Running across mountains; musings on life from a run up and down San Francisco

Usually I don’t start crying on a run until I have put a bit of distance behind me. There is something about the faster heart, the cleaner feeling of my body, this idea of release…but this time I was tearing up and sobbing within a hundred yards of my starting point, and again at the half-way mark. Usually once is also enough. What’s there?

59 days to go until my date with a vj…I’ve come stateside to be closer to where it will take place and am taking advantage of the time in the lovely state of California to explore.  Current locale: San Francisco.

I’ve been here once before for a business meeting.  You know what that is like: fly in, taxi to a hotel at night, early morning into a meeting, conference rooms all day, sandwiches for lunch, and then fly out.  The only wrinkle was that I was invited to dinner with the people I was meeting, so stayed a second night and flew out first thing the next morning.  Other than the show-off restaurant they took me to, I can’t say I saw anything of the city.

I got here a few days ago and will be on my way again soon enough.  I love meeting people though, and have found people to be very friendly and very trans aware.  People don’t misgender me much here, and if they do, they are more than happy to adapt the pronouns I give.

I had a semi-naked clothing experience with a very dommely woman selling very avant-garde fashion.  I get cold easily so she helpfully put a space heater in the dressing room.  She was very bossy.  She had me try on one slinky thing after the next.  Her reactions were very affirming.  I love a great sales woman!

The clincher?  A “bondage” dress replete with leather straps and buckles at the bodice, at the shoulders.  All black, with black patent leather straps, and shiny silver buckles.  It had straps hanging off, which I hadn’t really taken in.

“What are these?” I asked.

“Oh, these?” she said reaching behind me and undoing them.  “They’re cuffs,” she said and proceeded to cuff one hand after the other to these straps that were attached to the dress.

“Oh no,” I said, “that’s advertising,” I said.

“I think we’re going to be great friends,” she said once I was locked in.

“D’you think?” I asked.

“I do.  I know.”

“Good,” I said, “then I don’t need to worry.”

“No you don’t.”

I ended up buying some amazing things.  As I bounced down the street after in search of sushi a young woman in a group of three women stopped, stared at me, put her hand on my arm, and I turned to look at her as she turned to look at me, “oh my fucking God!” she said, “you are so fucking beautiful, so fucking beautiful.”

“Oh Miss!” I said, “thank you so much.”  How could I not fall in love with this city?!

Well, it rains a lot it seems.  But the weather here is much nicer than in Italy at this time of year, at least in terms of temperature.  My packing was not up to the particular vagaries of San Francisco weather, however, and I’ve been cold since I’ve gotten here.  My packing selection was based on my evolving understanding of the needs of a post-op trans woman.  Since my operation is in the Spring, the weather will be warmer.

What else?  I’ve been told that I won’t want to wear underwear at all for about 6 weeks, though when I am out and about I am likely to have to wear “protection”.  Any woman will know what I mean.  I still can’t get over that my first job was marketing feminine hygiene products.  Way back then I had no idea that I would need them.

When I read of the experiences of my trans sisters and learn just how many I am likely to go through over those first two months, including with bed pads of various kinds, lube, and just how freaking expensive this stuff is, kind of blows my mind.  I will be writing about those experiences in detail, so brace yourselves.

I’ve been wearing a bra that I bought maybe 20 years ago.  I bought very few bras and I never actually wore them…I just had this imagined future that one day I would need them.  Bras used to look stupid on me.  They don’t anymore.  They look hot.  Boobs make a big difference.

What else?  All these skirts I bought, especially because I like pencil skirts (the ones that are figure hugging), barely fit over my ass now.  But skirts that I might not have been able to close at the waist are closing with ease as my male body fat disappears and is gradually replaced with lady fat elsewhere on my body.

I made peace with my bestie.  No thanks to me.  She’s so much more grown up about emotions and clearing the air than I am.  It is one of my favourite things about her, always has been, even though it has always made me uncomfortable.  I know that it is good for me, so I listen to her and hear her even when it hurts.  I told her that I felt kink-shamed, and she and I talked about our respective histories of sex abuse, and how that has meant that this is triggering for us in different ways.  She was very apologetic and also very understanding of how topsy-turvy my life is now, how that must be true for any trans woman.

The two people in my circle of family and friends who have had the hardest time dealing with my transition are both women.  It has been a learning experience for me as I encounter women who seem to resent trans women.  I think that there must be something of how we arrive on the scene and demand all the good parts but haven’t lived through all the pain.  A life of being treated as second-class citizens.  Of being objectified.  Of suffering through menstruation.  Of the impossible pressure on women.  This is also some of what sits behind my run-ins with my bestie.  And I understand and sympathise.

What’s happening?  They are beginning to understand that being a trans woman is not something that is so easy.  As they have understood the physical change that is coming to me through the operation, but also the intensely painful prep work, they have understood that I suffer too, just differently.  They have also begun to understand dysphoria as I have been able to open up to them.  All three of them have become vital parts of my support network, and my relationships with all three are deeper as a result.  Two will be present for the brutal period just after I come out of the hospital.  My surgeon takes their roles so seriously that they are each being spoken to about what they will face, what I will face.

Little by little, it all becomes more real.  And my children are “jealous”—they want the hospital to speak to them too, to be ready to help.  I said I wouldn’t put them through it.  The things that I will face over those first few weeks of pain, discharge, dilation and bleeding, which I am told will take at least 8 hours each day to start with (not in one block, so, punctuated with eating and sleeping).

“What do you think I will have to do?” one asked.

“I think mainly be there in case I pass out or collapse.”

“I can do that.”

“Maybe they want you there to just be there, as I think there are possibly some wild emotions.”

“I’ll hold your hand,” came the teasing reply.

“I’d love it if you’d read to me,”

“Really?  I’d love that.  We have to choose some good books.”

“I’d love you to just read something that you love.  You choose.”

“I will.  Fun.”

I did get an iPad, but just setting it up and looking at what was on Netflix and HBO I realised there was nothing I wanted to watch.

I am now scheduled with three surgeons: 1. My first choice has given me a date but only in 2025, so she is out unless something changes there; 2. A surgeon who makes the most beautiful vaginas on the planet but is less experienced with the plumbing aspects and has given me a date one month after the date of the surgeon I am going with; 3. A surgeon who I may use for other work, but who has not yet given me a date (though is likely to give me a date in September…but only after I have had my operation); 4. The surgeon I am going with, who is one of the most experienced in the particular version of the operation I am doing, who has one of the lowest “fail” rates around, and has what appear to be the very best results in terms of sexual function post-op, but whose aesthetics don’t come close to surgeons 1, 2, or 3.  

I don’t want the date to slip now, and I will see if there is a way to get my doctor to work with doctor 2, though I think this is unlikely.

Anyway.  I am going through a body-obsessed phase right now.  I want to lose 10kg before surgery, tone my abdomen and butt to something out of Florentine statuary, and so am on a full-on fitness and diet kick. Knowing that I will by not doing any exercise for 6 months post-op, this is super important to me.

I have an online fitness trainer who is all over me.  I basically asked her to boss me around.

“No problem,” she said, “that’s my favourite kind of client.”  She gives me daily tasks and diet, I have to log all my food and exercise and have to provide her all of the data on the daily electronically…she makes continued adjustments, calls me “good girl,” when I do it.  She’s a lot cheaper than a professional dominatrix, let me tell you, and probably a lot better for me.

I am also working with an in-person trainer who is an ex-dancer whose specialty is “crafting the body that you want”.  She’s awesome, and understands exactly how to help me build strength, tone, and definition without bulk.

I’ve been wearing a dress a few times over the past few days that means a lot to me.  I bought it forever ago.  And it didn’t fit properly.  My arms were too big.  And my shape was wrong.  It is body hugging and has slim sleeves.  It is also very short, reaching just to the lacy part of my holdups, or the sexy detail on my stockings.  A lesbian domme that I worked with online at the very beginning shared with me what she did.

“Hang something like that up in your closet so you can see it every time you get dressed.  It is a reminder to motivate yourself to work on your body and make little improvements, gives you a goal to work towards.”  

Well, twenty years later, it fits a dream.  I love it.  My favourite little black dress.

I set out for a run in a gap in the weather.  I had studied the map very carefully and knew exactly where I wanted to run and had my route all planned out.  Great.  Only I set out in the wrong direction!  I would crest a hill (and let me you tell you there are a lot of them, and they are brutal) expecting to see the ocean and instead would just see another hill.  I couldn’t take it.  I thought, “wow, I didn’t realise I was running quite so far.” Anyway, it was a hell of a run.  Left me wiped out.  But in the process, I found San Francisco to be one of the most beautiful cities I have ever set foot in.

I have spent tons of time in LA, and sorry for those from LA, have never liked it…but this city is absolutely incredible.  The extremes of poverty are hard, with so many homeless people.  But also the wealth evident.  The contrast is wild.  It is an expensive city, like off the charts when I compare it to Italy.  But the ethnic variety, the food.  And the presence of so many trans people kind of gives San Francisco the feeling of a city of refugees.  I feel the talent and creativity here, and also the insane diversity.

If only it weren’t so far away…

I have been sending semi-intimate selfies to my trainer—belly and ass—so she can direct me and track progress on these two priority areas.  Hilarious.  I look forward to seeing them when they appear on her Instagram feed as progress shots!

When I leave here in a few days I am going on a women’s retreat.  I can’t wait.  So much to learn.  I am beginning to live by this idea, “I will spend the rest of my life getting to know what it means to be a woman and will likely never fully understand.”

I live that, love that, and find it so true.  I never had that feeling about being a man.  It just was.

I went to a sex shop to buy the Hitachi wand.  It is a women’s store.  It was so welcoming I thought she might want to give me lessons on the spot.

“you’re going to love it,” she said.

She’s right.  I do.  What a treat.  When I come I still experience the feeling of ejaculation, but nothing comes out.  At all.  And my whole groin, my belly, my inner thighs light up with fire.  I found myself wondering whether I will ever want a man to f* me.  I know what he looks like if I do.  Uh oh.  Mostly, though, I think of the women I already know who I would like to do the honours of “taking my virginity”.

What else?  I am scared shitless.  I do a pretty good job of hiding it, but I know that it’s there.  I am taking steps to establish community in the city/state where my surgery will be, including reconnecting with old friends.  In a bizarre twist of fate, the woman I was engaged to but didn’t marry is where I will be.  She has a trans son.  I have not yet spoken to her.  I wonder if she would like to speak to me.  I shall soon know.

Part of what I am doing now is making so many commitments around dates and with people so that there is this growing momentum that will carry me through.  Do I think I should get divorced first?  Yes.  Do I think I should find some kind of future employment before I do this?  Yes.  Do I wish I could wait for my first-choice surgeon?  Yes, after all, this is one shot.

My wife is doing everything she can to stop me from going through with this, which is kind of f*ed up considering the last thing she said to me in person was, “you better go through with this.”  She realises that trans female me is far less likely to be able to pay support.  We wouldn’t have needed it, nor me to go back to work, were it not for the bonfire that we are having of our savings.  Whatever advantage she will gain is already dwarfed by a half share of the money we have wasted.

And anyway, I am up for the challenge.  I didn’t want to keep working in the cut-throat man’s world I came from.  But now I am thinking I want to give it a go.  After all, life wasn’t hard enough.  Life was boring.  Now life is anything but boring.