Warm, Worn, Leatherette

I’ve been feeling very hermaphroditic lately. Unlike many a transman, I heart my vagina. I have no intention (today) of tabling it, sewing it up, stuffing it with spare change, or storing my Allen wrenches up there. It gives me a great deal of pleasure and I shan’t part with it.

Nevertheless, it does not make me “feel like a woman.” (Except perhaps in a Grace Jones kind of way, but who can say, really?) I feel very lucky indeed to have multiple penetrable pleasure regions, and yes, I’m including my ear-hole.

Having inhabited on and off, for years, some gray area of kink, I feel rather mutable in many regards. The men I know seem pretty committed to their shtick, whatever it is, but I seem to bounce from Butch Top to fairy to straighty-straight guy to daffodil without any sort of motion sickness whatsoever. And when one is accustomed to being with partners who say things like “I’m the Jolly Green Giant and you’re Mr. Clean and you are going to mop the floor with me” one learns to default to the changeable, chimerical even.

I feel uniquely suited to the vast expanse rather than the finite, is what I’m saying to you.

And vaginas are a vast expanse. Okay, some are. Anyway I was just trying a segue on for size and it is a tad…capacious. I’d like a glass of your best “cavernous vagina.” Sidebar: I have a friend who was told that she had “a cavernous vagina” by a “health professional.” I was once told, by a similarly imaginative nurse person that my “uterus was as big as a house.” It is nowhere near any such size, being, in fact, utterly unremarkable in anything except that it is in a man.

Or is it!? For me, the best possible world would be integration rather than excision. I have the opportunity for successful emergence, for joining the genders, uniting the units as it were. I walk like a man, and I’m beginning to think like one, thanks to testosterone, but I’d surely be hurting myself to believe I ever will actually be a man.

I know this is difficult for some transpeople, and we all have our own row of tubers to hoe, but I feel it is incumbent upon us to not discard what we have been so generously, cruelly, given. To yearn to live in the world as a boy, but be socialized (read: forced) to “act” like a woman is a brutality and a gift. Like alcoholism. If one survives the chaos and unmanageability, one may even have an advantage over other mortals. Any hubris or spiritual arrogance that might attach itself to the idea of the superiority of transpeople is mitigated by the sheer bedlam of living in this bicameral brain in this binary world. To be trans is to be mad, y’all.

But the madness is transportation; it’s a clue. Get on that tranny train and ride around the binary block a bit. Let the wind lift your thinning hair, frolic in your newly wooly eyebrows and nose hairs. You can see now, the sad little snow-globe of gender. Let others be trapped by a winter nostalgia, see the unconscious insistence on imprisonment – the extremists who try to ex the gays or even the palpable discomfort of fellow diners as you enter the room with your equally gendervague partner – you can see the pain they cause themselves as they scan and find no solution, no way to tag, no context for you. Your presence is vertiginous, sinister even. You are Springtime; so funny to think that a couple of pansies such as yourselves could initiate such a response.

Transitioning is the LSD of gender. Turn on, tune in, drop out of confinement. I’m a dude with a pussy, you’re goddamned right. I accept that stupidity and violence are human nature, and I insist that expansion and evolution are equally urgent needs of that same nature. My nature may ensure I call you my new favorite curse word, “cuntsack” (a nice amalgam of cunt and ball sack, if I do say so myself, and I do.), when you forget to use your turn signal, but if we meet in person I should like to hand you a moustache or some fake boobs, and say “check this shit out; it’s hilarious!”

And really, check this shit out. It’s hilarious.