The first time through puberty I got incredibly lucky. I had great skin, from day one through the bitchy days of middle school and the angst-ridden days of high school. Acne was never a major problem, except sometimes on the backs of my arms. But my face? I rarely got zits. My back, never. So here is a demonic duck to express my frustration.
I knew that acne would come with T. I knew that, I had been told that, and naively thought because I got so lucky the first time through that it would be the same this time. S and C are probably shaking their heads, laughing at me, because even though I have been dealing the worst acne of my life, it isn’t that bad. I haven’t felt the need to go to the dermatologist, so long as I scrub my face a few times a day with acne wash, and every other day with a deeper exfoliant.
No, the pet peeve are zits just inside my nostril. They hurt. Moreover, I have pretty terrible allergies, and so every time I blow my nose, it hurts even more.
It drives me crazy. It annoys me endlessly, or at least until it goes away again. I know I’m lucky, I’ve never needed Accutane, and I still barely get break outs on my back. My arms have also been calm this time through, so that’s better than last time. I know I’m lucky but it is still driving me crazy. Because it isn’t angering, it is incredibly annoying, constant, and every time one goes away, within a week another one appears at my nostrils. Recurring, highly frustrating… yup, pet peeve of T.
Generally speaking, acne also makes shaving a pain in the ass. Or perhaps more accurately it is a pain in the face, as it makes cutting so much more likely. Shaving is difficult enough, but adding painful bumps I have to dodge just makes it worse. At least I have some whiskers to shave, right? Still…
I don’t remember how I got the scar on my back. It is apparently a nice, slightly curved white line on my back, acquired sometime in the last few years. C noticed it about a year ago, and we then had a delightful conversation where she denied being the one to leave it, but I really cannot believe it was anyone else…
Since high school, I’ve frequently had rather large hickies on my neck. After breakups especially, the marks on my neck would garner lots of questions. I’m easy to mark. Only one person has ever managed to avoid marking my neck, and ironically that was unintentional. As much as S does leave marks on my neck, she tends not to leave them other places. That isn’t as true the other way around.
The jersey sheets are soft under my bare body, and sit facing S, her back to me. Her hands rest behind her at her ass, tied together at the wrist. Her hands rested right in front of my clit and would sometimes brush against me lightly. I was so turned on, so wet. She told me she was more submissive. She asked to be tied up, and at some point I slid into that place in my head, at some point I started to enter my dominant mode that night in a way that I hadn’t in months. It wasn’t that I wanted to top her, that I wanted control, it wasn’t want. It was simply there.
Her back had red lines from my nails. I drew them across again, both hands scratching at her back from top to bottom, side to side, crossing, sometimes a straight pattern, sometimes serpentine. Over and again, I scratched her back until the lines faded into a sea of red, texturized skin. My nails ran across her arms, her legs, her inner thighs, up her chest and to her neck. I wondered how much would be visible the next day. I wanted those marks to show when she wore her swimsuit the next day at the pool. My nails would return, again, to her back, feel the heat coming off of it. Sometimes I’d let my hands just gently run across her back, a soothing motion in contrast with my frequently quick scratches.
Her fingers would sometimes graze my inner lips, but never with confidence. I relished the hesitation. Each time my nails dragged across her skin, I could feel her skin resist, and occasionally break open to the next layer. My nails I know, know how to draw blood, avoid blood, know how to scrap, how to claw. My nails I know, it was her reactions I was learning. Her sighs, her quick intakes of breath, I’m learning her reactions. Each swipe of my nails across her skin, I controlled my actions and reveled in her responses, even in her silence.
She is a first. I have drawn my nails and painted red, raised lines all over backs before, but never did I scratch an entire back into a canvas of red skin. I have drawn blood before, but never felt a sense of control over my nails like that moment. I knew the instrument, I knew the recipient, and I knew my mind. More than anything S is the first to bring out the desire, almost a craving, to mark. I want to mark her.
So that the next day when she put on her swimsuit, there would be evidence of my nails for any to see.
Marking isn’t about ownership to me. It is about the power to leave the mark at all, about the reminder later of the moment, it is about the knowledge that the marks are there to see. Even when the marks are hidden under clothing, they is the potential for them to be revealed.
It wasn’t what S wanted that night, not really, and I knew that. But we need to find our own ways of playing with power with each other. I need to be comfortable, sure of myself, in what I’m doing to her in order to dom. So the first time I wield her cane or flogger, I am not sure. I need time to get used to a flogger, especially one of a very different weight than I’m used to. I need time to learn how to use a cane. So the first time, I’m not going to get into the right mindset. But my nails, I know my nails, and their effects on skin. We need to talk more, need to work with D/s, need to find our way into power play for ourselves. I need to learn how to get into my head without having to really know my tools, because I want to learn those tools.
Days later my fingers trace the raised marks, and again even about a week later. I smile and kiss her. I have to restrain myself, not drag my nails across her upper back, not down her spine, or tracing her shoulder blades, to make sure I don’t break open the healing, red lines. Days later I trace the raised marks and smile.
I managed to accidently get tested for HIV. I was sitting in my three-month appointment, and we were going over my blood tests, and we were talking about STIs. He asked when the last time I was tested for HIV, I said high school, and he basically said at some point soon I should get tested again, but since I’m so low risk (sleeping predominantly with women) that I didn’t need to worry about it. “Oh, nevermind. You’re HIV negative. Apparently I had you tested.”
Well, thanks? I mean, good to know, but next time let me know a little more obviously, okay?
Regardless, I’m finally up to a full dose of testosterone. The changes will come faster, my period should stop. I can become the adult I’ve always wanted to be, a strange conglomeration of truth and lie. For me, passing in all its problems is the reality. Because the person I want to come is someone who passes, who seems to be another able-bodied, white, straight, secular male. Not because I want to occupy the space of white men in American society, but because the body that is most me seems to be all those things, but I am so much more. People who look at me don’t see my ADHD, they will not see that I was raised as a girl who was good in math, who played sports, that tomboy was the first identity I ever embraced. They won’t see the history of activism, the kinky desires, if they see my desires they will probably see me dating women, as that is who I tend to go for. I will pass, and here it is the term passing, because I will pass for something I am not. I am white, but not a man. But the ability to pass as a man will be power I have, and something I can use in radical ways.
There are spaces where only women are allowed. Some, are only “women born women,” excluding transwomen. Some explicitly make sure to include transwomen, and some even include transmen. Basically some of these spaces boil down to less a woman’s space and more “No Cis-males allowed.” Which in and of itself is incredibly problematic, but what is worse is that those spaces are still needed. Those spaces really boil down to spaces of no “male privilege” (which doesn’t address the other forms of privilege there, surrounding race, class, abledness, age, etc.) because there is an extent to which banning cis-men is the only way people see that it is possible to create such a space. But many people hold male privilege, not just men, and not all men hold male privilege. Until those lines are more blurred there really is no way to distinguish though. That is one of those assumptions that I really seek to help upset. Just… so much to do. Because I’m one of those people who isn’t content to just let things be, because “the status is not quo” I need to do something with my changing positionality of power. As time goes on, and I pass more, I need to start learning how to function as a(n apparent) guy, and a straight one no less. Well, I read very gay… so maybe I won’t have to jump that hurdle just yet.
Last night, a friend I haven’t seen in a month asked if I was sick, had a sore throat. “No…” And then we realized, my voice is finally changing that much. C commented that she noticed in the voicemail I left that my voice was lower. I’ve been noticing as I (attempt and fail to) sing. It is really great, but it is definitely strange to listen to myself.
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.
“Sex (the act) and gender (the classification) are different, and depending on the qualifier one is using for gender differentiation, they may or may not be dependant on one another.” -Kate Bornstein
I prefer to paraphrase this quote as thus, “Sex is an act, everything else is gender.” Mostly because I swear that was in her book somewhere as well. I could well be wrong.
Sex and sexuality is difficult for me. Yes, I love sex. I have not always had a healthy relationship with sex, but we’ve gotten better, through hard work and communication. But, define sex? Very frequently the question, or want, of penetration arises and not every circumstance grants the time to explain properly. Penetration can be amazing, but it always hurts both physically and mentally. So no matter how much I may want that pain, it could very easily send me back into another spiral of self-destruction down to the rock where I don’t recall how to say “no.” Bad enough for anyone…
He was small, luckily. Even fully hard, there wasn’t much to go off of. Which was good, because in that grimy bathroom stall we had no extra lube besides what came with the condom. He began to rub against my ass when the knock came on the door… and we were kicked out with no time to actually continue, and my head spinning with self-destruction. His breath on my neck, his hands under my shirt and against my hips, I was there to keep him off my friend. I was there to dig myself deeper into a hole, deeper into memory, flashbacks, misery, and destruction. He was there to get laid.
Her hands slid down my pants, my mind drifted. Went over how I planned on getting dinner once this was done, stared at the signs glowing in the dark, thought about how in this corner of the parking lot, no cop would come over and knock. They never had before. Two fingers ground into me, this time three just wouldn’t fit. Two fingers ground, and it hurt. The best part of the whole event was the pain, the only real turn on came from the fact I wasn’t turned on. Two of her fat fingers ground into me, grinding because I wasn’t wet enough, because I didn’t want her, didn’t like her, didn’t love her, had no chemistry with her, and wasn’t attracted to her. Two fingers ground into me because it caused far more pain to say no. I had learned to regret no.
Please, I whisper. Are you sure? Her eyes flare with concern and knowledge. Yes, go inside, please… Her hand grazes down my skin, and that flash of pain, and I pull her close, pull her in. The pain was sharp, then flattened, but even dulled it seared my mind. It hurt, HURT, and the pain blacked out everything in the room except for just us, clasped together by my arms. Her concern made the pain sweet, her knowing me that well made it more intimate, and her passion made it hurt all the more. The pain grounded me, drove me, and as only happens on rare occasions with penetration, the pain solidified me as myself. Yes, please. Yes… yes.
Bad enough for anyone, let alone little tranny me with a history far too long. Mindfucks can be a ton of fun with the proper person/people and aftercare, but penetration is frequently the other kind. The kind of mindfuck that sends me into a questioning of my identity. Penetration messes with my sense of self, reminding me of things like hips and curves, reminding me that I was born female.
In and out, in and out. Really, after all these years you couldn’t learn how to please someone with a cunt? Ok, so maybe I should have said, pick ANY word but pussy to call it. But really, in and out, in and out just isn’t enough. Ever heard of a clit? I got off more sucking on you than with your finger in me. With you pushing my head down, making me suck on you, some guy, that random guy I don’t know, picked up in some bar. I got off more on that, until your fingers sliding in and out reminded me… No, no, no, no… and I realized that my past is still gazing at me in my mind. I got off more on that until your voice used his words, until your fingers felt like hers, until I finally kicked you out then curled up in my bed to cry. What kind of guy can’t even take home a hook-up? What kind of weakling am I?
I’m not computer illiterate, but I have yet to figure out how to do a voice recording, but I will before my first shot. Need something to commemorate this pre-change… Or at least get me to be able to see the differences.
I am starting to get nervous about going on T. I’m looking forward to most of it, minus the higher risk for cardiovascular disease and potential male-patterned balding… but part of me fears that it will change the way people, especially C, feel about me. She claims it won’t, which never actually made me feel any better. She says she’ll have to adjust but that her feelings won’t change, and I still worry. Despite all the history there, and now total support, part of me still remembers when she would completely shut down on me at the mere mention of a binder. Yet, when S says “this is going to be fun once your voice starts changing” suddenly I am confident that not only can I go on T, not only should I go on T, but that someone besides me could be excited about it.
Excited, and interested beyond just as a friend…
Now though, I keep thinking about the differences this could mean in my power relations with others. What does it mean when I refuse to change who I am to become more of a “man” once I’m actually passing? As in, what does it mean that I am not going to force myself to drink whiskey or beer, act like an ass, or take space from others around me? What does it mean that I’m going on T, but enjoy clawing someone’s back past bleeding… and that someone is a girl?
So things to think, places to go.
Until next time, I can bench 50lbs, I am about 5’8, and somewhere around 145, 150 lbs. My arms are fuzzy, but its blond. Got a few dark freckles scatter across my arms, probably cuz I’m so pale from working inside these days. My wrists are small, as is my neck. I’m still fitting into small-sized shirts. I’m all arms and legs though. So maybe soon I can start looking at shirts with a neck size larger than 14 1/2.
Time to sleep though, long day tomorrow.