Whipping Girl...

is of course a book by Julia Serano. The complete title, "Whipping Girl: A Transsexual Woman on Sexism and Scapegoating of Femininity." I own a signed copy. I've never read it.

But, that is not what post is about. This post is about getting whipped. Not in the metaphysical, or metaphorical sense, but, for real. Once upon a New Years Eve, I was brought to the SF Citadel by a friend. The Citadel was back then located on 8th Street at the time. My friend introduced me to Robert Dante, who he said was a "famous bullwhip artist." Whatever the hell that means. Dante asked me if I wanted to be a demonstration model. I said okie dokie.

I was taken down stairs, stripped, and mounted onto a wooden "X" restraint. After being secured onto the the apparatus, a group of people gathered. Over the course of the next 45 minutes, Dante cracked a bullwhip, sometimes gently caressing my back or ass, other times drawing blood. It was horrendously painful. Yet, the worst part was the thirst that overwhelmed me because of the physical exertion of writhing and twisting in pain and my attempts to avoid the next lash. I asked my friend for a drink. She took a big gulp of water, and spit it into my mouth. I was so dehydrated, that I swallowed the water. I still get the jitters thinking about it.

I have been whipped, caned, flogged, and otherwise torchered on many many occasions during my youth. One time, at NYC's not defunct Hellfire Club in lower Manhattan, I was cuffed by my wrists, and hung from a cable on the ceiling. I was beaten for what seemed like hours. When I was let down, I couldn't lift my right arm above my shoulder. I suffered some sort of temporary nerve damage. As I lifted my arm to the level of my shoulder, the arm would just give out, and fall. This lasted for several weeks. It scared the bejeezus out of me.

There are some crazy mean people in this world. There are people who really want to hurt you. At one scene, some guy physically twisted my nipples until I thought they'd be ripped off. I had been restrained, blindfolded, and surrounded by people. You should always know who you are messing with. Of course, I never followed my own advice.

By request

I post more stalker e-mails (from my admirer, zack x):

July 1, 2009:

ooh attention whoring much? lol. well i hope my posted emails will help u attract a couple of more clients to yer pitiful website and make a few more bucks...

seriously, pple like u r a reason for transphobia... u feed it. u make all trans look bad by whorish behavior.

nothing more to say other than posting my mails? run out of long-winded explanations and excuses for acting like a whore? want to solicit compassion from viewers--u seem to have a bad luck with zacks, huh? well if u stayed out of the streets u wouldn't get fucked up that 1st one thats 4 sure. and he was bad, of course... he's as good as you are, u 2 were worth each other, a hooker and client.

July 1, 2009:

yeah "keep u in their minds"... cause after seeing your site, each time i see mtf, somehow i think "whore?"

July 1, 2009:

notice how conveniently there's a donate button next to the post with my emails... of course, u haveta keep that site rolling

July 3, 2009:

come on... show the street ghetto trannies r not to be messed with--show sum guts and post my comment about "donate button". No, might hurt donationz?

Here's to thinking about me.

It is amazing the people who keep me in their minds, long after I have done something to annoy them. As I wrote here, I had a rather fiery exchange of emails with zack x on May 7, 2009. Needless to say, I soon forgot about the whole thing. Apparently, zack x has not, because I get periodic unsolicited random emails from him/her.


May 19, 2009

(9:59 p.m.)

is... you--you, create a stigma for all transsexuals.
I know some goth transsexuals who are stigmatized because of behavior like yours (and the majority of trannies)--being prostitutes. Yes, you fucking harass me--prostitution is illegal by the way!

I can't go to a club where trannies (myself i'm intersexed and don't belong to Any gender--thanks god, no one ever guesses what gender I am)--because prostitution had really swallowed it all. Now I see 15-year olds want to do it, cause of total destruction of morals. This is disgusting.

Also, you create a bad rap for women--since some will mistake you for a woman. A woman--if you want to be that you need to know--is not a Whore, slut and a bitch (if someone's mother was that, doesn't mean all women are).
:)) truth.


(10:07 p.m.)

people like you cause objectification and hatred towards other trannies, cause everyone will be viewed as a prostitute. While not everyone is.


May 23, 2009 (3:40 p.m.)

a self-defined intersexed?
well, sorry but i am identified as intersexed by your mainstream medicine and society.
and you... you're nothing but a mainstream square ( mundane) biomale... who wants to play a little game of dressup and being a prostitute.
i can imagine your life... a boring vanilla yuppie existance that who needs to be spiced up by playing games once in a while and teasing the whore thing (sort of like married yuppie trash cheating on their wifeys once in a while, but always going back to their breeder hole). the reason why you walk down the streets like that is cause you have no true friends who're still interesting and exciting for you, and cause you're too unattractive to be meeting hot and pretty people--so, you allow some dirty scum johns to violate you... i'm sorry for you. :) u post shit about me...well, at least i'm pretty, and i dance...&i only date young and pretty people, i'd never let someone old & ugly come within 10 feet of me.... youre bored to death and probbly lost all enjoyment of life and sex by now. well go post more shit about me!


June 25, 2009 (1:20 p.m.)

yes, damn people are going to be upset by your blog and your pride about u being a whore.
a whore is not just the one who has sex for money... it is also the one who whores for drinks and gifts, and takes things from people without a feeling for them and fucks with theirs emotions by flaunting sexuality at strangers. being a woman doesn't mean that the world owes a shit for her beauty or sexuality or whatever. no wonder american whores are hated by the entire world, whatever gender they were born to. shame on them.

Weird.

Today, I was on the train home from work. I looked like a bicycle messenger. The train slowed, and I got ready to disembark. As I held my bike, facing the doors, I felt somebody fumbling with the collar of my shirt. I turned around and saw a tall black guy, probably about 6'4", pinching my collar and pushing the label of my shirt down. I looked at him. Stunned, all I can do is to awkwardly say, "Thank you."

Ah, Lorenzo

Since the unfortunate incident, i.e. bad trick, I brought upon myself back on April 19th, I've had no desire to present feminine. I tried to Maggie-fy myself at Charlie Anders May 9th Writer's With Drinks, but did not enjoy myself. I even went to the Milk Club's annual dinner in drag, i.e. in boy form, with the Whores for Social Justice. I couldn't bring myself to go as a girl. For over a month, I've been de-Maggie-fied. I've been missing my therapy sessions with Patrick Califia, as well. Which isn't good, since I am depressed out of my mind.

I decided to see Patrick this last Friday, in an attempt to get back into the saddle. I put myself together, but felt hideous. We talked about the my bad trick, and the reaction I got from various people. I told him about how violated I felt when various people attacked me for being a whore, even though I am not a prostitute. One trick does not a whore make. Yet, I've suffered the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune (in this case, $100). I guess if you cross the line into sex work, you are branded a whore - even if you don't do sex work. Must be some analogy to virginity I could make, but I'm not in the frame of mind to be clever. Needless to say, I think my reputation, such as it was, in the community is shot.

I was - or should I say am - horrified by the woman who tried to have a heart to heart with me about my bad trick, and get me to confide in her emotions and feelings she though I ought have. When I graciously told her that I was not that traumatized, she publicly questioned my motives and veracity on a public message board, presenting herself as having been victimized by me. All I can extrapolate from this is that people in San Francisco are so self-centered that if they can't share in your victimization, they get hostile.

Anyway, I went to Divas last night and picked up an admirer. He bought me drinks until I unceromoniously abandoned him. I left the place and ran into Lorenzo on the street. He was the last guy I spoke with before I left on my bad trick with the scumbag who denigrated, humiliated and physically abused me. Again, he was dressed impressively. He gave me necklace and a bracelet. He invited me to be part of his world. I actually wanted to go there with him. I told him that I didn't feel safe on the street anymore. He said he'd look out for me when I'm working. I didn't tell him that my prossy experience was over. He said he'd keep me safe. It was pretty to think so.

From my Tribe: Ask a Tranny Whore Anything

Nathan's question:

"Some Transexuals actually prefer to be non op ! I was just wondering what your thoughts were on non op transexuals VS those who go through SRS! & if you have your penis (which I assume you do)do you plan to keep it? I'd also like to add that although I am not on hormones,I am wishing to be a transexual & I plan to keep my penis,but get breasts implants! I considered penisectomy,but I am not too sure I want that now! I kinda enjoy my penis!"

My answer:

The great majority of trannies I know keep their pee-pee's. That goes even for the really femme one's who live full time as a girl. I know one tranny that got a orchiectomy, but kept the the rest. Most don't have any genital surgery at all. I suggest the reason for this is either cost, or sex. Of course, California law requires that in order to change the sex on your birth certificate, you’ll need a letter from your health care provider declaring that you have undergone “surgical treatment for the purpose of altering [your] sexual characteristics to those of the opposite sex.” [California Health and Safety Code 103425.]

If you wanna feel what its like to lose one's manhood, take some t-blockers. Your sex drive will plummet, you'll gain weight, lose muscle mass, and your boobies will blossom...

The one thing about keeping your junk, of course, is that they interfere with wearing tight pants. Sometimes, no amount of tucking is going to hide what your papa gave you. That's why a lot of tranz folk prefer to wear dresses or skirts.

Being a tranny whore and all, the second part of all this is, if you wanna work as a whore, and you don't pass 100%, you're gonna wanna keep you thingy, cause it's your money maker. At least 75% of your Johns are gonna wanna get busy on you 8" clitty.

Leave Carrie Prejean ALONE! (sob) (sob)

She's 21 years old - and the subject of revolting vitriol all because "Perez Hilton," a self described "queen," who's only claim to fame is drawing ejaculating penises on stolen photographs of celebrities, knowing that Prejean was a practicing Christian, asked her a question to sabotage her chances of winning Miss USA.

The truth of the matter is, is that she is a relatively unsophisticated woman, for no other reason except the fact that she is ONLY twenty-one years old. She gave the best answer she could, under the circumstances.

This whole thing reminds me of reality T.V. shows like America's Top Model, or Dallas Cheerleaders: Making the Team. What these shows do is allow people, who are pissed off at the pretty girls, to humiliate young, unsophisticated women by putting them in impossible situations. When they inevitably fail, you can denigrate them to a point where it becomes psychological rape. It is an act of violence. In essence, my point is that those who attack her are basically raping this girl. The horrendous part is, is the rapists are self-satisfied for having done so.

And since it is women and gay guys that watch these shows, it's not the patriarchy doing it.

Dude! Stop Harshing My Mellow.

In an intense and vitriolic exchange of email between zack (a self defined "intersexed" person) and myself regarding my post about harassment in bars, there were some ad hominem attacks made, on both sides. I am posting some of the more provocative comments leveled at me. They are of course out of context. I'm not going to help by providing context. I just liked the quotes:

"...not everyone is a whore, like some trannies..."

"...you're a prostitute... how much lower can you fall?"

"...you are mad you have no vagina."

"...u should then go to 24-hour fitness. considering yer liking/tolerance for dirt, diseases and ugly old pervs..."

"...i don't bother...to pretend to be a white-washed wannabe yuppie fake or to show that i'm better than ghetto."

"...when u change into a woman u'll get the full impact of misogyny and your feminism-bashing will backfire and pay you in full. though if u have no problem with selling yourself to males already, u probably won't care. those who offer u $2 for sex aren't boring. so go be entertained."

Me: "BTW....as indicated by the counter at the bottom of the webpage, faux whore has received over 5000 visitiers since January....

zack: "...well 5000 might be a part of a police crackdown..."

_________________________

The email exchange has gone on. I did learn one thing from this conversation though, that there was an incident in Washington, D.C., in which two lesbians attacked to female-to-male transgendered persons, after they started questioning the gender of one of the FTM's. Story Here.

What is the tranz feminine?

So my primary care physician, Dr. Charles Moser, MD, Ph.D, gave me a copy of his recent paper, Autogynephilia in Women. In it, his findings contradict Ray Blanchard's assertion that autogynephilia does not exist in women. Actually, better put, Dr. Moser's study finds that using the definition of autogynephila as "ever having erotic arousal to the thought or image of oneself as a woman," 93% of women would be classified as autogynefiliacs. Even with a more narrow definition, a full 28% could so be classified. This leads off to a tangent.

Before I go on, autogynephilia has been defined as "love of oneself as a woman" - the term was coined in 1989 by Ray Blanchard to refer to "a man's paraphilic tendency to be sexually aroused by the thought or image of himself as a woman." The argument goes that men put on women's clothes, get sexually excited, and often masturbates using the clothing as an aid. Blanchard has said that autogynephilia is best conceived as misdirected heterosexuality. In The Man Who Would Be Queen, J. Michael Bailey argues, using Blanchard as his basis, that "autogynephilia is a common motivation for male-to-female transsexualism."

One of my observations about transgenderism is that there a wide spectrum of feminine behavior in the tranz community. There are definately some tranz gals who are sexually excited by women's clothing. Although I prefer to wear men's speedo type swim bottoms as underwear (because it helps control one's, uh, you know), many sisterz love to wear frilly women's underwear. I don't need a bra, and don't wear one. But, for some, wearing a bra is required, whether needed or not. There is a whole "sissy" subculture in the tranny world, in which retro little girls dresses, with bows and frills are worn. There are also many tranz types indulge in stereo-typical little girl behavior and symbology. It is as if many tranz girlz are "playing," instead of just being. For instance, the color pink is over represented in the tranz community. Many tranz gals write emails with expressions like "*giggles*" interspersed in the message or, end correspondence with cutsey little phrases like "hugs," "kisses." How many genetic girls in your life actually talk like that? None. At least I know of no adult woman who speaks, writes or acts like that.

It is amazing to see the spectrum of creativity in the tranz community. From the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence, to sissies, to those who gender fuck and gender bend.

Embarassed by my sisters?

Isn't it amazing. I am compelled to write this blog, knowing no one reads it. I mean really, what am I doing? Is this just a diary that I've left unlocked? Unfortunately, I don't have a little brother who wants to steal it and read my thoughts. Is this an exercise in the delusion of self importance? Or am I trying to reach out to save myself from my devouring irrelevance? Sometimes, I try to entice potential readers with pretty pictures added to the posts. Pathetic. I'm like a woman preparing for a wedding, not realizing the proposal will never come.

Its been eleven days since I wanted to be Maggie. Ever since my little tramatic experience, I've come to loathe even the thought of it. But, now I feel I have nothing to live for. The highlight of my day yesterday was getting a root canal. At least it made me feel alive. I feel like my life is spent. I should give up my seat and let someone else have a chance at life, I suppose. To change the subject...

Have you ever been part of a group and been embarrassed by other members of the group? Like say you are a black dude, and some guy comes out all Stepin Fetchit or something? Well, I was at the Transgender Job Fair at the San Francisco LGBT Community Center today, and had to cringe at some of my sisters presentations. I didn't bother to dress the part. I just showed up looking like a boy bicycle messenger.

You had all of these pretty pretty business types pedaling their companies to we trannys, and representin' the sisterhood were some of the biggest cliches around. Some sisters looked like punchlines to bad jokes about Frankentrannys. Why is it that some trannys don't think they need deoderant? I hate smelling body odor on a sista. It just brings us all down. And how come our community seems to have such a high proportion of people on the lower economic scale? Tranzphobia? Or is it low self esteem brought on by years of humiliation and degradation? I don't know.

Blah. So I am on the Power Exchange Yahoo! group. Everybody is self-pitying about the fact that the Power Exchange closed, and the new one failed to open because of community opposition from the Mission. Anyway, I invited people to read my blog. Turns out that some of the board members start attacking me for prostitution, and how, like, I am exactly the type of influence that should not be around the group because it gives the community activists something to use in their fight to keep the Power Exchange from opening.

Somebody kill me, please. Any serial killers out there listening? I won't mind if you murder me. I promise, if you waste me, I won't call the police.

Why is the T in LGBT...and why is it last?

...When we should be first. The funny thing about Stonewall, is that the police harassment preceding the riot was fundamentally aimed at trannies. "The raid did not go as planned. Standard procedure was to line up the patrons, check their identification, and have female police officers take customers dressed as women to the bathroom to verify their sex, upon which any men dressed as women would be arrested" (wikipedia). Yet, I believe we trannies are relegated to punchline status in the LGBT communities. Here is a post I wrote a while back on tribe:

"I am waiting in line at Starbucks on 18th street, near Castro, when this table of six older gay guys start harassing me by saying stuff behind my back just loud enough for me to hear. The first is like, 'Is that a girl or a guy?' Then the other is like, 'It's a guy, you can always tell because they wear make-up.' Then they start commenting on my butt. One says something about my "large ass" then the others start taking about 'largess,' in silly little comments. This is not the first time gay guys have put me down. I find it amazing. I am 5'10", active, a former Marine, and I didn't grow up in no freakin middle-class, American-dream suburb. I could spill any of these fuckers. It takes a lot of moxie to be insulting someone who can kick your ass. Most of the guys that do the insulting look like they've never been in a fist fight. Where the hell do they get off doing that? and why is it alright to be insulting me, when most of them have been subject to harassment about their orientation. It's bullshit. I am fucking getting sick of it."

In other news - I decided to go back on the medications I take for depression, because of my reckless disregard as described below. We'll see if I stay on 'em.

This is not a happy post.

Today, in the early morning hours, I had an experience of my own making that takes the shine off of my self created persona. My girl noir hooker shtick met an alternative reality, and now I feel like slitting my wrists - again.

After a night of being wined (but not dined) by an admirer, I was in my own tipsy little world. I was more than tipsy. I didn't feel drunk. I felt like I had been medicated. Sedated. I should have fucking kept an eye on my drinks. "I hope he didn't poisen me," I thought to myself. After we parted ways, I was on the streets - alone. I didn't know if I could make it home. I was light-headed. I just wanted to sit down. I should have known that life was heading south when a rugged looking, sandy haired, tattooed dude started walking AT me on Post Street. At first, I thought we were just going to pass each other. As we got closer together his eyes were fixed on me. At a few paces from each other, he raised his open hand. My eyes fixated on the threatening motion. As he strode past me, his arm swung down fast, and he slapped my ass something fierce.

Then I met Lorenzo. He is a sixty'ish black man in a fedora and gray three piece suit. Grandfatherly spectacles hung from the vest. He wears white weave dress shoes, that are too tattered to match the rest of the nicely put together ensemble. He's well dressed, but I can tell he is a man who knows the streets. He is not sophisticated, in that certain way that sophistication can rob people of their humanity. He wants me to come home with him. He promises gifts, a relationship, and stability. Lies - all of it. Except maybe the gifts. I look into his eyes. Even with his "swerve," his eyes betray a kindness and sincerity that I have actually only felt from black men. It's a racist thing to say, but black guys are the only gentleman I've known who I feel as if I can see into their souls. "Why do you want a whore for a girlfriend," I ask, with a soap opera, faux self pity. "I don't look at you that way," he says. It's only when he stands very close to me that I realize how short he is. "We all have to do something," he says, "I would never even think anything bad about that." I like the fantasy I am spinning about myself for this guy. "It's the drugs," I lie, "They've ruined my life." I am romanticizing my own decent into hell - even though I am not descending, I'm not a whore, I don't do drugs and never have. Well, I did smoke weed twice. "I've been there, baby," he tells me. "I've done 'em too. Sold 'em. Now I'm a motivational speaker." "You have a business card?" I ask. He pulls it out, happy to see that I took his suited persona seriously. I promise to call him. I tell him that I'd be happy to see his love nest, but right now, I'm working. I walk away.

I walked passed a silver pick-up truck. A black guy in the driver's seat hisses at me, calling me over. He wants me to fuck him. He'll pay me $40. I move on. A guy approaches me. First comes the scripted compliments. Followed by the "I hope I'm not offending you, but you're (beautiful, sexy, lovely, hot, amazing...blah, blah, blah.)" The only thing they are interested in is my big ass when my too tight dress rides up as I walk. Not that I blame them. I have an ass fetish myself. A girl with a big ass could pretty much get anything out of me. Zach (not his real name) will pay me $100 for my time. I was flattered, but confused. "What do you want?" I ask. He doesn't commit to anything, just saying he wants to spend some time with me. That's not illegal, is it?

Sounds innocent enough. Doesn't it? What kind of lush would think it sounded okay to go with some guy you met at 3 a.m., on a corner notorious for prostitution? Especially, when he won't tell you what he wants. Not only that, but I'm not gay. That is to say, I have XY chromosomes and am not physically attracted to guys.

I see the prostitutes looking at me as I am talking to this guy. Some of them are stunningly sexy. The kind of sexy that only a plastic surgeon can endow. I am intimidated by them. They look like sex goddesses exiled to this little corner of hell. I feel like I am in competition with them. Of all the girlz on the street, he wants me. Without trying to mitigate my own culpability, the competition forces me to do something that I come to regret. I would come to regret it to the point that I almost called my therapist at 4:30 a.m.

As I sit here now, I am ashamed and I am sorry. Please forgive me for my pretentious middle-class foray into the illegal street industry that I had no excuse indulging in. Prostitution is like Paris for me. Just because I want to go to Paris doesn't make me Parisian. My life story is not compelling enough to be whore. I have no excuse. I am not Jean Valjean, stealing bread to feed my family. I am part of the bland, adequately employed, mildly upper middle-class, greed is good, vanilla social class that I so detest.

I take his $100. I follow Zach. I look back, only to see Lorenzo's sad eyes follow me as I walk away. As I follow Zach, I somehow failed to realize that the $100 bill was not a donation, but a demand. What followed the payment puts the lie to any romanticized vision of sex work on the streets. Prossies are working with people who sometimes have absolutely no respect for them. As my therapist once said, men feel there is a degradation in having to pay for sex. The resentment is sometimes taken out on the whore.

Zach tells me he's a welder. He admits his age, and tells me his family status. He wants to fuck me, without a condom. I don't let him. He gets mad. I can't believe it. I am stunned that he even thought I would think it okay. No wonder that tranz girlz have a higher incidence of HIV than even gay men in San Francisco. One in five gay guys has HIV in San Francisco. Now imagine that all those sexy trannies, and realize that their rate of infection is significantly higher. Many of them are sex workers, in a position to spread the virus. Why? Because fucks like this try to force themselves into them.

Zach has me go down on him. I have no desire to do it. His penis is not just unextraordinary, it's ugly. In my tipsy state, I reason that I have to earn the $100. What I really wanted to do was hand it back to him. But I didn't have the gravitas.

Zach instructs me to moan as I suck on him. He's brutal. At first, I thought he was just doing it for fantasy. Like a play, power exchange type thing. I come to realize that he truly finds me contemptible. He tells me that I'm his bitch, and makes me say it repeatedly. He makes me call him daddy and wants to hear me say it with his c*ck in my mouth. He hits me repeatedly, slapping my ass so hard I want to cry out. "You fucking whore," he tells me, "Yeah, you're my bitch now." He takes perverse pleasure in making me choke on him. He says he wants to make me vomit. I can feel the acid in my stomach hit the back of my throat and mix with the salty, sticky substance leaking from his c*ck. I wretch. Tears form in my eyes as I cough.

Zach turns me over, and starts licking my ass. This disturbs me almost as much as the condom-less anal thing. If I were to let him fuck me in the ass, I would be the one in danger of contracting HIV. But, now, he just planted his face in my ass. I start panicking that he has no regard for his own health, or that of his wife. How does he know that I don't have hepatitis or something? How does he know whether or not I bathed before our encounter? Then is strikes me, he does't care. If he is willing to go down on me like that, then he may have some sort of disease already. His reckless abandon with his own health, coupled with his brutality, scares me.

Zach pushes me down onto my stomach. He lays down on me. He is considerably heavier than I am. The weight of him makes it hard for me to get my breath. He reaches under me and takes hold of me between my legs. He starts pulling on me hard. I cry out, but it doesn't stop him. I can't breath, and now I am exhaling from the pain. "I'm going to rip it off," he says. "You fucking whore. You're a bitch. You don't need it." I struggle. But the girl juice (whore-moans) I've been ingesting for the last year have robbed me of my muscle mass. "Oh, no," I think to myself, "I'm really going to be victimized here." The power I used to rely upon is gone. He pulls on me, like he is trying to literally rip my manhood off. I panic and twist. He pulls harder. I stop fighting, and submit, hoping my passivity will allay his aggression. I vomit. "Don't hurt me," I say, with all the dignity I can muster. It didn't so much sound dignified, but rather pathetic. In reality, I was at his mercy. It was the first time in my life I've been in that position.

Zach flips me over. "I'm going to cum in your mouth," he demands. I just want to get the fuck away from him. When is this going to end, my Lord? I go down on him again, hoping to satisfy him enough to let me go. He spills into me. Within in moments after cumming, he starts snoring. "Thank God," I think to myself. I tip toe around, putting on my clothes, but in reality I am trying to put my self-respect and dignity back on. I see his pants, and reach in for his wallet. I want to know his real name, in case this fucker gave me something. I see a Costco card, an ATM card, but no driver's license. I look at the name on the ATM card. It has his name on it. I pull out a business card from a stack of them in his wallet. I look at the it. It has the same name as on the Costco and ATM cards. It's his business card. I gaze at it. I'm mortified. Zack isn't a welder. He works for San Francisco's Department of Public Health. I put the cards back into his wallet, and the wallet into his pants. I find the whole thing ironic:

"The mission of the San Francisco Department of Public Health is to protect and promote the health of all San Franciscans.

The San Francisco Department of Public Health shall:

Assess and research the health of the community
Develop and enforce health policy
Prevent disease and injury
Educate the public and train health care providers
Provide quality, comprehensive, culturally-proficient health services
Ensure equal access to all"

I call a working girl I know, and who I respect. I ask her where I can get STD testing with a fast turn around. I'm scared. I don't want to let my fear drain me. I want to know if I'm all right. She tells me of several local clinics with fast turn around for the results. She refers me to the San Francisco Sex Information Hotline to answer some of my questions about how long the incubation period is for HIV before I can get an accurate result from the test.

The only conclusion I can come to is that I have let the whole "Maggie" part of my life go too far. I'm depressed. I hate myself. I want to cry. But boys don't cry. And as painful as it is to admit, I guess I'm not meant to be a girl.

Last night at Charlie Girls

Kate Harding at Salon.com wrote a piece on March 23rd about bachelorette parties at gay bars ("Gay bars to bachelorettes: Not tonight, honey"). Apparently, it is a phenomenon that puts a soon to be bride celebrating her upcoming nuptials in a venue primarily geared toward people who can't legally marry. That is the crux of the debate in the article.

In the article, she explains the phenomenon:

"...They want the freedom to get plastered and dance without being groped by equally drunk straight men..."

I wrote a comment stating:

"I don't believe that women are afraid of straight guys groping them. I believe that they are afraid of their own actions once they get drunk. They are afraid they'll wake up next to some stranger after a drunken f*ck fest, and their reputations will have suffered. In other words, women go to gay bars to defend themselves against their fellow mean girls..." (I've corrected the spelling mistakes and typos here.)

Why is any of this relevant? Well, funny you should ask. Last night I went out to Martuni's bar here in San Francisco to meet up with "Charlie Girls." It is a get together organized by local writer Charlie Jane Anders for the TG community and friends to socialize. Martuni's is not a gay bar. It is an piano bar with a comfortable mixed crowd.

During the get together, a self identified lesbian, who's name I forget and whom none of us knew, introduces us to Natalie and Graham. "Like the cracker?" I ask. "Exactly," Graham replies. They are a couple from Phoenix, though Natalie now lives in Alameda. They are in their mid-twenties. Graham is visiting and looking for work locally. One of our tranny posse leans into me and whispers, "Someone tell Natalie that her boyfriend is gay." ha ha. Graham looked gay. He had a severe case of gay-face and dressed the part. Natalie is drunk. She introduces herself by telling a joke. "What's the difference between jelly and jam? I can't jelly my cock down your throat." Apparently, this was a line some guy used on her recently.

Anyway, to make a long story longer, Natalie goes on to tell us how she loves trannys and that we are all her best friend. She finds the women hipsters in the mission to be rude, uptight and arrogant. At one point, she reaches between my legs and tries to touch...uh, mmm, you know what. I had to forcibly remove her hand, not because I minded that she cop a feel, but because I didn't wanna get kicked out of the bar. By the end of the evening, Natalie had shown everyone at the table her breasts (which where spectacular, by the way). Without bothering to add context to content here,let me say that in an exchange between me and her I tell her, "I don't like vagina's because they smell like fish" (a white lie. I love vagina's.) She grabs my hand and tries to stuff it down her pants to feel her vagina. I demurrer. So she takes her own finger, places into her pants, inserts it into her vagina, pulls it out, and places it in front of my nose. "My vagina doesn't smell bad," she insists. By the way, it didn't smell bad. But, that is besides the point.

The point here is that we of the XY chromosome types should not allow people to attribute malevolent behavior to us to cover over their own faults. We must demand that people take responsibility for their own actions, and insist that they not attribute decisions made by them to behaviors for which we are not guilty.

Sunday Sunday Sunday

Sunday. It was sunny, but chilly out today. I walked into Twin Peaks. The place was full. As I ordered an apple martini, this young blond girl approaches me. "I hope this doesn't offend you. But could I have my picture taken with you?" she asks. "Of course," I say. She goes back to her table where there are four other women of various ages. I wait for my drink. As my back is turned, one of her friends says about me, "His ass is better than mine." I pretend not to notice. They set up the shot, and a few pictures are taken. She tells me she's from Dayton, Ohio. They came out to San Francisco because her mother was sick of her father, and she was sick of her boyfriend. This was their first day in the city, and they love it. In a few days they are going to make their way to Napa. I was pleased that I got to send this salt of the earth back to Ohio with a stereo-typical San Francisco moment.

Profiled as a Prostitute?

I park my car on Larkin Street, just west of Hemlock at about midnight last night. I am going to go to Divas on Post Street. I get out of my car, and take out my cell phone to see the time. There are a lot of whores around. As I stand there, I turn around and see a police cruiser stopped behind me. The policeman has the window down and is looking at me. As I turn to face him, he calls out with an accusatory tone, "What are you doing?" Stunned, I am speechless for a moment. "This is my car," I say. I'm intimidated. In that moment I decide to abandon Divas. "I'm going home," I continue. With a condecending tone he states, "That's a good idea."

After he left and I realized what was going on. I had been intimdated out of my night because he profiled me as a prostitute. Of all the tranz girlz there, I am the only one NOT a whore. Next time, I am going to tell the policeman that it is none of his business.

Maggie, say it ain't so.

Having recently told a coworker that I wanted to live as a gurl, she was stunned. She knows me pretty well. It wasn't the transition that surprised her so much. It was the fact that I am pretty much a masculinist.

People who know me as Maggie are often taken aback when they find out I am not a feminist. It's not that I'm not a feminist...it's more than that. I am basically a masculinist. And it's not only that I am a masculinist. It's the fact that I am perfectly willing to engage in the debate...as loud and vocal as you want to make it. I find that people attempt to shame people out of expressing their beliefs. The tactic usually backfires. I once had a fight with my office wife over the subject of abortion. I told her my position, which comes down to, "If the death of the fetus is agonizing for the fetus, I don't don't give a fuck about your 'choice.'" If she wants to vociferously defend putting a fetus through torture, by all means, go right ahead.

In her work Whipping Girl: A Transsexual Woman on Sexism and the Scapegoating of Femininity, Julia Serano argues that trans discrimination is steeped in sexism and that trans activism is a feminist movement. Maybe trans activism is a feminist movement. But, I ain't no feminist. In fact, I aspire to be what Janice G. Raymond railed against in her work The Transsexual Empire: the making of the she-male, in which argues that we trannies are part of a plot to infiltrate the women's movement. She further argues that transsexualism is based on the "patriarchal myths" of "making of woman according to man's image." Bingo! Which probably explains why my female presentation can elicit such strong sexual reactions from guyland. To quote myself, my presentation of the feminine "is [a] dramatic, retro sexuality that educated women now think inappropriately deferential to the patriarchy. I have been accused by other trans people of being a sexist because of my interpretation of femininity...I emphasize the curvature of my form, which harks back to an earlier perception of the feminine — out of style today — built on a 5'10" frame made taller with heels."

FFS with Dr. Joel Beck

It was a dreadful rain that painted the beginning of my day, seasoning it bitter. I arrived at 6:30 a.m. to the surgery center where Dr. Joel Beck would perform various procedures to feminize my face. I was scared. I had spent the previous three days in Lassen Volcanic National Park, backpacking in deep snow and an accompanying relentless snow storm. As we left Lassen on our way home, we had a head on collision with a Snowplow. By the time I arrive at the surgery center, I was running on three hours of sleep. Two days later, I can reflect back on the experience warmly.

I had worked with Dr. Beck on coming to a vision of what I wanted to look like. He spent a great deal of time actively listening and giving realistic feedback. Dr. Beck is a conservative practitioner. He told me what would work, and what wouldn't. For example, he said I didn't need a chondrolaryngoplasty because my thyroid cartilage was so insignificant that it wouldn't help to do the procedure. Dr. Beck works wonders with the computerized imaging system he uses to help his patients visualize results.

Dr. Beck is gentle, respectful and responsive to concerns. His manner is complimented by his great staff (Deborah and Jasmine). There is a "call anytime" policy that I didn't use until after the surgery. BTW, he has beautiful eyes, if you are into that sort of thing.

The surgery itself consisted of the following procedures: brow lift, lip lift, cheek implants, rhinoplasty and brow ridge contouring. Besides the good Doctor, the team that worked on me consisted of four team members, including two nurses and an anesthesiologist, all of whom made me feel comfortable. Now that the procedure is over, I have allowed my self to relax a bit. The day after the surgery, Dr. Beck visited me at the recovery center to ensure everything was okie dokie.

In my second full day after the surgery, my face is discolored and swollen, as was expected. I will update my progress as time passes.

Part Five [Last Installment] (parts 1, 2, 3 & 4 below)

Heal Thyself

Finding a doctor in San Francisco with experience administering care to the transgendered community is not as easy a proposition as you would think. After weeks of searching for a doctor, I came across Dr. Charles Moser. I called his office to try to get an appointment. His office staff was cordial, but insistent. They required a letter from a therapist stating that I was suffering from Gender Identity Disorder before I could see the good doctor. “Oh, great,” I thought to myself, “Another plan — a plan by the man to keep a sister down.” Luckily, I had previously been in and out of therapy. I had a relationship with Patrick Califia, a marriage and family therapist who works with the transgendered community. Patrick is a trans-man and author of a veritable library of books with titles like “Sex Changes: The Politics of Transgenderism” and “Speaking Sex to Power.”

I called Patrick, in desperation. As the phone rang, I was wary of rejection. Like all my relationships, I neglected my relationship with Patrick by my erratic and inconsistent behavior. People incorrectly interpret my inconsistency as being disrespectful or dismissive. Burning bridges is a specialty of mine. It is one of the ways that I metaphorically slit my own throat. I left a voice mail — beginning with, “I hope you remember me...” — and intoned the best conciliatory vibe I could conjure. I can be very pathetic, when I need to be.

Patrick gets in touch with me, stating that he’d be happy to write the letter. He would also like to see how my transition was coming along since the last time we got together. I scheduled a session with him. The session was late in the day. I got off work at five and had to fill a couple of hours before seeing him. I jumped on a streetcar on Market Street, just to take the ride and look at the passing people. When it reached the Castro, I detrained and walked around window shopping. I decided to have a drink. Twin Peaks is a bar that sits at the acute angle that makes up the corner of 17th and Market. It was born in the defiant generation of gay activism that spearheaded San Francisco’s “out” movement in the 1970's. I went in, and ordered an apple martini.

A woman at the bar reached out and touched the small of my back. “You look beautiful, honey.” Her hand stayed right above my ass for a few uncomfortable moments. I smiled an awkward smile. For some reason, women and gay men really like my look. I think it is the dramatic, retro sexuality that educated women now think inappropriately deferential to the patriarchy. I have been accused by other trans people of being a sexist because of my interpretation of femininity. Maybe women like that I emphasize the curvature of my form, which harks back to an earlier perception of the feminine — out of style today — built on a 5'10" frame made taller with heels. “Thank you,” I whisper. I dislike compliments. I hate to be made self-aware. I don’t really like myself. I am insecure.

I take my apple martini, delicately navigating the stairs to the balcony overlooking the bar where I can be alone. My body tries to extract nutrients from the poison. My anorexia has waned lately and I put on three or four pounds. I have been starving myself, trying to lose the weight, and haven’t eaten anything for almost two days. Unfortunately, there are no apples in my martini. I finish it and get another. As I sip the second one, the alcohol starts to hit me hard. I become emotional and cry. Tears stream down my face. I try to control myself. I have to leave to make my appointment, but I can’t stop crying. I walk downstairs, weeping. I set the glass on the blurry bar. The queens inside all turn and look at me as I leave. Their faces express subtly concealed disgust, like, “What is this stupid bitch crying about.” I have experienced open hostility from some gay men. I have a feeling that some gays dislike male to female trans folk.

I cry all the way to the appointment. I break down during the session in a humiliating demonstration of self pity. I spill self hatred and tell Patrick about the disconnect between my ability to easily charm people, and my total failure to keep long term relationships. I try to give examples of my plight with allegory and analogy, but my attempts at illustration turn out to be just simple observations about myself that I had just never articulated before. I am alone because I don’t know how not to be alone. My unhappiness is a selfish self-indulgence. I am not happy because I don’t want to be happy. My life has been bifurcated between the male me, and Magdelyn. The two are not complimentary and each has sucked from the other vital skills for survival. Each has wrecked the other’s life. Needless to say, I have been in therapy ever since.

Patrick wrote the letter for me, but insisted that he include that I need to be checked out for depression. As I prepared for my appointment with Dr. Moser, I tried to formulate how I would communicate my state of mind. I didn’t want to say that I am transgendered, in a conclusionary manner. Nor did I want to speak cliches like “I am a woman in a man’s body,” which has been relegated to punch line status. I wanted to make him understand me. I tried to prepare an excuse for myself. I wanted him to understand that it wasn’t my fault.

As I wrote earlier, my inspiration for transition came largely from Kim Harlow. Her life experience was compelling. I hated her for her beauty. But, her tragedy was magnetic. Yet, she was just one of many inspirations. In one way or another, I want to be Aeon Flux and Amélie, Louise Brooks and Kim Harlow. I variously want to skip stones over the river Seine, and be a Monican assassin. I want to look out in black and white from a noir picture screen with big, innocent eyes wrapped in a wickedly erotic aura; freak of nature cool broad, Goth chic, angular lines, and a body that assaults with "what the fuck are you looking at" sex. I want to speak in dramatic riddles, and die because of my own incompetence. If none of this makes sense to you, that is all right. It doesn’t make sense to me either. It is just a dream that I have, a fleeting sensation — an inadequate expression of the feelings from deep within me. Somehow, I had to communicate all that to Dr. Moser.

I could not think of an explanation for my existence, or an excuse for my feelings. As I sat in the examination room, waiting for Dr. Moser, I felt queasy and unprepared. Dr. Moser entered without knocking. I looked him over. He was short, clean but seemed disheveled, with salt and pepper curly hair, and a manicured beard. He wore a Star Trek badge on his lab coat.

“You are a Trekky?” I asked.

“You saw that, huh?” he replied.

“I like the old ones. I used to watch them with my father.”

“I like them all,” he said.

He had me take off my clothes. He sat down, and spoke to me in a matter-of-factly, taking a long detailed medical and family history. He did not moderate his speech with the superficial friendly intonation that I am used to when I am Magdelyn. He took the most thorough physical I have ever had. The irony of being a transgendered woman is having both a prostate exam, and a breast exam during the same physical examination.

After all was said and done, he prescribed me Lexapro (anti-depressant), a t-blocker and estrogen in a smaller dose than I was taking while self-medicating. He prescribed blood tests and told me I had been overdosing on hormones. He wanted me to use estrogen patches instead of pills because there was less of a danger of blood clots. I left his office with a giddy sense of my own identity.

I had trouble filling the prescriptions. I had to explain why my prescription said “Magdelyn,” but my driver’s license said something else. It was a strange conversation to have while people waited behind me trying to pick up their pills. The lowered doses prescribed by Dr. Moser resulted in my body reacting like I was going through menopause. I had night sweats and hot flashes. I had trouble sleeping through the night. The symptoms went away, but the psychological effects have never diminished.

I feel I have people on my side. I have a doctor who understands me. I have a therapist who is familiar with my issues. I started to make friends both in and out of the trans community. In essence, I was starting to live my life. I have been alive ever since. Occasionally, I even feel happy. So there. That is your Hollywood ending. Cough up the $10.50.

What a day.

I woke up this morning feeling like I needed to vomit. I got up, showered, got dressed, and walked to the train. When it arrived I entered a car feeling like I needed to vomit. Made my way down to San Mateo, where I had an appointment for a consult with Dr. Joel Beck for a facial feminization surgery. It was a wonderful experience, except for the fact that I felt like vomiting the entire time. I scheduled the surgery for February 17th. It will be a subtle change, with cheek implants, rhinoplasty, lip lift (teeth show), contouring of the orbitals around the eyes, with a slight brow lift. Like Dr. Ousterhout before him, Dr. Beck said that my facial features were already very feminine like.

So, I go to work. I knock on Jeff's door, the executive in charge of of my department. I say, "Have you ever had a conversation that was so surreal, it just blew you out of the water?"

"Everyday," he replies.

"Good. I need to take two weeks off in March for a surgery related to being transgendered," I say. From that moment on, it was as if I had just told him I was pregnant. He became very supportive and compationate. He repeatedly asked what he could do for me. Did I need anything?

Later on, I am talking to my friend Susan. She's actually my office wife (she's very attractive). She comes in because she's trying to set up a friend of her's with a friend of mine. Somehow, we start talking about my as of yet planned trip to Paris. I tell her that I'm not going to Paris because I can't afford it because I had to spend the money on something else. "What?" she asks. I won't tell her, so she starts guessing. A new car? A new house? Finally, she says, "Sex change?" I'm stunned for a moment. "Why would you say that?" I say, defensively. In any event, I finally come out to her.

Tell me that isn't a crazy day.

Part Four (parts 1, 2 & 3 below)

“One who looks for a friend without faults will have none.”
~Hasidic Saying

“You’re a train wreck,” Molly tells me. She doesn’t mean it in a nice way. Molly is a trans friend of mine. I don’t have many trans friends, preferring to stay away from the campiness and drama of trans society. Molly and I usually talk via instant messaging. On this occasion we meet over drinks at the weekly trans-women get together she organizes. I am sipping a Bloody Mary. I love Bloody Marys. They almost taste like food. I usually don’t attend. I don’t understand the other women. They look like men in dresses. Some of them don’t even try. Most don’t take hormones. Their attempts at feminization, both physically and socially, boarders on the cartoonish. I always find it disconcerting when trans-women start talking football.

Molly and me talk about my “boyfriend,” i.e. my internet stalker. He is a chef. Somehow he found me on the internet and started sending me e-mails. The e-mails started with him wanting to rescue me from my life and taking care of me. They escalated to him demanding my phone number, and chastening me for not giving it to him. He would give me orders and verbally discipline me for not following them. He seemed to think he had an ownership interest in me. Scores of instant messages would appear on my computer while I was away. It got to the point that I was afraid that he would somehow track me down. The kicker came when he sent me a photograph of himself in his chef outfit, holding two knives. Molly says I bring these things on myself.

Molly says she likes me, but I feel she doesn’t respect me. I know why. I am an erratic person, inconsistent, with a self destructive streak. She is frustrated that I don’t attend her gathering. She is appalled that I cut myself when I get depressed. She called me a drama queen when she saw the scars on my wrist.

She sits across the table with her easy charm, chastening me with her elegant English accent for my careless adventure in the Tenderloin the night before. I’d gone to the Tenderloin with a few friends for drinks, dressed like a skank. I had gotten sauced and crept through the seediest parts of the neighborhood on my way home, among the drug dealers and trans-whores, through which I move effortlessly and feel quite comfortable.

You can meet some really interesting people at 2 a.m. in the Tenderloin. Like when I met a potential pimp. I was minding my own business, walking on Post Street toward Polk, when a young (real young) black girl asks me for a cigarette.

“Sorry,” I say without feminizing my voice.

“You a guy?” she asks.

She follows me. “For real?” she says aggressively, “You better get me my money bitch! You gonna get me my money, bitch? You better get my money, bitch!” I ignore her. I continue walking. We approach a black guy all gangsta'd out leaning against the wall of a bodega. The girl gets really aggressive as we approach him. “You better fuckin' get me my money, bitch!” I kind of enjoyed the objectification. Hell, I would have let her pimp me.

I walk up Polk and am about to cross Hemlock when a shiny new silver Mercedes stops in front of me. A desperately-nervous middle eastern man, in his fifties, bald and heavy set (not fat) cracks his window. He says something I can't make out as the car doors unlock. He motions me to get it. I'm stunned for a moment. I bend over and ask timidly, "You wanna date?" As soon as I ask the question, I start panicking about how I am going to gracefully escape the situation.

"Yes," he rumbles, waving his hand furiously at me to get in. He looks frustrated, even a little angry that haven't opened the door. Nervous, I start to walk away from the car. Just as I step away, a police cruiser slows down. The man in the Mercedes drives down Hemlock. I pretend not to notice the black-and-white. I quickly join a line of people who are waiting for an I.D. check before entering Vertigo bar. I reach into my purse as if to pull out my I.D. As I rustle around my purse, I think to myself, "Wow! what a great improv." When the police continue up Polk, I continue to Sutter.

At the corner of Sutter and Polk, I am again greeted by the Mercedes driving guy. He stops again, and chastens me. "What are you doing? There are black-and-whites everywhere, and you're dragging your feet." I find his condescending tone flattering, like it indicates I am a real girl. I guess I am just sick that way. "Where are you staying?" he asks. "I'm not staying anywhere," I reply. "I'm not from the city," he says. His demeanor lightens to familiarity, like we are good friends now. "How much?" he says, nervously. He has reason to be nervous. The place is crawling with cops. A grey Taurus aggressively pulls up right in front of him. "Cops," he states. I step away from the window. He pulls away.

A black and white turns the corner. I walk over and lean against a lamp post. The cops look me over, deciding whether or not to stop and harass me. They continue on, slowly. The passenger side patrolman keeps a suspicious eye on me. Getting arrested could do me some good. Maybe it would kick me out of the malaise-induced fog that blurs my thoughts.

Molly disapproves of me. I am hurt. I like her. I want her to like me. She says she does. She would never end our friendship — if that is what it is — because with my striking presentation and sinful air, I am a magnet for society otherwise unavailable to her. But, just the same, she feels compelled to counsel me. She doesn’t do it gently. She says I am unstable. She says my self administration of hormones is dangerous and that my behavior reckless. Molly says I need to go see a doctor. Maybe she is right.