cross--sumpin

[tay-en-pointe.livejournal.com]

the first time i ever came as a woman, it was online.

see.. there you go. you just made the wrong assumption. i didnt type with one hand while stroking my pre-hormone-induced pecker.
that would be coming like a man.
and therein lies a crucial problem. or as they now say in corporate circles, issue.

for the longest time i thought i was a gay man. that has to be it, i would tell myself. that has to be it. i feel like a woman all the time. all my closest friends are women. i dont like college football. i like to cook and i like interior design.
jesus, what more signs do you need you fucking idiot??? thats what i'd say to myself, not what i'm asking you.
see, after 40 years, i feel the need to clarify. i feel the need to make sure that i'm not insulting you, or someone, or anyone. i'm much more comfortable insulting myself because i'm used to it. i'd been doing it for 36 years before i finally found a number online, and made a phonecall, and that day when to see a therapist.
no, thats not the one that made me come online.
that was before. it was someone i'd met at a chat site, talked to often, and one night, as we talked, as we fantasized, as we created ourselves completely new for each other yes, but most certainly first and foremost for ourselves, a certain cadence rose. our words became simple poetry, like the panting breaths of 17 syllable koans. and they kept flowing, and going on, and then the first wave hit me, somewhere in there, i can't say where or when, and we kept going, and we both came.
maybe she was faking it. maybe she was some big harry guy who could never face what he was, what was inside him.
and to be honest, at that point in time, that was what i was, at least to me. though i wasn't big. i was considered big when i was ten or eleven years old, but i was grown out of it by those who shared my gender and grew around me. i got approximately 4 months to be a bully, and then everyone i was a bully too was suddenly bigger than i was.
i got beat up a lot.

somewhere while all this was going on, hormones raging, girls' breasts holding me more than they ever again would, the way they dressed, the way their hair fell across their shoulders, the way their butts wiggled as they gambolled and ran (mostly away from me, naw.. just kiddin).. somewhere while all these things were going on, while i was learning to use my dad's Schick razor, and then a few years later stealing those particular blades to snort coke, somewhere in the midst of all that, combined with the script i'd been given from the moment some backwards doctor slapped my newly born naked ass and allowed my father to pass out cigars with bands that said "It's a boy"... somewhere in all of this, i dont think i ever felt quite right.

i have distinct moments of my childhood. my first words were spoken on the toilet. in my mind, i recall this incident as me explaining to my mother the theory of relativity as i sat on a special thing that was rested between my ass and the toilet seat, with a bug-like semi-cone over where my pee would have messed her dress as i loosed myself. of course, now i recognize that my perception of this event was slanted by her recollection of it to friends of hers with me present.
that, in the most simple of terms, is called Narcissism. without a perspective of my own, as i was all of three or four years old, i was made to rely on her telling of the event. in a way, its not that much different than Orwellian literature. Her reality was so strong, so imposing, that it superceded whatever my post-infantile perspectives could ever hope to be. and as is the case with all narcissists, as long as it fit their own perspectives, that was simply just fine.

those of the nature vs. nurture variety might say, "With a parent like that, your mother, how could you not end up feeling like a girl?" i dont know how the Big Book of Psychology defines this (except of course as me being the child of a narcisssitic parent) .
i dont really give a shit how its defined. it didnt work for me.
and i'm not saying that out of some emotional rebellion-oriented response. i'm saying it because i tried in every possible way to buy into my mom's version of who i was.
i went to college. i got a BA in English. then i got arrested for the third time in as many years. there was high drama after each of these events. what was i doing? what was causing me to act this way? didn't i realize that there was a script, dammit?
the fact of the matter was, i did realize there was a script. i acknowledged it. and i felt guilty for veering from it.
i was a genius, apparently. i hear i scored off the charts on the IQ tests given at that time. but i've never seen this in writing.

maybe thats why i write.
maybe thats what drives me to put things on paper. what drives me to make things somehow more permanent and inarguable in that way. i dont know. but maybe.
the first story i ever wrote, i wrote when i was 9 years old. it was about a skier in the Winter Olympics. i was quite proud of it. this hero was a downhill skier. and he always lost. i think he was from Sweden, come to think of it now. or maybe thats how far off-line Mom and Dad's programming has gone. he tried ten times to win, and never did. in the end, finally, that eleventh time, he won. i thought it was a story of amazing conquest. my dad said, "I guess you dont realize that the Olympics only happen every 4 years, so if he was 18 when he started, he'd have been older than your grandfather when he finally won. which just wouldnt happen."

thing is, he meant right. he meant to educate me in his own way.
he failed.

the first time i ever had real time sex was way before computers. i was 14. i lived over a mile from my school. i rode my bike there and back, though sometimes i just felt lazy, and walked. i liked to look at things. i like to let the world slow itself down. around age 13 i started to hitchhike. i would start to walk, or maybe i would go to school walking, cuz it was still sorta early. but this was in so Cal and it got hot quick, and i guess my resolve quit with the growing heat. or maybe i'd just seen all i felt i needed to see.
so, i'd hitch hike.
my first sex was with a girl, who picked me up. she was wearing a nurse's uniform, and had hippy hair and thick eyemakeup. she fucked me. it was amazing.
my second sex was in a car too. but this time it was a guy. it was a year or so later. he drove past my street. he said he would pay me if he could suck my little dick. i let him.
i made twenty dollars. i went home, took a shower, and then grabbed my bike, and rode it to the Wherehouse and bought Led Zeppelin's "Prescence".

i remember these things so clearly. yet i have forgotten so much. to those of you under twenty five, smile right now. because soon it will happen to you too.

i was told my memory was idedic. i was mad because it wasnt photographic. i felt cheated.

now, some days, bad days most of em, you have no idea how cheated i feel.

it took me three and a half decades to figure out i was a girl. not a woman. i dont feel like a woman. that's yet another misperception.
i have the tits of a sixteen year old. not a present day sixteen year old, but rather what tits looked like on a sixteen year old way back when i myself was a sixteen year old. i hate movies where people go back in time to repeat their own same mistakes.
i hate movies like that because i do that every waking breathing moment i'm alive.

the first gay person i ever met was my cousin. i met her before i knew she was gay. her name is Lynn. she has a degree in Music Therapy. She plays t he oboe. The first time i ever saw her play was in the famous mental institution at Camarillo, California.
No, i wasn't a patient there. i was all of 12 years old. i had my own shrink, because thats what parents did with difficult kids in L.A. in those days. The client/patient confidentiality thang was perfect. Then the parents would never have to know what was really going on.

Lynn and B live in NJ. they are very happy. they own a house and a boat. lynn has a seat on the orchestra. when she is not playing her musical instrument, she is diagnosing psychopaths. she's apparently very good at it too. she's brilliant at parties, telling stories about murderers and rapists. i'm held totally rapt by her tales.
when Lynn came out, my mom almost threw a garden party. she hated Lynn's mom, the wife of her husband's brother. i tried to hate her. its what was expected of me. but i never could. i swear, that woman was a man, even if she did give birth to Lynn. i loved Lynn's mom more than my own. cuz Lynn's mom, who was indeed a self-proclaimed bitch, accepted Lynn no matter what she was in ways my mother will never do for me.
i'm a freak. i'm my mom's freak daughter.
i'm that neoclassical relative locked in the attic.

and it warped me.
it warped me so hard. it warped me for so many years.
One way i deal with it is, when i hear people, aquaintances or strangers refer to a transgendering person walking down the street as a FREAK, i mumble under my breath: "not as sorry a freak as you."
that works sometimes.

i tried men. more than a couple times since the hitch-hiking days. i dont like them. they smell funny. i dont like that. i dont like hair, even though i once had a ton of my own.
i like women, but because of what i am, and because of the ways i was raised, i assumed i must be gay. but i tried. i dont like males.

now i hope to serve a Master. as her slave. that's right. Her. Master is not necessarily masculine in the Leather world.
i've looked for her all my life.
the community i belong to accepts me. some even say i'm beautiful. but i dont have a point of reference for that. i cant look in the mirror and not see a man. thats the curse of my age of wisdom.
i believe them, best as i can. but i cant see it.
and there's the thing.
i cant see it, but i believe them. because i belive my own thoughts, even if i cant see them or quantify them or whatever.
i cant see it.

i was in Houston a few weeks ago. A Leather event. my first. as a submissive, i was sent to the appropriate room. one of the other submissives, who was, come to think about it, transitioning into his own way, changing his own mindset, shifting his own system of values into a venue by which he could live his life the way HE felt was best and right, asked me how i identified.

"TRANS SUB DYKE" is what i said. the words flowed.
i spend a lot of time thinking about definitions. this isnt always the best approach. but sometimes its just what you have to do.

sometimes, i find myself overwhelmed with mathematics. physics. principles of both.
if i was born male, but feel female, and society says this is how females act, then Aristotle says i should like males.
but i dont.
i dont like how they smell.
since i started taking hormones 3 years ago, my sense of smell has changed. heightened. to the point where it cannot be ignored.
i've sucked dick and puked. i've kissed a man and bristeled. i've also kissed a man and swooned, but i think that has more to do with the gender and experience of the kissee, than it does his musk. it has more to do with his wit and intelligence than it does his bristly beard.
i've submitted to a man, because, again, not exclusively because i pursue a Leather lifestyle, but because within that pursuit, and my own confusion, he appealed to me.
that ended up wrong-o-rama.
but i dont disregard the experience.

gender and sexuality are exclusive.
to get to the point where this is so is hard work, especially as you transition from one of the geometric four to the specific other. not only are they exclusive, but in an alternative way, they dont always work out.
isn't that why we call it alternative?

i'm a dyke. i'm leather. i'm transgendered.

so.. here it is...
i'm a Trans Leather Dyke.

yeah...