I mean, a lot a lot.
It’s time for an update about a life affirming decision.
I’ve decided to pursue what’s generally called “bottom surgery” which is not, as the name might imply, a tushy tuck, but rather is gender affirming surgery on the genitals.
Yes, I am not willing to keep living with a penis. It’s just not me.
If you’ve been following along, you’ll know that this was the question I answered right at the beginning, during the conversation I had with myself about what the fuck was going on with me. I listed things about me that could—or should—be different. And when I got to the last one, imagining myself if I didn’t have a penis, it all clicked. It didn’t feel wrong. In fact, it felt glorious.
That was fifteen months ago. So, what took me so long to get from there to here?
As with most major decisions, it’s complicated. But I think I’ve figured out a few of the reasons why I wasn’t ready until now.
1.
While I knew surgery was endgame, I did a piss poor job of communicating that to people at the beginning. I couched my whole transition as “I know I don’t identify as male,” when that isn’t the whole truth.
The truth is, I want a woman’s body, life, and love.
I wasn’t being honest with people, and while I believe I did it out of care for their feelings, I’m aware that I wasn’t being honest with myself, either.
For nearly eight months I was telling the few people I talked to that my biggest concern was for my family. That there were only three people (my wife and my two kids) whose opinion could sway me from pursuing a full transition. It’s taken me a long time to accept that I need to embrace this transition for me, that I can’t slow, or change, or stop it because of what it might do to other people, even the ones I love dearly.
Mind you, that flies in the face of what I learned about love and commitment from my mother, who was relentlessly loyal to the people she loved. She raised a loving family, had a long and I think fulfilling marriage, a good life. But I always felt she gave up some of who she was to do so. It was worth it to her, something I admire, and as one of her children, it is something I am grateful for. But I can’t do it myself. Not after so much time not being myself. I hope she’d be proud of me. I think she’d understand.
So, that’s one reason, let’s call it, “I didn’t recognize that I was stopping myself.”
Why else did it take so long?
2.
As I’ve been going through this transition, I’ve been careful not to force any changes. I’ve allowed myself to feel things rather than to decide on the next thing, to feel when I’m ready to take a step forward. For example, a year ago I shaved my beard of thirty years because it felt wrong, and have kept it off because that feels right. This summer, I opened my drawer to get dressed, and realized that my clothes didn’t… feel like the right clothes anymore. I’m still wearing them, but I’ve been using curated fashion boxes (think Stitch Fix) as a zero-depth entry into the scary pool that is women’s clothing. I got my other ear pierced this summer after decades of having one ear pierced, because it felt comfortable (both times!). I’ve taken to wearing nail polish out into the world, and had the cutest interaction at a Wendy’s drive-through the other day, where the woman giving me my order saw them and did an obvious double take, then spent the rest of our interaction with the best smile on her face and wished me a “good rest of your day, Sweetie!”
I’ve been doing things as they feel right, and nothing I’ve done has felt wrong.
Surgery didn’t rise to that level until recently. It’s always been one of the items on the list, and I’ve done a lot of research about it, so I wasn’t ignoring it. It just never felt like a step I was quite ready to pursue. But that has changed in the last month.
I’ve sat down to pee most of my life (all I have is sisters, and they were insistent and also appreciative about that, growing up). I’m still using men’s rooms, but in the last year and a half I’ve stood at a urinal five times, all on road trips at gas stations. (Because, have you seen the toilet stalls in the men’s rooms at gas stations?)
Now I’ve started school again (yay grad school!) and I’m on campus for almost six hours once a week. During that time, I invariably have to pee, and I have been using the urinals there, too. It was fine, at first, but as the weeks have progressed, I’ve noticed that I’m just not comfortable anymore. The other day, I caught myself quick walking to the bathroom during a break in class, and I realized that it was to get there so I could pee before the other two or three men in the class. After a walk outside at one point (they keep the building super cold!) I ended up at a different entrance and a (men’s) bathroom nobody was using. It was a relief to pee there. Even the thought of using a stall feels, not wrong (yet?) but inappropriate?
I think I am uncomfortable with people connecting me with having a penis. It doesn’t feel right. It’s not a thing when we’re sitting around, walking, or talking. But in the bathroom, I can’t ignore it. Is being uncomfortable as a penis owner the same as being comfortable no longer having a penis? Or being being comfortable as a vagina owner? Probably not, but once I was ready to really consider it, I came to an inescapable conclusion.
I don’t want to be a penis owner. I want a vagina. But more importantly, I can tell you with all my soul that I wish I had been born that way. That I wasn’t born that way is such a crushing thought that I can’t dwell on it too long… but that’s for another time (and for my therapist, hi!).
So, I guess we’ll call this, “Surgery didn’t feel right until now.”
3.
And then there’s sex.
My libido has dropped off a cliff (thanks be to whatever gods you choose, and also to hormone therapy), leaving my penis with not much to do except pee. And when it does have something else to do, I have absolutely no interest in using it to do that. Frankly, it’s been that way my whole sexual life, but I did my best because that was the way the relationships I was in worked. And it was fine! Fun, even! Please understand, I have no regrets about the sex I have had with the women who have been gracious enough to have it with me, I love you all and only hope I was helpful in getting you off.
I love sex, the intimacy, the trust, the orgasm, the cuddling after. But using my penis was always the worst part. I’ve never seen myself in the men-included porn I’ve watched. (We all watch porn. Sex work is work. Love your kinks!) I detest the forceful act of a man pounding a woman (I am such a soft bottom!) and lately can’t even watch it simulated in movies or shows.
All of that—who I am sexually and what I want from intimacy—is something I’ve only figured out since realizing I’m trans. It’s not so much a discovery as it is a “huh, okay that makes sense” moment, but it has been no less revelatory. And it really puts the focus on how much distaste I have for the penis (both in the larger sense, and also mine specifically).
I long for intimacy that does not carry that weight with it.
Which makes this “I didn’t understand what I wanted from sex (and that a penis wasn’t it).”
So.
I think… well, I’m sure there are more reasons it took me so long to decide on surgery—nuanced reasons I don’t quite yet understand myself—but these are the three that jumped out at me.
- I didn’t recognize that I was stopping myself
- Surgery didn’t feel right until now
- I didn’t understand what I wanted from sex (and that a penis wasn’t it)
I know, looking back now, that I never was invested in my penis in the way popular culture would have us believe men are. I tucked in front of a mirror as a teenager. I didn’t have sex until I was in college. I masturbated a ton, but never about having sex, just about women’s bodies. I’ve been hit on by lots of gay men (sorry, guys) but have never felt it was my path. The best book I read last year was Dr. Emily Nagoski’s Come As You Are not just because it was excellent, but because I related to it so hard.
It all makes sense now.
But there’s one last question.
Many women have fulfilling, affirming, incredible lives with penises attached. Why not me?
And that’s the simplest question of all to answer. Because, when I realized fifteen months ago who I am, that person isn’t someone with a penis. That was the crux of it, the moment, as it were. I need to be that person.
For a really complicated thing, it really is that simple.
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