Something something gender and transness

I dont know what gender is.
Nor do I know what is love or what a romantic relationship is supposed to be.
If I think about it, I think I know what I need, what I want. But I am bad at naming those things, at drawling a line, at labelling.

I started transitioning maybe 8 months ago.
Or 6 years.
Or 3.
Who knows.

It took me years into what could be referred as a transition to call myself “trans”. It could be say that I felt a fraud, that it was the dysphoria and internalised transphobia talking. And it may be true. But it is not all the truth. I couldn’t be trans, I was not a girl. Not born as one, either in the right or wrong body, maybe not the most masculine boy growing up but not a girl. And now maybe not a boy?

I was unhappy and I wanted change. That much I knew. I also started to grasp that gender was a soup.
I wanted make gender meaningless. To take my gender and bend it. Smash it. Dare I say, queer it.
To take the masculinity I have been raised into and make it my own. To try and express that gender in a way that pleased me, that was somewhat different. I wanted other to see bodies in a way that are not shown, sexy and delicate. Masculine bodies. Fat bodies, thin bodies. Fall bodies and short bodies. Hairy bodies. To destroy what I hated in my gender and keep the rest, and create something from it.

I bought a skirt, started choosing in the fem aisles of the shops. Started buying clothes I actually liked and brought me joy. Bought eyeliner and nail polish. And I was terrible at it. But I kept doing. I went out in the streets wearing my long black skirt, terrible eyeliner, purple nail polish and my big ginger beard. And looking back at it I was trans then.
I was trans because I was living it. Somehow I’ve become trans because of the way I was living and existing in the society. I was still presenting as a man, calling my self a man, but I was trans because I’ve transed the very meaning of masculinity for me. For me trans has been, for the bigger part of my journey into the gender soup, a way of life more than an identity. And I think this still holds to this very day.

Then I shaved because I found a good excuse to do something I haven’t done in years. The excuse being having a good fit with my N95 mask when flying back home after two years across the ocean in 2021. It was weird at first, to feel the cold on my bare cheeks, to see my skin and look at my head suddenly too smal. But I kept my beard down from that point forward. And I continued to slowly change my wardrobe. It was not fully fem, it wasn’t masc easier. And I continued to experiment with make up.

And sex came along. As I started my reflections on gender, I also started to think about sex. What I wanted, and the things I wanted to not feel ashamed of. It took a few weeks — or years, depending on how we view it — but I got rid of the shame of years of bullying in middle school, I felt confortable with the fact that I like being fucked in my ass. Like a lot. But to be clear, I haven’t had sex with anyone yet, and it would still not happen for a few years. And another one to have someone fuck me with a dildo.

Because I had basically forgotten the hope of one day having sex with someone — or any kind for relationship that would involved physical contact — I decided to have sex with myself. That is taking the time to create a mood. To dress for it. To put some makeup on. Because I wanted to feel sexy. To be as hot I as could be. And then I would fuck my self senseless for an hour until I just couldn’t stand on my shaking legs anymore. It became different from “just” masturbation. It was sex.

And the way I felt sexy was being fem. And I don’t consider that fact to be kink related. Just that at this point in my life, me feeling sexy and hot meant being fem. And I fell for it. Bought a harness, put my cat’s hears on, wore thigh high stockings and fake eyelashes.

Then for the first time I went to an event where I knew no one, wearing makeup what could be described as fem cloths. If my memory isn’t failing me, I had black Doc Martens, opaque yellow thighs and purple leg warmers, pale blue jean shorts, a white t-shirt and a light pink cardigan. I was a fucking rainbow and I loved every second of it as much as it was scary. And for the first time, I was perceived as trans. I was passing as trans. I still went by my birth name, which is pronounce the same way for the masc and fem version of the name. Then I did the same with another collective. And an other.

I did a first coming out to my parents just before their wedding because the last thing I wanted was to be asked to wear a suite. So I wore a plated skirt, dark blue things, a white shirt and a vest with the most stylish eye make up I had ever done. I also had a short beard and glitter on my cheeks. I was fucking gorgeous.

A couple years later an other big change, I quite my job. And so it just was easier to wear and be as I wanted with having to explain myself or feel the looks of people who have once know me. And a year later I came out to my friends, and family — for the second time because one coming out was not enough and stuff had changed — and started HRT at the end for that year. Also earlier this same year I’ve had sex for the first time and met other trans people, also for the first time.

My body is not a temple

My body is not a temple.
It is meant to be desecrated.
To be destroyed.
Teared down.
Broken up.
To be made into pieces.
And rebuilt.
Reborn.
Again and again.
For as many times as I see fit.

It took me years to break the walls of the cage it was ounce.
A cage that felt protective.
I took me years to take the first brick down.
Pierced the hard walls of my own body.
And then kept hammering.
Pieces by pieces, I reduced it to a pile of dust
To a block of clay.
To be played with.
To be sculpted at my on desire.
To make my own.
And to be destroyed on a whim.
Just to start over again.

It took me years, and will take many more.