Like you’re always stuck in second gear

I need to be fucked… maybe held gently a little bit too, but mostly I need a woman to bend me over and screw me.

Tonight, like most, I go without.  I really would have thought that here in the bay area it wouldn’t be so impossible to find a woman who doesn’t need me to teach a remedial crash-course on gender and doesn’t assume (or, more often, expect) that I already completely know, embrace, and enjoy the default culturally-sanctioned heteronormative penis-in-vagina-equals-sex script and to “be the dude” in that comedic rendition.

I guess this is the part where I’m supposed to shut my little bitch mouth and quit complaining, right? I mean, after all — I get to be “out” as a transwoman, don’t I? I’ve got “passing privilege” so most of the time I don’t face violence for simply existing in a public space! Hell, guys hit on me all the time… even if that’s in the form of…

Him: “Hey, baby.”

Me: (I smile, give a small nod, and keep walking)

Him: “What’s your name?”

Me: (I keep walking, saying nothing)

Him: (getting louder) “Hey, what’s your name?!?”

Me: (still walking, looking ahead as I pass him)

Him: “Well, fuck you then, bitch!”

I should be flattered, right?  I should be responding to his advances if I’m so hard up for a good fuck! I’ve actually had too many instance to count in the last few months where I’ve seriously questioned whether I might be the one that’s the problem; if I could just find a way to be interested in guys, it would make everything so much easier.  Then I laugh at just how fucked up that thought is… here I am, a person Assigned Male At Birth (AMAB) who is sitting and wondering about how much easier life would be if I could just find a way to “turn gay” — except that I’m simultaneously a lesbian woman sitting and wondering about how much easier life would be if I could just find a way to “turn straight.”  And then I realize that the problem can’t possibly be with me, and the fault must lie with the rest of the people around me who don’t get who I am at all — except if the problem were with other folks, then statistically speaking at least, there would be someone who had even a slight interest in fucking me who wasn’t a hetero cis dude… so that must mean I’m just not fuckable.

So where does this damn circle (not jerk) of need and want and lack lead me?  When I’m too exhausted to masturbate, or don’t have any safe place to do so, or end up working so hard trying to get myself off that I get myself pissed off instead… and sometimes go for almost two weeks without an orgasm (which does nothing positive for the rest of my health either, way to go negative feedback loop!) — what does that leave for my options?  This is killing me… and the only reason I’m still here is because I have so much support to help care for the rest of my needs right now.

I have a temporary place to crash while I look for a new home — none too happy about finding out last minute that I’d been fucked over with the place I thought I was moving, then had no reply to 4 different phone calls (each with voice mail), 3 text messages, and 3 or 4 messages sent on Facebook over the course of more than two weeks only to be told that they’d had a “tech poof… y’know?” as if the whole thing could be waved away as a minor technical difficulty.

I have had friends providing significant food, and places to get decent sleep, and company to keep me from suicide when I was nearly there… but I don’t seem to know anyone who is able or willing to fuck me — or who in turn knows anyone who is able or willing.  Does the whole “My friends set me up on a blind date” thing only exist as a situation comedy plot trope? Hell, I’d be grateful to have friends who set me up on the worst possible date just so I could laugh at the ensuing train wreck of events… but my friends would probably have to hate me to do that.  I’m pretty sure most of my friends do actually like me, just not as someone they or anyone they know would conceivably take to bed.

I’m not sure I’m actually saying anything significant at this point, so I may as well find a lyric/title and post this stupid rant already.


Movin’ right along (doog-a-doon, doog-a-doon)

It’s occurred to me more than once, that ever since Facebook removed their incredibly small limits on character count for status updates, that I’ve been posting what ought to be blog entries here… over there, instead.

It’s also occurred to me that I might copy and paste many of them back here, where they belong… except that the overwhelmed feeling hits quickly and hits hard, and the depression sets in, and the apathy grabs hold, and I don’t get it done.  Ditto with the archives of my old posts from back when I first started blogging on MySpace, before they sold out and killed it off.

I’m hoping that with my upcoming move, I’ll be in a better situation to do some of the things I’ve been unable to because I’m so overwhelmed — wish me luck?

I can’t get no girly action, but I try and I try and I try and I try…


That’s all I can figure it is, at this point: I’m just not fuckable.  You know who wants to screw me? Straight guys, who have no clue who I actually am.  Trans* women who are more interested in having someone to hang around for the abuse than someone to sleep with.  Creepy old dudes who want me to suck them off in exchange for little shiny trinkets now and then, but won’t — as Hedwig put it so well, “Love the front of me!”

You know who’s claimed they wanted to fuck me? A handful of self-described extremely high libido cis* women, none of whom ever spoke to me again after one attempt in bed.  One of them married some guy and moved to another country.  One of them is hooked up with some nice Daddy-type, and seems to be loving her sex life with him.  One of them actually did talk to me briefly, later, to tell me that she’d been avoiding my calls for so long because I was just such shit in bed, and she didn’t know how to break it to me gently.  One of them is the Girl-Child I’m living with — we met because she answered my personal ad, and the closest I ever got to having any kind of fun was her so graciously allowing me to eat her out… because there wasn’t anybody else around to choose from instead, and she needed to get off, so “may as well let you.”  Mind you, I’m about the only person who’s stayed more than a few hours under this same roof that she hasn’t fucked.  At this point, I consider that a special badge of honor and distinction, because I’ve seen who she chooses to take to bed, and I’m grateful to be a cut above.

You know who has absolutely no interest in fucking me? All of the intelligent, beautiful, sex-positive, ethically non-monogamous, enthusiastic-consent-promoting, wonderful cis* women in my life.  Or any of the women I meet around who might consider me, if… (insert laundry list of major, fundamental changes to be made in order for me to be attractive.)  Or pretty much anyone worth having fuck me.  There are always reasons, of course.  Sometimes there are a whole lot of reasons, all of them (naturally) perfectly sensible, completely reasonable, absolutely incontrovertible.  There will always be some reason not to fuck me…

I realized that I’m kind of like the guy who walked around the desert until he died, wearing rain boots and carrying an umbrella… because if he just prepared for it, and hoped hard enough, the storm would eventually come!  Well, I’ve got my safer sex supplies in a little kit in my purse, and I’m about ready to stop fucking bothering.  The only reason I won’t is because of a promise I made several years ago, to someone that cared for my health and safety… but I’m thinking it’s a pretty fucking useless idea.

Some folks might remember not too long ago when I was beaming with joy, claiming I’d finally had sex, after almost a year and a half — 470 days was the number I mentioned then.

Well, I lied.

Sure, there was an encounter of a sexual nature, but the thing I’ve been counting the days from… didn’t happen, and I put myself in a dangerous situation because I’m so goddamned desperate for sex, for touch.  I ignored the BIG RED FLAG WARNING SIGNS that I picked up: the guy in the couple had issues understanding and respecting boundaries — he noticed my “safety kitty” (a set of brass knuckles in the shape of a cat’s face with pointed ears) and before I’d completely lifted it up to show him, he had one hand in it, and the other hand feeling the ears.  Mind you, this was at the end of a chain I was wearing as a belt, so I was not in a great position.  I hoped to have some fun with her, and play with him too, until I saw how many cigarettes he smoked… four of them between the time we met and getting back to her place, total of under an hour.  Too much reminder of my last abusive ex, the one who nearly broke my jaw, and on top of that he really wanted to kiss me… between the disgusting taste and his full, scratchy beard, I wanted nothing to do with his face… but I figured “sure, I’ll do stuff that I feel pressured into and really don’t want to do, because there’s a chance I’ll get to do some stuff I like as well!” Bad move, dear. Bad move.

As we got close to her place — just a few minutes’ walk away — he started talking in an intentional deep growl; sometimes he changed the tone or speed, but all of it was full of shit like “I’m a demon from hell and I’ll take your soul!”  I guess I was supposed to act scared, but I was more bored and impatient than anything else.  More reminders of the kind of shit my ex used to pull on me.  Then this dude says, “I have Multiple Personality Disorder!  There’s 8 of them. They all have different voices!”  I bit my tongue, because with as much time as I’ve spent actually reading the DSM-IV, I could tell that he didn’t come close to fitting the diagnostic criteria for Dissociative Identity Disorder (which is what it’s actually called these days, this thing sometimes referred to as “multiple personalities,”) and when he follows that up by telling me that he’s been alive since 300B.C. in one body or another, he hit way too close to home with the “reminds me of my psycho ex” notes.

While we were waiting for her to finish up a few errands — just me and him waiting on her bed — I got to the point where I had to tell him, “look, I’ve asked you twice to keep your hands off of me until she’s back.  If I have to make it a third, I’m going to walk out that door, and neither of you will see me for a very long time.”  Did I mention he had trouble with boundaries?  Yeah.

Oh!  And when she did finally get back, it turns out that she’s in the middle of a herpes outbreak.  Fantastic time to mention, of course, when we’re all half-naked and I’m hoping to have some fun with her.  They both laughed as I eagerly went down on him, because as my jaws were wearing out, they mention that he often takes hours to come — and that “she probably thought she’d get you off! Hahaha! Surprise, dear! It won’t happen anytime soon.”

He figured out quickly that I melt to the small praise of “good girl…” even when it comes from a source I loathe, he used those words liberally.  Pissed me off at the same time that it turned my insides to jelly and made me smile a huge grin and get working harder on sucking him off.

When it was almost time for me to go — I had other plans that evening — he looked me right in the eyes and said, “Listen carefully: I’m a generous man, and I’ll share… but don’t you dare try to steal from me.  Are we clear?”  Nice move, dickface.  Add a threat when everything else is done…

That’s who wants to fuck me.  The exploitative, abusive, no-concept-of-consent assholes.  And I follow right along, because you don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, and even if choosy moms choose Jif, beggars take the cheap store brand peanut butter if someone decides to buy it for you, and don’t you dare ask for something better.  You don’t deserve it, and you sure as hell won’t get it.

Unfuckable, and I’m getting to the point where I don’t give a fuck either.

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