See Me Gyno Philia

What if the sexy part of autogynephila, the really really sexy part, isn’t the body transformation that Blanchard and others say is the heart, but rather is the idea that somebody else sees the woman, the feminine in you, and then works to make that visible to everyone?

What if it’s not about a solitary fetish fantasy, but rather a fantasy about being really seen by someone, and that powerful revelation makes you become real, the The Velveteen Rabbit or Pinochio?

God, the hottest thing most women can think of is a lover who sees them as brilliant, beautiful and hot, and under whose touch all of those potent aspects come to the surface, visible and intense.

“Of course you are a stunning, glamourous, sexy woman!  I can see that perfectly clearly.  Now lets polish you up so that beauty glows in the lamplight and in the sunlight!”

For someone who feels that every glance strips them of their inner beauty and casts them back in a world of expectation & judgement, how could that not be hot?



Tranny Quote Of The Day


“I like doing stuff without knowing if I’m being ironic.”
Nina Arsenault

Can you imagine any normie thinking that not knowing if they are being ironic or not is a luxury?  That somehow, anyone should have to think so much about their actions and the motivations for those actions that just doing stuff without knowing your own deep intent is something you would conciously like?

I might like doing stuff without knowing if I am being ironic, too, that is if I ever was able to try doing stuff that way.

Keep Singing

You know, no matter how hard I try, I can’t really store bliss up by overindulging for a while and then denying myself after.

Just listened to “Limehouse Blues” and had the treat of hearing Rosemary Clooney do a Nelson Riddle arrangement of the tune in 1996 and then hear her 1961 version of the same chart.  One is pretty, one is masterful, both are beautiful.

It lead me back to think of my pal Jim.  Either we were brothers and he was gay, or we were sisters and I am lesbian.  I was too stuck when I knew him to let go, and I miss him — and the huge bag of my vintage cosmetics that burned when Robert & his store burned down.

At one point Jim took my picture to a psychic. She looked at it, identified me as trans, and had two words of advice. “Tell them to keep singing,” she said.

Odd words because I never really have been much of a singer.  My grandmother, my maternal grandmother, the only one I knew, never even had a record player in the house, just one table radio tuned to CFRB.  I can’t remember my mother or father ever buying or owning an album. Hell, they never even went to a performance of the Grand Ole’ Opry until last night.

I have never really been a singer.  But I have remembered that advice, “keep singing,” and it has resonated with me somehow. 

I don’t keep playlists, but when I do find some music that moves me, it moves me powerfully. 

Bette Midler once joked that Freud was crazy taking all that time to find out what women want — we just want to dance.  She was remembering the days she was young and free in a leotard in a dark club, days I seem to have missed.  After all, with that tranny stick up your ass, dancing isn’t easy, even if I remember one crossdressers wife pointing to me dancing with my hips and said to her shoulder-dancing husband “See, she knows how to do it!”

Hell, when I think of a safe and peaceful place to be, it’s usually not a garden, it’s a stage.  TBB & I were recently remembering the days when The Drama Queens took flight and how magical those moments felt, to let loose and fly.

I think the beauty of a stage for me (and my perfect stage would have a great band) is the idea that with an audience there I would get feedback, get energy, get heard, get seen, get live & real.

I know that this idea is just a fantasy.  The reality of a stage, much like the reality of having a book published, is that lots of other people have their own needs to be met and compromise is the order of the day.  Once we make our art public, we can’t own it anymore, which is why writers are different than authors, why philosophers are different than gurus, why singers are different than performers.

But still, it’s the part I miss.  I sit here with my time winding down and Rosemary Clooney sings, two ways, two times, two Rosemarys and I am moved.  She got to be out there.  When I was a kid I didn’t go to Jacques because I thought it was about being a gay man.  Now I know that it was about self-expression, and that the femme part of my heart would have been illuminated much, much sooner.  Yes there would have been complications — Bree’s mother still expects Stanley to push her chair in — but somehow. . .

Listen kid, let me say this to you, now: keep singing.   Brian McNaught said that our job is to sing the song our creator put in our heart and that resonates with me too.

Now, I guess, I try to sing here, my music freeze dried to ASCII characters.  It’s not very satisfying, and not very potent.

But sometimes, in my heart, even in the midst of all the despair and loneliness, I hear a song and it moves me.

So, whoever you are, keep singing.



Ok, so I got a little wild. 

Some lovely blogger came up with the idea that we should be “Candidly Transgender” and actually admit to it when someone taunts us rather than trying to keep our trans biology and history hidden. 

Now, when I first heard this idea, it was simply called being “out.”  Is transgender about concealing our biology & history, or is it about revealing our nature?  It’s easy to figure out that the more you are about concealment the bigger that stick up your ass is, and the more you set yourself up for failure.  I mean, it feels better to be seen as female because people have different expectations — no wonder Duncan Tucker wanted a female actress to star in TransAmerica to give Bree some leeway — but most transpeople born male don’t have bodies that can be easily femaled.

Problem is that this author wanted to talk about this in the context of banter with young males on the street.  They found their out moment in responding to jokey jabs about Adam’s Apples with other jokes.

I got on my high horse and talked about the obligation of trannys to be the clown, how dragface is the new blackface, and we learn to shuck and jive to keep the normies laughing.

Well, she was peeved with my response, and dismissed it out of hand.  She wasn’t doing dragface, and besides (and here is the kicker)

My point was to disarm then educate.
No one hears you when you yell in anger.

They go on to talk about akido, to disarm. 

Believe it or not, I actually know how to be disarming.  I know how to do lots of things that deflect, open and teach.

But fuckaduck.  This author didn’t want to hear me “screaming in anger and pain” and believes nobody will listen to that.

Is that why tortured prisoners stay small, because no one will hear them screaming in anger and pain?

I understand the “mature” way of speaking gracefully about your own anger (and pain.) But when the obligation to be the gracious and mature one is obligation of the one being abused, then fuck that.  I am so intensely sick of having to swallow my own anger, rage & pain to help people understand that I am going to drown in them.  Over a decade of working hard to be non-threatening and find calm, common language while getting almost no steps in my direction hasn’t left me sane, sober and healthy.  Instead, it’s left me bruised, battered and broken.

Don’t tell me to rise, above it, not today, don’t do it.   Don’t tell me it’s the job of the stigmatized and marginalized to make the normies laugh and learn, the normies who start by bangslapping them.  Don’t tell me that it’s our job to negotiate fears, transcend expectations, lift social barriers, and make magic all while being crushed by the weight of good-old normative yahoos.

Good, go, do the best you can.  Come to the conclusion that being out is the best we can do, and that if we are going to get attacked we have to learn to fight back in the best way we can.

But if you turn away when someone else screams in pain, if you dump the expectation onto them, then know you are just making your own challenge harder.  Until you can hear the pain of others, you can never ask people to hear the pain in you.

And that’s how abuse circles and expands.



I finally saw Transamerica

My biggest shock was when the amazing Melissa Sklarz popped up on screen, but I suppose if you have been around a while, you are bound to know someone in the movie.  “Bree” didn’t really seem to have any tranny friends, but that was a conceit that helped make the movie work, of course.  Ms. Huffman is a consumate pro — the walk down the hallway to surgery was very moving — but because of the script or her choice or her choices, I didn’t really see much of Stanley there.  Stanley was Bree’s first role, one she had to make work, and it’s not my experience that transsexuals who transition later don’t have some of that role visible.

The arc of the film, though, uses something that I have been talking about for a while.  Humans are sexually dimorphic for reproduction, and that means that the key difference between males and females, beyond all the stuff we have shoved onto gender differences, is that men are the daddies and women are the mommies.

Bree comes alive as she accepts her role as mom, her heart breaks open, and she works to make a better life not really for her but for her children.  And as she loosens up — the final trans surgery is when we pull the stick out of our own ass — she becomes more woman, and people like Calvin notice.  In his reflection, she sees her own beauty, and that opens her up more.

The production company for Transamerica is called Transparent.  That should tell you something.

I’m like many other non-op transsexuals.  If I could have had children as a female, I would have had the surgery decades ago.  But the surgery renders you neutered, which you can call post-menopausal, or maybe even eunuch.  And if you have a baby with a woman, there is rarely room for two moms.  Kids need fathers too, and the role is different.

As a femme, I know that what I need most is someone to love.  It’s just the way we are built. Not all trannys born male are femme, but if you know us, you know that.

It’s a sweet movie, TransAmerica, but of course, we only see the tip of the iceberg.  Toby, well, that kid has some challenges becoming whole after the abuse he suffered.  And Bree, well, she may look like a mom, but there are still empty spaces and vaults of hurt in her.

We are redeemed when we enter the generation of the parent.  So much of my stuff from the mid 1990s is about that theme, the power of parenting. 

My stuff from the mid-2000’s well, that’s about being lost again.  One road trip informs, but it takes many trips to make a life.

Smile At Me For A While

Things are winding down here.  I’m figuring out how to put myself away and go back to supression totale.

I haven’t achived what I wanted to achieve, that moving past my own barrage of bruises, my own shawl of scars that would let me engage life again and take the bangs and bumps.  I’m still desperately off the grid and abysmally lonely.

What I have missed is smiling.  Someone who wanted to smile at me, yes, but more than that, someone who wanted me to smile at them for a while.  Pretty seems beyond me, attractive seems way too complicated and sweet seems completely invisible.

I heard a radio show with the amazing Veronica Klaus who talked about the challenge for every tranny, those moments when people need to figure it out, to try to understand how they feel and make up their mind about how they should feel.   TBB is pleased because she is one of the girls where she is working now, and that feels good to her, even if she knows that when the women bond over what assholes men are, she can’t just easily agree.  There is a distance.

Sweet, nice people want to make me feel welcome.  But accepting the edge, finding it sharp and alluring?  Not so much.  Distance is distance.

Workshop Participant: “You are so courageous!”

Kate Bornstein: “Thanks.  But you you think I am pretty?