The last few days have been hectic, and while I haven’t left the house much since the Tuesday before Christmas (it is now Sunday after), I had two distinctly different experiences being read as a woman.
You heard it right, it seems like twice I have not been clocked, at least not in the beginning.
The first time was more expected by me. The hubby and I were in the grocery store trying to pick up the last bits of food for upcoming Christmas Dinner (on Xmas eve, that is when we celebrate it). It was a wednesday and it wasn’t packed so we hurried on out to Safeway.
As we wandered the aisles, the hubby stepped away to get some cheese I believe. Meanwhile, I was bent over and crouched down reading the different egg nog labels in an end-cap, near a group of Safeway workers who seemed to be hauling stuff from the warehouse.
I couldn’t tell you what caught my attention, but I heard one guy (turned out to be an older, shorter guy) talking to another. I heard him say “Check her out.” I am not sure what made me start to turn and stand up, but I did.
As I turned to stand I could hear the guy start whispering harshly, “Don’t turn around, don’t turn around, don’t look.” Just as the older man finished speaking I had stood up and turned around to see what was going on, just in time for a young man, maybe in his early twenties who was standing next to me, to turn around towards me and bounce off my boobs.
The older man fled, I swear he was almost jogging to get away as I bounced back. I had seen that the younger male hadn’t even heard the older male’s words, instead his face had been fixated on my chest (I forget they are 38H, probably dysphoria) and had been so fixated on seeing what the older guy had done that I think he literally had taken a step forward, not realizing how close I was, or that I was standing up and moving towards him.
The young man’s faced became incredibly red as he quickly apologized and retreated back into the warehouse. Part of me was annoyed, I had never done that as a guy and I found the hubby to bitch about it.
It wasn’t until I was talking with him that I had assumed wrongly. I thought they were checking out the “trans girl”, but he pointed out that no, I probably wasn’t clocked in that short time and they were just acting like guys seeing boobs.
I was both weirdly annoyed and pleased about the situation. No guy should act like that, and being objectified sucks. However, it did help reassure me that maybe someday I can pass more fully. Part of me likes that objectification because it somehow proves my efforts.
The second time happened a couple hours ago when I dumped a couple of bags of garbage and a small light that died. I had gotten out of my car at the garbage area. A small meth-ridden homeless man stopped me and asked me if he could have the light. I had no problem and after talking with him I gave it to him and moved back to my car.
That is when I caught behind the garbage area (it is a walled off area) was a guy that lives in the complex with a large pit/mastiff type dog. He had been watching carefully, and it wasn’t until then that I realized as he smiled and walked off, that he was watching out to make sure I was safe.
Both the hubby and I are pretty sure he hadn’t clocked me, and that he was just making sure that the woman wasn’t harassed by the homeless guy. I almost argued with the hubby that it couldn’t be that, but the hubby was right, I wouldn’t have waited around if a guy was dumping garbage, when I was still a boy, unless something was really wrong.
Evidently the guy with the dog either thought I was cisgender, or maybe he was still worried about my feminine appearance enough that he stayed around anyways to watch over it. Either way I found it strangely nice that he had registered me as someone that needed to be watched over.
Don’t get me wrong, at 6’2″ I don’t think I was in any danger from the homeless guy, but there is something about that treatment that reassures that at least people see a feminine person when they see me. I will undoubtably get tired of the staring at my boob thing in the store, and maybe of the watching over me, but either way, that was twice this week that I was at least partially treated like someone who I feel I am would be treated in this society.
Let’s preface this that I am fucking amused by this, but I had to post because I evidently need attention this morning 🙂
Evidently, I am in Facebook jail and am serving 19 more hours here. I have been out defending a bunch of transgender people (specifically two trans guys), and it turns out Facebook doesn’t want to support when people are called slurs using the T word, or various other debasing words.
The sad fact of the people I most recently got into a flame war with, one of them was an older white man attacking the trans guys, and a middle-aged trans woman attacking another trans guy. Fuck them both and their racist, sexist and transphobic asses (yes, a trans person can be transphobic). Also, I probably have a soft spot for trans guys… not sure why that is…
I must have really pissed one of them off as I have gotten more than two dozen comments of mine reported (new and older), but they only upheld two of them. The weird part is the two of them are not the harshest comments I have made. So not sure what the algorithm’s decision was.
The first was for evidently performing hate speech on myself… yes on myself.
We were in a discussion about using random cans as measuring cups. The original poster called himself a hillbilly and I mentioned yep not only hillbilly (ok it was hillybilly, that was autocorrect) I continued to say, 100% poor white trash from the trailer park here and we had something similar… evidently that counts as hate speech on myself. How the fuck is that hate speech?
The second one was maybe a little more appropriate, although I don’t think harassment and bullying when the person originally started calling me names (including calling me an “it”) and I called them an idjit and said “fuck you”. But hey, they are an old white male, why not defend them Facebook, I am sure you don’t think calling someone an “it” is harassment.
I don’t feel bad about telling him to fuck off, nor do I feel bad about Facebook Jail. I actually hate Facebook with a passion, but several of my friends and family don’t use any other social media source so it is what I use.
I will try and remember to post when I do the submitting of comments for hate speech against trans and other LGBTQ/minorities and give you the resulting mincing of “doesn’t go against our services”. I didn’t think of doing that, and now I am kind of too lazy to search for it to show older ones.
Also, if I get dumped off Facebook (or maybe even rage quit) that isn’t a big deal either. I have lots of other social media presence and maybe I won’t be so stressed.
I just wanted to share on social media, about my social media jail in a specific platform (I wonder if this effects my instagram… I suspect not).
So, you haven’t seen CoaA posts yet, have you? Well, that is because that stands for “Confessions of an Asshole” and this is my first post. Mostly it means that like other people I talk about here, I also will talk about my own failings, including when I am absolutely the asshole. Sadly that happens more often than I like to admit, especially when I was younger.
I felt the first thing I would talk about was my wedding day and the fact that my husband, who was my wife at the time, should have probably just dumped me there and then. Also, I will probably reference “my wife” because it is hard to separate who we were then. I find myself having a very hard time referencing him as him when I remember the small girl or shapely woman in the memories. He is ok that I reference him like this, just like I am ok that he references me as his husband whenever he talks about our past.
Our wedding was itself actually pretty great for what it was. The asshole part didn’t come until it was over, but it was still unacceptable, 100% unacceptable.
I had originally asked my husband to marry me when we first started dating in the summer of 1991. We lived on Alabama Street in the 1900 St apartments. I was working 2 shifts on, one shift off for weeks straight and when I asked her to marry me, she said no. I knew she wasn’t into marriage to begin with, and I suspect subconsciously I knew she was starting to pull away so I probably felt that would help things.
Fast forward two months and we had broken up, then got back together six months after that. By this time we ended up living on Kulshan Street I believe, and she surprised me by asking me to marry her. I agreed immediately.
We decided we didn’t want a big marriage, we were just going to a judge with a few friends and family and get it done. Wolsey was an atheist (just coming out of new age stuff) while I was a weird mix of buddhist and catholic, but nether of us wanted a church wedding. We also didn’t want any sort of debt, we were poor and we both knew that her father and mother weren’t going to pay for it (and even if they did we wouldn’t accept the strings with it).
So fast forward to the day of our ceremony. We celebrate (and have since renewed our vows) our wedding day on Halloween. In 1992 unfortunately Halloween fell on a Saturday (much like this year), meaning we had to have a judge marry us on a very dark, wet, and stormy Friday. I was freaking out in my head. Not because I thought marrying that beautiful girl was bad, but I thought I was bad for her, and that honestly, I didn’t deserve any of it. She calmed me down and we proceeded.
We showed up with Wolsey’s family, my mother, siblings, our friend Aaron who was the best man. We showed up at the courtroom of Judge Ross, a man with a huge handlebar mustache. He quickly and dryly started going through the ceremony, it was probably the most anticlimatic ceremony you would ever see. That is until Judge Ross stared at the papers in front of him, stopped talking as he looked up at me and looked around the room.
We all sort of looked around confused when he asked me… IN MID CEREMONY… “Are you related to John Bradley?”
My mom froze, I froze, Wolsey froze and everyone else just looked confused. This is where the judge started talking about how he had issued a warrant for my father John Bradley’s arrest. I think this time it was about my dad beating the shit out of a couple officers when he was drunk, and not paying the fines. The bailiff looked around and I know they checked outside the door as well. This took a few minutes until it was clear my dad wasn’t here. He asked a couple of times if my dad was here or if we knew where he was.
Of course we said we didn’t know where he was, but the truth was my dad was waiting downstairs in the car. We all knew he had a warrant, but none of us imagined that Judge Ross would interrupt our marriage ceremony for that, especially if my dad wasn’t there.
After some more awkwardness, he continued the ceremony and we finished it off. It was both anti-climatic and very awkward. However to me, it didn’t matter, I was married to the most beautiful person in the world, and I was happy, but also freaked out even more than my wife was now stuck with me.
As a gift to us after the wedding, Wolsey’s parents took us to dinner at the Top of the Tower in Bellingham. For Bellingham it is considered one of the nicest restaurants in the county. My stress level was incredibly high at the moment, and when we stepped into the building that the restaurant was in, caught the elevator to the top of the building, and got out, I was fairly overwhelmed. I had never been to the dining side of a four-star restaurant. Not as a customer (I had worked as a dishwasher/prep cook at the Marina restaurant a couple years before, but never sat in a booth). Below are Wolsey’s parents Clark and Debbie.
To be honest, as someone who had been homeless with his family for years, and for many years before and after that we were evicted constantly, with our food mostly provided by food stamps, the whole aura of the restaurant was too much. I don’t think I talked too much as we sat down to have dinner.
To be honest I had fully disassociated at this point. At the time I never knew that people didn’t get out of body feelings when they were stressed, my life had been full of violence, alcoholism, homelessness and poverty. I thought it was normal. That happened here.
I don’t recall most of what we talked about over that dinner. I do however remember getting a check from Wolsey’s parents for $500. It was far more money than we had at the $4.25 an hour or so we made, also something we immediately used to pay bills.
We were sitting there and I do remember one clear thing. I got a black coffee placed in front of me, a small container of sugar, and a small ramekin filled with what I thought was whipped cream. I hesitated and was confused about why we got whipped cream with our coffee. At home we had milk and instant coffee, I had never heard of this… maybe it was a dessert coffee you get at the beginning of a meal?
Wolsey noticed my hesitation and squeezed my leg under the table. I don’t know if it was purely for reassurance of if she was trying to indicate what the whipped cream was for. That is when I saw her father watching me intently, he then reached over to his coffee, took a spoonful of what I thought was whipped cream, and put it in his coffee, thereby lightening it.
I noticed that Wolsey’s mother Debbie hesitated and looked confused when she saw Clark put what turned out to be creamer in his coffee. She asked him why did he use creamer, he NEVER uses creamer, he just sort of waved her off and said he wanted some tonight. She looked pretty confused.
I immediately followed suit and noticed he gave me the slightest nod of the head and a subtle smile as I used it. I was a little astonished that it was cream. I had never seen cream for coffee like this. I later found out that Wolsey’s dad doesn’t use creamer (and I remember something about it sometimes gives him migraines even). That is when we both realized Wolsey’s dad did that just to show me what it was, without embarressing me. There are a lot of issues (a whole lot) I have with that man, but I have to say I really appreciated that.
The meal itself I assume was good, but like most times when I am disassociated I don’t remember the exact details. Wolsey’s mom didn’t notice at all, but I think Clark did.
To be honest, the rest of this story is embarrassing for me, but I deserve to be embarrassed by it. I don’t remember 100% of the details as I don’t think I ever really came back to myself that night. That disassociation or weird emotional space however IS NOT AN EXCUSE, it is just so you can understand me a little better.
We eventually got back to our new apartment on Bennett street. By this time Wolsey was feeling sick, her nose had started running and she was feeling ill. I think for the first couple of minutes I tried reassuring her a little, but it was too little for what I should have done, and far too short of a time I gave her my attention.
Instead of being fully supportive like any real human would have done, I was frustrated and vented about our wedding night being destroyed because she got sick. I was one hundred percent inappropriate, and while the details are scattered for me, I know I yelled at her and became even more frustrated that we couldn’t be intimate on our wedding night. Yes, I had fully become that privileged guy with “expectations”.
I was an absolute shithead about it. I do remember bits of her crying, and of me just getting angrier. I had a lot of rage, most of it I suspect was from other things that I constantly buried. None of it was because of anything she had done. For whatever asshole and monstrous reason inside me though, I let that rage and anger out and I know I yelled at her, made her cry, I was unreasonable on every level (I have never hit my spouse, but I pretty much was abusive in every other way that night). Most of the detail of this part of the night is gone for me, I don’t think I ever remembered specifically my lashing out, but I do remember bits as if I was in a detached dream.
It was a strange detachment though. I was so angry, but it was an anger that seemed like it was outside of me. One that I knew I should bury, put out or hide it away, but I just shrugged and I didn’t do anything to really control it except I eventually told her off, slammed the door, and left the apartment. I ended up going to Bear’s, the local arcade with my friends. I don’t really know if they ever knew what happened, all I did was tell them she was sick.
Yep, that is the asshole in me, out at an arcade playing video games with my friends while my sick wife cried to herself in our bedroom on my wedding night. I feel vaguely guilty that I can’t remember more details to show truly what kind of asshole I was, but this is the best I can give you.
I am eternally shamed by that night. There are no excuses for it. I just wanted to talk about my wedding night, and I don’t feel I should ever leave out negative things about myself. I definitely won’t ever forgive myself for how I behaved on my wedding night.
Today I (hopefully we) celebrate 28 years of being married. Today marks the day that at age 21, I married my 20-year-old best friend, lover, and confidant.
I want to wax poetic about the day we got married and the whole situation of our relationship, but I will do that at a later point. Right now I just want to express how happy I am to be here 28 years later after he asked me to marry him and I said yes.
Our lives have had a lot of struggle and pain, but I still feel I won life by marrying him. The fact he stayed married to me after I was particularly shitty on our wedding night shows how much he loves me. That post is coming soon, yes I am honest about my shitty behavior as well.
He means everything to me. He is my best friend, my favorite lover, my favorite author, mechanic, cheesecake model, all of it.
I am not joking when I say he has saved my life multiple times since I got to k now him at the age of 16. I can’t imagine my life without him now, I suspect I will be one of those spouses who wouldn’t survive very long without him.
I love you my heart. I would do anything for you. Just say the words. Oh, and once again, Happy Anniversary my love!!!
I can’t tell you how much I love you…. except to say Forever.
I have been really quiet for the last five plus weeks since surgery. Mostly because it has been a real emotional rollercoaster, and also because I wanted to see how it turned out before I posted about it. The very brief TL;DR of it, IT WAS A RESOUNDING SUCCESS, even though there might have been some crying along the way (or more than “some”) I feel it was all worth it.
Here is the Too Long Didn’t Read Comparision before surgery and after.
The day of surgery was actually really good. We ended up getting up early, prepping and heading in. The traffic was extremely light and we got there in record time. I will admit that I was a bit more nervous about this then I was the first surgery. The first surgery I didn’t care how well they did in Scottsdale, it would be better than where I was at. This I was a bit more worried, not only that something might go wrong and I will have to take a step back, but that it won’t have any effect at all.
Once I got into the surgeon’s clinic they sat me down and Dr. Mangubat went through and marked my face and chest. I am always amazed at the sculpting ability of good surgeons. I look at those lines and it means nothing, but they can create works of art (just like people who draw out patterns). Changing something from two dimensional lines to a three dimensional form is pretty fantastic. Also, Dr. Mangubat and his assistant were awesome. I wish I could remember his assistant’s name, he was also a very skilled surgeon learning the trade from Dr. Mangubat. Dr. Mangubat himself was incredibly kind, jovial and reassuring.
To be perfectly honest I know they rolled me into the surgical suite, I remember the nurse talking with me and giving me an IV and the next thing I remember is waking up in my bed at home. What I do know from talking to the husband is that surgery lasted about 6 hours, about half the time of my surgery with Dr. Ley. He got me into the car and drove me home.
I do know from him as he tells me even now how hard I was to get up the stairs. I might weigh a 100lbs less, I still am 6’2″ to his 5’6″ and I outweigh him by 40 lbs. The stairs were evidently an issue. I am told I stopped in the middle of the stairs and wouldn’t move. Hubby had to yell at me to get going (and it sounds in the same manner my dad would when he needed us to do something).. Thank you hubby for getting me in to the house and into bed.
The next few days were sort of a blur. I remember lying in bed, the hubby feeding me and giving me pain meds and then the hubby playing video games while he laid beside me. By Monday though I was feel really good about myself. I was really liking how it was looking and things were good.
We went to the follow up appointment where they took off my main head wrap and looked over the incisions (there were a lot). The docs all seemed happy, I was happy and life was good. They gave me a wrap to put around my head and neck to help the skin heal tight.
Meanwhile my boobs were healing excellently. I had to wear a weird little maternity bra, but they were huge and somehow the doc fit 800cc implants in through my armpit, so no scarring under the boobs.
Within a day and a half though, the skin around my incisions started having a skin reaction. Much like when I have an allergic reaction to bacitracin or other antibiotics. It started getting bad and we called the doctor back. They immediately the next day had me come in to look at it. No one was sure what I was reacting to. It could be the wrap around my face, it could be the staples in my head or it could just be a normal infection.
Whatever it was, Dr. Mangubat put me on anti-fungal, an antibiotic and an antiviral. The worry was the infection would reek havoc with my healing and skin. I am glad I saw him immediately. He actually commented that it was unusual that a patient be so proactive. I blamed my hubby being a nurse, my own experience in a doctors office, but honestly it was also my anxiety. Probably mostly my anxiety that propelled me.
I will admit I was also having weird panic attacks. I felt like I couldn’t breath at night with everything wrapped around my head. I was short tempered and I did have an emotional/anxiety breakdown. To be honest nothing was ever that bad, but the rebound from surgery and just all the stress had caught up with me. Also, I do not do well with opioids. They aren’t the most effective to begin with and they wreck me emotionally, every single time.
I had one night with a complete breakdown and I was a jerk to Wolsey and lost my shit, panicking that I had somehow fucked my face up and all the work the surgeons had done. I am grateful that he loves me so much. Also things started healing up, although the breathing panic attacks still happened at night. However I was looking way better.
Later that week after things had calmed down I talked to my therapist (they specialize in LGBTQ, Trauma and Trans stuff) and they mentioned it isn’t uncommon. Both my dysphoria and evidently inability to breath at night. The dysphoria is kicked off as a delayed sort of thing. It isn’t any regret on my part, but rather just processing (and not even close to the processing I will probably be doing over the years). The other part was the breathing. Evidently it is not uncommon for trans women to be uncomfortable trying to breath laying down. The fact I have 38H sized breasts with 1600cc’s worth of silicon on my chest is a new sensation and is just my body getting used to things feeling different. Evidently trans guys go through the opposite sometimes, they feel light chested.
That did make me feel better, and it definitely made me realize I wasn’t the only person going through this.
However within a few days, with the help of all the meds, my face started healing up. My breasts were already in good shape healing wise and I had no problems sleeping after the first couple of weeks. By the time my one month had arrived I was in pretty good shape and now 7 weeks out the scars are starting to fade out. I am so happy with what happened. I can’t thank Dr. Mangubat and his associate enough, but I most especially can’t thank my husband enough. He helped me get the surgery, he took care of me, and I hope he understands how much I truly love him.
I even took some photos of me several weeks after the fact just to see what I looked like.
That is it, things are great and I attached all the pictures above plus several extra as a gallery below.
This will be real quick. I have been quiet lately because of anxiety and a little depression as my surgery comes up. Well it is 12 hours from now and when I get home I will have breast augmentation, lip feminization and my second FFS.
It is local so no big trips and I will come home to sleep in my bed so that is going to be great. Mostly I am grateful to my husband for loving me and taking care of him.
I just wanted to pop in and share that. I will be back soon!
I called into my surgeon today and low and behold… we are on for my surgeries. As of June 12th, I will be getting my breast augmentation, lip feminization, and lower face feminization (extended facelift).
The COVID stay at home order has been good for a lot of things. We stay at home putting our money away instead of spending it. That means I have 3/4 of the money saved away for my portion of the surgery. The remaining 1/4 will take the rest of summer but by the end of summer this should be paid for (although we are still paying for last year’s FFS).
I am both incredibly excited, and honestly a little overwhelmed. I hadn’t realized that the whole COVID situation bothered me, but I suspect it has bothered me a lot more than I realized. As soon as my good news came, my defenses came down and now I am having an anxiety attack.
I am sure the other part is anxiety about the surgery. What if it doesn’t work? What if something bad happens and I come out worse? What if I eventually have to learn how to deal with myself with no surgery coming up to lay all my problems off on? I suspect that the last question is the one I will be dealing with.
However, for now I can put it off. This surgery will be June 12th, our pre-0p is May 29th and our postop visit is June 15th. I am scheduled off from work until mid-July and I plan on arranging a flight down to Arizona for electrolysis starting mid/late August and going every 8 weeks until my face is done (well also my groin, we have that too).
This doesn’t even count my June 5th visit to the urologist about the Peyronie’s Disease. Someday I won’t have surgeries and appointments like this. I think that will be both a fantastic and scary/stressful thing.
This is a TMI warning to everyone. The following post is about my masculine junk that sits between my legs. No one talks about it, and I found some transitional things out the hard way, so I figure I would post about it to those who are curious about what really happens.
This is my viewpoint, only my experiences. Other trans/nonbinary people (MTF, FTM or nonbinary will have different experiences). You are warned from this point out. Also, this post is JUMBO, and I don’t apologize for it. It’s a complicated subject matter I haven’t really talked about before… but I am sure I will talk more in the future (also JUMBO is an inside joke you will get if you read this). Continue reading “In the Middle – the Penis”