Dilemma as to Male-Shaped Body Parts “Down There”

A major question for each t-girl to reconcile is “how can I be a girl if I have  male-shaped body parts ‘down there’?”

On the premise of “whatever is ‘down there’ determines gender” , the answer is: you can’t. Fortunately, that premise has gone the way of the flat-earth premise (for similar reasons) though it’s taking a while for the news to reach the more-conservative sub-cultures of the US. Now that I understand that I’m a girl due to my brain structure, the shape of my privates is really irrelevant … fundamentally.

Enough female lovers have complimented me that I can conclude I have a nicely-shaped, well-functioning, large-but-not-too-large plumbing, and I don’t hate it … but if I were to wake up tomorrow morning being female-shaped ‘down there’ I’d be very happy about that.

One of my mentors used to be married to a transgender girl, and he had funded a partial penectomy for her. The way he described the result, she still had a penis afterwards but it was very short, with the shaft part having been removed. He explained that this enabled her to look good in a thong, as in a bikini, in public.

This possibility really resonated with me. The ability to be seen in public in a bikini, without a bulge … that appeals to me very much.

So, lacking a rich husband or thousands of dollars for the relevant surgery, I went to Amazon.com and spent $30 on a “gaff.” It’s tight, and it keeps things in shape so well that my lower body now looks like the female that I am, brain-structure-wise. Yay! (The picture is not of me, it’s from the Amazon website).

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One day, after I have made lots of money and have paid off my business debt, and I’ve had some other surgeries done, I do plan to have ‘the surgery’ — not just a partial penectomy but the whole male-to-female shape change, as to ‘down there.’ Until then, this gaff serves me well.

I stayed at a nice casino resort in Las Vegas last week. I went down to the pool area, and for the first time, I enjoyed being out in public in a skimpy yellow bikini. I wore the skin-colored gaff right next to my skin and then the bikini over it. Classic stripper-girl trick: I also wore another, more-skimpy bikini over that. This gives the visual effect of wearing something very risque while in fact there’s more coverage yet.

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When I’m sitting, the angle of my body makes my tummy look weird, but I like the rest of the picture so I’m posting it, even so.

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It felts so good to no longer be “hiding in the shadows” as to pool-side fun.

Lastly: someone has reminded me that it’s not typical feminine behavior to be that happy about my lingerie. I’m sure she is 100% in the right. Even so, I AM excited and I hope I’ve explained the reasons why for me, this is a very happy development.

Why, Thank You, Mr. Homophobe

This is what I looked like yesterday with no make-up except some eyebrow pencil. And yes, it’s a “selfie” from a phone camera, sorry.

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This is a chatty, rambling post so if you’re looking for word economy, you’re in the wrong place anwyay as to anything I write — but especially today. I’m writing at least as much for my own mental well-being as for my audience. Interestingly enough, some folks actually like to read a lot of detail. Go figure. Maybe there are some other people who think as I do.

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Several months ago, I drove my 30-year old BMW down to Las Vegas to sell it on consignment. It didn’t sell. So, this week I rented a car one-way, drove down to Las Vegas and took my own car back, to drive it back home to the Reno area. Problem is, after sitting so long, even with a fresh battery, the car now refuses to start, and it’s automatic so I can’t push-start it. When I try long enough there’s a burning smell, as in the starter is burning up. I figured that renting a car in Las Vegas over the weekend means paying a way higher rate, so plan B is to spend the weekend in my favorite city and then Sunday night I’ll rent a car, drive back to the Reno area where I live, remove a starter from one of my similar cars, pack some tools and come back the next day to play Ms. Mechanic, hoping the car or starter doesn’t fall on my head as I’m working underneath it. I have an interesting life.

Here’s a picture of the car. It’s lovely. If only it would start …

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Hotel prices are sky-high in Las Vegas over the weekends, except somehow for Hampton Inns, so I checked out of Treasure Island and checked into a nearby Hampton Inn.

I’ve done my share of escorting work and I miss the sex and the excitement, but it’s so much hassle to make it clear to clients that they’re buying time and NOT sex, and if I feel like having sex with them then I shall and otherwise not. I actually have them read and mark a paper to that effect, and some of my clients who are in law enforcement think that it’s all pretty funny. Bottom line: I don’t wanna get arrested for prostitution when that’s not what I’m doing. If the speed limit is 65 and I’m driving 64, then I want everyone to be pretty darn clear about that. Not that I think prostitution should be illegal or that there’s anything wrong with it or about choosing that as a way to earn a living. It just isn’t what I have been doing. Yet, anyway.

Escorting in Las Vegas this weekend would seem like the perfect idea. I look better than I ever have, and I haven’t had sex with a guy for many months, and extra money is always welcome. The problem is that there’s the hassle of convincing someone that really, I’m not selling sex so they should not have an entitlement mentality about it … they should try to seduce me instead, like if they were on a date with a hot girl, which in fact is precisely what this would be. And then there’s some risk that the cops or judge wouldn’t believe me anyway. So, instead I went online to Craigslist and found an ad from a nice-seeming and well-endowed gentleman who seemed to appreciate t-girls like me and seemed fine with safe sex, and my particular requirements such as always being on the receiving end of the festivities. In US-speak, a bottom girl, not a top. In UK-speak, I’m a passive girl. And, no money will be exchanged. That’s fine with me.

Transsexual hookers are a big thing in Las Vegas so I didn’t exactly wanna look like one, while standing outside my hotel waiting for the guy to pick me up. I figured the cops, hotel and maybe someone else might develop a more-than-idle interest in me, had I done so.

Before my date, I wandered around the Strip area. I wore some short shorts (not super-short, but enough to show off my long legs) … here’s what they look like nowadays, this being a picture from a few months ago.

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Anyway, with no make-up and while wearing flat sandals, I walked along Tropicana Blvd. towards my hotel. A car drove past me and the occupants made the sort of noises that suggested that if I so chose, then in half an hour I’d be on my back in their hotel room, being ridden hard. Afterwards (I’m guessing) I’d either leave with a crisp couple of hundred-dollar bills or they’d beat me up, break my phone, steal my purse, rip or keep my clothes and throw me out of the room. I give these two events maybe a 50:50 chance though I haven’t ever actually done car whoring (or any sort of whoring, for that matter). So, as I’m mentally processing this, the car pulls over and stops in a traffic lane, clearly illegally, waiting for me to catch up to it. In another thirty seconds of me walking I’d be right by it, ready to get in and be whisked away to an adventure. I decide it’s flattering that just the sight of my ass and legs have inspired this much enthusiasm, but that’s not the sort of adventure I want. So, no thanks. I make a sharp right turn and cut across the valet parking entrance to the New York, New York casino. My would-be clients eventually lose patience, and the car takes off. So, what I got out of that was an implied compliment. That’s nice. Thank you.

This part of Las Vegas is NOT meant for pedestrians so it’s a long and weird walk from the Strip to the Hampton Inn, down the sort of abandoned sidewalks that would have had me nervous for my safety if I didn’t have a don’t-mess-with-me attitude and enough martial arts training to feel fearless.

Eventually, I get to the hotel. I want to look hot when I meet my date but not whorishly hot.

To prepare:
1. No make-up, just the eyebrow pencil I have been wearing all day
2. No special hair treatment
3. My legs and butt apparently look amazing (see above) so I put on a long skirt instead of my short shorts.
4. I tend to get complimented out loud when I walk around with my bare midriff, so I decide to keep on my long, mid-riff-concealing, kinda conservative top.
5. I can really rock a pair of 6″ stilettos but I decide against them too. So, flat sandals.

So, all I have to show off are my natural looks and a pair of fairly large fake boobs. My point is that I could have looked a lot hotter had I chosen to do so. (Incidentally, however conservative my look was, it was hot enough for my date to be very enthused about me. I ended up having a great time in the way I’d hoped for.) Back to the time-line as I was walking out of the hotel to wait for my date:

Imagine my surprise when, in spite of my toned-down look, a young Hispanic guy loses his self-control right at the front door of the Hampton Inn. He’s in his early 20s and is standing there next to his pretty girl-friend and a male buddy.

The way homophobia works is kinda complicated. The relevant person (always male, in my experience so far) is gay to some extent, 1% or 100% or somewhere in between, and he buys into cultural norms by which “gay” is considered a bad thing. So, he’s horribly embarrassed about it. He tries to hide it from himself and especially those around him so that they please, please not think he’s gay. It’s sort of the lame-adult version of the 5-year old boy who’s mean to the 5-year old girl whom he’s attracted to. Often the homophobe can manage to keep under control the precarious mess in his head, but what really makes things fall apart is when he feels sexual arousal towards someone in a way that makes him think it means he’s gay. Perhaps his “type” isn’t a big, hairy guy otherwise’d be feeling aroused and embarrassed all the time. But, many guys are attracted to t-girls, and we show up rarely enough. I happen to know that, hot or not, I look androgynous. I have many female traits as to my looks, but I know I don’t look 100% female.

Even with the slightest time-slice of social interaction or observation, most girls immediately figure me out as being a girl. With guys it can go either way. Some successfully figure out I’m basically a girl. Some guys get misled by my too-male-shaped brow and strong jaw, and they think I’m a guy. The homophobe at the front door of the Hampton Inn was in the latter category. If I were obviously a girl this entire thing would have been a non-event. The irony of the whole thing is that I fundamentally AM a girl and so whatever sexual attraction he felt was towards someone who, in the final analysis, is female, so … yeah, supremely ironic, the whole thing.

The homophobe sees me and starts shouting, as in: really loudly. He yells aloud that I’m so hot that if he didn’t have a girl-friend he’d be boffing me SO hard tonight. He didn’t say “boffing” but I’m trying to keep this blog from being R-rated so … you figure it out. On an on he went, yelling out what he’d do to me sexually. Now, keep in mind that this isn’t some budget motel in a bad neighborhood. It’s a pretty classy place. And yet, here’s this guy making a huge spectacle of himself. At some level I assume he intends to make it clear to the world that, oh, he’s being SO ironic and is meaning the exact opposite but the ultimate irony is that deep down, what he says is really what he means. It’s sort of sad that it’s preferable to the homophobe to yell out his deepest confessions in public, to the excuriciating embarrassment of his bewildered-looking girl-friend, rather than face the quiet judgment in his own mind that, hey dude, you might actually be as gay as a Maypole.

By now I’m psychologically impervious to this sort of thing. A thousand years ago, a more-naive version of me might have been puzzled or had her feelings hurt, but now that I understand homophobia I’m clear that it’s really not my issue. I’m just the catalyst.

And then, it occurs to me that I triggered this melt-down even in my dressed-down state. I kinda wonder what the reaction would have been had I sashayed past, leaving behind the scent of my fruity perfume, my toned midriff bare, elegantly swishing by on 6-inch stilettos, make-up and hair resplendent, shapely legs and butt looking extra nice. Maybe his head would have exploded.

For what it’s worth, dear pretty lady who is (or was) this guy’s girl-friend: I hope you are reading this, and … you deserve better.

Bare Mid-riff, Public Compliments

A few years ago I thought I was doomed to live the rest of my days in a male role, and the idea made me miserable. There’s nothing wrong with being a male and living as such, but to have a female brain structure and yet live as a male, that IS miserable. I stopped caring about my health. I put on weight. I had a fat male-shaped tummy. The rest of me didn’t look any better. It was a sad picture.

Fast forward to last night. I was in Las Vegas, and I was about to go out to dinner at the Venetian casino resort with my lovely female romantic partner. I wore a black top that barely contained my large (fake) boobies, and a skirt that clung to my hips, revealing a mid-riff that looks VERY different than it did a few years ago. Now that I live as a female, I’m motivated to stay in shape.

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I wore little make-up: some eye-brow pencil and some lip gloss. I’ve seen enough pictures of hot celebrity girls with and without make-up, and I’m clear that good make-up can make a dowdy girl look like a model, but I don’t want to go that route. I want to look however I look with relatively minimal help from make-up.

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Being 6′ tall already (or as Susan Anton would say: 5’12”) I tend to wear flat sandals otherwise I tower above everyone else. With my 6″ stilettos, my 6’6″ figure has in the past elicited a “damn, you’re tall” comment from a gentleman when really “damn, you’re hot” or some polite variation thereof would have been preferable. So, I mostly get no help from the shoe department, as to looking good.

Even so, I got my share of stares and admiring smiles as I walked through the Venetian casino resort, last night. Looking good inspired more self-confidence, and I walked more sexily, and had a better posture yet — including automatically pulling in my abs for a yet-more pronounced effect.

As I walked past a couple in their 60s or so, the gentleman (whom I didn’t know from Adam) told me I look good, and his wife chimed in with enthusiastic agreement with words like “you look beautiful, sweetie.” I can mostly identify sarcarm when I hear it, and there was none this time; the words were benevolent and sincere, and that made for an extra-nice evening.

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It feels wonderful to finally live an integrated life.

Great Picture, One Premise Problem

I love my mom but somehow I’m still getting mixed messages from her. When I explain to her that I’m mentally a girl and have always been, how some Dutch scientists have done autopsies on transsexual girls and seen that these folks basically had female brain structures etc. then my mom does a lot of nodding, and certainly if she has questions, I have answers. So, you’d think she “gets it” and by implication, I didn’t “become a girl” when I underwent the various surgeries and legal changes. I’ve always been a girl, and the recent changes were just to bring the aesthetics and paperwork into synchronization with that. And yet she sometimes still makes reference to me having become a girl, which undermines the basic logic, and I’m getting kinda tired of revisiting that every time.

By now I’m assuming most of the folks who read this blog are clear on the premise that the old definition of gender, based on body shape ‘down there,’ has gone the way of the flat-earth mind-set. The logically-clean and scientifically-substantiated premises are that gender is based on brain structure, and the earth is basically spherical.

Sadly, one of my favorite motivational-poster websites is using the same premises as my mom does, and so they make references to “becoming a girl” when really the precise terminology would be “change your looks and style to match the brain structure of the girl that you are.” That issue aside, I do love their enthusiasm and their posters. Here is one of my favorites:

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Busty me, Sort of

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Once I realized I’m mentally (and thus fundamentally) a girl, I was initially intimidated and embarrassed to live like that in public. With the exception of a few times when I was bold enough to go make a statement in public, I wore androgynous clothing and hoped nobody would notice me whenever I was out in public.

After a few months, I gained enough confidence to realize that I don’t just want to be a girl; I want to be the girl I’d always secretly fantasized about being; a gorgeous, busty leggy blonde with a nice butt.

As to the contents of my head, I’ve invested enough in intellectual pursuits to where I can conclude that I have led an unbalanced life, with too heavy an emphasis on the cerebral. So, my focus on being a hot blonde aesthetically … this actually brings it all nicely into balance.

I’ve been growing out my long blonde hair and having it professionally cared for. At a time when I could afford to fund it, I had my Adam’s apple removed, and my face feminized with surgery, to some extent anyway. I’ve been working out and managing what I eat, so my tummy, legs and butt are starting to look good.

The problem is that nothing short of breast implants are going to give my the busty figure I want, and the $7000 price tag means that this surgery is very far away because I have a lot of business debt to pay off before I can justify spending money on being more curvy.

Meanwhile, however, if I can’t have implants I can have … outplants. Some fake and large yet realistic-feeling and realistic-looking boobies have become part of my daily life, and the effects are significant. In the past, some folks have called me “ma’am” and some have called me “sir.” With this new addition to the mix, most now call me “ma’am” and some yell “freak!” out of the window of their red Dodge pickup truck at 2:30 a.m. in Fallon, NV — all in all, a big improvement. Assholes aside, I like how I’m being treated noticeably nicer now that I’m more busty.

One day, when I can afford implants, the only difference as to the public view will be that my boobs will be below the skin instead of above. Most folks who see me with my clothes on can’t tell the difference as such anyway, especially as I learn how to choose bras and outfits that fit better (and hide the erect nipples better). For me personally and privately, the surgery will be a big thing but as to how I come across in public … not. So, with my “outplants” I’m really “there” now, already, today — which is nice.

With my new figure, I also feel more at ease, because this is the physique I’ve always wanted. I suspect the confidence is also noticeable.

Last night, at the Sparks Nugget, a friendly though not-quite-sober young lady came up to me and proceeded to compliment me (on the premise that I’m obviously a transgender girl) because she thought it’s great that I choose to live my life openly, in a way that is consistent with who I basically am.

That was very nice for me to hear. I already hear wonderfully encouraging words from those who are close to me, but to have a total stranger come up to me and be so nice … I appreciated that very much.

If I don’t like how I’m being treated, it’s OK to say so

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This is what I look like nowadays … not like Marilyn Monroe but not like Rambo either. Somewhere in the middle, though I’m basically female and I have gone to a lot of trouble to make it official and to sprinkle a rich set of social cues, including telling less-sensitive folks point blank that I’m a weird mix of male and female but (key point) I’m basically female.

Nevertheless some folks will miss all the cues and refer to me as “him” or they might call me “Sir.”

I’m becoming skilled at finding the next opportune break in the conversation to address this. I typically announce that I have a request on a personal level and then I just keep quiet and let that sink in. Eventually someone prompts me, and then I say “I’m a mix but basically female so when you refer to me as ‘him’ … ” or “please don’t call me ‘Sir.'” So far, that’s always resulted in a gracious reaction, and the conversation was better from then on.

I try to not be an ass about it. I sympathize with this being a weird and new concept for folks. Heck, it’s a weird and new concept for ME too. Being nice about it goes a long way.

A friend of mine has been less successful and has experienced people being pointedly mean to her. I have a conversational “plan B” ready for when that happens too, though I’d guess it’s probably kinda hard for folks to continue being mean after I’ve acknowledged I’m a trans chick, with the “trans” part not omitted. I think what irritates the less-open-minded folks is when a trans chick demands to be accepted and treated just like any other girl. My approach tends to defuse such concerns.

I like being able to explain the issue in a dozen words, or 120, or 1200 and probably if someone wants the twelve-thousand-word version I could probably come up with that too. This way, I’m ready for many possible social situations.

This post reminds me of how, about two years ago, I walked into Walgreens in Reno wearing a too-female dress while looking too-male. Some teenage boys standing around snickered, and so I made a U-turn and went to have a conversation with them. It was civil, and afterwards the world was a slightly better place with one less source of snickering. To my credit I didn’t get angry and was assertive but not mean and I didn’t threaten them with violence. I just used reason. It’s a powerful tool.

It’s a nice feeling to be ready to engage in a conversation on the subject, at many possible levels. It’s sort of like playing chess. If my adversary does X, then I’ll do Y … I don’t have to figure it all out while I’m talking because I’ve already pre-planned the conversation. Better.

You know you’re making progress when …

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This is what I look like most of the time, when I’m not wearing my club dress and look-at-me stilettos. My face is androgynous and you don’t get the Sherlock Holmes award for figuring out I’m a t-girl. But, I gather the visual effect isn’t jarring either, like … what’s a good analogy … Sylvester Stallone in a pink tutu.

Today, I had a rough day at work. A software project was about to go down in flames and I ran a difficult meeting, trying to keep things from becoming a disaster. I don’t know if I succeeded, but I did deal with it well enough to deserve a little celebration. So, I treated myself to dinner at the buffet of the Sparks Nugget, not least in part since I’d skipped lunch to have my difficult business meeting in that time-frame. So, by 6 p.m. I was thirsty, hungry and tired and not feeling super-keen to be patient with mean people.

Normally, when I approach the cashier at the buffet, the delay is at most five minutes. Today, however, the Reno Air Races are in town, and so there are many out-of-town folks and the line was way longer. I ended up standing in line for 30 minutes or so.

As far as I could tell from what I overheard, the party standing in line behind me was from the Midwest. They were the typically polite folks I’ve come to know as to that area … but also typically very conservative. If anything or anyone stands out, folks from the Midwest aren’t going to start burning crosses on lawns, but out of earshot they’ll have a pretty candid discussion.

Imagine my surprise when a discussion like that began right behind me, as to the “true” gender of a particular person, nearby. This transgender or cross-dressing person was analyzed and dissected in critical conversation, albeit from a distance. All this happened while two feet away from them stood a six-foot-tall, athletic blonde transsexual chick (me).

From what I know of Midwest culture, these folks would not have had such a conversation next to me if they’d suspected I am a trans chick. In Midwest culture that would be considered rude, and this wasn’t a rude group of Midwesterners (not that I’ve ever seen a rude Midwesterner).

Anyway, I thought all this a little ironic, and a back-handed compliment too, in a way.

I’m making progress as to looking like the girl I basically am.