This is a great way to get through the holidays. Thanks to thatjustinguy (YouTube)for making a great video.
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
Beef Log or Treadmill
So Christmas is past and I survived. Interestingly, many of the people I sent the super microwaveable herbal scented back and shoulder warmers to (see Christmas Shopping at the Mall from Hell post) said they loved them. Well, of course they would say that; they're nice people. Too nice to say what the Hell are these things? Traci and I got three packages of summer sausage, beef sticks, and cheese...I had no idea they were so popular. I've already gone through one beef stick and half a loaf of cheese stuff. The treadmill in the activity room keeps calling to me, but I have refused its siren call and thrown myself into the fridge for more beef log. Maybe I'll reunite with the treadmill after New Year's. Maybe not. I've refused to step on the scale since Thanksgiving. I shouldn't weigh more than 135 pounds. Maybe I'll get on the scale tomorrow and face the horror!
Friday, December 22, 2006
Monday, December 18, 2006
Hair Today Gone Tomorrow
“Lie on your stomach and spread your ass-cheeks—just like last time.” She spoke with a European accent and stood over my nearly naked body, tool in hand waiting for me to respond. She’d said it matter-of-factly, as if it wasn’t anything new to her—and in reality it wasn’t; she’d done this before with me and with others. Young, tall and Gold’s Gym taut, I especially liked the way she pulled her dark, wavy hair up in a bushy bun in the back. Her bangs swept over her forehead and the entire look was one of controlled disarray—very sexy.
“I’m going to have to shave the area a little first.” She didn’t wait for my acknowledgement. I felt the razor deftly stroke the sensitive area around my asshole. Then she applied a liberal amount of gel to the area. “That’s better, ready?” I nodded but my jaw was jammed onto the leather of the bench cushion—we didn’t use pillows. I wasn’t sure she could see my head trying to bob back and forth. But she didn’t need a reply—the question was rhetorical. “Just try and relax,” she said as if anybody so exposed could really relax.
She touched the laser-gun to my anus and pressed the foot-pedal. It hummed and snapped as she moved it around the black-hole. The skin is dark in that area, so the heat built up quickly. I was about to plead for her to stop, but she was already done. “There; not so bad, huh?” I unclenched my teeth and turned onto my back; she went to work on my legs. Snap, snap, snap... Despite the anesthetic cream I could feel each light-needle prick of the gun as she ran it quickly up and down my legs. Smoke rose from the skin and I could smell burning hair.
Getting my body hair lasered is one of the many routines I have to follow to combat the evils of hair. Too much or too little hair can be a curse to both men and women, but I think it is especially cruel to MTF (male to female) transsexuals. Hair is everywhere you don’t want it—your back, stomach, breasts, your ass! Yet it is mysteriously absent from the place you want it most: your head. I think God invented hair as a torment.
I’ve endured over 300 hours of torturous electrolysis to remove facial hair, a meticulously slow process that takes years to complete. The electrologist inserts a needle into each hair follicle, electrocutes it with a deadly current which, incidentally, hurts like hell! A good session of an hour or two can clear as many as 500 – 1000 follicles. Great! Only 999,000 to go. And half of them come back anyway and need to be zapped again. But I made it through those agonizing years intact—although, like Chinese water torture, I think I may have been driven just a little insane by the whole process.
Then there was the inevitable male-pattern-baldness. Not so bad in my case, but certainly working on multiple levels: receding at the forehead and the crown in back. Trying to meet somewhere in the middle so I could eventually make use of that oh so attractive comb-over that so many men with no hair on top love to try and fool the world with. So off to Bangkok to have hair transplant surgery (less than half-the price of U.S. doctors). This was easier. The doctor did it all in one half-day session.
I had a nice harvest area in the back to use as infill. It was painless—in large part due to the six Vicodins I swallowed and a liberal amount of Novocain on the head. Well, there was the little spell I had later that day after the operation—I fainted and my head fell into my dinner. But I’ll take that any day over electrolysis.
Now I’ve graduated to the laser-gun. The gun that shoots a little beam of light that annihilates hair under the skin at the root. That is as long as the hair is dark and your skin is light. Real light. No dark olive skin types, no suntans. I don’t leave the house without lathering SPF 45 on my arms, legs and chest just to avoid the inescapable effects of sunlight on my Italian olive skin. Expose it to sun for less than five minutes and it turns brown. Nooooooooooooo!
So as embarrassing, time-consuming, and expensive as all this hair maintenance is (the cost of sexual reconstructive surgery is nothing compared to all this) is it worth it? Does a transvestite love pantyhose? YES, it’s worth it! If you’ve ever epilated any part of your body you’d know! And unless I wanted to spend a lifetime with a bad comb-over, and having to endlessly epilate and shave my arms, stomach, breasts, ass...enough said?
“I’m going to have to shave the area a little first.” She didn’t wait for my acknowledgement. I felt the razor deftly stroke the sensitive area around my asshole. Then she applied a liberal amount of gel to the area. “That’s better, ready?” I nodded but my jaw was jammed onto the leather of the bench cushion—we didn’t use pillows. I wasn’t sure she could see my head trying to bob back and forth. But she didn’t need a reply—the question was rhetorical. “Just try and relax,” she said as if anybody so exposed could really relax.
She touched the laser-gun to my anus and pressed the foot-pedal. It hummed and snapped as she moved it around the black-hole. The skin is dark in that area, so the heat built up quickly. I was about to plead for her to stop, but she was already done. “There; not so bad, huh?” I unclenched my teeth and turned onto my back; she went to work on my legs. Snap, snap, snap... Despite the anesthetic cream I could feel each light-needle prick of the gun as she ran it quickly up and down my legs. Smoke rose from the skin and I could smell burning hair.
Getting my body hair lasered is one of the many routines I have to follow to combat the evils of hair. Too much or too little hair can be a curse to both men and women, but I think it is especially cruel to MTF (male to female) transsexuals. Hair is everywhere you don’t want it—your back, stomach, breasts, your ass! Yet it is mysteriously absent from the place you want it most: your head. I think God invented hair as a torment.
I’ve endured over 300 hours of torturous electrolysis to remove facial hair, a meticulously slow process that takes years to complete. The electrologist inserts a needle into each hair follicle, electrocutes it with a deadly current which, incidentally, hurts like hell! A good session of an hour or two can clear as many as 500 – 1000 follicles. Great! Only 999,000 to go. And half of them come back anyway and need to be zapped again. But I made it through those agonizing years intact—although, like Chinese water torture, I think I may have been driven just a little insane by the whole process.
Then there was the inevitable male-pattern-baldness. Not so bad in my case, but certainly working on multiple levels: receding at the forehead and the crown in back. Trying to meet somewhere in the middle so I could eventually make use of that oh so attractive comb-over that so many men with no hair on top love to try and fool the world with. So off to Bangkok to have hair transplant surgery (less than half-the price of U.S. doctors). This was easier. The doctor did it all in one half-day session.
I had a nice harvest area in the back to use as infill. It was painless—in large part due to the six Vicodins I swallowed and a liberal amount of Novocain on the head. Well, there was the little spell I had later that day after the operation—I fainted and my head fell into my dinner. But I’ll take that any day over electrolysis.
Now I’ve graduated to the laser-gun. The gun that shoots a little beam of light that annihilates hair under the skin at the root. That is as long as the hair is dark and your skin is light. Real light. No dark olive skin types, no suntans. I don’t leave the house without lathering SPF 45 on my arms, legs and chest just to avoid the inescapable effects of sunlight on my Italian olive skin. Expose it to sun for less than five minutes and it turns brown. Nooooooooooooo!
So as embarrassing, time-consuming, and expensive as all this hair maintenance is (the cost of sexual reconstructive surgery is nothing compared to all this) is it worth it? Does a transvestite love pantyhose? YES, it’s worth it! If you’ve ever epilated any part of your body you’d know! And unless I wanted to spend a lifetime with a bad comb-over, and having to endlessly epilate and shave my arms, stomach, breasts, ass...enough said?
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
She's a He!
I had just come out of a meeting at City Hall and was getting on my Harley when I heard someone on the sidewalk behind me. "He's wearing a dress...and that's a wig he's wearing...not his real hair!" I didn't hear him clearly at first, I wasn't really paying attention. I didn't know he was addressing me. I looked up and a small thin Indian (from India Indian) man was pointing out the back profile of a passerby; short skirt with long legs extending to outrageous high-heels. A long wig sat cockeyed on her head and went down to her ass. Yup--Transvestite alert!
City Hall isn't far from the Tenderloin and some famous TV hotspots. TV's are as common around there as herpes on hookers. "Why does he do that?" the man asked. What am I supposed to say? That there are those of us with gender identity issues? That this is an area where people feel free to express their true gender feelings? To keep me out of his gender-bending attraction/aversion moment?
"Hey," I said while shrugging my shoulders. "You're asking the wrong person." He stuck his hands in his pockets, shook his head--he was visibly agitated. Geez, get over it, I thought.
"Why would a man want to be a woman? I don't get it," he continued. By that time I had my helmet on and was ready to go. I didn't want to get into a long discussion about this with him. I straddled the Harley and pushed the start button. I love the deep, throaty sound it makes when you twist the throttle to give it some gas. The man looked at me and smiled.
"I've got to go." I waved.
"You be careful on that thing. God bless you." He waved and walked back to his van, waiting for whoever he was driving that day. I threw the bike into first gear and gave it some throttle--leaned into the traffic and I was off.
Sometimes (not often) I forget what I am--a transsexual woman. I'm able to go about my life and not worry about people thinking of me what that guy thought of the TV. And sometimes I take that gift for granted. I shouldn't. Transgenders are out there in the world willingly facing criticism, ridicule, and questions all the time just for the sake of being free of the gender identity disorder that is so debilitating. I don't think I could do what those that don't pass well endure daily. I admire them, but I'm thankful I don't have to go through that.
So did I learn anything? Will I confront other people with their prejudices if given the opportunity again? Will I start wearing a button that reads: I'm transsexual and proud! Will I become a pink activist?
No--to all the above. I'm going to go about my life quietly and politely. I'm going to cruise under the radar. There will be no buttons for me. I didn't change gender to be an activist, or to educate others, or change the world. I just want to be me--that's it. Yes, it's selfish. But I feel like I've earned the right.
City Hall isn't far from the Tenderloin and some famous TV hotspots. TV's are as common around there as herpes on hookers. "Why does he do that?" the man asked. What am I supposed to say? That there are those of us with gender identity issues? That this is an area where people feel free to express their true gender feelings? To keep me out of his gender-bending attraction/aversion moment?
"Hey," I said while shrugging my shoulders. "You're asking the wrong person." He stuck his hands in his pockets, shook his head--he was visibly agitated. Geez, get over it, I thought.
"Why would a man want to be a woman? I don't get it," he continued. By that time I had my helmet on and was ready to go. I didn't want to get into a long discussion about this with him. I straddled the Harley and pushed the start button. I love the deep, throaty sound it makes when you twist the throttle to give it some gas. The man looked at me and smiled.
"I've got to go." I waved.
"You be careful on that thing. God bless you." He waved and walked back to his van, waiting for whoever he was driving that day. I threw the bike into first gear and gave it some throttle--leaned into the traffic and I was off.
Sometimes (not often) I forget what I am--a transsexual woman. I'm able to go about my life and not worry about people thinking of me what that guy thought of the TV. And sometimes I take that gift for granted. I shouldn't. Transgenders are out there in the world willingly facing criticism, ridicule, and questions all the time just for the sake of being free of the gender identity disorder that is so debilitating. I don't think I could do what those that don't pass well endure daily. I admire them, but I'm thankful I don't have to go through that.
So did I learn anything? Will I confront other people with their prejudices if given the opportunity again? Will I start wearing a button that reads: I'm transsexual and proud! Will I become a pink activist?
No--to all the above. I'm going to go about my life quietly and politely. I'm going to cruise under the radar. There will be no buttons for me. I didn't change gender to be an activist, or to educate others, or change the world. I just want to be me--that's it. Yes, it's selfish. But I feel like I've earned the right.
Tuesday, December 5, 2006
Cookies & Scream
Cookies & Scream
San Francisco Values. It’s a term that was in the news quite a lot before the recent elections: Do you really want Nancy Pelosi with her San Francisco Values to be the new Speaker of the House? I guess the far-right had no more ammunition and decided to try and pit the country against our lovely little city by the bay. Well, I guess the country isn’t as afraid of San Francisco as they are of ignorant politicians. Result: Washington got a well deserved enema. Enter the era of San Francisco Values.
Now I love our city, but I’ll have to admit we have our peculiarities; tree-sitting protesters to save the oak trees in the park, throwing the Jr. ROTC out of the San Francisco Unified School district, our mayor marrying same-sex couples in defiance of state & national laws. It all keeps life interesting. But even I get tired of some of the nonsense that goes on around here. The latest flap? No, not our city council declaring the Iraq War unconstitutional, or whether there should be a suicide barrier on the Golden Gate Bridge. Our current crisis is...well, it’s the smell of freshly baked cookies; Chocolate Chip I think.
Yes, some of the residents of San Francisco are steamed over the Milk Advisory Board buying ad space at various bus-stop stations and placing the smell of cookies in them. These scenting-stations also display a billboard with the universally recognized slogan: Got Milk? Screaming that their rights to fresh air are being violated, these half-baked crusaders protest that scent-sensitive people shouldn’t be inconsiderately assaulted in a public place. Indeed, instead of the pleasant smell of vanilla and chocolate, they demand the return of the more natural scents associated with our bus-stop stations: urine, dog-shit, stale cigarette butts, and the assorted scents of rotting food. How dare the Milk Board! The very idea! Capitalist Pigs at their most subversive!
I’m as sensitive to the rights of others as the next gal, but even I tire at the effort we take here not to offend others—even with our scents. We’re asked not to wear perfume or scented oils and creams to meetings. It’s policy in many companies here not to come to work with the same aforementioned contaminations. They even have ‘clean-rooms’ in many of our public places for the scent-sensitive so they can go about their daily affairs in righteous dignity, uninfected by those of us inconsiderate enough to dab a drop of Obsession behind our ears. I swear that one day I’m going to go Postal and drench myself in Victoria’s Secret Rapture before going to a public reading at the main library, handcuffing myself to the latest Harry Potter Novel. Or I’ll stand on the steps of City Hall with an atomizer full of Passion, holding it at arms length, dangerously pointed at my face. “Don’t come near me,” I’ll scream at the cautiously approaching police. “I’ll spray myself and run through all the offices inside!” It’d cost them millions to decontaminate the place. “Ha Ha Ha....”
So how did the city react to the protests? City officials ordered the removal of the scent-strips after the first day of the campaign. I guess San Franciscan’s aren’t so hot for cookies. In the words of the San Francisco Chronicle: The Freshly Baked Ads are Toast.
San Francisco Values. It’s a term that was in the news quite a lot before the recent elections: Do you really want Nancy Pelosi with her San Francisco Values to be the new Speaker of the House? I guess the far-right had no more ammunition and decided to try and pit the country against our lovely little city by the bay. Well, I guess the country isn’t as afraid of San Francisco as they are of ignorant politicians. Result: Washington got a well deserved enema. Enter the era of San Francisco Values.
Now I love our city, but I’ll have to admit we have our peculiarities; tree-sitting protesters to save the oak trees in the park, throwing the Jr. ROTC out of the San Francisco Unified School district, our mayor marrying same-sex couples in defiance of state & national laws. It all keeps life interesting. But even I get tired of some of the nonsense that goes on around here. The latest flap? No, not our city council declaring the Iraq War unconstitutional, or whether there should be a suicide barrier on the Golden Gate Bridge. Our current crisis is...well, it’s the smell of freshly baked cookies; Chocolate Chip I think.
Yes, some of the residents of San Francisco are steamed over the Milk Advisory Board buying ad space at various bus-stop stations and placing the smell of cookies in them. These scenting-stations also display a billboard with the universally recognized slogan: Got Milk? Screaming that their rights to fresh air are being violated, these half-baked crusaders protest that scent-sensitive people shouldn’t be inconsiderately assaulted in a public place. Indeed, instead of the pleasant smell of vanilla and chocolate, they demand the return of the more natural scents associated with our bus-stop stations: urine, dog-shit, stale cigarette butts, and the assorted scents of rotting food. How dare the Milk Board! The very idea! Capitalist Pigs at their most subversive!
I’m as sensitive to the rights of others as the next gal, but even I tire at the effort we take here not to offend others—even with our scents. We’re asked not to wear perfume or scented oils and creams to meetings. It’s policy in many companies here not to come to work with the same aforementioned contaminations. They even have ‘clean-rooms’ in many of our public places for the scent-sensitive so they can go about their daily affairs in righteous dignity, uninfected by those of us inconsiderate enough to dab a drop of Obsession behind our ears. I swear that one day I’m going to go Postal and drench myself in Victoria’s Secret Rapture before going to a public reading at the main library, handcuffing myself to the latest Harry Potter Novel. Or I’ll stand on the steps of City Hall with an atomizer full of Passion, holding it at arms length, dangerously pointed at my face. “Don’t come near me,” I’ll scream at the cautiously approaching police. “I’ll spray myself and run through all the offices inside!” It’d cost them millions to decontaminate the place. “Ha Ha Ha....”
So how did the city react to the protests? City officials ordered the removal of the scent-strips after the first day of the campaign. I guess San Franciscan’s aren’t so hot for cookies. In the words of the San Francisco Chronicle: The Freshly Baked Ads are Toast.
Sunday, December 3, 2006
Christmas Shopping at the Mall of Hell
I’m a sap. I scour the grocery store shelves for the best deals possible, looking closely at the price per unit to get the very best price, even though I end up emptying my purse at the cash register because I bought 80 pounds of kitty litter at .015 cents cheaper per ounce. As good or bad (I still haven’t figured that out) as that may be I pulled the ultimate boner recently while Christmas Shopping.
Wandering through the halls in Stonestown Mall, where the denizens of merchandizing lurk with the ubiquitous carts full of cell phone accessories, flying toy helicopters, and scented jewelry, I suddenly found myself wrapped in a hot, bulky shoulder warmer.
“Doesn’t that feel good?” the young (and yes, he was sexy—vaguely Italian accented) salesman asked. He massaged my upper neck and back through the wrap with hard, experienced fingers as he maneuvered me to his lair.
“Mmmm,” I responded with a crooked smile covering my face. No steely-eyed shopper this; I might as well have handed him my purse and all the account codes to my credit cards. “A minute in the microwave and they stay warm for almost an hour,” he says. I smile wider, trying to please him. After all, it is the Christmas season. Let’s all be happy and gay.
Okay, I think to myself. Traci would love this for her back. As soon as I think this I look up at the smiling face and wonder if Mr. Italian-Wonderful heard my thoughts. He reaches into the microwave and pulls out another pillow—longer and with a Velcro strap—and fastens it to my lower back. It’s hot in the mall and I’m wearing a light jacket. Sweat breaks out under my breasts and around my tummy. How many of these things has he got?
Tons—and to my delight they come in full sets including eye compresses, and ultra-fragrant pillow thingys (with 12 natural herbs) that will negate the need for aspirin or cold medications ever again. “I’ll take one,” I say. I never asked the price. I was too embarrassed. How much could it be? Thirty-five, forty dollars?
I’m relieved as he takes my card and starts wrapping it up. But he pulls another off the shelf. “Now that you are a valued customer, you are entitled to a discount. The next one is half-price.” I think of my dad in the Veteran’s Home with his 88 year-old back and think this would be good for him. “Okay, I’ll take another.” I point at the set of black, masculine looking ones, satisfied that my Christmas shopping is going so well.
Mr. Italy (is his accent and swagger more pronounced?) deftly lifts it into my bag. I’m relieved to be done. I want to get out of there. I rip the blue backpack and shoulder wrap off me—yes, they’ve been there the whole time for other shoppers passing in the crowded hall to lament my situation—I reach for my purchase. “Here’s where the real deals begin.”
Now I can buy two more, the third for full-price and the forth free. I'm getting confused and I don’t even know how much they are. “$129.00 each,” he says as if it is a steal at twice the price.” I feel my cheeks flush and I begin to calculate the price per unit as I think of who I can unload these on. It won’t be so bad if I buy enough of them. “Okay?” I say, more a plea for him to stop. Please let me out of here. I look at the passing shoppers happily strolling by with bags from Macy’s, Marshals, and Victoria’s Secret. Help me. They ignore my silent cry for help and leave me to my fate.
“You need the slippers.” “You have slippers?” I ask. He pulls out the little heater pads from slits in the bottom of one of them. “No, they’ll make your feet sweat.” I think I’ve finally won a small battle. “The herbs absorb any moisture. Your feet will never be drier or more toasty on cold nights.” “How much?” “For you—”
Eons later I am finally at the car. I dump my purchases into the back of my PT Cruiser. It settles a little under the weight. It will cost a fortune to ship these. I slam the hatch and get into Peety (Yes, I name my cars). I pull out the receipt—to torture myself. $401.50. But at least they were a bargain if you consider the per-unit cost.
Wandering through the halls in Stonestown Mall, where the denizens of merchandizing lurk with the ubiquitous carts full of cell phone accessories, flying toy helicopters, and scented jewelry, I suddenly found myself wrapped in a hot, bulky shoulder warmer.
“Doesn’t that feel good?” the young (and yes, he was sexy—vaguely Italian accented) salesman asked. He massaged my upper neck and back through the wrap with hard, experienced fingers as he maneuvered me to his lair.
“Mmmm,” I responded with a crooked smile covering my face. No steely-eyed shopper this; I might as well have handed him my purse and all the account codes to my credit cards. “A minute in the microwave and they stay warm for almost an hour,” he says. I smile wider, trying to please him. After all, it is the Christmas season. Let’s all be happy and gay.
Okay, I think to myself. Traci would love this for her back. As soon as I think this I look up at the smiling face and wonder if Mr. Italian-Wonderful heard my thoughts. He reaches into the microwave and pulls out another pillow—longer and with a Velcro strap—and fastens it to my lower back. It’s hot in the mall and I’m wearing a light jacket. Sweat breaks out under my breasts and around my tummy. How many of these things has he got?
Tons—and to my delight they come in full sets including eye compresses, and ultra-fragrant pillow thingys (with 12 natural herbs) that will negate the need for aspirin or cold medications ever again. “I’ll take one,” I say. I never asked the price. I was too embarrassed. How much could it be? Thirty-five, forty dollars?
I’m relieved as he takes my card and starts wrapping it up. But he pulls another off the shelf. “Now that you are a valued customer, you are entitled to a discount. The next one is half-price.” I think of my dad in the Veteran’s Home with his 88 year-old back and think this would be good for him. “Okay, I’ll take another.” I point at the set of black, masculine looking ones, satisfied that my Christmas shopping is going so well.
Mr. Italy (is his accent and swagger more pronounced?) deftly lifts it into my bag. I’m relieved to be done. I want to get out of there. I rip the blue backpack and shoulder wrap off me—yes, they’ve been there the whole time for other shoppers passing in the crowded hall to lament my situation—I reach for my purchase. “Here’s where the real deals begin.”
Now I can buy two more, the third for full-price and the forth free. I'm getting confused and I don’t even know how much they are. “$129.00 each,” he says as if it is a steal at twice the price.” I feel my cheeks flush and I begin to calculate the price per unit as I think of who I can unload these on. It won’t be so bad if I buy enough of them. “Okay?” I say, more a plea for him to stop. Please let me out of here. I look at the passing shoppers happily strolling by with bags from Macy’s, Marshals, and Victoria’s Secret. Help me. They ignore my silent cry for help and leave me to my fate.
“You need the slippers.” “You have slippers?” I ask. He pulls out the little heater pads from slits in the bottom of one of them. “No, they’ll make your feet sweat.” I think I’ve finally won a small battle. “The herbs absorb any moisture. Your feet will never be drier or more toasty on cold nights.” “How much?” “For you—”
Eons later I am finally at the car. I dump my purchases into the back of my PT Cruiser. It settles a little under the weight. It will cost a fortune to ship these. I slam the hatch and get into Peety (Yes, I name my cars). I pull out the receipt—to torture myself. $401.50. But at least they were a bargain if you consider the per-unit cost.
Saturday, December 2, 2006
Pull Up a Virtual Chair...
I claim in my profile that one of my likes is writing. So I feel compelled to have a blog. But blogs scare me. After all, I am over...I mean approaching 50-something. Doesn’t that allow me a bogging-exemption? I don’t really understand blogging. Is it like public masturbation? Maybe...
So I guess if I want to keep a public diary I need to have a blog. Why a public diary? Isn’t this Internet thingy the new gathering place? Instead of the corner bar, or the local bookstore we meet here now to chat and exchange views. Not so easy to order a drink here though. And how many people are really interested in coming to my virtual table? We’ll see.
Defining who I am:
A male to female transsexual who had the operation in 2002—basically changed my Outtie to an Innie. Some may cringe, but Oh, What a Relief It Is describes my sentiments best. I live and work in the San Francisco Bay Area, have a wonderful MTF (Male to Female) partner (we’ve been together over 6 years), and live a quiet, mostly normal life.
I am interested in hearing about other trans-people’s lives, but not exclusively. Trans-people have unique circumstances surrounding them, but we all have something unique about us, and I love hearing and sharing stories from everybody.
I’ll be posting a little more about myself and some of my thoughts as time goes on. I don’t want to bore anybody (who will really be able to find this site?) too much. I hope to hear from somebody. Anybody. Really it’s okay. Pull up a virtual chair, order a virtual drink from the virtual bar and make yourself comfy.
So, what’s on your mind?
So I guess if I want to keep a public diary I need to have a blog. Why a public diary? Isn’t this Internet thingy the new gathering place? Instead of the corner bar, or the local bookstore we meet here now to chat and exchange views. Not so easy to order a drink here though. And how many people are really interested in coming to my virtual table? We’ll see.
Defining who I am:
A male to female transsexual who had the operation in 2002—basically changed my Outtie to an Innie. Some may cringe, but Oh, What a Relief It Is describes my sentiments best. I live and work in the San Francisco Bay Area, have a wonderful MTF (Male to Female) partner (we’ve been together over 6 years), and live a quiet, mostly normal life.
I am interested in hearing about other trans-people’s lives, but not exclusively. Trans-people have unique circumstances surrounding them, but we all have something unique about us, and I love hearing and sharing stories from everybody.
I’ll be posting a little more about myself and some of my thoughts as time goes on. I don’t want to bore anybody (who will really be able to find this site?) too much. I hope to hear from somebody. Anybody. Really it’s okay. Pull up a virtual chair, order a virtual drink from the virtual bar and make yourself comfy.
So, what’s on your mind?
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