T is for Transexual

The transexuals I have met in the real world are ordinary folk. Some male to female transitioning people look like they might be your mother. Their haircuts are cheap and plain, they are to fat or too thin. They lack stage presence. They are, acutaly, like you and I only they are in transition or have transitioned and so their experience of the world has been informed by this.

I watched some pornography today where male to female transexuals pre-op, stroked their penises, touched their breasts, shook their round and sexy arses in the air in full view of the camera. They were exotic creatures, beautiful by the standards of the magazine-hounds. I remembered a documentary I had seen on people who like amputees, but what they really meant was people who like incredibly attractive women who are thin and blonde and shapely and have had a limb removed.

For my money I preferr the transexuals who look like your mother. I prefer the idea of them struggling to be a woman or a man in a world that has fought against their womanliness or manliness. I like the sharp smell of their struggle captured in the synthetic fibres of their homely frock. I identify with them so much more than the women with the wasp waist and the round arse and the perfectly structured tits. Their humanity makes them lovely.

Our humanity makes us lovely.

Bear Sex

At our staff meeting we talked about bear sex.

Sex with a bear.

On gchat with a fellow worker, sex with a goat was mentioned, and a horse.

I can see a pattern emerging.

There is something about sex with animals that I haven't quite got a grasp on. I was planning a short story about this from the perspective of a dog. The fact that I have never written more than a few sentences is telling. I can't seem to find the heart of it. What are we learning from this sex with warm blooded creatures of a different kind? Are we learning how to experience intimacy? The lack of communication is an interesting enough place to start. How do you tell this bear that you want to be hugged by it. How does the bear tell you when it does not what to be hugged.

I am sure there are many papers and books about the ethics of this and if I could be bothered I could read them, but for now, because I am tired, I am happy enough to just discuss this at the staff meeting, laugh for a moment, smile, because it is the cute sci-fi boys who have initiated this conversation. I spend a pleasant moment thinking about the cute sci-fi booys copulating with a bear. Then we have moved on to shelves that are over-stocked and the missing bag for the vaccum cleaner. The world returns to normal.

other people's stories

I am thinking of conducting a series of interviews about sex. I am keen to start writing up little scenes based on other people's sexual experiences. The true voyeur that lurks inside me is bored by my trawling through memory. I am interested in the memories of those around me. I want to quietly watch and report back.

I sat next to other people's bodies on the bus. I was repulsed and aroused by them. I saw them at their worst, still bleary from sleep, cold and damp and holding their umbrellas so that they dripped into the aisle. All these other lives pressed up against my thigh, my arm, my back. I felt sad for them, grumbling off to work, nodding to sleep, texting, staring out at the overcast sky. they dragged their variously complicated lives along behind them. I smelled their fights and their hopes and their disappointments clinging to their skin like aftershave. I became exhausted out of sympathy.

I took their troubles to work like something I had stepped in that couldn't be scraped off.

I would like to hear their stories, write them up. Compare and contrast. This may happen on Furiousvaginas. I need to think about this as a possibility.

Holding hands

A stray thought. A darkened cinema. The pleasure of his company. A settling into the scent of popcorn and chocolate and the whiff of someone else's hair oil clinging to the head rest. The plush seat, large as a hug, red, but fading to brown in the lightlessness. And at some point, perhaps in the trailers when the movie has not yet sucked us both away from the real world, we hold hands.

It is a simple thing, this knitting of fingers, a careful lacing together as if for a moment we are carefully tied. Just the thought of it is an erotic charge more powerful than the thought of climbing into his chair and mounting him, of placing my hand in his lap and testing the hardness there. The holding of hands makes the other possibilities seem like child's play. A simple basket of fingers is enough. I feel it deep in my groin. It is visceral.

I am certain I have never held hands like this in the cinema. I have sat beside someone and the longing is a graze that I can feel down one side of my body. The holding of hands is too intimate a thing for me. I know I have done the other, the careful fingers placed strategically, even once, for a second when the cinema was deserted, I shifted onto his lap and took him inside me before adjusting my skirt and settling back in my place. But the holding of hands is something more than this. It is a gentle thing, a gesture of care and I wish that I was brave enough to try it for myself.

sex on the page

All the sex has ended up on the page. There is nothing left in me. I am exhausted. Today there is no sex. I masturbate because it stops me from being quite so sad, but I have no heart for it and when it is over I am still tired. The endorphins are hidden from me.

I wore my low and strappy dress to work because of the heat. Suffocating heat. I couldn't breath with my chest covered. Someone commented favourably and I remembered that I had been hiding my breasts at work and that they used to be a trademark of mine and this made me tired as well.

I have left my sexuality on the page and all that I own now is a body which is unweildy and cramping my style. I could lie in bed for a week just to sleep. All the sex is squeezed out of me, bound up with an elastic band, shrouded in bubble wrap, thumped down into the red postbox across the road. I have no sex left. I am sexless, and yet here is my blog stamping at my heels like a whingy child and some days I just want to kill it. Some days I want to abandon it on a bus or leave it in a car with the windows wound all the way up. On summer's days like this particularly when I am all sweat damp and heavy with dissapointment.

Weekend Away.

Me and the beautiful people. I am always welcomed by them and yet I feel the distance. So I sit in their ever-present glow and I am quiet. They have sex with their own kind. There would be something wrong with one of them finding some vague attraction to someone like me. It would be like a human crossing the species line and fornicating with a pet, not unheard of, but unlikely. They sit on the beach and chat with me and seem genuinely interested but I feel like I am watching them from behind a glass barrier. They are TV personalities or characters from a book. They are shiny and well-mannered and much wilder than I could ever be. Still they were nice and the weekend away was interesting and I did some things that I enjoyed and all this should be enough for me.

H is for Hetero and Homo

I was sitting in the beer garden. I was with my gay male friend. There were a group of Dykes at the table next to us.

"Heteros." It was just a word, but soon it became a chant and we stood and we left. I didn't want to leave. I was young and fired up and I wanted to down my vodka and parade a string of my female lovers before them. I was reminded of the times that I had been with gay men, or with women at a straight bar. The kind of abuse that would be thrown in their direction.

Hetero and Homo. A way of defining sexual identities that are fluid and flexible. What if he falls in love with him who is in love with her. It is a tricky thing to label people by their current sexuaal inclination, because there will always be a tomorrow and tomorrow.