We All Have Our Crosses We Bear: The Tragic Life of the Transsexual
First off, I don’t hate transsexuals. I feel terribly sorry for them. They’re crazy. I work in mental health. I don’t hate crazy people. Hell, I deal with them all the time. How can I hate my clients? I’m half nuts myself anyway.
I’ve talked to a few transsexuals.
I talked to some transmen. One admitted that she had made a mistake. She wanted to date me but she lived too far away. She had the body of a woman, curvy with nice tits, hairless. I asked about the hairlessness and she told me she shaved a lot. Then I saw her face.
The face of a very attractive human, but alas, only a pretty boy and not a girl by any stretch of the imagination. Most pretty boys don’t really look like women. Everyone just thinks they do. Look at them real close. They look like a very beautiful man, but still a man nonetheless. There’s some implacable barrier between a pretty boy and an attractive woman. You can’t put your finger on it but you know it’s there.
Male model good looks, but still a pretty boy. I thought, “I don’t know about that.”
Another wanted to date me too. She explicitly stated that she would definitely have sex with me, and she lived fairly close. She was willing to drive five hours up here just to get fucked. I wanted to do it until I thought about it.
She still had the body of a woman except for the hair on her chest. I told her she’d have to shave it. She agreed.
The deep voice? No problem.
Clit as big as a micropenis? Probably not a problem. I’ll just tell myself it’s a giant clit and see if that works.
Then I thought about her face. I never saw it but I don’t want to. Transmen are still women of course, but their faces look exactly like men’s. She will look like a guy. No way can I have sex with a woman who totally looks like a guy. That’ll be sure to send me into a gay panic. I’m way too homophobic to to that.
Even worse, I told me best female friend, a former model, gorgeous at 32. She referred to my potential sex partner as “he.” To me she was always a “she.” That really hit me. No way can I fuck any human who others refer to as “he.” You’re hitting my homophobic nerve pretty hard there.
Besides, they’re all tight as virgins. They can’t even use dildos anymore. They bleed when they have sex. Their vaginas hardly work anymore, like those of postmenopausal women, and they’re 25 years old. 25 year olds with the vaginas of a 55 year olds.
All of this is mostly just sad more than anything else for me, especially that last paragraph and in particular that last sentence. I don’t hate transmen at all. They’re tragic figures, often willing to admit they were mistaken. You pity someone that much, and it’s impossible to hate them.
I talked to a few transwomen, and they were the nicest guys I’ve ever met. Real sweethearts. Remarkably soft and kindhearted for men. Pacifists. I didn’t hate them at all. How can you hate someone that nice? On the other hand, if you ask me if they’re crazy, I’d have to say yes.
The Life of the Transwoman and Her Trans Friends, Written in the Second Person
Despite the fact that you’re already crazy and miserable anyway, you get locked into Trans IP and get even more miserable.
But you’re wretched. Everybody’s misgendering you all day. TERF’s are everywhere, stinking up the landscape, posing as woke progressives. The laws are all against you. You’re locked out of the dating sites. There’s always prostitution but who wants to be a whore? You just got fired from another job by your transphobic ass of a boss. He laughed when he did it. Most jobs last months, not years. Your resume is a trainwreck. You have to fake the whole thing. Invent places you never worked at, jobs you never had, and you’re playing games with time frames. Your family disowned you.
You’re a laughingstock. You’re always the butt of some joke. Nobody understands you. Cis people keep trying to be woke, but they keep screwing up. They’re never quite free of transphobia.
You have to keep moving the goalposts to think up some new oppressions when the old ones don’t work anymore because you always have to have new oppressions to keep cutting and going to the hospital, taking three different psych meds, or hangdog-ing in some therapist’s office who probably secretly hates you. You need a reason to be hated, so you can be a victim. So you can blame all your mental problems on bigots. Everyone’s misinformed and a bit mean all the time. Even when they’re nice they’re mean. Like human venus fly traps.
No one wants to date you. You’re lonely every night. The porn doesn’t work anymore. Half your trans friends are flakes, nutjobs, and kooks – and that’s when they weren’t sex offenders or creepy latent rapists. A few of them liked little kids. You shudder at that. Your friends are all narcissists. Everyone you know has NPD. And you keep asking yourself why so many transwomen are psychopaths. You last two “best friends” ripped you off for hundreds of dollars. You confronted them and they laughed.
You call yourself a lesbian with a dick, but pretty soon you’re yelling that no dyke wants to date you. There’s nothing a lesbian hates more than a penis. It’s not rocket science. You demonstrate and rage about cotton ceilings. You try to join lesbian marches so you can maybe get a date, but you get found out, and the womyn physically remove you from the march. You fight back but the police come.
All your transwomen friends are collecting DSM diagnoses, and that’s no fun. Collecting baseball cards? Ok? Collecting different ways of being nuts? The Hell never goes away, and it gets a bit worse every New Year’s.
You’re suicidal. The cutting wasn’t enough. You always needed just one more scar. You catch yourself on the web researching suicide methods. Anything to make the pain go away. The psych drugs stop working and then they up the doses, but the side effects wreck your life, so you go off meds. You’ve had 30 different DSM diagnoses. They can’t all be right, but no one can agree what’s wrong with you.
As you head towards middle age, more of your old friends are buying it with their own hand:
There’s Tracy, drug overdose.
Debbie the streetwalker, murdered by one of her Black clients.
Betty finally took one too many pills.
Ginger used a gun. They say it was gross, splattered all over the wall. The Hazmat team came out.
Latisha jumped off a chair and was found swinging in the air with a broken neck. I hope it was over fast.
Jade was hit by a car. There were rumors that she ran out into traffic!
Lisa? Cirrhosis. She was the life of the party, always with a drink in her hand. One day she drank one too many.
Mary? Liver cancer. The hepatitis from the needles finally caught up with her.
Maryanne? She never could pass. Good God, ugliest horse face you ever saw. And that jawline. People were always cupping their mouths to hide their snickers. One day the humiliation was too much. She was found in a bathtub of blood, razor on the edge of the porcelain.
Your trans friends are offing themselves at 20X the rate of your cis friends. Some liberation! 10 detransitioned, but half of them went back on steroids. One, Rhonda, went back and forth three times. One day she quit changing her mind. She was found lying motionless in a wino alleyway. Natural causes, they said. But she was only 38!
You did know some transmen. After testosterone liberation, they started going to jail and they never stopped. They’d been clean as a whistle before. Who knew that testosterone could turn you into a criminal? You saw the transformations. Meek young ladies to raging pussymen. You thought lesbians were bad? Wait til you meet transmen. They’re as raging and combative as dykes, except lesbians have normal hormones. Transmen are raging dykes with testosterone poisoning.
One, Julie, detransitioned. But her voice was deep as man’s. Poor girl will have to shave every morning for life. And the injections made her sterile.
At 25, your transmen friends already have vaginal atrophy, a condition most women don’t get for another few decades. Their pussies are as tight as a virgin’s. Their dildos won’t even fit anymore.
Some dated straight cis men but most guys flipped when they saw the clit as big as a baby carrot. One transman friend swore one went into a gay panic. He was this far from killing her.
You have the face of a guy, so only kinky gay men want to fuck you. It feels weird. You want a real man, like all women. You’re a woman, and the testosterone makes you maniacally horny for days on end. Who would have thought that testosterone would turn you into an insatiable sex maniac?
You rub your clit to masculine straight men nonstop for three days straight, and the next day, here you are, in the Castro again, getting fucked by another sissyboy. To deal with the cognitive dissonance, you start calling yourself a gay man. Everyone says you’re crazy. And like so many gay men, you long to get fucked by masculine straight men, not sissified nellyboys. But of course the real men don’t want you. Only the girlymen do. Ever wonder why gay men are so unhappy? There ya go. One of the main reasons right there.
And now you realize that this is only the beginning. From now on out, it’ll be downhill all the way. You steel yourself for the ride. You’ll need all the fortitude you can get.