phase two, part two?

phase two, part two?

so im pretty sure im in need of both a physical and mental overhaul, which can now be referred to as part two of phase two (or maybe – see post way below – the dam broke?). no, im not going crazy, but I can feel myself slipping away from sane, rational thoughts that are simply bombarded and overcome with extreme emotions of every kind. now, mive been an overemotional, oversensitive person for as long as I can remember. im sure some from of therapy might reveal some deep, dark, emotional wound that happened long ago and never healed right. but for today’s post, we’ll concentrate on what we know, hm?

ive never been one of those people who “cant cry” or rather, has some kind of “wall” up around myself for protection because sometime, somewhere, someone hurt me so badly that im always in self preservation mode. sure, ive been hurt, betrayed, cheated on, lied to, but to my dismay, that hasn’t laid the first brick in any kind of “wall” I should have around myself. if anything, its chipped away a little each time at my core, and my skin, poking holes like a light bright canvas. I sometimes feel like I know the design.. that I know more colorful pegs are coming.. and part of me wants to just to show people the dotted guide because maybe they don’t know where theyre going with it, but I do. the optimist in me hopes it will be a pretty picture when its all done.

but maybe instead, I should start laying bricks. my mother always said my skin was thin. and boy’s don’t cry, much less sob. when genes were being divided, my sister got those traits that make her seem heartless, uncaring, insensitive. I got whatever she was denied in spades. so much so that it overflows and blurs the lines between caring and uncaring, sensitive and insensitive. my mother also told me that I was selfish. I think when she said that, at the time it was true.

I spent most of my childhood trying to be invisible and not get in the way. I never had an opinion about much.. never made decisions.. never stood up for anything I wanted, needed (until I was 18 with the whole lesbian thing). I was afraid to rock the boat, make someone mad, make someone frustrated, be an inconvenience, offend, be in the way.. have my opinions be in the way. what did I know? I was the youngest.. the most naïve and fragile and thin skinned. who was I to suggest anything? even in her questionable moral state, my sister was the family decision maker – still is.

thanks to some birth order research, ive found at least some facts to support my questionable personality traits: “Feels every one bigger and more capable. Expects others to do things, make decisions, take responsibility. Feels smallest and weakest. May not be taken seriously.” and another site that says that my marriage should work well, based on birth-order: “First-born married to the last-born: This relationship is an excellent combination. First-born can teach last-born how to be better organized and that there are times when life must be taken seriously. The last-born teaches the first-born that it's okay to have fun once in a while.”

well, and now ive gone off on a tangent on birth order. great. the bottom line here is that I have a call into a place that has therapists. step one, of part two, of phase two. major topics to cover: gender identity, my family, my friendships, my relationships, my career, life-path.. to start, I suppose. wish me luck.

phase two

here I am again – sitting at my desk, spooning out cottage cheese from its convenient snack-size packaging onto a flavor-adding pool of balsamic vinegar dressing, sitting at the bottom of salad remnants in my zip lock tupperware. this has become phase two of my great weight loss effort. I’m wearing my tranny outfit today – khakis, brown shoes, brown socks, and a tigher-than-I’m-really-comfortable-with fitting polo shirt. if I could have my way, I’d travel in time back to any given era where it was hip to be completely baggy all the time. I know wearing baggy clothes makes you look larger than you actually are.. but there’s something to be said for being comfortable. not like my polo shirt isn’t comfortable – but looking at myself in a mirror wearing something that’s clinging to my skin (in my own sense, most everyone would say that it “fits” me), makes me uncomfortable in said clung-to skin.

see, in an effort to really figure out where my body-hating issues are coming from, I’m starting in a place that has always given me issues – my weight. I figure, if I can tackle that first, then reassess after I’ve made a dent (I’ve made a 22 lb dent so far), then that will hopefully help me put my gender-related body issues in better perspective. do I hate my body because it’s a woman’s body? or because it’s a fat body? or because it’s a fat woman’s body?

with phase two under way (phase one was 0-15 lb loss), gender issues are still in my every day thoughts. they’re more muted, yes, but they’re still there. I struggle with the fact that when I hope to be thinner, I hope to fit into all the men’s clothing I currently can’t pull off. things about my body, like my hips, will always be an obstacle to men’s clothes fitting me the way ive always wanted them to. as I’m dragging myself to the gym every day, I walk into the women’s locker room and avoid eye contact with everyone inside. I get uncomfortable if I see someone walking around half naked. not because it’s weird to see another woman half-naked, but because I feel like I shouldn’t be in there. like I’m breaking some rule. that could just be the lesbian in me, though. I think about my breasts every time I unleash them from my work bra, only then to bind them back down in my sports bra. I catch glimpses of myself in mirrors while I’m working out. I wonder if other people in the gym notice that I wear a wedding band. I wonder who they think I’m married to. my shirt clings to me, my unshaven legs show when I hike up my sweatpants leg, my hair (confined to its ponytail) frizzes, my face turns red, and I wonder who they think said “I do”/”I wanna tap that ass” to me. I wish I could carry around a picture of my hot wife and explain.

see, and this is where it turns into self esteem and a weight issue, more than a trans issue. if I could be running on a treadmill in shorts, with tan, thin legs (perhaps even shaven), and a tank top, with sweat running down my back (in that sexy way), this blog might never exist. I suppose this is why this blog still exists. cause I’m afraid I won’t ever know if I can be that girl in a tank top, much less if I could be that boy in soccer shorts with his shirt off. it’s only fitting that I finish my diet coke and make my way down to the gym – part two of phase two.

we'll call her sally

i have an ex. well, I have several ex’s, but one in particular had a very serious mental and emotional impact on me. (hi, therapy.) we started things up on new years eve about ten years ago. I had met her earlier that previous summer, and she was introduced to me by my two male friends (one straight, one gay) as sally (names have been changed to protect the not so innocent), the bisexual girl who used to be a stripper.. sorry, exotic dancer. I had come out to both of my guy friends, and they were anxious to introduce me to the one and only somewhat gay-ish girl that they both knew. not as a hook-up, but just as a source of support, or maybe more of “ooh look! she likes girls, too!” on a random hot summer night, we drove to her house and I met both her and her boyfriend/fiancé, chuck. chuck was a nice enough guy, and also bisexual, so the two were quite a pair. he was tall, dark hair, dark features, and was showing everyone his new bellybutton piercing. she was short, platinum blonde hair, curvy, and scrambling around her very cluttered parents’ house looking for her purse? keys? lip liner? whatever it was, it was important enough that we waited in the foyer for 15 minutes. I didn’t spend much time with her that night – we ended up driving out to a barnes and noble for me and the gay guy to hang out in the gay section, well.. being gay. as I plowed through one gay book after another, my gay friend abandoned me to sit with sally in the café sipping iced mochas.. talking about, I later found out, me.

fast-forward to thanksgiving break, 1995. sometime before the long weekend, she had emailed me, asking if I was going home for the holiday. she was attending a nearby (2 hour drive away) college, and was looking to see if I wanted to get together and hang out while we were both home. I had been dating someone since I got to school that year, and she was still with chuck, even though they were having a rough time. we spent the few weeks before break emailing about our relationships, school, random things. when we both got home, we ended up hanging out one night, the four of us (me, her, chuck, and gay friend) going dancing at a local club. she started dancing with me, making eyes, raising eyebrows. chuck was oblivious, dancing with himself in a corner. although nothing happened that night, it sparked what eventually happened that winter break… after she and chuck had broken up, but still while I was dating my girlfriend at the time, and she had started hooking up with a girl at her school. sometime after Christmas, we kissed, and on new years eve, we slept together.

after a rough spring semester of our on-campus girlfriends finding out about our new years fling, we steered clear of one another, but eventually reunited that summer when we both came home from school. from then on until the spring of 1999, the relationship was on. we had our fair share of tiny break-ups to larger month-long break-ups, but always ended up coming back to each other. during those years, we fought about everything under the sun. we ended up having a roster of things we “couldn’t talk about” with each other, as every subject became a sensitive subject, and soon enough, we stopped talking about much at all. our more serious spats usually involved fighting about my family, her family, her inability to say “no” to advances from other men and woman, and my jealousy issues that revolved around that. she was a pretty girl, and good for my self esteem. she also looked more straight than most straight girls. she spent our whole relationship declaring her lesbianism and swearing off of men, saying she only liked men before because they were easy to play with, easy to tease, easy to be mean to, easy to torture, and easy to use. she said she could only get emotionally attached with women, and was done boosting her self-esteem by taunting the men-folk with her confidence. funny thing to me was, the fact that for our four years together, she treated me like I was any man she had been with – playing, teasing, torturing, using, being mean to for mean’s sake. putting me down to boost herself up. fighting with me for fighting’s sake.. yelling me into a corner, making every conversation hostile. I was always wrong, and I was always the asshole. she often seemed emotionally unattached, even though I was very much a woman.

by the end, I was tired of everything. I didn’t break up with her because I didn’t love her.. but because I couldn’t deal with the constant misunderstandings, apologizing on my part, tail always between my legs, walking on eggshells, avoiding countless subjects to talk about, and fearing that, although I was in a relationship with her, I wasn’t ever going to be good enough, or have the upper hand, or make any of the rules, or.. well, be right about anything, or feel respected. I was going to be like any other boyfriend she bossed around, used, and discarded. any other boyfriend.. not girlfriend. I had met some of her ex girlfriends, saw her interact with some of them, and even eavesdropped my fair share of conversations. she seemed timid, shy, content on them making the rules, having control, being right. I never saw her stand up to any of them, raise her voice, much less insist that they were wrong in any way… or even complain to me about them in any way. she was indeed emotionally attached to them – stalking them, obsessing over them, begging them to stay with her, not leave her, always love her. sure, maybe it was just different people, different personalities.. but it’s something I could never shake… knowing how she treated me like any boyfriend, and I could never get her to treat me like she would a girlfriend. with respect, with the feeling that she wanted to be with me, that she would ever one day beg *me* not to leave. instead, she broke up with me on a monthly basis, and it was my job to come crawling back, asking for forgiveness, promising to be better.

a few years after we broke up, I had moved on, and so had she.. to marry a man. (that’s a whole other complex in and of itself, and another entry all together.) it seems like the bottom line is, that not only was I the asshole, but I was also the boy, which apparently gave me a whole new set of rules. maybe she was onto something, treating me like any boy she had been with. I spent years trying to figure out why everything was so difficult between us, and why I could never get her to treat me like I wanted, needed her to. after some processing, it’s beginning to make more sense. it doesn’t make me more comfortable identifying myself in the boy category, but it’s another piece to that puzzle.

all the wrong reasons...

i suppose the real reason that i haven't made any progress towards identifying as trans, is that i honestly believe that i can go on living the rest of my life as a woman, and though uncomfortable at times, the need to be a man isn't as overwhelming as it is to some people who are already on the path to manhood. maybe i am trans, though, and this matter of fact lumps me in with the gay men (or women) of the world who are married to women (or men) because of their jobs, or unsupportive families, or religions, or culture, or location, etc. people who can go their whole lives with a feeling of complacency because things "aren't so bad the way they are." or they aren't so bad compared to what they could be if they took the chance to fulfill all of their internal needs, regardless of consequences. when does the need to fulfill yourself outweigh the consequences... especially when the consequences could be from alienating your family, to losing your job, to (in a tranny case), not being able to show your children your baby pictures with you as a different gender. whenever i think about it that way, the thought of transitioning, or even self-identifying and acknowledging my feelings, makes me fearful and lumps me into the "well, things aren't so bad they way they are" boat with all of the hetero-married gay men and women of the world.

on the flip side, what happens when transitioning loses some of those consequences, and actually becomes more attractive than my current lesbian status? what if, with the prospect of moving to a homophobic southern state, being a transman (seen as a straight man by rednecks and families with small children) would make my life easier than to be seen as a butch lesbian roaming the moral streets of a southern town with my wife. would i be prepared to deal with the ignorance of the check-out lady sir-ing me while i'm identifying as a woman. can i snuggle up with my wife on the beach without scaring the tourists, making a scene with my blatant homosexuality? right now, living in a liberal town, working at a gay-friendly place, where wandering around being a big, butch lesbian isn't a rare sight, sure - things aren't so bad. but what happens when the atmosphere changes? when it's a more conservative town, where we'd be the only obviously gay women wandering around holding hands. or worse yet, sending our children to school with lesbian parents, preparing then to get ridiculed and beat-up because of us. wouldn't it be "not as bad" to transition, give our kids a mom and a dad, and be able to have all those male privileges? the lesbian activist in me (who isn't very vocal) says i need to stay a lesbian and stick it out for the sake of moving the gay culture forward. the transman in me says, not at the risk of getting myself, my wife, of my children hurt. when did the pros and cons list get so neck and neck?

i suppose the right answer is the whole "be true to yourself" refrain. i suppose that would be easier if myself didn't change seemingly all the time. if i felt i could sort it all out in a vacuum and not always take everything, everyone, and every situation into consideration, i wouldn't sway so often, so broadly, so dramatically. i suppose this struggle is much easier when you're 18, already the black sheep of your family for coming out as gay, with a university glbta group counseling and supporting you, and a non-serious relationship with a girl who's a former straight/now femme lesbian that you've only been dating for a few months, and thinks transguys are "hot." what happens, though, when you've been a lesbian for ten years, and can't imagine starting now to transition into something that could possibly be.. well, for all the wrong reasons.. leaving what's "not so bad" behind for the unknown.

breaking the dam

at what point do you realize you need therapy? now.. i'm all kinds of in need of therapy, for a variety of reasons not related to my gender identity extravaganza. i grew up in therapy when i was a kid.. preventative therapy, i called it. my mom had a therapist, as did my sister, so it was only natural for them to enroll me as well. i don't remember it being enlightening.. i just remember playing lots of "uno" and walking along the railroad tracks with my therapist, talking about my typical 7th grade day. i suppose a lot of what i need to talk about now i should have talked about then. apparently i just didn't know how important those feelings were.. or, rather, how incredibly different they were from every other 7th grader. while every kid was thinking they were so different from everyone else, misunderstood by their parents and teachers, i just assumed i was living a normal kids life, doing normal things, thinking normal thoughts. sure, i didn't think i was the seavers or any other sitcom family, though it didn't stop me from wanting to be. internally, i assumed no one's family was like that. it wasn't until i was in college that i realized that those families did exist... that other kids had bedtimes.. that families got up in the morning together and had breakfast. i was certain that i was normal, and it took me years to come to terms with how different everything i thought was normal was. of course, it also wasn't until my senior year of high school that i realized what my vagina was, really, and how doing things to those private parts could feel good.. that it wasn't just for getting pregnant or catching std's.

i'm convinced that, until i fell in love with a woman when i was 17, that i must have been asexual. sure, i had crushes. but for 17 years, my crushes involved wanting to hold hands with someone, and *gasp* maybe kiss. it wasn't until my first real boyfriend tried to shove his tongue in my mouth (age 16) that i realized what a french kiss was. i might have been obviously disgusted. he dumped me the next day.

i remember touching myself a few times the summer before my senior year of high school. i completely bypassed my clit and went right for my vagina.. awkwardly sticking fingers inside, moving around, sometimes getting wet, never really getting off. i was so unsuccessful that i remember stopping, trying to figure out what the big deal was. nothing turned me on, as i know it now.

i was 17 when i had my first somewhat animal instinct to pin a woman against a wall and press myself against her. we were in a theater, backstage during a performance. she was whispering italian in my ear, and i wanted to grab her, shove her against the dark curtains, and, in a very movie star sort of way, kiss her hard and, for the lack of a better term, have my way with her. and there was my epiphany. my sexual rebirth if you will. after that, i couldn't stop thinking about sex... like a sexual dam had broken.

my overwhelming sexual thoughts were fixated on my being the man (literally) having sex with a woman. me on top.. or me behind her bending her over.. or me pressing her up against a wall.. or her wrapping her legs around my waist. i never thought lesbian sex thoughts.. oral sex, or using my hands/fingers, etc. i remember being so confused and disappointed two weeks shy of my 18th birthday when i had sex for the first time.. when i had successfully kissed someone, but had no. idea. what happened next. and quickly realized that she could straddle me all she wanted.. but neither of us were getting off. what did i think would happen? i remember laying on top of her, kissing her, and her expressing confusion as to why i was laying on top of her... and my fear of squashing her little tiny-framed self with my big, heavy, broad self. (for the record, laying on top of my wife is still one of my favorite things ever.)

so where in the sexual developmental stage of my life did things go horribly wrong? i can blame my ocd, self-esteem issues on a variety of other upbringing flaws (a whole other entry).. but in this specific case, what part of my mental and emotional upbringing did i just start making up how to have sex, what body parts i would use, how i would use them, who i would use them on? why was i so certain that, without any male parts, i could have sex like a man? why do i never fantasize about being laid out and fucked? why am i always doing the fucking? why am i always hoping and wishing i could use my non-existent manpart? i'm certain therapists would have a field day helping me sort myself out in gender identity land, and perhaps it's coming up on the time for me to ask for help. i often get the feeling that, based on my self-help experience, i'm probably not the best judge of things.

jacking off, photo shoot, and leg hair

a few weeks back, i found myself home alone. usually, this happens pretty often, and the time is most likely being taken advantage of by cleaning/tidying the house, watching tv (like the tivo-ed coldplay unplugged as we speak), tinkering online, etc. my wife works off hours, and my regular work hours combined with my irregular everything-else hours, are at fault for the frequent situation-imposed home alone-ness. so yes, a few weeks back i decided to take my hand (ba doom boom) at jacking off with my pink penis-like cock, some lube, and a bullet vibrator. i had tried, and succeeded (read:came) before on a completely different home alone night, but in a much more time-consuming, and lubeless fashion that had left me wondering why i just didn't flop down on my back and take 1/4 the time and do it the easier and less frustrating way. but i was determined to give it a shot, and even more determined to come. so this time, i was at least in the mindset that it might take a while, and with several hours to kill, thought maybe it got easier the second time. well, how's about being right for a change?

without the gory details, everything worked much more properly this time. was it the lube? different position? technique? the porn i was watching? i suppose when i try for the third time, i'll have my answer. still vibrating with the bullet, and not sure if i'll ever be able to without it (frustrating), but at this point, i'll take it as it is. i can only hope for so much.

on the second note - i have a band photo shoot tomorrow. this means coming home from work and girlying it up for the camera. jesus. i'll have my wife straighten my hair, and perhaps even put some make-up on me in certain troubled areas. still. jesus. i'd do anything to look hot... boy hot, since i can't pull off girl hot in anyone's world. i want people to come to my band's website and go.. wow. they're hot. i don't care what they sound like, i'm a fan! instead, i worry about people perplexed by my appearance, and instead of being drawn in, being turned off by it. if i was a hot girl, i wouldn't have a complex. i'd flaunt my hotness.. belly shirts, a tattoo on my hip that myseriously disappears into my low-rider jeans, oozing sex appeal, putting concert-goers into a trance - one leading them to my mailing list and cd's. if i was a hot boy, i'd dress in trendy emo shirts, and rugged jeans, and have a dirty, sort of sweaty chris martin way about myself.. with different colored pieces of electrical tape on my fingers, and unwashed hair. instead, i'm somewhere in between.. without the hotness. i'd like to not have to try so hard to be me. i'd like to not feel so unsure of who i am internally, which no doubt, shows up on stage, in my music, and tomorrow.. in pictures.

leg hair - haven't shaved in a few weeks. not intentionally, mind you... out of pure laziness. it's nice to see my long, dark hairs on my shins. makes me wonder what in the world would happen if i was one of those transmen with the photo transition blogs, posting pics of my leg hair "4 months on T." hairy beasty, i'm sure. they will be shaved soon enough, i'm assuming. i'll want my wife to want to run her hands over their smoothness that i know she likes. i'll not want it to be a deterrent in the world of my getting some sex. she's more put off by the underarm hair that i've gotten under control and for some reason, doesn't make evoke any gender issues at all. at any rate, we'll see how long i last.

penis envy, for selfish reasons

the money i would give to have sex like a straight man. to be able to have the luxuries that hetero guys take for granted.. or are even annoyed by.. premature ejaculation, unwanted hardons while looking at pretty girls on the street, the risks of knocking some girl up, or blue balls, or bad blow jobs from girls who use their teeth. i'd love to worry about condoms breaking, or my wife going off the pill without telling me. i'd take all those frustrations to have a penis that worked normally when thrusted into any given vagina . most of this comes from having a rather uncooperative vagina, to put it nicely. what money i would give to be able to bend my wife over, fuck her for 5 minutes, get off, and be done. i'm not sure she'd be thrilled with the idea.. but with my unruly vagina as the keeper of my orgasms, i'm almost ashamed to admit that i'm one of those girls who just has a rough time getting off by someone else's hand/mouth/artificial member. i'm even more ashamed to admit that im one of those girls who says, "it's always been this way." i'm easier on some occasions over others - before my period, if i'm incredibly turned on (though theres a fine line there.. too turned on builds things up too much, and then it just doesnt work...), if my wife and i are being really fucking kinky..

now, on the other side of things, i've never met a vagina i couldn't conquer. i've met, slept with, had lengthy relationships with women who could "never come in bed" before me, and could have been the reason that i stepped up my game.. but i didn't believe for a second that i couldn't make them get off, regarless of how well they knew their pink parts. part of my insitance on being a good lay/a good top was to take the pressure of me being bottomed into a position (quite literally sometimes) of laying, hoping things downstairs would just fucking come already.. knowing that the type of touching was right, good speed, right amount of pressure, sufficient amount of lube, nice rhythm, good build-up, being turned on, stars aligned, a favorite fantasy in my head.. but after 30 mins, an hour, carpal tunnel and a locked jaw, and i would be no closer to coming than when we just started, or if we were taking a long walk on the beach, or buying kitty litter at target. as the top, there's nothing more frustrating (to me) than fucking someone who just can't come.. who will stop you in the middle of things because those pink parts wont work properly. it makes me feel inadequate, grumpy, like i'm not a good lay. and, there's nothing more i dislike more than feeling like a bad lay. so naturally, the last thing i want to do is to poke at my play partner and say .. yeah, hi. umm.. i know you've had your head between my legs for an hour and a half, but it's just not going to work. aside from not wanting to make them feel like a bad lay, my eternally optimistic (and fucking horny) self still believes than an hour and a half in, there's still a chance i could come. because, i like to come, dammit. who doesn't?! so i don't like to go into laying on my back with the assumption that things won't work, and with any sort of time limit. i'm the last person to stop myself (or herself) without giving them as many chances as possible. and ya see, as much as i like to rub my own parts, there's really nothing better than someone else making them explode. so i always have hope. and i'm not about to be one of those "it's just hard to make me come" sort of girls who thinks that not coming is okay. bullshit, i say. i'll never stop making my permanent play partner (i.e. my wife) spent hours at a time in between my legs as long as my optimism exists. maybe by not even giving her the opportunity to spend an hour and a half getting chin-burn and a neck cramp is my way of preserving my optimism. i don't want my pink parts to let me down.. i don't want to let her down.. i don't want her to think that shes a bad lay, that she can't get me off, that she's doing anything wrong - when, like a mathematical formula, everything is supposed to work. after x amount of y, squared, divided by three, all signs should point to O. shunning my parts.. punishing them.. not even giving them an opportunity to feel stroking fingers, a warm mouth, and a welcome tongue.. .. if they can't play nice, then they can't play at all, i say. they need to learn how to cooperate, and if not.. well, then no x or y for you! i don't mind abusing my parts, making *them* feel bad, inadequate, a bad lay... i just want to prevent my wife from feeling that way.

back to the penis envy. so yes.. i'd love to have some normal-sized, regular, every day penis that reacts how it's supposed to, to everything that it's supposed to. maybe it's a misconception, but there's just not a whole lot of guys out there, i don't think, saying that they're just one of those guys who can't come.. and they'd rather concentrate on you, and dont worry about them.. their penis is just uncooperative and they'll be just fine. i mean, there are the stray guys writing into dan savage about masterbatory habits which have influenced their penis' likes and dislikes, or guys who can't come unless they're thinking of something terribly kinky and pervy... but your regular joe schmo with his every day penis probably hasn't met a normal jane's vagina his penis didn't like. that's where my penis envy breeds from.

so where does that leave me? somewhere in between asking my wife for sex, and fearing finding myself flat on my back worried that i wont be able to come.. worried that i'll suffocate my wife before i'll come, that she'll start to associate getting me off as something long, and time-consuming, and difficult when we don't have enough hours in the day as it is to do non time-consuming, easy, every day things (like buying kitty litter at target). i joke a lot with her because i'm not quite sure what else to do with my vagina's aching needs, and crying wolf nature that makes me fear finding myself in a state of orgasm stalemate, when all i want in the world is to just get off.. like any person, really. i refuse to be one of those girls who is complacent with not getting off. i refuse to have my optimism disintegrated by my unruly vagina.. it leaves me wanting my wife in between my legs, wanting my parts to cooperate, and hoping that as i get older, they just might start to catch on.. i want to know that when my pants come off, i'll get to come - plain and simple. that x and y will lead to O. that there's no secret trick, or voodoo magic needed to make it go. that my wife will feel confident in raising an eyebrow and heading dowstairs, not worrying about the tough audience that is my parts. that my persistance to get into my wife's pants will end in us both in post-orgasm bliss. i don't think that's too much to ask.

oh no mr. vagina - i'm not letting you off the hook. unless my transneeds overwhelm me and i transition, im stuck with your ass... and you're going to need to step up before i consider getting rid of you a pro in the "to transition" column. i've already started having sex with silicone attachments in front of you, and i will continue to until you show some sign that when i shove her head down there, you're going to play nice.