Together, Right Now, Over Me.

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 hear the doorbell ring and suddenly the panic takes me

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


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
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

Your smile is a thin disguise.

I hate secrets and lies.  My life is full of them, though — has been as long as I can remember.  It was a survival skill in my parents’ home, being able to say something completely untrue to any person in my immediate family, or anyone in their church, while looking them in the eyes and showing how sincere I was.  Knowing how to convince myself that the lie was truth, even temporarily, was essential to make sure I didn’t shake things up.

In addition, I listen.  I know how to listen; people feel comfortable talking to me about all sorts of things that trouble them, and I can’t begin to count the times I’ve heard variations on “I don’t know why I shared that with you, I’ve never told anyone about that, I just felt like I could give you my deepest, darkest secrets…”  I know things.  Things I can’t share, things that could hurt people, or destroy their careers, or endanger their families and loved ones.  Things that I’d really rather not have to carry with me.

And then there’s my secrets.  There are things about me that I know, things I want, things I hate, things I’ve done… stuff that I’ve never shared, some of it stuff that I’d rather forget, some of it that I’d love to celebrate.

But it’s all secret right now.  Some of the lies I’ve kept on telling because I know that telling the truth now would make good people hurt, and because at least for the moment I still can benefit from dishonesty.  That scares me, but right now that’s less scary than tearing away the layers of lies, risking loss and causing emotional harm.  The secrets others have given me, many of them are meaningless out of the context they were given, many are ancient or from people I knew “once upon a time,” but still filed in the great database in my brain, waiting only for the right query to retrieve them and fill me with the turmoil of remembering that I know and cannot tell.

The things I keep for myself, I need a very safe place with someone I very much trust, and the opportunity to do some emotional digging — I’m certain I’ll be able to manage a lot of that with a therapist, and there’s some chance of making that happen in the foreseeable future, so I’m hoping that’s the case.

I’m falling asleep while writing here, so I should probably post and sleep.  My dreams lately have been quite full of the sex that I’m so sorely lacking in reality… I welcome the escape.

All you need to understand is, everything you know is wrong.

The only model I have for making things right after making a mistake is the one I learned growing up, in a religious context — one which relied heavily, if not exclusively, on guilt and shame, and emphasized how painful and difficult it is to struggle my way back to any level of acceptance or welcome.  The “repentance process” was something horrible, something often necessary but much better avoided by simply being perfect — which, obviously, was impossible.  So, already set up for failure, the guilt of having knowingly done wrong — and therefore being a bad person, a “sinner” — was heaped on under the guise of loving, caring guidance to help me “return to full fellowship.”

At the same time, I was taught that the ideal toward which I should strive was to “turn the other cheek,” that a truly loving person would forgive any trespass against them, that the most pure and perfect example of what we could be, not only forgave everything of everyone, but did so with a smile and a gentle reaffirmation of his love.

I made a mistake recently — a fairly significant one.  I understand now, looking at the structure I’ve had, why the response I got shocked me like it did: because the people involved have exemplified the supposedly unattainable ideal I was taught that we all should be, instead of the degrading, demeaning, and demoralizing cycle of shame I expected.

There are good people in this world.  There are folks who strive to make a difference, who make mistakes themselves and understand that others will do the same.  There are wonderful members of our human race who want to be happy and want to help others be happy as well.  I’m fortunate to have found many of these people, and to recognize that I share many of these traits; I’ll have to work to un-learn some of my old ways, re-train some broken patterns and discard many of the lies I have so deeply internalized… but it’s where I belong, and I’m grateful to know the folks I do, and to know that I have a chance to get to know them better!

If there is a hell…

I’m sure that’s where I’m going to go.  I know that all the lines I was fed growing up about god and heaven and hell are total bullshit, but that doesn’t stop me from feeling like I do.

I know what I did tonight was wrong, and not on a small level.  I’m not sure how else this could have ended, though, because when I can’t speak, don’t speak, won’t speak about shit that’s going on, it will eventually explode, like tonight.  Screaming, in-your-face and if she hadn’t stepped between us I’m afraid I would have harmed another person.  That’s not okay.  That’s never okay, and I don’t want to ever be in an emotional space where I feel the desire or capability to harm someone.

In yet another of life’s great damned-if-you-do-and-damned-if-you-don’t jokes, I’d love to stay here, to make a home and finally put down some fucking roots instead of moving and running away again… but even if I decide to go anywhere else, there’s absolutely nothing that I can afford in northern california, and I’ve got occasional assistance with food and money and other things where I am — I’d have none of that if I tried to leave.

She’s a little child.  I have to remember that, keep it in mind when the wealthy, pampered brat shines through the mask she works so hard to keep up, the mask of a mature and responsible adult.  She’s not — she’s often pretty damn clueless, blind to the most glaring things around her, and I wonder sometimes how much of that is willful ignorance, otherwise known as “stupid on purpose.”  I’ve been repeating to myself lately that “you can lead a fool to knowledge, but you can’t make them think” and when she remains so oblivious so often, I have to remind myself to be patient, to be the mature woman I can be instead of turning loose a toddler’s tantrum like I did tonight.

I tried calling my mom’s cellphone just after everything exploded, but she was already asleep, and I know how she sleeps — with earplugs, a pillow on top, and a fan to make white noise by her bedside.  She’ll probably see the dozen or more calls and hear my one barely-coherent message sometime tomorrow morning, long after there’s any chance for her to help me.  I also tried sending a text message to someone else I trust, but he’s either asleep or not near his phone, and I’ll probably get a call tomorrow from him too… again, far too late to be any real help.

I don’t have anyone that I can reach out to, anyone I trust or feel at all comfortable with, anyone I can call in an emergency like this and get any sort of help.  I’ve learned from repeatedly bashing my head against the idiocy of the public mental health system that I cannot get help from them, that in fact I am more likely to suffer more trauma from attempting that kind of call for help than what I am already handling on my own… but it really pisses me off that I don’t have any emergency support system.

I can’t do a “crisis line,” because even if I have their number handy, even if I get someone whose voice doesn’t make me want to scream, I won’t have anyone who can do more than be a disembodied voice in my ear with a script to follow.  I can’t call a psych hospital… last time was the worst night I’ve had in years, being assaulted by a large black man while staff paid no attention, being told that I was suicidal and forced to take drugs because “how else can we calm you down?” and spending an unknown amount of time barely conscious, in a panicked and drugged haze.  I can’t go to any sort of walk-in facility — I’m transgender.  If that’s not “enough said,” then I can’t explain for you.  Ask someone to pass you the clue-stick.

I’ve gone far too long without any sleep, and as much as I hate to do it, I’m going to have to turn back on some noise to block out the rest of the shit here… and maybe I’ll be lucky this time.  Maybe I’ll get enough sleep to be functional tomorrow.

See you all in hell…

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