Phallic Wars

   If I am to report faithfully on my life as a cross-dressing girlie-wannabe, I'll faithfully describe the marvelous contradictions that define me.  And if I make mention of contradictions, then inevitably I'll have to blog about something that garners tremendous love & hate, regarding my kaleidoscopic sexuality.  I'm so repulsed by this thing I'm even loathe to speak its name; yet I need it more than I care to admit, and I'm prone to committing acts of surrender, desperation, and even idiocy for its benefit.  If you haven't realized what I'm talking about by now, I'll summon the word which is anathema to me:

   Penis.

   Ugh.  I don't even know where to start.  Just reacting to the sight of it in text form repulses me.  I assure you, if my brain had bells attached to it that rang in accordance with how many scrambled emotions this subject evokes within me, I should be the Cathedral of Notre Dame.  I shall explain, and to make it relevant but clean, I'll include images such as this:

Intentional entendre.

   I'm very attached to my genitalia.  Ever since I was a child, curious of its purpose yet always taking the weird thing for granted, there has never been a problem.  It's always been very useful, what with the discharging of useless, harmful waste (most often at a time of my choosing).  When puberty arrived, it let me know how I could pay it back for all those years of benevolent service.  And when the time came, even Erica was taken in by its charms.

Though not enough to be enticed to wear this for me.
Or vice versa.

   For the most part, ours is a mutually beneficial relationship.

   (Note - just because I'm referring to it as though it were a character doesn't mean I've bestowed upon it a unique, wholly independent persona, nor do I ever hold conversations with it.  I'm simply saying it has its place, and I intend to never give it up.)

   Still, it vexes me... mainly because it so readily turns on me. It harbors an awareness of how much I wish I were a woman, and over the years it has managed to turn nearly every transgendered thought that crosses my mind into an erotic suggestion.  It totally digs the dual-gender lifestyle, always egging me on to push the limits of what I'm capable of to satisfy its ceaseless quest for sensual fulfillment.  I deny these requests, practically daily, because I don't believe in letting such a small percentage of my nervous system do the thinking for me.  If I were to let it have its way, I'd have long ago sold myself to a sex-centered identity and traded my freedom for numerous wild - albeit short-lived - pleasures.  All of this considered, it probably resents me.

I'm including this image just to mock it.

   Despite my attraction to perversity, I'm really such a prude.  Ever since the halcyon days of adolescence, my "mini-me" has been nearly starved for human contact - not because it never gets it, but because it's insatiable!  It carries the burden of belief that it's actually more important than other people seem to let on, thriving on the hope that one day someone (ideally Erica) realizes she can't get enough of it and devotes more time to its care and well-being.  The bounds of reality are no match for wishful thinking.

   It's a monster, I tell you.  Nearly everything about my personal character that makes up my "selfish" side can be traced to this stupid, single-minded, unflattering appendage.  God help me, most of the time I want everything that it wants, too.

   Speaking of monsters, I must opine that it's just awful to look at.  At any given time, it exists in one of three states, each perfectly pathetic: rigid, waxing, and deflated.  I sometimes feel I'm the only one who thinks none of these are anything to be proud of, although the former seems to award men a sense of accomplishment.  Unbelievable.  To paraphrase Stephen King: Is there anything that looks as silly and out of place as a dude with a full erection?  It looks more like a balloon animal than a symbol of sexual prowess.

The only thing more silly looking? TWO of them. Doing this.

   I should also mention that it's a terrible reminder of why it sucks to be male - like all good real estate, it lacks the three most vital qualities you need in a vulnerable hunk of anatomy: Location, Location, and Location.  Not only does it seriously hamper my ability to pretend it's not there (I hate how difficult it is to tuck and stay tucked!), but even when I'm not en femme, it's prone to all manner of physical confrontations, against which it has no hope of defense.  So thank you, Mother Nature, for a) replacing that which I most want with that which leaves me most susceptible to the elements, and b) punishing me for being born in this body... which, by the way, was also your decision (but at least I was spared from regular menstrual cramping, so I guess we're even).

Everyone loses.

   I should also say that of all the male sex organs out there, mine is the least offensive... to me, at least.  That is to say, I also hate every single one of yours.  Seriously.  I don't want any part of seeing them, hearing about them, and above all I don't want any kind of physical contact with them.  I don't "do" porn, because inevitably a phallus will appear on screen, and if I were into porn then the scene introducing another guy's wood would be the LAST THING to get me in the mood, and the first thing to rob me of satisfaction.

   That said, I recognize that the phallus is one of the favorite components of the "feminine actuality" fantasy among the more libidinous members of the crossdreaming community. There's no denying that the penis is popular among a whole lot of us.  Fellatio is often employed as a grand symbol of womanhood, or even anal penetration, in subservience to a dominant partner or controller.  Whether or not any of us would actually do such a thing, it's nonetheless a popular fantasy.  Personally, I can see how the submissive factor in this scenario is somewhat appealing, but the legendary "quivering member" doesn't enhance my fascination with being a woman to this degree.  While I might fantasize about being required to grant an intrusive object access into my person, if the object in question is purplish, veiny and loosely wrapped in wrinkly skin, then I should rather eat hissing cockroaches than allow it to make berth in any orifice of mine.

I just killed your stiffy, didn't I?

   Before I wrap this up, I have one more complaint, and this takes issue with the word itself...

   Penis. Bleah.

   What a stupid sounding word.  As far as I'm concerned, those letters were strung together to keep people from taking their sexuality seriously.  It's a ridiculous word to say. It may well contribute to self-esteem issues.  And... and... it only rhymes with Venus. (Sorry, I have this thing about listing things in threes and I was reaching.)  And speaking of my favorite gender, could we get a different term other than "vagina?"  Seriously.  If I'd never heard the name before, this might almost make me scared to meet one... say, on a dark road winding through the forest at midnight. "Bewaaaare the VAGINA, foolish traveler!" [cue ominous howling]

grrrr...!

   *sigh* Anyway, in summary: I hate the penis, in name, concept, and appearance. Yours. Mine. Genitals overall, really. Unless they're being taken advantage of in their proper context: in the dark.

~HCP

Say Nothing, Act Casual ... pt. 1

By now, if you've read everything prior to this entry, you may have gleaned that I'm not exactly a public figure.  You don't know my given birth name, the kinds of pets I keep, the specific nature of my work or the name of the town I live in.  I even provided a pseudonym with which we may refer to my wife, and will do the same for any close acquaintances who'll be mentioned in this very post.  My blog is deeper undercover than a Brazilian CIA sleeper agent!

Security matters to the closet TG.  A "free country" it may be, but there are too many circumstances where common knowledge of one's gender experiments will attract unfortunate consequences.  Even if most of us keep low profiles in real life, there's a very good chance that if there's a tear in the veil of secrecy then someone will lose something useful, vital or precious - even all three.

And I acknowledge that I've got a little of something from all three categories hanging on the line, should my bi-gendered activities go live.  Therefore, I exercise caution.  Not only for myself but for the main reason I keep the curtains drawn when I'm girling it up - Erica.  She cannot even describe the specter of dread that haunts her, that someday her parents, extended family, all of our friends, her co-workers, our future children, the Pope & the President will find out that she's married to a cross-dresser.  To clarify, I'm mostly in agreement with her.  My needs are complicated, but not the center of our marriage.  And with the economy shaping up to be what it is, I can't go losing my job because I'm deemed incompatible working with the staff or clientele.  (Or whatever excuse they'd make up.)

It's a lot easier to keep the ol' skeleton under wraps these days.  I have my own house, I get time to myself, and I can shop online (not that I'm sitting on that much extra cash; did I mention the lousy economy?).  But in days past, the life of this secret sister was a real pain in the ass...

CHILDHOOD marks the first moments of my discovery that I wanted to be more like the girls.  But even a 1st grader knows there are some things you just don't tell other people.  Especially your peers.  Don't ask me how I knew, but somehow I got the memo that letting all your classmates learn that you'd rather play house than kickball would follow you around nipping at your ass like an angry shih tzu.

Parents were another subset of associates whom it was wise to keep these things from.  In my case especially, Dad, who rocked with Harley-Davidson, hung out with Jack Daniels, and liked to travel with Smith & Wesson.  Mom was exactly the opposite - fun, warm, funny, caring and yet something made me withhold my questions from her.  Even when she caught me two different times wearing her pantyhose, and even offered to talk to me about whatever I was going through, I dummied up.  Probably the tenets of shame and inappropriateness that most kids like us felt when examining our genders.

ADOLESCENCE wasn't so bad, inasmuch as there was one excellent perk for a teenage CD - self-gratification.  This, at least, was what adults anticipated youngsters to be doing in the privacy of their bedroom.  Whether they approved or not, nobody wanted to walk into the middle of that.  And it's not like they could read my mind and learn which fantasies I was mining from.  They sure weren't gonna ask.

My hormonal spike from grades 7-12 added another demographic to the "Do Not Tell" list: attractive girls.  This was agonizing, since they were exactly whom I would have chosen to open up to.  My fantasies expanded, but the closest I ever got to confessing my desires to anyone back then was my first girlfriend - we'll call her Mallory - who decided that she wanted to dress me as a girl for Halloween as a special exercise in dominance over an all-too-willing amour.  I went on letting her think I hated it, which seemed to inspire her all the more as she divulged details of the sweetly feminine things she'd make me wear.  I'd already lost my virginity to her; I wondered if it were likely I'd be the one wearing the lingerie at some point.

Three months into the relationship, Mallory dumped me.  October was three months away.  Not even close.  C'est la vie, as the heartbroken say.

Curiously, my next girlfriend (and one of my best friends to this day) - let's call her Juliet - had the unprecedented effect of distracting me almost entirely from my pocket obsession with cross-dressing.  I have no theories on this, but I can observe the differences: we were rarely a physical couple, her Christian faith gave me new ideas to think about other than sex and gender, and above all she had so much more to offer as a friend and companion than most girls I knew.  I decided to preserve our relationship's beneficial qualities, even after Juliet broke up with me, by never involving her in that part of my world.  (Currently renegotiating this policy.)

COLLEGE availed a brand new concept that was as frightening as it was exciting - independence!  Not only could I pursue examination of my gender on a potentially social level, but I could majorly screw up my reputation in the process! (Wheee!)  I learned a lot about "give and take" during these years, but not much about accepting status quo.  Never have I revealed my secret to more people than I would over the next seven years, nor would I.  And the beautifully ironic thing is that it barely seems to have mattered.

Some time after I met Erica and we started dating, I gave in to the impulse to raid her closet.  I'd steal the occasional scrunchie or pair of underwear, but later I would convince her to go off to class and let me sleep in her dorm room until she got back.  Halfway dressed, I had no idea she'd forgotten her text book.  I barely got back into bed before she came in - forgetting that I had a hair clip stuck on my head.  She saw it immediately but - bless her sweet heart - believed my story when I said I was going to dress in her clothes to surprise her for a laugh when she got back.  This story worked so well, she actually took pictures when she got back, and her friend down the hall, Penny, who was so amused when she saw the prints, made wardrobe suggestions for the "next time."  The following year, both of them made me over for the proceeding Halloween.  (Score!!)

After all of this transpired, I eventually decided to tell Erica the truth.  I was growing rather fond of her and couldn't bear to spring my big surprise on her years down the road.  She took it well, though I feared her head would explode from bottling up this information without someone to vent with, so I also told Penny, who'd become her roommate and best friend.  They immediately formed a consensus that I should never, ever give in to the desire to dress as a woman again.  (Un-score.)

Next: "Holli goes in-freaking-sane"

~HCP