imamessiguess

phase two, part two?

2005-09-01T12:36:00.000-07:00

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

2005-08-31T09:55:00.000-07:00

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

2005-06-29T11:19:00.000-07:00

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...

2005-06-26T09:45:00.000-07:00

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

2005-06-25T14:04:00.000-07:00

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

2005-06-10T01:20:00.000-07:00

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

2005-05-29T17:12:00.000-07:00

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.

beautifully comfortable

2005-05-11T00:03:00.000-07:00

while writing song lyrics the other day, i wrote the line, "i wish i was beautiful." it just came out. it didn't rhyme with anything in the verse.. didn't even complete a thought, really - but in the context of the lyrics, made sense. there's a little bit (and sometimes a lot of bit) about me in every song i write. i find it hard to be that singer/songwriter type crooning about other people's lives, telling other people's stories, feeding off of other people's experiences. part of me feels like i have enough stories of my own to make dozens of albums. part of me feels like i need to keep other stories to myself. like this one.

my wife would interrupt me right now and tell me how beautiful i am. a beautiful girl, though. a beautiful wife. not man, not husband. not one of those guys that all the straight girls think are beautiful - with pretty eyes, soft features, shy smiles. that part of me with the quiet stories wants to be one of those beautiful guys. i would wear cargo shorts (that would ignore my feminine hips), and flip-flops, and my sunglasses (simple, but expensive) on the top of my head.. or maybe sitting on the back of my tan neck. maybe i'd have a tattoo of something tribal on the side of my hairy man-calf. i'd chew gum and drive a car with the sunroof always open, and all of the windows down on bright, warm spring afternoons like today. i'd casually scratch my 5 o'clock shadow while sitting at a stoplight in the middle of the city. i'd have guy friends who looked a bit like me and we'd meet up on weekend afternoons to play sudden games of football. i'd always have confidence in everything i do (a line in different song.) i'd even be clumsy gracefully. i'd never feel like i was having an out-of-body experience while talking to an attentive audience - fearing for what i'm actually saying, for what they're hearing, and hating the sound of my monotone, gender neutral voice - wondering how long it will take them to lose interest in what i'm saying because i've used an analogy wrong and they're caught up wondering if i really meant something else (or worse, "did she just say that?"). i want to occasionally smoke a cigarette and have people around me laugh and gasp with raised eyebrows because they didn't think i was that type of guy. i'd wink and smile and play mysterious. i'd be.. beautiful. the way i'd like to be beautiful. beautifully comfortable.

who knows if i can be beautifully comfortable as a woman. 90% of me knows that being that guy up there is next to impossible. no amount of testosterone will make me any more graceful, or prevent me from saying incorrect analogies. for now, my cargo shorts will hang too long, too big, on my too wide hips. my cheap plastic sunglasses (when i wear them, when i have my contacts in, which is 5% of my life because they're uncomfortable and make my eyes dry) will get caught in my long hair when i push them onto the top of my head. my car doesn't even have a sunroof, and my wife doesn't let me smoke - even if i could pull of the mysterious part of it. i can only do so much, it seems, and much of that feels like needing to ride out the parts of myself that i like, and learn to adapt and accept the parts of myself that feel so uncomfortable. i fear setting myself up to want something that's impossible - wanting to be this impossible beautiful guy. but it doesn't prevent me from noticing beautiful guys all the time, and hanging my head when they step into the elevator with me - knowing that they have no idea of what they naturally have, of what i'd love to naturally (or artificially) be. what's a beautiful girl to do?

male privilege

2005-04-25T15:41:00.000-07:00

i'd like some male privilege please. i'd like to have people make those manly assumptions about me - that i'm confident, experienced, unemotional. i'd like for people to be surprised to see me cry. i'd like for people to assume that i know how to fix a car (even though i don't). i'd like to not get skeptical stares and conversations while buying guitar strings at the guitar center, or followed into the rare and expensive acoustic guitar room, only to be left alone after i pick one up and start strumming - proving that not only can i hold one, i can play, too (and well, i might add). i'd like to not be scared at night when i'm walking swiftly in the dark to my car, hands clutching my keys, ready to stab any given hidden rapist. i'd like to know the secret straight man handshake (how do you know when to shake, knock fists, hit knuckles?). i'd like to be thin.. wait.. right.. well.. i'd like to be thin, sure, but in the case that i'll never be thin, i'd like to be considered a beefy, cuddly lead singer of a band (think smash mouth, scott on american idol), not a fat girl singer (think carnie wilson, mama cass).

i'd like to kiss my wife in front of my straight friends without a) creeping them out, b) making them uncomfortable, or c) turning them on . i'd like to check into a hotel with my wife, and not have to explain why we want a king-sized bed. i'd like to call a flower delivery place, and not be hesitant of their reaction when they ask for the message on the card. i'd like to be able to call a love song after hours radio show and dedicate a song to my wife without disturbing the dj. i suppose some of these things i could, and on some level should, do.. you know.. be that lesbian activist i used to be in college. get out there! make ourselves heard! we're here! we're queer! get used to it! but there's truly nothing like that stare.. or that uncomfortable silence/look-away reaction that happens when acting lesbianly in a straight environment. it's almost like you can hear the gasps as if they've just seen buffalo run past them. ooh! is that what i thought it was?? did you get a picture?? real live lesbians??? when, if i was a man with my wife, they would have treated us like squirrels. what i would give to sneak under everyone's radar. to go unnoticed. to kiss my wife goodbye in the morning (or hell, even make out - which sometimes happens) without knowing that the security man is looking, and watching.

i can deal, and have delt for years, with 99% of the first paragraph. i'm used to the guitar center, to crying, to being the fat girl singer. not having to deal with that shit would be a welcome perk.. but just that. a perk. that second paragraph, though, i have issues with. maybe that would all change if we moved to a blue state - somewhere where lesbians roam free, and seeing one on the street wouldn't phase anyone.

i've read a lot of ftm blogs of guys who used to be hardcore lesbian rights activists and have had problems dealing with the onset of male privilege. some are reluctant to accept and embrace their new identity - as a man, with privileges they've been denied all their life.. and in fact, have spent time fighting against. i honestly feel like i would feel no shame in cutting my lesbian ties. i'd have no desire to get an ftm symbol tattooed on my body, or put an ftm sticker on my car. i'd transition into a straight, straight man. i'd want to watch football, drink beer, spit, smoke cigars, get a tattoo on my wrist/arm/somwhere very visible, wander around in the house shirtless.. mow the lawn shirtless, swim in the ocean shirtless. (hell, maybe that's my driving force and i just need to join a nudist colony.) now there's nothing saying i can't watch football, drink beer, spit, smoke cigars, get a tattoo on my wrist/arm/somwhere very visible, while staying a lesbian.. in fact, with the exception of smoking cigars (which i'd love to do btw), and the tattoo (also top on the list) i do all those things regularly. but i can only imagine that it would feel differently as a guy.. that it would feel more normal, more internally accepted. i've spent most of my adult life doing all those things, but always with the awareness that girls don't do that sort of thing.. but lesbians do? accepted, but conflicted. attaching my actions and feelings to my sexual orientation, and not to my gender, which is apparently what i'm attempting to get at here. i think maybe if i could disassociate the two, i'd be making more progess in my struggle to figure myself out.

that's your singer?

2005-04-21T13:45:00.000-07:00

we haven't addressed this really yet, have we? well ok - round one. last night i went to a concert with my drummer, and as we were lingering about afterwards, he was chatting it up with some young cute girlies whom he knew, and as i leaned up against the walkway railing talking to his girlfriend, i overheard him say, "you know i'm in a band, right?" to the girlies. apparently the girlies had no idea, gasping, mouths gaping in an omigod-youre-so-cool kind of way. so he chatted up the band a bit, and midway through pointed over to me and said, "that's our singer over there." i abandoned my conversation for three seconds to look over, wave gently, and see their reaction - one of "that's your singer?" - raised eyebrows, gaping mouths and all. silly girlies, i thought, haven't you seen an overweight, butch lesbian, hair tied back, glasses, in baggy pants and a t-shirt bef0re? and moreso, one who is the front woman and driving force behind a somewhat successful rock band? i admit, i wasn't rocking my rock star persona last night, and sort of felt out of place as i was running into people who know my rock star persona, or at least, whom i want them to be introduced to my rock star persona. it's difficult enough to be a front woman of a rock band, but it's more difficult to be a butch front woman of a rock band, when there's constant pressure from the guys in my band, and the unsaid pressure of fans, to look.. well, girly. hot, even. now, if i was playing up the lesbian thing, i'd be on par hot with melissa ferrick (i could be kidding myself, but who knows).. but i'm not playing up the lesbian thing, and have no desire to rock the michigan womyn's music festival. the minute i embrace my butch rock star persona is the minute i'm going to need to write more political, anti-man, pro-gay, i love my cat songs. with that said, come show nights, i embrace my genetic femininity with tight pants, tighter fitting shirts, contacts, hair down and flowy, and *gasp* even a bra with underwire. sure, it makes me feel less in drag than wearing a stretchy stripy work shirt from lane bryant, but it's still drag-like in nature.

which leaves us where exactly, you wonder? well, with the music industry being so image heavy, it leaves me pushing up my boobs and keeping my hair long. although gender has its varying grey areas, rock star personas don't embrace that. hanson got enough shit for looking like three girls, while tracy chapman's low voice and short hair catapulted her into the gender questioning category as well. i wonder if it even made a blip on their personal radar screens, or hurt their feelings a little? sure? maybe? how could it not? if so, though, only because it might be image damaging.. not because the public perception might be onto something? it's one thing for my voice to already be mistaken as a man's (in music, on the phone), but i think if i had this underlying confidence that i know i'm a woman, then it wouldn't have such an impact on me. i think the fact that internally my gender is fluid, as soon as i get sir'd or assumed as a man, it shakes me terribly. assuming that my rock band goes on to rule the world, and my weight, appearance, etc. doesn't change - i'm not sure my gender insecurity can handle SNL impersonators. (hello cart, would you like to meet my horse?) the bottom line seems to be that i either need to embrace my femininity, underwire, long hair.. or quit my band, become a man, move to boston, and make a new rock band all together. i know it doesn't have to be all that drastic, but a part of me thinks that if i were either a) a hot girl, looking hot girlie like or b) a hot guy, looking like my drummer - then the cute girlies would have engaged me more in the rock band conversation, becoming instant fans, and coming to all our upcoming shows, thus helping us rule the world. instead, i got an instant snap judgment on my looks, and maybe they'll come out to a show sometime soon.. to see my drummer, not my band. does my internal fluid gender affect how i'm perceived by strangers? if so, is that affecting my band? is that why we're not ruling the world just yet? it's awful big of me to put that much pressure on my image.. but when i'm the one working the crowd, front and center in most pictures, i wonder how long i can go oppressing my inner man-like feelings before someone catches on, or worse set, sees me in public trying to pass (another entry all together). as much as i'd like to embrace my gender fluidity, i'd also like to have a career as a rock star. unless you want to just play with your surface gender like david bowie or marilyn manson, it seems unlikely to have both.

hair : part two of __

2005-04-20T11:42:00.000-07:00

so yes, there was shaving. my legs, my underarms, all smoother than they were before. they look "cleaner" which is, i guess, one of the reasons women shave, other than the smooth factor. some women are hairless wonders.. my wife, my mom, a few ex's.. who shave once in a blue moon, and you never can tell when they've shaven or not. their hair is blonde, fine, and a month without shaving or fresh from the razor, look about the same. me.. i'm a hairy beasty. now, i'm not hairy like.. carnie woman hairy, but my leg hair/underarm hair is thick, and dark brown/borderlined black. ten minutes after i'm fresh from the razor, i'm stubbly, and no longer silky smooth. after two days, the hair is fully visible again, in addition to being razor sharp. it makes me wonder what in the world would happen if i ever went on hormones. i can only imagine the level of hair increasing, getting darker, thicker, showing up places i didn't think i could grow hair. i suppose this is one of the things that i struggle with. i don't sit around wanting my body covered in long, thick hair. i don't want to have to shave my face. i don't want my wife to not want to kiss me in the morning because i'm scruffy. maybe she likes scruffy, though - who knows? i often wonder what used to/does attract her to men (physical qualities, mostly) and if my transitioning physically would give me those traits - how that would make us both feel. or, on the flip side, what those things are that attract her to women, and if my transitioning physically would make me lose those traits. i understand the whole "be true to yourself" concept behind transitioning, and being comfortable in your body, but i just don't think i'm selfish enough to go through all of that. (which surprises me because nine out of ten girlfriends have harped on my selfishness) to put my marriage, my family, my friends, my career at risk all because i find myself uncomfortable in the ladies room. coping with my uncomfortabilities seem to be a whole lot more reasonable than diving into the uncertain - an uncertain that could take away something/everything i love. it's more than hair. it's more than a haircut. it's more than a sock in my pants. it's more than wavering back and forth between david and daniel. it's substantial and big and scary. though, it doesn't have to be in the current world of genderqueer, and ftm with no hormones, and all of the grey inbetweeness that defines so many people sitting in my exact or neighboring boat. i suppose right now is the time to get comfy in my boat, paddle around, get out the binoculars, and float on. it's not a sink or swim situation like a lot of people must feel, which i suppose is a good thing, but i also assume that the floating might get old.

what's in a name

2005-04-19T12:03:00.000-07:00

i often wonder what names people would have given themselves if they had a choice. i wonder if there's anyone out there who was born with a name that they love, or at least a name that they felt fit them. if we could all pick our names, would there be any george's, frank's, eugene's, ethel's? or would we all be a sea of alex's, evan's, taylor's, and dakota's?with all these thoughts of trying to pass, comes the prospect of a new name. now, even if everyone in the world was completely happy with their given name, how many of us would jump at the chance at having a new name. and, well, its not just the new name that has its appeal, but it's the prospect of gaining a whole new identity. ripping yourself away from school yearbook pictures, former nicknames, maybe a tattoo on someone's arm... a chance to start over. the only attachment i have to my name is the fact that my father named me. aside from foggy memories, it's one of the few things i can cling to that he gave me. aside from that, i have no attachment, really, and leaving it behind has its personal, internal benefits. my name has been on nametags, websites, newspaper articles, picture captions, business cards.. has been yelled out in the heat of passion, in the throws of an argument, has been writing about in journals and diaries, has been addressed to in love letters, break-up letters, we need to talk letters. to me, my name signifies someone who was unpopular in high school, unattractive, just-a-friend, immature, over emotional, over dramatic, and trying to hard to do everything, be anything, fit in, be an outcast, either being unmemorable, or memorable in a way most people might want to forget. id love to unattach myself from those qualities, and without becoming someone else, it's practically impossible. my past is complicated and dramatic and full of things i'd much rather forget than attempt to change. at times, i've been a person i'd much rather forget. i've never kept journals really, mainly because when something happens that i'm not proud of, i'd like to move as quickly away from it as possible, patching my self-confidence with time (and sometimes denial), and not confrontation and resolution. i don't want any concrete evidence of what happened, who i was, what mistakes i've made. my selective memory will leave out those parts, and keep whatever's left. i write in poems and songs. i choose the ones i want to read again or sing. getting another shot to be me.. a new me.. a me that doesn't try so hard, doesn't cry so easily, isn't so sensitive, so defensive, personalizing everything - is more attractive than you know.

so a name. i have high standards in a name, this i know. i have high standards in a lot of things, actually, but you might know that already (if you don't, you'll soon find out). ideally, i'd like a name that starts with the first letter of my now name. those i've thought of, though, are questionable, at best, and none of them feel like they fit me. so now, i've opened up myself to the whole alphabet, which is daunting. my current criteria? are you ready? ohh, i'm not sure you are. a name.. two or more syllables, but preferably two. not a name of anyone i've ever known and disliked. not too trendy (sorry evan, taylor, and dakota). not the name of anyone my wife has ever kissed, groped, slept with, slept next to, thought about in any tiny itty bit sexual way - same goes for my ex's. not the name of any members of my family. not the name of any of my co-workers. not a gay man's name (sorry shane, blair, brad). not the name of any boys i've ever crushed on (sorry joseph, dale, and matt). not a unisex name. i think that might be it.. so, that might leave me with a handful of names to choose from, actually. it's just a matter of weeding one out, trying it out, and seeing how it makes me feel.

i suppose that's the real goal, well right now, of picking a name. i'd like to maybe go one day having my wife call me that name, and see how it feels. determine if it feels right because it's a man's name, or if it feels wrong because it's a man's name, or it's the wrong man's name. much like packing with something other than a sock the first time, i just want to know how it feels. as soon as i decide, we'll see how it goes. at this rate, though, i can't promise a decision anytime soon.

more hair : part one of __

2005-04-16T17:53:00.000-07:00

my hair. have we talked about my hair? well, yes.. we touched on it at the very beginning. let's get a little more involved, shall we?

my hair is brown, longish/shoulder-length, thick, wavy, with some natural blonde streaks at the front. it's heavy. it's unmanageable. my wife loves it. my mom loves it. hairdressers love it. it's the envy of anyone who ever runs their hands through it. bottom line? i hate it. and, as much as i don't want this blog to be about how i hate my body, i'd like to just sort of set the record straight on a few things - my current appearance being one of them. and as i sit here and realize that what i'm aching to write about is how unsatisfied i am about my body, i feel the need to go ahead and get it all out while i have a moment. we've embraced my inability to wear men's clothing, and my overweight problem, but now let's talk about the hair. it seems to be the root (ba doom boom) of a lot of my issues.

when i was a kid, i had short hair... as short as my mother would let me, which usually let to a bowl haircut. nice. going into middle school and high school, i embraced.. wait for it.. oh yes, the mullet. the long hair in the back was my mothers and my compromise on how short i could get it cut. so the front, sides were as short as any hairdresser (who knew i was a girl) would cut it, pointy sideburns and all, and the back was never short enough for me, but of an approving length for my mom. after a devastatingly bad haircut right before my senior year of high school, i stopped cutting it, and let it grow out to one length, which is did over the course of about a year... just in time for college.

in college, i dated a girl who had short red hair. so short, the back was actually shaved.. well, buzzed within 2 centimeters of her scalp. after her suggestion (after hearing my constant complaining about the thickness of my hair), i got the underside of my hair, from the nape of my neck to just below my ears, buzzed to the same length as hers. i loved it. it was the reverse mullet. i could have my hair up, and i looked butch.. i could have it down, and look normal (and not like a scary lesbian). i had it that way for about eight years. no, really. i grew it out once i started working in an office environment and was going for a more professional look. which is where i am now.. back to hating its thickness, overwhelmingness, and cope with my hatred by punishing it and confining it to a ponytail worn low on my neck 90% of the time during the day when i'm awake. ive tried different style and cuts, shorter, longer, straightened (which isn't too bad, actually, but is terribly time consuming).. and no luck finding anything i like. of course, my wife, my mom, and my hairdressers all can't say enough good things, and all would love to see me wearing it down more often, but they don't have to suffer. why don't i cut it? because the opinion (and thus, love) of my wife and my mom means too much. why didn't i cut it when i was in college (when i got my ear pierced, a tattoo, and flunked out a semester)? no fucking clue.

apparently i digress. this could be part one of __ at the rate this is going. so we've established the hatred of my hair.. the history, the reasons, the lack of solutions. with no plans of cutting my hair anytime soon, i feel like i'm constantly struggling with how to live with it, and give up the dream of having thinner hair, or at least a long/thin face instead of my round/chubby one that would compliment a short, butch haircut well. parts two, three, four and so on will most likely touch on how even if i wanted to try to pass maybe one day, i consider my hair a devastating handicap for the cause; and how men can have long hair and still be sexy, not to mention pass 100% of the time (i mean c'mon, look at johnny depp, and my wife's first true love); and speaking of my wife, maybe she has a thing for women and/or men with long hair (and doesn't even know it) and i would be shooting myself in the foot for a) screwing what everyone thinks, and embracing a short haircut with my round girlish face.. or b) trying my hand at being a man with short hair; oh, and we haven't even touched on the rock star aspect of my life (a major factor), and how cutting my hair (or somehow being more mannish in any way) would affect (as in make or break) my would-be-could-be career as a musician/front woman of a band; and, really, am i looking to have short hair for practical purposes? passing abilities? or maybe because i'm aching to be a butch lesbian and not a man at all? who knew so much thought when into a hairstyle? who knew so much thought when into keeping a hairstyle you hate? it's a fascinating place, my head... again, welcome. having fun yet? ;)

the boy department and shaving

2005-04-16T12:16:00.000-07:00

i find myself often angered at the fact that i can't wear men's pants. my ass and hips are far too feminized (not to mention large - but that's a different issue) for me to ever squeeze into men's jeans, khaki's, cargo pants, and the like. now i've known plenty of women whose figures allow, and sometimes even prefer, the fit of men's pants. i'm often angered that i'm not one of them. it would be one thing if all women had to wear women's pants, but to know that some women.. some who are perfectly happy as women.. have what they might consider a curse (due to the lack of hips, ass, feminized figures), and what i would consider a privilege.

men's shorts, for some reason, do fit me. and you bet men's shorts are the only shorts i wear. the idea of braving lane bryant to pick out something too short, too pleated, too.. girlish (or mostly, too not-boyish) makes me cringe. the ability to wear men's shorts is a big reason i look forward to spring and summer. i scope out the plus size men's shorts sections for cargo shorts, long shorts, board shorts, camo shorts, wanting a pair of each, in all colors, in my dresser. this, however, is accompanied by a whole different problem. see... with shorts comes shaving. i've never been a good leg shaver. my legs are always pale, and big, and only shaven up to the knees. i never was taught or encouraged to shave any higher. and really, unless i'm naked or in a bathing suit, no one see's those higher hairy leg parts. i'm not brave enough to let the shaving go for months and months and join the hairy hippy girl club, and i'm not brave enough to go out in shorts with significantly hairy legs. public stares, and self-consciousness keep me shaving. i fear, therefor i shave.

last summer was really the first time i felt like shaving was compromising something inside of me. i've always felt like it was a nuisance, but never like i was internally going against the grain. but as this spring approaches, i know it's only a matter of time before i find myself in the shower, perched on one leg, plastic razor end in my mouth, lathering up one limb at a time. i know my wife prefers my smooth legs. i know the public silently (some not so silently) agrees. so before next weekend - before i have to be around people i know (my wife is one thing, the public is another, my friends are a different beast).. i will shave what has been growing on my legs for.. probably about a month. not for my own internal reason actually, but mostly because i'm lazy, and it's time consuming (when they're this hairy.. and this big, for that matter), and hell, it's winter out still, and if i'm wearing pants to work, and pants to bed, i feel it's unnecessary, really. but this weekend, i can't be at the beach with friends, in most likely 75 degree weather, in jeans. i fear, therefor i shave.

i'm a mess, i guess

2005-04-15T11:45:00.000-07:00

when i was seven years old, i remember running outside my primary school building into a bright, warm spring day on the playground for recess. i was wearing blue jeans, and a light blue button-up shirt. as i played and played, my body temperature rose, and following the lead of the boys on the playground, i unbuttoned the top half of my shirt. one of my teachers noticed what i had done, and promptly came over to lecture me about how girls aren't allowed to unbutton their shirts the way boys could. she buttoned my shirt back up for me and sent me on my way, both confused and hot.

a few weeks later, i developed my first girl crush on a brown-haired, brown-eyed, smart girl named jennifer. after school one day, we stood out by one of the tall pine trees talking about our plans for the summer, and i plucked the heads off of dandelions to avoid eye contact. ten years later, i was sitting in the passengers side of a while honda civic hatchback, picking at a hole in the knee of my jeans, avoiding eye contact with a completely different jennifer - this one ten years my senior, brown hair, blue eyes, who spoke six different languages fluently. both were straight. i remember thinking that if my gender was different, i would have had a shot. looking back, i wouldn't have had a shot at all.. but my crushes might have been considered cute, and not creepy. no one likes a creepy lesbian.

so yes, my childhood and adolescence were sprinkled heavily with my own version of gender bending. i stuffed socks in my panties. i borrowed belts, shoes, shirts, from my boy childhood friends, aching for actual boy things, from the boy department, that a real live boy would wear, that a parent of a real live boy would buy them. i never returned them. i took advantage of the 80's obsession with girls wearing ties, and wore one any chance i could (read: when my mother let me) and often locked myself in my room all dressed in drag... with my panties stuffed, of course... just sitting around, listening to music, being boy-like. i tried to pee standing up once (what girl hasn't??), but peed down my leg. i used to go to sleep at night wishing and hoping that i would wake up in a boys body. i got called my mother's son more often than her daughter, and most of the time, neither of us corrected the cashier/saleswoman/whomever. it was just easier to go with it, than embrace the embarrassment that all three of us would have experienced.

i suppose the first time i passed on purpose was when i was about 12 years old. i went to get a haircut at the local hair cuttery (my mom had dropped me off at the mall). if you're familiar with your local hair cuttery, they ask you to type in your name onto their computer, which puts you in the queue. apparently when i arrived, there was no line, so the first hairdresser pulled me into her chair, skipping the name-entering process, and went to town.. giving me a real live boys haircut. short sideburns, no shampoo, snip snip snip. a co-worker asked her to lunch, and she said that she'd be right there after she finished up with "this boy" i.e. me. after she was done, she asked me to type my name into the computer for their records, and for the bill. j-a-c-k, my panicked, nervous fingers typed, afraid she would realize at any moment that i was a girl. i paid and ran out to wait for my mom. i loved my haircut, but knew the ridicule would come the next day... it was a small price to pay for passing, and getting that first real live boys haircut. i haven't had another one since. but my craving for one, along with the more modernized sock stuffed in my pants, has led me to start this journal. welcome.