No one looks like they're enjoying this situation, to be honest

In Which A Question Is Asked

What does it mean to be a sexual trans person? A sexual trans woman?

Sidenote: I’m looking for my copy of Fucking Trans Women, an awesome e-zine available at http://fuckingtranswomen.com/. I know I bought and downloaded it, but am having trouble finding it. I emailed the site owners, tho, and hopefully they’ll be willing to send me another copy. At the very worst, I can spare another $5 for their great project.

Back on topic, I think being trans and sexual is tough for me (gonna try to use ‘I’ statements in this post, and not make generalizations) in part due to the huge variety of mixed messages I’ve received over the last 27 years. I’m sure I’m missing some categories, but here’s what I’ve come up with:

• Messages about male sexuality, even though I didn’t identify as male
• Messages about female sexuality, which I picked up even though I wasn’t yet presenting as female
• Messages about heterosexual sexuality, mainly from when I was presenting as a straight male
• Messages about queer sexuality, both before and after I came out
• Messages about specifically lesbian sexuality, again from both before and after I came out
• And last-but-never-least, messages about specifically trans sexuality, limited primarily to ‘chicks with dicks’ and ‘she-male’ porn

Again, I want to clarify that this post is going to be about my experiences. I’d love for people to chime in, but I’m not attempting to speak for anyone else, of any sexual orientation, gender identity, personal experience, etc, etc, etc. On the way I may make some wider generalizations about The Trans Sexual Experience, but my goal is much more to bring some clarity to my sexual experience, identity, and so on. So there.

I also think this is a good time to link to the these three posts I did on sex and the effects of hormones, back in late 2009. (Wow, two years ago?) Those used to be password protected, but are now public. Funny how my attitudes on privacy have changed in two years…hopefully posting all that stuff won’t come back to haunt me, but I gotsta say what I gotsta say.

Things I Wish I’d Known

TERRIFYING SEX ED DOLLS

I just re-read all three of those posts, and everything about them still stands as it relates to my early experience with sex and sexuality. Looking back now, I do think I was a lot more awkward than I thought I was at the time. That’s probably true for lots of people’s budding sexuality. But I think I owe my first major girlfriend an apology for what I can only imagine was a mediocre experience for her. I wish she’d spoken up, but I also wish I’d known how to ask what she wanted.

I also wish I’d come to an earlier realization that I don’t like being the penetrator in penetrative, penis-in-vagina sex. I don’t know if it’s the mental aspect of how I relate to my body, or the physical size of my ‘equipment,’ but I’ve never really enjoyed that kind of penetrative sex. I’ll do it, and – to clarify – I enjoy it enough that I’d rather do that than nothing… Mediocre sex is better than no sex, in my mind. I’m not totally sure – from my admittedly limited sample size – that the experience was great for my partners, either.

That’s perhaps the biggest thing I can point to and say “this was a lesson I learned being socialized as male, in a primarily heterosexual society.” I simply didn’t have a concept of sex outside of penis-in-vagina. Foreplay, fooling around, hooking up – there were lots of other ways to be sexual, but only one way to have sex.

Likewise, I imagine my (now mostly faded) hangups about anal sex and anal play came from being told – implicitly by culture, if never explicitly by anyone – that anal play was dirty, unpleasant, something for the penetrator and not the penetratee. That it was gay.

Fortunately, I’ve been honest enough with myself and with my body to realize that A) it’s not tooooo dirty if you do it right, and B) it (at least for me) it feels really good.

There’s still some lumped in baggage I possess, swirling around the ideas I picked up concerning male and female heterosexual, cisgender sexuality – basically my first three bullet points – which I’m going to lump together and call heteronormative : Who is supposed to initiate a sexual experience, how power dynamics are supposed to work between partners, all that stuff above about penetrative sex and anal sex and the definition of ‘real sex.’

As I become aware of those lingering hangups, I try to address them and think them through. Something I think I’ve really managed to turn around is my definition of sex: It’s not a specific act, it’s an experiential thing. My straight friends sometimes laugh when I call them out on this, but in my mind a blowjob or mutual masturbation or whatever is just as much sex (or, at least, can be just as much “sex”) as penetrative, penis-in-vagina, “real sex.”

Last Friday Night

Friday was a good friend’s birthday. A bunch of mutual friends had dinner, came back to my apartment for some drinks, and went out to a club. Usually I don’t join for that last part (something I’ve mentioned before). But this weekend, for whatever reason, the stars aligned and I was ready to go out. So we all headed down to The Apartment, a bar/club in Chicago near the wealthy Lincoln Park neighborhood. The dancing was kind of ridiculous (as dancing tends to be) but the music wasn’t horribly obnoxious, I had my first experience taking a drink from an ice luge, and was generally having a good time.

I'd like to imagine we looked something like this

Our group was dancing in a little clump, and whenever a stranger would come up and start to dance with me I’d politely (I hope!) turn or move away to make it clear I wasn’t interested. I’m realizing that in and of itself probably would have freaked me out a few years ago, so it’s a sign of how far I’ve come in my comfort presenting as a woman that it didn’t phase me.

But I was a few (more) drinks in and feeling loose when I felt someone’s hands – a stranger’s hands – on my hips from behind.

A pause to say that nothing bad happens. I feel like this story is progressing to the point where it seems everything will end badly, but it doesn’t: I’m not raped or sexually assaulted, my friends don’t abandon me, nothing bad happens. This is just about my processing a new experience, and my emotional reactions to it. So you are absolved from worrying about my safety for the remainder of this story.

We continue dancing, this strange man pressed up behind me. His hands go up and down my hips, and I gently move them when I feel they’re getting too frisky. I’m still facing my group of friends, regularly making eye contact with them and non-verbally communicating that I’m OK. (They kept doing the raised-eyebrow checkin, to which I’d smile and shrug.)

After a few minutes dancing, I decided I was done and turn to the guy (much shorter than I expected, but then I’m already tall and was in heels) and said I was going to the bathroom. He actually asked if he could join, which I think is kind of hilarious, but I declined and we parted ways.

Two of my friends followed me to the bathroom to check on me, for which I was grateful but didn’t think I needed. But then while I was in the bathroom (actually in a stall; I don’t think either of them know this part) I had a mini panic attack. Suddenly, those two big worries I’d pushed aside came to the forefront:

• What if he found out I was trans?
• What did my enjoying dancing with a (presumably) straight cis man mean about my own sexuality?

Questions Beget Questions

The first question is more pragmatic. I was in a very public place, surrounded by friends (including some large men who look intimidating) and wasn’t reeeeaaalllyyy concerned for my physical safety. I could have been emotionally hurt, quite severely in fact, if he’d moved his hands a little too far south and subsequently freaked out. But I don’t think there’s a realistic chance I could have ended up as an other Trans Day of Remembrance statistic. Which feels kind of good, that my friends were providing that (literal) safety net.

The second question is a lot more difficult to tease out.

I'm going to recommend AGAINST performing a Google Image Search on 'transgender sex' with SafeSearch disabled

I have lots of straight, cis, female friends who enjoy dancing with other straight, cis, females. (Some of them were doing so at this bar on Friday.) But no straight, cis, male friends who enjoy dancing with other straight, cis, males except when being silly. But I don’t think simply enjoying male attention inherently “breaks” my lesbianism. At the same time, there’s a different between being ideologically OK with some action, and then finding yourself in a situation where you have to evaluate how it actually makes you feel.

What I’m leaning more and more is that I simply enjoy attention. Period. I’m not sure how to respond to male attention, what to do about it, where I want it to go, but if I’m being honest with myself I do enjoy it. But there’s something scary, for me, to be on the receiving end of it. First is all that trans baggage of physical safety and stories of rape and beatings and death. Something which is also true for cis women in many ways, but I don’t think there’s quite the same cultural acceptance of violence and sexual assault against cis women as there is against trans women At least not so explicitly: You can find talking heads on news stories to cast doubt on the inherent sanctity of a trans woman’s body in a way that few are willing to do (publicly) about cis women’s bodies.

So what do I do with that male attention?

Coupled in with that is my continuing surprise and delight at being perceived as a ‘real’ woman, let alone an attractive one. I’m still so doubting go my appearance, in spite of all reassurances to the contrary, that there’s an aspect of shock that some random dude at a club would want to dance with me.

More importantly, though, is that bullet-point list of baggage from the beginning of this post. There’s still some hindbrain part of my psyche which thinks of me as male, as dancing with “another” man as a (male) gay act. Which is bullshit, and something I was able to drink myself out of believing, when my inhibitions were down and I wasn’t over-thinking every little thing. On the flip side, I’ve invested quite a bit of emotional energy into defining my sexuality as ‘lesbian,’ and while I’ve been recently question that for the more open-ended ‘queer’ I’m still not totally sure what that means for me.

That Whole Surgery Thing

Then there’s the final bit of this post’s title: Surgery. I’m still doing my research, but have basically narrowed down my selection to Drs Bowers (San Fran), McGinn (Philly), and Brassard (Montreal). I’m moving right now to schedule consultations with all three.

But what does surgery mean? There’s a part of me that – only somewhat jokingly – thinks that I’ll feel permission to slut it up, with my major worry of being ‘discovered’ as trans inverted up inside me. There’s exploration many people do in high school and college that I feel I missed out on.

At the same time, surgery becomes one more terrifying (and awesome and exciting, but also terrifying) ‘virginity’ to lose, both metaphorically and literally.

So, returning to my initial question, what does it mean to be a sexual trans woman? Hell if I know. I think it means all of this: this discovery, this forging my own path. Not only do I not want to follow a prescribed path to my sexuality, I don’ think there is one. There aren’t enough trans narratives to feel like I have the ability to find many ‘just like me’ role models out there. That isn’t to say I haven’t drawn from the experiences of others. Whipping Girl, Yes Means Yes, The Ethical Slut, How To Get What You Really Really Want, Cunt; these books (and authors) have all heavily impacted how I think of myself as a sexual being.

But I think I have to find the rest of the way myself.

REBECCA KLING: For how long has this book been bouncing around in your mind? In the introduction to WYRRW, you talk about an interview surrounding the release of Yes Means Yes (released in 2008) which you co-edited with Jessica Valenti. In that interview, a reporter asked how women are supposed “to figure out what we want to say ‘yes’ to in the first place.” Would you place the creation of this book around that time, or further back?

JACLYN FRIEDMAN: That was definitely the question that first planted the seed. Honestly, I didn’t give a very complete answer at the time. I think I said, basically, you have to try things, and follow your intuition as to which things to try and who to try them with, and then learn from your experiments. And that it had taken me, personally, a long time to figure things out, and that in some ways I still was, and might always be. Which I still stand by, but is wildly oversimple. And then when I started hearing it over and over from different women as I toured for Yes Means Yes, I realized that I had a lot to share about what I’d learned along my own sexual journey, through personal experience, reading and talking with other people, all kinds of things. That’s when I realized that the answer to this crucial, recurring question was really a book.

RK: WYRRW is by no means aimed exclusively at young women, but throughout the book you discuss the cultural messages aimed at young women. How has what you “really really want” when it comes to sex changed from when you were growing up to now?

JF: I long ago stopped faking orgasms, so that’s a big change! In a funny way, I behave less “certainly” in my sexual interactions now than I did when I was first dipping my toe in those waters. Back then, I thought I needed to be “good at” sex in order to please my partners – and as much as I enjoyed sex when I was younger (and I really did, that’s for sure), I was heavily invested in pleasing at the expense of my own satisfaction. In some ways, I got lucky — my early sexual partners were decent people who also cared about pleasing, and honestly, everything about sex was so exciting then that I was getting a lot out of it without having to do much self-centering or self-reflection. But I’ve also just stopped caring so much about being magically, seamlessly “good” at sex, because I’ve learned two key things. The first is that that’s a meaningless concept to begin with: everybody likes different things, so the only real way to be a good lover is to get better at communicating with your partner(s) about needs, desires, preferences and boundaries. It’s really all about learning how to pay attention to yourselves and each other. Well, and it’s all about the other big thing I’ve learned since then, which is that the experimentation and discovery that you can only enjoy if you come to sex clear that there aren’t “answers,” and even if there were, you don’t know them, that sense of playfulness and co-creation is one of the best parts of sex. I wouldn’t trade it for all the certainty in the world.

RK: There have been a number of books in recent years attempting to tip sex and sexuality on their head. Your co-edited Yes Means Yes would top my list, along with others such as The Ethical Slut and the more anthropologically-focused Sex At Dawn. How do you see WYRRW fitting in with this trend?

JF: Well, Ethical Slut has been out for 14 years, so I don’t think it can be counted as part of any current trend. I’m not sure there really is one – I wish there were! I think a lot of our cultural beliefs about sexuality need to be upended, obviously.

RK: What areas of sex/sexuality/gender still need their own books?

JF: Oh, gosh, so many. This book itself should also exist in a version for folks who are on the male-identified side of things. I’d love to see a shame-free workbook for younger folks who are just discovering the idea of their sexuality, too. There are very few books that get published explicitly about women of color and sexuality, and that’s an area that sorely needs the space for a more productive conversation. I’d love to see a book about sexual “mistakes” and experimentation, demystifying (and taking the terror and shame out of) that whole very normal ongoing process. I hear that there’s a trans* Our Bodies, Ourselves in the works, which I very much hope and expect will have a lot about trans* experiences of sexuality. I could go on and on. For a subject that people seem to fixate on so much, it’s woefully under-explored in smart, helpful ways.

RK: I just finished reading The Ethical Slut, so the politics of the word ‘slut’ has been on my mind. You’ve been a big supporter of the Slut Walk movement, and ‘slut’ appears as early as page 3 of WYRRW. How would you define ‘slut’ as an identity?

JF: I don’t. I claim it sometimes politically as a shorthand for “unapologetically sexual woman,” and sometimes for “I’ve had a lot of casual sex, and I don’t give a shit what you want to say about that.” And the original definition, which [is] “untidy woman.” Ultimately, I’d like to see it used infinity ways until it becomes meaningless, and therefore harmless.

RK: As a followup, would you consider yourself a slut? Why or why not? Or, at least, is ‘slut’ part of your larger identity?

JF: Eh. I don’t think these things are as fixed as the wider culture imagines them to be. As many people know (because I wrote about it), I recently enjoyed a period of my life in which I behaved in ways that could be described as “slutty” by many definitions. At the moment, I’m in a monogamous relationship. Is “sluttiness” a behavior, or an attitude, or an immutable characteristic? Again, I’m in favor of all definitions, as long as they’re not used to hurt or “other” anyone, because I ultimately want there to be no definitions. So, sure. I’m a slut. And also, no. I’m not.

RK: Shifting gears slightly, I was fortunate enough to participate in some of the group discussions and activities surrounding the creation of that book. Did anything about that process surprise you? On the whole, would you say it did more solidifying of preexisting outlines, or did we muck everything up and make you go back to the drawing board?

JF: Your group really breathed life into the the whole process, and therefore, the book. I connected the group to help make sure that the exercises worked, to make sure that the book was helpful in the ways I wanted it to be. But I got so much more out of the experience. First of all, as a writer, y’all kept me so grounded. I could never really spin off into “oh, god, why am I even doing this, this is worthless,” you know, that self-indulgent place that lurks at the edges of the creative process. Any time I felt myself slipping over there, I would just remember, no, I am doing this for eleven real actual human beings who are counting on me to guide them through a process I asked them to start with me, who are working hard on this and are counting on me to do the same, and who have actual challenges that I want to help them with. Being accountable to you was the best thing that could have happened to the book.

Even more, the group of you really did shape the book. I created two chapters (“Freaks and Geeks” and “Do Unto Others”) that I hadn’t originally planned, purely due to what issues kept coming up in our discussions. And including your voices throughout the book are also such a gift – I think of all the people using the book who won’t have access to a supportive group like ours, and I’m so comforted that those readers will have the support of all of you — your honesty, your vulnerability, your anger, your humor, your hope — along their journey.

RK: da Vinci apocryphally said “Works of art aren’t finished, they’re abandoned.” In any creative process, it seems there’s always more to tweak, to add, to expand upon. What didn’t find its way into this book? What was hard to leave out? Put another way, what are things you think you might want to revisit for the second edition? (Sorry! I know you just finish one thing, and I’m already asking you about the next!)

JF: I was very sorry that the chapter that Thomas MacAulay Millary wrote for readers to give the men in their lives got cut for space — it’s on the web at wyrrw.com/just-for-men, but I wish it was in the book proper. I also wish there had been more space to talk about how to deal with the sexual attitudes of all the people in our lives who are important to us or who influence us, but who aren’t our actual sexual partners. And how to pass on positive messages to the next generation. And…

RK: In WYRRW you talk about many of the conflicting messages about female sexuality: don’t be a slut or a whore, but don’t be frigid or a prude, and so on. What are some conflicting messages you think men receive?

JF: I think men get a lot of limiting messages. Primary among them is the idea that men always want whatever sex they can get, and they prefer their sex without emotional intimacy. Also that they’re supposed to know — without even asking — what their lovers want in bed, more than their lovers even know. And of course the sick double-bind that says a) all they have to do is be “nice” and all women (and it’s always women, of course) owe them sex, and b) women don’t want to sleep with nice guys, so they should be assholes in order to “get laid.”

RK: And to finish it off with a somewhat silly question… Why two “Really”s in the title? Why not three? Or seven? Or none?

JF: Blame the Spice Girls. I can’t resist a cheesy pop culture reference to save my life.

Thanks so much to Jaclyn Friedman for taking the time to speak with me, and for all her hard work. Check her out on the web at http://www.jaclynfriedman.com/

This isn’t something I’m sure I want to do – now or ever – but it’s something thathas been on my mind for a long time. And, as my transition had progressed and I’ve moved from being perceived as a man to being perceived as a woman, the idea has seemed less and less outlandish.

It’s kind of like being a vegetrarian.

See, I’ve been a vegetarian for over ten years. Not because of moral issues, but because I find meat unappetizing. But, recently, I’ve been thinking about how good some chicken would taste. There’s so much history around my being a vegetarian, that breaking my unblemished record of a meatless diet with some chicken is difficult to consider.

In the same way, I’ve exclusively thought about myself as attracted to women. For a long time, part of that was because I”d be perceived as gay if I expressed interest in men. Being gay – a male identity – was so far from how I wanted to think of myself that I couldn’t even consider it. Now, though, it’s not so black-and-white.

Admittedly, trans women being with men aren’t seen very positively by our society. But really seeing myself as a woman has made the idea of being with a man less terrifying.

Having some chicken won’t mean my years as a vegetarian, and won’t mean I can’t still be a vegetarian, if I decide that’s what I still am.

And I feel sort of embarrassed to find that I’m focusing so much on the parts, not the person. My having a penis doesn’t make me a man, and being with a man doesn’t make me anything other than a woman who has been with a man. It doesn’t make me any less of a lesbian unless I want it to.

The question I should be asking myself – and the one I’m trying to focus on – is whether or not this is something that I’d be happy about having done, afterward. Not about about what it will mean for my “identity.” Because no one gets to decide that except me.

The obligatory 'queer sexuality' symbol

A while back, beo_shaffer asked how I feel (sexually) about “people with non-binary gender [and] about other transsexuals?” I’ve been thinking a lot about it since then, and realized I don’t have a quick-and-easy answer. So I’m going to use this post to talk about beo’s question, but also to more broadly consider my own sexuality.

I identify as a lesbian. And I think, to some extent, that means I’m saying that binary genders are important to me sexually. Or, at the very least, that I perceive people within binary gender categories, even though politically I don’t think we should see people that way and it’s something I’ve tried to overcome when I notice myself doing it.

At the same time, I do find the idea of penetration to be a turn on. I know penetration is not an inherently heterosexual act, but I’ve been exposed to 25+ years of heteronormative culture and I do associate the two to some extent. While I’m coming to understand a much wider (and healthier) concept of sexuality – one not so penis-in-vagina-centric – most erotica I’ve read has been heterosexual. Mainly because I can’t find reliably good lesbian erotica. (Suggestions welcome!) And while I’ve never found a specific man to be attractive, the theoretical idea of being with a man sexually is interesting to me. (Probably due in no small part to the copious amounts of erotica I’ve read over the years…)

To put it another way, I feel like I’d probably be a five on the Kinsey Scale – I could imagine having fun in a heterosexual sexual experience, but it’s not what primarily ‘does it’ for me.

But how does that tie into non-binary sexuality? In mulling this idea over, I’ve come to a few realizations. (All of these conclusions are simply from attempts to think things through, not from lived experience, so it’s entirely possible that I’d react differently when presented with a real situation.)

First, I’m pretty sure secondary sex characteristics are more important to me than primary. That is, I think I would be more attracted to a pre- or non-op trans woman than I would to a pre- or non-op trans man. More bluntly, the idea of being sexual with a woman with a penis seems more interesting than being sexual with a man with a vagina.

But there are lots more ways to be “non-binary” than simply being trans. However, I’m not sure if I’m really attracted to genderqueer or androgynous or identities or presentations that similarly reject the binary in a really strong way. Edit: Bond’s comments below made me reconsider how I’m phrasing this. I think a  better way of saying it is “…identities or presentations that exist far outside of societal expectations of heteronormative and binary gender expression.”

Which isn’t to say I don’t support those identities, or agree with their validity. But I don’t think they ‘do it’ for me, either.

I also think that my sexuality has shifted over the course of my transition, though somewhat gently. That is, when presenting as male, the idea of having sex with “another” man did very little for me. Now that I’m presenting as female, I find the idea a lot more exciting, even though it still ranks below having sex with other women.

Have you noticed your sexuality change over the course of transitioning? Or, if you aren’t trans (or aren’t transitioning) have you noticed your sexuality change over the course of your life?

(Fortunately, the insight on how people see me has mostly been “Wow, I’m surrounded almost entirely by really awesome people who basically don’t treat me any differently.”)

However, transitioning has given me the opportunity (or inevitability, depending on your point of view) to experience the world hormonally as a man and a woman. At least, that’s what my endocrinologist tells me, seeing as I had normal testosterone levels and now have normal estrogen levels. Some of the effects of that have been the standard or expected stuff: heightened emotions, redistribution of body fat, loss of muscle (particularly upper-body muscle), etc. And as I’ve said before, “heightened emotions” means I cry easier, yes, but I also laugh easier. I used to really pride myself on being able to keep a straight face, and it’s much harder – often impossible – now that I’ve been on hormones for two years.

What no one really mentioned (at least, no one I’ve really been able to find) is how all those hormones effect your sex drive, sexuality, and experience of sex.

Lets talk about testosterone first. I, as far as I could tell, had a regular male sex drive during my teen years. I wasn’t really presented with the opportunity, but I certainly had the desire. (And, as I mentioned in the previous “protected” post, I’d discovered pornography and erotica pretty early on.)

I’ve also never been particularly disgusted or repulsed by my penis. I’m not a huge fan, and I’d rather have different equipment, but I never considered chopping it off or anything. I know trans women who have, and I completely understand that, but it simply wasn’t my experience. (Body hair, on the other hand, has been a much bigger concern and definitely made me feel less sexy/sexual, and I don’t regret the $5,000+ that’s gone into removing it.) So I didn’t have problems masturbating or being sexual – rather, I enjoyed it quite a lot.

Being sexual was very much a penis-focused experience. Orgasms came at a peak of sensation, and pleasure died off almost immediately thereafter. I enjoyed sensual touch elsewhere – nipples, lips, ears, and so on – but it didn’t really compare with direct stimulation.

I also met the stereotype of being able to cum easily, whenever I was interested in doing so. Certainly, I could have better or worse pleasure, but the idea of not being able to come – of being turned on and just not getting there – was totally foreign to me.

Which isn’t to say I was totally stereotypical ‘guy.’ I’ve always had weird issues with whether I want my legs together or apart while being sexual. It’s almost like I was getting mixed signals, where part of my body would say “legs together! we should be penetrating right now!” and other parts were saying “legs apart! we should be penetrated right now!” Probably as part of that, I sort of didn’t see what the big deal was about sex. Sure, it was enjoyable and I could reach a climax, but it seemed like there were so many more fun things that could be done with what I guess would technically be described as mutual masturbation. (Although I’ve come to think “sex” is as much an emotional act as it is a physical, so I’d still call what I was doing “sex.”)

All in all, I wasn’t particularly unhappy with the sexual experiences and pleasure my body gave me. I did fantasize about being a girl, about having breasts and a vagina, and that’ s a big part of trans-themed erotic fiction I liked (and like). But I certainly wasn’t in a situation where I was constantly bemoaning my inability to orgasm because of my dislike of my body, or unable to receive pleasure from the equipment I did have.

How has going on hormones changed all that? Stay tuned for part two!

On the one hand, this blog has been helpful in my own processing of my transition and experiences as a trans woman; that’s one of the reasons I originally started this blog. Likewise, a discussion of trans sexuality is something I’ve looked for (hence the Feministing advice write-in) and a part of me feels like, “Well, if I can’t find it I should just write it myself!”

On the other hand, I know friends of mine – not to mention significant others – read this blog. I put this blog on show materials to try and generate interest. I’m not thrilled of the idea that friends, coworkers, family, might read a post on porn preferences or sexual positions. And I do think there are ethical issues of discussing sex without first talking to the people who I’ve had sex with…would you want to read a friend’s blog and see an explicit description of a time you had sex? (Or implicit, for that matter.)

I’ve also thought of starting a separate blog to discuss exclusively that, but I’m not dying to deal with the additional work (and website registration fee) that would require. I also would obviously like to use the readers I already have, rather than say, “Oh, I just happened to stumble across this new blog about trans sexuality! It’s a total coincidence that the author has a writing style very similar to mine…”

Has anyone out there in reader-land had any similar experiences with their own writings? How did you deal with it? Any general thoughts on why posting about sex might or might not be a good idea?

First, last night, I was talking with both of my roommates. We had one of those long, meandering conversations, and it came up that a girl we all knew in highschool was engaged. This was particularly noteworthy because she’d dated another girl in highschool for about a year, and explicitly identified herself as a lesbian at the time.

One of my roommates said something along the lines of, “So she was gay then, but is straight now.” I was about to speak up and point out that sexual identity doesn’t need to be so simple, that A) bi people exist, and B) there are other possibilities as well (that she only publicly identified as a lesbian but never really felt it, that she only now publicly identifies as straight but doesn’t really feel it, that she doesn’t identify with any mainstream sexuality, and so on).

But, before I could, my other roommate said almost exactly that.

As I’ve mentioned before, I’m in a liberal group of friends to begin with. But there’s a big difference between being liberal-and-well-meaning-but-still-ignorant and absorbing all of the identity politics I sometimes feel like I spew. So it felt really good to hear one of my roommates speak up against making assumptions about identity and, on top of that, point out that sexuality doesn’t need to be a binary.

Then, today at work, a coworker said she’d been reading about the South African track athlete who is being forced to undergo “sex determination testing” to make sure she’s “really” a woman. My coworker was quiet upset that such a thing could happen, and offended by the ridiculous idea of standing in judgment over someone’s gender.

Again, I’m in a liberal office surrounded by liberal coworkers. But to go from hearing coworkers gossip a year ago about Thomas Beatie a year ago to hearing one of them stand up for the ability to self-identity one’s gender felt pretty damn good.

Obviously, I’d rather that things like these be the norm rather than the exception to how society views gender and sexuality. But the fact that they’re becoming the norm for the people closest to me in my life feels really amazing.

I just back from a party being thrown jointly by a friend of mine (from high school, of course) along with some of his friends. Point A from above – that I’ll inevitably run into people at parties who either didn’t know I’m trans at all or (more commonly) had heard through the grapevine but hadn’t actually had any contact with me since highschool – is something I just need to get used to. I’ve been dealing with it since graduating from highschool, but it’s only become something I’ve really thought about this past year, living fulltime as Rebecca.

Combined with Point B, though – realizing there was no one at the party who I’d be interested in flirting with who would also want to flirt back – made me feel a little ‘othered.’ Unintentionally, to be sure, and I did have a really good time for most of the night, s0 this isn’t to say I was miserable all night.*

But, as the night wore on, sitting in the Arts and Crafts room** watching one of my friends moving from flirting to cuddling to making out, I definitely had a realization that I could safely assume no one at the party would be interested in me.

Likewise, when I go out to bars or clubs with my friends, the attention I’m getting (if I’m getting any) is from men. The assumption is going to be that I’m straight. Now, I haven’t talked a ton about my sexuality on this blog, but suffice it  to say that I’m more attracted to women than to men, so assuming I’m straight isn’t going to win anyone any points for accuracy.

I’m not sure what to do about this. I definitely don’t want to lose the friends I have, or to make them feel uncomfortable taking me to straight bars/clubs/etc. I also think it’d be rather awkward to go to a queer bar with my big group of straight friends (although maybe I’m wrong!) and don’t want to subject them to that.

Ultimately, I do think I want to expand my social circle to include more queer friends. I think that’s doable without pushing away the friends I have, and without removing myself from the longstanding circles I do like. But I also am realizing that there’s this whole part of my life I’m attempting to establish – working on queer theatre, figuring out how I do identify my sexuality, the transition itself (can’t forget that…) – that maybe my straight friends, fantastic allies though they are, can’t function in as peers.

*They had a bouncy castle. How could I not have a good time? And yes, I took pictures, and yes, I’ll post them at some point. And yes, having a bouncy castle under a mulberry tree results in grossly black mulberried feet. I’m going to shower after I finish posting this…

**Tes, the Arts and Crafts room…there was collaging and Eye-of-God-making going on; I have odd and amazing friends, don’t question it.

And from the resposne:

Part of this process is also going to have to be exploring your new body and your new desires and not judging yourself during this process. You can even think of it as a burden or as an extra gift during transition. Unlike cisgendered women, who typically have to get used to things on their body, you are going to be able to explore things on your body that you very much want: the breasts, the hips you will likely develop. Enjoy it!

It’s definitely worth reading, but what’s a lot more interesting is the comments…

I’m going to say that, overall, the comments are really positive. There’s a lot of good links, and good advice, and general well-wishings. As I said, you should check it out. However, two things are worth noting. First, the obliviousness of those putting out transphobic comments (or, much worse, their intentional ill-will). Second, how quickly a post explicitly on trans sexuality got sidelined into a meta-discussion about how the discussion should happen, and how those posting transphobic/offtopic comments should be handled.

Concerning the first issue, there was really only one explicitly transphobic post:

butterflywings said: ‘Having boobs is fun!’…uh…blech.
Wait till strangers feel entitled to grab them or comment on their size. I know they are ‘funbags’ to you, as you were male and still carry around misogyny.
*Waits for comment to be deleted as being ‘transphobic’…sigh.*
Yep, those poor trans people gotta run off in a sulk because some commenters didn’t agree with them…

I responded to the post at Feministing and don’t need to cover that same ground again. There were some other posts that were somewhat offtopic, but not really worth mentioning, and one that was read as transphobic by some commenters, but the poster came back and clarified what she meant. But I  want to highlight butterflywings’ post and note that people are still oblivious to saying transphobic things (or, even worse, know it’s transphobic and say it anyway), even after extensive discussion at Feministing and elsewhere on how to conduct yourself when discussing a topic concerning a minority group (in this case, trans issues), from the perspective of one granted social/cultural privilege by not being a member of that group.

More frustrating is how quickly the comments devolved into a meta-discussion on how to hold the discussion. As I said, I’m still glad I submitted the question and that it was chosen to be posted, and I really am getting a lot out of Prof F’s response and further comments from others. But, by my count, between one half and two thirds of the comments are either directly off-topic, or responding to someone else’s off-topic comment with further off-topic discussion.

Now, in a topic like this, it’s hard to know what ‘offtopic’ really means – I do appreciate comments from cis men and women on their perspective, and I don’t want it to come across that I think comments from someone who isn’t trans (or is commenting about cis experiences) is inherently offtopic. It’s not. Likewise, I really enjoyed posts from the people who used their own experiences to make sense of my question, and come up with analagous situations. Obviously there is an issue with people being dismissive of trans experiences, but I’ve never had a problem with people acknowledging the reality that trans men and women don’t hold a monopoly on issues surrounding sex and gender. Indeed, I’m eager to hear about the experiences of others – even those who aren’t trans! – so that I might better understand my own.

But (and you knew there was going to be a ‘but’) after all the discussion on how to discuss trans issues, I’m a little disappointed in some members of the Feministing community. Again, I’m really getting a lot out of this discussion surrounding my original question. I can’t stress that enough, and I’ve been trying to go through and leave responses – both agreeing and disagreeing – with comments that particularly struck me. And I’m really trying not to say, “You’re not trans, so you can’t comment/don’t deserve to be educated on trans issues/etc.” But I don’t know that this thread was the appropriate place for a meta-discussion on the number of comments left by others or Feministing’s place in the trans community, and it certainly wasn’t the place for accusations about my own misogyny (or the extensive discussion which followed on why that’s transphobic).

And, damn it all, I don’t know how to handle those things. I don’t know the answer. As much as I’d like everyone to get a clue and not post those things in the first place, when someone does post something off-topic and/or transphobic, I’d rather have people respond than just ignore it. And I’m somewhat uncomfortable with deleting comments that are off-topic and/or transphobic unless they’re really inappropriate, because they may be of value to someone for some other reason. (Ideally, some other reason above and beyond a meta-discussion about their value or lack thereof!)

Likewise, while I really appreciated and enjoyed Prof F’s response to my original comment, I’m frustrated by her later post containing the line, “While [the above comments] are nasty, transphobic, and manipulative, the response to them has been so right on that I am leaving it as a great example of people on feministing responding to these kinds of comments.” Again, I don’t know what the right answer is, even though I don’t think this is it. Is the answer deletion? Of just the comment, or the comment and its replies? Some sort of ‘asshole’ alert? As one poster suggested, dissemvoweling the post? (Removing all the vowels so if you want to read it you can, but you have to go out of your way to understand the negative language.) I really don’t know.

This is all made more complicated because people aren’t going to be monitoring comments 24/7 with imediate response time. If a comment does stay up and generates multiple responses, is it worth closing down that entire thread to force staying on-topic?

I guess I’m asking a lot more questions than I am providing answers. And I’m guilty of being drawn into the meta-discussion about how to hold a discussion. I think my suggestion would be that Feministing come up with stock replacement text, along the lines of, “This comment is offtopic and/or offensive speech, and was not appropriate for this thread. Information on how to stay ontopic and respectful, and why this post may have been offtopic or offensive, may be found here.”  (“Here” would be a link with that information and, perhaps, examples of specific posts and why they were offtopic or offensive.) The text would be put in place of the commenter’s post, and no replies would be allowed to the replacement, but replies and discussion, including “I don’t understand why my comment was offensive/offtopic,” would be allowed on  the linked-to information page. That would seem to satisfy everyone: those who are simply seeking knowledge and not attempting to be offtopic, those who are (intentionally or unintentionally) offensive, and those who crave the meta-discussion about what is or isn’t on-topic…

Again, I want to reiterate that the experience of reading (and responding to) all these comments has been more positive than negative – it’s reassured me that, on the whole, Feministing’s community is able to be supportive when discussing trans issues. But not 100%, and not without veering offtopic along the way.

-R

And the orgasms? Well, they are now better and worse, to be honest. Worse in that they are no longer quite as pleasurable in many ways, due to the arousal and sensitivity issues, and because any arousal now causes that intense pain. But much better in that the actual orgasm, if achievable, is completely different, and quite awesome, now. In addition to there being virtually no discharge anymore (yeah!), the orgasm presents itself as a growing warmth in my groin, and upon release floods my entire body in intense waves of pleasure. I’ve actually found myself having to really watch my volume! and I usually end up giggling afterward. Anyway, not having grown up with a female body, I’m not sure what exactly to make of this. But from what I’ve read and been told by my girlfriends, it sounds like I’m well on my way to having full-on female orgasms.

Check it out.

-R