A Night With Daddy

Hello. I'm back after many years. I'm marking my return with a new version of one of my favorite pieces, originally titled "Rejected by Daddy". I've revised and expanded it, added some important character development, polished it up, and given it a new title. It's a mostly true story that happened years ago. But I've been inspired to write again recently, now that I really do have a Daddy. More on that later. For now, take a read.



A Night With Daddy
by Pamela



    It happened the night I went to a costume party in a warehouse in a run-down neighborhood. I didn’t know anyone there, but I’d been trying to break out of my shell, craving a human connection. Partygoers were practically falling over each other in a crazy maze of garish rooms, black lights and cramped hallways. The DJ was nuts. The girls volunteering behind the bar were more drunk than the patrons. The whole thing was a playful riotous confusion of sights, sounds, colors, textures, and bodies. I went up to the rooftop bar to get some air. The patio’s string lights complimented the view of the sparkling lights of the city.

    I was dressed in drag as the artist Frida Kahlo. It was an uncanny resemblance. Frida and I have the same ethnic background - Mexican and German. Heightening the realism was the fact that I’d recently started trying out female hormone pills and testosterone blockers. They were the kind that transsexuals took - for people who wanted to permanently change their physical gender. I was still working out why I’d been drawn to explore this. I thought of myself as a boy who loved to dress up as a girl sometimes. Because I just liked it. But I was still a boy and nothing would really change that. I told myself the pills were an experiment. Would they make dressing up as a girl easier? Would I like the way they made me look? They way they made me feel? They had already softened my skin and smoothed out my facial features. But I was scared of going too far. People would eventually notice. My job. My parents.

    Up on the roof, I ran into a man I knew. He was dressed as Zorro. He was the ex-boyfriend of a friend of my ex-girlfriend. You know how it goes. How many degrees of separation in a city like this? He had a reputation in my friend circle - a dominant 'daddy', straight as an arrow, very possessive, into the S&M scene. He was much older than me and had a thing for younger women - women my age. He worked out and had a great body. Salt and pepper hair. He always wore black, usually in leather pants. He was there alone that night, which was unusual. It turned out neither of us knew anyone else at the party.

    He struck up a long conversation with me. I had been trying to talk in character as Frida all night, but I dropped it with him. I’d been using it as a mask with strangers, hiding my social anxiety. All my life I’d tended to shy away from straight men, including him, fearing ridicule, disgust and rejection. The scars of middle and high school. I had a feminine demeanor and it always managed to shine through, despite my attempts to suppress it. But tonight, with him, I didn’t try to hide anything, and it felt comfortable, one on one. Man to woman. After a while I suddenly realized his arm was around my waist. I was surprised and confused, but played it cool, wondering if it even meant anything. I realized I was desperate to feel what his girlfriends had felt, to know it, to embody it, to make it real, make myself real through this connection. He smoothly guided me back behind the tall bamboo walls separating the party area from the rest of the empty rooftop.

    The next thing I knew, I was down on all fours, skirt pushed up, panties yanked forcefully down, getting fingered from behind. First one finger.. then in slid a second one... just as he was going for a third, a voice cut in: "Is that real!?"  A very drunken reveler had wandered astray, and was standing over us. He was obviously confused to see Zorro fingering Frida Kahlo, who had a cock. "Yes it’s real. Now go away." I hissed. The drunk stumbled off, dazed.

   Zorro whisked me off in his convertible, over the bridge, to his boxy modern loft. It seems he was actually attracted to me, the girlyboy. The idea was so far fetched I couldn’t believe it was happening. And yet it was. He played frantic sex games with me all night on the couch. It was as if he believed he had just one shot at performing acts he’d never do again. The mutual release of pent up desire.

    Dawn's early light. We'd been at it for hours, and I was fading. I pulled myself together as best I could, and he drove me back over the bridge.
    He held Frida’s hand. My hand.
    "So tell me, why do you like pretending to be a girl?"
    "Well...” I countered. “Hormonally... I AM a girl now."
    Reflexively he pulled his hand away, as if he suddenly realized he was holding a snake or fire. "Why are you taking female hormones?"
    I struggled to explain my feelings. "I'm experimenting. I want to see how it feels. Find out if it's right for me." For the first time, the words felt weak, wrong somehow.
    We rode the rest of the way back in silence.
    I was confused by him. Did he like me better when he thought I was a boy dressed as a girl for kicks or kink, rather than a girl in a boy's body? He didn't understand me, I thought. But in that moment, I suddenly understood myself.
    He dropped me off at home, and I never heard from him again. But I knew in my heart he was the first man I was ever with as a woman.

 

When Only Your Surgeon Knows For Sure

Flesh
is illusion.
Michaelangelo worked his art in stone.
I am a sculptor too.
Which one of us has not looked in the mirror and wished for some kind of change?
Higher cheekbones?
Rounder eyes?
Beauty.
Perfection.
The plastic surgeon as modern day conjurer.
Improving upon God's work.
Yes I can do it better than he.
For me there are no illusions.
Flesh is naked, exposed.
Do I see a pretty face, maybe?
We come closer.
We look. We evaluate.
We make mental changes.
When I look, all masks are stripped away.
There are no illusions for me.
No secrets.
I see through each and every face.



The best surgery looks like no surgery at all.



I know I keep coming back to this subject, but surgery - the cutting and reshaping of small amounts of flesh - has had such a profound effect on my life, that I'm still adjusting.

A Mixed Day

Dear diary,

Today was certainly the definition of a mixed day, emotionally.
It was the first warm day of the year here, and this morning I wore a knee length skirt to work, with bare legs. I know it doesn't sound like much, but since my transition, I generally dress very conservatively, and I'm not use to showing any amount of skin except my forearms. So it was outside my usual comfort zone, and I felt exposed all day.

Add to that the fact that my transition has been so strange. Thanks to a great deal of hormones and expert surgery, I 'pass' perfectly to most of humanity. But because I was at my current job for years and years before I transitioned, the change is still 'new' for some of my co-workers. Sometimes some of them still slip up by accident and use my old name, even though I now look nothing like my old self. Which sends me into a spiral of depression, anger, and sadness. It makes me feel like they don't see the 'me' that's standing before them, and that they think of the 'old' me as the real me. It's extremely emotionally difficult to deal with. My old name feels like a straight jacket that was holding me back from expressing my true self.
It's especially frustrating because I'm increasingly stealth in the rest of my life - to random strangers on the street, to new friends I meet, even one of my new roommates doesn't know about my history. But the situation at work, where I spend 40 hours of my week, makes me question and doubt myself - do I really still look like a man? Can everybody tell?
But no, they can't. Because away from work, very few people 'clock' me - maybe 1 in 100. And if anything, it's usually my voice that gives me away first, not my looks.

After work, I met my spouse and her longtime friend (a guy) at a rooftop lounge for drinks. They had each already had a couple of drinks by the time I arrived. We all ended up opening up to each other over the course of the night. Perhaps a little too much by the end. My spouse and I talked about our relationship and our love for each other. But we also ended up revealing my relationship with David (my secondary who lives on the opposite coast and visits here about once a month), and how it made me feel so much more confident in my womanhood to be with a man. My spouse ended up sitting in her friend's lap, then making out with him, then he made out with me. I'm sure we were quite a sight at the restaurant.
He flattered me by telling me he wouldn't have known I was trans if he didn't know me. And he said that when I first stepped off the elevator, he was checking out the 'hot chick' for a second before he realized it was me. He wanted to make out with me hardcore, and told me I was beautiful woman, period.
We ended up at a dive bar across the street, where my spouse and I each made out with him a little more, and he made a rain check to come over to our house some time.
So, the tally for today... flattering physical carnal attention from a guy, a shower of compliments from my spouse, but before that, frustration at work. Do they really still see me as a guy? Why do some of the guys call me 'buddy', or women say 'he, I mean she", or others use my old name by accident? These are the sorts of vaguely inappropriate comments I deal with still on a regular basis - nothing intentional, but just enough to bring me down. It's hard to deal with. Is it their discomfort in recognizing my change, or is it just that old habit die hard, or am I just not trying hard enough to pass as far as my voice and presentation? I think I blame myself too easily, even though I know I'm trying nearly as hard as I possibly can, and most people away from work have no idea I'm even trans. Whatever the explanation, it makes me desperate to get another job and go stealth there. But will that really make me happier? Will I face different challenges - a whispering campaign of 'is she or isn't she' by those with their suspicions? Or a constant guardedness when talking about myself and my past?
I don't know. But I guess I'll never know what it's like elsewhere unless I try. A wise older person once told me that it's better to regret the things you did, than the things you didn't do.

Things Are Getting Interesting

While I work on a longer update...

My new spouse has been outside on the phone with her 20-something ex-boyfriend for about an hour now. She came in briefly and said, "I'd love to see you and M. get together. I think you'd like him."
"Get together?" I arch an eyebrow. "You mean, like, sexually?" I say jokingly.
"Yeah." She raises the ante. "I'd like to watch you suck his dick. Can I invite him to come visit?"
She's back outside talking to him again. Things are getting interesting.

Happy Holidays!

A New Start

I'd like to re-start this blog by talking a little about how it has evolved, how I have evolved, and where it's all going.
Before my gender transition, this blog focused mostly on fantasies, especially those fueled by images and photos. It was straight from the id.
During transition, I suddenly found myself being a lot more eloquent and focused on crafting the actual words of storytelling, rather than just sexually riffing on pictures. I believe that most likely, this was due to structural changes in my brain caused by the addition of estrogen and the subtraction of testosterone in large quantities. I was also inspired to start writing about real life experiences from my past, which I found to be emotionally raw and real and cathartic.
But at no time did I ever discuss what was going on in my current relationships in real life. I considered it an off-limits subject, and not the focus of this blog, which was all about my unexpressed internal fantasy world.
A lot of those fantasies focused on gender and gender transition. Now that I've got that out of the way, I realize there are whole other worlds in my life to explore in writing - some of it to do with the impact of my gender transition, but a lot of it unrelated. So now I'm coming out of the closet as "a happily married, openly polyamorous pansexual transgender woman", so I can write about those aspects. There's a lot of rich territory here. And I hope you'll enjoy exploring with me.


Next: Poly- Pan- What?? What Do All Those Words Mean??

I'm Back

Hello my darlings.
After a long surgical hiatus, my blog is back with another new title and a brand new focus. Now that I've made some of my most important dreams into a reality, I thought I'd start writing about my sex life and my fantasies from here on the other side - a life that I'm now living authentically, but still anonymously. ;)
Enjoy.

xoxo,
Pamela

The Countdown Begins

I can't believe I'm really doing it.
I've been told by those who've done it that I could go from an OK tranny to a stunning woman. We shall see.

The Day My Life Changed

"Hormones are powerful chemicals that cause lasting, drastic changes in the way a person processes their experiences".


Which face is more attractive? Researchers at the University of St. Andrews created composite images of women with high levels of estrogen, at left, and low estrogen levels, at right. They found that men tended to rate women with higher levels of estrogen as more attractive, healthier and more feminine-looking than those with lower levels.

The structure of a person's face gives insight to fertility.
Estrogen caps bone growth in a woman's lower face and chin, making them relatively small and short, as well as the brow, allowing for her eyes to appear prominent. Men's faces are shaped by testosterone, which helps develop a larger lower face and jaw and a prominent brow.
Men and women possessing these traits are seen as attractive because they advertise reproductive health.

Rejected By Daddy

I've been away for a while, dealing with some transition issues.

But black sissy's recent comments got me thinking about an experience I had with a guy several years ago, the last time I was on hormones. Let's take the Wayback Machine to 2003, shall we?...

The setting: a quasi-illegal warehouse party in a semi-run down part of town. I say quasi-illegal because I'm sure they didn't have a liquor license. The bartendresses were drunker than the patrons. The party space was a crazy maze of garishly decorated rooms filled with costumed revelers falling over each other. The whole thing was a playful riotous confusion of sights, sounds, colors, textures, and bodies.. or maybe I was just high. I went up to the rooftop bar, illuminated with string lights, looking out onto the sparkling lights of the city.

I ran into a man I knew. He was an ex-boyfriend of a friend of a friend - you know how it goes. He had a reputation - a dominant daddy, very possessive, into the S&M scene. He worked out, always wore black, usually in leather pants, salt and pepper hair. As far as I knew, he was straight as an arrow, with a thing for younger women - hence his entry into my extended friend circle. He was there alone that night. To my surprise, he started chatting me up. Then his arm was around my waist. Somehow he smooth talked me into going with him behind the boundary fence, set up by the hosts to separate the party area from the rest of the empty rooftop.

The next thing I knew, I was on all fours, skirt hiked up, panties yanked forcefully down, being fingered from behind. First one finger.. then in slid a second one... just as he was going for a third, another voice cut in: "Is that real!?"
A very drunken reveler had wandered over, and was standing over us. He was obviously confused to see Zorro fingering Frida Kahlo, who had a dick. He wasn't sure if what he was seeing was real.
"Yes. Now go away." I hissed. The drunk stumbled off, dazed.

Zorro whisked me off in his convertible, over the bridge, to his modernist condo.

He played games with me all night on the couch, while his new girlfriend slept at the other end of the house. She knew I was there.
He was nearly crazed - spankings, blowjobs, fingering, toys. No kissing though. For a straight guy, he had no problems working around the fact I had a penis. He even suggested fucking me while I fucked his girlfriend. I wasn't sure it was such a good idea. Besides, I had set my boundaries for this scene at penetration.

Dawn's early light. We'd been at it for hours, and I was fading. I pulled myself together as best I could, and he drove me back over the bridge.
He held my hand, Frida's hand. He was attracted to me as Frida.
Then came the moment when I realized he didn't understand me at all.
"Why do you like pretending to be a girl?"
"Well... hormonally, I AM a girl now."
Reflexively he pulled his hand away, as if he suddenly realized he'd been holding a snake or fire.
"Why are you taking female hormones?"
"I'm experimenting. I want to see how it feels. Find out if it's right for me."
Was he freaked out by my body modification? By the medical details? Did he like me better when he thought I was a boy dressed as a girl for kicks or kink, rather than a girl in a boy's body?
We rode the rest of the way back in silence.
He dropped me off at home, and I never heard from him again.

I Am Beautiful

"Liberty is the right not to lie." - Albert Camus

Our culture insists on gender uniformity and does not acknowledge any neutral variations - only value judgements such as "sins" and "illnesses". This smug gender totalitarianism does hidden violence to dissidents and "perverts". It distorts our self-images, ambitions and dreams. We think we are alone, crazy, or ridiculous. Our desire learns to curb itself, and we come to depend on the strength of self-repression for our safety. We live in fear of being known, and such fear stifles the wish before the image of what is wished for can be fully formed. We think we are ugly before we even see ourselves, and the injustice of this, this falsehood, chokes me.

Adapted from "Macho Sluts" by Pat Califia

I think I need to examine my issues around the idea of getting plastic surgery.
Am I doing it because I don't pass to myself, or because I don't think I pass to other people? Or both? When certain people notice me on the street, is it because they think I'm a pretty boy, an ugly girl, a pretty girl, or something they can't quite figure out or have never seen before? Do I automatically assume the worst? Clearly I must acknowledge that I already pass to some certain percentage of people. But clearly it's not enough. How much more is enough? Where do I want the needle to be? 100%? Is the goal to go stealth? Isn't that another closet? If somehow I passed today, right now, in the eyes of everyone, but looking exactly the way I do now, would I still be getting surgery?

Faux Whore

Something about this blog rubs me the wrong way, like fingernails on chalkboard. Yet I find I can't look away. This says everything about me, and nothing about the author.

I think the feeling is akin to watching a cringe-inducing movie about the insecurities of being in junior high. We've all been there - and so the scenes cause discomfort because they hit so close to home.

Faux Whore, Magdelyn, I was there 10 years ago. Heck, I was there 5 years ago. I had a good 5 year run in between. Most of the "true", (but embellished, altered and conflated), back-stories on this blog are from that once seemingly endless period of my life. I guess the fact I'm still writing about it all says something in itself - am I still fascinated with the life of my former self? Or am I hoping to make epiphanies now that distance allows self-reflection?

I used to think that being a crossdressing party-girl night-crawler who explored the dark nooks and crannies of the city's teeming underground - in "his" spare time - was the best I could hope for as a young semi-closeted transperson. It was a very 1970's Lou Reed/New York take on my gender variance.
I had so much self-doubt in my gender identity because I saw a ring of truth in all those now politically incorrect ideas like "Transsexual Empire" and "autogynephilia". After all, I was a horny chronic masturbating self-objectifying scantily clad easy lay of a transvestite who hung out with drug users and S&M practitioners and orgy organizers, and I had a sharp line between my male and female personas. How could I possibly be a "real" woman?

Eventually I discovered the exit, and came to realize that my problem was that I didn't dream big enough, I didn't give society, history, nature, or myself enough credit. Or maybe I was just a decade too early, and we've actually had significant social change and political awareness in the past 10 years. I credit third wave feminism, cutting edge trans activism and books like "Whipping Girl" for expanding the idea of what a "real" woman is, to the point I felt embraced. Say what you will about those things, but they helped me personally, with real consequences. Perhaps they even saved my life.

Now that I've had my fill of all that, and time has created distance, education has raised consciousness, and hormones have changed my inner and outer realities, I'm on the verge of slipping quietly into capitalist professional empowered womanhood, with a career, the love and support of family and friends, and the trappings of liberal yuppiedom. I'm not saying I'm more evolved or mature or civilized now, just in a different place. It was fun while I was there, but I couldn't stay there forever. I live in the daylight now, rather than at night. I'm a teetotaler who goes to bed early, and puts her health and safety above most other considerations. My biggest 'vice' is that sometimes I spend too much time writing here in this fantasy blog.

So it's both painful and fascinating to see someone else go through what for me turned out to be a 5 year phase - and in some of the very same haunts. Not all the details are the same. But there are enough similarities to be like finding an old picture of yourself at 12 with zits and bad hair... or like a car wreck you can't look away from.

I'll be popping the popcorn over here and waiting eagerly for the next installment.

All Hers

Black Sissy is really pushing my buttons, in an interesting way. Her recent comments are causing me to think more deeply about my sexuality, how it's changed, and how my physical & sexual interactions with both men and women may be different, now that I'm on hormones.
My sexual fantasies now include a healthy dose of thoughts about being touched, held, and the warmth of bodies - which for me is a new focus. I also find I'm more attracted to romantic scenarios - for example, when two people are reunited after being apart, or acts of kindness.
As I mentioned previously, I'm now about 50/50 attracted to men and women. My sexual feelings for women, including transsexual women, are about the same as they ever were - a mix of physical attraction, emotional attraction, and envy. I've talked about it enough in this blog that I don't think there's much need to rehash. My feelings for men used to be just general avoidance, punctuated by occasional sexual encounters, which I think were also subconscious efforts to assert my femininity. But for the first time, I have actual fantasies about men - I imagine a firm touch by large hands, being held against a large strong chest, giving satisfaction through a langorous blowjob, being on top with a theoretical vagina.

As black sissy says,

"Hormones do have their effect. They change the chemistry of the brain.
When i'm with my boyfriend i enjoy the pleasures of the sexuals acts we share. However i also love the part before and after where we cuddle and he holds me. I love to suggle up against him in the night. On the long winter nights i especially enjoy being close to him and feeling the warmth of his body.
I didn't have those feelings before hormones even though i liked guys. And when he's away i really miss him."

The fact that she had these sorts of feelings for a man came to mind last night as I tried masturbating. After skipping around, I landed on Iowa Beverly's All Hers blog.
What she's writing about is arousing and terrifying at the same time.
I have no idea how much of the blog is fact v. fiction, but she appears to be a submissive crossdresser who has been roleplaying for a while as her wife's maid. Beverly's most recent posts are about the aftermath of a relationship-changing New Year's Eve trip to Florida. In summary, she and her wife both took on male lovers. What especially struck me is how Beverly described her feelings about her date in "romantic", and not just sexual, terms. That's the part I found arousing. Since then, her wife has been treating her more as a girlfriend than a spouse, and they're not having sex anymore. Where will all this lead?? That's the part I found terrifying.
Beverly discovered to her shock that her inner sense of herself had changed enough that she suddenly found herself attracted to a man... at the same time her spouse was taking on a lover.
For me, that opened old wounds. It reminded me too much of a situation I was in years ago, when I began gender transitioning. My significant other and I were having unrelated relationship problems, and she took on a male lover. Even though we had an open relationship, it hurt. We didn't communicate well about it. And I wasn't ready for it in the context of my gender transition. I wasn't sure if he saw me as a man, a woman, or something in between, and I wasn't sure which was more painful, more insulting, more offensive. I felt like a nebulous, confused freak who was being judged and compared to a "real man". He made suggestions to her about whether I would feel better about their relationship if he had sex with me too. Yuck.
I'm still sorting out this last part, so I don't know what my point is yet. Just some stuff I've been thinking about.

Chicks With Dicks

Social change is happening really fast these days.

The Rules of Attraction

In the comments to my post New Patterns?, black sissy said,

"Pamela, i totally feel you! Hormones changed me a lot too. I still have a healthy sex drive but it is not overwhelming. It doesn't drive me as much as it bubbles up at times. It takes longer to "do the deed" and often i don't bother to cum because it has become too much work. Plus my skin is softer and giving myself a hand job kinda hurts.

As the hormones do their work over time i find myself "shooting blanks" if i cum at all. Most of the time i think about guys and being held and squeezed and being close.

Keep writing about what's happening with you. This is good stuff."

Thanks for the feedback. This is pretty much EXACTLY what I've experienced. The only difference is that I find myself about 50/50 equally attracted to men and women. (That's a change from about 20/80 before hormones). But when I do fantasize about being with men, it's that same feeling you describe of wanting to be held, squeezed and firmly touched by someone much larger and stronger than me!

You Better Work (Supermodel)

I've thought about doing this kind of post for a long time but I wasn't sure how to approach it until now.
This entry is about all the subconscious stuff that swirls around the idea of finally crossing over and going to work in a skirt and heels...
What will people think? Will they laugh me out the door? Point and scream 'pervert'? Look down on me? Sabotage? Cold shoulder? Will I be sexualized? Fetishized? Judged? Not taken seriously? Demoted to the bottom rung of the identity ladder? Accused of bringing masturbatory habits into the workplace? Banned from both restrooms?
I felt that before I let this out of my subconscious, I had to make sure I was able to articulate the strong difference between reality and fantasy.
Here's the disclaimer:
MOST transgender people get discriminated against in the workforce. In fact, this may be the number one reason that the number of full-time TSes and post-ops is so vanishingly small. Economic forces work strongly against it.

And I think one of the reasons for the discrimination is the aura of "pervert" that hangs around the cultural idea of transgenderism.
That's a reason I hesitated to do this topic until I could find the right way to explain it - I wouldn't want this blog to hurt 'the cause' in any way.
So this blog entry is not about what would really happen with a transsexual/crossdresser/transvestite in the workforce. Rather, it's about what people may worry would happen, in the dark recesses of the subconscious. It's about all those twisted cultural ideas & prejudices already floating around out there, that we pick up on and internalize.
Well, here they are, turned around and spit back out. Sorry if my commentary spoils the show.
Without further ado, on with the program:


Imagine yourself going to work for the first time in a skirt and heels after years of presenting yourself as a man. Everybody wants to take a look. Would you be paralyzed with fear? Constantly adjusting your prissy uncomfortable outfit, and looking in the mirror in self-doubt?





Women's office attire is already fetishized by many men. Imagine what happens when you add a cross-gender element to it.




Is this what people imagine will happen if they let a 'tranny' into the office?
I bet some of you reading this dress up in sexy office outfits and do this in private. My theory is that you do it because the testosterone coursing through your veins causes you to fetishize your internalized repression.




Is this how they'll imagine your morning routine getting dressed...?



...And driving to work?



Would your mere presence cause the men in the office to visualize you 'blowing the boss', or a boyfriend, like they do the other women they work with? Can they handle thinking about you, a formerly male co-worker, in that way?



Do they imagine you run home at the end of a day of 'playing dressup', to 'relax' yourself?



Is sexual harassment the 'best' outcome you can hope for? After all, at least they're firmly acknowledging you as a woman. :/






I leave you with a few glimpses of reality... the girl on the left, above, is how I like to think I'd dress.

Supper Club

Remember Monique from Wild Night At the Tranny Bar II?

I had an interesting dream about her last night.

In the dream, I was at a supper club - the kind with the white tablecloths on round tables, with candles, wine glasses and all that jazz. I spotted some friends way down at the very front, near the stage, left of center. As I approached, I saw one of the people at the table was Monique. She got up from her seat and gave me a big hug and a kiss. Then the kiss turned into us totally making out. In the dream, it was quite hot and delicious.

Then I was sitting in her lap. Between sexy kisses she was gently needling me with little questions - pillow talk in public. And this is interesting - the only question I remember is that she asked me why I showed up there 'disguised as a boy'. I became aware that I was wearing my male professional attire and must have come there straight from work. She was poking at me for still living in two worlds.


Now, dream interpretation: For one, this is notable because I rarely had any erotic dreams before I started taking hormones.
More importantly, though, I think that when I examine what's going on in my mind, I find that to me, Monique strongly represents freedom and youth. Especially gender and sexual freedom.
I've never met anyone transgender who lets it all hang out like she does - and I've definitely learned a couple of life lessons from her - to worry less about what other people think, to be more bold about expressing my desires, to enthusiastically embrace my unorthodox sexuality.
It's too bad the real Monique isn't like the dream Monique.
For one, I'd probably never run into her in a supper club. And she's got a rap sheet. She's a bit rough around the edges - which is definitely part of her charm - but it assuredly means she's not the girl for me.


In other news...
I really need to change the title of this blog.
I'm not Chronically Masturbating anymore now that I'm chemically gender transitioning... and for that matter, it's not really considered 'Crossdressing' at this stage of the game either. I guess I'm still a Pervert though.
I need something with a nice ring to it that reflects my new reality. Any suggestions?
"Fantasies, Dreams and Erotic Reflections Of a Gender Variant Person?"

The Most Beautiful Girl in the World

Reading Jamielin's blog has me reaching for the past.
Was I really 9 years old when I first saw this episode on TV??
Hulu says "Original Air Date: 1/08/1983". 26 years ago?! - egads.
This TV episode, and others like it, left a lasting impression on me. I remember most of it like I just saw it yesterday (all except the forgettable cave scene at the beginning).
I couldn't put it into words yet, but even at that young age, I knew what I wished I could do... to dress up like that and cross the room to the other side of the punch table... with the girls.

New Patterns?

I felt like masturbating last night.

And I realize it's the first time I've had that urge in days, possibly a week or more. That's a big change for me. It used to be twice a day, at the bare minimum. It was really getting in the way of living life, and I don't miss it.
And possibly I only felt like doing it last night because I took a painkiller earlier in the evening to relieve muscle pain and my body felt all relaxed.
In any case, this is a much more manageable level of desire.

Here's another thing that's different - I had to set the mood first. Turn the lights down, get all relaxed, make my environment nice and comfortable. Before, none of that mattered. When I had to do it, I had to do it.

A third thing that was different last night? The kind of stuff that made me feel all squirmy.
I found myself drawn to doing a search for "sexy male torso" on Flickr:






Yum. And yeah, I was picturing myself as that girl in the last pic.

Please discuss.

A New Dawn (Or, What a Difference Hormones Make)

A message from the other side of the prison walls:
Fellow bloggers... TVFA and others, I feel for you. I know the constant pounding sexual need... the wasted energy resisting it... the sense of failure and shame when you give in to it for hours or even days on end, to the exclusion of everything else... and how the feelings twist in on themselves so that even the failure and shame become sexualized.
And now I know what's kept this engine running -
Testosterone.
It's hard to see it when you're in it, or rather when it's in you. But when you take away the testosterone, it's amazing how much clarity you get.
How much time you have on your hands.
How you can finally exhale and relax.
Blessed relief.
My body is still pumping it out. And I can feel that it's still lurking there under the surface - chemically suppressed - waiting to spring forth again if I miss my proper dosages of blockers.
My fear is that something will force me to stop. And I'll be back where I was.
A prisoner again.
But now, I am free.
Free from solitary sexual compulsion & everything that springs forth from it.
And I will fight for that freedom.

Athena - the warrior goddess

Estrogen is another matter entirely.
I love it. I wish I could get even more in me without it chemically converting into testosterone.
Now, I feel a sense of connection to feminine power that's coming from within... rather than imported from without when I was just crossdressing.
I feel the intangible, divine feminine in my body and in my mind.
A stronger awareness of emotions, empathy, intuition. A feeling of being "in" my whole body, not just some parts of it.
I cherish and guard this just as fiercely as I do the freedom from testosterone.

It feels as if I've stepped out of the dark and into the light.
My sexuality feels so much less complicated. The fetishes are gone, and as a woman the fantasies finally make sense.
I'm certainly not chaste. But I'm far from being chronic now.

So for now, I leave you with this thought - a metaphor for what I've experienced from the injection needle:

As you roll over & thrust your hardness
into the long tunnel of my wanting,
seeding it with dreams & unbearable hope,
making memories of the future,
straightening out my crooked past,
teaching me to live in the present present tense.

-Erica Jong