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Transgender Euphoria
By Anika Sheridan
I had the recent experience of really beginning to understand my nature and discomfort with the gender roles assigned to me from birth. I have always kept a dream log of my nocturnal imaginings (mine happen to be quite surreal and very in touch with my subconscious), and put the pen to paper in the younger days and manicured fingers to the keyboard of my laptop now. My dreams began to tell me my real nature and transgenderism before my brain did (lucky me) and often put me in the mood to write what was going on, although in the back of my mind I knew. I love my dreams of being biologically female because the folds of a vulva appear where they should, and if they don't I seem to be able to will them into reality! How wonderful it would be to have that happen in real life with enough conviction and determination. Like Christopher Reeve in "Somewhere in Time," simply lay there in a dress and stockings and have the wig turn to real hair, the bra fill with real breasts, the hair disappear everywhere except the head and eyelashes and eyebrows, and the shoulders and waistline narrow and the hips broaden.
I have the fortune of being designed in the Kleinfelder fashion (except too much hair), which means I do have small but real breasts, slender bone structure, the curved spine of a female bending out at the rear, and a little more padding on the buttocks than most males. I've been advised to avoid the testosterone blockers during gender transformation because of these things: it would make the bones too brittle. Funny, these things disturbed me during the phony days of "Playing Boy" because girls loved me as a friend but didn't want to go out with me. I yearned for a boyfriend and was too psychologically dishonest with myself to be real about it.
Now it becomes clear to me that these defined roles mean nothing, because they are designed for people who are comfortable in their skin, and that happens to be quite a large majority. So what if I luxuriate in the bath tub and shave myself everywhere, wear dresses and skirts w/blouses, hosiery with my finely shaved and moistened legs, string-bikini panties and a comfortable bra (I found one!) that actually enhances my breast size and shape! I sit in front of my mirror and put on light make-up, paint my nails, and tease out my wig before I put it on. I have had men wolf-whistle at me while pulling up my nylons as they walk through the sidewalk in front of my upstairs window, sassy teens hoot while I was going out to the convenience store (teens don't appeal to me at all but I'll take all the compliments I can get), and in the awful California heat we're experiencing, I walk around my house in two piece string bikini and a wig with light make-up and the muscly guys in the auto body shop across the street hoot and howl and whistle as I walk by. I LOVE IT!!!
Now there are people who will say how weird this is, how I'm betraying my body and not living in the real world. Why is it that a straight woman I worked for cut her hair short, wear shorts and large t-shirts, eschewed makeup, put on socks and tennis shoes, and people didn’t even look or think twice, yet if a girly-boy like me walks around in a bra covered with a mini-sweatshirt, black skirt, wig, make-up, and sandals it's major catastrophe that will ultimately destroy the civilized world as we know it. Well, it won't of course. Sometimes even we ourselves think that because we are XY (or in my case XXY) these invisible chemical markers stamped into our DNA must determine how we should really feel about ourselves. If the boys in the street or the men who see me are thrilled because they catch a glimpse of a "scantily-clad" chick, does that hurt someone? What they don't know certainly doesn't hurt them, and if they're so enticed by what they see that can't keep it to themselves, where's the harm?
I live on the border of a high-crime ghetto and an area of suburban bliss, and the business area is ghetto, so I am forced (unless I wanted to be beaten and killed to make a statement, and I don't) to still go out dressed male occasionally, and there isn't a moment of it that's comfortable for me. I have to buy food and other stuff, and it's a girl's right to go shopping, but I have to wear what I consider rags. Male clothing—blech.
I want my earrings and my jewelry, my perfume and all the other delightful feminine accoutrements I've spoken of above, but I don't jump right into it, because it's all a part of the transition process—and I enjoy the transition process. "Transgender Euphoria" I call it—the process of going from middle-aged male to younger female is a wonderful experience, from caterpillar to butterfly, and there's a reason why transgirls look at ourselves that way. Men dress like caterpillars, dragging themselves along and satisfying bodily needs. You know in your heart that if that is not satisfying, but depresses you, you were never meant to hang with the boys. Boring. Women dress like butterflies, and float around on the breath of the breeze, beautifully and gracefully, and looking for every opportunity for the overwhelming carnal desire of drinking nectar. So I'll enjoy the process of transformation; and I wouldn't go back to that other life for anything in the world.
Cheers, Anika
