When your Dr. tells you to masturbate as part of your healing, what do you do?

Do it as often as you can.

Trigger Warning: this is a lewd post.  Def NSFW. It explores sexual fantasy, extreme practices such as castration, and the Oedipal Complex.

There is a serious message here.  But before the serious message, it sure is a lot harder to come as a woman than as a man.  But I am next level horny, only its totally different.  And what is happening to my sexual fantasies?  Oh my, they have become even kinkier!  I didn’t think it was possible.

My surgeon wants their patients to have happy and fulfilling sexual lives post op.  They want us to be able to orgasm.  Their stats on clitoral orgasm within one year of surgery are the best in the world, just over 90%.  But as they say, if you didn’t come before surgery, you are not likely to come after.

Well, excluding the period after starting HRT (GAHT—Gender Affirming Hormone Therapy), I used to masturbate all the time.  I was a frequent masturbator.  As a teen, I suppose like most teens, my days could more likely be measured by the times I wasn’t masturbating.

I’ll tell you what, though.  My testosterone levels were low, always were, for a male.  I was at the bottom of the range.  That would explain a lot about my body, about my behaviour, about my looks.  Think androgyny in every way.  But it doesn’t explain why I was so darned randy all the time.

For me, masturbation has always been an elaborate process.  I was not ever someone who could get excited and just squeeze one out.  I hated touching it, so as you can imagine, that meant things were decidedly more complex.  

Growing up I used to bemoan the cost of an orgasm.  Of course, teens don’t have much money, and I was 13 the first time I shuddered in ecstasy and delirious pleasure and discovered the world of orgasms.  I vowed to return as often as possible.

I was wearing a diaper.  It had been a few weeks of working up to a fever pitch.  For some reason there was a box of Pampers on our kitchen counter.  All I could think about was going downstairs and ripping it open and taking some.  I thought I would have to confess to my parents that I couldn’t take it anymore, and that I had to wear one.

[Very hard to admit admission: I have quite possibly had more orgasms in diapers than I ever did during penetrative sex.  I used to agonise over this, a function of the tyranny of PIV (penis-in-vagina) sexual tropes.  But my almost-first-wife showed me that me being diapered was not at all an obstacle to mutual sexual fulfilment.  She loved, and I mean loved, diapering me and then having me dote on her, bathe her, cook for her, give her a massage, touch her all over, and then eat her out until she came, and came, and came.  And she liked me to be constantly diapered on business trips, when I was away from her, and was very fond of talking dirty to me on the phone when she “had me this way”.]

Instead I scraped together the necessary and bought a package at the local market, snuck them home, lay them on the garden path below my balcony, threw down a length of rope, went back to my room, hoisted them up, hid them, checked that nobody had seen me, listened to my heart pounding in my ears, swallowed a few times, waited to calm down, checked that I had not “made any mistakes”, left any telltale signs, and then after everyone had gone to bed, diapered myself for the first time in years.  I came shortly thereafter.

I was slight, very slim, even for my age, and in South America, at least back then, parents, mothers, kept their boys diapered and babied (with pacifier) until the age of 5.  I could fit into those diapers.  That cultural dynamic still hasn’t disappeared.  And it doesn’t end at that age. But boy, did I wish I could be treated as if I was 5!

I went over to the prettiest girl in my year’s house at her invitation.  Her mother doted on me, to the point of feeding me.  Yup.  Spoon feeding me.  Well, readers will know that I was delighted.  My then future GF was not.  She didn’t invite me over again.  Oh well.  Her mother was hot and I still remember how she fed me like a baby for the entire meal, flirting with me, teasing her daughter.  Sometimes experiences are just too rich to not let happen. Another time, when we were all a group of friends at the beach together (it is a very posh beach club), I joined the adults for lunch, and my girlfriend’s mother did the same thing to me, feeding me lunch and treating me like a baby in front of everyone.  It was wild.  My father was very amused, and now that I know him better, probably also turned on and envious.

The point is this.  Dilation for many people really sucks.  It can be painful, it takes up huge amounts of time, is almost always inconvenient.  But it is also a bit like sex.  Or at least it has the opportunity to be.  So, while it plays a critical function in the world of trans-vaginal health, it is also a possible gateway to sexual pleasure.

It was not that weird that my doctor should show me the location and function of my clitoris.  That they should give me some tips on how to play with myself and make myself feel good.  At first, I was thinking, “they’re nuts, I don’t want to do that,” mainly because things still hurt a bit down there.  But I am also very aware of the phrase “use it or lose it.”

I remember so well how much I used to get “my rocks” off.  So, the hunger and desire to have a true female orgasm is intense.  But the next level horny I am feeling tells me this feeling isn’t likely to go away, but is more likely to just amplify.

I’m living a contradiction.  I am feeling more amped up, more sexual, more sensual, more erotically charged than I ever did as a man, but I also don’t feel the need to do anything about it, whereas “doing something” about it seemed to be the whole point of my existence as a man.

Women readers, please answer me.  Is that what female sexual hunger feels like?  An ache.  A desire, but one that is directed inwards, one that is not about conquest, just about being devoured, swallowed whole?

And of course, playing with myself helps to wake the nerves up down there too.  And accelerate the change in the neural pathways.  The plasticity of the brain boggles the mind.  The urgency of need even accelerates the growth.  Well, suddenly I need it bad.

A few weeks ago I was riding in the car towards my date with a group of dominatrixes and their slaves.  I was listening to podcasts on the radio, sexy ones, insightful ones about all things kinky.  I was catching up on my favourites.  One that I was listening too, hosted by two dykes talking about porn, is usually just kind of cheeky and fun, often informative, but otherwise not all that titillating.  This one was different.  They review dirty films they watch, and the way they described the one that turned them both on, a “first time” story between a group of “bro’s” who are all straight…and they had the lingo down, but also the incredible mimicry of dialogue of guys who are not gay but who get up to some very gay things, and one of them ends up getting so into it that they “turn him out”.  I can’t remember the title.

But Jesus.  I mean, I have really not been proper horny and aroused since before starting on HRT/GAHT in July 2022.  Perhaps earlier even, from April, when I started DIY.  And I have had no idea what it would feel like to be aroused as a woman post-op.  I am beginning to find out.

Every day, every couple of days, I can feel a twitching down there.  Sometimes it is painful, sometimes very pleasurable.  It is the feeling of sensation returning.  And suddenly all this really sensitive tissue is coming back to life, but is also much more “there” for me, but only when I concentrate on it.  Though this time, during the podcast, it just crept up on me.  And I felt this intense arousal in what could only be my clitoris.  Holy cow.  It was like all of my former cxxk, head and shaft, rolled up into one tiny place.  And that is not far from the truth.

I felt a thickness, but of course the physiological change is probably more visible in the flush of my skin than in what is happening down there, at least with my clothes on.  But boy could I feel it.  That was several weeks ago.  And I haven’t been religious about masturbating while dilating as it often just hurts or I don’t feel like.

But this sensation was so appealing, and it has come back a few times, and I find myself with a building arousal.  It becomes increasingly wrapped around the idea of getting off.  Of having my first female orgasm.  I came close, I could tell, when I was topping the man who was in a body bag and cage.  But I have my Hitachi wand out now, and I can get pretty close that way too.  Just not quite over the edge.

Last night I went for it, and sized up dilators, and a process that can take 45 minutes was extended to over 2 hours.  I was so aroused, and fucking myself with the dilators that I was giving my pussy a real pounding.  Let me tell you that when you have a dilator that is the thickest you can take, so thick it takes 10-15 minutes to slide it in and then another 10-15 just getting used to how fat it is, how thick, it starts to feel really good with even just a little stimulation.  My favourite is to take the Hitachi Wand and touch the head to the base of the dilator and feel those vibrations ripple through its length, all the way to your core.  It was hot.

And it was also one of those sessions of self-pleasure where you just want more.  And more.  And more.  I started reading porn as I played with myself as my own mind was not taking me over the edge and I needed the surprises of someone else’s kinky mind.  And then I had to stop and I inserted a butt plug, before going back to it.  Feeling full and thick, aiming for the edge.

And my mind was going really crazy places.  You know how I feel that these crazy places of the erotic speaks to our deepest truth?  OMG, what do these prurient thoughts say about me?  What was I thinking about?  Cxxk.  Mine ((the one I don’t “have” anymore). Other beautiful ones.  I was thinking about chastity.  Not a topic that I have ever been excited by or practiced.  But I was aching for chastity.  Aching for it.  But if I had the right toys and equipment last night I would have willingly locked myself up for the rest of my life.  I was that brain-fogged completely horny.

And when I thought that, when that idea went into my head, that I wanted this cxxk that I no longer have to be locked up forever, I mean forever, I felt a gut-wrenching sexual hunger from my loins to my throat.  Fully body.  And in that, I knew this was my truth.

My truth is that a part of what I have done to myself is to have castrated my male self.  Castration in my old male mind was always near the top of my list of kinky turn-ons.  But I did it.  Of course it is a byproduct of something bigger, which carries in it my rebirth as a sexual being, as a woman.  And gosh, this is so important.  I was never able to accept myself as sexual as a male. “Castration” has set me free.  I couldn’t be with another person and be sexual and not feel this bone-crushing guilt.  The burden that this trans woman had of being a man.

Thank goodness that part of life is now over.

The truth is that I could do one better.  I am in permanent chastity.  To think that a sex change is chastity is kind of messed up, but let’s park the politics for now.  But I have also been turned female.  And she is not chaste.  She is one horny ass woman.  

Chastity, however, is for a person.  Being chaste is in part a way of life.  A kind of ascetic existence.  Holy.  Of course, in the twittersphere, it is a bit different.  But there is resonant truth in taking a man and making him chaste, curbing his desires, harnessing it to the will of someone else.   My Queen is a professional key holder.  She once remarked to me of one her chaste subs that he misunderstood the purpose of chastity…he had just broken out of it, and she had asked him, “for whom do you think you are doing this?  For me?  No baby, it’s for you.”  

And in that world, it is so true.  But there is still always a spark, a key holder.   Who?  Who is this keyholder?  Who is she?  It is very clear that the part of me that was and is still male, in my kaleidoscope of sexual personae, it is the once and former male in me who has been made chaste, castrated, turned into a permanent and loving acolyte and slave.  Did he do this for my female self?  Perhaps.  That would be the right answer.  But the truth is most often the easiest answer of all.

Who is my keyholder?  Who is this woman who I crave to please more than any other?  Who is the woman who set the highest standards for me?  Who was never happy.  It was never enough.  Who wanted me to be a girl, but even then, was disappointed when I showed signs of becoming one?

I am grateful that I have been strong enough to break the cycle of dysfunction, nay, abuse, that I suffered from my parents, and have given my own children a chance to fly on their own.

My dead mother!  Holy Cow.  Did I do all this to seek my mother’s approval? One thing is very clear to me. The hardest part of losing my mother has been not having access to approval any longer. Even though it was so often withheld. Nothing was ever good enough for her–in her life just as much as in mine. Perhaps for all of us, our parents forever represent those cherished words, “I’m proud of you,” the “good boy” or “good girl” that takes up so much space in fantasy. I can’t ever have her approval anymore, but more importantly, I waited until she could no longer give it. That speaks of the timing of my choice. But knowing that she would have disapproved was a huge obstacle to me. One that I was conscious of. I knew that I was waiting for her to be gone.

Star Child was convinced that my whole trans being was conjured up to please my unpleasable mother.  “It’s obvious,” she remarked.  Not at all.  Sometimes we know things at a cellular level.  I was born this way, maybe it happened during gestation in the womb, but when I came out, I was already a two-spirit.  And yes, I believe that souls have both genders, perhaps to varying degrees.  I have no doubt that my soul leans heavily female.  

But I also feel, and have felt since I was conscious, that she (me) did something wrong in a past life, and this male life that I was given is a punishment, something I had to learn from as part of setting myself free.  And I think I have learned that lesson.  And it has to do with the agony of my own past male existence, about a deep respect for women’s power and its use and abuse.

My new names just sort of happened.  But they are all direct ancestors.  I have taken the names of four of my grandmothers, going back as far as 28 generations.  Three of them were only children.  One was an only child who was raped, and her husband forcibly cuckolded by her rapist.  Three of them founded or funded religious orders.  Three of them lived out the ends of their lives in convents.  One of them funded a chapel at Temple, in London, dedicated to eternal love.  I love that my children helped choose my new names.  That they were part of this rebirth.

I was asked by two siblings, my father, and a friend recently, and totally separately, whether I had shared with my mother before she died that this was coming, and what she would have thought about it.  She would never have approved.  It will take centuries of post-life healing for her to come to terms with this.  With herself.  Still, there is no escaping that I have made the “ultimate male sacrifice” for my mother.  It would explain a lot.  A lot.  A lot lot lot.

I have had gay male fantasies in my life, and more recently fantasies about being fucked by a man as a woman (I guess it is a bit like rape, as they are always consensual-non-consent where after a while my ‘no’ becomes a throaty and heartfelt ‘yes’), fantasies of being fucked by women, of having the crap beaten out of me by a beautiful woman.  There was and is no common thread.  It was just relentless.  

All of these fantasies have been hitting me lately.  And I have been reading porn for the first time since, gosh, so long I can’t remember.  I haven’t written porn since 2020.  But I feel it coming again.  My mind is in a fever pitch.  

Dilation has become a twice-daily exploration of my dark inner fantasy world.  And I am getting so horny and turned on from it.  The other night, I just pounded my pussy with the dilator, frigged my clit with abandon, but didn’t quite make it to Valhalla.  Finally, without having come, feeling ragged and raw, exhausted, totally spent, but still horny, at 5am, I finally fell asleep.  I had been at it with such gusto that I was also bleeding from in there.  Not good.  Thankfully, however, not serious.

The next morning, today, I woke up horny AF.  And I realised that whatever it is will likely continue to build inside of me for as long as it takes to get me off.  For my sake I hope it takes a real long time, as this feeling of constant arousal, edging, is sexy and exciting.  It already feels better than what I knew (as a male).

My hunger for pain extends beyond pounding my pussy.  Yes, I can take it.  Take it like a champ.  In my last “session” under the whip, an 8’ bull whip, she hit me so many times I lost count, and she was “wrapping”, meaning letting the whip come around and hit my front too.  I didn’t flinch.  It hurt like hell, and she asked me to thank her after each strike, which I did.  After, she let me off of the cross and pointed to the ground next to her feet, and I was there, on my knees, ass in the air the way she wanted, kissing her feet.  Thank goodness that there is a woman out there who will do this to me.

A girl has to have her fun.