminated.  But I can assure you that the risk of infections, hair balls and other such unpleasantries is part of what allows any of us to grin and bear it as we are zapped for ours on end.

My trans “sister”, a blood relation, told me that she had taken 200 hours at $90 per hour back in the 1990’s.  Ouch.  I am lucky in that I have never had much hair.  Just one more way.

For those of you who have been following my goings on, you will know that my buttocks and back are covered with the stripes left by a deft single-tail whip mistress.  They are, and will be for some time, quite visible.  While I considered the consequences of the electro-sadist seeing these markings, she already knows me well enough, and my predilections, to not be bothered by them.

“What’s this?” she asked, surveying the dominatrix’s handiwork.

“I met a beautiful woman.”  She smiled, looked down, shook her head.  For once, at a loss for words.

“I don’t even know where to start.”

“That’s okay.”

“I thought you didn’t like pain?”

“I don’t.  Not at all.  You see me here and you can tell I don’t like this.  That I can’t take it.”

“Oh yes you can.  And you do.  You put up with more than most can even think of.”

“It doesn’t feel that way.”

“After a while, the body can’t take it anymore.  Everything starts to hurt more.  It’s your body telling you to get away.”

“She told me after she had done this to me,” I said caressing my ass, “that she could see I was able to go away, inside myself while she did it.”

“Try that now.  Shall we?”  And thus, she began.

I was fine for an hour, and then it suddenly became too much.  I asked for a break.  She sent the ladies in to do my nails while I waited for some numbing cream to take effect.  I felt really beautiful lying there on the table while they did my nails.  For some reason a heavy dose of pain makes me feel so gorgeous.  Almost as if it changes my energy, makes me glow, even changes my face, the lines all go, and there is a depth in my eyes that isn’t always there.  Their fussing over me gave me an out of body experience.

“You’re losing weight,” she said when the girls had done.  She was appraising my belly.

“I’m not.  I’m the heaviest I’ve ever been.”

“It’s because you don’t eat properly.”

“I do.  I’m a nutritionist.  I take care of my body.”

“You don’t eat breakfast.  What kind of care is that?”

“Intermittent fasting.”

“No,” she said, “you eat breakfast, a big healthy one, and then eat less and less during the day.  One slice of bread, pasta, or rice per day only.  Mostly vegetables.  Some fruit.  Your body weight in daily grams of protein.”

“You sound like my personal trainer.”

“And you don’t listen to her either.”

“How do you know she’s a her?”

“Because I know you.”

“What?”

“Do you know any men at all.  Do you even talk to men?  Can you even see them?”

“I do have male people in my family.”

“Doesn’t count.”

“I have some male friends.”

“New ones?”

“Okay, stop.  You win.”

“Would you like a coffee?”

“Yes please.”

“You like it dark, no sugar, right?”

“Yes please.”  She sailed out of the room calling out my order and leaving me naked and exposed.  She saw me trying to cover myself with a towel as she came back in.

“Get used to it,” she said, “its only ever women here.”

She was carrying a pizza box.  “Have a piece before your coffee,” she said.  “Which one?”  I indicated the plainest of the plain.  She handed it to me on a napkin and left the room again.  She returned a minute later with my coffee on a tray.

“Did I tell you that I am legally female now?”

“No, you didn’t, but what difference does it make?”

“It feels wonderful.”

“Are you going to change your name?”

“Yes.”

“But your name now is not male…It isn’t female either, but it could be either.  I like it.”

“No, my current name is going to be a ‘pen name’ for my professional life.”

“What’s your new name?”

“I am thinking of X”

“X?”

“Yes.”

“Spelled with an ‘I’?”

“Yes.”

“That’s the ugliest name I have ever heard.”

“I beg your pardon.  I love it.  It’s a family name.”

“It’s still awful.”

“My children helped me pick it.”

“Did they?  That’s sweet.  Send them to me, I’ll set them straight.”

“Why don’t you like it?”

“Who’s ever heard of someone named X?”

“I don’t want a common name.”

“It’s too long.  You need a short name.  One syllable, like Eve.”

“I like that name.  Eva was on the list.  So was Evelyn, Eleanor, Elizabeth.”  She then rattled off a range of unrepeatably hideous names.

“Those names are even worse,” I said.

“What about Y?” she asked.

“It’s funny you say that.  That’s one of the final three.  But it doesn’t fit so well with the second names.”

“What, you’re changing more than your first name?”

“Yes, my whole name.  All of it.”

“My boy name is gone.  He is dead.  And I have a chance to think about the woman that is emerging, who I want her to be, what she’s like.  I have chosen names from my ancestors, all women who I am directly descended from, but who have interesting stories.  I am picking up the names of my matriarchal lineage.”

“What are they?” I told her.  She looked at me over her glasses, pausing for a second from her torture of my nether regions.

“No comment.”

“What?”

“Each one is worse than the others.”

She gave a few more names, each one the name of someone close to me but which has been rejected for this very reason.  Some great names have been taken.

And then we got to a point where I just couldn’t take the pain anymore.  Each shock went all through my legs causing my entire lower body to spasm.

“You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

“Damn.  I wanted to finish today.”

“Your body can’t take anymore.”

“We’re almost done.”

“Nope.  We are done.”

The truth is that I have almost no hair at all down there anymore.  I’ve never really liked having pubic hair even if it was a nice colour.  But she has permanently removed nearly all of it.  There are diagrams we are supposed to follow given by the hospital.  All of that has been taken care of to 95%, which is the requirement.  But she has cleared the zone, as she likes me to be.  When you are a slave, there are so many ways to engage with others!

But now she wants me to have a ‘landing strip’, because ‘it’s more feminine’.  Landing strip it is.

As the topcoat on my nails dried, she came and visited where they had installed me on a chair in the back. 

“You look like a teacher,” she said, “so elegant”.

“Una professoressa,” I replied.

“Yes, a professor.  You’re going to make a beautiful woman.”

We smiled, hugged, and said goodbye.