65 days to v-day…this trans girl’s magical countdown

I took one of my children to the airport this morning at the crack of dawn.  Their parting words were, “the next time I see you you’re going to have a pussy.”  I’m glad we can have such open conversations.

Most days it doesn’t seem real.  Only 65 days to go?  Wow.  I’ve been waiting for two years.  Literally.  But also a lifetime.

My child said, “just imagine all the beautiful things you will be able to do after.  Even 6 months after, a year, however long.”  How wise.  I do think about those things.  More than anything?  I think about rocking a bikini and being in my body in a way that I have never been able to before.

I think of my dearest and most cherished friend who is going to fly half-way around the world to stay with me while I am in hospital, to advocate for me, and to make sure I get out of there okay and installed at home. Apparently waiting in hospital, drugged out, unable to really move much, with intense gas from the abdominal surgery, is peak hell.

I look pretty when I suffer.  I look vulnerable.  Submissive.  I become quiet.  For those who know me, that’s a treat (the quiet part).  I hope she will read to me.  I will ask her.  She has a beautiful voice, strong, and there is nothing that will heal me more than to fall asleep inside the womb of her ferocious dragon-woman, mama energy.

She isn’t a natural nurturer.  A natural carer.  But to me, she has been and continues to be.  She also knows me.  She knows of my play games, my submissiveness, that I am a slave.  And while she is not romantic with me, she does use that part of me to help me be a better me…and that is what a great friend does.

My children will be there too.  A kind of mini family reunion.  So many visitors.  Such a treat to be celebrated in rebirth.

In the meantime, one of my siblings called me way too late last night because they had some time to kill.  This is the sibling that has little respect for boundaries.

“So, I heard through the grapevine that you are having some surgery done.”  Never mind that we have discussed this before.  “Are you sure?” Helpful question.  “Have you researched your surgeon?” No, I just threw a dart at listings.  “What would mom think?”  How the f* would I know?!  “How did you become legally female?”  I made an oath.  “Have you really had irreversible changes?  Like what?”  I have breasts.  I’m chemically castrated.  My nuts are the size of peas, my dick is half the size it was two years ago.  It doesn’t work anymore.  “What if you just stopped hormones?”  For one, why would I?  For two, no, after about 6 months, there’s no turning back.

There was one piece of advice that they gave which was helpful.  My surgeon doesn’t do something that I would like them to do because they have never done it before.  My surgeon is in the same building as another surgeon who is one of the pioneers of what I want done, but I don’t want this other surgeon, just the expertise.  

“How do you get competitors to work together?” I asked.

“You pay them to consult on the operation,” they said.  Clever idea.  I will have to ask them both.

My surgeon realises that I am for real now.  I think that a lot of people get cold feet and pull out or postpone.  I think that, but I am wrong.  It is very rare that people get cold feet.  Scared, yes.  But stop, almost never.  Each time they write to me as if to say, you still have an out, and I write back with further confirmation, they up the ante.

This time, it was to ask for the names and phone numbers of all the people that will be in more support network, specifically those who are going to care for me 24/7 for that first month.  They want to talk to them privately and prepare them mentally for what it will be like.  I can sort of imagine what they might be saying.

“She’s going to be moody.  She will be in pain from the gas, probably constipated, but also possibly unable to control her bowels.  She will almost certainly not be able to pee correctly, so is liable to pay all over herself.  She may wet or mess herself.  Just make sure she sleeps a lot, gets up to walk at least three times a day, and that she doesn’t carry anything.  She will be bleeding.  This is what it might look like.  This is when you should call us.  She might go into shock.  Here are the signs to recognise.”

Sounds pretty exciting.

I went out on a date yesterday with a woman who I met through group therapy.  She is a sex addict.  I told her about my adventures in Shibari.  It lit her up.

“You’ll have to tie me up then.”

“I’d like that,” I said.

“Is it erotic?”

“It can be.”

She then proceeded to show me pictures of herself doing her secret passion, burlesque dancing.  She was wearing rather frumpy clothes with me, but seeing her incredible body made me realise that she was wearing what she was wearing to hide the dynamite.

“I’ve always wanted to learn burlesque.”

“You should.”

“I want to learn how to move my body in a sexy, feminine way.”

“I’m taking a class next weekend on how to twirl tassels on my breasts.”

“Mine are still a bit small for that.”  She reached across the table and gave one a squeeeze.  Amazingly and almost unconsciously I arched my back and stuck my boobs for her.

“Their plenty big.  They’re perfect.”

“Thank you,” I gushed.

“There’s a burlesque school right next to your house.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.  That building on the corner of the park?  I walk by there almost every day.  The joy I’ve been missing.”

“You should go.”

“I will.”

As I approach the certainty of what’s coming, I almost can’t see that I still have male bits when I look in the mirror.  Its almost as if they have ceased to exist.  The vision I have of myself is so clearly curvy and lithe, but also with nothing down there.  I see myself wearing a long silk robe and dropping it from my shoulders and revealing beautiful lingerie as I turn and face the lights and the crowd that has gathered.  They have come to see me whipped by the woman who whipped me the other day.  

Only this, time, I will truly be hers.  And mine.  Not many tomorrows left until such joy shall come to pass.