Celebrate Good Times

The results are in, I most definitely have more hair on my face. (Yes, yes, S was entirely correct.)  To call them whiskers would be more than a stretch, but there is more, it’s thicker, and it is slightly darker. Not dark, especially compared to my hair, but its darker than the peach fuzz anyone can grow. It isn’t even very prickly. Actually in order to see it, you’d have to be damn close to my face, but hey, it’s there and so I feel like celebrating.

My celebration? Writing a blog entry of course.

I mean, I’d kick back with a bottle of wine but as I’m trying to motivate myself to get my ass out of bed and to the gym more in the mornings, I’m holding off on that. At least my liver will be happy. My blood tests for my three-month appointment went well, at least the going in and getting my blood drawn did. The tests I won’t find out about until my appointment, but I was in and out within fifteen minutes, probably a good deal less. Everything went smoothly, they were quick and professional, and it only took one jab into my arm.

In other exciting news, my period is late. This (lack of) event is especially exciting as my period has never been late before. Ever. Since the day I got it, I have bled on a perfectly timed schedule, the only thing that changed was how long it lasted. As jealous as some of my friends have been of this, mentally knowing it was coming was almost as hellish as getting it was. But now, it is late. I don’t want to jinx it, but signs point to hopeful!

Next entry is probably going to be another lovely story. Been pondering this one a while, we’ll see how it goes.

Shaving- No Romantics Here

My goal for this blog was roughly 3 updates per month, knowing how bad I am at keeping stuff like this up. I’m proud to have surpassed my expectations.

Shaving was never something I looked forward to. It is the unfortunate by-product of facial hair, which is something I have not only been looking forward to but am anxiously awaiting it to arrive. Some people never really grow much facial hair, cisguys, transguys, whoever. I hope that I will not be one of them, who after years and years of trying, can’t get anything more than a patchy, scraggly excuse for… well… anything. Looking at my family, I probably don’t have anything to worry about. Either way it ends up going, I’ve been scanning my face frequently for signs of whiskers, or bad acne, one with hope, the other with resigned dread. So far, I’ve actually been lucky on both counts.

But was it really a whisker or two? Or even more that were coming in? I couldn’t be certain, because some of it may just have been wishful thinking on my part. Thus, I decided to shave.

This morning was not the first time I’ve shaved my face, nor will it be the last. I do not like it. Maybe I had that enamoured “Holy crap, I’m shaving my face” the first or second time I did it, but despite the fact that “peach fuzz” detracts from ‘passing’ I quickly avoided shaving. I quit shaving my legs, after a few arguments with my mother over this, for one simple reason: it took way too much time. Gender only really factored in with respect to the fact that I had no reason TO shave, other than appeasing my mother. Smooth legs can be fun, regardless of gender presentation. Back to my face, however, I decided to shave to see how much of what I was seeing was me looking with rose-tinted glasses, and how much was genuine. Shaving one’s face may cover less area, may not involve having to navigate annoying things like knees and ankles, but is far more annoying and difficult. If it was just about ease of shaving, and time, I’d take legs over face any day.

At least, my shaving cream and razor seem to do the trick without too much in the way of razor burn or other such unfortunate things. Maybe it’s because I only shave on rare occasions, but so far the double-bladed razor and the cream are quite great. Though the razor was originally a pain in the ass to find, as I wanted only two blades, not three or four. I mean, I didn’t even have whiskers, there is no reason for me to be scraping up my skin that much. Though one of these days I should get an aftershave balm. Gotta look into that…

I’ll update more on the whisker results are once I’ve had a chance to figure it out myself.

In other news, very little physical changes to update on, other than quite mild acne, but still a step up from before. Still same-ish sizes, and thus I’m assuming height and weight as well. One of the most important things will be tested this week, namely whether or not I get my period. Here’s to hoping it shall not arrive.

Slickly Ironic

The other day, I saw my friend Q, who has had a less than stellar sex life recently. A lot of the reasons behind that are medical, but a while ago we had a conversation about how her gynecologist recommended she and her boy use lube. Actually her gynecologist recommended KY, to which I responded “WHAT?!” and proceeded to explain why she didn’t want to use glycerin water-based lubes. So she got the one KY that was glycerin free, and left it at that not wanting to risk trying something she really didn’t know anything about. So when I saw her, I gave her a packet of information I had grabbed on various lubricants, and a sampler pack (both from A Woman’s Touch and a lot of that/all of that info is online) to expand her horizons. I figured she’d appreciate it, and maybe then would listen to me about how much better stuff was out there.

The day after I saw Q, I got a call. This was rather unexpected, as she is rather busy and stressed. She called to say thank you. Actually, it bordered on shouting. Apparently, I am a life saver. Yes, her phrasing. It was really great to hear, because her voice radiated with the sounds of “I had amazing sex last night,” and it was literally due to me. This was music to my ears, because quite frankly as much as I love Q, that is about as close to sex with her I ever want to come. (Or rather, I don’t want to come. That’s the point. Hush you all, I’m in puberty, I’m allowed to make terrible sex jokes.)

It is amazing what a sex positive friend can do, eh?

That night, however, the tables of life had turned. It was the day of my shot, and one of the side-effects of T that I had heard about, but never experienced, was dryness. I figured it wasn’t going to affect me like that, because though it had occasionally happened in the past, since I started testosterone I’ve rather been in the reverse shoes. S has gotten to always have me very wet until that night. Despite our trips to some fabulous sex stores, despite S and I both having lots of history, neither of us had lube. Despite being horny as fuck, despite her getting me more and more turned on, I stayed dry. And we had no lube to make things go smoother, and generally a bit more fun. Just after saving Q’s life, I managed to not have any around for myself. On the other hand, I am now on a mission to make sure this never happens again, but still… Grawr.

Even more frustrating to me, was that S seemed worried about it at the time because I had never been that dry with her before. That dry? Who am I kidding, I was all but a desert. She read it, probably, as me not being very turned on. And so while I was frustrated about my body’s lack of response to me being very turned on, I was also frustrated that S didn’t know how turned on I was, as well as being frustrated at our lack of preparation in the form of lubricant. Despite all those frustrations, S still got me off, and in quite a good way. But having to tell her that no, I am turned on, T can do that to me, was… uncomfortable.

I’m someone who is really body shy. I know, shocking, right? A tranny uncomfortable with their body is UNHEARD of… ok, dropping the sarcasm. Maybe. But really, it isn’t that I’m unattractive, maybe that would be easier on me. It is the disconnect between me and my body. That was one of the first, if not the first, night my pants were off with S. That alone has me incredibly self-conscious. Needing to explain that I’m actually turned on, that me being dry was a side-effect of T, took a lot from me.

I’m not used to a relationship where I can actually bring myself to say things like that at that kind of time. Either I let people assume things and don’t say anything at all, or I end up doing self-destructive things to avoid ever talking. I’m not used to talking this much anymore. The communication is surprisingly good… if draining.

Things to remember- T can make me dry. Always have lube. Spread the lube word.

Passing, Privilege, and Other Dangers

Passing means taking on male privilege, male roles, and generally being a “man” in the eyes of others. They may be strangers, it may last for only a minute, but in the end passing means becoming a man to other people. That is both the reason I am transitioning, and my biggest fear. I’m a white American, and to be a white American and a man in the eyes of others? There is danger there.

Not just the dangers that come from passing, and then being “discovered” and getting assaulted, but the danger of letting the privilege become my own. I don’t deny that I will gain a lot of opportunities, and that having other people read me as a man means that the way I interact with the world will change, as will my positionality with regards to the “others” of our society. The better I pass, the more it will seem I am not one of those “others.” I don’t want that, exactly. I want people to see me the way I want to be seen, strong, athletic, and more male bodied, I want my presentation to be close to what I see in myself. But that comes with the price of taking on the dominant position in society, and I cannot deny that. FtMs, transguys, etc., are granted the appearance of dominance, of privilege, and many are content to simply maintain that position. But I’m not one of those guys.

I am trying to find the line I am comfortable with walking, between accepting that my changed appearance will grant me a more dominant position in society, and rejecting holding that position. Refusing to acknowledge what passing as a man means is a disservice to myself, the people I care about, and the subversive subcultures that I love. But I don’t want that position to become my own, I want to subvert that position.

The danger in passing successfully is not challenging the norms that still make me incredibly insecure. The norms that give me anxiety attacks, make me so body-shy I can barely take my shirt off, have me wondering if since I’m a freak that makes me undesirable, all those norms I want to go rot in a grave, and passing supports them in a way. Yet, by passing I can subvert in new ways, and from a position of self-confidence that I do not, can not, get without transition.

How well I pass depends a lot on where in the country I am. In the Northeast, it is much harder for me to pass than in, say, the Midwest or the South. Except it I am also risking a lot less in the Northeast, because in those fly over states that range over so much of the country, picking which bathroom at a gas station turns into a serious consideration over whether or not I’m going to get my ass kicked. Each time I step inside, that goes through my head. I keep it at getting my ass kicked because honestly I simply I’m not usually up for being so worst case scenario that I go to the actual logical, and possible, extreme.

So when walking into a gas station, I intentionally put my hoodie on to help hide my chest. I mean yes, I want to mess with people’s notions of gender, fuck with the boundaries, and generally get people thinking beyond what they know. Yes, I want that. But I also want to not get a bloody nose, a kick in the stomach, let alone broken limbs or other such unpleasantries, because I know far too well that it could get far worse. So I dig out and put on my hoodie. It hides the lines, and so what if I look 14?

There are many dangers with passing, with testosterone, with taking on the white male position in this society, especially with the express intent of undermining that position. I can pass, and not just for male, but for abled as well. Being FtM and dating mostly ciswomen means I can pass as straight. I have to “come out” to disrupt those narratives that society weaves about me, in order to voice my own story. My voice won’t be heard when I pass, because passing silences parts of myself as well.

So I am trying to find the line, and figure out what kind of man I want others to see when they look at me. I’m trying to figure out what passing really means for myself, and how to still be subversive little me when what others see is another white guy, assuming straight, able bodied, able minded. Well… probably not assuming I’m straight, even when I pass, people assume I’m a fag (the upside is that it makes it easy to pick up guys,) but still, the point remains.

What kind of man do I want to present, that isn’t a form of betrayal to myself?

A Totally Badass Shot and Sex Stores

I just did my most badass shot ever. It was in the parking lot of a Taco Bell in the middle of Wisconsin. Yeah, somewhere in the state of Wisconsin.

See, I like to do my shot sometime between 4:15 and 5pm. Rather strict about that actually, and so we pulled over and I got out my stuff. S had to help because my car is not exactly conducive to a flat, laid out space, which is what I’m used to. She held things as I needed them, like bottles, and my syringe while I was prepping my ass. Surprisingly, the shot went better than many of mine recently, because though it hurt, which is rare, it also didn’t bleed at all, not even a little red bead.

Things I’ve learned about T from shooting up-

• The needles like their caps better than the syringe. It takes fighting to get the cap off occasionally, and in the process I may jab myself in the face.
• No matter how high your sex drive is, it can always go up.
• Injection site irritation must be ignored, as scratching one’s ass in public is usually frowned upon.
• I really do pass more.

I’ve been thinking a lot about what I want to do with my life. Going from sex positive store to sex positive store and seeing all these potential resources and books has been a really incredible experience. They have so much fabulous information, so many great books, but not a single one about being FtM. There were books on those on the MtF side of things– cross-dressers, transsexuals, transvestites, trannies, transwomen, etc.– but none on drag kings, and others born with a more female anatomy, unless it is more along the lines of Fairy Butch’s The Ultimate Guide to Strap On Sex. That made me wonder, would anyone buy such a book? Would people want to read about, would FtM, transguys, etc. want to buy a book, going into how to navigate sex with an alternative gender? Maybe it needs to be broader, maybe more narrow, but its a thought for a project.

I’ve decided I want to find a way to work with sex for a living. Preferably through education somehow. Maybe something will come from that idea of a project, maybe not, but its something to think about…

Noticable Changes

Today I went, “Oh shit, THAT’s different.”

Testosterone has had noticeable effects on my sexual drive and reactions. It has had some effect on my hunger drive, but that was already spastic. But now I’m starting to see the effects visually, and it makes me happy.

This morning I looked down at my arm and went, “The muscle tone is different… oh!” Yeah, I’m on T, and it is starting to show. That moment this morning makes things worth it. Makes things like my brain turning into a spastic teenager, my hunger drive going haywire, my sex drive increasing exponentially, and the potential for me loosing my ability to be multi-orgasmic, T is worth all of it.

I have more energy. I mean, sure part of that is probably the fact spring is finally arriving, the days are longer, and I’m noticeably effected by the seasons. Yet, I can tell it is beyond just seasonal energy.

I’m still about 5’8, and 150 lbs. Still benching about 50lbs but that’s mostly because I have not been weight lifting as consistently as last semester… But my neck has started to grow a bit, and my leg hair is starting to get darker, though otherwise I’m not noticing much changes with my hair. No change in shirt size, which is good because I can’t really afford to need a new wardrobe at the moment.

I want it to move faster. I want the redistribution of body fat now, and not later. I want to look down and feel less disconcerted. This week was really hard, because my period hasn’t stopped yet, and that throws me for  a massive loop. This time it was worse. I’m not sure if that is because I had a chance at not getting it this time, or just that it stood in such sharp contrast to how I am changing, but it was mentally worse than usual. The cramps were less painful, and generally all the physical aspects were not as bad, as if I had downgraded my period. But it was so much harder to deal with this time, and made me far less comfortable with myself than normal. I don’t want it to come back.

Relearning Body

Transition means one really major thing that I’m not very good at: I need to relearn my own body. It takes me a lot of time, and over-thinking, to accept what is there.

By my own hand, the accepted is changing and new things are cropping up.

In high school I remember teasing back and forth with my closest friend at the time about our “roadkill” chests during sports, pressed as they were by bras. Except, that entire set of joking was also a massive problem in my head. My chest was distinctly bigger, hell we used to joke that she would give me two inches of height, and I’d give her two inches of chest. I got my two inches more of height, she got her chest, except I’m still stuck with mine. In fact, it grew more, and when it did I flipped out. My depression got really bad that year, and it effected my relationships, though I never actually told my girlfriend of the time how much of it was body issues. But on one level, I was proud that my chest wasn’t small, because it made me look hot. On one level, I was proud of my curves. Mostly because I already knew it was temporary. Yet, when my chest grew, I wondered if I would ever make it to the point in my life where I could get surgery.

My hips growing gave me far greater pause. My hips are something I’ve never been proud of, despite showing them off on occasion. My chest, it’s fun while I have it, and will be gone within a decade (or it had better.) I had a really androgynous frame, my hips didn’t really grow until college, and when they did I distinctly went into denial. I didn’t care my pants didn’t fit, even though they were so tight on my hips they hurt. Then I split the side seam, and right in front of my girlfriend at the time. So, she dragged me out to buy new pants, and it was one more hellish moment in a summer of insecurities.

Except the hips can’t be changed, and I knew that. I settled down into relearning my body, and how to walk, how to bind. Working out became rare, as one coping mechanism I had for dealing with my body was never wearing clothes that would show it off like that, thus no gym. This was one of my more idiotic ideas, as I feel like shit when out of shape, and losing muscle is not the best way to present more masculine. As I said, bad idea. At least I’ve been undoing that one.

So, I’m relearning my body. So, I’ve been working out. But it isn’t just hips, muscles, breasts, and height. It’s voice, it’s scent, it’s my reactions.

I’ve been having sex consistently since junior year of high school, because despite how much I bitch and moan when I’m not getting laid, I really haven’t had much longer than a six month break since then. Or maybe a few… but still, surprisingly consistently considering that I don’t pick people up, but let them come to me. But that insecurity is for another entry. Regardless, I have to relearn my reactions, and more importantly how to handle my reactions. Some things haven’t changed, like my neck, my enjoyment of pain, like the fact I can melt into a puddle of pleasure/pain, and just ride it out. But some things have… and the fact that I can masturbate is part of it. I can’t handle things the way I used to, because since starting T I’ve gotten way more sensitive.

Direct stimulation of my clit feels completely different from how it used to. When I’m not turned on, it does less than before T When I am turned on, it does a hell of a lot more. Sure, part of this could be that I’m actually more ok with my body because I’m finally transitioning, but the marked difference is beyond that explanation. Even the remarkably good chemistry with S doesn’t account for the difference. Sex is different already. It’s more intense, which though they warned me of I didn’t realize this is what they meant. I didn’t realize I’d get so sensitive I couldn’t handle stimulation after a certain point, that I’d go that much further… lose that much more of myself…

Admittedly needing to relearn myself because a girl is so good with her hands, that I don’t know how to handle it, is a rather wonderful issue to have. Just… strange. Finally changes that I want, changes that I like… Finally I’m relearning my body in a positive way.