(and why this made-up term is really bullshit made up by trans-centered and clueless transactivists. Julia Serano comes to mind, actually, as do her neophyte glomlings) http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/cisprivilege
(LGBT, neologism) The social advantage enjoyed by those who are cisgender/cissexual.
Who uses the term “cisprivilege” and what does it mean to them? Transwomen use this term without having any idea at all how profoundly offensive it is to born-females. What transwomen mean when they say born-females enjoy “cisprivilege”
Here is an incomplete list of the social “advantages” of so-called “cis” sexual females.
What transwomen mean by female “cisprivilege”: “omg, you totally get to be feminine and nobody questions you, your sexuality or your state of mind! plus boobs! and vaginas!” what females understand as “cisprivilege”: femicide, sexism, rape and oppression
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.
as I started to tell in an earlier comment, i had a couple stories to share. i will post my field expediant jasmine aloe face, hand, and foot scrub on my other blog another time. for now, enjoy the story of The Dog That Pooped.
i was sitting enjoying a coffee with cinnamon, nutmug, and cocoa powder, at a small park, when a tiny dog like a dachshund came into my presence, about twelve feet away.
it then pooped. but only a tiny bit of poop landed on the ground. there was a giant poop stuck to his assshole.
well, the dog took a couple steps, felt his dingleberry dangling, and whipped in a semi-circle, to lick his ass.
unfortunately, the poor dog had a bad natural design for that technique. his head needed about three to five more inches of slack, to effortlessly clean his own butt.
so, in a futile effort to freshen up, he chased his assshole.
around. and around. and around.
like a dervish or a cyclone.
as he spun around and around, occasionally tiny pieces of his poopy bollus would fling off a foot or a yard, or more, away. not much. but his centrifugal force was impressive as the shit literally, flew off the fan rotating of his body.
the dog completely failed to lick its asshole.
he would stop after six to ten spin cycles, and try to walk a step or two. then he instantly felt his dangling dingle, again. and would promptly spin up like an engine, around and around and around. flinging another shard of poop during one his circumwhatevers
eventually, his owner came out of the shop with a coffee in his hand, to behold his best friend’s work of art on the sidewalk.
you have never seen a more solemn look on a man, as he set his coffee on a newspaper stand, and proceeded to clean up after his poor dog. first liberating the poop from the beast’s asshole, then rounding up the shitshards that were scattered to the winds all over.
trying to be sensitive, since he actually came out in time to see his dog during a spin cycle, i did my best not to laugh out loud.
my lips kept wriggling with a barely suppressed grin as i tried to join the man’s solemnity.
but after about a half a minute to a minute, i couldnt help myself, but busted up in peals of girly laughter that rang off the sidewalk, the cafe windows,
angel with a mean streak,
Hey Gaiusz. in almost every movie about aliens, the earthers try to capture/experiment/kill the guest/vistor/explorer.
between 1975 and … now… there have been quite a few movies featuring aliens visiting and gmen killing them. or almost. like in the movie et. and all those movies where the alien is a female who can morph into centipedesjellyfishwhatever. she almost always dies…
sometimes the aliens flat out win like one movie with johnny depp and a space walk or mission that goes bad.
in most scifi spacefaring humans end up at total war with the aliens.
except in two.notable cases.
close encounters of the third kind where both usgov and the aliens roll out the carpet to try to be friends.
and in babylon5 where the Clark administration and psicorp ally with The Shadows bcuz the Shadows are clearly badass. and earthgov decides to aspire to be like them in exchange for a Krogan-style technological uplifting.
think about it.
i collect flowers, war knowledge and mind training.
celebrating one year of continual blogging. and third year of posts since i started transhumanoid.
also. if i havent mentioned it already. this month marks my twenty year resurrection.
you know what hurt a bit about The Road? The Man’s wife and The Boy’s mother kills herself before Things bottom out. We see her remembering things like candlelight dinners at nice restaurants and going to the opera in a little black dress.
Stripped of her middletoupperclass life, she didnt want to go on. she didnt want to spend the rest of her life “outdoors”, and scavenge/forage/kill/steal for food and neccessities. what priviliged, pampered woman would?
but her husband, being a man, goes on the road and does the best he can after losing his lifestyle, his means, and his beloved, and tries to look after their child and teach him right from wrong.
it would be nice if someone would airdrop a leaflet that says i can finally come out of the woods and go home… as it were.
maybe i can still fix thiz…
Zoey Tur is Gross. Planet Fitness is more interested in retaining male moneystream than in ensuring the safety of the females also moneystreaming into Planet Fitness.
Zoey is what we call a “female minstrel”. He minstrelizes girl-woman genderperformance like dresses and makeup and a few hand gestures, but regardless of his “self identity” or “self perception”, I only see a man in a dress, live-action role-playing a Tootsie-type woman, and poorly. Sorry about that.*
The second video is even better.
The blonde in the leather jacket? Female.
The dude with the grey short hair and glasses? Dude.
The woman in grey to his right, (viewer’s left). Female.
Dude wearing black and gold with blonde dye-job to cover grey hairs?
I will NOT validate that man’s fetishistic delusion, and I am quite familiar with how psychiatry works, bela-eve-u-me.
I encourage all women to not fall to these men’s pornchan fantasies.
Tell them you will not agree with them, that they are women, and even more so, that they are not female. A woman is just what we call females that are grown up. More or less.
*GM can beat me if she’s mad that I reblogged her post.
i know ive posted this vid a few times… but i love it resonatewisr.
this tune encompasses the story of creation in music.
from the void to the primal whiptailspiral exploding into the bigbang and all manifestation after.
i particularly love it bcz it teaches demonicelemental underverse and maiarangelic ringtonesong
here is even more cisprivilege.
i register transhumanoid. i rebel against tstg groupthink. i have my own opinionZ. i read radical feminism. the tstg community stalks me.
a bunch of manlylooking computergeek dikgirls and some narcisstic formergayboyturned stepfordpornblowupbarbies, about a third of whom had a surgery that turned them into $20,0000 condoms for piv.
20 years since my life after death
on the third night of the full moon, i was outside sitting under the lunar sky. a hip, blonde, girly-girl came up to me around midnight, offered me a cigarette, a few hits from her medical mj, and she gave me a chocolate egg before she left.
it’s good to be girl-zoned.
moodswings, multicoloured mess, moon-craziness, the werks.
:) :) :)