Next up, a post chiefly about Getting Out With The Girls on a Big Night Out. Unless one means a curry in the village, this is still an unrealised ambition in my case, so I reproduced someone else's post on the subject, and what a horrendous time they had. It was another experiment with a fresh post-format and a fresh topic. Not successful, and I didn't repeat it.
I called the post Sex and men behaving like dogs, and it appeared on 20 December 2012.
Those of you who follow this blog closely, or who have met me in person, know full well that I am as sexless as a wellington boot, even if I do possess a winning smile and pay attention to my appearance. This lack of sexiness is the work of decades. I did not expect transition to 'cure' it, and it hasn't. I do feel that sex in 'Lucy mode' stands a great chance of eventual success, for me and whoever turns out to be my 'lucky' partner. But the driving need to secure a sex life is just not there. Not enough testosterone swashing about inside nowadays, I suppose - only the 'basic girly leakage' from my adrenal gland. My testosterone level was only 0.9 when last measured, and I understand that nymphettes and cougars typically have rather more than this! But I'm also aware of an issue I have with physical intimacy - that too of decades' standing - and that needs to be addressed before I'm going to get anything at all out of sexual contact with another human being.
So to any super-masculine men out there, who are sweating at the thought of meeting me and being turned into a gay man simply by talking to me: please breathe a heavy sigh of relief. I'm not prowling the streets for you, and until I conquer my hangup about getting close and personal, and letting my feelings take charge, you are safe. If offered, I will accept a drink and grown-up conversation, but that's all I can cope with.
Meanwhile, I'm up for a giggle with any group of girls out on the town, so long as sex isn't actually compulsory at any point. But I wouldn't like to have the kind of evening that these girls had. This is a post from the blog of Lucy Robinson, a young natal woman who writes books. I hope she won't mind my reproducing it here - it brings her to your attention, after all:
A JUNGLE OF SAVAGES
Posted on October 13, 2012
I was out with The RMC the other night. The RMC comprises four women including myself. We like food (too much) and everyone in the group apart from me owns a designer handbag. We met in 2004 when we were all runners on a TV show. It was a really great gig in which we got to learn loads about how to make TV programmes: we divided our time cleaning up human waste in portaloos, animal waste in rainy fields and running back and forth along a muddy lane getting meals for lazy producers. For weeks and weeks and weeks. No wonder we bonded. No wonder none of us has ever once suggested ‘hey, let’s all go camping!’ I’d suggest camping to almost anyone but these girls. Enough outdoor trauma for us. Nowadays we meet in restaurants and nice bars and we wear dresses and heels and only talk about the old days when we’re severely drunk.
So. Last weekend. We went for drinks and canapes at Annie’s house. It was civilised. We went for dinner at a local restaurant. We ate goat’s cheese and quail. It was positively middle class. Then we went to a friendly local pub for a nightcap. And, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, it was like arriving in hell.
There were few differences between this place and the pub I drank in as a fifteen year-old.
- Men in rugby ties (bad sign) drunk beyond all comprehension; hugging and bumming each other.
-People dirty dancing and snogging in that awful, we-don’t-even-know-each-other’s-name-but-are-drunkenly-clutching-each-other’s-faces-like-this-is-the-most-romantic-moment-of-our-lives-oh-shit-sorry-did-I-just-belch-in-your-mouth? kind of way.
-Drunk women bursting out of their miniskirts pretending to really enjoy dancing with their annoying thin friend who is getting all of the attention.
-Vom in the toilets.
-Shrieking girls in the toilets.
-No toilet paper in the toilets.
-The usual bunch of posh kids in the corner (who grew up round here but went to boarding school, obvs babe) dancing enthusiastically to The Cure without any idea who The Cure are, let alone what the song lyrics might be.
-A nice-little punch-up outside that was kicking off just as I left for the night bus: I actually heard the words ‘ARE YOU STARTING?’ Someone actually said that! Fo’ real!
But it wasn’t the bumming rugby men that killed me. Or the toilet-paperless toilets.
It was the prowling gropers; a species that had long-since disappeared from my consciousness. I suppose I’d forgotten the effect of four well-dressed blondes marching into a pub full of drunk men. And I say that without ego too because it had nothing really to do with how we looked. We could have been wildebeest straight from the plains of the Serengeti but we were female, we were in a group, we were groomed and – therefore – we were clearly available for sexual intercourse.
I had begun to think that I was now invisible to men, because I am 32 and do not walk around with my breasts or vagina on public display. But I think the actual truth of the matter is that I simply don’t go to establishments where men have NO HESITATION in coming up to you with the aim of obtaining some sex as quickly as possible. And NO SHAME about grabbing you and EVEN LESS SHAME about persisting in shoving their beery faces into yours. Even if your body language is saying ‘It’s not that I don’t fancy you, or even that I dislike you. I ACTUALLY HATE YOU. GET AWAY FROM ME BEFORE I SET FIRE TO YOUR PENIS.’
My friends and I were confused, then amused and then gobsmacked by the attention we received just on the short walk from the bar to the table we were sitting at. And that was just the start. Here is what happened just in an hour:
1. A group of morons burst up to our table, all of them making a beeline for HT. I don’t know if it’s because she is an absolute fox or if it’s because they could scent a single woman in our midst, but when they had tried every tactic at their disposal to get at her (she had us old wives on either side of her) one of them simply yelled “what have I got to do to get you lot out of the way?? I want to get at your bloody friend.”
2. Another really lovely man who smelled faggier than a fag’s arse asked me, every time he went outside for another fag, if I would look after his bottle of Becks. Every time I nodded and carried on conversation with my friends. And every single time – every single F****** TIME [Lucy Robinson supplied the full spelling, but I won't, being genteel about such things] – he then shoved his nasty, leery, faggy face into mine and whined ‘thanks so much darlin, yeah, thank you, yeah, thanks, right?’ and then fixed me with a really significant stare that said ‘we are in an important club of two; two people who have both acted as guardian to this bottle of Becks. We must therefore f***.’ [Same aside as above] And when I finally started ignoring him he actually grabbed my head and made me look round at him. ‘Alright, yeah darlin, was everything ok with the drink, yeah, yeah? Can I get your number yeah?’
3. A man who’d been watching us from the other side of the pub marched up next. ‘Hi,’ he said smoothly. ‘You lot look like you’d enjoy this.’ He got out his phone and showed us a picture of Richard and Judy performing sexual acts on each other. (I’ve checked online. It was a fake.) That was it! That was his best move!
4. Bald man in rugby suit and tie falls on me. ‘Hiiiii,’ he says. ‘I want you to take a photo of ushhhh….’ he points vaguely at my camera and then smells my hair. I move away violently. He tries to grab my hand, I grab it away. He tries to grab my elbow, I elbow him. I do NOT LIKE BEING TOUCHED BY MEN I DON’T KNOW. F*** OFF. [As before. I use this word only when driving] To cut a long story short I strike a deal with him that if my friend takes a photo of him and I together – on one of OUR phones, not his – he will leave our table and not come back. The photo is taken. And while it is, he pulls my arm round his shoulders and caresses my (totally trapped) hand with his sweaty thumb. An arm-wrestle ensues. In the photo I look like I’m about to be sick.
6. Wrestling continues. Someone else wants a photo with my friends and tries to actually fight me for my phone. Because I am not drunk, I win, but the man in question calls me a ‘slag’ for not giving him the phone.
7. The best one of the night. Another group of men arrive at our table. ‘We’ve got some jokes about cheese,’ one of them begins. ‘What would you say to a Welsh cheese who’s about to do a tightrope walk?’
When I got home, The Man was asleep. I climbed into bed and hugged him so hard he nearly suffocated. ‘If you leave me I will kill myself,’ I told him. He smiled sleepily. ‘Ahhh,’ he said. I allowed him to believe that I was being romantic.
Lucy seems to have omitted example 5. Perhaps it was so extreme and stomach-churning that she thought it best not to mention it. You can see this post in the flesh at http://lucy-robinson.co.uk/a-jungle-of-savages/. Shortly afterwards she published a piece on men's bad behaviour in the Huffington Post (at http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/lucy-robinson/street-harassment-no-thanks-to-the-groping_b_1987660.html), simultaneously reproducing the article on her blog at http://lucy-
robinson.co.uk/huffington-post-no-thanks-to-the-groping/. It's a general plea to women to resist being groped, to protest, and not just shrug it off as 'simply how men behave, and always will'.
I have to say, I rather take to Lucy's slant on things. Check this out, for example. It's about why she likes being with a group of like-minded women: http://lucy-robinson.co.uk/why-i-love-women/. Plenty there for a trans woman to take note of, if she wants to spread her wings into the natal world.
And here's something else connected with sex, that specifically affects the post-op trans woman. I was idly searching the web for articles on how post-op women might develop their new lives. I came across Lynn Conway's extensive discussions on this theme (see http://ai.eecs.umich.edu/people/conway/TS/TS-
III.html#anchor489172), which was a useful read. Then something in the other search results about 'sex with a post-op woman' caught my eye, and that took me to a thread on plentyoffish.com. Here it is at
http://forums.plentyoffish.com/datingPosts15084250.aspx. The postings on this thread went on for eight months, and there was plenty of input from the crassest and most educationally challenged men on the planet. But one trans girl called Lucia stood her ground. And at the end, another trans girl called MadiSeattle said her piece very effectively. I thought it was one of the best short explanations of a trans woman's physicality (and position on outing herself) that I've yet come across. She had the last word on that thread, and silenced the he-men who swore they wouldn't ever go near a trans woman, however good she looked. This is what she said:
Sex with a M2F post op female is as good or better then a real woman [the title of the thread]
Posted: 8/15/2012 2:33:22 AM
Well I guess I should post here, being that I AM a post op mtf. I casually glanced at some of the responses on this thread. Believe me, I've heard it all before.
The most prominent theme seems to be that of deceit. As in, when a trans person does not tell of their background. There are many schools of logic that can come into play here. I tend to stick to this one : if the sole purpose is sex, i.e. getting off, as salacious as that sounds, it is of no importance to notify the other person. Here's why: putting aside STD risk and general safety issues, the connection is purely physical. It does not make a man 'gay' if he sleeps with a post op woman. That's like saying that if he has anal sex with a genetic woman he is gay, simply because the anus was never meant to 'accommodate a penis'. Whatever is left of the former penis has been reconstructed to become a neo-vagina. From my experience, hooking up with someone doesn't mean you owe them anything but a respectful, fun, albeit brief encounter.
Now, for me, I usually inform the person. I just feel like I need to be on the same page with others, both for my piece of mind and theirs. I know of others who don't, and I don't see anything wrong with it if it's just sex, personally.
However, if the connection is deeper, I think all cards need to be put on the table, simple as that. My closest friend is in this situation currently, where it's not a matter of 'if' to tell, but when. Sooner or later there will be a revelation. If not, what may happen is that the dishonesty will dissolve the relationship.
OK, now let's get into the nitty gritty. My vagina, or neo-vagina.
Does it get wet? YES. (lube helps sometimes though)
Is it tight? YES.
Have men not been able to tell the difference? SOME. (I usually tell though)
Is it a real vagina? NO.
Unfortunately, it is not a real vagina. One of the major functions of vaginas is to push out babies. They were meant to stretch and expand. My vagina will never do that. It was mentioned here somewhere that it will never get 'loose'. That seems fairly likely since by pure design it was created for copulation purposes. It also will never menstruate or 'squirt', as some women are able to do during coitus.
Speaking of coitus, some comments that I hear from time to time are :
"Jeez I didn't know you could get wet on your own"
"It's really tight" (sometimes too tight)
Would I want a 'real vagina'. Of course I would. I have come to accept the fact that I will never have one. It's a limitation that I have, similar to women who have atrophied vaginas, hysterectomies, or are infertile. As a side note, we are all female up until a few weeks into development. That's when xy genetic males start developing penises. In the absence of a y chromosome, those same tissues that would have made a penis are used to create the vagina, by default.
In short, I have a mind that was female since birth, but a body that has been contoured and reconstructed through modern medicine to resemble how I feel inside. I hope that people can start opening their minds in terms of gender fluidity. It's not all black and white. Call me what you want, but all I ask from those of you that shun transgenders is that you take a look at yourself and ask what makes you perfect enough to deem someone else 'imperfect'.
Yep, I agree with all that. Well said. The only thing I'd add would be a warning of nastiness from a man undeceived too far down the line, which is certainly a good reason for being completely frank and candid during the first drink or pizza together.
Posted by Lucy Melford at 22:02
There were three comments:
1. Caroline 21 December 2012 00:45
Why on earth did they stay a single minute, even a second seems too long and their radar should have alerted them from quite a distance. Blokes exist in the exact opposite of stealth mode! Their staying has only encouraged these foul oafs in their delusions then again some women must have such low esteem that they have given in to such low lives so they feel that they have a right to be offensive towards every woman! I feel sorry for any woman out there honestly seeking a worthy mate...
2. Lucy Melford 21 December 2012 00:56
Yes, I would personally have got out of there fast. But then I'm not young and attractive...
3. Jenny 22 December 2012 08:26
Oh blimey. All I can say is if those chat-up gambits have ever worked, there must be some legendarily 'easy' women in that part of the world. As transgender people we have an insight that those natal women lack into
the effects of testosterone. Those blokes really should up their game, but they're shot up on a chemical (two chemicals, with alcohol!) that compels them to do what they are doing. We can deplore their behaviour but we must bear in mind that they are not entirely in control on that front.
Post-mortem in 2014
Actually, I think this post survives quite well. There's a fair bit of useful stuff buried in it. Such as what drunk men will try to do, and why one should despise them. I admire Lucy Robinson's guts in taking a bus home, rather than hailing a London taxi.