The Last Supper: a final night of “manhood” before sex reassignment surgery

The Companion, the Divine Feminine, and the archetype of divine feminine energy

I love finding human connection.  At times, the less you know about a person, the more beautiful the connection can feel.  It is not cluttered with the detritus of long forgotten arguments, bad hair days or bad breath, rude or harsh words.  We bring our best selves.  

That’s what it can be like to see a companion.

And of course, you can’t always know what is in her mind, for she is a professional actress.  The session, the date, is a stage.  Most clients don’t realise that they have an opportunity to be an actor too.  To create a fantasy.  To bring their best, their liberated selves.

One of the most sacred steps on my journey from male to female, was a formal goodbye to being a man.  Some might say that this might have happened when I self-pleasured myself over the edge for the last time.  Others might say that it happened in a sensual session with a kundalini practitioner who harnessed my guts and squeezed and dragged them over a hot bed of ecstasy.  Perhaps it was the last time I made “the beast with two backs” with my wife.  But it was none of these times.

The night that I said goodbye to my manhood happened two nights before sex reassignment surgery.  I invited a cherished companion to come and stay with me and celebrate the end of one life and the birth of another.  My manhood lay with the symbolism of her, of being with her, and her presence for the night was sacred. For what could possibly be more manly than spending the night with a gloriously gorgeous and fun woman? She was the ultimate goodbye to being a man; it was bliss, and he left the stage as gently and elegantly as had sought to occupy it.

Never mind that I was no longer capable of “being a man” (such a pathetic notion! What’s the female corollary? That she lay back and sing “God save the Queen”?)

She was known to me.  We had played together before.  I am not experienced with companions, but I found in her to be someone without artifice—not having a benchmark, it just felt like a treat. And maybe because she seems to be companion of “real men” it was a vicarious final toss for me. For whatever reason, I felt that it was safe to be with her on an energetic level.  She has a calm energy, subdued, and it flows from her in a steady stream of soft blue flame.  

I don’t often talk or share about the energy fields I see, and in truth, I very rarely look, for it takes a special kind of sight to see in this way, a special kind of connection.  It is witchcraft, I know that, but when I am open to someone, I always see it.  It’s just hard to be open to people like that. Why? Because I have to be open too.

Does it make sense that the symbolism of her was a powerful holder of my own masculinity?  What does it mean to be a provider? Why do we use that word? What of the associations with “male” breadwinner?

A provider. She sees men for a living.  Has sex with them. Intimacy. I find the distinction between these two usages of the word jarring. Can we not say that the woman is providing a connection to the divine through her intimate embrace? Her openness is the channel to the spirit world, we may understand that emotional openness amplifies the signal.

In the breadwinner sense, you could say “roof over my head”. Why does a patriarchal society value the roof more? Why is a woman who is a provider so threatening to the established order? Perhaps through the act she becomes the breadwinner in both senses?

Sex as a man used to mean that there was an event. I never liked that: in ways that never felt right to me, all the way to my bones.  To love women, as a woman, but to do so stuck in a man’s body, in a man’s world, in the perception of others around manhood, to carry that weight, was just so heavy.  Of course it felt good, sex, as an act, but that wasn’t the point. What is the point? Connection.

Here was a woman whose profession creates space for all of us, a woman who was willing to hold space for me in this way, at this watershed moment. To do the opposite of take my virginity. Instead, through her presence, she cleansed me. Made it okay to let go.

It is incredible to me that some men approach a Full Service provider and have a sense of performance anxiety.  I know this because I read about it and hear about it.  There were times in my life that I felt it too.  It was very uncomfortable-making, because it was an external burden, asking something of me that I never wanted to be asked for in the first place.  

But what is performance? It doesn’t make sense as a goal. What makes sense is the process. No goal. Just joy. Pleasure.

The strange thing about becoming a woman has meant that this burden is gone. Perhaps only for socio-political reasons, but it is a relief.

The penis is an elephant in the room.  If you have one, you have this obsessive need to use it.  Put it somewhere. And if you don’t share in that feeling, that need, then there is something “wrong” with you. Our whole culture revolves around male climax…and I am not kidding, this is true in the bedroom, the board room, and in society at large.  And male climax is all about the dick.  [I am sure you can see how that might not work for a trans woman…and is a small part of why I had to get rid of mine.].

Perhaps this is why chastity is so compelling for some…it never worked for me because it was too much of a physical reminder of male equipment even if I liked the idea—and in any event, all a woman ever needed to do was ask and I would obey—that was enough.

I am also conscious that as a woman who seeks to give pleasure to women, that I have much to learn about this: much physical creativity to explore.  But I don’t feel that there is anything performative about it.  I can just be so in my body, so in my mind, that getting lost in an endless exploration of pleasure for a partner becomes the act itself.  In other words, there is no climax, there is a journey.  Like two wispy tendrils of smoke that intertwine and breathe one another until they are one.

It may be silly to see a full-service provider when all you might end up doing is holding hands, talking, cuddling a bit, maybe kissing, touching each other gently.  Maybe it is a bit like hopping into a Ferrari to go for a test drive, and just sticking to 20 mph.  On the face of it.

But I love the potential.  Love the idea that she could despoil me, that she has done and seen more than I could dream of…this sense of her power is utterly disarming to me.  This is a form of creating space; she creates a world by just being, one that I can crawl into. And the less I expect, the less I assert myself, the richer and more surprising it becomes. It is humbling and very, very erotic.  In ways that I don’t even begin to understand, it makes me feel very submissive…like all my gears are slipping.  It is a wonderful feeling.

In the event I am fully present.  I could listen to her talk for hours, and indeed, that is what we do.  I cook for her, and we enjoy a meal together, speaking of things, life, the world, where she just fills me up.  I am overwhelmed by what I can learn from her, what she has to teach.  In life I seek to surround myself with teachers.  People I crush on, people I can listen to, want to listen to, want to learn from.

I have prickly relationships with men in general, but also have some very deep male friendships.  But these all share a common thread—they are men who I can listen to, want to listen to, and who accept my vulnerability, and who have shown me theirs.  With women, it is more complicated.  Some of this is vestigial from life as a man and the complications of intimacy between people who may or may not be attracted to each other, and always have to worry about the blurring of lines.  But funnily enough, I don’t have friends that I am not attracted to.  Male or female.

I say all of this because it is non-sexual.  Please don’t misunderstand.  I am one of the most sexual people I know.  At least I think so, but you never know what might be rumbling under someone’s calm exterior, like the lesbian woman who sat next to me at a cocktail party and leaned over, all buttoned-up-trench coat, perfectly coiffed hair, and big round glasses and whispered to me, “I’m looking for a play partner,” and then proceeded to elucidate to me all of the kinky things she liked to do to a lover (and she was all top) and then complained about how it was so hard to sync up schedules as people worked…and I squeaked out, “I’m not working at the moment…” and she squinted before her attention pinned me like a butterfly on a pin board, “you will give me your Instagram. Can you take the whip?”

Being without expectation also frees us up to respond to someone.

Does any of this make sense?  Seeing a professional companion is overwhelming.  It slips all my gears.  Especially when she is calm, absolutely gorgeous, is an arch-feminist, and just naturally finds the right tone.  I become a puddle of me…and you know what, that is the best version, the one I enjoy embodying most.  Bringing my best self, stepping into the theatre of this brief interlude, is a form of profound respect, for her, but most of all for myself.  To show respect to her is to respect the self.

As readers of this blog will know, I have a few obsessions…First among them is the delicious expression of innocence.  To feel innocent means to not take.  To feel innocent means to be open.  To be innocent means always capable of positive surprise.  It also means to be without judgement.  And best of all, to be naked.  Spiritually available and raw.

I get that this is complicated within the context of a client-provider relationship, because it asks that both parties be more present.

When she rocked up to my front door, all incognito, I teased that she was so “James Bond,” and yes, I found it utterly captivating.  She is an absolute badass.  Her profession is absolutely badass.  When I grow up, I want to be just like that.  Of course, it might be too late for me in a literal sense, but the feeling is real. And anyway, if I’m lucky, I will never grow up.

My goal in life is to become a Sex Witch.  I may already be one.  I may never be one.  But the path of exploration is the destination, the sense of openness, that is the prize.  I shared this goal with her over lunch, and she revealed that she is one too.  Big sister.

I had spent some time that day preparing for her arrival.  Showering twice, flossing twice, making sure my place was spotless.  Yup. I love that part!

But also preparing my mind.  Preparing my body.  Turning my home into a temple fit for a Goddess.  And that is what it feels like.  She is not to be confounded with a Goddess in a literal sense, but she is Her representative.  A spiritual connection to the Divine Feminine. I think of her as a High Priestess.  She speaks languages that are alien and foreign to any human except when she has us in her arms…To prepare the mind and the body for what is a holy and spiritual experience.

Where was I spiritually, emotionally? I was scared even if I wouldn’t admit it—a day from a surgery that would change my life. Change everything about my placement in society. I was letting go of a seat at the table of patriarchal privilege. Mostly I felt so small and delicate. I really did feel like a baby, and in many ways, I was just before birth.

This was a holy experience, a baby shower, a coming of age, a birthing ceremony, and a profound goodbye.  Ritual.  On this evening my life as a man came to an end.  We talked and talked until it was late, and as I was putting things away, she came to me and asked, “is there anything you’d like to do?”

And I stood before her, feeling wistful, and craving touch, just wanting to crawl into her arms and feel her, and to cry. I asked, “could we touch each other?”  And she took my hand in hers, and guided me to caress her arms, while she did the same to me, and we felt one another, the smooth texture of our skins.  Finding each other. She led me to the master bedroom.

[Readers will be unsurprised that I had saved the best room in the house for her, the Master Suite, the only room with an en-suite bathroom. Submission has so many beautiful outlets].

We gradually fell from a state of dress to a state of undress as we snaked our way onto the bed and under the covers.

I felt so utterly disarmed by her, so charmed, that I spoke my truth, “I’m a baby,” I said.  Finally naked and honest and raw. And it was as a baby that I wished to let go of being a man. We touched one another and played gently and softly together for a while until she said, “it’s time for you to go to bed.”  

And do you know what?  Being sent to bed, in that moment, was just about the most delicious thing that has ever happened to me.  And doing it, wordlessly, just slipping out, and obeying, but also being so utterly and completely in the feeling, spiritually, emotionally, erotically.  It was bliss. So much, it was just being seen.

I was afraid, and in many ways, I still am, of the life that I am in now, as a woman.  I was afraid of surgery even though it was also life-saving.  I am someone who has never broken anything, and who hadn’t seen a doctor in decades…who hates needles, and here I was heading into a surgery bigger than just about anyone can have.  That certainly brought these feelings of being child-like to the surface.  But it was also symbolic of the letting go of manhood, this quasi-toxic essence that I had been forced to carry for so much of life, and here I was, boy interrupted, letting it go, and being a scared little boy once again…and there was no more beautiful person to hold my hand and to set the frame for a goodbye and a hello: a strong woman, an outspoken, a sexy woman, a sexual woman, a healthy woman, a sex witch—everything I look up to.

I fell in love with a babysitter when I was about 5 or 6.  That manifested itself as this desire to do anything she asked, to be so well behaved, so good, that she would come back and babysit me again.  My life might have been very different had I understood how profound a manifestation this was of my obedience kink, but no matter.  I remember her tucking me in and thinking she was a Goddess, and that I would do anything for her, anything she asked.  It is a beautiful feeling. It is clearly still there. How can something so small carry so much weight?

And how I flirted as a child with this babysitter has become the way I express this feeling of innocent love to anyone I find that I care for, or feel affectionate towards. It is a kind of loving surrender…and while its outward manifestation is passive, it is built on top of the flaming volcano of my heart.

Stripping away these layers of the patriarchy that smear all of us, was the most poignant part of the evening.  Was it intentional?  Perhaps, even if it wasn’t conscious, I can piece it together now as I think back.  ‘He’s not a man, he’s a baby’. In a way, going through “second puberty” [what the doctors and trans community more generally describe as the cocktail of hormones we take to change our sex] has been like going back to the time before male puberty.  It meant going back to a time when I really was innocent, where I was still known to be innocent. Being with this woman meant I got to go there hand-in-hand with someone who took away the fear.

And the most beautiful gift that this glorious woman gave to me on that magical evening, was that she saw me like this.  Saw me spiritually naked.  She asked if I was always so shy, even though we had been gentle together before.  And I thought about things we had talked about together, about how time with a companion is a bit like being in a theatre piece.  And how my shyness in this moment was about being vulnerable with her, not taking anything, but above all, just being respectful, and letting things flow.  And just as I was able to leave any sense of performance anxiety behind, it felt like she could too…

Babies don’t have wants; they have needs. She slaked my needs, and the only way that could happen was to play like two kids.

It felt as if innocence blossomed in those sweet moments between us…play without expectation, just a gentle exploration and kindness.  And that was what this soul needed to bury the man that had gotten me to that point.  It was a beautiful way to say goodbye to him, to let him go to sleep, and to thank him and reward him for delivering me to this moment, safe and sound, healthy and happy.  He was a good man.

And when I felt him slipping away from me, all that was left was the child I had been, forced into a world and role that I never wanted for myself.  And here she was, beside me, holding that child in her arms, with kindness and without judgement.  It was bliss.

The next morning, she slipped away, looking every inch the international spy, and I went for my final doctors visit to get clearance for surgery.  The final surgical step in a journey that had ended the night before.  Boy me didn’t go out with a bang.  He went out with the tide, gently, receding into the distance through a life lived backwards until only the she in me remained.

Then the Den Mother arrived.  She gathered me up quite literally and delivered me to the hospital creating the most powerful protective envelope I have ever experienced…And the books she gave me to read about being a woman, the lessons she taught me by example and through her words over our time together, and over a lifetime of shared experiences, well, that’s another story.

But as I think back about the gift of time with a companion, I am left with this.  The Priestess gave to me, or perhaps made it possible for me to give to myself, something greater than I could dream of.  She gave me the gift of sight, which only comes when we let go.  Letting go is being willing to bathe in our own fears, our own ugliness.  Her hand was the one that held mine as I became naked.  And it makes me think that showing up without expectation, showing up as my best self, with an intent to just be open and available and soft, to listen, to learn, to connect is an act of profound self-love.  And in this sense, we both create space for one another, for magic to unfold.  Why does anybody see a companion?  To be seen.

We call it the ‘oldest profession in the world’, and this truth exists because we all need and want to be seen.  How we want to be seen has to do with us, the things we carry.  How did I want to be seen?  Naked, vulnerable, scared, innocent, respectful, Sapphic, gentle, soft.  All things which are aspirational to me.  I did feel profoundly seen and received in this way.  It was the gift I needed most of all…to know that a life lived as a man can be left behind, and my true essence can step forward and just be.  And through this I was able to see my reflection, whether real or dreamt.  To take comfort that the woman who is emerging from my chrysalis is a gentle, Sapphic creature that even a High Priestess will kiss. Mmmh 💋, bliss.