hold me
spoon me
you can be the big one
if you want
slap my face
harder
let me be your good girl
shove my head
closer to your cunt
my hair is the handle
make yourself come
with my tongue
and my lips
here for you to use
fill me with your hand
or your cock
still yours
whether you wear it or not
kiss me sweetly
kiss me rough
it doesn’t matter
since it’s only ever make-believe
since it’s only wishes and longing
since it’s only me
alone
single
and fucked (except not)
For those who may read me over here and haven’t yet taken a look — I had the delight and privilege of modeling for my amazing artist friend to do a photo shoot of me recently!
Check out her pictures of me here — 52 Pickup – 9 of Diamonds “Graffiti”. — and the rest of the incredible art on her blog, http://mimart.wordpress.com
Sure, I’m probably biased, but that doesn’t mean it’s any less true when I say she’s talented and awesome…
Take a look!
Last night I spent a few hours in a room where the overwhelming majority of the people were women or at least “femme of center,” many of them lesbian, in a space intentionally designated as “feminist, anti-racist, anti-homophobic, anti-transphobic, anti-body-shaming, anti-all-that-other-bullshit.”
Had a chance to watch and listen to many astounding performers, and also got to rock the mic myself.
Got my hair braided for the first time ever (the girl who did it said she’d be gentle for my very first time… I said, “no, please — rough me up and make it hurt!”)
Shared some touch and contact — brief, but enough to remind me how drastically touch-starved I am, and was in enough control of myself to decline an invitation to a slow-dance party everyone was headed to because I didn’t trust myself to respect boundaries and wasn’t going to put myself in a potentially compromising position.
Passed around witty, gutter-dirty banter with other women whose minds are as smutty as my own, laughed, sighed, smiled, swooned, near-wept, felt more than I have in far too long…
And it was only after the night of sleep that it occurred to me how rare it is for me to be anywhere that isn’t a male-dominated space, someplace I don’t feel smothered by masculine energies… because, between the excitement of the other performers and my own anxious anticipation, I hadn’t thought about anything more significant than “this is where I belong!”
Yesterday overall was pretty damn kick-ass, actually!
Got up early, left a bitchy, bitingly sarcastic note for the spoiled-rotten wealthy girl-child along with one-third of the internet bill (even though there are 4 people who live here, only 3 pay towards rent or electricity or water or internet…) I’m done being kind and polite to those who kick me down, insult me, blame me for their problems and then expect me to come groveling at their feet for more. You fuck with me, I fuck right back, and I take shit from nobody.
Traveled by bus to Vallejo, got the money my mom left in my account to make up for the check that never arrived in the mail, stopped at the little Chinese food place next to the bank and was touched that the woman there remembered me when it’s been almost 2 years since I dropped in… the little things bring the biggest smiles!
Crashed at the waterfront coffee shop for a bit, my once-upon-a-time time-killing spot, and caught up with a couple of the folks still working there… chatted with a couple strangers, one of whom had previously seen me at the open-mic event there. Someone mentioned the upcoming “holiday” on the 14th, and I made my perennial quip about “Oh, you mean Singles’ Awareness Day, S.A.D. for short!”
When I said I was taking a break after my last couple of girlfriends being… less than fantastic, shall we say… this guy asked me, “So, if you’ve had such bad luck with women, have you ever considered trying men instead?” I wish I’d been more quick-thinking in choosing my reply; I used that as a segue to come out as transgender, with “Nah, trust me — I used to be one, and I’m not interested.” I wish I’d thought to point out how fucking stupid that line is by turning it around on him, since he was clearly using it as a pickup line after just mentioning that he was single — asking him why he hasn’t “tried” being gay if he doesn’t have a woman right now. Ah well. Stupid is everywhere, you can’t avoid it. Best you can do is learn to laugh at it and keep moving!
Also managed to stop by a couple other old haunts, said hello to a few friends I haven’t seen in near-forever, and on the BART ride back home I got to listen to the beautiful song of French being spoken by a lovely couple behind me… which also reminded me to put a few particular songs on my phone to play when I’m out and about!
Ended the night in the company of a great friend who was celebrating the beginning of yet another year on this crazy little spinning ball we call home, met a couple of his friends and had a couple drinks, then came home and slept.
Any tonight…. oh! Tonight is going to be even more fun than the last!
It apparently comes as a surprise to many people when I tell them that I haven’t actually had much sex.
Maybe it’s because I’m open and comfortable with my sexuality, that I carry no shame for my desires and never apologize for being a sexual creature. Maybe it’s something to do with people seeing me as “used to be a guy” and equate “being a guy” with “automatically gets laid anytime.” Whatever the reason, people seem quite shocked when my answer to “what’s your favorite position” or “do you like [insert sex activity here] more than [insert other sex activity here]” is something along the lines of “Well, I can’t tell you for sure, since I haven’t ever tried much of anything…”
So, I haven’t had much sex (with other people, that is — as Woody Allen quipped, “It’s sex with someone I love!”) Here’s the other bit, the thing that’s frustrating, the point of this post: I’m the only person who has ever made me come. Just me and Miss Right Hand, my steady girl most of the time. Sure, there have been other people present while I bring myself to orgasm; I spent nearly 6 months with my psycho ex (see this post for more about her) and there were plenty of times when, after servicing her, she held me as I jacked myself off… hell, even when she was trying to get pregnant she’d scoop up my semen and finger-fuck herself (yes, it was totally hot — I won’t lie) but I was the one who got myself off.
The grand total of two times that I’ve had any sort of sexual encounter with a cis woman, I still took care of my own orgasm; the first one at least, she was interested — eager, even — to see that I was cared for, but I was nervous and tense and had a hard time communicating what worked and what didn’t. That was the closest I’ve come (pun intended) to having someone else involved, and with her hand over mine as I worked myself, it was certainly beautiful… but it was certainly still me doing it. The second time, several months ago, neither of us were really prepared. Nobody had any lube, and I need plenty because otherwise it’s painful for me… we finally figured out something, but again it was me laying back and fap-fap-fap.
It still seems weird when I get the startled look from people, even good friends, when they hear me repeat that my actual experience having sex has been very limited, that most of my likes and dislikes are hypothetical rather than practical. I would think it no stranger than saying that I love all kinds of food, but my actual experience in eating a variety of world cuisine has been limited… I don’t know.
Regardless — if there are any ladies out there, anyone who’d like to have some fun… let’s sing with the Beatles, and “Come Together!” Yeah? Maybe? ~sigh~… Someday.
I need to write.
I want to write.
But I’m balancing that need
That desire
Against my physical exhaustion
Against my minimal food intake today
Against the enormous effort that it takes
To remain outwardly calm
While the sounds from the next room
Fill me with
Irrational
Insistent
Immense
PANIC.
No, it’s not a “logical” connection.
No, I can’t explain why those sounds affect me as they do.
No, it’s not just me finding something to complain about.
I have worked over many years
Learned very carefully
Through practice
Mistakes
Refinement of technique
To appear relaxed
And pleasant
And friendly
Instead of screaming as loudly as my lungs allow
Smashing any solid object within reach
Against any other object in my swing
Stomping and smashing
Making noise and breaking things
All in a feeble and ever-failed attempt
To demonstrate to others –
But no, not a demonstration –
It’s an attempt to harm others
In a fashion that they can comprehend
To a degree equivalent
To the harm they inflict on me.
I have learned to be mute
I have learned to accept harm
I have learned to do nothing in retaliation
I have learned to turn inward and die
And I am praised for my “success” far too often
Told that I am “strong”
That I am “brave”
That I have “accomplished so much”
How is it
That so many seem to envy
This so-called “skill”
Of saying nothing
Doing nothing
Lying on the ground after being driven there again
And most of all for my friendly smile
And calm, even voice
As I am kicked again and again and again?
You value self-restraint
You value compliance
You value non-violence and avoiding confrontation
And I have learned these things you so value
But you never taught me when to stop holding back
You never taught me how to say, “Fuck no, and fuck you!”
You never taught me how to knock a motherfucker out when they come at me wrong
Or to do anything but whimper, turn, and run or better yet, stay and take it with a smile
So I have learned nothing of value at all
I’ve got something with muscles or nerves or I-don’t-know-what fucked up enough that my left arm has been mostly numb all day, with some tingling in my fingers and a spot on my thumb that’s been hurting like hell on and off. My neck and right shoulder have been hurting some too, and I know from experience that someone with 15 minutes or less who’s even barely skilled with bodywork of any sort could remedy the issue.
In the same way as many other things about my life, though, I intentionally ignore my recognition of “this is a serious problem!” because I have no directly accessible remedy. This place has fleas and bedbugs and ants and probably still roaches, but fixing that means coordinating with roommates and landlord, taking significant steps to prepare just my room and depending on both roommates to take equivalent steps, pushing the landlord to address the problem, to even acknowledge the problem instead of dismissing it offhand or making yet another excuse… so instead I know that I’ll be bitten by insects, that any food I leave unsealed will be unusable, and I check my clothes and other things carefully before leaving the house and add diatomaceous earth to the bottom of containers, I only open what I can eat in the moment, and I expect much of what food I have or am given to go to waste.
I have significant concerns and questions to address with a health care professional, things that should have been looked at — and treated — long ago. Living with things isn’t fun or easy, but trying to make sure I call a doctor during their limited “business hours” is difficult when those hours are during the small part of the day that I’m either sleeping or trying to get a few things done at home… or, more often, simply avoiding this place and going out to kill time and keep my sanity. It’s after 3 in the morning as I write this, and I have plans for tomorrow that will take most of my day. I’m hoping to still get a few hours of sleep between now and when I have to be up and out the door — if I could call and schedule an appointment between 11pm and 5am, I’d have an appointment. “That’s when everyone is supposed to be asleep,” I’m told, so naturally there’s nobody answering phones at the doctor’s office! So I just ignore major medical concerns unless or until they keep me from functioning at all.
Did I say something about hoping to get some sleep? Huh, guess I did. That was pretty stupid, really, because I know full well that there will be enough noise here until almost 7am to keep that from happening. As I type, my roommate is hacking up her lungs — I’m not sure whether that’s because she’s awake and smoking pot or awake and still dealing with being really sick (which I only discovered accidentally, that she’s been sick for quite a while) because the sound is the same. If the schedule goes like usual, by 4 or 4:30 there’ll be lots of sex, by quarter to 5 the guys upstairs will be up and stomping around and hollering like apes, by 6:30 if not before the teenage boys next door will be running up and down the stairs and screaming at each other, and traffic outside will pick up considerably. I need to open my window and get some air and chill in this room, which I hate doing because it takes away even the small amount of sound isolation to the street.
Maybe I’ll get lucky and fall asleep anyway. Sometimes I just drive myself to stay awake far beyond “tired” and way past “exhausted” to “I’m going to fall down now, hopefully it’s on my bed.” I have a pretty damn long endurance, though, one I’ve developed as a coping skill, so I frequently have to do things that are against my immediate best interests in order to actually achieve those interests mid-term. It’s an ugly dance, one I’d rather leave behind.
I’m lying here in bed, starting to type this blog post, and stopping every once in a while to check out one of the photos rotating through as a slideshow for my desktop background — all of them involve nude women in some form or another, and the current set is artistic and “classy” nudes — much of it certainly pornographic, but not “sex! sex! sex!” type stuff.
I’m thinking about the fact that I make clear distinctions between types of pictures with nude women in sexual contexts, and smiling. I spent some of this evening preparing to attend and participate in events for December 17th as the International Day to End Violence Against Sex Workers, and I’m looking forward to meeting up with my boyfriend there.
I have a boyfriend! I’m a lesbian, I’m transgender, I’m kinky and queer and ethically non-monogamous, spiritual but not religious, and I have my own personal worship and ritual if I choose to indulge myself in it.
I’m listening to my roommate fucking quite loudly in the next room with her current boy-toy, the most recent in a long string of boys, men, lovers and fuck-buddies, and my reaction at the moment is mild annoyance — but at least it sounds as if they’re just going for a quickie before sleeping. I hope so.
I’m a feminist, a masculist, a gender egalitarian and an aspiring social activist, with some very clear ideas about where I stand on many different issues. I’ve been keeping an eye on Planned Parenthood and the attacks against them, reading up on the latest from the EFF and Bruce Schneier, following a ton of queer, sex-positive, BDSM-friendly, and feminist blogs, looking for good quality porn that depicts the kinds of things I like, adding my name to form letters to elected officials when there’s an issue that grabs my attention, and sharing what I can on Facebook and Twitter with the hope that others will see and support the same causes if they feel strongly.
And then I look back 3 years, and I shake my head and laugh, just as my eyes widen in amazement — because it wasn’t all that long ago that I wrote my very first blog post (on MySpace back then) under a fake profile and an assumed name. It wasn’t all that long ago that I’d never seen another naked body in person, was still hiding from my parents the fact that I was masturbating regularly, and not too long even before then that I was trying to “give up the sinful habit” completely. It wasn’t all that long ago that I was a boy — a rather fat one, too, at 250 pounds!
3 years ago I would have cringed if someone brought up prostitution, because back then I thought hookers were dirty, evil creatures, the lowest of the worthless invisible people. Actually, knowing the group I spent time with, I probably would have made a horribly insensitive joke about the difference between “theft of goods” and “payment for services.” Back then I would have said plenty of hateful things and thought they were hilarious, because that’s what I was surrounded by. Lots of young, heterosexual, cisgendered, white males whose idea of a punchline could just as easily be “That’s what she said!” as it could be a one-line rape joke.
Today if someone mentions prostitution or other sex work, and I hear the echoes of what I once thought — and if there’s a comment that comes from misinformation, general application of old, broken stereotypes, or a chance to teach someone, I step in. I call people on their hateful and ignorant comments when I can. I listen when someone calls me on something, because I want to learn and I especially want to learn from those who really know.
It’s delightful sometimes, to “look back on where I’m from, look at the woman I’ve become…” and to enjoy how beautifully routine some of these once-strange things have become!
Need. Need and crave and want so very, very much…
It’s been nearly a year since I’ve been fucked. Late January last year was when I went in to fake a “let’s kiss and make up” with my ex, and this after having been without since early November before that. Yeah, the make-up sex was hot, but it was a desperate (and dangerous) move. I had the option then, though — now I’m alone.
This lust hits me hard in the late night hours, when I’m in bed and drowsy but not yet exhausted. The time when I’d be at the peak of my “afternoon” if I were keeping to my natural sleep cycle, when my body and mind want to be full-on and engaged, but more often are left strained and weary… but either way, I’m sitting here horny as all fuck with nothing I can do about it.
Sometimes, if I remember, I pick up single-use lube packets and condoms from the folks who run the weekly needle exchange, HIV test, and safe sex supplies deal down the block, but more often I forget. I recently found out that I can stop by their main office to pick up the same supplies, but that means fighting the same “business hours” bullshit as everything else, and remembering to try heading out there when I’m figuring out what I’m doing on any given day. Considering that much of my day is spent on “fuckfuckfuck gotta keep it together through this major panic attack long enough to get myself dressed, cleaned up and out the goddamned door right fucking now!” it’s honestly surprising that I accomplish as much as I do.
Sure, I meet girls somewhat often. Many are interested in being friends — and I won’t deny that having good people in my life as friends is a huge thing that I haven’t had in a long time. None of them are interested in being “girlfriends,” though. None of them are interested in a relationship that involves hanging out now and then, going out for drinks and conversation, and also fucking sometimes. I don’t necessarily need a primary romantic partner right now — a “girlfriend” — though I do eventually hope to find someone to fit that role with me (and I for her.) What I really need now is sex — sex and cuddles and good physical pain, but mostly the sex.
When I have all the supplies on hand, I have a few toys I can put in my ass, but I don’t have the ability to fuck myself with any of them. It’s just not something I can do. Things go in, they feel good in certain ways, and then they come out at some point afterwards. What I need is someone else to control the process, to be the one who fucks me, so that I can let go of all the thinking and planning and deciding how and what to do and just lie there enjoying being fucked.
I can’t pleasure myself in many of the ways that my body demands it. Even if I had the technical means, I don’t think I could get any enjoyment from giving myself pain, or filling and fucking my own ass with a toy, or running my own fingers and hands across my skin. Much of the joy in those things comes from knowing that the pain is given by someone who finds joy in doing so, that I’m being fucked by someone who wants to fuck me because it feels good for them too, that a gentle caress is shared to show affection for another beautiful human.
When I’m trying to balance all of that on top of the stresses and anxiety triggers at home, and struggling to find somewhere else to live, and working towards (but still often failing to accomplish) eating enough, sleeping enough, keeping my personal hygiene in order and masturbating regularly (definitely not taking care of that one, see “no lube” above) I feel overwhelmed and discouraged about even the smallest things — and less likely to get the small stuff done next time around, which piles up into a huge wad of “small stuff” bogging me down to the point of near-insurmountability.
The advice that should fit this situation just sounds hollow — be patient, good things take time, love will find you, look at what you do have not what you don’t, life’s a bitch sometimes, other people have it bad/have it worse… none of that changes the fact that I need to be fucked tonight, that I’m not being fucked tonight, and that I don’t know when I will be fucked again. Yes, I laugh about my ability to be patient; my ability to wait is not a wonderful skill that fills me with great pride, it’s a coping mechanism which I loathe because it is so well-developed from regular and frequent use. I’m good at waiting forever for something to go right because if I couldn’t handle that, I’d have completely lost myself by now.
I’m not lost, but I am damned tired of waiting.
Trigger warning: descriptions of an abusive relationship after the break.
I realized a few days ago that I’ve never written publicly about this. I’ve shared the story in person with many people, sometimes even to a group, but I’ve never written, and knowing my mind the way I do, writing this down and putting it visibly out there will help me immensely in letting it go. Read the rest of this entry »
I had a sudden moment of realization a few months back. I’d been reading lots of different blogs and bits online, among them Holly Pervocracy, Miss Maggie Mayhem, Violet Blue, and Kitty Striker — and much of what I read resounded deeply, made me think and question, and felt very right. Very true. It fit, it was other voices expressing views I held but either hadn’t articulated or hadn’t realized.
Then, as I said, the sudden moment of realization: the words came out in exclamation, “Holy shit! I’m a feminist!” In much the same way that I have been the last to know lots of things about myself, it wasn’t really a shock to anyone else. Nor, I suppose, was it a shock to me, after sitting down to think about it, as was the case when I found other identifying concepts for myself like “transgender” and “Asperger’s syndrome.” In both of those cases, I had people who knew me laugh, shrug, and say essentially, “Yeah, we could have told you that.”
So with that word, I had a single key that I could use to search for further information, to take as a starting point for refining my understanding and particular preferences in “flavor” of feminism. I could plug that word into a Wikipedia search box and learn about the “waves” of feminism. I could walk into my local public library and check out any of dozens of textbooks, non-fiction works, collections of essays, and novels presenting concepts both directly and indirectly related.
Then, as I spent more time following blogs, expanding my online reading lists, cutting out the sources that least often fit my particular views (but occasionally glancing to re-evaluate where I stand) and further refining my feminist identity, I saw that I also care deeply about other groups, their oppression, and fighting as a voice for change and equality. I picked up new vocabulary and concepts — “intersectionality” and “kyriarchy” and “masculism” and others, words new enough in their use and function that the dictionary in my web browser insists they’re misspelled. I picked up pretty quickly that as a transwoman, I am both woman and transgender, that both those identities which I proudly claim come with their oen oppressive baggage. I began to see that my light skin and ancestry traced back on either side to the British Isles, mean that I have “White Privilege” — that whether I want it or not, whether I like it or not, I have societal advantages in many ways over anyone not perceived as Caucasian. I think that sucks, actually, and when I stop to think about the ways that manifests in my day-to-day life (or, more often, when someone points it out) I remember how strongly I feel about changing things, about making the world a less shitty place.
But — there’s this little bit that’s bothering me. I can’t quite put my finger on it, and maybe someone out there has a touch of insight for me. I have a particularly intense passion, a very strong motivation for activism towards body positivity, fat acceptance, being beautiful in the body shape you have, especially if that body doesn’t fit the multi-billion-dollar-salary marketing moguls’ image of “beautiful.” Which feels… hypocritical, somehow. I mean, I know it’s not. I know it fits right in with seeing women as individual humans, capable of deciding what we do with our own bodies. It fits right in with my anger and outrage when I look at news headlines about a young transgender girl approaching puberty and her supportive parents approving hormone-blocking pills — headlines using the wrong pronouns, “reporters” suggesting that this girl and her parents are insane. It fits right in with recognizing that “insane,” used as an insult, is an ableist slur, and choosing to work that kind of offensive language out of my personal vocabulary.
But I still often feel like I shouldn’t be vocal in my support of body acceptance. I stop and question my own motivation regularly, and though every time I come to the same general conclusion, I look in the mirror and see something pretty damned close to that idealized marketing image — I’m tall, thin, white, proportioned in all the “right” ways. Total strangers ask me “Are you a model? Well, you ought to be!” I’ve never really dealt with being anything other than privileged in that regard. When I was growing up as a boy, I was tall, skinny, plain. During the decade or so I spent on psychiatric medications, I weighed between 250 and 300 pounds, but I was also rarely in any social situations, and as a computer geek and video gamer, being that size wasn’t unusual or looked at poorly. So why would I have any say in things? Why should my voice count? And knowing that I’m romantically and sexually attracted to bigger women often makes me hesitant to speak out — because, “well, she’s just doing it so she can get laid or something.” I know my motivations, but I’m scared of having them questioned or challenged, especially when I often have difficulty expressing myself about things that stir a lot of emotion in me.
I can tell you, though, that it pisses me off when the first thing I hear, with very few exceptions, when I mention that I weighed 250 pounds about three years ago, is “Wow! How did you lose the weight?” Especially angering to see the expectant look that joins the question, awaiting my answer as eagerly as if I were about to impart the Ultimate Secret Of The Universe. It makes me really sad when a wonderfully beautiful young woman is ashamed of the number on the scale, asks me to promise to keep it secret, and has to make sure to balance our scheduled time together against her regular, mandatory stop at her Leading-Brand Weight-Loss Program Center’s scale. It hurts to have a good friend point out to me just how much work I’d put into avoiding the word “fat” in a conversation with her about another woman who was — and beautifully so — and stings even more to understand that the reason I’d danced around those three letters is because on a deeply internalized level, I “knew” that it was a dirty word. I could keep going; there are many more examples that immediately come to mind, but I hope I’ve made my point.
I care, for whatever reason I do. This particular passion doesn’t have nearly the volume of literature behind it that feminism does, though. There’s nowhere near the amount of “suggested reading” as for transgender issues, not even the kinds of information — much of it inaccurate or poorly written, in my experience so far — about Asperger’s. I don’t know where to look, don’t have anyone to sit down and talk with in order to — first and foremost — educate myself about anything outside of “thin, white, long-haired, big-but-not-too-big tits and hips and ass, you’re gorgeous!” Yes, there are a few places online, and I’ve looked through what I can find, but… there’s just not much out there. And while I have no shame about writing on my own blog about things I know for myself, things I know well, I’m fragile in many ways, and I’ve seen how one or two well-intentioned but poorly-chosen words left in a comment can be the spark lighting a blazing inferno of flaming, the hurt hurled and taken and the taking sides and fighting and often a humiliating defeat and retreat. I don’t want to open myself to that on the scale that the internet can heap; it’s something I might handle in a face-to-face discussion with a few friends, where I could ask questions and begin to learn… but asking the “rookie questions” in an enormous forum of faceless “veteran players ” leaves me far too vulnerable.
The old folk wisdom is that “the only stupid question is the one you don’t ask.” Well, if that’s true, then I have lots of incredibly stupid questions — and until I have someone to ask, someone with answers or someone willing to search for answers with me, they’ll stay the “stupid” variety.
