Sometimes I feel like I’m slapping myself upside the face with my own shlong. I feel just as stupid and clueless as I imagine a man can feel, rendered ever more helpless by the overarching urge. I’m leaden like a paperweight in the head yet emboldened like a fire-dancer in the pants.
Ah, the effervescent yodel of testosterone in the groinal regions.
Immersed in the realm of the transgendered, is where I’ve been. Traveling to and fro, hither and yon, for coffees, dinners, group shares, cupcakes and board games, dates. We’re an often blurry gang of folk, being neither here nor there, yet clearly in a place of our own. The blur is that in this trans-space/time we create, non-trans people may be incapable of focusing on us. Even other trans-people may have to squint. Nonetheless, there we are, vibrating like a fantastic sexual Easter egg, pastel and perhaps sequined, for your delectation. Or not.
I don’t want to be part of a group. I never have. But I have found my own survival often depends on it; to stay in the center of the herd is to perhaps not be swung by the entrails by some larger, less friendly beast on the edges. Typically the less friendly beast is whatever dreary tune is top ten in my head. A fine example might be “Who Will Love Me in a Body Like That?”
Echoing my fears were the brave men, women, and beyond at the tranny Round Table last night. How bold, how chivalric, how generous to share aloud our fears of unlovability! Who will love me in a body like this? Who do I love?
There’s something so magnetic about that mantra, so compelling. It’s the Minotaur in the center of our labyrinth, waiting to flog us with our own purse, beat us with our European man-bag. Interesting that a minotaur should mock the body of another. I know I’ve wrung my own hands, watching with despair as I succumbed to the unpluckable charms of another straight girl, feeling doomed like Tantalus to stand in pool of water that recedes every time I kneel to drink. I wasn’t interested in straight girls until I got my T on, which is hilarious only because my last two partners were heterosexual.
So I’m listening to these humans, sorting out their fears and their desires, and I’m reminded that people are either into me or they’re not, and I have no control over that, AND, it’s unpredictable. Every time a straight woman’s “gone south” on me I’ve had that moment of terror: oh, here comes the gag, but it’s never happened. Whatever they had fallen for in me seemed to make all my parts palatable, if not downright delicious for them.
As for my own desire, I had this mix-tape jammed in the boombox, that it was girly women I had to have, femmy-femmes. I had begun to create this narrative about high-maintenance chicklets, and my penchant for them. I had donned the headphones of painful, if glittery, limitation.
You could practically feel it in the room last night, the collective and icy breath of a future alone, unloved, unloving. “I’m a man and I want to love men, but who will love me without a penis?” “I’m a man in a relationship with a lesbian who wants her lover back, wants her woman back.” “I’m a woman with a penis; what man will love this body?”
I had to unclench my own claws around ideas of what love should look like. Why this need to define, always, my desire, my focus? “I like femme women.” Oh, really?! Granted, most of my partners have been more “feminine” than me, and certainly femininity has fetishistic elements for me. It’s so exotic. I really don’t get it. Also, I love when a feminine person punches my masculine card. It’s a total hard-on.
But the truth is more delicious, more fluid. I climbed atop the conical
Thank the gods I land in the arms of another. This other is perhaps a boy, perhaps a girl, maybe even a man. I don’t get to know what love looks like. Peen or no peen, puss or not puss, the sweetness is in our relating, your finger on my pulse, my hand on your forehead. We know what each other’s temperature is: it’s HOT. I find myself, in this trans-place, open to another kind of experience entirely, one of a gender so kaleidoscopic, so acrobatic, I can only hang on for the ride. Once I limit myself to an idea of desire, I’ve fallen into the net again, and the ride is over, the big-top falls down. My desire is HUGE. It’s astronomical. Sir Isaac Newton will tell you it’s attracting everything, all the time, and it’s attracted to everything, all the time. I’m on some tranny ellipse, pulled towards your sun and I hope it’ll be scorching, scorching hot. I like that you’re wearing boxers, I like that you have breasts, I love your hairy ass, I’m hot for your estrogenically reduced dick, your hormonally enhanced clit. It’s you I love, and me you’re hot for. Me. Always and forever, in trans-time and space, amen.
Brothers, Sisters, Others, let's be Lovers.
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