A Eunuch's Love Life

Neither M nor F: Australians can tick the X box - Monsters and Critics

2011-09-17T22:34:00.000+10:00

Neither M nor F: Australians can tick the X box - Monsters and Critics

glam nudep

2011-09-17T22:29:00.000+10:00

photo by Hugo Rourke, hair by Ummi

Gender X | gaelick

2011-09-17T22:16:00.000+10:00

Gender X | gaelick

tasteful full frontal nude by photographer Hugo Rourke

2011-09-06T23:22:00.002+10:00

YouTube - Norrie L party-going home

2011-05-25T14:09:00.000+10:00

YouTube - Norrie L party-going home

An Hour in the Life of a Spansexual Sex Worker

2011-04-15T16:56:00.000+10:00

Open publication - Free publishing - More adult comics

Trans* Love Week: Trans Affirmations

2011-02-11T11:36:00.000+11:00

"Being Trans* is Really Fucking Cool"

2011-02-11T11:29:00.000+11:00

AnonOps Communications: Operation Bling - Join Us!

2010-12-30T18:20:00.000+11:00

AnonOps Communications: Operation Bling - Join Us!: "Julian Assange and Wikileaks have only served as catalysts for a revolution that has been long overdue, a revolution in which the people of ..."

Followed home from the pub

2010-03-28T22:09:00.000+11:00

I had noticed the dishy lanky boy, but he seemed a little effeminate, and happy to be monopolised by the older man chatting him up, so I figured there was no point in me making eyes at him. He was part of a group I was drinking with at the Landsdowne, after some of them had played a band gig there. I actually thought I was going home alone when I headed out after closing time, but was pleasantly surprised when the lanky lad followed me from the pub, and shared my umbrella with me.

On the excuse of having time to kill before the trains started running, he came back to my place, and asked for Australian comedy on video. The closest I had was the Aunty Jack show, and so we flirted like awkwardly shy teenagers on the couch while a large moustached man in grandma drag danced to a bean pole falsetto on piano. The boy tapped his hand rythmically next to my thigh, I tapped back, he put this hand over my thigh, and I sprung onto his lap.

I had no idea what sex he thought I was, and when his hand felt my crotch I was prepared for it going either way, but he was happy enough to continue, and in short order we were upstairs and naked.

He'd cast me as sexually adventurous, I'd guess, for he asked if he could have anal sex, as he'd never done that before. He was so beautiful he could have whatever he wanted, I figured, but I wasn't sure what he was asking for, so to clarify, I said "on me or on you?", waited a pause, and before he could freeze, offered "oh on me of course, silly me!", and laughed, but it really could have gone either way.

It was okay, but reminded me I really prefer using my purpose built entrance, even if I can remember how to do what I did before i had that option.

He had the same name as my housemate, but luckily my housemate was out that night, so i didn't have to worry about him freaking out hearing me call his name in ecstasy : )

Yum, dishy lanky muso boys. I think muso is a whole other sexual category, like gay, straight, and dancer. Dancers are beautiful, but really into themselves, while musos are beautiful souls, and really into sharing pleasure and responding to the flow.

Or I'm just a salacious old queen into very attractive young men, and miraculously I get lucky every now and again.

X

2009: an odd year with the odd bonk for this odd bod ; )

2009-12-25T22:14:00.001+11:00

John, the beautiful Chinese boy, saw me for over a year, as it turned out. He came back from China and took up seeing me on weekly basis again, then asked if he could crash for a few weeks while he was between houses. So, he stayed two months, and more than wore out his welcome, and only left after I threatened to become loud and dramatic. If I can't sleep properly (and I can't if there's a sex addict wanking perennially* with a laptop on the bed), I get sick, and ended up being rushed to hospital in an ambulance with respiratory/circulation/muscle/joint difficulties, and spent September recovering.

I had four other lovers this year, two while John was in China, and a couple after October.

Crusty, a blast from the past, also wore out his welcome. I've known him for over twenty years, since he was 19, and he's still physically sexy, a great rarity in heterosexual forty year old men IMMHO, but alas, after a day of happy bonking and carousing, spent two days lying in my bed eating my food and trying to cadge as much of a free ride as possible before I lined up the Caroline Street squad (my housemate and his friends, and a couple of neighbours) to see him on his way.

On the happy first day, I made the mistake of saying the F word in bed. I mentioned how seeing him repeatedly over such a length of time seemed like a bit of a romantic fantasy to me, resembling as it does a long term relationship. Anyway, he seized the F word, and asked if I'd fulfill one of HIS fantasies, so i shrugged off my romantic notions and strapped on what was required to give him a jolly good rogering.

Surprisingly also with a theme of sexual ambiguity was my encounter with an Arabian prince, who came on to me at a nightclub thinking I was a draq queen, but who was happy to take me for a hot roll in the park though we only had one sausage between us ; )

The Arabian prince met me at the beginning of the year at the Carnival of Electric Illusions, and a Gypsy prince met me at the last Carnival of the year. Then there was the Australian-born Vietnamese guy I met on an internet dating site, rounding my love life out to four more or less casual bonks and one up and down affair, and overall, a marked increase in the quality of the lovemaking ; )

*perennially.. look it up, it's not as much fun as it sounds ; )

Loving Love

2009-03-12T10:52:00.000+11:00

My dishy boy regular bed partner for the last nine months has left for the last time, leaviing for China tomorrow, then off to explore some other country. I cry a little if I get sad about losing him, but I am losing nothing.. they come and they go, what I love is the feeling of loving skin on skin, and the genesis of this sensational circumstance is not inherent only in him, but rather, inherent to being a social human being, OIOW, what's got me what I got before will get me that again. But nyeah, part of me likes being a sooky romantic, and it's nice to reflect on our relationship...

I learned more about his plans for his life last night than in the previous nine months put together. He's industriously working as much as possible for the next few years, as he has been for the past couple of years, with the goal of using his amassed capital to go into business, maybe some kind of shop. ( Our understanding was somewhat limited by language limitations, with me not knowing much Chinese, and his English not so practised).

He confirmed again that I had been his first sex partner, and it's sweet to think I'l always be his first lover.. and okay to appreciate he's just one of hundreds (or thousands) for me, there is no sadness in his leaving, just remembered joy in his coming...

And gratitude to the cosmos for such transcendent beauty! Beholding it, I am willingly beholden to its creator, who manifests for me as love.

It's just a different frame for seeing my own story, rather than how much money I have, or what the boss thinks of me, or whatever else might constitute my personal narrative.

I love the love, and the Love loves me.

Ohm

Changing Stories

2008-10-04T20:58:00.000+10:00

I started the year with a nervous breakdown, telling myself a very unhappy story, losing faith that I could be happy as an androgyne, combining an eccy comedown with an unflattering look back on my love life, and agreeing to take hormones to fit into a gender-binarised mating market. Seeing my glass half empty, I was prescribed anti-depressant medication. Four months later, waking up after a parasuicidal episode, I decided to change the story I was telling myself, and quit both the sex-normalising and mood-normalising drugs.

I had been telling myself I was unlovable, or that no one but me saw my body as attractive. I decided to change the story, and instead of seeking attention while feeling deprived of it, simply pay attention to my surroundings. I became more relaxed in social situations, taking things as they are, instead of projecting my anxieties. I became more relaxed with and accepting of who I am, as a human being with a strong sexual and sensual nature. I wiggled my hips without running an inner monologue denouncing me as a hussy. I came to appreciate that movement and clothing are both languages. I claimed my being, and managed to build a happier picture of how I fit into the sexuality of my species. I’m not a universally desired supermodel, but neither am I unfuckable. Like most people, enough people will find me interesting to keep life interesting, IF I’d rather believe that story, than construct some epic drama with me as central victim.

The epic drama was very engaging, my brain loved thinking thoughts that made it the centre of attention, and there was so much rationale for me being the star victim, neither man, woman or glamorous transsexual, separated from my species by their faith in the gender divide, but it didn’t have a good outcome.

The truth is that I don’t have to be limited by other people’s ideas, and in this post-modern world, I can find enough people whose ideas are inclusive of my reality, or at least, who accept me and themselves without strict observance of polarised gender (that is, who can relate to me without having to fix me as either the same or the opposite sex). And besides, those who can step outside of rigid gendered expectations are much more interesting as intelligent beings than those who can’t. Being considered too weird by people I’d consider too boring is a blessing for both parties.

Diversity abounds in nature, and the loonies at either end of the distribution curve are as much a necessary part of the whole mix as the bulk in the mainstream. Without the leaven, the loaf is flat. Without the bulk of the bread, that is, the flour, there is no loaf. Both the mass and the marginal are necessary for this loaf that is life.

The more I was relaxed about my being and allowed its own peculiar expression, the more people whose being complemented my own featured in my life. The more I told myself the story about me being happy and loved and loving as I am, the more I experienced this.

A man is what he thinks about all day long. Ralph Waldo Emerson

I became more consciously disciplined about this, and whenever I caught myself thinking a victim thought, redressed it, for the truth is that my experience of life is heavily influenced by the stories I am telling myself, and, as I’ve said, as rewarding for the ego as victimhood is, the life quality results are not good. It doesn’t matter if many or even most people reject me as an unsexed neuter. Some people see I’m sexy, and they’re generally much sexier people than the masses.

Of course, it’s all a matter of perspective, and for someone whose priority in a relationship is making babies, any fertile person of the complementary gender will be more attractive than me. But I have an appeal for those interested in the unique, in the androgynous, or in the essentially human, stripped of imposed gender. Or maybe someone will just think my love of Dr Who makes me irresistible. Whatever, it’s important for me to tell myself stories where I am attractive and lovable in my world.

Many of my peers from when I was twenty or thirty despaired about aging, and often said they wanted to die young and beautiful, but I am glad I rejected their ageism, for now I am middle aged, and much better looking than the corpses they left. And I have found people who don’t buy the lie sold to us by the corporations that we have to look as if we are in the peak age range for fertility, and hide all signs of our actual age. Those people are of better value to me, for they are interested in engaging with me as a human being, not as an object to manipulate in the games of one-upmanship that seem to dominate mainstream culture.

I’ve held out against the delusions of the mainstream, for they never seemed consistent, logical, useful or sustainable to me, and I’ve joined those agitating for recognizing the intrinsic value of each person, and for more loving and humane ways of interacting that are aimed at increasing the common well being, rather than a fight to the top of a pyramid made of the beaten or the exploited. I had a glitch at the start of the year, but my non-mainstream nature has reasserted itself, and I have awoken to find myself surrounded by loving freaks, a whole social scene of people accepting of people per se, free from the mainstream consumerist or competitive or conformist cultures.

It is almost as if I was a young idealist who stuck to their ideals despite the isolation this once meant, and lived long enough to see enough people share my progressive ideals that I can actually be this odd AND have a full social life.

“You have to fit in” is a story the mainstream tell, and it is soul destroying to those of us on in the pointy ends of the distribution curve.

“You belong just as you are” is a much more loving story.

Which is true for you is pretty much dependent on which story you choose to tell yourself.

In an interconnected universe, every part is part of the perfect functioning of the whole. In this story, my being is supported both visibly and invisibly, rationally and irrationally, by the whole universe, and I don’t have to worry about maintaining any particular state, for all is in flux, and I am happier going with the flow (and yes, the cosmic flow is usually somewhat different to the mainstream consensus of one particular kind of primate on one planet at one time in the vast history of everything).

I never expected to be where I am, but I’d rather appreciate it on its own terms, than compare it to my expectations.

I’m not employed currently, but I don’t base my sense of self on a contractual survival arrangement, that is, I am not my job, and what I do for a living primarily is… breathe.
{Although, since first drafting this, I have scored a good lead on what seems like a dream job…A lot can happen in a few hours if you pay attention and respond mindfully..)

I have such a rich social life with free thinking people, the In-Crowd, the It Scene, the writhing creative folk that the mainstream only sees in a copy of a copy made for the masses, that is, I am part of the real scene faintly reflected in Rocky Horror or Priscilla. I enjoy seeing my friends present gobsmacking avant-garde entertainment, and they are kind enough to welcome my less outré offerings, giving me a spot to sing at the queer anarchist party this weekend. My sex life has been regular enough and quality enough to keep me happy and healthy, and I appreciate other less sexual but also important intimacies such as sharing pheromones with my species. I enjoy doing the cartoon for the local independent newspaper, and being part of the supportive group behind this paper, including the small but committed congregation of my local Uniting Church (yeah, I certainly never saw that coming after reading the homicidal injunctions in Deuteronomy and rejecting religious authority as an intelligent teenager.. but luckily my church and my Jesus are not into imposing authority). My best friend (truly, his friendship is proof of divine intervention) is overseas, but I am enjoying missing him, after so many years of isolated independence. I no longer experience my differences as isolating, as I have friendship with a wide group of non-mainstream individually expressive loving people who believe in promoting the wellbeing of all humanity, that is, from the mainstream point of view, I am but a freak among freaks, and loving it!

Last night at the Chess Club in an anarchist warehouse space epitomised my happiness when I was awarded a hand-made medal, a badge decorated with chess pieces, and announced as Chess Club Warrior, followed by winning two very exciting games of chess with an utterly beautiful boy who is on the front lines at pro-environmental and social justice demos, which frankly made my vulva pulse.

This is the story I am telling myself, that my life is good, that I am a loved and valued part of the universe and of the whole interconnected human family.

What stories do you tell yourself?

hotski muso pashed me on the dancefloor

2008-09-21T22:22:00.002+10:00

hotski muso pashed me on the dancefloor
while we were dirty dancing

Oh God it was so hot

I was so tired, and this dream was suddenly happening, 3am at an anarchists' party-athon in Sydenham, and I had already decided to go home after one last dance..

And suddenly this hot guy I had thought beyond my chance of winning the affections of is holding my hands on the dancefloor, spinning me, taking me in close, so close, and after a hot dance of faces that lasted minutes, kissed me...

I shelved my disbelief and gave myself to the moment, letting him eat my face to the music, feeling his boy part on my girl part as we thrust and undulated together, falling into his eyes...

Going weak at the knees, only partly from having been on tippy toes kissing this man breathless for half an hour, I decided I needed some elevation, and instinctively put my hand flat on his flat abs, and instantly my spine was erect.

Ooh ooh

Spring has sprung

Feeling the love

2008-08-25T12:27:00.001+10:00

So anyway, I haven't been on line for weeks, due to a Telstra fault and then a computer glitch, but the phone line was fixed a fortnight ago, and a refugee activist friend came over today and fixed everything up, so thanks, Motahar!

While I've been offline, my life has been going swimmingly. I had a tiff (not too fine a point to put on 't) with my housemate, but came to my senses (after 3 days, could have been less, could have been more, whatever...) and waged peace instead, and he has since extended his planned stay, so I am quite flattered that I hold a good space. I'm not disturbed by how nasty I can be, for I appreciate my animal powers too, but it is my choice to use my powers for good, and life is much more rewarding that way.

I had a whole crisis of faith in myself this year, thinking I might be unloveable in my androgynous state beyond the gender binary, and ended up on hormones and antidepressants for three months before my narcissistic androgynous integrity reasserted itself, and I returned to my natural beautiful nymphomaniacal eunuch state.

For the past few years, I had been despondent of ever finding a person who fancied me who I fancied, and was wondering if the gender-binarists were right, and even when I went back off hormones, I wasn't sure if I could be sexually attractive, but I knew I had to be myself to like my self, and having the androgynous body I love is very important to me, and faking my existence with hormones and a normative gender that just doesn't quite fit me was just not worth living.

Then, a month ago, slogging through reams of crossed agendas in response to an internet dating ad finally paid off, and I've discovered actual proof that the sort of boy I think is heaven on a stick can actually be turned on by me, and whether it develops into more than a month of very sexy sex or not, I now have confidence in my sexuality again.

The lack of confidence had been the problem. Every time a hot guy looked at me, I'd assume he was checking out someone behind me, instead of engaging him. Fear is the mind killer.

The sexiest thing about my August fuck buddy/sleeping companion, is that his skin feels just like mine. Chinese boys feels like Celtic eunuchs. Being physically loved by him has led to me being in love with myself. However will the marketers sell me anything now?

I am a very happy little post-modern post-transsexual sexy freaky geek, in a universally interconnected Universe that obviously loves me very much.

May you too feel the love, and fear less.

A Profitable and Grand Adventure

2008-07-21T02:26:00.001+10:00

Wednesday night, struggling to stay interested after nearly two hours on killer heels standing on William St, just had a joint, and a man asks if she'll meet him in his hotel room, travelling separately, so she takes the proffered hotel swipe card and ten bucks cab fare, and manages to get an address that is only the room number, hotel name, and street name.

Her cab cannot drop her off at the hotel, as there are late-night roadworks blocking the city centre, but the direction he points her in turns out to be woefully wrong. One of her shoes loses its rubber sole as she exits the cab, and she nearly slips over crossing the street, but manages to re-assert her balance on the slippery slate surface. "How do I not fall over?" one internal voice asks her. "Because I'm fucking amazing," answers another.

The workmen are looking at her, she knows, men always look, and she is the only female around, not to mention looking like a cartoon hooker, decked up on seven-inch platform stilettos and a long fur coat, on a mission that is exactly what it looks like.

The roadworks force her to take a long diversion around town, click-clack, click-clack, click-clack, quarter to two in the morning, a cartoon hooker in a quiet town asleep but for the workmen and various straying drunks.

She gives up on finding the hotel on the long street by herself, settles down in a doorway, and rings directory assistance on the mobile. Has to call twice, as she didn't have a pen out the first time, and didn't know the directory number for direct connections. She scratches the hotel number on a packet of cigarette papers, and makes the call. It rings out. She pauses for a moment, discards despair, chooses resoluteness, redials. This time, an answer, and she discovers the hotel is at the OTHER end of town. Careful of the shoe with no grip, she resurrects her towering hooker character, and swings back the way she came.

She hears a group of drunk men behind her. She keeps up her own pace, rapid small steps on the platform stillies, and slowly outdistances them. She passes two boys dressed in school uniforms sitting in a doorway, overhearing "This drug is make of pure chemical", as she passes. She doesn't look at them, but knows they are looking at her. She smiles at the adventure of being a hooker walking through town to a ritzy hotel after 2 in the morning.

She finds the rubber sole of her shoe where the cab had dropped her, and continues down to the hotel. She wonders if her customer is still waiting for her. The swipe card lets her into the lobby, works in the lift, and opens the room door, but for the internal catch chain.

The man is surprised, he thought she wasn't coming, but he invites her in as he undoes the chain. She explains the reason for the delay, and asks what he wants to do, given that he may not still be in the mood. He's still in the mood, he insists, and invites her to join him in the shower he was about to have. As she is undressing, he passes the money to her without her having to ask for it, the amount as agreed in their brief negotiation on the street.

He has nearly finished showering by the time she is naked but for her hat. She had shaved her head a week ago, and was a little shy of shocking a big man in a strange hotel room, so she wore her red beret into the shower compartment, offering to soap his back for him.

With a little goodwill, one thing leads to another, and soon he was giving her a fabulous hand job in the shower, as she arches her head back and silently screams "I LOVE this job!"

He hadn't been sure of his capacity to perform, he'd told her, as he'd been drinking for hours, but he was cooperative, and she was enthusiastic, so he managed to project the turgidity she required to pound her G-spot well and truly in a jolly good round of rogering. He said he wasn't sure if she was faking, but she was convincing. She replied that it was easier to just enjoy it than to fake it, and continued throwing herself into it with gusto.

Her hat came off once or twice in the boisterous manoevres, but she simply grabbed it and put in back on without comment.

She finished him off without the condom, by hand, in her favourite jerking off position, with his penis where hers had once been between her legs, and it was just like jerking off as a teenage boy, except her penis was now upside down, but it worked as dependably and ecstatically, and in a very brief time he was spent in her happy hands.

He just wanted to sleep now, so she quickly showered and took her leave, stockings in hand bag, high heels in hand, cunt happily glowing, and she swanned out of the hotel lobby knowing that she looked too much like a hooker in a movie for anyone to think that's what she actually was.

She decided not to waste money on a cab back. A fifteen minute walk was worth saving ten bucks to her, and she didn't want to waste any of her gladly-gotten gains.

Click-clack, click clack, on the slippery shoe, up from this corner of town, across Hyde Park, and back to the bicycle parked on William Street. She accepted being a one-bang wonder, that's the price she paid for throwing herself so much into each job, and she was still glowing as she saddled up and began the half-hour ride home at 4 in the morning.

Actually, she was glowing for DAYS. A most profitable and grand adventure indeed.

Loose Ends ROCKS

2008-06-16T02:57:00.000+10:00

I just ended a very wild and windy night dancing up a storm at Phoenix (Loose Ends) where I fell in love with the DJ Matt Vaughan all over again ; )

And of course, tiny world that it is, I know his boyfriend, and no more can a lady say, but we'll always have the Oxford, darling ; )

I started this wintry eve trying to pull a job on the strasa, but it was dead workwise. Mind you, I'm glad I was there, for I helped save a girl from an abduction.

As soon as I saw this colleague being manhandled by a chap trying to drag her to his car, I began marching as fast as I could on killer stilettoes (which is surprisingly fast) ; ) and since he was still pulling her as I approached, I beeped my horn, the one on my coat you naughty things, and the rapscallion retreated to his compensatory sports car and took off.

Glad I was there.

Then I went back to singing "Wam, Bam, I am, a Man", and so had to go and dance.

Phoenix ROCKED. The bar was closed by the time I cycled there from Meryl, but my fabulous tall friend with impeccable self-style, Faggot Rooster, ushered me with the promise of a few more songs, and the DJ excelled this with a whole hour and a half of hot dancing toons, and I was in heaven rocking out on heels like a superstar at my own private party with all the purty people.

I truly felt the love.

Kudos, y'all!

Whatever

2008-06-15T02:55:00.001+10:00

Last night, after spending an hour naked with me, my customer asked me if I'm a man or a woman. I told him I'd had a sex change, but he still wanted to know if he'd just had sex with a man or a woman. I told him it makes no diff to me whether one says I have a prostate or a G-spot, and he could choose what sex he thought I was, if it really needed to be one or the other. Whatever.

I more or less see myself as a boy with a replicunt, but I have to deal with a society that has other ideas about what a boy is and isn't, and apparently I have been unmanned, for recently I was booted off Manhunt (an internet dating site for men) for allegedly being a woman and "therefor" (presumptiously) not a man.

When I had my boy bits, all of me was a boy, not just the boy bits. Losing them changed not my history, my brain, my XY chromosones, my skeletal structure, my adam's apple, my voice, or even my facial hair (although admittedly it did slow down my beard growth, but it did not remove it entirely).

I do share a lot with that group of people in our world treated badly for being women, and I also identify with that, but I also recognise my identification with feminity preceded me identifying as transsexual, for before that I was a girly boy, which is still a kind of boy.

I went with Best Friend and his boyfriend to a public swimming pool today, and used the male showers with them, because not having bulges in my chest or groin means I can cop flak from the gender police in either changeroom, and I'd rather be with my friends. Sadly, I felt uncomfortable about taking my bathers off in the shower (and therefor looking different and disrupting the atmosphere charged with male sexuality), and about leaving them on (and therefor looking different and feeling like a freak). I wish I'd had the cajones to just take them off, and assert my right to wash like anyone else, even if I don't fit the gender binary.

I pray that next time I will be braver about being true to my own truth and ignoring society's gender binary assumptions.

adult schmuck raker

2008-06-12T02:54:00.000+10:00

Seeking to expand my chances of meeting someone who might fancy me beyond the parameters of my social scene (which is almost exclusively boys only into penis), I put an ad on two internet dating sites, one gay, one straight (I mean, being a boy from the waist up, and a girl below, I gotta try and adapt to the gender binary however I can)... and the standard of responses is poor enough to send me out to the streets for some real life customers, who are generally far better looking than the 100kg neckless wonders trying to pass their bodies off as "average" (and they may be right, God help them) and Gods! How can a 25 year old look so schmuckish???!!! Jesus, I might not get Mr 20YO Nepal again tonight, but I can do better than these frumpy fools, and get paid in the bargain. Laters!

From Nepal with Love

2008-06-04T02:51:00.000+10:00

After yesterday's depression that I related to lack of intimate lovin', I woke up today despairing of abject poverty, and resolved to go out tonight to the street, to maybe kill two birds with one stone.

It wasn't easy leaving my gorgeous housemate, who was happily drunk and trying to make me stay longer with him watching a movie, but I was resolved, and kept getting ready for an hour or so, leaving later than I'd planned, but in time to get to the strasa for peak hour (1am).

As I cycled across town, I prayed to God in her Aphrodite personae to bless me with a customer.

I was barely on William Street five minutes when a cute little twenty year old Nepalese boy propositioned me with a buttock squeeze, and I took him to the safe house brothel that I had previously been banned from.

(The Anti-Discrimination Board recently finalised my complaint with this safe house brothel, which I had avoided since they illegally demanded a certificate of my HIV status, and I got a letter of apology from the management yesterday.)

Anyway, this tasty young lad decided he liked me being older, and sorted me out with a good half hour's rogering, and now I have enough money to pay my tab at the local shop, buy some baccy, and pay back my neighbour, and my prostate is no longer screaming for attention ; )

Part of me still wistfully wishes I could get intimate lovin' other than as a street whore, but on the other hand, ya gotta go with what works.

Thanks be to God!

S.A.D.

2008-06-03T02:49:00.000+10:00

Crap. I've crashed now, can't sleep, keep thinking I have no hope of hooking up with any guy I actually fancy. My brain is stuck in the old "all gay guys want someone with a penis, all straight guys want someone with boobs, and the bi guys want someone with penis or boobs, and I have neither" routine, except now I know I can't grow boobs, cos I am just completely uncomfortable with them on my body.

I am envious of everyone who can hook up, all my friends who can hook up on the internet dating sites, or at parties, or dance clubs, or Sex On Premises Venues (all of which I've tried extensively and heartbreakingly failed at), all my friends who have lots of sex and all the sex partners they want, and even those who are satisfied with cybersex or webcam wanking. I am envious of all those who can get the kind of sexual human contact they want. I am even envious of those who can pay for sex, for I am too freakish even for working boys (as I found out a couple of years ago when I was lonely and rich).

And I feel despair because there is just nothing that works for me except maybe standing in the street in the cold for hours in stilletoes being bored mindless and occassionally getting picked by some stranger who only wants me as a sex worker for a discreet half hour or two.

And I hate not being able to sleep, and having my brain stuck in such depressing thoughts, locked in the pain of emptiness, loneliness, skin hunger and hopelessness.

Geez, I hope it's just S.A.D, Seasonally Affected Disorder, caused by the onset of Winter, and time passing will change my mood or circumstances. Right now my only consolation is that eventually I will be dead.

Phooey. Enough with the Depression! Where's my Mania?!

The Birthday Week from Heaven and Hell

2008-05-31T02:48:00.001+10:00

Birthday party night: Awesome, from the pre-party drinks in the thirtieth story lush apartment of a guy I'd met up with a few times (and entertainied romantic thoughts about, since he first met me after the last Colour Parade, and treated me like a princess at last month's Carnival of Electric Illusions), to Club 77 (for this month's Carnival) where so many of my friends were and we danced like a crowd number in a hot musical, then to Tranny Panic where a sweet guy in drag that I shared a crush with a year ago gave me a birthday present and covered my face in red, amd then to Hermann's which was sadly winding up by the time we arrived, and I was parched, and the bar was closed, and the only way I could get a drink was to invite basically everyone still there back to my place for champagne, and I had the best time with all these hot intelligent guys, especially when two of them played chess with me. I was in queer nerd heaven. Most left at 7am, and others were accommodated with my housemate and my spare room.

The night after the birthday, a lovely intelligent and talented boy who'd been dancing at Club 77 came by for a late visit, and my spare room was used again, and it's nice that intelligent lovely people seem to think my place is a good place to be. Of course, it was an added twist to find out that this boy had spent the previous night crashing at the same apartment where the pre-party drinks had been. Hmmm.

Sunday church had a birthday cake for me, and my best friend joined me there, which is quaint and lovely I think. And I like that I'm so queer I go to church, so there.

Monday I managed to burn out a cartoon for the South Sydney Herald, although I had to hand deliver the original, as I didn't have any access to a scanner, so you'll have to wait to see it here. Maybe I can get it off the minister in the morning (as he'd the newspaper editor too. We work him very hard).

Tuesday found me with enough money to buy a replacement for the part broken in my PC, and I managed to connect all the confusing wires successfully, and we have internet at home again, yay! Computer hardware is way beyond my expertise, but I managed, and impressed myself greatly.

On Wednesday I lugged a very heavy television set halfway around Newtown, because a friend offered it to my housemate for free, and it was much more possible for me to carry it, because I'm very fit and strong : D

Thursday started crap, when the guy I'd been meeting a few times cancelled on a planned excursion Thursday night, which then turned amazingly good when girlyBoyX, who knew I had a overwhelming crush on him, initiated a couple of pashes with me, then turned amazingly bad when I found out afterwards this really was going nowhere else, his sexual interests were still very much elsewhere, and a pash was just fun for him.

Friday was fairly horrid, as I was too heartbroken to sleep till 7am. But the drinking party that night was fun!

Saturday was tough, as I got very drunk at the drinking party, and I was outrageously hungover, and had to postpone my planned trip to the markets to sell stuff, until I could move, by which time it was past 3. Then I dragged a very heavy suitcase stuffed with books all the way from the block to Newtown hub. I only managed to sell one comic for 50c, but got 35 bucks for the rest of it at Gould's on the scrape home (the suitcase wheels came off earlier on the way to Newtown, and by the way, have you noticed Mercury is retrograde?). My empty stomach was gratefully filled when I bumped into Food Not Bombs, who were giving way free vegan food. I now had a full belly, and enough money for tobacco, and to get into Trash & Treasure, the official end of my birthday celebrations for this year.

Just before I was about to go out to Trash & Treasure Saturday night, well, the circumstances were awkward and dramatic but I can't to into details without compromising confidentiality, but that's when girlyBoyX told me he had been out partying for thirty hours with the guy I'd been tentatively seeing, and further that it didn't matter because that guy didn't fancy me anyway, and damn, if girlyBoyX hadn't MSNed him and gone for drinks with him, the result may still have been the same for me, but now I'll never know, and I miss thinking for a few weeks (as I did) that it was possible that some nice guy I knew could fancy me.

Trash & Treasure at the Abercrombie was wonderful, with scores of my friends there, including the sexy people who like to dance, and I let loose, dancing my ass off, getting back to my centre and my core and the Universe flowing through me, and I know my androgynous inheritance is older and deeper and stronger than the gender binary.

As the Abercombie was closing, a group of very sexy friends invited me back to their place, and I do fancy more than one of them, but not the girl who was chasing me, sorry pet, and so to save energy I declined, for I've had an emotionally exhausting week, even more than usual for this little manic depressive, and I didn't have the energy to both deflect the girl's advances and try to get close to one of the boys I fancied (not including the one who had also, according to girlyBoyX, declared he would never have sex with me on the ground I don't have the right parts, and fuck, they could at least wait until I put the hard word on them before they knock me back, and I wish girlyBoyX didn't go around pushing the issue with anyone he knows I fancy).

On the other hand, it's truly magnificent that I have having all this romantic intrigue with hot young intelligent guys even though I'm now well and truly a middle aged queen.

Happy Birthday to me!

Just a little update

2008-04-23T02:45:00.000+10:00

My Best Friend is away on a long road trip for a couple of weeks, so I am compensating by having him here with me on my profile pic.

My schoolgirl crush on girlyBoyX has eased up, in light of my more realistic assessment of their limits, and I am now just deeply in love with all the girly boys in the world. And a couple of tomboy girls ; )

My straight job prospects are looking better, as I am feeling much more competent without the meds, more confident now that I have stopped trying to not be so androgynous, and I have a Diploma in the area I want to return to work in (Community Services), awarded as a work-place assessment by my last employer, when a Certificate 3 is the minimum requirement (and a Diploma is two degrees better). My Job Network provider, who I saw today, has given me confidence that I will be starting appropriate employment real soon.

I have broken free of the chains of normativism, of the bind of gender binary, and of the victimising grip of the Medical-Industrial complex.

And I am very cheered that the song I performed and uploaded a month ago has over a thousand hits! And last night's original song has over a hundred hits already! (These and other songs of mine are posted on youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NrL6toN4GkY )

My genes are millions of years old, my gender is the same as God, and my family is all of humanity.

Limitless Love always triumphs over the limits of Fear and human authoritarianism!

Cheers

2008-04-22T02:43:00.000+10:00

I work up this morning a little sad, the oxytocin aint happening so much, as I am less hopeful that my current intimate attraction will ever be reciprocated, because despite my paramour's profession of genderfluid sexuality, they recently let slip a preference for penis over pussy, and I am neither fish nor fowl.

But I have learned that I can fall in love with someone's body because I have fallen in love with their mind, and therefor it is intellectually concievably possible that someone could likewise fall in love with my body if they fall in love with my mind.

Or do I just fall in love with anyone who shows me some affection, but they are always going to be more attracted to men or women, and I should just be grateful for their company and the limited affection they can bestow on a girlyboy whose dick is shaped like a vagina?

But I am sure now that I don't want to make myself into a man or a woman, because I need to love myself first, and I only feel love for my body and brain as a eunuch with my own body's hormonal influences.

I had an opportunity to hook up with a bisexual adventurer from Adult MatchMaker, but I am now very cold on the idea of giving my intimacy to someone who is not emotionally intimate with me. Which is why I decided to* quit sex work last week (*PS:And while I didn't go out then to the strasa, I did go out a week later to keep the phone and computer connected, in what eventuated to be a movie finish, almost Pretty Woman, but I still have a crush on girly boys, and hey, I crossed the line, I gave him (my last client) my number, cos I want to give God/The Universe as much chance as possible to give me a personal initmate loving relationship) . I'd rather keep my heart's energies for more meaningful relationships, and respect my powerful and vulnerable human emotionality, rather than use my intimate expression to please others without regard for my own emotional and intimate wants (More PS written a week later: But my last client gave me what I needed, met me emotionally, and met quite a few of my intimate wants. Especially when he kissed and held me. Only Love Is.)

I've been off the hormone meds and the antidepressant meds for a couple of weeks now, and I am liking myself a lot more. Today I can content myself with narcissism, although tonight I may wish I had soporific drugs, to dull the craving I get for loving human touch as sleep time approaches. But I've got nearly four litres of wine left, so I should be okay.

Cheers.

Oxytocin

2008-04-11T02:41:00.000+10:00

I am enjoying the blissful action of oxytocin, flooding my brain in reaction to the idea that a cute guy could really possibly find me sexually attractive, me as I truly am, without gender restriction or hormones or anything other than beautiful androgyny manifested. The oxytocin flows as long as I entertain the possibility my infatuation could be reciprocal, and the object of my ardour has fanned this with several pieces of enticing supporting evidence (for the theory of reciprocity), but of course flirtation always allows for plausible deniability.. but I continue to imagine the possibility of consummation, and the oxytocin flows...

This may be some survival mechanism at work. The oxytocin flow started after I had another Heath Ledger day (awoke after taking a bottle of sleeping tablets), and, during discussion with girly BoyX, I decided to go off hormones, because I don't like my body shape or function with them, and it kind of lessens my survival mechanisms if I don't care about the body I'm in, and see it deviate away from the form I really like. Oh, and because BoyX indicated he loved the form I had before, without hormones, and if this is true, it creates the possibility than some other boys will likewise find my androgynous form attractive.

So, with the emotional manoevres of BoyX, and a desire to not lose my sense of self by choosing mainstream options over faith in my own integrity, I resolved to go off the hormones. That was three days ago, and so far I'm travelling fine, consciously coasting along with oxytocin, not allowing too close an examination of the theory that BoyX could actually find me attractive. I just need to enjoy this schoolgirl crush and feel okay about my sexual prospects as an androgyne, and get back into the swing of being a unique human being, not a marketing category.

As for the hormones, I gave it a quarter try, but that was all I could stand, watching my body and brain function deteriorate over the last three months. Boobs just feel wrong for me personally. For me, being a eunuch with a wadge is sexier than being an imitation of a woman.

Viva la difference!

Tits and Alienation

2008-04-08T02:39:00.000+10:00

I went on hormones again because I was depressed about being loverless, and the doctors and counsellors kept telling me the problem was that my primary sex characteristic (a replicunt) didn’t match the secondary characteristics (flat chest, boyish figure). Now I am three months into the process and am neither fish nor fowl. I guess I look like a pre-op trany with my little hormone titties. I can’t expect the boobs to make much difference until they reach full size, expected after six months of ’mones, i.e. three months away...

My body doesn’t feel right. I get all the naff side effects of hormone treatment, tiredness, poor concentration, poor memory retention or access, and manic-depressive mood swings. Worse, if I stand up quickly, I nearly faint. I’m used to a much fitter body and a better functioning brain. But, I can’t face being loverless forever, so I give up my intellect for tits.

And the dubious part of me thinks they won’t make the slightest bit of difference.

I was at a party on Saturday night where some kids were playing spin the bottle. I remembered my primary school classmates playing spin the bottle, with the girl I had a crush on in Grade 5, and wishing there was some way I could join the circle. But I never knew how, and I still don’t know how, and I think that’s more of an obstacle than primary or secondary sex characteristics can ever be.

I just finished reading "Look Me In the Eyes", the autobio of an Aspergian, and I definitely identified with the social alienation he suffered. For years I had trouble with the question, "How are you?", unable to grasp that it was almost never literally meant. I could hardly ever tell when people were serious or not. I couldn’t understand why they would say things they did not mean literally. Now I know it’s all part of the social dialogue, the rhetorical questions, codes of dressing, and subtle gestures that other people easily understand, while I was left thinking they all had some sort of secret knowledge or secret language or telepathy that excluded me, and that isn’t too far off the mark I guess.

I partly hope that the boobs due to fully arrive in three months will compensate for my social inarticulacy, so that I can have a lover, and I partly hope they won’t, so that I can (go off hormones and) have back the body and brain I can move freely in.

Luckily, the future is an unknown country, and there may be many more fortuitous possibilities there, if only I can continue proceeding into it.

Eunuch anniversary

2008-04-03T02:37:00.000+11:00

It’s my pussy’s twentieth birthday today (ie I made a cunt out my myself nineteen years ago), and the nineteenth anniversary of me becoming a eunuch, and here’s another survey poo-pooing eunuchs...

But I don’t care.. I have an amazing social and sex life, so : p

http://www.blogthings.com/howboyishorgirlishareyouquiz/

You Are 40% Boyish and 60% Girlish
You are pretty evenly split down the middle - a total eunuch.
Okay, kidding about the eunuch part. But you do get along with both sexes.
You reject traditional gender roles. However, you don’t actively fight them.
You’re just you. You don’t try to be what people expect you to be.

the softening of norrie mAy-welby

2008-02-04T17:09:00.000+11:00

I can't take it for granted. If I hadn't made the fateful choice to change sex, what are the odds I'd be getting thoroughly plowed by a gorgeous huge black hunky Maori rugby player who is so infatuated he says " I love you" and chemically means it? I mean, sure, some middle aged queens may be able to pull this off, but not as easily as this sort of thing happens for me as a transsexual street sex worker.

What a honey! What blessed luck, after having a super spunky lean muscled boy a couple of nights ago! I am in the flow! The Universe brings me what makes me happy, and I give happiness in return!

He was a god! He gave great head! My pelvic muscles were pumping big time! I wanted to rub myself with all of his sexy body, so I did! And ooh so kissy, big soft lips, happy loving eyes, handsome handsome man, so HUGE and I didn't mean that in particular, I meant the awesome size of his giant muscley body, but yes, everything was in proportion, and no steroid damage evident.

Obviously a bit pissed (sorry, American readers, that's drunk), with a slight variation in the turgidity department, but then the large spongy ones are more subject to the effects of alcohol. And I thank Beer Goggles for his thinking I was so sexy. I mean sure, I am sexy, but I think his declaration of love for a street prostitute he had known for ten minutes can be credited to some ethanol enhancement of his oxytocin levels.

Ah, the gods love me! Bacchus, god of booze, Aphrodite, goddess of sex and sensuality and sex work, and Apollo and Ares, who manifested as this hunky rugby warrior, and then there was the divine lean smooth slim Krsna last time I was out.. Thanks be to Heaven!

And thanks be to modern medicine! The hormones I've been taking for nearly three weeks have many effects, including psychoactive (so far making me more interested in more men), and my skin has changed noticeably already, although of course the most noticeable change are my breast developments. "MY breast developments".. see, I have a sense of ownership of them now, a pleasant change from seeing them as alien protrusions destroying my hard-line androgyny. Softer androgyny is powerful too in its own way… and seems to attract more of the hardness I crave from another ; )

I seem to have swiftly turned upwards in the U shape of happiness, recently announced as dipping at 44 (years of age) for all humans regardless of other factors.

I remember that year.. I simply resolved to make my life as sexy as I wanted it to be, and celebrated my birthday doing a show with the uber sexy Asian Male Dancers! That was also the year I met Best Friend, who was seeking mentorship of sorts, and I certainly have the age for that (being twenty years older than him). And the year before I threw myself into the queer anarchist scene organising the Sydney Queeruptions festival, after purposefully seeking out a new social scene when I realised I had no life outside work.... So, as a result of some lucky preparation for my mid-life crisis, I am happily immersed in youth culture, hedonism, and anarchy; every dancefloor I go to, the DJs make me feel like a superstar, and I am loved as a special old hippy sister by my gorgeous young friends. And loved in a deeper way by kind and generous gentlemen ; )

This is my life. This is not a rehearsal. This is not a preparation exercise. This is it, this is the life I have. Mmmmm. It IS good. Crazy and unconventional, but that make be more appropriate for these swiftly changing times.

When my amorous sports god said " I love you" in his aroused state, I didn't rebuff him, or tell him this was silly. I smply told him "Love's all that matters."

Childless, unmarried, unpropertied, unemployed, not even a working mobile phone at present, I am happy because I chose love, and I choose love, and love IS all that matters.

The Universe loves you too.

x

transDestinations, enroute and post-root

2008-02-03T18:16:00.000+11:00

Heterosexual female, straight woman, I may well be. It’s a shock to the queer ego, I tell ya. But I am after all allowing my body to become gender normative to complement my sexual preference (being for one single gender, more or less).. and have to get over the gay ghetto haughtiness about straight people, because I am, in the bedroom department, one of them… a straight person. Even though it’s because I’m so bent that I’m straight!

I have been oscillating in my attitude to secondary sex characteristics. On the bus home from Melbourne last weekend, my breasts seemed like uncomfortable alien growths protruding from my chest, possibly because the nipples were going through that hypersensitive rapid growth stage, with the stretching skin causing a distracting sensation.

------------------

TransDestinations, at Gasworks arts space in Melbourne last weekend, was a blast. I took the overnight bus on Saturday, sung a few of my genderqueer songs as part of the lunchtime entertainment, and spoke on a panel in the afternoon. Then I was totally blown away by the Tiwi Sisters closing act, featuring two indigenous performers from the Tiwi Islands (off the Queensland coast), telling their personal and family stories with cutting honesty and life-affirming humour, and mixing up the harsh socio-political realities with some brilliant and sassy song and dance. One of the performers. Crystal, later told me that, as an educational performer, I had been an inspiration for her, and I felt both awed and humbled, sensing my relaying role in the great chain of being.

I had travelled down with about twenty bucks and no idea where I could stay on Sunday night (with my return bus leaving the next day), so I just threw myself at the mercy of fate and the kindness of strangers. As it transpired, I ended up staying above one of Australia’s most influential GLBT bookshops, Hares and Hyenas. One of the partners who owns this business, Crusader, is a gay man now around my age who changed his name when he was twenty and who has long been instrumental in nurturing GLBT culture and expression. He is also a curator for Gasworks, the arts venue hosting TransDestinations. It did my soul good just to share space with this caring community-minded individualist.

I had no idea how I was going to pay for travel to the interstate bus station, having spent the last of my cash on breakfast, but Crusader did some creative accounting and found cash for my travel expenses as an interstate performer, and I was most happy to see my financial fortunes reversed!

Being around so many gender-queer folk had pushed many of my buttons regarding my own gender expression, for I am turning my back on being the champion of androgyny for the past sixteen years. There was a workshop on sexuality, mostly attended by transguys, who seem to have little trouble in finding partners, no matter their gender preference. Perhaps that’s because the male hormones give them more sexual initiative, or because (for those attracted to women), women are more flexible about their partner’s morphology, and those who identify as gay men have a male confidence that I am far too femme for. I figured there was little I could do to feel better about my romantic chances except be patient and wait for my secondary sex characteristics to match my primary. So, I felt a little isolated from human possibilities, and even moreso at the sexually charged soiree of Butch and Femme that evening, where I felt straight in a gay gay world.

In the small hours of the morning, on the bus trip back, I became increasingly disturbed at my gender dilemma, fighting the loss of my hard-won hard-line androgyny, wondering why I was abandoning my commitment to the principle that everyone is lovable as they are, then starkly facing the poor results this blithe evasion of gendered realities has given me personally, seeing a personal price for my living out the ideals of genderqueer theory and realising that I have decided this price is too expensive for me to keep paying, and so I am copping out and joining gender normativity. And then I would wrestle with the alien protrusions growing invasively on my chest, and get into a frustrating angst caught between an idealistically repulsive notion that seems pragmatically necessary, and an idealistically attractive notion that seems proven unsustainable. And I’d look back on my love life to see if it was really that bad, had I really given androgyny a fair go, but I have, and my love life was that bad.

I’m just letting go of the idea of myself I held so strongly for so long, but it’s just an idea, and ultimately not compatible with my own personal sexuality, which has always been fairly single-gender directed, for that’s the way my brain is hard wired.

My previous housemate was moving out the weekend I was in Melbourne, after living in my house for three years. Maybe it was just time for him to move on, but he did indicate he had become uncomfortable with my instability these last few months. Our communication has always been a little difficult with his Polish accent and different English abilities, but we had a shared intellectualism. Whatever, I was ready for change.

As it happened, a friend of a friend, well, actually, an ex of a friend, answered my bulletin on myspace looking for a new housemate. He moved in the day I arrived back from Melbourne, and I have an instantly changed household. Ironically, he had challenged my hormone decision when I invited discussion on my blog, and now he’s moved in with a hormonal queen! Fortunately he’s so young he thinks I think he’s the crazy one. It’s okay darl, you’re a creative, sensitive, and a thinker; you don’t have to be normal.

The day after he moved in, the house next door was ram-raided by the police, who in a case of either complete incompetence, astronomically bad luck, or standard copper corruption, found absolutely nothing and no one.

Luckily, my new housemate was so distracted by his own relocation that he was apologising to me for the noise made by his moving boxes, and he didn’t even notice the racket from the police taking the angle grinder to the grate next door before physically bashing the door in.

Later that day, I saw my doctor, who seemed displeased with my recent parasuicidal tendencies, and increased the frequency of our appointments. I begin to suspect I am manic depressive in more than just a joking way.

That night, I cycled out to a creative (anarchist) arts space in Newtown for the monthly performance night Creative Dissent. The music was great and often hilarious, and I must say Chris Lego’s poetry is getting more confident and funny.

When I arrived home, I found my bag and contents soaked with the mixed drink that had been in a bottle there. My phone was vibrating incessantly, with no response from any keys. I remembered what had happened with my last water-damaged phone, so I frantically worked to disconnect the battery and separate the parts, and left them to dry.

Alas, the next day the phone was still cactus, just vibrating with a blank screen when I connected the battery. It was insured, but the customer service of both the phone company and the insurance company are so understaffed it took me two days to work out I had to post the damn thing to some place in Adelaide. So, here I sit, having another unscheduled holiday from mobile connection, cut off from all my friend’s SMSing and party invites and contact details.

I didn’t even realise that my Best Friend had left the mainland on Friday night, until I checked my landline messages on Saturday! (He’s in Hobart for a week.)

Friday night I had dedicated to trying to make some money on the street. As it turned out, between the discount rate I accepted from my first and only job and the room fee and taxi fares, I barely broke even, but more importantly, I had a successful shag with a skinny muscley boy JUST my type, and was too happily weak at the knees to try for another job after that! A successful Friday night all up (so to speak).

And there’s my heterosexual sexual reality again. Why on earth have I been playing the androgyne, I wondered, when what presses my button, floats my boat, and takes me to heaven, is being the female in acts of heterosexual copulation. Breasts seem more appropriate then, even as I struggle to incorporate them into my self image. They will give me a better chance of getting what I want, if I too have bits that interest those who have the sort of bits I am interested in.

It’s a bit startling for me to be this pragmatic, but I hope I am flexible enough to change, my body and my self-image, and enjoy the same range of love options open to those who are either men or women. Jeez, that shag was good!

Thelma & Louise in TransAmerica

2007-11-23T15:38:00.000+11:00

(They're ADULT films, this is an ADULT blog, OK? Don't read it if you choose to find some natural human activities offensive.)

Almost two months ago now, I lept out of the straight working world after ten years in the same place (working with the sex industry in a non-government organisation), half-baked a financial survival plan, and then worried it wouldn't work, and ended up with a peptic ulcer. Louise Hayes says that's due to fear of lack of support, eating yourself up with worry. So, I addressed my thoughts accordingly, chose some more positive affirmations, and thanked God that a couple of years ago some Aussie scientists found an antibiotic cure for ulcers ; ) It was a painful week, but all part of my "mid-life crisis" (which is more of a transition from middle-class mores to completely la la cosmic love hippydom

: )

Ah how do you close brackets when you've used one for a smile icon, ah just move on, we're post predictive grammar aint we?

; )

A couple of weeks later, my best friend and I flew to Perth on Thursday to visit my father, who was in the late stage of inoperable cancer. As I have blogged, it was wonderfully good to be able to hug him and tell him I love him, and say my final goodbye to him with a full spiritual salute, knowing inside that he was in the process of passing.

Of course, on Friday night, I had to take Best Friend to Connections, the only gay nightclub in Perth, where I had worked for five years as a glass collector when I was a young man, which wasn't very often, but probably more often than you might think ; )

I decided to have a cigarette in the park before the club, and we were accosted by some indigenous kids, I gave one a loan of my lighter, I refused another a puff of my cigarette, they got more belligerent, I noticed the cops moving in, and was relieved for a moment, until I ended up in Perth lockup for four hours, charged with not only possessing but dealing pot, thanks apparently to a very colourful story from the kid I had refused a smoke, who turned out to be on serious warrants, and who seemed intent on causing as much trouble for himself and me as possible, with his fantastic story about the exotic old queen in red.

I sat in the lockup listening to the music from the gay pub next door, praying to swarms of angels, and was finally, reluctantly, at 4am Saturday, allowed bail, despite the cops knowing I had an airline ticket out of town Sunday night.

I met up with Best Friend, and we went to Connections. He was dirty dancing with a deaf guy who said he was straight, while I was dirty dancing with some hot boys who slinked away when they discovered I had no boy bits. I danced on undeterred, and at 5am, as the clubs was closing, accepted a quick offer of penis from a nice Indian chef, who took me to plush apartment in the city. and delivered on his promise : )

What, I gotta go out of the state to get lucky? Ah, whatever works.

Best Friend went to Balga, and was raving for weeks about the deaf "straight boy" who sucked his dick. Obviously straight cos he couldn't keep it up, which couldn't have just been cos he'd been doing bucket bongs for hours. But hey, nice abs are nice abs, I understand. I chose to settle for an erect penis, and I got what I wanted.

After a lovely large family supper Saturday night (which turned out to be Dad's last supper with me, Best Friend and I went to the Air Show on Sunday, with the return flight to Sydney booked for midnight.

Where could we stow our suitcases till our midnight flight? We were able to stash them at a tourist centre in town while the Air Show was on, but it closed at 5, so we retrieved our cases from there just in time, and went with our luggage to the sauna. As you do.

Our first successful visit to a sauna as fag and faggy faghag; that is, we both picked up. The magic of being travellers. And being wanton nymphs at large! And ah, I do love fucking a face with my fanny!

Alas, when we staggered to a restaurant for a meal break, there was a message on my phone from my sister, telling me that the police were at her house looking for my Best Friend. He saw the blood drain from my face, and I passed the phone to him to listen to the message. We were due to leave this town in two hours. He leaned across the table, took me by the hands, looked me in the eye, and said with a Southern twang, "We'll be okay Thelma".

We returned to the sauna, where I changed my hairstyle, and my clothes, removing every trace of red. We checked into the airport separately. I prayed all the way there and through the check in and didn't really relax until the takeoff.

We flew into the dawn, and I communed with Spirit, and knew my father was closer to oneness with it.

The taxi driver at Sydney airport noted our age difference and mentioned TransAmerica. I AM old enough to be my best friend's mother, and there was a possihble incident of fertiility I was involved in at the time of his conception, but we're fairly sure I'm NOT his father. Most probably not, at least.

I kissed my street when I got home.

Later that Monday, with a gathering of friends at a pub, I received the news from my sister that my father had passed on. We had a round of their finest Single Malt whiskey to honour my Scottish father, and I'm so glad to have such good quality friends.

My ad, that I had booked a month previous, came out in the Daily Telegraph a couple of days later, and I began part-time work self-employed giving Tantric Massage, an exotic service I give a lot to and charge a lot for. I'm generally a one bang wonder, so I don't take more than one booking a day, for I do need my energy for other things!

But I must say, my sexual confidence has increased somewhat knowing that, at my age, I am worth a minimum of $250 an hour. Capitalising on what separates me from the mainstream, my sexual ambiguity, and the mainstream's fascination with that. And making the most of my strong drive to be sexually pleasing, and my tantric skills picked up a few years ago with Barbara Carrellas who credits me in her recent book Urban Tantra (see yesterday's blog) , and stepping outside of the middle class illogically judgmental mindset that I inherited, in order to make the most of who I am and what I have.

Only Love Matters.

I knew that when I cradled my dying cat in my arms earlier this year, feeling the love, and feeling it unchanged even as she changed from being incarnate to not being so.

I knew that when I met my father again, and put aside all my anger at being raised by him to fear his anger and to dislike and distrust my body and my sexuality, and just acknowledged that we are human together, and hugged him, and told him I love him.

I sang it when I performed my song "Everything One" at TRaNNi PANiC last Saturday night, and I felt it when I sat in Taylor Square a few hours later talking with a talented gender-bending performer about our dead fathers at 5am, and I spoke it at 1pm later that day (now Sunday) giving a speech about "Surviving Life and Death on the Edges" for Transgender Day Of Remembrance, I felt it lying wrapped around a cuddling mixed sex couple of young friends at her 21st birthday later that Sunday night in a Newtown park, and I wrote from it the day after in a letter about refugees and decent (family/Christian/secularly humane) values that was published in the Sydney Morning Herald, and I get to live it now every moment of my life.

Only Love Matters.

I'm a bit pissed now, and this is a blog, not a book, so it can stay this untidy until it IS a book and I'm making my living on the chat show circuit ; ) Outside of WA, that is : /

But if you believe in angels or pixies or other benevolent spirits, can you ask them to send me with ease a few customers before Saturday. I'm gonna want to party myself after then!

Blessed be

norrie mAy-welby

on the lam and banging for bucks ; )

(Ok, so I'm not actually banging, but you gotta allow some poetic licentiousness, yes?)

it's a good life if you want it to be

2007-09-17T00:15:00.000+10:00

Last night I was watching Dr Who with my best friend asleep next to me. It's my favourite piece of time in accessible memory. norrie nerd heaven.

I asked myself, would I rather go and find a guy who'll have sex with me, or just enjoy having this loving and loved person enjoying feeling totally safe in my space, and I knew the answer was the latter. I was completely happy and content.

Of course, I also had little sex urge left because I'd dry-humped another friend at a party the night before , but, wha'evah, it's a good life if you want it to be.

; )

I’m a hottie!

2007-08-27T19:50:00.000+10:00

Saturday night, Medium Rare Gallery, scene of the party where I had met my best friend three and a half years ago, now a colourful decadent dress up party, and clearly the IT party of Sydney, with almost all of my talented iconoclastic friends there. Except for my best friend, which may be occasionally a good thing, for maybe I don't notice other boys as much if he is around, and I was aiming to have sexual contact.

The music got sexier and flirtier, but everyone I fancied was partnered, and worse, their partners were with them. I decided I was tired of flirtation that could go nowhere, and made my focus more abstract, and projected love generally but to no one in particular as I danced.

A newly single friend flirted with me a little, but I realized I wasn't really in to him at the moment, and made like a butterfly.

A few folk tried flirting with me, but I didn't extend these interactions. I had a few other dedicated dancers to dance with amongst the dancefloor, and put my focus on the dance, and forgot the flirting, for as far as I could see there was no one available who I really really fancied, and I was determine not to waste my energies on the best of what was available if it wasn't really what I wanted intimately,

After midnight, I sat down to take a break, and roll a cigarette. I noticed a gorgeous guy sitting just across the corner from me. My whole body smiled, and I managed to look just a little longer before averting my eyes and going coy. He lept in, and asked if he could share a smoke with me, to fudge a detail or two.

I once really enjoyed having a lover suckle on my nipples, but this hadn't happened for so long I had forgotten, until I was in bliss looking at him looking at me while he suckled at my teat. Oh, and I've got sticky tights I may never wash again ; )

It's all very modern; He's pretty much straight (and oh so vaginagenic ; ) but seemed to enjoy excercising the sexual morals only gay people had in my younger years, happy to play and share pleasure without gender games and exploitation struggles. He asked to get into myspace. I mean, he asked to be invited into myspace.. the internet myspace… ahem.. anyway, he asked that too : D

And however it goes, and he's really really cute and smart and good humoured and oooh not a little bit dead sexy as far as my personal prefs go, but anyway, however it goes with him in particular, the point for me now is that I have what it takes to be in the right place, attracting the right attention, and even get past the first flirt to a blissful bit of heavy petting and an SMS exchange with someone as hot as this cutie.

I'm hot baby, and finally over the fact that maybe 98% of Western humans are too hung up on gender expectations or whatever to see that frankly God, within (amongst other factors) my genes, nearly thirty years of dancing, ten years of yoga, and five of Tibetan rites, and some attitude adjustments ; ) has done a very good job of making me an exotically sexually attractive human.

I've been creeping around a bit timidly, shy of the gender-based rejections and threats of violence once so common in my twenties. But no more! Cool people love me. Hip people love me. Young alternative scene people love me. I'm hot in the It crowd. Actually, I'm It in the It crowd, but I'm not alone in that Itness there ; )

Yeah, this and a few other things recently have given me my confidence back. Sexual confidence, that is. I'm wearing a lot more red!

: D

Having A Moment

2007-08-14T20:32:00.000+10:00

I connected sexually, tantric bliss coarsing through me, joy from being connected with the swelling bulge under my hand under his hand, for he had been holding my hand through the streets and now indoors, and he had put my hand on his thigh, high, then higher, then I felt the stirring, actual, real, unfaked sexual interest in me, and I didn't know where things stood with his boyfriend, how free he was to be with me, so I had to stay with the present, just be present for this moment, this bliss, as my spirit soars and I am open to his energy and there is no separation between me and the rest of reality.

I am whole, fulfilled, Joy and Ecstacy.

Just feeling the feeling from the feeling and the feelings between us.

Does he know what my body is? I wonder why I wonder, for I'm pretty sure he does.

Will there be a progression?

Well, my life is not fated with predictablility, but blessed with love in all forms, and whether this particular manifestation of divine Love is someone I even more intimately connect with, or rather, connect with with less clothes and inhibitions ; ) or whether I have this intimate connection first with some other outlandishly attractive, outrageously gifted, divinely present and keenly intelligent young man, I know that not only will I long have the memory of that ecstatic blossoming, touching just the tips of two fingers on the thick cloth of his pants, feeling the warmth radiating like a blast furnace from that bulge, touching him on one level with just two fingers, but touching him on the feeling level with my whole being, feeling his whole being, breathing him in, giving him my breath, and being wholly filled with bliss and peace and joy, not only do I have this moment, but more importantly, I am now confident that that this will happen again, this bliss is mine, this sexual bliss is my human due, this spiritual/sexual connection is now in my life, a happy tantric life is mine, and I am now blessed with all the love I need and want.

Not just the Dancer in the Dance, but Dancing, in the Dancing, with another Dancer, Um, Dancing Squared, if you follow.. no words really...

As in that moment, sitting side by side, breathing together with our whole beings/ being..

Having a Moment...

Ah! Bliss!

Bless!

Australian Trans people Denied Passports by Minister for Foreign Affairs

2007-08-10T15:59:00.000+10:00

Australian Trans people Denied Passports by Minister for Foreign Affairs

The Australian Minister for Foreign Affairs Alexander Downer in May 2007 signed an order to stop many of the Australia’s trans community from obtaining a passport in the gender in which they live, unless they have had genital surgery.

This means that transsexual people in transition would have to travel aboard with a passport of the opposite gender to which they are presenting or with a Document of Identity which states their name but does not disclose any sex or gender identity. This even applies to someone travelling overseas for the express purpose of completing their transsexual surgery (Breast surgery is common in Australiabut genital surgery is often carried out outside Australia). Some intersex, transsexual or transsexed people cannot have any surgery for medical reasons including heart condition, liver and kidney problems, cancer or AIDS or simply not being able to afford treatment.

Transgender people who do not want to have genital surgery will also now have to travel on a passport which will read the opposite sex and gender to which they present or with a DOI which will make them stand out ie by not having a passport. These people will now not be able to travel outside Australiasafely and anonymously, making them susceptible to abuse, violence, and discrimination abroad. This change in the law was brought about by the Howard government without any community, medical, healthcare or public consultation. It is an act of violence against the transgender community by the Howard government to please the arch conservative right-wing voters in the run up to election. It is a hate crime.

Sign SAGE’s petition to campaign for a passport review at www.petitiononline.com/sagepass/petition.html

international signatories very welcome)

Contact your MP

Send a letter to the Australian Minster for Foreign Affairs, Canberra

Send this email to a friend and any networks you are on.

Thank you!

Sex And Gender Education (SAGE)

Campaigning for the rights of all sex and gender diverse people in Australia

www.sageaustralia.org

See related article:

http://evolutionpublishing.com.au/sxnews/features/danger-zone.aspx

SX News, 9 August 2007

Danger Zone
An amendment to the passport legislation to plug a loophole allowing same-sex marriage compromises trans people's safety. Katrina Fox reports.

Two weeks ago, a pre-operative trans woman, Stefanie Imbruglia (singer Natalie's cousin), went to the Australian Passport Office in Sydney to obtain a temporary passport showing her sex as female, which would allow her to travel to Thailand for genital realignment surgery. She didn't anticipate any problems, since hundreds of trans people before her had successfully applied for and received such interim passports as a matter of course. However, in what she describes as a "twilight zone moment", things went awry: she was subjected to a passport officer insisting on calling her 'Sir' when she was presenting as obviously female, and denied a passport that reflects her gender identity.

"I handed my documentation across to him [and] almost immediately, he referred to me as 'Sir', but the first two times, I thought I was just hearing things," Imbruglia recalls. "He then told me that I could not get a passport with the letter 'F. I asked to see where I couldn't in writing and he went away for about five minutes or so."

Upon his return, the passport officer, still referring to Imbruglia as 'Sir', handed her a copy of the July 2007 issue of Passport News, an internal newsletter for staff, with a story titled 'Transgender Passport Applicants: New Policy'.

The story, seen by SX, states that the Foreign Minister, Alexander Downer, signed an amendment to the passport legislation in May this year that disallows trans people to obtain a passport in their "intended sex". Applicants may obtain a passport stating the sex on their birth certificate or be issued with a Document of Identity (DOI), which states their new name and the fact they are an Australian citizen, but does not disclose their sex.

This piece of legislation was slipped through without any consultation with the trans community and has caused an uproar with trans advocacy groups and professionals who work with trans people. Sex and gender specialist psychotherapist, Dr Tracie O'Keefe DCH, tried unsuccessfully for a week to get Downer's office to supply full documentation on the new amendment and lambasted him for putting trans people wishing to travel overseas in danger.

"This will put members of the trans community in danger when they are travelling because they will not have a passport that matches their gender presentation," O'Keefe told SX. "The psychological damage as well as the security risk to
these already vulnerable people will be enormous."

Information officer at the Gender Centre NSW, Katherine Cummings, agreed. "Our clientele are forced to carry documentation which doesn't include their innate gender, leaving them open to be harassed in customs areas."

Imbruglia's case has been taken on by lobby group Sex and Gender Education (SAGE) which is planning a campaign and online petition. Spokesperson Norrie May-Welby told SX: "You can't travel with breasts and 'male' on your passport and this is what Downer is making trannies do. A DOI creates fuss and bother and someone travelling overseas doesn't need that. They could be travelling through fundamentalist countries or just going through high-security post-9/11, where if there's something out of the ordinary, they can target someone. It's most unfair to single trans people out to travel with dodgy paperwork."

The Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade said the purpose of the amendment was to "strengthen the integrity and security of Australian passports", arguing that only the State and Territory Registrars of Births, Deaths and Marriages and the Department of Immigration and Citizenship have the legislated power to amend records when people have satisfied their requirements to record a change of gender.

"It would be inconsistent ... for the Department to continue to issue passports, albeit limited in validity, to persons in a sex other than that shown in the records held by the State or Territory BDM Registrar or the Department of Immigration and Citizenship," a spokesperson told SX.

Trans activists, however, have suggested that that the move was precipitated by the government wanting to plug a loophole which could open the door to same-sex marriage.

A post-operative trans woman has a case pending in the Administrative Appeals Tribunal (AAT) in which she is suing the federal government for refusing to grant her a female passport because she is still legally married to a woman. The trans woman married her female partner using her male birth certificate. She is challenging the federal government on the grounds that it was out of its jurisdiction by taking any other information from the birth certificate apart from residency. If she wins the case, she and her partner will be the first legally recognised same-sex married couple in Australia. But this new amendment to the passport legislation now gives the government power to ask for more information for a passport, including sex and nationality.

As for Imbruglia, the change in law leaves her fearing for her safety. "I'm now unsure about my travel to Thailand," she told SX. "I have two options: go with M on my passport which I don't want or travel with a DOI with no sex written on it. So basically I'm forced not to have a passport, so my peace of mind has been shattered and I shouldn't be in that position."

To join SAGE's campaign and sign the online petition, visit www.sageaustralia.org

Every breath you take

2007-08-07T22:00:00.000+10:00

"Every cigarette taeks you closer to..."

Every breath you take takes you closer to deah.

So, should i stop breathing?

Or enjoy instead my quality of life, even as it takes me closer to death?

My Bright Young Posses

2007-07-31T21:07:00.000+10:00

While out with a posse of very attractive young gay guys last Friday on Oxford St, I was interrogated by a perfect-toothed male television journalist (off duty), who wanted to know what was going on here, why was I, an obviously older person, with these obviously younger people. Because we enjoy each other's company, I said.

They like me, they let me hang around with them, they smell GREAT, and they've got BRAINS, they are not bound by the petty concerns of those who buy what the mass media are sellling, they believe in love and human happiness, they are INTELLIGENT AND THINKING BEINGS, and that's just so rare darling, oh vainglorious television face, putting down a beautiful androgynous blonde guy as vaccous because he didn't get what he wanted from him, and then I spoke with the blonde guy (who was new to me) and he was really smart, which is not surprising, given that he was hanging out with us GEEKS, NERDS, darling, that's why they're hanging with me, we have higher than average intelligence, don't abuse us for that, it's part of statistical reality, and Oh Lord Shiva Begorrah thank the Universe I've managed to acquire a whole social network of intelligent people over the last couple of years.

Yes, they're mostly 25 years younger than me, but that's cos it took this long for my generation and my forebears to change society enough so that young bright minds weren't more often than not destroyed by brutal normalism. Now, it's acceptable to be an obviously queer bright non-conformist, or at least, there's fare less than a 50% chance this will get you killed by 25, and that wasn't the case 25 years ago.

I once wondered what the world would be like if it hadn't killed the talented youth of my early twenties. I'm enjoying finally finding out.

I'm living my dream, connected intellectually and affectionately with my posses, the guys I was out venue-hopping with on Oxord St Friday night, the mixed anarchist crowd I went house-party-hopping with all Saturday night, the cool gang of young friends I hang with when we basically occupy a whole hotel every Monday night, and the wonderful zany pirates, carnies and underground party people who believe in pleasure and love and and welcome me and my dancing into their spaces.

This is my life, and none of the mainstream's judgments about gender or sexuality or even age can limit me without me allowing this blasphemous chaining of my divinely created potiential for intelligent and creative and loving human connectedness.

Love to All,

N

Parlour in the sun

2007-07-17T22:27:00.000+10:00

Three weeks ago, I woke up on Thursday depressed and crying, and couldn’t get out of bed. I called in sick, and tried to think of anything that might cheer me up. There was a meeting at Parliament of sex worker activists, so I decided to join them, as I figured being surrounded by activists working on a shared problem would take me out of my own sad story. Of course, my boss was there. “So, sick are we?” she asked. ‘Yes,” I plainly answered, cos I certainly had been, and this was my therapy. An Upper House MP came in to get her script from the activists, as she was willing to be the mouthpiece for more respectful approach to sex workers, such as not unfairly targeting the skills that women tend to have more of, such as emotional intelligence and intuitive physical soothing skills. This MP, as it happens, is the one with a house guest in common with me, as she took over the sponsoring of the refugee who had stayed with me.

Another MP is a sex work customer of a friend, who was sitting next to me at this meeting, and I thrilled at the amazing perspectives God gives me.

Sunday night: Loose Ends (dance night at Phoenix). Best Friend turned up, and we headed off to Arq with friends. He offered me an E at 5:30. “It’s a school night,“ I resisted, only to be greeted with sarcasm about my goodyness. I took the proffered pill in my hand, and went to the loo, to have a moment with my own counsel.

I realised I didn’t want to be the sort of person who’d say No to the offer of joining the ecstatic company of Best Friend and his six very hot male friends. I sent the boss a text, “Just taken MDMA, won’t be in to work today, sorry,” and swallowed the capsule.

We were emptied out of the nightclub at 10am, and ended up in my Best Friend’s backyard, all day in the warm winter sun, a half dozen of Sydney’s brightest young things and me engrossed in meaningful intellectual conversation. Many of them are working boys, and I was and am very flattered that the cream of Sydney’s professionally gorgeous guys choose to spend their recreational time with me.

Tuesday morning the boss gave me a serious look and asked if I’d recovered. I let her know I was fine, I’d had an early night, and appreciated her understanding. She let me know that my message has provided much entertainment for senior management. Hey, I got away with it, and I’ve booked the next couple of Mondays off. Because I like to party, and I want my life to be more about friendship and dancing that turning up to the office on Monday morning.

Of course, even for a miraculous survivor like me, life still has its ups and downs, and it was when I was coming down from the Ecky on Wednesday I noticed my cat was ill, and took a while appreciating that the situation did not only seem bad because I was coming down, but was actually a really serious situation. Sometimes a bummer really is a bummer.

But I will long treasure the memory of that glorious Apollonian Monday in the sun!

Death of a Cat

2007-07-17T21:36:00.000+10:00

A couple of weeks ago we noticed the cat was knocking the chess pieces over, and put a box up to protect the chess game. A couple of days later, I realized she was maybe too weak to climb the stairs, and moved her things to one level, and began to fear the worst. A week ago, I was too distressed by her illness to go to work, so I took time off, and in the afternoon, was persuaded to take her to the vet. I didn’t want to, for in my experience, there’s only one outcome from that.

They took her in for tests and treatment, and I went in the next day to visit her. I knew it was more serious, for the doctor brought two other staff in with her to talk with me. She talked to me at length about her organs failing and cancer of this and that and strange growths and abnormalities and being realistic. They said “have to be realistic” a lot.

I already had a bill well over a thousand dollars just from the cost of keeping her alive and finding out what was wrong (everything, basically), but I was willing to spend more if it would help her. They said that even if they managed to save her this time, and get her strong enough to survive chemo-therapy, she wouldn’t last long, and would be in pain, and would never be well again.

I kept thinking that if she saw me, she’d get better.

They took me in to see her, in intensive care, with tubes and bandages around her.

She wanted me to let her go. I communed silently with her, and she wanted to go. The body she was in was dissolving. What we had was love, what we have is love, all we have is love.

“We’re ready,” I told the vet, and we moved on to the next stage immediately.

I looked at her with love while she died in my arms. All is one. There is no longer an apparently separate part of the Universe in called Virgin, but there is still the love we shared, and what she showed me of love, of silent communication, of being fully present with another, of the need for regular affection and attention.

There was a time when I didn’t appreciate those needs, or have enough people close in my life, so the Universe sent me Virge. Now I have learnt those lessons, and now I have humans in my life close enough to be affectionate with, and while my ego, my idea of myself, the illusion that is continuity of consciousness, wanted her to stay, I can glimpse the appropriateness of the timing. From a certain perspective, I can accept it.

I didn’t take any ashes. She is no more that lifeless body than she was what she pooed out the day before.

She is not a collection of atoms.

She is a part of the Universe that manifested separately as a cat for a time, to share love with me, so that I can share love better. (I’m British; it’s not like expressing love is something I grew up with).

I can feel what I felt with her when I lie on a bed with a friend for a cat nap, when I just enjoy tuning into our shared breathing and body heat.

I can feel what I felt with her when I look on my friends with love and lack of judgment, and receive the same from them. I can feel what I felt with her when we socially stroke each other, or just enjoy being in each other’s company.

I can feel even more than I felt with her when I hug my friends, for humans are built to hug humans.

And the conversation with humans is a little more stimulating too, but frankly, it took me this long to find enough humans with enough intellectual interest to be more stimulating than a cat. I’d rather a cat’s silence than the drone of corporate or thoughtless cruelty, of mind-numbing cliché or one-up-manship. Humans who act as if they are separate to the Universe, as if they are or can be better than others, are far more destructive to my peace of mind than the silent acceptance of a cat.

But I grow and change, nurtured by a loving Universe, and people, human and cat, come and go, as will the notionally separate part of the Universe that constitutes this writer.

The only reliable, permanent part of this reality is Love. I remember feeling Love with my cat, I remember feeling Love last night with my friends at the pub, and I dedicate myself to Love. Everything else is but dust and ashes.

I took Virgin to the vet on Wednesday, held her as she died on Thursday, and on Friday paid the enormous bill with a bank loan. Outside the vet, I looked at the bill, and saw the item for “Euth/ routine cremation Cat”, and it, the passing of my close personal companion, Virgin, was complete.

There’s still tears, but I can choose whether I follow tears with more tears, or choose something more kind.

Friday night, I saw a cat on the street as I was heading out. It did a cute show and posed upside down against a wall, and then looked at me with such disappointment when I walked past. I realized I had been called over, so I spent a little time sharing affection with it, before continuing on my way.

I danced the weekend away, and had a lovely quiet time with friends in the pub on Monday night.

I’ve had a few mildly sad moments of expecting to see or tend to the cat, when I remember she is gone, but I don’t make a drama of it, this is just a phenomena of repeated behaviour, and while the separate character of Virgin was in a play that has now ended, the Love behind that character is forever, and Love calls me to be present with life as it is now.

Miaow.

Postion Vacant: Sleeping Companion

2007-07-12T21:57:00.001+10:00

After a slightly dramatic exit, where I actually thought a snowball's chance would be enough (as it usually is for me), my sleeping companion has departed this mortal coil. My cat died in my arms this afternoon, at the vet's, after we had established she had no hope of continuing life outside of a hospital, and had more organs failing than working.

Who will gaze into my eyes without looking away?

Who will just be glad to be close to me?

Who will be there for me?

Who will give me the present of their presence?

Who will I give my presence to?

Who will return my gaze?

Who will to drift off to sleep with me, breathing together?

Who will.

Jobs 4 m8s

2007-06-14T18:56:00.000+10:00

I don't know if the ads are localised, but I've got an ad for the local transsexual brothel (where many of my firneds work) above this post! Hooray!

Drought Breaker

2007-06-12T22:45:00.000+10:00

Camp Betty, miles away from home, but at home, with anarchist queers, a whole gender fucking celebration in Melbourne of ragtag creative joyous autonomous individuals!

I scored a lift with seven dykes, and of course whenever five or more dykes are together, they make a film. So I had a wow of a time, thrusting my practically naked body at truckies as we posed as hitchhikers for this movie along the way, with me being a gender-fuck street whore, any my fellow "hitchhikers" being Spiderman, a trailer trash vamp, a Ring Master, and Ivan Milat.

Amazing coincidence: My best friend stayed in Sydney to spend the weekend with another friend, who is a close friend to the guy who was also billeting in the same room as me. So, we both commiserated on missing our friends together, expecting to see them in a crowd like this (of anarchist queers and punks and such), and then sadly realising we were apart from them this weekend.

The theme of Camp Betty was "radical sex and politics", and I thought to myself, I'm guaranteed the radical politics, having been engaged to present on a Troubling Gender workshop, and I figure if I get any sex, that would be radical. After all, I had gotten through the Sex Party at Queepuptions without breaking my drought, so I had low expectations.

Saturday morning, I give a song and talk for the workshop, and meet Ash, an amazing gender-fuck "transguy" (by way of clumsy shorthand.. anyway, he reminded me so much of me as a young man in androgynous make up, similar short styled hair and strong jaw line, and I figure now I know what I'd look like if I'd been "born" (ie labelled at birth as) a girl, cos I figure being me I'd manifest as androgynous one way or the other.)

We are androgyny.

Our existence is the confluence/co-influence of yin and yang.

Oh, sorry, by "we" I meant "me", perhaps in the "royal we" sense, but more likely just a revealing of our multiple personality co-op.

Ahem.

Saturday afternoon, and we are dancing joyfully in a mad post-modern iconoclastic Procession through the suburban streets of Melbourne, painted up and dressed down, dressed up and panty-hosed, waving banners that resembled slogans but with no recognisable letters, in shared anarchist joie de vive.

Saturday night, I was deluged with dykes importuning me on the dance floor, and fled one slightly uncomfortable embrace thrust upon me, only to be buttonholed by a woman who loudly remembered us meeting ("meeting" meaning "meeting where we met as scissor sisters") in the hot-tub at Confest thirteen years ago, thus blowing my chance of getting out the vibe of "I'm a QUEEN, lovey, a QUEEN, i might look like a girl, but I'm a QUEEN, I like BOYS".

I get very flustered by dykes. Not surprising, as some of them really are masters at turning a woman on, and especially when I'm dancing, my body consciousness is so easily swayed, and I'm happy to dance with you darlings, and even be sexy on the dancefloor, and I love you all, but there will be no boomsen darling, I'm post-experimental, darling, I know what I need to take me to that special place, darling, and it's about a lot of things but they include high up in the list: aroused male pheromones, a chest firm and shaped not unlike mine, and a deep hard groinal thrust sesh.

Come to think of it, I could go a trany boy with a strap on, but, I digress.

Anyway, I went home, after a very arduous time getting a cab, and joined the continuing party. Shortly into the long drinking that ensued, I agreed to my host's suggestion that I again sleep on the mattress in the lounge, as my room-mate had scored trade for the weekend, who was also from Sydney, so they needed the room. And I gradually came to terms with the concept of seeing everyone else partnered, everyone else who wanted physical loving got it, but I'm okay with my life, I can't make anyone want to fuck me, not and keep my integrity, and I mean me, not the stock fantasy I portray in high heels on William Street, and if I have to live without fucking happening for me, my life is still worthwhile and rewarding enough to enjoy and want more.

This acceptance was easier as another very friendly friend beckoned me for a group lounge on the mattress, but I knew what I wanted, and didn't want a consolation prize, but I was flattered, and knew that I was choosing the company of my self (or abstinence) over non-sexual (or, perhaps, sexual, but, for me, not very arousing) physical comfort and stroking.

So, I reconciled myself to this at least for the night, and at about 4am everyone still awake went to bed, and I had another joint as I again came to terms with the situation of my sex life, and as I chose to be comfortable with tonight sleeping alone while everyone else around me pairs off, denied not only a bed but the excruciatingly beautiful Asian boy my room-mate had scored, and because of whom I didn't even notice anyone else, and just kept seeing him and mindfully accepting my solitary situation and wishing him happiness with my roommate, because really, when I look at this boy I want him to be happy, and I want him to make his own choices, and I accept those, whether they preclude me or not.

And I turned the light out, and the guy who had been asleep sitting at the table woke up, seeming groggy and disoriented.

My hosts had advised me not to worry about him, "He will stay asleep there", they said as they retired leaving me to deal with potentially not only a "broken heart" but also a strange drunk. He had come out of nowhere (for me), having hooked up with my hosts after the dance party, but he had tried to talk very intensely with me about bible quotes, when I wanted to be part of the group, so I had turned away from him.

Still, I was by now radiating compassion, consciously focussing my thoughts to stay away from self-pity, so I invited him to crash on the mattress next to me.

He seemed to weigh up his mobility, his tiredness, and his inebriation, and collapsed onto the mattress.

I rolled away from him, and he moved next to me, and before his arm touched me, asked if it was okay to share warmth, and I said "Sure, sharing human warmth is okay", but not wanting anything more, thanks, happy to share a bed, happy to sleep with the comfort of another breathing warm gently moving human body, but not up for anything more thanks, as I didn't know him from Adam, and I've had more than my share of drunken furtive half-shags, thanks, and I'd rather have a nothing than have a lousy something, okay?

Anyway, I got comfortable with his arm around my body, his hand on my breast, his body warm and gently breathing against my back, and I don't know what happened first, my vagina started twitching, and his groin started showing signs of life, and our breathing flared, and we twitched, and flexed, and moved together, and flexed a little more, and I aroused my brain from my drugged slumber to check if I was okay with fucking this stranger,

and I was,

and his motions and pelvic thrusting seemed to indicate continued consent and co-initiation, as we together opened his clothes at his waist, and I put a condom on him, followed by myself, and went about the business of being thrust to seventh heaven, and the deepness and intensity of his firmly driven hydraulic action helped take me there on a pumping piston to Paradise.

So THAT'S what sex is! No wonder it's addictive! I felt so good I thought I'd never felt that good before, but I get that every time I get good sex. It's just such a far removed state of ecstacy and bliss! The rather ordinary sex I've had this last decade just does not compare. Oh alright, if good sex is an ecstacy tablet, ordinary sex is a lukewarm cup of only half-decent coffee.

I marvelled at how beautiful he looked, and how more beautiful he became the more I sobered up. I began to worry about his age, for it seemed to be getting younger as I looked, but my hosts later assured me he is over twenty.

After about an hour, I felt sorry for his poor besotten tired body, his virility mercilessly milked by my strongly gripping tight artificial imitation vagina, his stamina sorely tested by my sexual voracity and flexing pumping thrusting body, his eyes barely able to open, and so I decided to release him from my quim's vice-like grip, and the condom.

For the first time since our first cuddle, I spoke, explaining, as I took the condom off him, that "I should let it breathe a little perhaps". "Sorry", he mumbled, and asked "What time is it?"

"6AM" I said.

"That explains it. Sorry, " he said, which I interpreted as an apology for not ejaculating after a marathon drinking and smoking session and long long night. I didn't think an apology was needed, I had had a pretty ecstatic time, and my brain was well flooded with happy chemicals (from the sex, particularly, okay narc-obs?).

We rested awhile, and horniness bobbed, and I finally decided a blowjob was in order, as the appropriate way to get a man off when under the influence of booze/tiredness/stress/whatever, and I had had my happy fix... I might not have actually had an earth-shaking orgasm, but I had peaked enough to figure that he was due some sexual satisfaction. And I'm glad I did, I can still remember the satisfying rush of taste : )

We slumbered awhile, and he got up and left about 9 or 10, and I didn't even know his name, but I'll be smiling for weeks.

And it happened not because of any plan I made, or of any clever thing I done or said, nor anything I made happen or can make make happen again... I just accepted being okay by myself, became whole and happy being only with myself, and let go of all regret about not getting sex, and then, it just happened. He just fell into my bed out of nowhere.

Thanks be to God.

Ah! Men!

Meanwhile, the drought in NSW broke, with the Hunter region flooded.

This mAy well be my season

; )

Attachment Theory

2007-05-08T15:14:00.000+10:00

A friend’s housemate got me interested in Attachment theory (look it up on wiki), and I’ve been looking at my romantic life through this perspective. Basically, like many of my generation, as a child I formed no attachments, as my parents were either not dependably available, or were actively withholding physical comfort so as to discourage “sissy” behaviour. So, my early childhood pattern, in processing distress at isolation, was to be my own company, and to get by without anybody else. This has freed me to express my gender at will, since I have never been dependant on any particular person’s approval. And I’ve focused my attachment onto the abstract concept of humanity and social justice.

Yet, as this journal shows, I am not content with my own company all the time, and often yearn for human attachment. My challenge is revisualising myself as someone who can get by themselves, but who can also connect to others if they reciprocate human connection.

Ah, but how does one tell in advance who will reciprocate?

I guess one has to be willing to be wasteful, to make many investments that are not rewarded, in the hope of finding the few rewarding investments. And maybe I should be mindful of not pursuing bad investments too long… Although, I am grateful for the guys who just spend time close to me, and allow me to feel relief just from breathing in their pheromones, even if, at the end of the day, when they want physical closeness, they want to be with other boys or girls.

It’s also important to realize that I AM connected, and that disconnection is just an illusion.

Gorgeous guys still pop up into my life, and if I want to progress beyond pining for them, I just have to forget every lousy relationship I’ve had, built as they were on my foundation of proving I could get by on my own.

I want to see myself as someone who can see themselves being touched by a slim sexy guy who I want to touch and who wants to touch me, in all my androgynous and scarred and creased and lithe and flexible and vivacious and beautiful humanity.

Re: Gender Diversity in MySpace

2007-04-29T17:12:00.000+10:00

Hi norrie
I've forwarded my response and this e-mail thread onto [names clipped for privacy] TGV Committee; Seahorse Yahoogroup Appetitefordeconstruction Yahoogroup; TMGP List - there's another 150 or so.

Please feel free to pass my e-mail to myspace around - it may encourage ideas for others.

Go get 'em!

Cheeyars

Sally

Dear MySpace

I totally support the comments below regarding norrie mAy-welby and for that matter any person to be allowed to express their gender they way they desire, not the way a "system" desires.

I also ask why myspace needs to ask this it all, as you don't ask people's race, religion, sexual orientation or other attributes.

I also ask how myspace would want people who legally have "I" on their birth certificates to identify. I am sure that to ask them to commit a lie and break the law would be inappropriate.

Please consider other options for this question, including "do not wish to answer."

Thank you for reading this response.

Yours sincerely

Sally Goldner
bcc norrie mAy-welby

Support Gender Diversity in MySpace!

2007-04-22T20:52:00.000+10:00

It's turning into an e-campaign! Come on, join the call to get norrie mAy-welby into myspace! I mean, to get my own myspace ; )

I am currently blocked from myspace.com because the sign-up page insists I list myself as either male or female, and neither is unambiguous for me, okay, I mean, you probably don't need my life story to support my call for equal participation of all humans regardless of breeding status, but by the way, I'm post-transsexual, born with a willie, identified as female, did the whole transsexual sex change thing, got into feminism and Foucault and other friendly F-words, gave up hormones, and am now quite comfortable with being myself however others see me. And comfortable with everyone being themselves as they are. Hallelujah!

E-Mails to au-mscontact@myspace.com and cc to me nmay-wel@bigpond.net.au please. We could be at the start of a documentable change from exclusion and reducing humans to categories, flowing on from one site changing its policy of excluding humans who aren't just exclusively male or female, to other sites, to all sites, to other bureaucratic media, to an acceptance of human diversity predominant in the collective human conciousness. love for humanity and for our experiential reality informing our emotional reality, peace love and perpetual bliss! Ohm!

Wishing all y'all Peace, Love and Joy

norrie mAy-welby

----- Original Message -----

Dear Myspace Administrator

I was upset to hear that Norrie mAy-welby was unable to use the myspace service. Shouldn't a web log site called "My space" allow for the space to be customised to the individual, including ones gender. This would surely allow the user to claim the space as theirs.

Please consider allowing all people to share your service.

On 18/04/2007, at 4:21 PM,
wrote:

Dear My Space Administrator,

My name is and I am a friend of norrie mAy-welby, who has expressed concerns about having to adhere to being either male or female in subscribing to your service.

Whilst such restrictions are in no way limited to your particular service, I would nonetheless urge you accommodate for gender diversity in order to maintain an even more progressive level of inclusiveness- a value that myspace is reputed for.

Until this matter has developed positively, I will be forwarding these emails through my networks, which include a diverse audience, I can assure you.

Thank you for your attention, we hope to hear from you soon.

norrie mAy-welby a écrit :
I am still waiting to be able to sign up to myspace. I am still blocked by the compulsory choose-one-gender-only field. I want to sign up to be a "friend" of a gender queer peformance site. It's ironic that I am still blocked by your system's continued insistence on reducing every human being to a normative breeding status, and excluding all those unable or unwilling to be so reduced. It's 2007, and utterly anachronous to insist on everyone having a normative breeding status, male or female, no intersex, hermaphrodite or gender diverse humans can apply, in the computer age!

This matter having been brought to your attention well over two months now, with yet no sign of progress, this post and your reply will be going to e-mail lists for those interested in the progression of this matter.

norrie mAy-welby

----- Original Message -----
From: MySpace - AU - MSContact
To: nmay-wel@bigpond.net.au
Sent: Wednesday, February 28, 2007 12:02 AM
Subject: Re: Report - Content [#2217230]

Hi there,

Thank you for sharing your comments and suggestions. We consider them important and will take them under advisement.

MySpace.com

--Original Message--
From: nmay-wel@bigpond.net.au
Date: 2/8/2007 4:20:50 AM
To: au-mscontact@myspace.com
Subject: Report - Content

02/08/2007 04:20 AM CONTACT REQUEST FORM SUBMITTED
----
Subject: Report - Content
Body:

The sign up page is innappropriate for people who do not
wish to state their part in human reproduction, nor for those
who do not have any part in human reproduction. For
example, and case in point, I am biologically neuter, and
socially androgynous, and have no wish to hurt my soul by
falsely descriing myself as "male" or "female"

It's all 2 beautiful

2007-04-16T22:33:00.001+10:00

I've just enjoyed a lovely weekend at Regen, where the hills were truly alive with music. Vibrating, that is, around the clock, with the deadliest mother fucking bone-making sound systems. I had gr8 company, some excessively high quality flirting, and bliss sleeping with my best friend. I'm not in love with him, but I do love him, and I'm not sexually attracted to him, but I do appreciate how utterly beautiful he is.

In between dreams, in the otherworldey light of the tent, I gazed with loving wonder at the "imperfections" on his skin, and felt overcome with gratitude for this experience, being able to appreciate the divine shining beauty inherent in this and every human being.

An utterly beautiful boy that said best friend and I flirted with on the weekend just sent me a lovely text, and I am so flattered that I am considerable flirtable by such an utterly angelic boy. And with that thought, I look at myself in the mirror, and thinking about such a lovely person who found me attractive, I can see that. That utter beauty, in the mirror.

Even in the imperfections.

And then, there are no imperfections.

Just divine beauty, the manifestation of divine love.

Yeah, hey, even the in wrinkles, and it's good I learnt to love them, because there will be many more, many, and deeper, and they all deserve and are worthy of love, of similar quality as the divine love that manifests our physical reality, "Within you," as the Beatles say, "and without you," (to complete the quote).

Who loves you, baby.

In Between

2007-04-10T20:53:00.000+10:00

Here I sit, in between youth and old age, between male and female, between Christianity and Anarchy, between fat and skinny, in between and touching both sides at once, in between the ego and the All, in between reactive fear and daring all for Love, in between the counter culture and the violent stupid hairless gorillas, in between loving all humanity and misanthropy, in between being a flamboyant dancing star and a bookish social cripple. In between a Platonic relationship and a beautiful loving and fulfilling relationship. In between seeing how old and wrinkly and gravity shaped I am, and seeing how radiantly beautiful I am when I look with love. In between sabotaging my chances with boys by thinking about past failures, and experiencing the more enjoyable flirting I get when I look on the world with love. In between pre-post modernism and the bright new world. No, that’s flogging it, should’ve quit with “flirting I get when I look on the world with love”, but didn’t want to be revealed as self-obessed dirty old queen. In between expecting more of myself and being okay with myself as I am. In between, and in both sides at once. Present, in between the past and the future. Between a single thought and the collective minds of humanity. Ohm Nama Shiva. I’m sorry, I’ll read that again.

I have a dream

2007-03-26T22:33:00.000+10:00

I woke up and realised I'd been dreaming I was sucking on a very hard cock.

Later, a handsome young shirtless man threw himself at me behind a soundstage at an undergound party, and I caught him. I even went as far as sucking his cock, but he was obviously drug affected, and not remotely hard like my dream cock.

I went as far as I was willing to go on the cold hard concrete in view of the people working the sound stage, and told him I'l like to continue on carpet, and he asked me home with him. I took a moment, cos I was more curious than turned on, and said "Sure." But then he couldn't find his backpack, and I wondered how much it was worth hanging around for some very drug fucked guy with brewer's droop to possibly get his shit together or rethink his proposition, and went to sit and work out what I wanted to do, instead of following the agenda of some man who had a great body but who hadn't shown much tenderness. He didn't tell me his name, he kissed roughly with biting teeth, and I could have had the same experience with a shaved gorilla.

My best friend gave me a lift home in his taxi, and I couldn't help smiling thinking about the morning's dream. He called me on this, so I told him I'd dreamt of sucking a very hard cock that very morning, in contrast to the limp effort tonight.

"Who's cock was it?" he asked.

" It doesn't matter who it was" I said, "what matters in the dream is what they represent."

"Was it me?" asked the overconfident bastard.

"Like I said, it's not about who it was, but what they represent", I replied, as the cab pulled up at my stop.

"I love you too" he beamed, and I was happily relieved he had taken this well.

Hey, it's just a dream, and my rational mind knows he's a sister to me, but it's nice to think that my subconcious thinks I'll be making love to a physically appreciative (ie rigidly erect) guy who is my friend. Obviously, this will not be another queen as "femme" as me, and my subconscious was just using him or his name as metaphor or a pun or something ; )

But there must be a happy medium between friends who talk with me and give me high quality intelligent human communication, but to whom I am sexually off limits, and guys want sex with me but communicate no more than horny shaved apes.

Old, fluey and flabby

2007-03-14T22:44:00.000+11:00

Nothin’ like a flu to make one look and feel old and flabby. I’m bloated, and can’t stand to see myself in anything that reveals I’ve gone pear shaped. The skin on my face is like ancient parchment, and I can’t stand to wear anything that makes me look like mutton dressed as lamb. No wonder I’m single, I’m unavoidably old and stout. I can nearly have a six pack if I go a couple of weeks without chocolate, but when I let it all go, gravity will out, I’m nearly 50 and I’m not losing it, I’ve lost it long ago, and only just noticed. Where did these ancient lumpy-veined hands come from?

The skin on my body still feels nice, but it feels like a girl’s skin, and I look like an old drag queen, and there’s no reason for any straight man to want me when they can find a real woman, and there’s no reason for a gay man to want me when they can find a complete male, but I’ve given up self-pity for Lent, so I just have to trust that I too have some place in human sexuality, although I think I may adjust my expectations somewhat. I’m REALLY old, but have no interest in straight blokes with calcified brains and carnivorous corpulence. Maybe I should be less disappointed if I go the odd year without getting laid. The bright young men who catch my fancy don't catch me eye. Put brutally, they can do much better than this bulbous old wrinkly infertile sexually ambiguous eunuch.

The weather’s colder, so drapey things are all the go. Surprisingly, my hair is lovely. But I’m still shockingly old to most attractive men on the look out. And I aint rich. I can’t imagine why any guy would want me. But that deficit of imagination may not be shared by the Universe. But I am SO old and fat!

And then, after writing that last sentence, the radio plays me singing “My Vagina”(unexpectedly, from a recording done last year for Queer Noise on 2SER), and I am manically happy, and then it’s followed by a public service announcement about manic depression.

It’s a funny old world innit.

I don't care how you spin it being single is shit

2007-02-20T23:53:00.000+11:00

Darn. Someone just asked me if I’d tried chat rooms for meeting partners. I’ve tried everything, I told them, and had to tell them I was feeling really bad about the whole subject, and thankfully they changed subject. So why should I make myself feel bad by writing about it?

It’s just not my time. Or not time for romance. Or I’m the product of corrupt imperialism (as a eunuch) and no one really healthy will be attracted to me. Or I’m just still too limited by my original pattern of getting by without affection and being unpopular and ever so slightly socially crippled.

I even tried buying an ebook this month on dating success for women, and I’m sure it’s got good advice for normally gendered folk, but would I want to play those gendered games, well, maybe, there is one gendered game I’d like to play, and my versatile days are long gone honey, so I thought maybe I should expect the “foreplay” to be gendered too (you know, with the woman making the man pursue her, and not giving in to sex till he’s interested in nesting), but it all rests on some guys giving the woman their phone numbers (and not the other way about, or at least, she aint allowed to call him first, apparently, or he loses interest, cos he needs the chase to be interested, apparently), anyway, it all depends on some guy asking for my number, and no guy asked for my number. They just haven’t. And it don’t seem likely neither.

I just hope this gendered shit really aint meant for me, cos it just aint my nature to hide my nature. I sit up straight when I fancy a man, and he notices, and the theory is that he will then have no interest because I am no challenge for him, and this is probably happening for the normative guys, but would they bother with the likes of me anyway, and is the cultural gap worth negotiating?

There are no guide books out here. But do I really want to be with those following the leaders, or be on the crest of the wave? Sure, those grapes were sour anyway, right?

OK, enough with the grape jokes already.

Maybe I’ll go to some groovy Mardi Gras event with some groovy bisexual boys, and at least be considered eligible. At present, I’m stuck between my dick-loving gay friends and my occasionally romantically misdirected lesbian friends (I love you darls, but I’m a poofter who just looks like a lesbian, understand? I like BOYS. And I’m awfully flattered but I’m well post-experimental and know well what straightens my spine), and boys whose biology attracts them to people who are biologically reproductively female in ways that I am nothing. Maybe harsh but true: I have no sperm to offer, no ova, and these things are not biologically isolated.

But maybe not everyone is reproductively focused. Maybe I just haven’t met them yet.

Maybe I’ll stop thinking of wanting a boy long enough to stop repelling them by thinking (implicitly) about not having a boy.

Che sera sera.

I’m not chained in a cell in Guantanamo Bay, I’m not starving to death in immigration detention, and I’m even undamaged from being hit by a BUS. I got my health, I got a fit body, I still do the yoga and Tibetan rites for me, even if it gives me a body so damn beautiful I just can’t work WHY no cute man wants to hold me naked and get breathy, but there’s still a point to doing the exercises, it’s for me, this body, whether any one else ever wants it or not. I have to tell myself that most mornings.

But someone might like this body. How can I know the future? Of course someone might. And of all the incredible things that happen to me, why should I not meet this unusual person? Maybe there wil be someone who fancies me for my personality, and my gender doesn’t matter much. Or maybe in this wonderful world where there lots of guys into pre-op tranys, there will be some cute and compatible guy actually into someone with a body like mine, you know, boyish, but with girl bits. In the reverse order to your usual trany.

And mostly I can get by focusing on the lovely things in my life and all around me. But invisible angels ghosts and pixies all around me, please conspire to bring me a lover! May the fates be kind! May I think and act positively, not get bogged down in self-sabotaging self-pity and whinging. May I believe in the evidence I see of all things being possible, and the benevolence of the universe, and be open to love, and have a non-sabotaging focus in the meantime, and just live my life and do what’s right and not obsess about guys and wanting intimate affection, and appreciate the love the sun and the wind and my friends have for me. Amen!

Lovely Day Out

2007-01-26T19:54:00.000+11:00

Big Day Out. Feeling really good. Met my friend Chris there as I walked in, without planning to. I’d offered him my plus one (I was performing a spot at Mondo Exotica), and he said it was a “quasi date”, and treated me like a lady all night, holding my hand and walking arm in arm, even when I changed out of my bright rainbow dress into a pair of jeans and bare torso. He’s loving and affectionate with everyone, but last night, he was loving and affectionate with me, and I still feel really good.

Mmmmm.

It is so nice to get physical affection from a nice man accepting me as I am, eccentric to consumerism, blithe to conformity (and meta signals and other social media), radically androgynous, an outrageously swishy smooth chest - camel toe.

Also met my best friend’s housemate, Amanda, and the gorgeously flamboyantly towering David from Kooky, and a few other anarchist spunks I’ve seen around, all by chance, at a huge event with hundreds of thousands.

I saw a boy wearing the flag, with a Greens sticker protesting "Sniff Off" to the pigs' dogs. Even those who don't realise they are friends of our borderless revolution of Love are our friends, for everyone wants freedom and happiness.

Got me cartoon in for the South Sydney Herald yesterday morning too. Woke up at 2am horny, managed to prove the wimpy eunuchs of the TV show on Hijras wrong (I reckon pretty much anyone with a prostrate can ejaculate. I mean, honey, it may take half an hour, and might not be earth shaking if you’re not really focussed, but, oh, come to think of it, hormones may make most transwomen backfire, so to speak, and not realise they’ve cum cos it’s just gone into the bladder. Anyway, been awhile since I’ve managed the full half hour, so to speak, without ruining it with negative thoughts about being alone, so I’m particulary happy about it).. where was I? Oh yes, stayed awake, decided to draw cartoon, and it was scanned and emailed by 4am. And then a trip to Olympic park, a gig where I got to take my clothes off and sing my heart out, and all that lovely gentlemanliness from my friend, and a live look at the Violent Femmes, who have inspired me for over 25 years.

Embracing what is true to me, disregarding the judgments of normativists and authoritarians, I’m in the Loving flow.

Mmmm. Cuddles.

Encounter with psychologist

2007-01-23T18:18:00.000+11:00

After a bout of depression focused around my lack of intimate love, I saw a doctor, who referred me to a psychologist, and along I went today, to see if I was missing any angle, or allow myself to be talked into taking hormones, or be comfortable being celibate, or perhaps find some third alternative. Guess what? Third alternative. Not that that was suggested by the psychologist... She was pretty sure taking hormones was the way to go. Her reasoning was that I deserved love, and hormones would make me more attractive to, ah, vaginaphilic men. I responded that if I am lovable, why do I need to take potion X to be lovable? If I am lovable, then I am lovable, with or without the addition of hormones. For me to take hormones to be lovable firmly implies that I am not lovable without hormones.

And I reject that. I am very happy with my unique eunuch body. I am just unhappy that I have not so far been able to find someone I fancy who fancies me with my unique eunuch body.

"I am lovable, just as I am." That feels true for me.

"I need to buy my lovability from the chemist"... that makes me nauseous.

"Wear shoes next time." That tells me this therapist is not for me.

I can't get reasonable help from people blinded by the idea that gender is binary, who can't see that the ascription of femininity or masculinity is an arbitrary invention of the imagination.

" You weren't born a eunuch," she said when I said I was happy with my eunuch body and wanted to find a partner who loved it as I did.

Ah, but I was born intersexed, I told her, with a feminised brain sprung to pattern my mother's behaviours, not my fathers, and a body with male parts and whatnot. I love my male skeleton, I love my feminine walk, I love my male vocal range, I love my female vocal patterns.

My truth, subject to new information, but for now, my truth is that I am androgynous, not ambiguous, and this is the way I am meant to be in this society struggling to evolve from brutal farm-breeding-based-morality, and I am lovable just as I am, and I hope and pray the Universe is kind enough to send me physical confirmation of this, but I am not ready to abandon reason for the comfort of normativity, or take hormones to attract a partner. I mean, if I'm not sexy, then I'm not sexy, but I reckon I am, and don't care for the tastes of those who disagree.

She wants me to wear shoes as a "hygene issue". I reject the idea that a bare sole is dirtier than an nerveless shoe. I choose free soles over fear of dirt.

And I choose to let this Universe love me as I am, without product X changing me. If the Universe makes a human like me so content with being a femme boy with a cunt, attracted to boys who seem a little androgynous, then it is quite likely it makes a boy I find attractive who will find me attractive. I'd rather trust the benevolence of a loving Universe than the interests of the Western Medical-Pharmaceutical-Industrial Complex.

I just have to pester my friends for more hugs till I find a proper lover. And trust the best of what my heart tells me, and not indulge in weepy dramatic replays of my sad history love-life-wise. Where I been don't matter at all next to where I'm going, and it's only where I am that counts.

There are no visible means of support for my heart, but that's okay. It's the invisible that supports people living at my level, if we trust it to.

Love and let love!

2007-01-21T22:33:00.000+11:00

Figuring there was one way for me to get laid, I headed down to William Street last Thursday wearing not a lot, and within an hour, I was bedded by a very fit young brick layer, and richer for the experience. I haven’t been able to give it away for free for years, but I can sell it. Go figure.

Not so much luck Friday night, when I was thrown off by the pigs interfering with me going about my lawful business. Pulled up on the kerb and told me someone wearing the same badge as me had been throwing bottles. I had a word to their boss today, who will remind them they are servants of the public, not tyrants, and it is not wise to interfere contemptuously with active citizens going about their lawful business.

Saturday was a total cop porn movie, with the entire Block blocked off because a gang of gunslingers (the cops) had been fired at by someone else with a gun. Copper chopper all night, cars searched, ID demanded of citizens by the infestation of armed mercenaries. No suggestion the gunman was shooting at anyone with a gun, so we citizens were all safe, yet it is we citizens who were prevented from returning to our own homes. No explanation, by the way, was given to us at the time the police elected to impose martial law on the people’s homes and commons.

You are not our masters, copper. You are our servants, and in theory at least, you are answerable to us, not the other way about. At least, as far as we ensure you are.

Anyway, off to the street with me, I could still do with the sex, and the money. And then dancing at a gay or mixed club, and maybe a chance to sleep listening to someone else breathing. Ahhh!

Hooray for Jollywood

2007-01-02T19:49:00.000+11:00

Peat's Ridge Festival this New Year, and I was hanging around the anarchist cast and crew of Jollywood, probably the most active (and radical) music stage area there. Out and about with the "general public" however, I had to process tons of tranyphobia. My gender non-conformity was blatantly obvious, since I danced around topless most of the time, and I could hear people in tents around us talking about the trany, what genitals did he have, and a lot of judgmentalism about transsexuality. But, I processed this; Most people believe the mainstream media, most people have a problem with gender diversity, and all of those people have toxic belief systems I choose not to take on board. I love them as I love the rest of the Universe, but that doesn't mean I need let their toxic beliefs poison my experience. They're just wrong, and one day they may wake up to reality, but in the meantime, I keep the company of the tiny minority, who act from love, creativity, friendship and compassion, not from fear or judgmentalism.

Sad to say, I was wearing virginal white on New Year's Day, but I did get a reasonable offer the next day from a nice man who gave me a ride on his motorbike. (Not quite my type, not quite the right time.)

I was consoled from ending 2006 sexlessly by sleeping with my best friend in his Mum's campervan, in quiet bliss listening to someone else's breathing during the night. I even enjoyed the sound of snoring from nearby tents. I don't think I was meant to sleep alone.

It does seem obvious that the course I've chosen, being true to myself, and so expressing as androgynous, and having the body of a boy with a vagina, I am subject to vilification by normativists, and close off many sexual options, as most normal straight identifying boys are apparently freaked out by me as a sexual prospect.

But open minded people are far better quality, and I am still hopeful that there is at least one human I find attractive who will reciprocate and consummate this attraction.

Thankfully, I was inoculated against the Messiah Complex when I was at Uni, but Christ, this is what it's like being uncompromisingly committed to love and the truth as I personally find it to be for me. The majority of people don't understand, and many actively vilify. They are not evil, they are just acting from belief systems that are now toxic, and voting for hypocrites who take us to war. I continue to love them and accept them as they are, but I will pay no heed to their foolishness.

And I shall pay no heed to the tranyphobia, or the fear that the people with gender diverse bodies, or my body in particular, won't get laid. The more I entertain that last fear, the more it manifests. It's just a thought, not a reality, despite it's being supported by my personal history. The thought created that aspect of my history, but it shall not withstand the reality of a Universe made from Love, as long as my focus is more on what I love than on what I fear.

I am absolutely committed to unconditional universal love, and that includes loving my androgyny, and refusing to change it while it feels so right for me, and trusting that the Universe does bring me all that I need, and if it turns out that this really means that I am practically physically sexually unlovable in this time and society, then I will be sustained by other manifestations of love.

And, between you and me, some of the anarchist boys began returning sexual eye contact with me as we packed up the festival, and I am somewhat optimistic about my chances of enjoying a jolly wood in the near future.

The creme de la creme

2006-12-24T19:27:00.000+11:00

My love life makes up in quality what it lacks in quantity. I don't get to eat lots of cheap and plain cooking chocolate, but i get to lick the most delicious afterdinner mints.

A couple of weeks ago a handsome man spent some time chatting me up at Kooky. He disappeared mysteriously, and the next week when I saw him, I got the picture he was involved with the woman berating him, but he came up to me again last Friday and put his arm around me. I resolved to just enjoy it for as long as it lasted, and let go of any hope that it would lead somewhere, as I had been disappointed two weeks in a row by the same guy. I was non-plussed this time, then, when he excused himself, and disappeared.

Then a very beautiful young man caught my eye, or rather, he caught me doing a double take at his breathtaking beauty, and he said that he found chatting with me more interesting than hanging around with his girlfriend upstairs (who was apparently preoccupied with a gaggle of her old friends). After a very long chat he put his arms around me (Oh!) and squeezed me tight, chest to chest, groin to groin. At least for that moment, a beautiful boy found me, as I am, to be sexually attractive. So beautiful! Ah, I may fail to get off, so to speak, but I fail to get off with the best!

He rejoined his girlfriend and her friends as the nightclub was emptied out, and I shared a cab with a boy I've fancied for ages, the straight brother of a gay friend. This boy kisses me as if I was a woman and he was a man who liked women, and I like that a lot. I took advantage of our shared inebriation to climb salaciously over him on the way out of the cab, and was rewarded with a kiss full on the lips.

So, with a more relaxed attitude to getting laid, with a longer view, and regular attendance at places where boys who like girls go, I have more cause to be optimisitic about my chances as a 45 year old eunuch only into very attractive youthful men.

And I am sustained by the company of beautiful young men who surround me, in my home and friendship circle. And I cherish the hugs my housemate occassionally offers me. I love male affention, I need male affection, but it has to be high quality, none of your rough stuff. A whiff of a nice man's bedroom in the morning is more life-giving for me than a half-hearted full-body grope with a distant stranger merely feigning intimacy.

Ah, I may not fill myelf with gruel, but only taste the creme de la creme, as they say in the classics.

MMmmmm!

And the more open I am to the idea that there are actually attractive young men who find me actually attractive, and the more I let go of fear and old history and square people's ideas about sex, the more close an attractive young man will come to me.

Hey, I'm off to a music festival camping in the hills for New Year where many of those attractive young men will be, so I'll wish you all a happy Hugmany, and may we all have many hugs, and/or hug many, this New Year!

Cheers!

Post-Bus-Bounce

2006-10-13T09:43:00.000+10:00

Justifying my importunity because I could be hit by a bus again, I asked a friend for a sexual favour, and he agreed to give me some sexual healing.

Three hours of luscious foreplay, but no follow through. You can lead a horse to water, but you need a thirsty horse, and that can't be faked. In the end, thinking about vagina was counter productive to the beautiful boy's erection, as it seems to be for all the guys close to me. Boy, was my libido cranky!!! All wound up and NOWHERE NOWHERE nowhere to go.

I wouldn't be surprised if the sheer voraciousness of my cunt frightened guys in general, not just the gay boys. It was all mostly just compliant, going along with whatever, when I was sex working, but my innate sexuality is more body animated and less ego controlled, and when my pussy is ready, it's a willful roaring nether mouth, my body turned rapturous raptor, my spine writhing like a snake rising to devour its prey whole, demanding and forceful and insistent and, well, basically, my pussy aint no pussy.

Still, it was pleasant and positive for me to experience completely unfaked sexual arousal, and my body's joy when it connects with the right kind of other body, with a pleasant other human's breath, smell, shape, texture, movement and response.

But I need a partner who is driven to fuck my cunt when it starts thrusting itself into the air. Or I just get another affirmation that I am unfuckable.

I've been so successful at making fundamentally mismatched connections.. but is it even possible for me to be part of a matched connection?

I have to spend less time with gay guys.

Then maybe there could be some cunt-fucker who wants to couple with me.

I am seriously uncoupled, in a mentally distraught way. I so fear I won't/can't be a match for anyone, because of my unusual sex.

And that fear is so strong it gives the thought an energy that manifests everytime, despite every other known rule about human love and sex and intimacy and relationship.

Love is stronger than fear. I don't mean if I just love the guys in my life more they will somehow change their brain hard wiring and find me sexually attractive (and not just for as long as they think of me as a boy or drag queen or pre-op transsexual). I mean if I love myself more, and take more risks, and take a chance at being bored mindless and have to deal with sexist shitheads and homophobes and all the other things likely to present at straight venues... But there are groovy places now like Kooky and.. and the queer/feral/uni student/scene around the inner west...

Again I am tortured with the hormone question. Would non-exclusively-gay guys fancy me if was more feminised? But would I fancy myself? I certainly don't fancy the idea of having more body fat hanging off my chest. I like my litheness. But I can't feed my cunt, and I'd give it all up, my beautiful androgynous body, if that would feed my cunt.

Fuck, guys, you don't know SHIT about being pussy whipped!

OK, current plan is to stay off hormones, and revisit this decision perhaps after a few months after I've given myself time to connect with a mate post-bus-bounce, maybe taking more chances to get close with the cute guys I do meet in mixed venues, cos I could hit by another bus tomorrow.

Buses and portents

2006-10-05T20:51:00.000+10:00

I only just noticed: On September 4, I wrote on this blog

All that’s missing in my life is sex. Surely that should be bearable. But I just can’t accept this, and I can‘t change it, and maybe my work here is done, and maybe there’s a miracle around the corner. Or a bus. Ha ha.

One calendar month precisely later, I got both, the bus and the miracle.

So, let's try for a more positive outcome:

Maybe I'm doing everything right, and personally fulfilling intimate loving erotic relationships manifest with ease and joy and bliss and harmony in my life. All that was missing in my sex life was acceptance of my divine sexiness, and faith in divine abundance.

Blessed I am.

cuddles and portents

2006-10-05T16:17:00.000+10:00

Last week I woke up and realised that I'd just been dreaming about lying in bed with a certain male friend wrapped around me, so I became depressed that I would even subconsciously want something that would most likely never happen, and started the day with the blues.

Then, a few days later, my friend called me about our proposed camping trip, saying he had no camping gear, and he actually agreed to share my tent and double sleeping bag.

The night we went camping, we saw a shooting star. I wished for a nice cuddle in bed. That night I got.... a nice cuddle in bed : )

It's better than sex.

It gave me the same blissful euphoric magic glow as Brian M falling asleep with his head on my shoulder when I was 16. Or when Steven S put his arm around my waist that same year.

It's five hundred billion trillion percent better than a furtive grope and seedy desperate sex followed by disavowal.

I know what the rutting animals get, and I want much much more. Give me divine intimacy!

I'm not in love with him, nor am I falling in love, but I loved the feeling of the feeling of his arm wrapped snuggly around my naked body. (For the record, I did fall in love with Brian M, but not Steven S, who was a better and close friend than the elusive Brian.)

Knowing what I like and focusing on it, I become more likely to cuddle with a cuddle bunny who may NOT be so disinclined to foster sexual interaction...

I've got all those hot young guys close to me who seem sexually active with every gender and age and activity but who have so far seemed specifically sexually unavailable to me.

My friend Kooky gave me some advice about this, She thinks the guys I fancy may be intimidated by me because I am an icon, so I should make more of an effort to relax them and signal a willingness to intimacy with, say, a hand on the shoulder, or a squeezed knee.

And I may not have been previously entirely comfortable with my sexuality. I tried to give guys my age an even chance, but they're really a much stuffier and less healthy generation than my personal standards allow. I like the slim guys and the guys who stay flexible and fit and healthy and the guys who are too young (under 25) to have become fat and blokey and unhealthy. So, they're twenty years younger than me, and I'm old enough to be their father or mother, but I'm not their father or mother, and I'm a sexy and very fit Tantrika.

It's not my place to challenge or shift the limits my friends have against sexual intimacy with me, for those limits must be respected if they are part of the structure of our friendship, (and I'd much rather the intimate relationship I have with my friend than have sex with him instead. And maybe we're too sexually alike to be compatible, and we honour each other and ourselves too much to fake something for the sake of partner pleasing...) but I can do something to stretch or dissolve the limits I impose on my love life. I've been too shy and insecure, and not known what to say when a new cute guy gets close to me.

That changes now. I survived being hit by a bus. Fear of rejection loses a lot of power by comparison. And, as the Miracle of the Naked Cuddle shows, God gives me what I persistenly and earnestly ask for.

Blessed be!

I got hit by a bus

2006-10-05T16:11:00.000+10:00

I got hit by a bus yesterday

I got hit by a bus.

I got hit by a bus!

GOD LOVES ME!

Because I'm still alive!

Actually, I think it was Jesus specfically who saved me, as this happened (on my bike) just outside the church (on Broadway, now part of Norte Dame University) where I had committed my first conscious act of radical Christian activism, altering their "Trespassers will be Prosecuted" sign to "Trespassers will be FORGIVEN". I did this a few years ago, but it got mentioned in the Sydney Morning Herald's Stay In Touch column, but more importantly, Jesus remembered it, and when I was HIT BY A BUS, Jesus saved me. Thanks mate.

I reckoned I owed Christ a bit of gratitude after that, so I delivered the local paper put out by the local social justice activist Christians (yeah, the mob I hang with, the Uniting Church in Waterloo) to the Block (always first, with first delivery to The Aboriginal Tent Embassy) and then Chippendale East of Abercrombie, seven hundred copies all up. I kept going cos I didn't want to leave it undone if I stopped and became stiff and sore. I was, after all, hit by A BUS.

Not a bone broken. 45, castrated, no fuckin' prescription oestrogen for fifteen years, and not a bone broken. HIT BY A BUS. Take that, "medical experts" who prophesised oesteoporosis and broken bones if I stayed free of their potions! I was HIT BY A BUS and I'm OK!

Thank you Jesus, and bollocks to the scribes!

I got HIT BY A BUS!

I'm still euphoric. What a fantasticly good life!

I got hit by A BUS!!!!!!

And I'm OKAY!

My life ROCKS!

It's now a day later, and today I feel like I've been hit by a bus, but then, I've been hit by a bus(so i'm a little bit stiff and sore), and.. I was hit by a bus (I am the first hand witness to a miracle! I am Beloved! )

The Beautiful Androgyne in Her Prime

2006-09-24T23:11:00.000+10:00

So, there has to be a new story, to replace the old sob story giving tragic meaning to me not having found Mister Perfect or at least lucked out with some spunk young barely out of uni (or high school)... The real reason I'm not getting any nooky is I only fancy the cream of the cream, the really pretty boys, and yes, they are usually by far almost always gay, and strongly phallophillic at that; I'm just a fag hag who knows the average bloke just don't turn her on, and I don't want what I don't want, and although I want what I mostly (but not always!) can't have, I get the BEST eye candy.

I mean, reverse the genders, and I am a straight man surrounded by hot lesbians, telling me all about their wild sexual adventures. Frustrating? Oh, only if I make unfair comparisons, and weighted misjudgments, to misappreciate God's wonders. From another perspective, it's HOT. And hot lesbian chicks know other hot chicks, man, and one of those hot chicks might be bisexual, and I'm THIS close to them all, they think I'm special, this old straight man hanging with the hot young lesbian uni student crowd. I mean, there are worse fates.

I swapped a massage with my best friend last week. Now, in the reverse gender scenario, I'm an middle age guy who fancies hot young chicks and I'm massaging my best friend who's a hot young lesbian. There's no boundaries in danger, I know she only likes chicks, and while I'm androgynous, I got a dick, not what she fancies, and so seeking sexual intimacy just isn't an issue. Hey, there's many guys who wouldn't be okay with that, but you know, I'm okay with that, and I'm glad I'm the type of guy who IS okay with that, and that doesn't make me some kind of mental neuter, man, cos I'm not, and like I said, hanging with this hot lesbian chicky babe, I meet the hottest girls, and my odds are maybe low in quantity but high in quality, and I know which I want honey.

Now, reverse the genders back to reality, and my superficially sexless life is more experientally fecund. My body is joyed by the smell of fresh healthy male sweat. I am forty five, but I am accepted on the young anarchist/ green lefty/ savvy/ alternative scenes in all my bare foot wildly dancing androgynous narcissism. I am on the cutting edge of social justice activism, joying in the blooming of the young organisers working for the love of humanity against the blindly evil machinery of authoritarianism. I work with such people, committed to sex positivism in a very sex negative society, to support sex workers against unfair treatments that range from the mild to the bizarre. Barefoot and of blatantly androgynous gender, I'm a fairly well paid and well respected professional Team Leader in a challenging and stimulating NGO. I'm the editorial cartoonist for the local newspaper, put out by my local church of actual social justice activists, people actually meanigfully seeking to follow Christ, as honestly individually interpeted and felt, from both the Gospel scripture, and our own lived realities, putting our shared humanity and inclusivity ahead of dog-eat-dog competition and separatism.

I have quality of life, and quality love.

I'll take that over time wasted breathing chlorine and amyl and maybe having vaccuous sexual congress with a nice guy who just isn't my type. I like my spine being straightened by all the hot young guys around me. And life is full of seen and unseen possibilities. I have real love and integrity in my life. And great eye candy ; )
------------------------
And the more she appreciated what God had given her, and the more she accepted responsibility for her own nurturing, and the more she lived joyously expressing an uncompromising love for humanity and the All that Is, the more full of love her life was.
----------------------------------
Now I've just got to live that in the first person... But my odds are god. I mean good. The first typo was unintentional but probably Freudian. You get that.

-------------------------------------

Last Friday week my best friend took me and some hot guy in drag we met at a night club skinny dipping at a heated public swimming pool at 3 AM, and after a lovely splash I had the thrill of escaping naked with my clothes in arms running across city street with security guards in hot pursuit.

And Friday just gone I danced and played jazz jam at a huge party in student public housing that didn't stop till four police cars turned up at 4AM. Cheerin'.

Yesterday I celebrated a prisoners' rights activist's birthday with the cream of the cutting edge social justice activist set, including an MP or two and the odd convicted murderer (and I must add that the odd one I know well is a really good bloke and extremely worthwhile. Not that either of us condone murder, and he's the first to point out that it's a really fucked up thing to do, but we are all capable of doing fucked up things, particularly when we don't know any better. Bloke's so smart they passed a law against him especially, and he had to beat the state government in the High Court to win fair release when his long sentence had been duly served).

This was after six new visitors to Villawood joined me yesterday, including my best friend's sister, and I met the Morroccon guys who survived a month with no water in hold with their dead friend's bodies. See my other blog for their story (I May Well Be, there's a link over on the right probably, yeah, go on, risk really engaging your humanity, please, for the love of God, read their story...)

Anyway, it's a good life, and not only because I've never been stuck down in a hold for a month with no choice but to drink my own piss while my friend's corpses rotted.

I have real quality of life, and not the materialistic quality, but the real stuff, everyday meaningful rich connection to humanity and the triumphs of the human spirit, and the joys of the world and all the amazing talents and gifts and serendipity and bliss the Universe sends me.

And the more I appreciate what God has made me, unique and androgynous and specially talented (as we all are in our own ways), the more I become confident that some hot spunk will catch my eye and be keen enough to kiss me.

Oh sure, I can cry and wallow in self-pity at being alone, or I can marvel at all the amazing love and everything in my life, and be glad I've got the time alone to appreciate and nurture myself. More nurture, less wallow, thank you doctor.

Cheers!

Godbless!

Poor Baby

2006-09-05T11:25:00.000+10:00

Poor Baby.

One thing goes wrong, so everything is wrong.

I am simply too femme for the cute guys at 357.

I didn’t stop crying until I’d agreed not to make myself go back to 357 last night. It’s the wrong place, or rather, the guys there are not a match for me, and I’m not a match for them. I can imitate a boy, but at core I’m femme, even when I had a willy, and the gay boys don’t want a femme boy. And I’m sure the things I learned at cruising class can be applied elsewhere.

I thought about a straight boy who’d kissed me, and how good I felt about that. Beautiful, giving, soft but firm, intimate, unafraid, loving.

I love being treated as a woman by a straight man. My whole face changes when I think of how happy I am to be kissed as a woman by a man who is sexually attracted to women. It changes to look unmistakably womanly. My secret gender?

I spent some time then challenging my sexist desires, and realizing that the war of the sexes goes on in my head as much as anywhere. But I love doors being opened for me; I love the signs that indicate that in some nice man’s scheme of things I am to be treated like a lady, with respect, and as a possible sex partner.

But I’m glad I was born with a boy’s body, or I’d have been pregnant very young and very often, had all my time and energy taken up with other people’s agendas (the kids and the controlling male partners), and would have missed this fascinating free-wheeling life of the mind.

***

Interest from the gay web dating sites has been minimal to zilch.

Interest from a hetero site has been more voluminous, although it’s turned into a game of winnowing out those whose agenda is not just plain honest sex, since for so many of them with all sorts of baggage from their parents and sexism, interaction with a girl is not about seeing if she’s wants a root, but how much power he can have over her, how much he can manipulate her, can he get her to send her webcam or revealing photos when he’s giving so little, how far can he engage her before she realizes he’s a lying cheating cad. Most of them don’t behave any better than hairless apes.

Do I want to have sex with hairless apes? No, I don’t. I want to have sex with an Angel.

I think I’ll try and stay focused on MY truth, and not allow these poor damaged people trying to get what they can from other humans with dishonesty and exploitive manipulation to take up so much of my time.

And I’m going to spend less time in places that I feel bad in, such as the chlorine and amyl stench of 357. I’m still glad I’m fighting for the rights of gender or sex diverse people to access these Sex On Premises Venues, but I don’t think it’s healthy for me to be there.

I‘m just going to accept that there are not many emotionally and sexually available people evolved enough for me, and that I choose sexual abstinence rather than sex with a hairless ape. I’m an Angel, a divinely sexual being, and I’m not settling for less!

Hit and Miss

2006-09-04T15:27:00.000+10:00

I’ve been participating in ACON’s SOPV Crusing Workshops over the last four weeks, hoping to get some better idea of how to pick up guys or get picked up by them or have some idea when they are interested in me or not.

In the end, if they are normal guys, gay or straight or bisexual, they are not interested. If they are sexually aroused by novelty, then they may well be interested in me, and in swapping bestiality porn on the internet. Fuck, truly, I WISH I was making this up.

Anyway, we had homework from the Cruising Workshop, ie to try out a free pass to a SOPV, namely 357. I used mine at lunchtime today. And using all the skills I learned, I made passes, got ignored, showed interest, got ignored, took time out, went back to it, got snubbed, felt uncomfortable, got dizzy from the ubiquitous stench of Amyl, got sick of chlorine, wished there was a safe space to breath, sat in the spa for ten minutes (while all the guys sitting there left within five minutes), stood in the steam sauna for five minutes (and all the guys there left) fuck this is a really shit story why am I even comtemplating going back tonight to use my passout it’s just wrong wrong wrong and makes me feel overwhelmingly sad and I can’t stop crying and I wonder if this is really better than giving up and staying home and adjusting to being single and unfuckable for the rest of this life. Which might not last much longer than it takes to end it.

Internet dating a total waste of time, on straight sites, gay sitea and bi sites. Plenty want to flirt and chat, no one wants to actually meet me. I‘ve put a good two months of effort and sent about a hundred messages, so I really have given this a fair go, I reckon.

All that’s missing in my life is sex. Surely that should be bearable. But I just can’t accept this, and I can‘t change it, and maybe my work here is done, and maybe there’s a miracle around the corner. Or a bus. Ha ha.

Gooden Gone, Going On Good

2006-09-01T14:37:00.000+10:00

So there I was running the self-pitying story about being unfuckable, when the seriousness of stories was brought fatally home.

Two Sundays ago, my friend Marc Gooden texted me indicating a high level of distress with the world. He was angry about the money “pissed against the wall” by the well-off at the World AIDS Conference in Canada, while he suffered in dire AIDS poverty with tragically inadequate support or services. He was angry about the stupidity of the general population. Well, that’s the way it is if you climb out of the delusions of the masses, if you look back, they look distressingly stupid and infuriatingly complicit in the destruction of their planet’s future, the wellbeing of themselves and their descendents, and their vindictive jealousy and relentless persecution of the sensitive, the creative, and the exotic or diverse.

I phoned him and talked him down from his rage and despair, and urged him to focus on some things that did not infuriate him. Someone else visited him in his home in country Victoria that Sunday night, left at 4am Monday morning, and Marc was found hanged dead later that day.

Now, the late visitor looks sus in these circumstances, but presuming the Police did their job right in ruling out foul play, Marc died because he was stuck in telling himself a very distressing story.

Yes, there are horrible things happening everywhere. Bombs subsidized by US taxes have flattened towns and killed mostly children and cows in Lebanon. The average child molester, the thirty eight year old heterosexual married man, is molesting the average victim, his twelve year old daughter. And millions of children are orphaned by AIDS because the money for AIDS Prevention is being wasted on junkets or counter-productive abstinence campaigns.

Who wouldn’t get suicidally depressed looking at nothing but the bad stuff?

Yet, there are also wondrous miracles happening everywhere. Every morning and night there’s a stunning sunset or sunrise in breathtakingly beautiful full colour panorama. A hardened crim is moved to tears by the fragile beauty of a newborn baby. A dance floor comes alive with a perfect blend of sound and light and movement and happy smiling people experiencing the joy of their shared humanity and their shared connection to the source of All.

I have a choice about the stories I tell myself. I can focus on the sad story of being too weird for normal guys to fancy (which is true), or on the happy story of physically manifesting the androgyny that underlies humanity (and indeed the Source of Creation), and thus appealing to those special folk who have evolved beyond the grey trappings of normative gender expectations. The more I shine, the more normals are blinded and shy away, and the more exotic and talented people are attracted to me. No offense to normals; they vote for Howard because its the best they can do, and I bear them no ill will, as I bear dogs no ill, but I don’t want to ever ever ever fuck them.

So, I’m unpartnered, but that’s because I choose to not settle for a Normal, and Angels are not just waiting on the shelf. They’re out there, some of them still too traumatized from the brutal Normals, but some of them notice me and maybe wink.

From a certain point of view, the world is perfect, and I am perfect, and I have all the love and everything else I need right now right now. If I focus on this, and appreciate the stunning beauty the Source Of All has created in me and my body and my talents and my dancing, I shine, irresistible to All that is Good and Joy and Love.

If I look at my lovelife like a scorecard, whine about the lack of any recent entries in my sexual history, and think of my chances in terms of how I appeal to Normals, I could end up as suicidally depressed as Mr Gooden.

No way, folks. Marc’s death was a wake-up call for me, and I’m not looking back, I’m taking no prisoners, I’m not compromising on second best, I’m not settling for less than a talented androgynous Angel deserves, and I’m here to do justice to Shiva, both male and female, dancing with one leg raised, the Dancer and the Dance.

I may still end up home alone, but it is because I choose to not settle for Normal, and I will sleep with a divinely beautiful soul and body, and nothing Normal will be allowed to bring me down!

I Shine with Joy and Love and Bliss and Endless Blooming Effervescence!

It’s a much better story, and it tells itself as I walk down the street and the worlds reads my walk and eyes and reflects the story back.

And let the Dead bury the Dead.

Four Seasons in One Day

2006-08-15T18:31:00.000+10:00

I woke up sad and cried for half an hour, thrashing around in a fetal position, crying for being physically unloved, unable to think of any way to change this situation, aware that I've already tried far more than most, unable to accept celibacy, unable to find acceptance of my situation.

After plowing through some tedious beaurocracy at the office, I sat in the sun for a cigarette break, and cried as I realised how much my skin needed to feel love, which it felt in the warm sunlight. I needed to feel physically loved today, I could function not one moment without being in pursuit of this, so I excused myself from an appoinment this afternoon, and went directly to the beach.

The clouds were already coming in by the time I got to the beach, but it was warm enough to last through the shadow, and elementally pleasant in the warm sunlight. I abandoned all modesty and did a few yoga poses to expose my perineum to the loving sun. Mmmmm.

It was cold and raining by the time I got home, and hailing shorty after!

The sun was nice, but I still feel in need of physical nurturing, so I've just filled a bath.

I'm doing a cruising course at ACON tomorrow. Maybe I can learn how to do it right. Maybe that's just the problem. Maybe it's not that no man I want wants me. Maybe that's just been true so far, and could change at any moment.

no shit for me please, thank you very much all the same

2006-08-08T12:17:00.000+10:00

So, after braving the intimidation of the staff, manager and armed police, to establish beyond a doubt that I had the right to enter cruising spaces no matter what my gender or sex, I've established that the Pleasure Chest is not at all my personal cup of tea.

I went there again last Sunday afternoon, and started feeling uncomfortable straight away. I think there are many different agendas we classify as "sex", but they are not necessarily very similar or compatible. It seems that most guys are there for physical release only, and want to avoid any kind of emotional or intellectual engagement, and I at least need to feel that I am liked by my sex partner if I am to enjoy sexual arrousal.

The porn screen showed a girl being screwed by a muscley stud, with the camera taking his point of view entirely. All well and good, I like the guys getting into that mind set, cos that's what I want to be on the other end of thank you. Then he whips it out of her muff and up the coit. Anal sex, fine, I'm no prude there, having used that aperture before my vagina was excavated. But then they go straight from anal to fellatio YUUUK! No condom, no wash, she's just there to serve his pleasure, and it's not even a consideration that he is making her eat shit, because her health, pleasure, desire, independent will or human dignity are just not in existence at all in the world on the screen or the atmosphere this porn creates.

That's the exact sort of man I want to avoid being naked or vulnerable with, or at all close to, that is, a guy so focussed entirely on his own pleasure that his partner's health or safety may be easily compromised, unless she is focussed every moment on protecting herself from his thoughtlessness backed up by the strength of sexual arousal, poking his rough dirty fingernails where he's been told specifically they can't go, grabbing roughly, and generally acting more like he's trying to win a wresting match or prove his physical domination than engage in anything you could call making love.

I mean, I'm not planning on a four course wedding party at these places, just someone who'll engage in pleasurable, not painful or physically disgusting, intimate contact, and who'll like me for the time we are together, and be considerate of me as human being like himself. Not anyone who expects me to eat shit from their dick. Dick yes, Shit no. Thanks very much all the same, but no, thanks.

Sex-on-premises venue accused of discrimination

2006-08-03T16:24:00.000+10:00

This post is also being posted on my other blog, as it is appropriate to both, being about my love life (this blog), and my public/political life (that blog), for the two intersect when the police are called and the law is broken by those who want to keep androgyny or gender ambiguity away from their preciously gendered spaces.
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from http://www.evolutionpublishing.com.au/sxnews/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=682&Itemid=41

This week's SX news weekly (Sydney gay paper)

Thursday, 03 August 2006
Sex-on-premises venue accused of discrimination
KATRINA FOX
Transgender activist Norrie May-Welby (pictured) has lodged a complaint with the Anti-Discrimination Board of NSW (ADB) against sex-on-premises club The Pleasure Chest on George Street in the city after s/he was refused entry to the venue’s cruise lounge on the grounds she was “not a man”.

Police were called to the scene on Sunday after May-Welby, who identifies as “androgynous, not a man, not a woman, a man and a woman”, refused to leave the premises.

“A staff member told me [the cruise lounge] is a men-only area,” May-Welby told SX. “I told him this was a breach of the Anti-Discrimination Act of NSW. He wouldn’t let me in and asked if I would leave. I said I was not leaving. The staff member called the manager, who turned up after about an hour with three armed police.”

After discussion with police officers, May-Welby was eventually admitted to the cruise lounge. “The police pressured the manager to let me in,” May-Welby said. “I told them the law is being broken every minute I’m not allowed in there; it’s being broken every second I’m being treated differently to anyone who’s not considered a man.” [Blog editorial note: that sentence works better if the "not" is dropped]

Under NSW law, a venue must gain an exemption from the ADB if it wishes to operate a single-sex policy. May-Welby said s/he expects The Pleasure Chest, which currently does not have such an exemption, to apply for one, but urged the GLBTI community and the ADB to oppose this. “Trannies should be allowed to go somewhere too,” s/he said. “Who’s got the right to decide what I am?”

A spokesperson for The Pleasure Chest told SX it was investigating the matter at press time.

Up Against the Sex Police

2006-07-31T18:13:00.000+10:00

About six months ago, I went to the Pleasure Chest 177 George St Sydney to check out the Cruising Lounge and maybe meet some nice man who liked me enough for a little mutually pleasurable intimacy. However, when I enquired at the desk about how to gain entry to the Crusing Lounge, I was told it was for men only. I had used up all my courage getting up the stairs, and faced with this non-sequitor, I simply turned around and left.

Yesterday I was talking with a transgendered friend who said a transgendered friend had been blocked from using King Steam, another sex on premises venue. I resolved to go to the Cruise Lounge that night, with the same intention I had six months previous, but this time with a friend for moral support, and determined to not allow my rights to be violated in breach of the Anti Discrimination Act of NSW.

As previous, when I asked to be allowed to access the Cruise Lounge, the staff member at the desk told me it was a Men’s Cruise Lounge, and said I was not allowed in. I explained that this was a breach of the Anti Discrimination Act, and explained that the Act prevents unfavourable treatment on the basis of sex or presumed transgender status. The staff member asked me what sex I was. To my later regret, and in breach of my right to privacy and dignity, I explained myself as best I could, as an androgynous person without a penis and without any female secondary sexual characterstics. He called his manager, who I spoke to on the phone, and who refused me access, and said he would call the police unless I left. I told the manager on the phone that I had no intention of leaving until I had done what I came to do, that is, visit the Cruise Lounge.

The staff member told me that the manager was coming to talk with me, and asked me to wait, and refused to allow me into the cruise Lounge, despite my clearly informing him of the Act he was in breach of, and pointing out that “following orders” is not a legal excuse for practicing discrimination and sexuality based persecution. I even pointed out the 1996 Amendment to the Anti Discrimination Act to include actual or presumed transgender status.

It took about half an hour for the manager to finally turn up, after I was repeatedly told he would be there in “a few minutes” The staff member told me that this was because of cross-city traffic. I suspect this was complete lie to disguise the fact that the cowardly manager was waiting for armed gunmen to turn up in to deal with the apparently dangerous sex criminal that he sees me as, a non-man seeking to violate his precious gay men’s space. I reach this conclusion on the basis that the manager turned up in the company of three fire-armed police, and his complaining to the police and me that if he let me in there it would all be spoiled with women seeking to have sex with gay men, as if it is possible that every man using his facility shares the same sexuality and identity of sexuality as him, or that the agenda of women or other deemed non-men accessing this lounge was not simply to have discreet sex with men, whether or not these men may be identified as gay or married or whatever may be the case in the outside world

The Anti-Discrimination Act seemed like news to the police, but after a lengthy period, they said they would have to check with the Licensing Police, which would not be before the next morning. I asked if they were going to assist the manager in continuing to breach my rights under the Anti Dsicrimination Act in blocking my access to the Cruise Lounge. They wanted me to leave, but when I insisted that my intention was to stay until I was allowed to do what I came for, they asked me to wait longer while they consulted. After another lengthy period of time, or so it seemed for me sitting on the floor of a sex shop surrounded by three uninformed people with firearms, while the men I wanted to meet went into and out of the Cruise Lounge. I was detained for over a hour and treated most unfavourably because of the assumption that I am not a man.

I suspect this is a systemic problem, with staff and managers of gay-targetted sex on premised venues breaching the Anti-Discrimination Act by holding the services to be for men only, without having an exemption under the Act to so.

I want this practice changed, so that there is no breach of the Act in sex on premises venues, even those specifically marketing to the gay community, for it is not fair to bar transgender people and others of sex or gender diversity from the same social opportunities as other people. I would certainly urge the Anti Discrimination Board to oppose any request to be granted exemptions under the Act to allow sex on premises venues to harass and humiliate and bar people of unusual gender appearance, transgender people, intersex people, and other people of sex or gender diversity. We are part of the human community.

(I was eventually granted access to the premises on a temporary basis last night, until the manager can check his legal rights. However, this did not compensate me for the time spent waiting, and the humiliation of being unfavourably treated because of my sex or actual or presumed transgender status, including the humiliation of being asked to explain my anatomical sex.)

This is now the subject of a complaint to the Anti-Discrimination Board.

Shiniest Before Sunrise

2006-07-21T10:57:00.000+10:00

One month into the Sixth Tibetan rite. Free of sexual angst the first two weeks, but the romantic anxiety slowly returned when I was at a conference with some sexy boys. Still, the rites, topped off with the Sixth, have given me confidence in my abdominal shape (ie it doesn't seem so fat and old and bloated and generally repulsive as often as it used to), though I think I strain myself sometimes trying to hold sexy poses and not relax into the fat forty five year old dickless old man I am.

I know, I'm a godling, a divinely sexy androgyne, but whenever boys get romanticly close I am fearful of all the times a boy threatened to hit me because I hadn't said I wasn't a real girl or boy, and I am nervous trying to work out how to be attractive while making sure they have the information they need to give informed consent to my attentions. But after all, mostly they didn't threaten violence, mostly they were just lousy lovers (and I'm sorry if any exes are reading this but did any of you volunteer to lick my cunt? No, you just saw the boy you thought I looked like, and never actually related to my body as it is, and certainly never wanted or desired the voracious female core of me.) So I should just take a chance they could be different, make sure I'm dressed in a way that no one can accuse me of hiding anything, and if a boy throws himself my way, catch him, instead of looking for the catch.

Last night I was at the Newtown, a gay hotel, with my best friend, playing pool, figuring there weren't any available attractive guys, then working out the two guys (a butch looking bloke and a twink) I'd noticed might not be a couple, then at the end of the night I heard boys whistling in my direction, and it turned out they were whistling at me. "My friend likes you", said the butch looking bloke, apparently not in a couple. I tried to engage with him and his mates, but it was all too frantic, a last minute pick up rush, he asked me if I smoked choof, and I asked if he thought it was okay to smoke here at the pub, and only when I got home I realised he was trying to invite me home "for a smoke" (D-Oh!) , I was flustered, expecially then when the twink came up and kissed me (!!!!!) and I thought I'd be surprised if he wouldn't faint if he saw a cunt, but he was the one I knew I fancied without question, and I twisted in my head wondering why I am so attracted to the inappropriate ones, and so I fled to the loo, and when I got back, Twink was tongue kissing my best friend, and the butch looking bloke was taking his leave with his mates. There was no one left for me, as usual, as always [no, don't put forever on it, it's just now, it's just for now, not always, don't have a drama, don't spoil snogging friend's night], so I said goodbye to my friend (after he managed to pry Twink off his tonsils for a second) and went home, trying to think of the fact that there were guys who thought I was attractive, and not focus on the fact I fouled it all up with a moment of hesistation.

I told myelf that next time when attractive guys flirt with me I'll tell myself I'm magic, that's what my gender/sex is, and I don't need to be frightened of people rejecting it, and this is less likely to happen if my attitude is positive instead of fearful.

I mean, guys, not unattractive gay guys, were whistling at me, and one of them said I was gorgeous, and a gorgeous twink kissed me. The sun's not up for me yet, but you know how they say it's always darkest before dawn? Well, I've done that bit, and now I'm thinking how it's also shinier and shinier as sunrise approaches. Well, sunrise must be approaching; things are looking shinier.

I'm going out this lunchtime to buy some more sexy clothes from the slutty stall run by Vietnamese folk in a corner of Paddy's markets, and dance up a storm at Club 77 tonight, and not run when guys approach me, and not panic, and hopefully it won't be an all or nothing last minute rush where I'm expected to make instant and good decisions about a group of strangers.

But I'm also becoming more okay with fancying the sort of guys I fancy. Maybe I'm crazy for liking androgyny, when sexually I need a fellow who is happy to just do the man's part in that part of the proceedings, and I'm certainly out of my league in fancying guys I'm well old enough to be the parent of, but fuck it, I'm in league of my own, or rather, I'm in the special league of those who see there is nothing separating them from the pinnacle, or the nadir, but a trick of the mind.

Let me marvel at the shiny things emerging from the dark. Let me put the cold night behind me. Let that sun come up warm...

Coming Out As A Eunuch

2006-06-27T12:57:00.000+10:00

A very interesting article by a previously "normal" heterosexual man, who became a eunuch by virtue of a standard treatment for prostate cancer, and honestly shares the changes in his experiences, perspectives and attractions.

Obviously every individual varies, and I can't vouch for the increasing bisexual attraction he writes of. Of course it's possible I just have a self-limiting program that prevents me from being interested in pursuing any sexual attraction to women (who generally are much more sexually responsive to my presence than men, who seem universally fixated on a limited range of sexual types that does not include me). Anyway, he has an interesting take on his shifting hormonal perspective on sexuality and human interaction.

Anyway, he's copyrighted it and so on, so I won't paste it here, and instead I just direct you to

http://www.cancer.prostate-help.org/caeunuc.htm

By the way, I'm on the sixth day of doing the sixth Tibetan rite. My sexual urge is being a bit surprisingly strong, but I'm managed to redirect my thoughts away from tears all last night and this morning, and my energies are not so much focussed on any other person (or the lack of any other person), but rather are energies that move internally, that I can draw up and control, rather than be hopelessly overwhelmed by.

Gender mismatch and "When love goes wrong."

2006-06-26T16:52:00.000+10:00

I just found this essay, written in November 2002, shortly after I had split with my last boyfriend, when I was more optimistic about my romantic chances than I have been of late. It was inspired by the title of a forum, "When loves goes wrong."
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"When loves goes wrong." Something about genderfluidity... boy meets boygirl.. transperson meets boy, girl, tranny meets anyone, love goes wrong. Or, as the directions they gave to me put it, "when gender becomes fluid, the path to true love becomes slippery."

Slippery.

Well, yes, that's I thought too, maybe it's a lube joke, you know, path to true love, slippery, ho, ho, ho.

Oh, obviously, there's the assumption that love will go wrong whenever the nature of the gender or gender expression of one or either partner is enough to possibly challenge the gender expectations either partner has of themselves and/ or each other... But isn't that every relationship really? Negotiating roles, splitting up tasks, and sometimes compromising one's druthers for the sake of each other? Learning that we aren't quite like what we thought we were? Maybe finding out we're more like our parents that we'd have thought humanly (or humanely) possible?

But that's the nature of a relationship; It teaches more about ourselves, and so a close domestic or romantic relationship will reveal genderfluidity to us. We learn who we are in relation to the other, and negotiate this, perhaps subtly changing to meet the other's expectations or needs, fitting in together in a dance of Yin and Yang.

Who's washing the dishes tonight? Who takes out the garbage? Who changes the sheets?

Who's turn is it to initiate sex? To get the condoms? To fetch the tissues?

In some couples these roles are set, and in some, those tasks, those roles associated with gender, are interchangeable. And they often change with age.

Two bottoms in a bed is only a disaster for the unimaginative. Like the stupid queen who said "I don't understand lesbians. How do they fuck?"

It’s not gender that stops these people experiencing love, it’s lack of imagination.

Gender is a relationship, and we are constantly renegotiating relationships, even if we are just reaffirming our expectations. If you're in a relationship with another consenting adult, then there is a Yin and a Yang, a shifting give and take, I'll take charge of this, you take care of that, I'll play mother, you play daddy, whose turn to cut the roast?

So, what is this about,"when gender turns fluid, love goes wrong". Well, maybe in the fanciful imagination of some transphobe, and but that's about it really, unless we are confusing infatuation with love, perhaps.

Love is not pfft.

It's the most powerful force imaginable to human drive and motivation, it's the glue of human society, it's why we got presents every Christmas as a child, it's why we clean the cat tray, it's why we were out till 7AM at the Taxi Club. In search of it, or in despair of it, or to drown the guilt we feel because of it.

Put your cynicism aside for a moment. Let go of your fear of being vulnerable for just a second. Feel your heart beat. Go on, take your right hand, place it over your heart, and feel it beat. Take a breath in, feeling your heart beat. Let the breath go back out, feeling your heart beat. Breath in and let a smile come, if you feel like it.

There's something wonderful, something magical, about the energy, power or force that makes your heart beat.

That's love.

It's not pfft.

It's the most powerful force in human affairs, and it's not going to "go wrong" just because one partner's pre-existing script is not exactly the same as the real life relationship. I mean, if that is what causes love to go wrong, that wasn't love. It was pfft. Infatuation. Romantic love, not true till-the-end-of-time love.

Sure, romantic love goes wrong for transmen, goes wrong if it's two butches, loves goes wrong for men and women and genderfucking angels all the time, but it's not because of anyone's gender or gender role; It's for the same reasons romantic love goes wrong for any of us.

I couldn't stand his drinking. She couldn't stand my cigarette breath. His politics are just fucked, man. She slept with my sister, dammit. He doesn't love me anymore. You keep interrupting me. He keeps interrupting the Simpsons. We've got nothing in common. I need some time to myself. She's changed too much. He blew the rent, again. I just don't think this is working. It makes her feel bad more than it makes her feel good. The things I like about him, I REALLY like, but the things I can't stand, I REALLY can't stand.

Oh sure, sometimes one partner makes out it's because of the one’s gender. One boyfriend broke up with me because he didn't want his parents working out I was a pre-op tranny girl, but it was OK for his gay flatmate to keep sucking him off because that was secret. But that wasn't about MY gender, it was about HIS expectations, sense of identity, and fear and self loathing. And it wasn't love, it was just expectations about what love should look like. Two sets of expectations that failed to meet.

And then there was the boy who saw me through my sex change, and dumped me before I was allowed to use it. So, was it because maybe the little bit extra had been that important to him? Or, was it because he realised out I had fallen in love with him only after and because he had cared for me through the medical recovery? He didn't break up with me because I'd lost my willy, he broke up with me because his feelings were hurt.

And I've lost trade because they didn't expect me to be a tranny, or affairs have ended when my trans nature became known. But these affairs weren't love. They were desperate attempts to feel love, fear of loneliness, or just the sort of horniness that wears off in twelve hours.

I mean, that can be fun, but it's not love.

Or in longer affairs I've put up with shit because who else would love a tranny like me, and then the shit got too much to put up with, or I dared to raise my expectations of what I deserved. These relationships didn't end because of my gender, they ended because my needs and expectations shifted.

I'm sure it wouldn't take too much effort for me to look back on my relationship disasters with the back of my hand plastered to my forehead, oh it was because I'm a tranny, oh it was because I wasn't a real woman, oh it was because I wasn't busty enough, because I can't have children, oh woe is me. Anyone who's been called too short or too bookish or too vivacious or too different; Well, we can all play victim, and blame our circumstances for our unhappiness. But at least in my case, it was only because I was choosing lousy partners, people who could help me recreate how I felt in my earliest dysfunctional relationships, or maybe weak people because I didn't feel safe with a strong partner. Gender may have been the excuse this love didn't last, but it was never the reason. Immaturity, or differing levels of maturity, had a lot more to do with it.

I mean, sure, when I look back, I can blame the end of some relationships on me being a tranny, but none, not one, since I totally accepted being gender diverse, without expecting to have to apologise for it, without any concession that being trans made me in any way worth less than anyone else. Since I stopped believing shit about myself, I stopped getting shit. Had I then been rejected before for gender reasons, or were my partners just faithfully reflecting back my own insecurities?

Oh look, maybe I'm just an old out-of-touch eunuch, maybe solid stable and matching gender is an important part of love for other people, but it that's not what I see reflected in loving mature relationships. I see my parents over the years shifting their roles, giving ground, finding new ground, growing around each other. I see that in any couple (or threesome, or other combination) that lasts longer than a year or so. And I'm sorry, if you only stay together long enough to pop out a baby had you been heterosexual, that's not love, it's just a breeding behaviour; Enjoy it while it lasts, but don’t think when it ends that it’s true love that you’re lost.

True love doesn't care what gender or sex I am. True love never goes wrong. If you get dumped because you're a tranny, if you were dumped because she would rather be seen with a blond, if you dump him because you're worried about what your mates would think, if he dumps you for being too assertive, or you get dumped because she's really frightened of intimacy, or because he's really frightened of commitment... Well, if it's the first time, it's a shock; You get your heart broken; You move on; You fall in love again. If it's for the umpteenth time, it's a pattern; You do it again, or you get your head fixed.

But remember, with or without a partner, you always have love. It's what makes your heart beat. It's what makes you breath when you're not thinking about breathing. It may not quite be the same as the dizzy intoxicating infatuation of having a fantasy played out when you "fall in love", but the Love that makes your heart beat is much more powerful; It sustains the really important things in life, and you can never really lose it, no more than you could the air that you breathe.

Blessed be.

The Sixth Tibetan Rite

2006-06-22T19:51:00.000+10:00

Woke up with the usual horrific thought this morning, barely made it in to work, and made an appointment with a counsellor. Then I made notes about what I needed to talk about.

I contemplated suicide on the way to work, but came to the conclusion that even without sex or any prospect of this particular human interaction, my life is worth continuing with. It's just that the romantic angst has pervaded almost every moment and diminished my energies and capablity for other things.

How do I survive celibacy?

There is no point in talking about how I can not be celibate. I talked about that last time with this counsellor, and with many others over the last ten years, and it's obvious that nothing is going to work for me, or at least, I can't count on it happening soon, and even if I do miraculously find a partner in the unforeseeable future, I need to know how I can get through each day till then, with no romantic aspirations.I nearly qualified "Celibacy" with "enforced" or "unwilling" in the question, but this is not relevant. The fact is, in the current human society I am in, there is no man attracted to a full eunuch. Or at least, so few there may not be a reasonable chance of me meeting him within an achievable time frame. And I've really been trying everything this last few years. I chose to be a eunuch, notwithstanding that I didn't realise this would remove me from the sexual market. I choose to be androgynous, and not take any hormones. I choose to have no secondary sex charactertics. But, chosen or not, the problem is celibacy.

Sixth Tibetan Rite, I wrote underneath the question, and looked it up again on the net.

The initial source I had presviously read said it was for people who chose celibacy voluntarily, and warned against people doing it out of sexual guilt or any other lack of acceptance of sexual energy. However, other sources gave a broader perspective, and it may be a good idea for me after all. My problem is how to deal with the useless sex drive I have, that is, how to not be constantly depressed and frustrated.

Maybe the sixth rite is for me! The five rites have raised my sexual energy to an uncomfortable level for a celibate. What have I got lose? Only a fucking pointless libido.

I did three rounds of the Sixth rite, and felt a lot more stable. My best friend saw me shortly this afternoon, and said I looked glowing.

It works!

Happy New Year! (It's the first day of the Solar Year here in the Southern Hemisphere.)

Here's one piece I found on the web, by way. Possibly recommended for people in chosen or situational celibacy. I'll let you know how I go!

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Tibetan Rejuvenation Rite #6 restricted exercise The series of Five Tibetan exercises described above is capable of being practised two or three times a day everyday during the entire lifetime. In contrast, the following exercise, according to the Tibetan Lamas, has a very special purpose and it ought to be practised only in circumstances described below. If you are not sure, and do not practise the first five exercises regularly, do not practise this exercise. You have been warned.

The deemed purpose of the Tibetan #6 exercise is to redirect the excess of sexual and reproductive energy, generated by the activity of the what is perceived of as being the base chakra (also referred to as vortexes) to all higher chakras along the spine, especially to the brow chakra, which activity is related to our spiritual awareness and psychic abilities. According to Lamas this exercise ought to be practised only when the excess of the sexual urge is experienced, otherwise this exercise does more harm than benefit, by draining the energy from the base chakra.

By systematically practising the first five Tibetan exercises it is quite possible to raise the energy of the base chakra so much, that the sexual urge appears and requires to be dealt with. This is capable of happening at any age.

One way to handle the situation is to dissipate this powerful energy in sexual activities. The Tibetan alternative is to transmute it to higher use, to accelerate your spiritual development and rejuvenate the physical body. Instead of dissipating the reproductive energy you may choose to use it to regenerate cells in your entire physical body. The choice is yours; you have the free choices, as always.

Sometimes one may find in their lives that sexual activity without sincere love and a spiritually matched partner is similar to going to a forest and not seeing trees.

Sexual love in its clearest form brings about a spiritual union, bringing experiences and sensations far more profound, pleasurable, longer lasting and beneficial than just a physical act of relief.

In the absence of a partner that you are capable of achieving this with, Tibetan Lamas offer you the alternative, verified over many thousands of years to be not only effective, though also very beneficial to your total health, longevity, bio-energy level, Aura and most importantly to your spiritual development. They do not attempt to suppress the powerful energy of the base chakra. Such suppression is destined to fail, much as any act against the Nature. They offer an efficient way to transmute it for the higher purpose.

Very Special

2006-06-20T22:08:00.000+10:00

OK, melodrama over, what am I gonna now? I can't stop being androgynous, I can't stop wanting personal intimate loving, I can't make any man fancy me or change his sexual preference or alter the odds of guys who would possibly find my particular sex/gender attractive. So, I can accept all those things, and put my hope in the faith that the Universe is very well constructed, and that whether I can see how or not (and I can't), the right person for me will be drawn to me. Looking for him has caused me nothing but heartbreak, disappoinment and rejection, but maybe he can find me.

New affirmation: God brings my perfect lover to me.

It almost removes me as an agent, but maybe this is appropriate, and I am an agent, in that I choose to have faith that the Universe is well constructed, and that there is therefor an appropriate partner for me, and that somehow we will meet. Seeing the glass as half full is an active ongoing choosing.

How do I deal with the present lack of loving, given that I finally accept there is nothing at all that I can actively do to change this, no way I can hunt it down, no way I can get intimate physical contact until the Universe in its own good time brings this to me?

Quieting the distressing thoughts with patience and faith, putting my energies into the jobs that I am obviously here to do, getting refugees out of jail, and other social justice causes including my paid job. Making sure I keep in regular contact with friends. Hug whenever I can. Get in crowds where physical contact is unavoidable. More voluntary community service. More reading. More writing. Appreciating more, criticising less. Maybe work on a show. Go dancing more, without at all hoping to pick up.

Accepting that there is nothing I can do to make loving happen, and not judging my life harshly by my failure to do so.

And affirming that the Loving God will bring Loving to me.

Sometime, faith is the only answer.

I can fear the long night, and dread tomorrow night being longer, or I can just stay home alone but warm, and trust the sun will shine again. I can't affect the seasons, just as I can't hurry love.

Unlike the seasons, however, I don't know how long it will be before the long dry spell for my heart ends. So I might as well climb into my head for the duration, rather than perish in the parched desert of my love life.

I've fuckin' got work to do, and I can't do while I'm hijacked by unmeetable agenda. I can't get out of bed if my head is screaming that no man will ever want me. I can argue with this thought, for really it's only that no man I've ever met so far wants me, and it may well simply take longer for me since the odds of a man finding my gender attractive are so much longer. That doesn't make me unfuckable, just very special.

And wouldn't it be nice if my mood changed for the better with the seasonal shift soon upon us? Fuck yes.

Winter Solstice

2006-06-18T14:00:00.000+10:00

Another few months have gone by since I was last loved. I still get out there and try, but it seems that every guy has someone else they're more interested in, or a sexual preference that precludes dickless boys.

(I'd been flirting recently by SMS with a boy, but I finally met up with him last night, and he was obviously much more engaged with others, inlcuding his boyfriend, but I didn't have any other romantic possibilities, so I'd been slightly hopeful about this one for the last few weeks, but I'm a fool, and young gay men like fluttering their eyelashes at me but at the end of the day they want a DICK. Or a Top. Or a Dom. Or anal sex. Or anything else that I'm not offering.)

I used to have a gender, or at least, I used to think I was a boy or a girl, and presented as a boy or a girl, and people knew what to make of me, or thought they did, and I didn't have to go for months or years without anyone wanting to get really close to me. Even if they realised our incompatibility the next morning, it was the next morning, and before I was rejected I got touched and held and felt and stroked and loved.

Now I don't have a gender, or at least, no manufactured gender, no commercially supported sexuality, no shaved legs or hairless underarms, no make-up, no girly hairdo, and no inclination to restrain my naturally girly animation, my unconventional dancing, or my gender transgression. I wear clothes that reveal my transgressive gender, rather than clothes that could disguise me with gender normativity. I wear skirts and flat tops, pairing my flat chest with my flat groin, and my genderless hairstyle with my flirtatious hips.

This is who I am, and I have to take the chance that in expressing this, most people may reject it, so that those who do find it compatible can find it in me.

So far, all I am finding is the people who don't find me sexually compatible. Or so it seems. Oh, they find me colourful, fun to dance with, and fun to talk with, but not to fuck with, not to kiss, not to touch and hold and feel.

It's a cold winter. I didn't get laid last night. I didn't get laid last weekend. I didn't get laid last month, or the month before, or the month before, or the month before that. I can see no prospect of getting laid tonight or this week or next week or next month or the month after or ever really. I've had sex twice this year and twice last year and no more than that for the last four years. And I've tried queer sex parties, saunas, nightclubs and bars (gay and straight, city and suburban), the commercial queer scene, the alternative queer scene, house parties, personal ads (gay, straight, newspaper and internet, as a boy and as a girl and as an "other"), and softly putting the hard word on every single attractive male I know.

There is no sign of progress.

I wish I could think of and do something different, something with more of a chance of success.

So I decided to pay for sex, just to feel human again, even if the other person was only there because of the money, at least they'd be there with me, and my skin could feel alive and safe and caressed. And the despair fogging my soul would be lifted.

So, I went to the commercial ads on Gaydar, and found a nice boy I liked the look of, who said he was bi (indeed, it was part of his handle), into men and women, and sent him a message. He messaged me back, and asked for my "stats". I described my age and height and weight and sex, and didn't hear back from him. Forty five minutes later, I sent another message, explaining that my query was genuine, though my gender odd, but I'd quite understand if he thought this would be a problem for him. He messaged me back that it was a problem, and thanked me for my understanding.

Gutted.

My flat 54 kilo yoga-toned body is so unattractive to other humans that I can't even pay for sex, not even with a bisexual professional who does both men and women. I can make my body as slim and flexible and strong as I want, and it will still be unattractive to 99.9% of men. Before I tried paying for it, I'd've said 99, but now I reckon it's 99.9.

POINT: Androgyny is what's right for me. It's what feels and looks right to me. Hormones, boobs, fat: yuk. I look at my body naked and I like it, it's right, it's beautiful to me. If I am the only one in God's Earth that appreciates this creation, then that's the way of it, and I will not alter it, diminish divine beauty, just for the sake of carnal satiation. And if I took hormones etcetra I would be so altered that it would not be the real me that was being appreciated.

POINT: If most men found androgyny to be their thing, then most men would be disappointed, because most people are not so androgynous. It works out better the way it is, with roughly 80% attracted to women (which works well, most other people being women, and most of them liking men), roughly 10% only attracted to men (which works perfectly within this 10% of men who fancy men, there being a 1:1 ratio of partners!), roughly 10% being bisexual, that is, into men or women, and maybe half a percent into transsexuals (which works well with the corresponding tiny percent of population who are transsexual), and one in a million or so maybe being into a androgynous eunuch like me. I presume we're about one in a million, although I have yet to meet anyone with the exact same gender as me. At any rate, I hope it's more than one in fifteen billion!

POINT: I altered my body, but because of my inherent drive to androgyny, so it's all part of the Creator's design. The Universe is perfectly designed, so there is a match for everybody. This even includes one in a million gorgeous girly eunuchs.

POINT: The shortest day of the year is today or tomorrow, the longest, darkest night. Then the days start getting longer again. Dark and light shift and change in cycles. Here in the longest darkest coldest night of my love life, with no prospects I can see, there may yet be a dawning, the sprouting of a seed I can't see, a chance I can't forsee.

OR I am only here for a short time, a quick mission of a few decades to break down the gender barriers, and the love to sustain me has run out, and a wolf or bus will be along soon to put me out of my misery.

Maybe this is the winter of my life. Maybe I'm hoping for a spring that's long gone.

I go on in the long dark night, trying to trust that God/the source of Love is there with me, unseen in the cold darkness, and that my suffering will not be endless.

It's winter now, at it's coldest and darkest and worst, but it will not always be winter, whether this particular body lives to see Spring or nay.

Blessed be.

More preserverence, less keening.

2006-06-01T09:50:00.000+10:00

A boy asked me last night if I was going to Confest. It's in June, very cold for camping out if you have no one to sleep with.

This morning I was hijacked by the thought that no one will sleep with me.

Last night I did a performance, and people told me I was good, but at the end of the night, people are paired up, and no one is paired up with me, SNAFU.

I'm going anyway.

I'm going to be beautiful and not be hijacked by bullshit despair. Des-pair. Lack of Pair : )

I have no resolution but the knowledge that the path of least persistance is the most direct route to failure.

I can perservere.

That's what got me through thus far. I just keep going, I just don't give up.

Sure, there are those bullshit times I waste crying and focusing on lack and envy and keening.

Keening.

It feels intense and meaningful, but it's bullshit dramatics.

I'd rather just get on with it, get out there and waste less time feeling sorry for myself, it's not productive, and only interupts my enjoyment of life.

Perserverence furthers, but keening does not.

Suffering is a choice.

It doesn't matter I have no normal gender, it doesn't matter if I am aged, it doesn't matter if I am a social porcupine.. Well, it does matter if I am social porcupine, but I can do something about that, I can drop the spikes, accept how beautiful everything is, and stop looking for the imperfections, the catch to the glamour. And maybe the patterns that keep people away from me pair-wise will dissipate.

Perserverence furthers, and suffering is a choice.

But Confest may make me too needy to have a sleeping partner, and it will be cold if I don't have one, but I do have a double sleeping bag so I can just double it up and I'll be warm enough. But I'm sad again just thinking of what I'll most probably have to do.

It's too emotionally fraught. Maybe I should just forget Confest and crying, both.

But I don't know if today is going to be a tobacco free day...

Happy Birthday to the rest of me

2006-05-26T12:42:00.000+10:00

My birthday was this week, and friends gave me lovely presents, including a voucher for Thai massage, and a high tech "cyclonic" vibrator.

The massage was quite exquisite. I'm glad I insisted on a male masseur, for I wanted to feel the energies of a man, and not have my body "othered". He knelt on my hip/thigh sockets, so he knew the sex of my skeleton. And through my crown I could feel the heat from his groin as he stood at the head of the massage table, and I felt blissfully connected.

He told me that I have a beautiful body, and I'm sure he meant that, for all that he touched, for he moved and touched everything but the naughty bits.

Which are not so beautiful to a gay man, as a rule.

I went to 357 (the sauna in Chinatown) after the massage on Wednesday, and a handsome Asian man approached me in the dry sauna. I enjoyed the taste of him, until he asked me to come to a room to get fucked. His English did not seem very fluent, and there also seemed to be a lot of pressure to minimise verbal communication, so I didn't know how to check if he was going to be okay with what was under my towel.

His turgidity was fluctuating even when I was fellating him in the sauna room, and didn't improve remarkably in the more private room. I bent forward with him behind me to avoid having to explain myself, but his dick wasn't erect enough for me to just slip it into my cunt, and he then tried to direct it to the other orifice. Anal penetration generally takes more preparation for me, which hadn't happened, but I gave it a shot anyway.. and it felt like a shot! Ow! I had to stay with my body for a moment while it recovered from the sharp intrusion, and when I had recovered, he said " I can't fuck you," and left the room.

So, gay men think I have a beautiful body to look at and feel, but I am fundamentally unfuckable to them. Or most of them, anyway, who are into anal sex if they are into fucking, and pretty much not into vagina.

How do I avoid such mid-coital let downs? I've thought of asking in a husky voice, as soon as I had any potential partner in a discreet situation, " If I had a pussy, would you fuck it?" Yeah, I'll give that a go.

Anyway, I go home and unwrap the cyclonic vibrator. I didn't manage the mental trick that seems necessary for me to orgasm (that is, imagining that someone is with me), but it took the edge off . And destroyed the rotation function. I don't know if I should ever admit that outside of this blog, and even here I'm hiding this in light colour so only the really curious will read it, because men might be scared to put their fragile flesh into something so strong it destroys machinery!
I wondered for a little while last night if I was fucked up by my life, if being a eunuch was an imperialist creation ultimately not healthy or attractive to healthy people, but when I asked my vagina for its opinion, I realised I was meant to be in this body as it is, that my body was a good thing to live in, and I was personally very happy to have a vagina to feel with and touch with. Whatever biology I was born with, this is the body my brain is happiest being housed in, and this powerful pulsing vagina is an appropriate incarnation of my sexuality. I want to embrace, I want to lovingly take in, and I want to be penetrated to the core.

My life is not about the stories mainstream society tells. It's not even just about the stories I tell myself. But it is very much about the stories I tell myself, and a little about the stories other people tell themselves. But mostly it's about the stories I am telling myself.

Look out, here comes the weekend! Horny human with beautiful body and manducating muff on the move!

Wait till you're asked

2006-05-25T15:36:00.000+10:00

So, I'm in the spa at Rydalmere (on Sunday, after my trip to the beach), when a man starts exploring my body, doesn't like what he discovers, and then has to voice a rejection when I haven't put any kind of proposal to him whatsoever. Wait till you're asked, QUEEN!

I'm making no move at all, he's the one making the move on me, and then says "Thanks but no thanks." Wait till you're asked! Worse, he has to interrogate me to justify his rejection. Get this: After he's pulled back, which is where the interaction should have ended, after he's decided he aint interested, fair enough, pull back, fuck off, and spare me your normalism you tiny minded fool, after he's pulled back he wants to know my fucking life story, "Are you a woman?" ("Um, broadly, maybe, sort of, arguably", I said), "Are you transsexual?" (" Arguably, broadly, sort of", I replied), "Thanks but no thanks" (Great. Wait till you're asked, you rude egocentric queen!)

I can accept that at least 80 or 90% of guys are limited by normal gender/sex expectations, and will not be interested in someoone as special as me. Fine, good, fair enough, that still leaves me with enough possible partners on this planet. I don't need to hear your rejections or justifications or whatever you use to rationalise your pointless fucking lives. I don't make passes at you. You've got no fucking right to knock me back until I do make a pass at you. And hell will freeze over first.

I ran up and down the stairs to work off my anger, and then someone came over to me sitting in the movie room and let me suck his dick, and didn't recoil in horror from my feminised groin, and he got his rocks off, and said "Thank you", and I felt human.

I'm still working my way up to fuckable, but at least I got to human.

But if you think I'm unfuckable, at least wait till you're asked!

a moment of hope

2006-05-21T17:50:00.000+10:00

I kept my self distracted by composing a long rambling SMS message on my phone as I travelled to the beach, and was rewarded for persisting through the tears. A short time after I had lain down, still crying, with my hat pulled over my eyes so that people could easily avoid my sobbing, a guy came over and said he had met me fifteen years ago, and spent a couple of days at my place. I worked out that this had been over seventeen years ago, for he remembered me having a la-lu, but the important thing is: he still fancied me! He was with his boyfriend, who got pretty jealous pretty quickly, but I was very glad for the flattery of his flirting.

I had just been contemplating taking up tobacco again, to mask the pain of having no hope of being loved, but I reckon I can survive without it a bit longer now. Some gay men CAN fancy someone like me . I'm off to the sauna at Rydalmere now, and I think I'll even be OK if there is no lover for me there tonight, and even better if there is!

"Taking the path of least persistence is the most direct route to failure." ~ Rayoa

in pain

2006-05-21T11:22:00.000+10:00

At church this morning, someone spoke of the discrimation parents practise against their gay children, and I was wracked by the pain of being rejected for my effeminacy since birth, the pain of living without love, the agony of being conditioned to not be dependent on physical affection, the impossibility of living without this without something to numb the pain (only tobacco will do?), and I did not want others to see me cry, for I was painfully taught not to cry in front of anyone, so I held myself from within, muscles gripping bone, and fled as soon as the service finished, and I am going to the beach, to feel the love from the sun and the sea air, to avoid thinking about human physical affection, and pray that there's not too much more agony for me, a quick sharp fatal heart attack would be nice, thanks God, but spare me the overwhelming despair of the crying child in me, forever out of reach of human love, please spare me from this endless grief, stop my goddamn crying, release me from hopelessness, don't let this pain immobilise me unless it also, please God, kills me.

More bullshit crying

2006-05-20T20:24:00.000+10:00

I thought I was over the hump (if you'll pardon the pun) yesterday, being the first day in a week that I had actually woken up feeling happy, but today I was in tears all morning again, in fact, all the way to Villawood Immigration Detention Centre, and nearly had to cancel my visit, but I managed to stop the waterworks on the walk from the train station.

It's the weekend I can't stand, when single people are pairing up, when paired people are spending time with their partner, and my whole body aches and yearns and shakes and weeps.

I nearly went to the sauna yesterday, when I was feeling pretty good, but a friend asked me if I could cope if I didn't get lucky, and I couldn't face that prospect, so I went dancing, because I felt like dancing, and I danced for an hour or so at the Shift, and then sat down by the dancefloor for ten minutes, but nobody talked to me, except for some security wally telling me I couldn't sit there, and I left feeling unwanted and unwantable.

It's Saturday night now, and if I had any confidence at all, I should be out trying to get lucky, but I don't, and it's all I can do to keep my housemate from hearing me sobbing and crying. I feel sick. I hate being concious of my need for physical affection and the apparent impossibility of me actually attracting any physical affection.

Wanting personal intimacy is just unbearable torture for me.

I hope you're all doing better than I am!

Lessons from childhood

2006-05-17T10:14:00.000+10:00

My problem is not that I am not sexually attractive; the problem is that I think I must be able to function without being dependent on (or recieving any) human physical affection.

I learned this as a child from my parents, who, perhaps because they were worried about me being a sissy boy sooky lala, decided to toughen me up by not picking me up or comforting me when I cried, and by leaving me to my own devices when I was pummelled by my older brother. So, I learned that I am abandoned to violence, that I cannot count on anyone in my family for help, that non-family are more likely to intervene to protect me (for I was saved from a pummelling whenever my brother and I were looked after by baby-sitters), and that I have to be able to cope without any physical comfort from those known to me.

But there was nothing wrong with me being a sissy boy sooky lala.

What was wrong and FUCKED UP were the actions and underlying beliefs of my parents, which they had no doubt inherited and implemented in a well-meaning if poorly thought out manner.

And now that I am aware of where my underlying pattern (of being fucked up when it comes to physically affectionate relationships) comes from, I can do something about it, and substitute some more positive beliefs and consequent behaviours.

There is nothing wrong with me being a sissy sooky lala. It's a beautiful thing.

I need and deserve physical affection.

(Lack of it will not kill me quickly, but it will kill me!)

I don't need to prove I can survive without human physical affection. I don't need to survive independently. I can live interdependently, and I want to.

I can and want to and deserve to give and recieve human physical affection.

Amen!

Crying for days

2006-05-16T13:49:00.000+10:00

Darn, I've been crying since I woke up and can't stop for long. Usual complaint. (As Bette Midler put it, "Ah,Way, lackonookigotme.")

Every day has started this way since last Thursday morning. I cried for about two hours then, all the way through my morning exercises and meditation, but I refused to medicate, as I had work to do that required an unmedicated brain. Instead, I decided to quit smoking, since my sinuses had been so cleaned out by all the crying. And I figured that stopping smoking would demonstrate to myself that I was doing something proactive about addressing my complaint.

I smoked a tiny amount of tobacco Thursday and Friday, and managed to stay clean of it for all of the last three days. There's no point in busting now, for I'm over the physical hump. Now there's just the psychological dependence, and the grief of the ended relationship (with tobacco). But it was a crap relationship, like my last romantic partnership, and while it may have comforted me by relieving the withdrawal symptoms (as my erstwhile human partner comforted me with skin contact), it was destructive to my life and skin and breath and the chances of any man finding me intimately attractive (just as me being romatically partnered with a fundamentally passive homosexual man who had to cheat on me and steal from me and lie to me was detrimental to both my physical happiness and my domestic security).

Day three of tobacco free, yesterday, was a little challenging, being my first day at work without the crutch/smokescreen, dealing with numerous problems.

But today I didn't stop crying after I woke up, and only lasted a couple of hours at the office before I had to declare myself unfit for duty.

I am telling myself that the problem is just a meme, a nasty "screaming memey". But there's too much energy behind it right now, and I can't reason it away. Is this what's always been underneath my habitual smokescreen?

i envy all other humans who have a real chance for personal intimate loving relationships. i envy my friends who have and talk about their love life and i resent that i am excluded, even though it must be my own fault. They tell me that it's just the meme that excludes me, although some of them ascribe the meme to society more than to me.

The meme is that i am not sexually attractive to any man, for i have no secondary sex characterstics, i am not a man or a woman, nor even a doubly sexed transsexual, but just a neuter with no sex hormones and a strong resistence to taking any.

My friends look at a man and tell me he's sexy. i feel reminded that i cannot participate in this. no man finds me sexy, and i don't think any ever will.

My friends tell me i'm beautiful, but that's no solace, for it seems to me that if i am beautiful, it is in the way that my cat or a flower is beautiful, and no one wants to get jiggy with them, or me.

My friends offer me a hug out of sympathy, but that's not the sort of contact i am missing, and i feel miserable that the only time i am offered physical touch is when i am extremely distressed, and the offer is out of pity.

i think back to when i used to have someone to sleep naked with occassionally, and that was over ten years ago, when I would stay out all night drinking, and occassionally get lucky in the wee hours, or the morning after at an early opener.

The evidence of my history is that i am attractive only till the beer goggles fall off, or as a transitional partner (for men moving from straight to gay, or moving to expressing as transgendered), or as a fantasy actor (when I was a sex worker, serving the desires of others and not my own), or as a meal ticket (almost every "romantic" relationship I've been in).

i may have something to offer that some man will want, but i feel like i am dying in the meantime for lack of loving. i am surrounded by people who have love lifes, and i am happy for them, but i am starving, and looking at the banquet open to all men, women and transsexuals is too distressing for me currently.

This too will pass.

Thanks for bearing with me. I've had a slight break from crying as I typed this for the last hour or so.

Ah! Way!

Love and Sex Difference

2006-05-02T12:01:00.000+10:00

There's a lot about human sexual attraction in this week's New Scientist , and I am feeling a little left out after reading it this morning, for I don't have any fertility signifiers.

There is no biological reason for anyone to be sexually interested in me.

I just have to have faith that some other thing may work, or that I can be content to be continent.

On the other hand, the factors than maintain relationships past the time needed for basic breeding are not so biological, and have more to do with being a nice human positively interested in ones partner.

So I can choose to be a little more inclined to see nice things about people, instead of looking for the sign that they would not be interested in me.

Love conquers all.

The Angel Norrie

2006-04-28T11:44:00.000+10:00

I was just posted this photo from the Easter Sunday demo at Kirribilly against immigration detention. The photographer kindly titled it "The Angel Norrie". I'll take that, thanks.

HoorAY! mY BEST FRIEND IS BACK!

2006-04-27T23:29:00.000+10:00

HoorAY! mY BEST FRIEND IS BACK!

Yesterday I looked at my pussycat and realised that even if I am a freak, cut off from the sexual possibilities of men and women, God loves me even more than I love my outrageously breathtakingly beautiful pussycat.

This morning I pictured myself as being supported by and connected to and part of a web, the web that is woven reality, always connnected, never separate, however much I am caught in the illusion of separateness, always connected by time and confluence and so many unseen and intangible but ultimately indissoluble and unseverable ways.

And HoorAY! My best friend just came back from Europe, and I'm so happy!

We saw V again, and bounced through the Hyde park exhibition, the museum in the Domain, and Botanic gardens.

And for the last two nights we watched ABC TV together, not only nerds into the 7:30 Report, but geeks into The Inventors and Catalyst.

His boyfriend will be back from Eurpope soon, but I'm enjoying this while it lasts. It's a bit like my pussycat, who loves me enormously when I've been away, but generally ignores me. My friend is much more attentive than that, though. Gosh, he's even better than my pussycat!

Touch is not a daily need

2006-04-19T09:16:00.000+10:00

Touch is not a daily need.

All my daily needs are met each day.

It's in the most famous (English) prayer; "Give us each day our daily requirements."

So, if this affirmation is correct (or, seen from a positive persepective) I don't need to be touched on any given day, because I am not.

And strangely enough, when I don't think about the lack of touch, I'm okay.

When I beat myself up with other people's standards, I'm VERY not okay.

And I'm so very tired of trying so hard, and tired of the overwhelming dissappointment that is the only result of my amorous endeavours unless, God bless, I get lucky, and the disappointment is only a small one (cos, at least I got touched, however lacking in quality, and truth to say, it is so lacking in quality that I really can't be bothered anymore). Maybe if I try so much for so little result, God is trying to tell me something. Not something nasty, like I'm unloveable, for that's just crap, and God doesn't do shoddy work. But maybe I don't need to get touched much. There is a difference between want and need.

I am blessed with a lot in this life, and if I discount the touch issue, my life attributes compare very favourably with most people's, I reckon.

A girl who once had ulterior motives told me that everyone needs to be hugged twice a day, and I believed her. And ever since I've sort of nagged myself for not getting those hugs. And felt shortchanged at not getting touched. And put up with a lot of boredom and chlorine and bad music and exhaustion and rejection for the sake of a touch that usually didn't happen.

And yet, when not obsessing about what I haven't got, I'm very happy with my lot in life. VERY happy. (Practically gay!)

There's not much chance I'll be touched today, or in the foreseeable future, but I choose to believe I'm okay today, that I can be okay even if I don't get some regimented two hugs today or any other day. I don't want to feel bad about something I haven't got. I want to enjoy what I have.

I'm okay today, all day, and all my daily needs are met each day. And I'm not here to live anyone's life but my own, and even though touch is largely absent, other things fill my life with an abundance of rich experience and joy.

I want to appreciate this more, without thoughts about what I haven't got being a distraction. I don't need them.

Happy Eunuch Birthday

2006-04-04T17:17:00.000+10:00

The sex change operation was exactly seventeen years ago yesterday, so now my pussy is old enough to drive ; )

The local kids commemorated the occasion by calling out "trany trany", trying to spit on me, and harassing me on my way to and from yoga class at the community centre across the road. I just made it inside and got the door closed as they came in for the kill. Transsexuals are murdered by groups of kids like that, with monotonous regularity. I was so terrified I collapsed on the floor in a foetal pose, letting my breathing go, and letting it slowly return from stark terror."Vengeance is Mine, sayeth the Lord", and they are pretty much guaranteed short miserable sick lives (pretty much inevitable for a disadvantaged black kid on the block without enough adult-care or self-respect to not abuse an innocent adult) no matter what I do, so I won't take it personally. But I do have less sympathy for the evil little pustules.

I sat up from the floor, saying"This will not kill me. I will not die here. This will not kill me,"Martha Washington's mantra (from Give Me Liberty, the graphic novel series by Frank Miller). Standing up, I resolved to live my life true to myself, and to never act from fear of murderous children, thugs with guns, or any other gang or bully. They will not kill me, they will not stop me from living my life as I see fit.

Well, sure, they can kill my body, but they can never kill me. And my body may react with fear, but my spirit is uncowed, and rising defiant. Freedom LIVES!

Cocksucking sissyboygirl

2006-03-31T02:02:00.000+11:00

I went to a funeral of an elderly friend yesterday, a lovely affair scripted by this old Bhuddist anarchist free-thinking sage, and following his life example, today I took a chance on a older larger man at the sauna today (the one in Chinatown. It was just up from the cinema I saw V in, and I knew I'd be in a good mood after V, so it was part of a planned day...) who talked nicely to me, and I got nicely sorted, thank you very much. I'm a happy cock-sucking sissyboygirl now (for at least a week maybe). Not every man looks down on "bottoms".. some actually appreciate us!

I went with the older gent after a younger Asian guy had tried his luck with me, but after a short suck he (Asian guy) wanted to fuck, and then found he couldn't manage turgidity with a cunt (he was forewarned, and knew the score before he led me to a cubicle!), and left rather abruptly. I think I prefer older men who know their sexuality, rather than young guys who are studs in their own minds but are so often dismally disappointing. In my youth I'd just have flipped these guys over, but I don't have that option now ; )

And anyway, much as it galls me to admit it as a feminist, I am by nature a bottom.

Apparently there is some scientific evidence indicating that some people are attracted to men because of a genetic disposition to liking men chemically. This trait is on the X chromosone, and while it has obvious fertility value if the recipient of this is female, every human has an X chromosone. Maybe it's a factor that's present in some and absent in others, or present in all and suppressed or augmented to varying degrees. Anyway, I got it, and to function healthily I need the smell and taste of man regularly.

Whether this man suits my ego's ideas of who it would like to be seen with is beside the point.

At the end of the day, any man who is nice to me and fancies me and has all his working parts working will satisfy my needs as a sexual human animal.

The drawnback, sadly, is that men are so often vile to people who love cock. Think of all the bad names for us. Honestly, finding a man who wants his dick sucked, and who won't give me any grief for doing that, is a major challenge. So many of them have wanted to play power games, or human possession, or stole my rent money cos I'm just a cocksucking faggot.

However, the more sure I am of the rightness of me being as I am, the less these losers bother me.

Oh, and just in case I thought I was now living in happy fairy land, tonight the local kids decided to hurl water bombs into the house of "the trany". Luckily I heard them plotting and closed the window just in time for it to take the brunt of a water bomb, but then a few rocks followed.

Never the less, it's my job to be as my creator made me, true to my effeminate androgynous androphilic nature, no matter what the consequences.

Only three months in, and already TWO roots this year! That's double the whole of last year! And today's success has given me more courage that I am reasonably attractive, including my particular gender/sexuality.

Three Androgynous Sexual Attractions

2006-03-22T17:15:00.000+11:00

Now that I have abandoned any prospect of overlaying my androgyny and acquiring female secondary sexual characteristics, I am happier in my body, and it is producing happier thoughts. I may not appeal to people who are single-gender-fixated, but they're not really my type anyway, and my own androgynous body gives me some attractive features, by virtue of its androgyny:

(1) Its perfect androgyny, the moving play of ying and yang, the appeal of the exotic. Standing naked, I look like a character from another world, a bit like a nymph, or an elf. Or an androgynous angel ; )

(2) My androgynous body could be attractive for a bisexual lad who wanted to be monogamous, for he could have relations with both sexes without having to have more than one partner.

(3) OK, here's a rude bit warning. There is a warning in the intro, but you may have forgotten or not noticed it, so here's the warning again. The next bit is , well, rude, so don't claim I'm responsible for offending you if you read on after the warning. Ahem Where was I? On yes,

(3) Fucking me is like fucking a boy and a girl both at once.

: )

ScAndal!

------------------

My self esteem has recovered, my sexual and personal confidence returned and increased, as I appreciate more and more all that my creator has made of and for me. My connection to the Way, to the abudant flow of life, increases as I learn to trust and expand my senses and awareness of my world and how I am in it.

Normativists beware, and diss not my way!
I have less time
for tiny tiny minds!

My libido, ego and superego are all three of One Mind.
And not of this kind or that kind, but simply of the One Kind.

Androgyny for me forever

2006-03-19T21:39:00.000+11:00

Well, that's that settled then. No hormones, no development of female secondary sexual characteristics, just being as I am, androgynous, female, boyish... and anyway, I do have secondary sexual characteristics.. those of a eunuch... I smell like me, and I look like me, and if God hasn't put somebody else on this planet who'll like that, well, that's God's business I suppose, and odds are G probably wouldn't strand someone like that, but anyway I'm sticking with being me because this is how I like me most, and although I'd like it if I met some nice guy who liked me too, that's up to God to arrange, and it's nothing but bad karma if I alter myself, this living androgynous divine art work, out of however strong a carnal desire, however wretched the despair. My first duty is to honour my values, and their priority, and being true to myself is right up there, along with my love for my androgynous body.

Well, at least I can clearly state that I have no gender confusion. After all this, I can confidently state I am profoundly androgynous. Androgyously female. Whatever. But no boobies for this beautiful lithe ladytomboy, thanks.

And I am sure of my course, even if I am terrified of the potential consequences, but I cannot choose any course but being true to myself regardless of the cost to my personal comfort. What's the point of me being just another sell-out?

I accept fully who I am, and I am committed to being true to that, wherever it leads.

Even if I am whispered about constantly in public, even if the kids whine "Are you a girl? Are you a girl? Are you a girl", even when strangers feel impelled to police my gender abnormality, even if almost every guy finds me sexually unattractive... whatever...

I am not here to sell out my physical body for the sake of mere sensory gratification (and shit karma). I can alter my desire sooner than I would alter my body now.

Clearly, it's my calling to be me, as I am now, androgynous, totally vulnerable to all the abuse hurled at people percieved to be of gender diversity/ deviation, facing my worst fear, (lovelessness), releasing any hope of the ego arranging some guarantee of emotional safety, not leaping into the abyss but confidently striding through the dark, knowing that this is God's path for me, knowing that only by being true to myself am I in the Tao, the Way, and that anything less is bullshit.

I went to Paddy's, and bought some lovely clothes for my lovely androgynous frame. I'm a size eight skirt, size ten with lots of taking-in adjustments for a lovely white linen Chinese unisex suit thing. Oh it's lovely. It'll be ready Thursday, and I'll be walking tall, unique, eunuch, taking it all on the chin and in my stride, at the mercy and grace of the Oneness we are all part of, surrendering to my maker, because at the end of the day, I am in awe of what they have made.

Thank you to all who were part of my journey through this, especially to Dorothy, and whoever wrote that first hymn that cracked me up or broke me well through this morning. I lived it as I sung it.

Blessed be.

Right of Reply

2006-03-19T08:26:00.000+11:00

I just watched my naked body in the mirror, and I think it's okay, it's sexy. What is WRONG with you guys???

I started off a little suspiciously, noticing the lack of secondary sexual characteristics, being critical and wondering if itwas normal for my chest to be so curved from a front view. Then I figured I was being hypercritical, and acknowledged that I didn't look so bad, and could even see that I was fanciable, but I just didn't compete well against someone with a similarly healthy human body but who also had....Special Features to that body! Men and women have "special features" on me.. well, I might have a special feature too, I thought, for just then my core muscles engaged and animated my form like a tantric yogini with flowing abdomenal ripples and the dance of Shiva in my spine.

So, that' s what I'm going to be today. I'm miles away from being sexually attractive as a woman, so in the meantime, androgynous dancer is all I got. And I don't think there's anything wrong with it, and I think everything is right with it, and I don't like the idea of changing it... but I understand why I have to change it, and I will change it, I promise...

No, bullshit, this is my Right of Reply, and I do NOT promise to change my body, I am the part of me that loves my body absolutely as it is, and I want to keep its beautiful sexy androgyny, the whole physical form animated by my dancing soul, exactly as lithe and boyish and effeminate and completely womanly as it is.

Time for my morning exercises now (ten minutes for the Tibetan Rites, go on, google them and do them, you won't be disappointed... oh hang on, what do I know? I'm supposed to be the one with crap unsexually attractive body aren't I? ["Unsexually attractive" I'll save that phrase for later cogitation...] Well, whatever,

NO, I don't have to talk myself back around before I finish this post. This is the Right of Reply, since no one else will speak up for my body as it is. Unsexually attractive.. well, maybe that is what I am, and maybe that can work too, being attractive because of my relative lack of sexual differentiation.

And, fuckin', what's fuckin' unsexual about it? Fuckin' look at it! There's certainly nothing unattractive about it!

Except for the opinions of others.

[Sit's back in head. thinks: this could be an interesting morning. never a dull moment in this head.] [slight break for Tibtan Rites, and eye exercises in half shoulderstand]

Why should I give up the smell of me for the smell of them (men)? There would be nothing left to love... If I give up the things I love about my body in order to get loved, how much of a loving person have I left myself?

I'm not just gaining a womanly body if I go on hormones, I lose the smell of ME. So maybe no one else likes it, I like it.

And I don't want boobs in my face when I'm doing a shoulderstand. I love my body as it is. And my love is a litte angry that you would dare contemplate diminishing it for the sake of the opinions of others....

Time for the shower then...

Choices

2006-03-18T18:07:00.000+11:00

I'm not impressed; NO one has tried to talk me out of taking hormones, no one suggests that it's possible that some nice guy will find me sexually attractive as I am. That sucks with teeth, man.

But they're right; while there may be a small percentage of guys who feel about my body along the same lines that I do, it's such an astronomically small number that my odds of meeting one in the next century are pretty poor.

Still, that doesn't make me unsexy, it just means I have limited appeal.

And I'm about to increase that limit by a similarly astronomic factor.

But the heart has gone out of going out for me. For the next few months, while, ironically, my actual sexual attraction factor will be soaring with the implementation of secondary sexual characteristics, my sexual self esteem is starting from an all-time low, with the realisation of how improbable it is that without secondary sexual characteristics (as I am) I could ever elicit the same response I have for the secondary sexual characteristics of guys.

Still, I get points for perserverance, and for being willing to do whatever it takes to get whatever is really important to me, and for acknowledging what is important to me and even for weighing how important it is against what I am losing.

I hope that's just a degree of androgyny, and not for long the current loss of peace of mind. I suddenly realise I am invisible in the sexual world of men and women. That's yuck.

Not screamingly horrific like the terror of a life without prospect of love for me, just yuck like cough medicine.

But friends are invited to humour me, and lie to me in a week or so saying they can see how much prettier I look already ; )

The end of childhood

2006-03-17T20:40:00.000+11:00

So, I've talked with a few people about my decision to go on hormones, and they have all agreed strongly that if I want to be sexually attractive, I have to have secondary sexual characteristics. I can take a hint. I guess that's more realistic than my egotistic fantasy of them saying, "Oh no, no, don't be silly, lots of guys fancy you, here, come to this party with me and meet some of them..."

And if it's just a hypothesis, well, I've bloody well tested the other hypothesis under every condition I could imagine, and found it unproven, so its time to test this new hypothesis.

A body that looks as female on the outside as I am on the inside is only a few months away.

And it's time to let go of the childish things I've been attached to, like the tranvestic thrill of hiding my true sexuality under an androgynous shell. Yes, I may have an androgynous personality, but my sexuality is quite more gendered. Or am I trimming the story to fit a more viable scenario? Ah, whatever, I quit, I surrender, I submit, I want to play the sex game and I am willing to do whatver it takes to do that, whatever it takes, and maybe it's well past time I let go of my Peter Pannish/ eternal tomboy self-image.

Certain adult things are important to me, so it's time to grow out of my girlish body. Pheromones and hormones and fatty deposits, here I come.

I feel crap if I think the hypothesis is true and think about being me right now, being therefor as sexy as a milk crate. But I should just think about the potential I have now, and it'll only take a few months, and it's better to realise that I am less sexy than a milkcrate and therefor be able to choose to change that, than to not realise I am less sexy than a milkcrate, and therefor be stuck being less sexy than a milkcrate whilst desperately needing to be rather more sexy than a milkcrate. Nothing against milkcrates or their admirers, mind you.

So, my Lenten journey may be to be true to my sexual needs, and sacrifice my old self-image, shed my tomboyhood, and rise anew as more like an adult woman.

Previously I'd thought it was about being true to my androgynous self-image, no matter what the opinions of others, and perservering through into darkness for a while to find the light. But mayhap not.

And so, reluctantly, I go, committed to hormones, and hopeful that the different results will ease my grief at losing some androgyny, and for being so wrong for so long.

How could I be so wrong for so long? But then, it takes as long as it takes, and I'm as smart as I am, and I've never thought I was the most intelligent when it comes to human interaction, and I was probably a bit blind sided by the initial catalysts of me going off hormones, with those nasty things that happened when I was first newly a woman (post-op, that is).

Life is Change.

Femme we go again

2006-03-17T17:44:00.000+11:00

"I am beaten; I'm going on hormones. "

That's an unuseful ego talking.

"I've learned from my mistake, and I'm fixing it. "

That's a better way of putting it.

I am already grieving the end of my androgynous body, but of course it is not dying or even sloughing, but simply being changed.

How ironic that the Bhuddist/Hindu meditator should be so attached to a state of being. But I think I have to choose between being a special sex-hormone-free eunuch, and being sexually attractive enough to attract a man (through developing secondary sexual characteristics, including all the actual chemistry that is between other adult people).

And I could stand it if my breast filled out a little, and I'd welcome a bit of fat on my recently bony ass and thighs. All I have to do is accept this decision and I can see some good things about it. (Other than just saving my life by putting me back in the game, I mean.)

Doctors will be consulted, prescriptions issued, hormones purchased and installed (or however they are adminstered these days) and my androgynous form will become feminised, and one day I will be woman enough to attract a man. Time to grow up, I guess.

:.-)

the end of androgyny?

2006-03-17T12:11:00.000+11:00

IN response to the "Smell of Friendly Man" post at my general blog (I May Well Be..), Anonymous said...

dear norrie-may,it was with some sadness i read of your current distress over the lack of a meaningful relationship in your life. i've followed your web site for a while, and we even met briefly at uwa about 25 years ago.

now i don't want to be hard, but it seems a bit rich to complain of lack of sexual attention when you've gone out of your way to remove (or not add) any distinguishing sexual characteristics. or more bluntly, with no tits and no dick it's no wonder the phone ain't ringing.

i'm reminded of plastic surgeons who cut off the occasional additional toe or finger that crops up in newborns. this procedure is often entirely cosmetic, with some attendant risk from the anaesthesia. but six fingers is a huge turn off for many people. so you either turn the child into a postergirl to educate the world about how silly it is to be turned off by six fingers, or you cut it off. so i suppose you've done your best to educate the world how silly it is to be constrained by notions of male/female, though at an individual level it still seem the best advice for anyone who changes gender is to go all out for it. fabulous tits, muscular arms, whatever. stack on those secondary sexual characteristics, get yourself a date and someone who'll care for you.

regards,

christopher

-------------------------------

I think Christopher may well be right.

If I want to play the game, I have to have the right equipment.

This may be my Lenten journey, going towards the end of my hormone-free body, to be recast with secondary sex characterstics into a new life with more possiblities.

I am trying not to make a decision until Mercury stops its retrograde movement (March 26), but I am already grieving the end of my androgynous body. Or perhaps I am just grieving its lack of sexual attractiveness. It tried so hard. It's gone from blobby eunuch to athleticly toned trim flexible dancer, and it has partied, danced, done shows, networked, socialised, and so on, but without attracting a single spark of sexual interest.

It may well be that time is up for it, the fifteen year experiment concluded, the conclusion that I can't be sexually attractive without secondary sexual characteristics, and I need to be sexually attractive, so bring on those hormones doctor.

Life is change.

no ho or not no ho, is that the question?

2006-03-16T13:09:00.000+11:00

Is this my crisis for Lent? How well do I stay to my true course when I feel threatened?

I am seriously comtemplating going back on hormones, to become chemically sexually attractive.

Is this true to my androgynous nature? Am I really so androgynous? Does my sexual desire for men indicate that I am somehow female in my core? I feel feminine in my actions and movements, but inside I feel like me, I don't know how others feel, sometimes I think I'm just a girl, sometimes I think I'm no different to any girly queen, I certainly have no regrets about my body being male in the past, but I really like my body as it is, although I could just maybe stand the effects of hormones, and I certainly don't think I can stand being sexually unattractive to every man. I don't want breasts. But I don't want to be chemically unattractive more than I don't want breasts, and I don't expect huge knockers anyway.

I'm really having to ask myself why I don't take hormones. When I quit them fifteen years ago (two years after sex change surgery), I just wanted to be clean of them, to be myself, and to not have who I am be dependent on a bottle of pills, to not have to buy myself from the shops. Or maybe I stopped hormones because I was traumatised by being threatened by a man who was angry when he found out I was not "a real woman" (a situation I am now more likely to avoid, by being hormone free and therefor looking less female), and/or traumatised from the gang rape that happened later that night (by boys who thought I was female, and again, I am less likely to be subject to that now that I am off hormones)... and maybe I'm older and faster and stronger and wiser and I will not be so threatened by situations like that again even if I take hormones.

Christ says there is neither male nor female in the ideal state, nor any other division (the other examples given being Greek or Jew, Master or Slave). Am I diminishing my commitment to following my truth if I take something to assume a female chemistry?

It may be that following my own course, if that is androgyny, then that may only allow celibacy, through being chemically sexually neutral to men. Is this part of my cross to bear?

Or should I just stop being a damned martyr and take the bloody hormones and give myself a decent chance of getting a decent fellow? Is my disdain for buying hormones just misplaced pride or hubris or an outdated post traumatic stress reaction? Maybe chemical androgyny causes celibacy, and I don't want celibacy, I don't, I really really don't.

I don't want to take hormones, but more, I don't want to be celibate. Is it a choice of one or the other?

I love my androgyny.

And maybe I just have to loosen my attachment to this eunuch state and join the rest of the chemically gendered human race.

Eww, it's just not ME

God help me.

The Smell of Friendly Man

2006-03-06T13:55:00.000+11:00

I went out with Gadget to Oxford Street on Friday night, and made brief eye contact with a few guys, who lost interest quickly, which I put down to them working out how effeminate I am, when they are looking for a man. I woke up crying uncontrollably Saturday morning, cried all morning, and cancelled my planned trip to Villawood (to support the people detained there without charge or fair reason by our racist fascist government), because I kept breaking down in tears, and was not in a state to support anyone else.

Saturday was the day of the Sydney Gay & Lesbian Mardi Gras. There seemed not to be anything about my sexuality to celebrate. My sexuality just puts me apart from all desirable humans. A sissy boy is just an object of ridicule, not lust. I refuse to get artifical breast impants, I refuse to be dependent on commercially supplied hormones, and I really like my body as it is, androgynous, slim, boyish, girlish, ambiguous, faerie. I insist on just being a girly boy with a quim, but there is no demand for that. My sexuality is just an empty unfed unfeedable unwanted beast.

Trans men, there is a demand for. "Guys with pies", as one phrase has it, appeal to people who like men, because it is masculinity that is attractive, more than a particular plumbing arrangment. Girls with boy's bodies but without the bits boys find interesting (ie the boy bits)... there' s just not much call for it. Well, not with men. Women, yeah, sure, and if only I were gynophilic I would be well partnered. But I'm not, and I'm not, and I haven't been for years now.

Or maybe it's because I am hypercritical, or because I find the preoccupations of ordinary people to be uninteresting, repulsive, or insane (eg devotion to the violence-enforced authority of the state, the breeding activities of actors, or any bullshit physical competition performed by avatars for the commercial consumption of non-particpant fat passive absorbent spectators). Yeah, well, there you go, I'm not the most easy going social creature.

Whatever the cause, I have been without a boyfriend for years, and there is no sign at all of that changing. So, I cried on and off all day, trying to keep the noise down, losing a lot of salt, and often making breathing difficult.

A male housemate came home late, and when I had managed to stop crying long enough to look passably human, I joined him in the lounge room to watch something I'd taped from television earlier. We sat together on the couch for half an hour watching the video. My equilibrium returned. Just breathing in his body odour and/or pheromones seemed to reset my chemistry to functionable. If I was only twenty years younger...

But maybe I just need to breathe him in every day or so. He chooses to spend time with me, and seems to like talking with me. He hasn't shown any sign that I'm sexually interesting to him, and that's fair enough. I don't find even my own lovely quim at all as sexually interesting as an erect penis, so I can understand and accept that sexual preference (shaped by gender or sex or race or age or accent or hair style or whatever) often precludes me.

There will be contact improv dance class on Wednesday (I did finally get to a class on time, and have had fun rolling around with my fellow humans at three classes now), and I will be able to inhale some male sweat there too. And probably just getting some fun and friendly human body contact is good for my human chemistry.

I tell ya, I could really do with some more effective strategies to avoid or deal better with these tragic days waking in tears, unable to find an optimistic thought about my feelings.

Or just make sure I sneak a whiff of friendly man on a more frequent basis.

sex work on the radio

2006-03-06T12:44:00.000+11:00

I had a chunky bit on this show about sex work, broadcast last Friday on Triple J's Hack program

Go to twenty minutes in for the loser lead-in...

http://www.abc.net.au/triplej/hack/mod_windows/fri.asx

This link will only be good for a week, I expect.

Bent for Lent

2006-03-03T18:37:00.000+11:00

At our fortnightly church supper, Dorothy read an article she wrote about Lent (check out tomorrow's Melbourne Age), basically three schools of thought about how one might reflect on Jesus following his course true even into death.

One angle that I get is that I have to stay true to my own course, and not compromise it to alleviate the emotional anguish or slight mental discomfort of unwilling abstinence. It really is a matter of belief, and while the Universe may be trying to bring me the good stuff I want, it is also obliged to bring me the bad stuff I focus on, because it just brings me what I believe in, good or bad. And in my brain there have been a lot of thoughts pretty much amounting to I am not / have not been/ am not likely to be sexually attractive to a healthy man. These thoughts tend to come up whenever I think about wanting a lover, because I then reflect on my record. And they are completely counter-productive.

I think I have to just stay on my course, abandon any conformative notions like going on hormones or dressing as one particular gender or getting cosmetic surgery or altering my behaviour to follow the agendas of others.

Yesterday morning, on waking, I had a moment. I was thinking of God, and I felt that I was in our church with our little congregation, and really felt comfortable and connected to the Universe, that God loves me, and if I put my faith in that, then my beliefs will shift, and therefor so will my experienced reality.

People have all sorts of agendas, conflicting, shifting, some based on love/good feelings/good intent, some unexamined and based on fear. Following them is a pretty dangerous idea. But I can be more in control and mindful of my own agenda, and have faith in God (who loves me, and will bring me the lover I want when I stop sending counter-productive signals), which will increase the quality of my beliefs and my thoughts and what I do and what I pay attention to, and therefor increase the quality of my manifested reality.

I'm giving up other people's agendas for Lent.

I'm giving up any influence of normativity. I resolutely reject the hegemony, and resolve to stay even truer to my own light. And trust God.

I can be uptight or depressed or anxious or desperate... OR I can trust God. That's not a tough choice. As long as I remember to keep making it! (Oh, but the seductiveness of emotional intensity and angst and drama.... yeah, FEH! I want the good stuff, thanks, and to accept no subsitutes!)

Ab Normality

2006-02-28T16:35:00.000+11:00

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 ; )

No Contact tonight.

2006-02-20T10:32:00.000+11:00

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."

:/

The Drought has Broken, but Occasionally so is My Spirit

2006-02-16T14:13:00.000+11:00

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