Riddle: how do you get a carpet burn on your vulva?  Get a sex change operation.

I have entered this delightful stage where I am being weaned off of painkillers and being rewarded by the certainty of sensation between my legs.  My lady bits are sensate!

I make light of it, but the results of many different surgeons are not so great.  It really, really depends on who you get to see whether your upgrade will work.  The Dr. I saw has the highest success rate stats of any one I could find.  That said, nothing is independently verified, which is a pain, and a deep source of frustration for those of us in the community trying to do our homework on such an important life-changing operation.

Plus, my Dr. doesn’t do social media much, so it is a bit of a miracle that I found them.  That enough people find their way to them is borne out by their 2 year wait list to get a consult and a further year to get a surgery date.  I got lucky in that I only had to wait for two years instead of three, to get my date.

One of the witches I learn from, and whose pronouncements I obey has given me a task…I shall write about it in more detail when I write about my posse.  The weird and wonderful, and totally unplanned sequence of events was that I fly to be at my surgery and prepare on International Women’s Day.  I had my operation on the first day of Spring.  And I am completing the task I was given on the day of a full solar eclipse—a rare occurrence signifying transformation.  The task she has given me is about transformation, so the symmetry of all this is kind of beautiful, more so because it was unplanned.

FYI, I think it is kind of hot that I had my balls cut off on St. Joseph’s day, patron saint of cuckolds.  [I apologize to all who take Christian scripture and doctrine holy, I couldn’t help it].  Let a God impregnate your wife and we’ll call him the son of God to make you feel better.  Can we just acknowledge that the foundations of Christianity have been set on very shaky ground: the fragile male ego.  So much of what is our patriarchal society has resulted from this.  Marriage.  Female virtue.  Dang.  Don’t they say in those self-help programs that the first step to recovery is recognition?  You can’t go back once you recognise.

The other thing funny about a sex change operation is the itemized bill.  Ladies, you’ll never guess what the most expensive part of the whole thing is.  Cutting off my balls.  $27,000.  Can you believe it?  I know some women who would have obliged for free.  I think of this part of the operation as a public service.  Maybe they have the pricing wrong.  For this part, they should have paid me.  Kind of like those “surrender your gun” programs and “we won’t ask any questions.”  I don’t know.  That’s kind of how I feel about it.

Guess what else.  Ladies, how much do you think they charged to fashion the holy of holies?  My clitoris?  Now, when you do your effort-based benchmarking, wouldn’t you think that the little scissor cut required to cut off someone’s balls and tie off my tubes would be small beans compared to fashioning the holy of holies? After all, there is this enormous nerve bundle to carefully and lovingly extract from its casing in the penile shaft, sort of like a long jewel box for a necklace or something.  And then there is the very delicate process of figuring out which parts of the tip of the penis can go and which parts are the most sensate, and of course that nasty little pee hole has to be relegated to history.  Sounds to me like lot’s of work.  Cost?  $5,000.  

I don’t know about you, but I’m outraged.  I want to speak to the hospital administrator.  I mean really.  Patriarchal privilege extends even here?

The only thing I can think of which justifies this is the profit motive.  Cutting off balls is a standalone operation.  The orchiectomy is very popular in the trans community.  Many people don’t go all the way like I did, and stop at having their jewels removed.  I am still sad that mine were incinerated.  I rather fancied the idea of having them in a jar as a paperweight to keep on my desk.  I was thinking too that there is a lot of magic in them.  Oh well, easy come easy go.

This morning I thought of my Queen.  That is dangerous territory for me, because I care very much about her. I never write about her, and I don’t think I ever will.  But when I imagine conversations with her, purely imaginary, I find myself so quickly in sub space.  If I ever thought I wasn’t submissive, all I need do is think of her and how I feel about her, and boom, I’m in this weird full-body emotional state that will make me say ‘yes’ to just about any wild-ass thing.  And it feels great.

She is the best.  I am doubly grateful to her as she rescued me from a dynamic that had turned toxic with my first real domme.  Not her fault; not mine either.  Neither one of us had the presence of mind to communicate or get what we needed out of it nor were adult enough to work our way towards those things, or to just walk away before it went to a place it couldn’t recover from.  I say “rescued” for three reasons.  First, because she was there before the other one fell apart, so the lack of downtime was helpful.  Second, I met her in the first place because I asked for advice on how to deal with what was happening, so she knew about it.  Third, certain lacunae of Domme 1 which were triggering for me are features of Domme 2.

In a nutshell, what my Queen gives me is normalcy.  That’s all I ever wanted in a D/s dynamic.

So, why did I say it was dangerous territory for me to think of my Queen, and to imagine things we might say to one another?  Because it got me aroused.  On the one hand it is fantastic news that I can still get aroused, and that I know this already, just a few weeks after surgery.  But second, it is really bad news because my doctor has expressly told me not to get aroused because it sends blood to the vulva, which is the opposite of what we want, particularly this week, which is maximum swelling.

The other bad news is that when I imagine these kinds of things I am so pleasantly in sub-space that it is hard for me to get out.  I can’t just think about dirty dishes and suddenly not feel excited.  It takes more than that to come down.

The consequences of this arousal, short as it was, were twofold.  One, I am bleeding more down there, and in need of taking it seriously easy.  And when my trans sisters say to me that it feels like someone has taken a box grater to your vulva, they were not kidding.  Two, I have felt what it feels to be aroused like a woman, and oh boy, I can’t wait to heal and start playing with my magic wand!

Male arousal is felt profoundly in the perineum, and if there a butt plug or anal penetration involved, there is a glow there which is pretty sweet.  The genitals themselves also feel good, but in a different way.  But I will say that it is more concentrated.  Never mind that my penis and scrotum were “origamied” into this beautiful vulvic flower between my legs, but I get all the male feelings but also this sense of arousal that just fills me from my inner thighs through my genitals and up to my belly button.  And my nipples felt kind of good too.

I can tell I’m going to be playing with myself a lot.  I already can’t help but do so when I am dilating, which although very much a spiritual practice, has also become a sensual one too.  I love touching the lips, and feeling how sensation is returning to them, and how good they feel.