Climatic Conclusions

[This is going to be very TMI. So, um, considered yourself really really warned!]

Holy. Shit.

So, you know how lots of you were wondering if I could orgasm and I kept on telling you "Hopefully!"? Well, we can change that answer to a resounding, emphatic yes.

I'd been tentatively trying, rubbing my clitoris in the way that sort of thing is usually done (in my experience), once a week for the past two weeks. The results were fairly poor. There was a slight sensation, but it wasn't the deeper, physical pleasure I was looking for.

So I tried last week, a bit more, but with comparable success. Much of my hesitance is that I'm not fully healed. Most of the stitches are out or almost out and I feel a lot more flexible and mobile than I was, but it's still scary, ya know?

The thing is, I've been having nocturnal emissions (two so far). Which is downright bizarre. Ironically, it's why I started masturbating when I did at 19: I wanted them to stop. And they feel the same way now that they used to, except... there's contractions but nothing comes out. And in many ways it feels like my penis is contracting when it's... not there. WHICH IS RATHER DISCONCERTING.

So, today, I decided to stick with it a bit longer. And, again, it's not like merely touching the clitoris sends a little bolt of pleasure (which for some reason is what I was looking for). But I started slowly rubbing it, and it started feeling kind of nice. Not like "OH GOD YES" kind of nice, but pleasant enough. And I keep looking at whatever sordid and sundry stimulant material I'm looking at. Nothing to write home about (so to speak).

And then something clicked. And my body started to feel like it wanted me to rub faster. And I did. Then it's practically like I'm tapping a button. And my vulva starts to do huge contractions, to the point where I wasn't even sure I was entirely touching the clitoris (the vulva's still significantly swollen, although much improvement), but I got the arching back sensation and just kept on moving through. And then... it hit me.

And my.god.

For those who don't know, orgasms with a penis (at least for me) kind of felt like rising tension, rising tension, tense tense tense RELEASE done. It's over fast. And, at least for me, the buildup was more perfunctory than pleasurable. Hell, the whole thing was more of a "well, I'm glad that's out of my system" kind of thing in lieu of "THAT FELT AWESOME." Again, various issues play into that for me, and obviously lots of people with lots of penises tend to really like it so go figure. But, for me, masturbation (even the vast majority of sex, with three or four exceptions) was more about exorcism than enjoyment.

But this was different. It felt... good. And when it finally hit... it wasn't like one "BANG." I was waiting for the "BANG," because that's what I'm used to, and it never really came. Instead, there was just this really intensely pleasurable feeling and I couldn't help but moan really loudly. For, like, ten seconds. Arched back, really intense pleasurable sensation, and moaning. And when it was over, I just kinda lay on my back staring at the ceiling in a dazed, happy kind of way.

And it didn't just feel good. It felt right. After almost every orgasm I've had before, I've felt kind of guilty or, at best, relieved that it actually happened and was over with. But this time, I was just really glad (and, of course, thinking "Wow, I'm going to get to do that again!").

There wasn't that big moment of relief, like "WHEW IT'S OVER." It felt good, but I was also kind of wondering if something was wrong because there wasn't a huge "release." And as I processed it, it occurred to me how very amazing it all way.

Because, listen. Everybody's different, and we can never really know what it's like to feel/be another person. But this orgasm felt a lot closer to the descriptions of vaginal orgasms that I've heard/read. One of my friends and I were talking two weeks ago about differing descriptions of orgasms, and how she felt it was kind of sad that people with penises just kind of got a "BANG" and then had to recover, whereas people with vaginas got longer, intense sensations and could keep going very soon after.

That's how I felt today. It honestly blows my mind that this is a thing. Because seven weeks ago, I had a penis! I had a different kind of orgasm! And now it's changed! The machinery is altered, but nothing "new" was installed. And I would think that "cis female orgasm narratives" might have impacted what to expect and act out if I hadn't experienced it myself. I couldn't fake what happened. Hell, I wouldn't have known how to. Despite everything that I "knew," I was expecting something a lot more similar to what I'd known. What happened was positively surprising.

Obviously, it's my first time, and who knows how things will change as I heal/learn the patterns better (I am really looking forward to that). But this is fucking amazing (so to speak). It's paradigm shifting. That this is even possible shocks me, and that it's so exciting and right is just affirmation upon affirmation that SRS was the right decision.

And, you guys, truest story: I cannot wait to see how this changes sex.

SRS FAQ

These are some questions that people have wondered, so I thought I'd start a post to answer these and more. If you're wondering anything, feel free to ask about it below.

- "What the hell do you do all day?"

Well, mostly I lie in bed naked and stick things in my vagina.

[It's not as exciting as it should be.]

I lie in bed because it hurts to sit without my invalid ring and even then it's generally uncomfortable after awhile (fortunately the toilet isn't painful at all).

I'm naked because air drying is generally recommended, my mom doesn't care, and pants/underwear are kind of uncomfortable while I'm still swollen in general. (The swelling is supposed to subside within the first four months, so I won't know what the "finished product" looks like for quite some time).

I dilate four times a day. Take two Sitz baths (put some soap in water and soak for ~10 minutes). Douche twice. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.

- "What the hell's dilation?"

Dilation is where I put plastic rods in my vagina and hold them there. One of the "unique features" of the trans vagina is that you're creating a space of nothing where something used to be. As such, the body wants to heal upon itself in the space. If you don't artificially keep it open by dilating, the vagina will close up which, you know, would be bad (in addition to kind of defeating the point of the whole 'surgery' thing).

Dilating, fortunately, isn't uncomfortable for me most of the time. It's difficult at first; the muscles get tense, so the dilators don't go all the way in easily. I have to really focus upon relaxing and maneuvering to get them as far as they'll go (about 4.25"-4.5," which is a bit below the average for the surgery but because I highly doubt I'll need to accommodate anything aside from fingers and the dilators' more fun-loving second cousins, I'm not too concerned). The maneuvering is frustrating and uncomfortable, but once they're in it's just a matter of listening to something until I need to switch to the larger rod or stop.

Overall, it takes about 45 minutes to an hour including setup, cleanup, and positioning. The frequency is what's most obnoxious: I'll get one done, eat a meal, and it's practically time for another. Fortunately, the frequency gradually decreases the further you get from surgery (schedule is here), but I will be required to dilate once a week for the rest of my life or risk it closing. So, you know, that's fun. (Penetrative vaginal intercourse can count, though. Which will make for an awesome pickup line: "Hey baby. My vagina's about to collapse and only you can save it. Wanna be my heroine for the night?")

- "Why Montreal?"

So, the penile-inversion technique means that, contrary to popular belief, the penis is not "chopped off" but instead inverted using the scrotum for much of the vagina. This can require a skin graft for some trans women whose penises are not large enough (and, regardless of initial size, after years on antiandrogens/estrogen and possibly no erections, this might be a real possibility).

Unfortunately, scrotums be hairy, yo. Most American doctors recommend.require genital electrolysis to remove the hairs. Dr. Brassard in Montreal removes them himself by cautherizing them. The American doctors advice electrolysis because it's the only way to be absolutely sure. But I've had really poor results with electrolysis and I didn't know how to find someone in Knoxville to do the genital version so Montreal seemed a lot easier. So too, the Montreal clinic has reputable aftercare and since I was going alone I thought that'd be an asset. [Thailand is the country that does the most in the world, but I didn't want to be that far from home alone and I also didn't want to be that far from the surgeon in case I needed to go back for some reason].

The cost and, honestly, the distance was pretty comparable to most of the other top places in America.

- "Can you orgasm?"

Hopefully! I mean, I wouldn't want to let your mom down now, would I? With the penile-inversion technique, the surgeon keeps the nerve endings from part of the glans in the penis intact and essentially creates a clitoris. Most women, barring complications, are able to orgasm post-op although it may take some time before full sensation returns to the area (and, of course, degrees of pre-op sensitivity differ too).

Hell, there's even some degree of lubrication for some women from the urethra, depending upon how much lubrication the penis tended to create before.

But for now, I just have to wait and see. (Not gonna lie: I'm pretty excited. Since, you know, I can't get unexcited. Since, like, it... anyway, next question)

- "How did you pay for SRS?"


So, SRS is expensive. Well, let me qualify that: SRS that in Canada or the USA with reputable doctors is expensive. After travel costs and paying for therapists to judge me insane enough to qualify for letters, I paid about $20,000. For someone who's never made over $13,000 a year, that's a substantial amount of money.

For better or worse, instead of going to a private college with a $40,000/year tuition, I went instate to the University of Tennessee which paid me to go. However, as my grandparents and mother had saved up some money to help me pay for college as I was growing up, they charitably gave me that money anyway. This, combined with spending very little money on much of anything and working pretty consistently throughout college, left me with a fair surplus once I graduated. 


So instead of going to a highly-regarded private school and leaving with a fair amount of debt, I went to UT and got a vagina. Worth the tradeoff? Meh. But it does let me say that my vagina was partially subsidized by the state of Tennessee.

If you have other questions, about the surgery or being trans or anything, please don't be afraid to ask in the comments below!

A Prurient Proof

So, funny story: a week or so before flying to Montreal, I start talking to a young woman online who lives in Atlanta. She's smart, pretty, showed me glimpses of her *huge* diction... I'll spare you the graphic details. Anyway, it just so happened that, to save money, I was already scheduled to take a bus to fly out of Atlanta. And we figured that, since I was going to be there anyway, we ought to do lunch before my flight.

So we did. Her train was delayed so I got there first, and she surprised me by walking out of the subway tunnel with a bouquet of yellow roses. Not gonna lie: I swooned. She didn't know the area well, so we kind of wandered around until we found a sub place (for lack of anything else). She made some flimsy excuse for buying me lunch. We ate. We were both sleep-deprived, so it was somewhat awkward. But it was a nice diversion from thinking OMG SURGERY OMG SURGERY like a stock ticker in my head.

When our time was getting short, I suavely and subtly said, “I wish I could just pull you into a corner and make out with you.”
She said, “Yeah, that would be nice.”
Heartened, I took the classy route: “Well, the bathroom is a single room.”
She promptly responded “Well, I'm finished eating,” dropped her sandwich, and started walking. I, as you might imagine, swiftly followed.

Lovely, lovely makeouts commenced. It happened so fast it was almost unreal; I'm not used to other people taking the lead in matters of the sexy and sordid. Anyway, lurid details might prove superfluous, but suffice it to say I had somehow gone through life never being thrown against a wall and furiously kissed and now I have.

Eventually, as you might imagine, someone tries the handle outside and finds it locked. We start to compose ourselves when I discover that I have a huge erection.

Like, a huge one. Bulging against my jeans for all the metropolitan area to see, no doubt no way no how. And I realize that I honestly cannot recall a time where this iconic happening-to-penis-havers has been a problem. Two days before the surgery, and I'm going to have to walk to the subway station in downtown Atlanta beside a really hot girl with a giant hard-on. The poetry of the divine, indeed.

So I do what any sensible person would do and awkwardly angle my bag to cover the front of my pants as I walk down the street and wait for the subway.  Someone fortunately gives me their seat on the subway (on account of my luggage) and, aside from my date's amused grin, I escape major embarrassment.. Soon she gets to her stop and kisses me goodbye (*sigh*). And, as she's gone and I can finally stop being turned on, I think to my penis, resting smugly and far-too-snugly in my jeans, “Q.E.D., motherfucker. Q.E.D.”

It might be an understatement to say that I had the last laugh.

Fantasies #1

I have never lived alone before for any significant period of time. Before, I've had a roommate or lived with a parent. And that's generally been good; it distracts me, keeping me from thinking or ruminating alone in the dark too much. But now, I live in a single room where I am often alone for many hours each day. And although I can distract myself with my computer for most of that time, there are still always periods where the siren song of my bed, literally one yard away, calls. And once there, I'm at the mercy of fantasy.

My fantasies come in two forms. One, which this entry will focus upon, is the "positive:" my imaginary girlfriends. Sometimes she's a real people, sometimes merely "based upon true stories," sometimes purely ethereal. She's a habit I developed during the long months when I heard no contact from my previous partner. I'd talk to her, feel her, have her hold me as I fell asleep each night. She, of course, is gone. But the habit's continued.

So what happens in these fantasies? Well, unsurprisingly, often sex. But it's not masturbatory, in the traditional sense: I don't physically stimulate my penis (although I have a complicated relationship with the place my vagina would be). Mostly, though, it's pure imaginary narrative.

[the following is explicit, so proceed with caution. Also, the valuations I attach to my lesbian fantasies vs. others are purely based upon my own experiences and not indicative of my feelings towards straight sex in general.]

I'm in bed. I look up, as if she's just walked in. "Hey. I've missed you," I sweetly, coyly say. I don't imagine her response; since I so rarely have a defined person in mind, I can't really extrapolate a personality. But she makes a response, and I just... respond back. It's visceral communication, and sometimes we flirt and sometimes we fight and sometimes I burst out of bed, push her against a wall and inhale a kiss before resolutely kissing down her neck and breasts and stomach and thighs until I'm on my knees tongue between her legs, staring up at her with eager joyful eyes to the backdrop of her moans.

Or, and this one is an almost nightly ritual, I'm lying in bed preparing to sleep. I murmur an apology for going to bed so late, giving her a peck or a long kiss before turning on my side away from her. She follows, after a moment, to my surprise, smoothly gliding her arm around my abdomen and clutching my breasts as I moan.  Sometimes she'll gently move her fingers up and down my spine, sometimes she'll shower my back with slow sweet kisses. Sometimes she'll fuck me from behind with a strapon (or, on the rare occasions she's a he, with his cock), and I will moan and shiver in exultation. We'll finger each other, she'll lick my imaginary cunt, I'll do the same in [consensual] violence or tenderness to her. My pillows and sheets know so very many kisses and caresses.

I hope you'll pardon the explicitness of these fantasies. I mainly detail them because they are so new and joyous. It's only in the past handful of months, if that, that I've really explored fantasies of me having a vagina and having lesbian sex (what little I know if it). When masturbating (penile stimulation), I almost can't help but imagine myself with a penis, so I either focus upon my partner's pleasure or (more easily) fantasize of sexual assault [identifying with the victim; a topic to be explored later].

But these new fantasies? They're vibrant. Simply imagining, with no physical stimulation, feels more physically pleasurable than... almost everything before (a few memorable kisses and one orgasm aside). With a vagina, I feel that I'm desirable instead of forcing someone to engage in an act upon a part of me that inherently taints us both. It's sex as a mutually pleasurable act instead of merely a conduit towards intimacy with some vicarious thrills. It's my entire body alive, for the first time. It is exhilarating simply to imagine my newly formed breasts cupped in greedy hands. It is remarkable to finally get why people like sex on a physical level. And it is transcendent to feel wanted and loved instead of knowing you are but finding a callous wall where those feelings should be.

Sometimes I read to her. Sometimes I rest my head on her chest. Sometimes we talk about our days. And there's sex. And then, when she fades and reality returns, I think "Wow. And all these couples I know get to do this. Every day. How can they not be fucking ecstatic?" And you will tell me it is not all I imagine. You will tell me the thrill dulls. You will tell me there are always complications. And I would agree. But as a person who has felt so dead, your protestations feel like you don't even realize how alive you are. Your body and self are your own, and you're sharing them on a mutually pleasurable, visceral level with another. To me, that sounds like fantasy.

A fantasy I've never realized and fear I never will. So often, those fears creep into the back of my mind, following familiar paths that no longer even bother protesting. A gas leak, a returning infection, a chronic pain. And the darkness and the hopelessness and the distance from All That Living comes back. And then my lover's embrace is a noose, her kisses knives, and I'm giving blowjobs to gun barrels.

But that's for another entry.