A short letter to Mom, (who thankfully doesn’t read my blog in part because she still thinks of the internet as magic.)

You rang yesterday mom. It was so great to hear from you. I miss you when I don’t see you for so long, but I will get down to see you soon I promise. I’m sorry your body is causing you so much grief at the moment, but maybe it’ll improve in time, and if not well you can always make a hobby out of seeing how miserable you can make the doctors who deal with you.

I’m writing because you laughed at me yesterday. I told you I was going on a date with a really special guy on Saturday evening, and you laughed. I told you he was handsome, charming, sweet, sexy, smart and that I’m excited about it, and you laughed.

I do get that almost everyone finds my discovery of my bisexuality amusing. But it’s becoming very old for me when people laugh at my sexuality, and I thought you at least would listen without laughing. I was wrong in that I guess. I know that in the past ten years I’ve gone from hating men, loathing them, to being indifferent, to now being open to the possibility that not all of them deserve to be dropped head first into the event horizon of a singularity. Worse that a few of them might even be worthy of trust, attraction…who knows maybe even love? I get that it’s a big change for you to take on board, but imagine what it’s like from my side? Just for a moment, please?

I’ve gone from decades of being absolutely certain of my sexuality, to not knowing what way is up, or down. I’ve gone from feeling safe in who I’m attracted to, to being attracted to a handful of members of a particular gender. You know the gender that my abusers were, that all of my bullies were…that gender. Yes, I know it’s unfair to tar all males with that brush, but you know that’s why it’s a phobia. It’s not rational, it’s not fair on them true, but it’s also not fair on me either.

But here I am all the same, excited to be going on a date with a handsome, charming, sweet, sexy, smart guy. And it’s so funny right? Amanda, the man-eating lesbian isn’t a dyke after all, get this she’s a bi-girl, and she’s interested in dating a guy, what a laugh. I needed support mom,

I’m excited yes, but I’m nervous. No scratch that, I’m scared.

This isn’t just a first date with a handsome, charming, sweet, sexy, smart guy. It’s my first date EVER with a guy, after 34 years of life on the planet. It’s the first time I’ve ever pursued something with a guy. It’s the first time I’ve ever wanted something to happen. But I’m so aware of how broken I am underneath all the mental armor I present to the world.

I’m scared of being hurt. I’m scared of him being hurt. Hell I’m scared of getting the bus home afterwards. After all, a gothic futagirl on Saturday night with Dublin Bus, what could go wrong there?

I didn’t need you to laugh at me. I’m fine with amusement. I’d be fine with teasing, I probably deserve a little. But this is my life, my sexuality, my excitement, my nerves, my fear. It’s not funny. It just isn’t.

Your loving and adoring daughter,
Amanda.

P.S. I’m not travelling to Cork to dog-sit for you when you get your new mutt. I don’t want my New Rocks puked into like last time.

Five more awesome things about being transsexual.

No sooner had I finished my original list of awesome things about being transsexual, then I suddenly realised how I’d only barely scratched the surface. After all there’s just so many wonderful aspects to being transsexual, why stop at only ten? So here we go again. This time no numbers, no count down, just another five of my favourite things about being a transsexual, though in some cases they’ll equally apply to any gender squishy person. This list will be a bit more personal, so it will probably be even more oddball than the last one. Well regardless enjoy, and I’m sure we’ll be revisiting this yet again in the future.

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So let’s start with, breasts. Let’s face it boobs rock, and jiggle, and bounce, and feel oh so good when you…*coughs* Well let’s just say that after 26 years without a pair I was delighted to be gifted by the boob-fairy with a honkin’ pair of double-d’s. And they truly are Weapons of Mass Seduction.

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Of course being transsexual gives you a perfect ready-made explanation for that very natural exploration of your own sexuality.

“Look Mom, I’m who I want to be. I have a great pair of boobs, long legs, and an ass that jiggles quite nicely when it’s spanked. And I wanna find out what I really prefer in a partner. So I’m going to partake of the boys, and I’m going to partake of the girls, hopefully sometimes both at the same time. Yes Mom, some of the girls will have pretty girl-cocks. Sheesh. No Mom I’ll be careful, never mind a condom I’ll wear a Wellington boot if it’ll end this conversation sooner!”

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And so very little beats the looks of confusion in sex shops when you ask to see their selection of fleshlights.

“Taking a trip away?”

“No, why?”

“Oh well I thought you were getting a little “Don’t miss me.” present for your boyfriend…”

“Nope, just buying  a little present for me. I’ll need to see what your selection of vibrating glass, and metal buttplugs is like as well please. Oh and lube, lot’s of lube. Strawberry flavour if you have it.”

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One of my favourite personal moments of the last eight years has to have been the moment I realised I had my dream butt. Seriously, I have the butt I dream of having on a girlfriend. Not too big, not too small, nicely rounded, firm, but with just the right amount of jiggle. Last night in fact I realised to my joy that it jiggles ever so slightly when I wash my teeth. Not visibly you understand, but just enough that I can quite clearly feel it. That was a really great moment, and one I definitely would not have experienced without a huge amount of hormone therapy, patience, and the careful, scientific  application of chocolate. Now if only I had someone to worship my perfect bum. *sigh*

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Finally, for this time, I get to enjoy the wonder that is my ability to pee standing up in a public restroom. As horrible as male restrooms are, sometimes women’s can be even worse. I remember, back in the dark days of B.B.B. (Before Big Bewbs), how horrifying using a men’s restroom could be. The badly spelled graffiti everywhere. The way urine was sprayed seemingly everywhere, sometimes apparently including the ceiling, as if the urinaters had spent their time having a huge make-believe lightsaber battle, but with penises and their piddle. Then there were the sometimes disturbingly large holes in the stall walls, and the…organic objects that would sometimes be shoved through *Karate Chop!*. And last but definitely not least the way some guys seemed to think stall door was meant to be used as toilet paper.

Well in these halcyon days of A.B.B. (After Big Bewbs) I’m equally horrified by some of the women’s restrooms I’ve had the misfortune to enter. Those that are in bars, and restaurants are usually fine. They can be a little grubby, but at the very least you can be reasonably certain nothing is going to try to crawl up out of the toilet bowl before trying to invade your body, from below as it were.  However there are some which are, let’s call them interesting. Where you don’t just wipe down the toilet seat before you sit, you instead fire it up liberally with a flamethrower from across the room, before you even think about entering the stall. You’re sure you saw something moving on the floor…no OH GODDESSES that’s not carpet, that’s the actual floor, and it really IS moving.

In these places it’s a bonus to be a well-adjusted transsexual of the futagirl variety. There’s a toilet seat that makes you want a hepatitis test, just for looking at it? No problem just lift your skirt, a little jiggery pokery in your undies, and you too can safely pee without having to touch bare skin to eldritch horror.

Admittedly you will have to touch the flush handle, but hey you can always cut off that finger at home later, if it shows any signs of demonic possession. Better make it your little finger you use, just in case.