I was thinking of posting around being a Sissy, rather than being a trans woman. Now, I don’t want to produce continuous rational prose, but go where the writing takes me.
My constant monitoring and judging of myself is my own. I would be considerably less weird, as a man, in others’ eyes than I fear, despite my small breasts.
-What do you Want.
-I want to be Normal! I want just to fit in.
Onywye. This is part of the thought. I am a sissy: an effeminate or unmanly man, more a bottom than a top, sexually, but attracted to women rather than men. There are heterosexual women to fit us- As God made them, so God matched them- but in Western societies we are derided, and a lot of social control is around getting us to “man up”, or pretend to be, well, like men ought to be.
We are good evidence that gender, as constructed and idolised in the West, is a very poor fit for sex defined merely gonadally.
Blinded by shame, I step from “effeminate” (bad) to “feminine” (good), and follow the well-trodden path to transition. As a fetishistic transvestite, I find it pleasanter to imagine myself motivated by femininity than perversion. My desire for castration and vaginaplasty arises partly from a fetishistic fantasy- imagining it is a turn-on- and partly from a desire to believe I am a real transsexual, rather than a pervert.
Here I am constructing an argument, or a theory, rather than telling you what I feel is necessarily the truth- but putting it this way, I cannot merely dismiss it as ridiculous.
In an ideal world there would be a place for me as a sissy, and descriptive rather than derisive words. Perhaps, ideally, I should be working towards that world, out and proud and campaigning for equality, rather than trying to fit in. Fuck that. I have as much right to try to make my own way, to campaign for truth and justice when I feel able and to hide away and be a quisling when I feel capable of nothing more, as anyone.
-What do you want?
-I want never to feel uncomfortable, never to feel fear, never to judge myself.
escape the judgment of my insatiable inner critic. I might die to myself– more difficult than being born again- but she will never be satisfied. I have to stop listening.
I honour my past choices.
Transition was what I needed to do at the time. It was what I wanted more than anything else. Anyone who finds me disconcertingly or displeasingly strange, will find me so even if I stop taking hormones, wearing a wig, and speaking at a higher pitch than most people after their voice breaks. Reverting is just hassle, to no great benefit.
I got my first picture from Wikimedia, as usual: category Portraits of women holding flowers. Hoping to find a more fitting category, I deleted two letters- but that category does not exist. I searched further, and found only Asians, not Europeans.