It’s been two or three weeks since I started questioning my gender identity. To bring you up to speed, I’m AFAB (assigned female at birth) and am questioning whether I may actually identify as a male.
This blog post contains explicit content you might not want to know about me, regarding my sex life and other private thoughts. If you do not want to read about this, take your opportunity to nope out now.
The road so far:
Cut my hair. Started binding loosely with a sports bra. Bought male-scented hygiene products.
Started binding heavier with a sports bra and layered clothing.
Got my binder.
Bought new clothes. Decided to move back to Columbus.
Got my new place, moving in August.
I have a lot to talk about today concerning my journey up until this point. There’s been a lot of guilt, shame, and insomnia. There’s also a lot of anxiety and stress and other big changes that are occurring alongside this already confusing period of self-discovery. I’m going to lay it all out for you right here. ♥
Alrighty, then! Let’s get this dumpster fire burnin’!
When I cut my hair, it’s like I suddenly recognized myself for the first time. It was fucking me! There I was, the man I never fully realized I wanted to be. I rushed out and bought men’s deodorant right away, too. Someone on the street, a total stranger, even recognized me as a man. I was over the moon!
A person very close to me immediately expressed that it was quite possibly another of my “phases”, which was disappointing, but fair. I’ve gone through a lot of phases over the years. Another person close to me was a little less than supportive. They even went as far as to say, “Why are we encouraging this?”, which stung a bit, but I knew I needed to give them time. And yet another person outright admitted they were transphobic, so that was fun.
The first week or so of my “coming out” was rough. I like to do things fast and quick, the “yank it off like a Band-Aid” method. I knew it was gonna rock the boat, but this is how I’ve always done things. I don’t like beating around the bush when I make up my mind about something. I’m either all in or I don’t do it. Slowly, the dust started to settle and things are now almost normal again. Nearly everyone who was previously “not on board” with my transition started making lighthearted jokes about it with me. (Or stopped talking about it entirely, which I’m perfectly okay with.) We’re back to the way we’ve always been about my weird ass and I’m thankful.
But let’s talk about my most prized possession, gifted to me by my Canadian friend, Alistair Caradec: The binder. For the first couple days, I just sorta liked it. Then when I took a break on the third day and went out in an actual bra, I was…not happy. So yay for the air conditioner noise! (See Part One.) Now I have to really clock myself when I wear it to make sure I don’t exceed eight hours a day. Wanting to wear it longer than that tells me all I need to know about myself, though.
It’s not that I hate my breasts, really. I just sorta…wish they weren’t there anymore. The weight of them when I take off my binder is more noticeable, too. I hate coming home at night and taking off my binder. Catching my naked torso in the mirror is like, “Damn, there should be pecs there.”
Truthfully, I can’t quite pinpoint the reason why I’m just not feeling them anymore. I don’t feel strongly that they should be gone. I wouldn’t be heartbroken if I woke up with a flat chest, though, either. Seeing them more disappoints me than makes me sad or frustrated. They feel more and more “in the way”, too. I dunno. More on this as the story develops, I guess.
In other news, my bottom dysphoria is peeking its head around the corner. It’s not that I dislike what I was born with, but that I’d much rather have…something else. You know what I’m saying, guys.
Actually, I could get more honest about this, I suppose. The idea of having a penis is exciting to me. It’s not that I dislike my genitalia, but the idea of holding my own…anatomy…in my hand really gets my engine revving. And although I dislike the idea of being “fingered”, I do like the idea of a guy giving me a hand job.
Look, I said I was going to be honest. It’s your fault for continuing to read.
Moving on. Dating is a new and exciting prospect. I now feel as if I understand what all the hype is about. I’ve always dated because I felt like it was something I was supposed to do. What I mean by that is, I was raised as a female. My whole life, I’ve been told I’m a woman or a girl and everyone has referred to me with she/her pronouns. There was no room to explore this, no reason to explore this. It was something I and everyone around me took for granted. I was what I was because of how my body developed in the womb. I never considered that I was anything other than a female.
In my family and the area I was raised in, I knew I was supposed to like boys and be the stereotypical “female” of the relationship. I cook, I clean, I bear children, etc. And okay, it’s the 21st century and I don’t by any means have to do those things. But social conditioning made me think I should find a boyfriend and get into a heterosexual relationship dynamic, as expected. That’s what was going to make me happy. I needed to find a good man and get married and settle down.
If you’ve only met me as an adult, then you might be surprised I ever thought this way. I’ve deconstructed a lot of those ideas over the course of the past ten years. Yet even when I tried to fill the role of the “strong, independent woman” who “acts more like a dude” than a traditional female, relationships still weren’t hitting right. I’ve dated great men, both short term and long term. They were wonderful people, definite marriage potential, and I couldn’t. I couldn’t be with them for some reason.
They did nothing wrong. They were perfect for me “on paper”. They were attractive and kind and tolerant and funny. And I liked them, absolutely! Did I have commitment issues? Was it one of my childhood traumas keeping me from enjoying sex with them? Did I just have an inherent knack for self-sabotage?
You know what? Maybe. It could be any one of those things or a winning combination of all three. That’s why I’m going to be seeing a trans-friendly psychologist soon. It doesn’t explain away my interest in having a d*ck, I wouldn’t think, but we’ll see what my head doctor has to say.
I couldn’t stay connected with these wonderful men, though. When they wanted to touch me, it made me feel uncomfortable and turned off. Even though I absolutely, 100% am a sexual human being. God, am I sexual. You should see some of the erotica I write, for real. (You probably won’t, though. I keep the REM World trilogy pretty tame.) I’m convinced the issue is that I’m not happy that they see me as a woman. I don’t like the idea of being the “receiver” during penetrative sex all the time. I want to receive oral and penetrative sex as a man. I want to give sex as a man. I want to be seen as a man.
All my life, I figured I was a “cold romantic” or something. I wanted romance and sexual passion. I wanted to connect strongly and deeply with a man. But I never actually got invested in my partner like how I see others get invested. When I would see someone on social media going through a break up or getting jealous or anything, I was like, “But why…?” Because it’s so damn easy for me to just be like, “Okay, bye?” whenever a relationship comes to an end. Because part of me is relieved. It’s over. I don’t have to pretend I want something anymore. Why was I pretending in the first place? Because I saw no logical reason to end it. I saw no reason to “self-sabotage” what was supposed to make me happy.
And yes, I realize this doesn’t necessarily make me trans, but— (Of course there’s a but.) I often break up with a guy or they break up with me because I no longer want sex with them. That should say plenty. It’s not that I’m not attracted to men. It’s that them seeing me as a woman squicks me out. And why the fuck would that turn me off? That doesn’t turn cis women off, does it? I’m betting no, by my social media feeds, television, and movies.
I was assigned female at birth and it’s not working out. That’s the facts and I’ve actually managed to accept that already, which is surprising. I was seriously not okay up until a few days ago, not gonna lie. Here’s some of the fun, nifty thoughts that contributed to my insomnia and anxiety. These thoughts actually made me sick to my stomach, I was so pressed about them. Ready? Here goes!
- What if I “ruined” everything for nothing?
- What if I change my mind? How do I tell everyone to switch back to my old pronouns?
- What if I change my mind after hormones? Not everything is reversible!
- What if I decide I want kids?
- Will I get pattern hair baldness if I go on HRT?
- What if I can’t find a partner after I transition?
- Will I be able to find a partner pre-medical transition? What if gay/bi/pan men aren’t interested in me? (Trans-exclusion isn’t exclusive to TERFs.)
- Do I need to medically transition? I can’t wear a binder forever, though…
- Am I only excited for this because it’s new?
- Am I being selfish by doing this?
- [Insert past thirty years of me living as a woman and getting sentimental.]
There’s probably more that kept me up at night, but honestly, most of the icky feelings have gone away. I’m feeling more comfortable now and most of these questions no longer give my tummy the sick rumblings. We’ll work our way down the list in the next installment of “My Gender Identity”. Stay tuned and stay sexy~!
Also, order the first book in my gay fantasy trilogy by clicking here!