A Eunuch's Love Life

The more personally intimate blog of the love life of an androgynous but not sexless eunuch in this post-modern world

Tuesday, February 28, 2006

Ab Normality

Sexual frustration is a very frustrating thing indeed for an adult with no hangups and no ties and no reason for not getting laid that I can see. Fair enough the off-the-rack options are not open to me (since I am not what people would generally agree is a man or a woman), but what about the attractions born of familiarity, intimacy, humanity?

What is about me that is repelling people, or failing to attract them, or just putting me in some neutral category (apart from me actually being neuter, I mean)?

Should I just wholesale change everything about myself?

I am beginning to contemplate hormones. I hate the idea, but even more I hate the idea of being untouched for another year or more. But what is my integrity worth to me, when I like my body as it is, and particularly the way my internal androgyny is manifested in my body? But a month or so of oestrogen from the chemists would give me a younger softer girlier face and enough breast to gender me and maybe lead gynophilic men to make a pass at me.

Darn.

I know it's not all chemical, but I also know it's more about chemicals than most people realise, dousing themselves with alcohol and petrochemicals from a famous name bottle.

Maybe the problem is that I am too damn critical of normal people and their advertising-driven choices. Fuck it, normal people voted to endorse the murder of Iraqis and Afghanis and for the inhumane detention of refugees, and they are killing their great-grandchildren's future with their devotion to conspicous consumption.

I want to meet more hippies.

I feel like I might need anti-depressants. I have been on the edge of crying all day, and it's just not unusual anymore. Would it be cheating to take some chemical that mimics the chemicals that the body produces as a result of healthy functioning that includes sexual activity?

The terrorist thought has been identified, but it is proving hard to be free from, for it pulses forward in every unguarded moment. "No man I know wants to have sex with me." It keeps popping up as if I'm hoping it will prompt some antidote to be found. And the alternative beliefs (eg"Some man will be drawn to who I am the more I honestly express who I am") can't stand up to the assault from my experience of the last few years, where I've gone optimistically into so many situations that proved unfecund.

The anniversary of the Queeruptions sex party has just passed. Maybe that' s on my subconscious. It really beggars belief that anyone remotely attractive could go to a queer sex party hoping to get laid and not get laid. I think maybe I'm only attractive on stage and not in real life. But I am damn sure I'm not at all attractive when I am thinking the terrorist thought.

Counter terrorist thought squad, present arms!

Fire one! "I'm too sexy for your Dad."

Fire two: "I am entirely comfortable with everything about the human body."

Fire three: "Most people are as sexy as they make up their minds to be".

(Thanks to Abraham Lincoln for inspiring that last volley.)

Fuck it, I'm forty five (soon), and I've survived everyting that's killed my peers, so I'll survive this.

I'm just special, like Camel cigarettes ("They're not for everyone"). But I could do with a hump or two ; )

Monday, February 20, 2006

No Contact tonight.

I was looking forward to the Contact Improv class. I’d had a couple of tries at this kind of moving contact dancing with partners recently at Confester gatherings, and liked the idea of experiencing human contact without being worried about sexual rejection or physical attack. In fact, it was when first practicing Contact Improv with my friend Gadget that I became aware of my body’s automatically fearful reactions when touched without knowing the outcome. I tense, fully alert and aware and ready to try and save myself from an imminent attack. Not surprising when one starts life as a baby being under constant painful physical attack from an angry three year old, and then grows up as a queer in a society where many queers, including many personally known, are horribly assaulted and murdered, and then has to process the threats from straight men homicidally incited merely by the fact of one's transsexuality. But it’s a different world now, and I am much less likely to be horribly mutilated, and I want to feel touch without fear, and I think I need to feel touch or I cry too much.

When I met Gadget as arranged in Newtown at 6:30pm, he told me that he'd learned that afternoon that the Contact Improv class starts at 6pm, not, as he'd previously advised, 7pm. I went along anyway, but didn't feel comfortable joining in when I saw the crowd of people writhing separately on the floor. I told Gadget that I needed to come at the beginning of the class, maybe next time, and went to leave. He questioned me on this, insisting everyone was just warming up/doing their own thing. My feelings not being valid enough apparently, I searched for a rationale, and told him that I wasn't comfortable interrupting the energies, the atmosphere, the vibe that had been set up. He didn't easily accept that I had any valid reason to go. Maybe I didn't. Maybe I'm just letting my fear/belief of being hurt or rejected cripple me. But I'm trying to work through this, but one step at a time. And that means joining a class at the beginning, not half way through. Anyway, I left, he stayed, and I cried some of the way home because I had been looking forward to safe human contact, and was now conscious of the lack of that and the lack of chance of this lack changing and how I feel when people reject me from human society because I am a faggot cunt, to quote one random stranger who yelled this at me on the way there. I wish I had been with a friend who could have noticed how uncomfortable I was and walked with me. Or maybe he's right and I am being unreasonable and there is no point in him ruining his contact experience because I have too many issues to just join in with a group of strangers who have already bonded and know the agenda. There you go, wrote like that, I probably was being unreasonable. Too needy. Can't just go with the flow when I feel great fear.


The good side is that I got some much needed shopping done in Newtown, and will have food for breakfast tomorrow.

The bad news is that the contact class starts at 6pm, and I don't know if I can get away from work early enough. (My office closes at 6pm)

Ah, I could manage it if I wanted. But I think it's the sort of thing I need a friend at, someone who will be there for me, and leave with me even if I am being unreasonable and terrified. I think I'm too much effort for Gadget, and that's fair enough to him to set his boundaries and do his own thing.

Maybe I'll feel better later, and get to the start of next week's class, by myself if necessary.


I have to do something. I can't just rely on my poor housemate to bear the burden of touching me because no one else will. I won't be an endless burden.

But I have to regularly experience being truly accepted by other humans as an okay human even if I am not a man or a woman, okay to be part of all the other things healthy humans do together, including touching, and even being considered suitable for sex.

Not tonight, I guess, but, "This too will pass."

:/

Thursday, February 16, 2006

The Drought has Broken, but Occasionally so is My Spirit

I pretty much had a breakdown at Confest when everyone called me "he", which means that to all the straight men there I am unfuckable.

I managed to get lucky (yes, with the requisite turgidity) last Friday week at Aarows (the non-discriminating SOPV in Rydalmere), which at least gives me proof that in practice at least (and that IS where it counts!), those academic wankers who claim that bisexuality in men is false are wrong wrong wrong wrong. The man who pursued me told me he was bisexual, and that he liked me in particular for having a two-sexed body.

But I got cocky about looking boyish, with my body slimmed down to muscle, and this Sunday night got rejected by every cute Asian guy at the sauna in Sussex St last Sunday. If I can rejected by so many gay men, then I am not an attractive boy.

I think I have to cease this pursuit. The rejection really depresses me, no matter how I try to rationalise it away, and I am so emotionally crippled I find it hard or impossible to face my work in a highly sexed sexual health organisation. I am surrounded by people who can get sex fairly easily, when the converse is my current experience.

Everything about my life is great, except for the starvation of my skin. Worse, being conscious of this hunger only drives people away. The standard options do not work for me. I am simply not an off-the-shelf human, and therefor off-the-shelf solutions are often innappropriate.

But I am often in a state of near-panic, when I think about not knowing where if anywhere the next touch will come from.


I might dig out the stockings and suspenders and try my luck on the streets of East Sydney. Maybe I can sell what I can't give away.

More importantly, I hope I can avoid the thought/s that lead to panic, fear, and depression. So I don't now how or where or if the next touch is coming. If it doesn't come, I hope God puts me out of my misery quickly. See, that's the sort of overdramatic crap I have to deal with. It's not an all or nothing deal, norrie. We've improved from no sex at all (2004), to a little sexual touch (2005), and a complete fuck already in 2006. Things are getting better, and I'm only feeling so bad because my body didn't dare tell me before about how bad it felt about not being touched.

Hey, if any of my friends read this, offer me a hug. I haven't been historically good at offering or asking for one, but a bit more caring human warmth and pressure on my chest saves my skin from panicking. And I'm probably okay to hug, although I may feel a bit weird compared to men or women

Tuesday, February 14, 2006

Some non-gay identifying man-who-I-find-attractive will find me attractive

After a couple of days of abject depression, I set myself on a mission yesterday to find a thought better than "no man really fancies me". This terrorist thought was the result of me looking at my actual sex life this year, with three encounters and no..ah.. G-spot satisfaction... and concluding that the evidence is that guys just don't find me sexually arousing enough to sustain the required turgidity. However, after it rendered me incompetent for daily life, I had to track down, tackle and interrogate the terrorist thought, and got it to confess that the survey had only been of basically gay-identifying guys. So, I am banking on Bailey being wrong (Michael Bailey is a questionable academic who claims there is no such thing as bisexuality in men), and nurturing as a reasonable expectation the thought that some non-gay identifying man-who-I-find-attractive will find me attractive. Now, THIS IS a victory in the War on Terror! A terrorist thought has been tracked down, interrogated, and persuaded to surrender and turn its previously destructive energies to the service of the common good.

Some non-gay identifying man-who-I-find-attractive will find me attractive.

This is an important life-sustaining part of my belief structures.

Some non-gay identifying man-who-I-find-attractive will find me attractive.

Monday, February 13, 2006

Swings and Aarows

Well, I've been to Aarows four times now, had sex twice, had no penetrative sex, given one guy an orgasm, and had no orgasms myself. I reckon I've given it a fair enough go to reasonably conclude it may not be worth the time and bother for such a poor return. The guys are not going there expecting to be intimate with someone with a vagina. I should just be grateful nobody slapped me, I guess. At least gay men don't threaten me with physical violence, as straight men have.

And every weekend, I hope I may meet someone I find attractive who finds me attractive, and I do mean in more than an abstract asthetic sense. And after every weekend night, I am left with a horrid emotional hangover, an abyssmal primal fear that I have manoevered myself into an unfuckable package.

I get out there, I knock myself out, I'm in the cutting edge live cabaret, I'm well in public sight, I'm dancing up a storm at the Shift, I am well networked with various social circles of vital creative and interesting people. Yet, three years after separating from my last personal relationship, well, I'm still single. And, for over a year now, unfucked.

This weekend my horror was intensified by a chapter about the Five Tibetan Rites. I've been doing these for a couple of months now, and the effects are remarkable. But now the sixth rite is revealed, and its prerequesite: Abstinence! When I lift my head up and take a long view of my sex life, it can be interpreted as leading from a rich and varied pornucopia through steadily diminishing steps and ever more innappropriate and unrewarding lovers towards a monastic existence.

Well, I suppose I am living the monastic existence now, but I cannot accept this.

Ah, a dissonance with reality.

I am not happy with not ever having sex.

However, my current reality is that I am not having sex.

I am mostly happy with my current reality.

I just don't like the bit about not having sex. I don't want to never have sex. I like how I feel when I think about being found attractive. I like how I feel when I think about being close to someone I am attracted to. I don't like the feeling I get when I think about no man finding me attractive. I don't even know if it's true that no man finds me attractive. I just know that I've been out there for quite a while now, doing my best to be on the sexual market, and while women express strong interest me, men only express interest until they realise I am not whichever gender they prefer, that is, a man with a penis or a woman with breasts or breeding potential or at least a body more feminine that an underweight eunuch who won't even take hormones can achieve, or an exotic transsexual who presents femininely but posseses male genitals. There is a clear and present demand for all those kinds of people. There seems to be no demand at all for the kind of androgynous person I am (basically, an effeminate but feral boy with a vagina and no dick).

So, it gets back to that old universal fear, nobody loves me-in-particular.

I know that's severely untrue, but it does seem possible that no man finds my gender sexually attractive.

If that's true, I can't win,and there is nothing to be gained by presuming this to be true.
So, I shall carry on as if my greatest fear has not been made manifest, as it is irrational, unhelpful, and destructive.

I shall continue with the Five Tibetan Rites, but not the sixth, because I don't want to choose celibacy. Even if it might have already been chosen.

I have to admit, that is a possibility, that is, I may have chosen celibacy already, for I certainly chose this body, to manifest this particular (androgynous) gender, even if I did not choose this gender.

Perhaps I can console myself with the platitude that there is someone for everyone. But I have no blind faith in this, and it may be more useful for me to embrace celibacy, instead of plotting and pleading and railing against it.

I am tauter and fitter than I have ever been, but I feel fat and unattractive today, dressed in black to minimise my repulsive middle age spread, craving chocolate in lieu of love.

Fuck this, I'm going to get me comics(they're waiting in the shop), and escape this self-pity parade for a while at least. It's Christmas, after all, and shopping therapy is de rigeur.

May Santa not leave your stocking unstuffed.

Sunday, February 12, 2006

Aarows sauna

A sauna/sex on premises venue way out in the suburbs, about an hour on public transport from my home on The Block, but their website said they don't discriminate on sexuality or gender grounds. So a friend and I went out there a couple of weeks ago, and I finally broke the drought.

Well, near enough; At least I found someone willing to give my skin contact with his skin. But he either had had a hard day or a busy night already, or perhaps there is no real bisexuality in men, for he was not able to sustain the turgidity required for intercourse.

I have been a little rattled by a recent academic assertion discrediting male bisexuality as a preference, and have yet to find personal evidence that it is possible for a man to be sexually aroused by both of my genders. If they see me as a guy, I can fellate them successfully, but they don't (successfully) fuck me. If they see me as a girl, they'll fuck me, but they won't appreciate my boyish chest.


I scored on a Friday night, and tried again just over a week later, but Monday night is a bit quiet.


I don't know how this will go. Either my sexual confidence will be totally destroyed in this place, or I will get taken to heaven.

Saturday, February 11, 2006

Not so Cruisy

Cruising practice not as possible as envisaged. Not allowed into Cruise Lounge of SOPV (Sex On Premises Venue) in Chinatown. Told it's for men only. Must've been the way I walked/stood/talked, but I'd used up all my courage just getting up the stairs and asking where the Lounge was, so I just turned around, and went back to a safe gay bar on Oxford St that let me in but gave me very little chance of getting laid :(

Evidently consumerist sex is off the menu for me. Back to other things, then, and the comfort of a warm alcoholic glow.

My comics love me. My cat loves me. My planet loves me. (I mean, the sunshine and the air and the wind and the grass and the trees and the ground and the birda and the animals and the clouds, not necessarily the nations that constitute the global body politic.)I don't have a normal gender or sex, but I can sing and dance and I have a fit and flexible androgynous body that suiyts me and an IQ of 138 and I'd rather be me than anyone else, and I don't want to be celibate, but if the choice ie between that and compromising my integrity (because If I put on a normal gender presentation, male or female, I can attract partners, but they are attracted to the illusion, and lose interest if or when they find the real androgynous me underneath)... well, nothing is worth more than my integrity, and I know that I can, by God, survive anything.

And somedays I just wish my skin was not so hungry, or that I could relax and have faith that it will be touched by another, or that it does not really need to be touched, or that I could at least go a few hours without thinking about wanting to be touched.

But I still manage to haul myself out of bed for some Tibetan exercise and hope that making my body thinner might help it get touched. Hey, something's bound to work someday, hey.

Friday, February 10, 2006

A Tale of Lady Jane Beach

It's astonishing that someone who has had a broader range of sexual experience than anyone who hasn't been a young queen working in a gay nightclub, a tranny on the gay and lesbian scene, or a sex worker on the street, should discover how far behind they are the basic common sexual techniques of"picking up". I guess I've avoided this gap by having proscribed roles, such as the flirtatious glass collector, or the intriguing transsexual, or the professionally available sex worker, but I have never managed to get the hang of cruising.

Cruising.

Just sitting around, looking for sex, looking like you're looking for sex, realising that everyone else looking can tell you are doing nothing but sitting and looking for sex, but then, that's what most of them are doing too, and we are all vulnerable, all having to expose ourselves to the reality that some of the people we are looking at will look away, and some of the people we wish would look at us never do, and sometimes it's really hard to tell if you are being looked back at or if he's just looking around or looking at someone behind you, or maybe he is looking at you, and he is looking in your direction still, and you are trying to combine looking casually around so not everyone else knows you are staring at him, and looking at him enough so that if he is looking at you he knows that you are looking at him, and he stands up and he is half standing up, you're at a nude beach and while it's about twenty metres away you can just see, without making it too obvious you want to ravenously stare, more than half a stiffie, propping out the undies he's just put on, and your breathing changes, and you realise you don't know what happens next, and if you allow your body to move or stretch or relax everyone knows what you are thinking because your body language is big and girly and mercilessly reveals your most personal and intimate sexuality to anyone watching.

And you maybe get enough sense to think Oh so casually that maybe that's enough beach for the day, and ever so casually not looking at him get dressed, and notice he is sitting at the base of the stairs, and he starts up the stairs as you approach, and what happens now, isn't this what's supposed to happen next, but what do you do now, you don't know, there's no map, no guide book, no friends giving instruction, advice or support, you're on your own, entirely and absolutely, on your own with the most important and meaningful thing in your life at stake, and you are walking behind him up the stairs and hill, slowing down from your normal pace to keep pace with him, and you are raw and exposed and bursting with emotion, and you pass him and begin hyperventilating, your breath almost overwhelmed with the huge electric charge hanging in the air, and you pass the toilets, and is that where you are supposed to go, and you realise you have no idea what happens next, what to do next, you can’t just casually wander into the men’s toilet when you are habituated to the plumbing facilities more in line with your plumbing facilities, you don’t really want to be intimate in the ladies loo either, and you sense this is deviating from what normally happens in cruising on this beach, it feels like that dream where you are on stage and everyone is watching you and you don’t know the next line, and you can't talk to him anyway because you'd sound like a panting puppy, so you walk on, and you sit down on a bench hoping he might come and sit next to you, but after about five minutes an old fat man has perched nearby, so you return to the roadway, and that's the last you see of the tall slim delicious looking man.

And you tell yourself that you didn't blow it all by yourself, he could have said something too as you passed him, or maybe you should have glanced at him as you passed him, yes, that might have helped, but you were embarrassed by your panting and drooling and anxious look of hunger, but next time you can keep your breath under control enough to say hello, and you assure yourself that you'll be okay even if you say something and he wasn't interested in you in the first place, because you've done nothing wrong, and the knockbacks are not what counts, they just don't matter, they are statistically inevitable but of absolutely no harm unless you choose to be negatively focussed, and you realise you can do this, this terrifying thing absolutely on your own without a safety net, this matter of utmost importance without any idea of what's beyond the next step, and not a very clear idea of what the next step is, you can do this, sitting around and exposing your desire, exposing your raw hungry vulnerable humanity, and you can do more of it without fear, and maybe that tent-pole was for you, and you can cruise, and maybe one time not too far away you can pick up, and you feel more confident that can happen than you have felt in a very very long time.

The important step, I think, was recognising the panic, and resolving to choose a more useful response next time. There’s not much I can do if I have let my breath go and can’t speak. But I can notice when it is getting ragged, and reign it in. I know how to do this; I’ve done Pranayama (yogic breathing), I can do this. And not let fear of rejection keep me from living. Throw that dice, lose five out of six times, so what, there's nothing bet if you lose, and the more you play, the more you can win. Throw that dice, safe in the knowledge that you may not win everytime, but there's actually nothing to lose that you don't already lose by not playing.

And hey, I could do with more practice, but I have learned that I can cruise. And my homework is: more cruising practice.

Thursday, February 09, 2006

A Eunuch Sex Life

For those who disdain matters of the fundament, please consider yourself fairly warned by the plain title. This post and comments are about the sex life of a human being. If this is disinteresting or repugnant to you, just don't read it.

This disclaimer is probably only regarded as neccesary because of the programming I've inherited from my own parents, who were raised with very reactionary principles aimed at controlling human nature in service to authoritarianism or a diligent breeding program; I've never really been able to identify the supposed beneficiaries of conventional sexual morality of Great Britain/White Australia circa 1950-1980. But a repressed human is easier to subjugate and control. On the other hand, a human free to maximise the power of their libido can seem terrifying to uptight conservatives. Perhaps I am only free from the limits of my sick and perverse conditioning (as I now judge the repressive sexual slavery beaten into children as "morality") because I have removed the prime physical location of these proscriptions, that is, I have removed my genitals.

For those seeking salacious stimulation, well, I hope something erotically postive happens eventually, but the purpose of this blog is to truthfully explore, and frankly, there's not been much sexual satisfaction in the last few years. However, you may find my adventures amusing, instructive as cautionary tales, or of obscure morbid interest.