The Allure of Michfest: Why Trans Must Colonize This Unique Event

Michigan Womyn's Music Festival

Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival

The Ohio Lesbian Festival is open to transwomen, so why all the fuss over the Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival? Why Camp Trans and Transwomen Belong Here? Why the trans-activist pressure guilt-trips on Michfest performers to stop playing at MWMF?

The biggest reason why male-to-female transwomen want in at MWMF instead of just going to OLF where they are included, is specifically because the intent of the Fest is a barrier; a barrier which must be overcome by any means.

The Age of Exploration

The Age of Discovery: Exploration of the secret and the unknown is its own reward

It has been my experience that men are (much) worse than women when it comes to a personal sense of entitlement and inclusion. In my experience, many, if not most activisting transwomen bring that sense of entitlement with them into their woman-identities.

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield

Transwomen belong here

Transwomen belong here

Transwomen want in to Michfest, specifically because they weren’t invited. The festival and The Land it takes place upon is a space to be explored, marked out, fought for and over, and ultimately conquered.

Roadtrip: In search of a mysterious location known as, "The Land"

Roadtrip! In search of a mysterious location known as: “The Land”

Michfest2

Have you seen an all-female gathering in these parts?

If you have ever been socialized as a boy from birth to adulthood, it is very easy to understand where transwomen are coming from, and why it is such a big deal that Lisa Vogel be forced to submit to their demands.

You gender heathens must all convert to Trans or else transphobia, which makes you a bad person

Yeah, I am going to have to demand that you gender heathens all convert to Trans* or else transphobia. Which means that you will go to hell and burn in a fire

Remember, military training and military culture are a part of many trans women’s narratives. Some of us have experience in the Army, Marines, Air Force, even Navy SEALs. Trust us, when it comes to trans-activism, we know how to do war.

Sir! Good news to report. Indigo Girls, Hunter Valentine, and Lea DeLaria  have surrendered to hurt feels trans-activism. We must keep up the pressure. It's only a matter of time before they all surrender and Michfest will finally be ours

Sir! Good news to report. Indigo Girls, Hunter Valentine, and Lea DeLaria have surrendered to hurt feels trans-activism. It is only a matter of time before Lisa Vogel capitulates and Michfest falls.

Once we’ve colonized MWMF it will be considered a “glorious victory for trans inclusion” an achievement to boast of and tell future transwomen about. How we bravely fought and beat the bigoted and ignorant FAB women and took over their space by making them invite us. We sure taught them a lesson! Social justice ftw!

Colonization: Forcing the "T" onto GLBT whether you like it or not

Colonization of Michfest: Forcing the “T” onto GLBT whether you like it or not. We can do it!

Sorry about your socialization!

Male socialization: yeah pretty much this

Male socialization: yeah pretty much like this

Shhhhh!

Shhhhh!

Posted in feminism, gender politics | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 178 Comments

My encounter with another transwoman in the women’s locker room

Pool

It was the whistling that clued me in that there was a man in the women’s locker room. I had just finished my lap swim, and I was taking a shower when I heard whistling in the next room over. I thought to myself, “what the hell?” and “it must be the janitor”. And because I had no desire to walk unclothed into the locker room with a man present, I dallied and continued my shower. I assumed the whistling would stop in seconds because the janitor would finish quickly and get out. But the whistler kept whistling, so I kept showering.

I kept listening for the expected sound of the locker room doors crashing open and shut as the janitor departed, but it did not happen. Cautiously, I wrapped myself up in my towel and peeked around the corner of the shower room into the locker room.

showers

The whistler was a six foot tall woman in late middle age. Her back was to me as she stood at a locker arranging her things. I knew instantly, that she was trans. Given my past history, I had no desire to be seen naked by a late transitioner. I ghosted over to my locker and grabbed my bag and darted to a changing stall.

As I was putting my clothing on, a young Asian woman had come out from the lap swim and started showering off. At this point, the transwoman ceased whistling, and I could tell by the sound that she had sat down on the bench to change.

The Asian woman, probably twenty-something, finished her shower quickly and walked naked from the shower to the locker room, toweling herself as she went. At this point I came out of the changing stall, dressed in my street clothing, sans my socks and sneakers which were still in my locker.

I glanced sidelong for a split-second at the tall, broad-shouldered transwoman as I approached the benches. The transwoman was gawking at the Asian lady as she was getting dressed. The woman had her back to the transwoman as she finished drying off and began dressing, so she did not see what I saw. I saw The Gaze. The gaze I had avoided by dressing in the changing stall, when I realized that the whistler was a transwoman.

womens-locker-room

The transwoman continued to disrobe and put on her own bathing suit in preparation for her swim. But as she did, she continued to gaze at the Asian woman as she got her clothes on. I saw the whole thing out of the corner of my eyes. The Asian girl looked at the floor. The transwoman looked at the Asian woman. I shot glances at the transwoman. The transwoman never looked directly or indirectly at me, perhaps because I was clothed.

Very. Very. Awkward.

I suspect that the transwoman frequented another public swim location, and that her appearance at the pool I liked to go to was a result of maintenance at the one she attended. I had no desire to share that locker room with that transwoman again, and I avoided that particular pool for a couple months afterward in the hopes of not encountering her again. I haven’t yet, so I assume it was either a random encounter or that she frequented a different pool.

The main point of the story is, whistling in the women’s locker room. Dead giveaway that there was a man in there. Only it was a transwoman. A transwoman who could not keep her eyeballs off the young Asian girl, whose back was turned to the transwoman as she got dressed.

Even though that transwoman is recognized as female and did not have a penis, she doesn’t belong at the Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival any more than I do, for the reasons I described here.

While I know that some women do whistle, that’s not the issue I am trying to highlight. The problem was the fifty-odd years of living in a man’s body, with a brain bathed in male sex hormones and a culture that teaches men that women’s bodies are theirs for the gazing at.

A transwoman may claim that she feels like a woman inside, but transition and a sex change does not remove the lifelong Patriarchy socialization that conditioned the transwoman to feel entitled to gaze and gawk. And I do mean gawk. There is a difference between a transient glance at someone else in the locker room, and the long, lingering, scanning stare that the transwoman played over the Asian woman’s body. In this case the transwoman’s actions spoke more about her socialization than her feminized body or her identity.

This example that I share with you highlights why places like Michfest are important. They give born-females a chance to organize and be away from both Male Gaze and the man-culture that encourages women to be the gazed-upon.

Posted in gender politics, shared boyhood | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 12 Comments

on becoming a servant

Goddess watch over me

Goddess watch over me

When I went and started living full-time as Plastic Girl, I started my life, all over again. Because I was young, with no degree or trade, I had no marketable skills.

My resume had previously been filled with blue-collar stuff, like working in factories, doing janitorial work, temp work in construction, that sort of thing. I mean, once I was out of my teens as an adult, I left fast-food and pizza delivery to get into the 12-hour graveyard shifts of industrial labor. Such is the life of working poor. You take what you can get, and you make the best of it. When the labor demand dries up, you find another job.

In the post 9-11 world, blue-collar industry was destroyed in the slow downward spiral they call the Great Recession, or something. When I transitioned into Plastic Girl, I still had nothing but my blue-collar background.

When I went on to live my life “full-time” as Plastic Girl, I moved from my transition town to a new city for a fresh start, where ostensibly, no one would know me from my old life.

The problem was, I was no longer living in an unincorporated area on the edges of an industrial and warehouse sector. I was living in a Big Name City which has a clear middle and upper class, as well as a lower class. It really is a caste-system based (partly) on what skills you have on your resume. I had no white-collar skills on mine, to save my life.

Very soon after I started my new life, I ran out of money! Getting a nine-to-five gig where I could stand on my feet all day, forty-plus hours a week and do mindlessly simple and repetitive manual tasks for minimum wage was Freaking Hard! It just was not happening, thanks to Nine-Eleven.

In no time at all, during the course of using up my money for the job hunt, I became destitute. And due to my trans-related medical issues, I needed access to medical care. I found a GLBT-friendly clinic with a sliding scale fee schedule.

While I was in the waiting area, I met other transwomen and men. Some of these transwomen fell in love with me, on sight.

Others could barely believe that yours truly was in a free clinic for the underclass. Mainly because, to put it simply, I was young, white, healthy-looking, in good spirits and fairly confident in my identity as Plastic Girl. This made me magnetic, or something, because I attracted transwomen and chasers like nobody’s business.

The fact of the matter is, I was alone, in a new city, in a new life, and I had no friends. I accepted the attentions of some of these transwomen. And that is when I got my education about surviving Teh Street. Surviving being (truly) poor. Getting by, as an underclass.

There was a time when I thought people who applied for welfare were just too lazy or too unmotivated to keep striving until they got a job. I had always associated welfare as being for families of immigrants, or women with children. That was when I was younger, and stupider and far more mabtastic.

I found out from my new trans-friends, that I could collect a small stipend, food stamps and some vouchers for public transportation, if I was willing to humble myself in order to go to the city welfare agency, and ask for help.

So. Because I could not get a job doing what I knew how to do best, I destroyed my mab-ego-pride a little more, and went down to the welfare office to apply for welfare, right alongside those immigrants and single women with children.

I had never done anything like that before, and I felt ashamed that I was left with no other choice, simply because I could just not get a regular honest job. But I did it, and I qualified, and I got food stamps and the whole nine yards.

One day, one of my trans-girlfriends asked me if I wanted to make some easy money to augment my welfare stipend. Of course, I said “Yes”. So. Then we went to a bar that caters to hooking up TGs with MABs who like them.

My friend showed me the ropes. I watched her, and I learned. In no time at all, she had brought some older guy in his fifties over to our table. Turns out, he was willing to pay us each $100 dollars if we would let him watch us make out/make love while he fapped and did a bump of meth or two while fapping.

We brought him back to our place, and everything went according to plan. He was a decent guy to us both. We both “earned” our trick money that night, and it paid for internet, clothes, toiletries, that sort of thing.

My friend used to do the street walk scene. This can be very dangerous work. It is fraught with abusers, some of whom will think nothing much of pulling a knife on you when you get into their car, insist on a free BJ, and then kick you to the curb after he comes in your mouth. This actually happened to my friend one night, while I was inside the bar pacing myself on a glass of red wine, scoping out potential dates.

She picked up a trick from a sidewalk pull-over while she was outside having a cigarette (or fag, as you Brits say), and she was assaulted the instant the door closed and the car pulled away. The john left her without due compensation for services rendered, about four blocks away from the bar I was in. It was pretty awful.

I realized I didn’t want to do the street scene, if I could avoid it. I have done it a handful of times before, but, I trust my spidey-sense and so, when I would get a bad feeling about the vibe coming off a john who is scoping me, I walked back into the bar. It was much better and safer and generally paid better to screen my dates at the table over a drink, then to actually step up to a J that pulls over to the sidewalk for you.

My friend was not very good at saving money and nor did she have a head for business of any kind. So, she spent her meager street-walker earnings as fast as she got it. But I saw a better way to survive and thrive and get ahead and move up financially.

What happened over the course of two months was, I slowly saved up my bar-trick money, and then used it to launch my own business as a call-girl. Then, I got into hyper-femininity.

Within two weeks I had burned up all my saved money on a sexy wardrobe, makeup, grooming stuff, all the girly things a bottom girl wears to show menz she is a bottom.

During my first week of being a real call-girl, I made more money in cash for a few hours of work, than I made in a forty-plus hour-a-week job where I worked my fingers and back to the bone while standing on my feet all day.

With that kind of money, I got off welfare. I didn’t need it! I didn’t want to collect it, unless I really and truly needed it. My welfare stipend for a month was like, $220 dollars, with $100 dollars in food stamps to go with it. I was able to get into better housing of my own effort and new-found financial privilege. This kind of quick and easy cash under the table, upgraded my standard of living and consumption in no time at all.

I had my first ‘girl-friend’ date soon after I started advertising. I was called and booked for an appointment. I got ‘dressed’ and performed all the femininity rituals, including foot-hobbling and short skirts.

I took a cab to a Big Time Ritzy Hotel and was admitted to an amazing hotel suite with a near-panoramic view of the night-time city. It was, well, lovely. For that evening I was a faux-girlfriend and sexual servant to a (nice) VIP mab. He left me a white envelope with five hundred dollars in it. For four hours of work. Less than an hour of the total time spent with him was actual sex-worker stuff.

I would take a couple of these kinds of appointments a week. I would sometimes take quicky appointments at my home that involved various short and sweet sexual services, but my specialty was the “girl-friend” experience. This means, being a servant-girl and submissive to menz for a couple of hours. Being his “date” to dinner and drinks, and or whatever.

I learned to be a good listener. I learned to let guys talk and let them relax and enjoy my femininity and openness. I learned to please someone besides myself. And after awhile, I got good at it. De-stressing guys who wanted no-strings faux-intimacy with a girl they did not have to see ever again, was my job for the better part of a year and a half.

If someone had told me when I was eighteen years old, that I would be living as a woman and a call-girl in a Big City three thousand miles away from my rural hometown in a mere seven years down the road, I would have laughed at the insanity and imagination of the idea. But that is where I found myself, within five months of going full-time with my life as Plastic Girl.

When you are poor and you ask others for help just to stay alive, your ego goes away. It has no choice, but to die. This will change your personality.

Your ego gets shattered a bit more, with each and every new level you are forced to bend and yield to. You learn to say “please” and “thank you” and “I am sorry (if I offended)” with total sincerity, because, after enough repetitions, your submission will no longer be an act, but just a fact.

When rich MABs, or educated and business-type women look at you momentarily as you pass them by on the street on the way to the bank to deposit the money you made the evening before, you avert your eyes and look at the ground. Because, you know your place as a transwoman and prostitute.

Posted in reality | Tagged , , , , | 8 Comments

time is on my side

the long funnel game.

probably going to check in at th hospital again. i’ve lost track how many days i’ve gone without sleep in a safe place. eating solid food when i can and when it appeals to me. trying not to aggravate/exacerbate the ravaging. i

i am fine, though. i have no anger in me about anything or anyone.

time, sink, funnel, weaver

time, sink, funnel, weaver

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , | 5 Comments

super moon three, coming to you, live

natural ecstasy. you can heal from hot injuries using water and moonlight.

ive been experiencing protracted periods of spontaneous mirth since june 6

 

as the moon ascends, i am getting searing knots of quasi pain that seem to grab from within, then fade and release.

 

Selene

Selene

  pretty heavenly

 

 

 

 

 

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , | 6 Comments

help, please.

 my spouse is abusing me and my aunt is violating me and they know im a rape survivor. i need a safe hotel, money, and a feminist attorney that specializes in domestic violence.

. i cant trust my aunt not to hurt me and deliver me my righful inheritance. i need serious committed backup immediately. i am going to start using blood magick

if people keep trying to hurt me.

 

Posted in Uncategorized | 7 Comments

victorian secret

just cant sleep at the moment. im calm and cool. i feel fine. i feel. i am. 

kind of on sentinel duty. trying to be institutionally aware, but not hyper vigilant or over-guarded. 

its an awkward place to be right now 

anyway, thinking about past convos…

if you are a prospective or would be male to female transsexual, tell me, if you could be made entirely female, and spawned alive and well and passing 100% in all ways as the woman of your dreams, you would probably accept that, right?

especially if you got to keep your white collar or even blue collar privilege. i mean corporate and unions pay way better than non union shops or service work. generally speaking.

now picture this. you go through the transition machine and come out looking like the techno-babe of your dream and…you are in Victorian Era of England.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Victorian_era

and instead of transitioning on the job as a policewoman, or computer programmer or tech consultant or whatever. you land or spawn like Gordon Freeman, only a female version or something. and instead of waking up in the future, you wake up in the past. with no family, just a purse with some coins in it. no husband. and no education or privilege. you wake up in Victorian England.

you know what women did back then, oh STEM career AGPs?

if you didnt have a man, were lower class, and you had little or no connections, then as a woman, a perfectly passing female (thanks to the transition machine but by reverse Buck Rogers Quantum Time Weirdness), you went backwards and in England at that time, unmarried underprivileged and underclass women had few options.

1. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Workhouse

2. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Victorian_era#Prostitution

now, if you, my dear mtf readers, could be made 100% female copy of the techno-babe of your pornstar dreams, but lose all privilege that you gained, like family, friends, children, and your wealth. but you would be 100% passable and guys would want to have sex with you.

would you still want to transition?

think about it. really hard. and reflect also, on what that says about modern transition and our culture. its way better to aspire to be like one of the empowered sex pos women from Sex and the City, than to become a janitor, housekeeper, factory slave or sex worker, don’t you think? and privilege, well… it doth has its privilege.

so, would you transition perfectly, but accept living out a full measure of a passable life as female, as a lowerclass unmarried woman starting from the bottom with only options one and two readily available?

i doubt it!

its much better to be a computer geek girl. right? have the cubicle job of your dreams, the benes, and identity yourself as a trans and make “it gets better videos”. right? because after all in your dream, you weren’t being born again as female, you were becoming a trans woman. 

right?

Posted in and synthetic people, cyborgs, gender identity politics, women's health | Tagged , , , | 6 Comments

an ending is just a new beginning, part 2

If I had to
I would put myself right beside you
So let me ask
Would you like that?

becoming a feminist and sticking with my opinions and speaking heart to heart has cost me the person who was nearest and dearest to my heart.

my es-o has violated me at least eight different ways since my father died last year… i mean wtf.

i never did anything to her, but love her as best i could.

i was honest from Day 1. I said, “i am a prostitute, and i occasionally do other semi-legit errands, yeah, that’s where i am at right now”

total transparent disclosure. accept me, or not. 

we got married. took vows.

she was not honest.

her best friend told me over drinks (oldest truth serum in the book) that she had been diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic within two maybe three years prior to our meeting on public trans it.

she concealed that from me for almost ten years, sans the year past when her best best best friend in the world let it slip. oops.

ive done my work and taken care of my biz. no offense to those battling personal demons and mental or spiritual or emotional issues, but ive mostly had my fill from way waY way too much (over)exposure to it. i need my mental space unpolluted. especially my nest of all places.

ive been able to read her in all things like an open book, until last June when she passed the Turing Test.

so much for three laws compliant…if you know what i mean???

yeah.

apparently, she read my blog while i was overseas and i may have seeded a mutating psychic virus into her not-adequately-therapied-brain. not to mention she has always been a paranoid to the point of deviation from significant norm. STEM careerist. loves she-male porn from incidental glances at her monitor over the years. has utterly no interest in srs, which i totally and completely do not get. and she requires the girly point scale stuff to feel “womanly” or feminine or whatevers.

anyway, its been wild. 

im still not angry with her, thats the most messed up part. im bummed. im disappointed for sure. i even forgive her. but i will never forget. when it comes to dating transwomen or tgs, i have a new policy,

 

 

Never. Again.

 

i literally can not trust her to sleep next to her, or accept food or drink from her. like ever. i feel like id be participating in my own lulling to trust again. for another attempt in a month, or a year, or five…

 

and thanks again to my angels watching over me. <3

 

 edited 8-30-2014 to add, when i came home on the 29th, the first thing i noticed on my desk was my opened personal private and legal mail, containing my replacement drivers license. she opened my mail without my consent or knowledge, when she could have left a message that legal mail had arrived at the hotel i was staying at. or just left it alone.

 

trans boundary failure!

yyy

Posted in artificial persons, feminism, transhumanism | Tagged , , , | 3 Comments

dangerous game: or, how my spouse may have tried to kill me, i am almost sure

i am really stupid. like hopstoopid stupid. i guess being dead once isnt good enough. my spouse tried to kill me in June, i think, maybe?

it really sucks. our tenth anniversary is coming up. :( we were going to get matching tattoos.

i am not sure what to do.  

goddess? 

Posted in feminism, gender politics, robots, women's health | Tagged , , , , | 16 Comments

dear Mary Daly

(or, how the patriarchy got me anyway)

so, yeah. way back when i started this blog i said, i wasn’t sure who i wanted to “troll”. most folks who have been on the internet long enough know that the internet use of the word “troll” has morphed a bit. It used to mean “some one who tries to mess with your head in a online discussion and may try to incite you to lose your cool or get outraged”. the underlying “hidden” premise is that that person has no intention of being swayed by your beliefs or arguments, they are just playing a behavior mind game on you.

now of course, “troll” means anyone who leaves a weak ad hom attack as a reply to something you said, or says something outrageous like “die in a fire”. in trans conversations, i consider, “you need to educate yourself” to be a troll response by trans activists. because really, if you do educate yourself, you may simply find that you do not agree with every premise, proclamation, or position laid down by trans* and their allies. simply disagreeing with the trans position, (on anything!) as Janice Raymond pointed out, gets you labeled. you know what they say. they will label us transphobic, or the latest in othering attacks,

being called a “terf”. the word is utterly meaningless in some ways. it can mean whatever you want. but the intent behind it, is to make you feel really terrible deep down to your soul, that you are making a mistake of insensitivity of the highest order imaginable. the reality is, sometimes things happen to you, experiences that you live with certain kinds of people, blood memories, of things certain people have done to you, and once broken or damaged or whatever, by those people, and had to find a way to heal from their attacks… its very hard to simply accept without hesitation or skepticism, the claims of certain people. and no where is that more relevant, (in terms of my own blogging here) then when it comes to dealing with trans folk online.

when i was very young, i tried a scientific-like experiment, prove a positive, by first proving a negative. i am still uncertain if there were ever concretely definable or provable results from that experiment.

trans women in particular, claim to be women and also, try to craft a trope that they were “always” women, since the earliest memories.

this blog’s original mission statement, was to try to understand radical feminist critique of gender, and gender is really important to people who self-identify as being transgender. i don’t believe in gender. mostly. i use it or bend it as i see fit. i am fine “dressed up” as a librarian, scientist, cop or military personnel. hunter, even femmebot.

gender means only the straightjacket social behaviors to me. like always worrying about what my weight says about me, and how people are judging me about it. like, is my heart-centered or mental image self acceptance of body size greater than the energy pressure of society’s desire to tear me down for being uncaring about it, and literally, slim down to a standard?

i guess, if its “heads” and i don’t care about how people think about me, then i would never worry about it, accept my body as it is, and to hell what people think of me. i guess. maybe id be actual rad fem material, lol

but if it’s “tails” and I do kinda sorta care, (or in reality, i feel the psychic pressure, and its easier to yield to conform than fight it all the time).

ive managed to get my fingers to stay cold for about three days now…

and the thing of it is, i feel strong whenever i win those tiny battles. it makes me feel in control, when all else seems out of my hands,

done gently instead of…over enthusiastically, its more peaceful than ravaging. and i keep my hair, lol.

anyways, when i started transition, i knew, deep down i knew with a certainty, that with “proper” feminine gender performance, i could easily convince any male gender therapist or psychologist that i was a “female soul” inhabiting a this body, and that it was be ridiculously easy to get green-lit for everything, hormones, legal stuff, whatever i want or needed paperwork for.

but because i was honest and realistic about the fact that i had lived a man’s life, and done some pretty maabtastic things in my day, that it would be exceedingly difficult if not impossible to look a woman gender therapist in the eyes and claim i “always knew i was a woman”. how could she not immediately smirk and raise one eyebrow, with the unspoken “really?” in the air.

so it was, that i thought i perform rather than tell.

ive had transwomen cross boundaries with me before. i knew that bro-team socialisation must be unlearned, deliberately, and that is it hard to even own up to it. most men do not truly viscerally and emapthetically understand what unwanted penetration means. and hence, they do not get “rape”, rape, and rape-rape. its all messed up to them. and to us too!

but unwanted penetration means just that. the words “stop” and “no” should have magical powers to cause a person to stop and move on or walk it off or whatevers. at least ease up, and look you in the eye and ask you how you want to proceed next.

i was able to learn from feminism and radical feminism, how to frame my life’s experiences differently than i knew how to do before. one of the most important words i learned, was “invalidation” (and this word should not be used to the point of abuse and near-meaninglessness, like “trigger warnings” have become).

but when we invalidate someone who is trying to communicate with us an experience or an issue, we basically perform a mini-gaslighting aggression. at the risk of… risk… ill just say that women are every bit as good at invalidating each other, as guys are to us. part of lived socialization is doubting your self and your experiences all the time. like, “is this real? is this really happening to me?” and so its becomes easy to instill even more self-doubt in others through casual conversation.

my mother, my female relatives, the nurses i ran into, even my transition doctor to some degree, all did these mini-gaslighting aggressions to me growing up. and i learned how to do it right back :) some nurses…. are the worst… when it comes to this mind-frak. let me tell you.

but yeah, learn and adapt. :)

so, i knew the trans peeps would violate me sooner or later, thus proving to me, they are every bit as doodly as the the men that assaulted me growing up, and while i was a sex worker.

and i left my therapy notes from the gender therapy i never had, for you. all these little experiences on this blog. are my bridge works. so you might know..

some of us really do get it. at least, a little bit. close. maybe.

my very first post on this blog, that i deleted within a month or maybe less was based on a comment i saw about transwomen. paraphrasing:

“they’re fembots. they’re into fembotism”

i wondered if it was really true. and after studying things like “Codes of Gender” and “Ways of Seeing” i could see that yeah, i did some femme stuff. true enough. i had conccsiouly copied and emulated those behaviors by studying female socializtion

but somethings about socialization, maybe even most things, are deeper than the gender construct of dress-ups, sexy-sexy and fembotisms. something just come down to memories of experiences.

i have no problem with Club Trans. i’ve said it before. i am pro transhumans. trans your sex and gender roles, all you want. maybe it bears repeating, but Club Trans has nothing to do with my transition dream and my wish for “what i wanted to be when i grew up”.

for me, it was about the hormones and srs. that’s it really. i can “be” any “gender” i want. dress how i want. wear heels or boots. wear my hair up or down. earrings or not. whatevers. i know gender is a construct. i just had some kind of birth defect, or something. that i wanted to correct. science may not be advanced enough to understand the nature of that dna hiccup or whatever it was. if they did, i would surely ask for the plastic girl treatment to go all the way. no fear, Ms. Greer.

ps. i lied when i said i didnt get my srs clearance papers. i didnt want to get them, because doctors, right? but my chosen surgeon had the nerve crafting skill i wanted and i had to get them.

and the nigel that signed my paperwork, totally believed i was a female soul stuck in this body, just like i predicted

the part that hurt, was the header for my clearance waiver.

“gender confirmation surgery”

just… !!!

cluecheck! gender is in your head, not your crotch, amiright?

i love all the radfem werks ive read. and no offense but if i had to give up all my radfem books and keep just one, it would be Gyn/Ecology.

i guess i loved all the spinning and spiraling talk. it appeals to my interior experiences.

<3

Posted in artificial persons, genetics, love, women's reproductive health | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

sex pos, sex work, and the cost of doing business: this one is for the menz

Given that the moon is controlling my pelvis this evening, it’s not like I am getting any sleep so, you get a post. a rant by the glow of the moon gazing down on me from above. As a former sex worker, (as a pseudoanonymous blogger, I have no problem with the word prostitute or even whore, although when I blog about it here, I mentally borrow the idea of being a “Companion” from Whedon’s scif fi series, ‘Firefly’). Before I got involved with sex work, a female friend of mine, (not Alice) recommended to me that I watch the movie “Dangerous Beauty”.

a decent question for anyone, feminists, MRAs, sex-pozzies, and pro-sex worker types is, “how does a sex worker relate to her clients?’ I can only speak for myself, but I saw my clients as people. I had one or two threesomes with men and women set up, that always fell through. Unfortunately, that meant 99% of my actual client base turned out to be men. the other 1% was transgendered.

I needed to make money from men. Given my way past-past, you might think it would have been easy to dissociate while performing, or see my clients as other; non or sub human. had I been forced into sex work in my teens or early twenties, yeah, i might have had a rough time of it, or acted out of unresolved ptsd issues, and could have been triggered into assaulting my clients or tried to rob or otherwise defraud them. thanks to the personal development work that I spent my twenties evolving, i was able to get over the assault and proximity triggers, and the touch/body contact triggers. I also did not de-personalize my clients, but instead, perhaps because i had taken the time to spiritually connect my heart and mind, i was able to see them as people, human beings, and customers who I felt I owed a decent time to, for their investment.

I did have to screen my dates, carefully.  Some didn’t make it past the screen, because vibes or because they got nervous themselves and ended the interview by leaving. That’s understandable. The signs of extreme self-nervousness (maybe with the whole idea of seeing a sex workers for money) made some of them bail out before the session started. But most clients ended up getting seen. These were guys. I know how a man’s social and emotional and sexual function work.

as a sex worker, I was a provider. I tried to make guys happy. I tried to give them the experience they wanted and to make it worth it to them, to have spent money on me. At the height of my practice, I did have regulars and good regulars were valuable to me.

I was definitely afraid of getting hurt and exploited (or not paid) and all the other little things. I tried to get away with having as little actual sex as I could.

my main job as it turned out, was to be a kind of counselor. I did therapy on these guys. Not just the sexual kind. But, by being available, and pleasant, guys often spent an entire session just talking to me. Letting go of their day-to-day concerns sometimes. I learned a lot of interesting things from having men in confide in me. No state secrets or anything. Just guys and their guy-lives and often their relation to their wives and ex wives was a shared story for them. I mean, guys venting about how they ended up in my bed, instead of their wives beds.

I don’t think I ever despised any of my clients, but I would get mad when guys made dates with me they didn’t follow through with. I really disliked having the actual over-the-phone interview, become their session. That happened not uncommonly. Free phone sex. lol. That was annoying.

but mostly it wasn’t as bad as you might think. I was a companion and a counselor, and I did sexual stuff too. I liked my clients, a lot of them. I liked being wanted, and having nice guys come over and treat me like a queen. It was awesome. Getting over-paid, huge tips, repeat customers, that meant to me I was doing a good job.

The scary dates were the guys that I thought might be cops, but who didn’t bust me (thank you!). And some times, every now and then, I would get a guy who said everything nice, did everything nice, had the money, and I got him into my space, and he turns out to be Conan the Barbarian. I have experienced guys (a guy, a specific guy especially, that I almost fictionalized in one of my erotic posts “Agamemnon and Briseis”), who treated me like a bondage doll. The entire appointment became a session of sexual domination, and a BDSM show, with him as the top, and me being treated like a slave or a sex toy. Those were the dates I thought were going to end up hurting me bad. Luckily, I only got hurt a little.*

but I was objectified by this one guy, and I survived by letting him do what he wanted to do me. I allowed myself to be treated like a bondage doll, and when he was done, he was happy and I got paid.

Those dates were few and far between. So I never truly despised my clients. I tried to make them happy with my skills. Sometimes the skills was skill at femininity displays, others, when I was just a highly paid listener. It was not a horrible job. Not the way I did it, by having a day-light screening process away from my home.

Going to hotels was a different story, but that is what drinks at the downstairs bar was for. All my hotel dates went well. But there are stories…about hotel dates that do not go well for the provider at all, and don’t think that did not make me very wary, and very scared. But I was a good actress, and I tried to be compassionate and professional.

at the end of the day, I can’t say being a sex worker was a terrible experience. Street-walking, yes, that was living nightmare of fear. But being professional made it easier to make myself safe, and made me much better money.

Anyway I am rambling a bit, but, mainly they were customers, clients, and I provided a service: make them happy. When I did, we both had a good session, and I felt good about getting paid. I had my own limits of my services rendered. I did not do pee, blood, infantalisation, or forced feminization, or S and M with objects meant to amplify corporal punishment. I also did not “top” my clients.

Those were my boundaries, and it was not a terrible experience. Not until I got assaulted. Then, the fact that I had to keep working after being hurt, that was pretty horrible. Neither safety, nor respite, nor rest for the wicked or the weary, you know?

i had some clients I did not want repeats with, but by and large, being a counselor, dressed up in clothes that made men relax and which made me feel desirable, having guys service me, with massages and quiet conversation, leaving big tips, other gifts, and calling me next week, was pleasant. I liked those kinds of men and I was good to them.

*let if be known that i am not angry at the guy at all, and i hope he is ok, i got paid, he seemed happy, i got over it like a professional. no biggie.

**part of the reason i never sought help nor complained to anyone when i got attacked in my own home was: a. i had to keep working! b. i took it in stride and accepted these things as a lesson for the stupid and maabtastic things i did in my old life, from gazing, or fat shaming or looking at porn, or whatever. insensitive doodbro culture stuff. that i hated about myself. and so when i did get hurt from time to time, in different ways, i never cried to anyone or asked for help. obviously, i was preop during this time. i had intense body shame over that. and I did this job, while enduring that preop shame. and its also unlawful to be a prostitute, so i couldn’t exactly report being raped in my home to anyone. you know?

***it goes without saying, but i will state it so that it is clear: there is no way in hell i would go to a crisis shelter run by or staffed by men or transwomen — given porn culture, pornsickness, slut-shaming, the good-girl bad-girl attraction stuff, the lack of sensitivity to space and boundaries, the inability to understand a simple, “no”.  just ugh. no way. not ever.

ps. and although it took awhile for me to fix my code (with help), i was not “asking for it” to be assaulted by a would-be client, even though he came over for the purpose of a sexual transaction. Stop and no really mean stop and no. Porn culture affects both men and women, and with men it trains them that sex is a resource they have a right to access. as a sex provider, you can see the issue with regards to male entitlement and unpaid service work, or on-the-job injuries without hope for vacation or sick pay.

plus i knew from the taste, that stuff he gave me was not just E. had I not detected the deception and not used as much as he gave me, i might have passed out instead of just getting sleepy…i hesitate to speculate if i would have ever woken up. you know what i mean?

I feel I should add one last thing. After a year and half of being a sex worker, and the S and M stuff I did with women, it is impossible to ever enjoy “simple sex” or “vanilla” anything, ever again. it’s pretty much either, cuddling and going to sleep, or having sex while having the best and worst sexual experiences play in my head at the same time. i honestly could care less about physical sex anymore. having had way more than most, in ways some people can not even imagine without blushing.  its either enter subspace with the stuff from the other post, or its not worth bothering with.

Posted in artificial persons, feminism, gender politics | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 16 Comments

creating a new narrative

seasonofthewaterwitch

probably the first last post about Neo Trans Theory.

putting it all together for historians, anthropologists, geneticists, sociologists, psychologists, nurses and doctors, and every other relevant group not mentioned

this is simply me, representing my own experience, and speaking for no one else

take a mental-visual walk backwards with me, as i reverse the time–flow of all the stuff i put on this blog about transition motivations and whatever

Ending point: walking out of the Ciba City med clinic all repaired to spec. dream of becoming female, true. bare with me.

Prior waypoint: figuring out this thing called life, letting settle all the history and letting the spirit rise awake and clear (mostly)

Psychology of passing and “why we do this” transition essay. when i radically accepted that medical transition was for rich folks and that i wanted something i could not have, part of me subverted that acceptance and tried to transition anyway, psycho-social-energetically. my own private workaround as protest against my lot. keep it secret, keep it safe

way-point insanity/dark night of the soul: the day or evening you realize you’ve become the very thing you hate and want nothing more than to destroy yourself forever. you would do anything, swear anything, go anywhere, to alter that destiny, even drop where you stand and never move again to avoid manifesting that energy

there and back again. facing down the greatest fear most of us will ever know in this life; death itself. death smiled at me, and i smiled right back. the one place i knew i could be safe on this earth, gone to the otherside to be with shakti

method to the madness: all that stuff i wrote over at PG 2.0 3.0 really happened. raised by the most reverent christians, sexually molested, punishment-as-slavery, punishment as submission training, boundary crossing with relatives, going into lordosis when my cousin and i played GI Joe in the woods, he was Sgt. Slaughter and i Scarlet, one of my dear trusted relatives physically and mentally violating someone who has been violated quite enough thanks. then the event the broke the seal. getting raped multiple times by multiple doctors and nurses, most of them female. pretty much destroyed me. i had said “no” and “stop”. the magic words didnt work at a place that claimed it could heal me. lies. all lies.

when we kids were very young and my mother used to bath us together, i realized my sister had the better deal. i hated my genitals after one look at hers. total envy.

and ive had (for most of my life) and still have pregnancy dreams. i dont know if i could be a good mother. i am selfish person who likes her “me” time and plenty of it. i get impatient with other people’s weaknesses. but my body still wants the experience badly, and i can sense that it is a body-knowing thing. i know i want to get pregnant, even tho intellectually, i know i cant afford it, would run out of patience, would be afraid of being an abuser like my mother, don’t want to give up eighteen years of my life, dont want to compete with other moms for super-soccer-hovercopter mom of the year award. but my body still wants to… if that makes any sense!

i rejected christianity for myself as a teenager, around the age of thirteen, maybe fourteen.  i was an atheist briefly. then i rebuilt my interior religion to be based on the goddess: shakti, the moon, black holes at the center of galaxies, mother nature, the ocean,  using my spiritual-energy and interacting with those forces is how i manifest my spirituality

the training stuff with Alice was a turning point for me, as i realized i had indeed healed the split in my mind and heart using surrender-power and acceptance.  we did a few more mysterious rituals based on female essence and yin energy before i went fulltime and she moved on to other things.

connect the spots. :)

anyway, thats my narrative and im sticking to it. Orlando? check. Schreber’s calling? check. Plastic Girl from Ciba City? check. vaj envy? check. womb envy? check.  even Call and Ripley 8.

and something in me really does resonate and cycle with the moon. for real

thank you for reading

AM

Posted in love, spirituality, women's health | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 19 Comments

i knew you guys would be unable to resist my pull!

get over here

endurance

evilgrin

temptation, pride, envy, i just love sin!

I’m waking up to ash and dust
I wipe my brow and I sweat my rust
I’m breathing in the chemicals

I’m breaking in, shaping up,
Then checking out on the prison bus
This is it, the apocalypse
Whoa

I’m waking up, I feel it in my bones
Enough to make my systems blow
Welcome to the new age, to the new age
Welcome to the new age, to the new age
Whoa, whoa, I’m radioactive, radioactive
Whoa, whoa, I’m radioactive, radioactive

I raise my flags, don my clothes
It’s a revolution, I suppose
We’ll paint it red to fit right in
Whoa
I’m breaking in, shaping up,
Then checking out on the prison bus
This is it, the apocalypse
Whoa

I’m waking up, I feel it in my bones
Enough to make my systems blow
Welcome to the new age, to the new age
Welcome to the new age, to the new age
Whoa, whoa, I’m radioactive, radioactive
Whoa, whoa, I’m radioactive, radioactive

All systems go, sun hasn’t died
Deep in my bones, straight from inside

I’m waking up, I feel it in my bones
Enough to make my systems blow
Welcome to the new age, to the new age
Welcome to the new age, to the new age
Whoa, whoa, I’m radioactive, radioactive
Whoa, whoa, I’m radioactive, radioactive

 

 

Posted in #StayClassy, feminism, women's reproductive health | Tagged , , , , , | 5 Comments