Honestly, I don’t have anything to share. I just love this pic.
It’s Sunday night, and I’m all dressed up. I wish I had somewhere to go. Instead, I’m playing online, mostly on my phone, flirting with guys who like crossdressers. I may not really be into men, but a part of me enjoys the game, to a point I don’t know if I could ever cross that line. If I did, would I like it? I don’t know.
What do you girls say? I know some crossdressers are into guys, some are not. Some are straight, gay, and bi. I’ve never entertained the idea of an asexual transgender, but the more we learn, the greater the variety of people. I’m still discovering my identity. As old as I am, you’d think I would have me figured out, but alas, no. I keep surprising myself.
Maybe the most honest assessment of myself is that I’m a bi-curious mtf transgender. I always thought it would get easier as I got older. I’m supposed to be a straight male. Isn’t that what normal society says I should be? But I know I’ve never been whatever normal is supposed to be. It took me years to learn to be me, and being me is okay. In fact, I’ve come to terms with my crossdressing. I love me. How about you?
I’m a blogger. Well, actually I’m a writer who blogs. It’s how I survive, how I take these kernels of thoughts and ideas and nurture them into something more. Sometimes they’re profound, sometimes they’re silly. I’ve bared my naked soul to the world.
It began simply as a way to cope with a break-up, and eventual divorce, from my wife. That marriage had been broken for a while, and I suspect it had never been whole to begin with. All the same, as much as I was glad to be rid of her, there’s some part lurking in everyone that misses that presence, no matter how toxic it may be. You become used to that proximity. Also, my ego had trouble accepting that she left for another man.
I worked through my pain, and then the pain of another failed relationship. I was broken and I typed my pain in a vain cry for help. No one heeded it. Sure I got the occasional sympathetic comment, how it would get better, that they were praying for me, but I needed more. The only blessing is that my writing prevented me from bottling everything up. It was my outlet. That blog was my saving grace.
That was over four years ago, and I still maintain it, though now its focused on my stalled writing career. I post short stories and book reviews. I talk about ideas and my fears, my hopes and my dreams. It’s still an oasis in the middle of a barren life, and still I have relatively few followers. I don’t get many hits
This blog is different. So far today, I’ve received more views than I had for the entire month of September of my other blog. People read me here, and people have shared my posts in forums that bring me traffic. My friends listen to me patiently as I gush about my stats. They listen sympathetically as I grouse that no one cares about that other blog, about that other, male me.
It’s a strange dichotomy that dwells within me, two distinct halves that vie for dominance, though I know neither would survive without the other. It irks me that I can’t find an audience there where here I have found a voice. Perhaps it’s not so loud as others may have, but I appreciate every receptive ear, every click on my stats. I appreciate every kind word I have received. I’m nothing if not grateful.
But male me would like to find that voice, too. He would be overjoyed to gain a wider audience. I won’t share a link, this isn’t what this is about. Instead, it’s a fascination with how one person with two separate identities can have widely different successes. Stefani and male me are one and the same, but we might as well be strangers. In a way, I suppose we are.
When I think about all the time I lost, I get depressed. I can’t remember the last time I treated myself for a nice outfit and got dressed up before now. I know it was some time before I got together with my ex-wife, and that was in 2005. I want to say that I had “quit” years before. So it’s been ten to thirteen years since Stefani made an appearance. The best years erased in a futile hope that I could just be a normal guy.
No wonder I was so depressed.
I think I look okay now, but I’m still over-weight, and I have the upper torso of a 40-year-old dude. It’s amazing what lighting and camera angles can achieve! I have made a few changes lately, the main being cutting out sodas completely. I lost a pant size as a result. I would like to lose a little more, especially around the belly. I may have to cut out sugar, or gasp! start exercising!
Oh the horror of horrors! Exercising is the bane of my existence. I hate it. I get enough of a work out at work, but I know that I have got to start, if nothing else for my health. I also need to do some strength training, but not so much that I bulk up. That’s the last thing I want to do! Well, maybe bulk up my legs and butt. They could totally use it.
When I was in my early twenties, when my best friend first started showing me the ropes about doing make-up, it didn’t take much. My skin was flawless, I didn’t have much in the way of a beard, so covering it up wasn’t much of a hassle, and I was thin as a rail. Seriously, I could pass as a woman (I think) and I would go out sometimes, even during the day! It felt so good to be out, wearing shorts with pantyhose and a sleeveless shirt. Now, were you to look at me in public, it’s so obvious that I’m not a woman. Damn my advancing years!
I guess I could continue whining and moaning about the lost years during which I kept Stefani locked securely away, unknown and unseen. In the end, I grappled with a feeling of loss, of anger, and depression. It took me a long time to realize that I couldn’t keep me locked away, safe from prying eyes. I had to come to terms with the fact that I’m not a man, in the same way I’m not a woman. I’m somehow neither and both. Call it transgender, call it gender fluid, I really don’t care about defining myself with arbitrary terms. What I do care about is being faithful to who I am as a person.
Above all, and I want to be crystal clear about this, I am a human being, and deserve the respect thereof that I’m entitled to. I am both male and female, and I made a mistake of trying to narrowly define myself as one to the exclusion of the other, and I suffered for over a decade, in denial that half of myself was missing. With all this talk about gender and transitioning – thank you Caitlyn Jenner! – we have been thrust into the glaring light of public opinion, and the amount of vitriol coming from those who believe we chose to be this way is astounding. What bothers me is the amount of vitriol coming from our side!
Maybe I’m naive in hoping that we can move past this. All I want is to respect and to be respected. I want us all to respect one another, even if we’re not altogether comfortable with the other. I have no desire to “push” my lifestyle onto others, whatever the fuck that means. I need to make the best use of my time going forward to be myself, to blossom and welcome the sun’s warming glow illuminate who I am. I am Stefani, and I love this part of me.
Hello everyone! I know it’s been awhile, but life goes on, and sometimes things get put on the back burner. It’s not great to admit it, but there it is, I got sucked into life’s race and forgot who I am.
At the moment, not much has changed in my condition. I’m still looking to strike out on my own again, and learn what it means to live alone. I can’t wait to get in touch with who I am on the inside. I’m tired of hiding who I am. I need to find like minded people, people who can accept me for who I am, and not who I pretend to be.
But enough about that…
I bought a book today. A little back story first. There was a magazine I used to purchase called Transformation. It was part porn, part informational, and part catalog. I enjoyed looking at the transsexual women, but I also longed to buy one of the catalogs they advertised, to buy some breast forms, dresses, etc. There was one item in particular I wanted to buy, but never did. A book by Richard J. Novic, a psychiatrist and a crossdresser, entitled Alice in Genderland: A crossdresser comes of age.
I wanted this book. I needed this book, but money was an issue, and also privacy. I wanted before I got married, and then after, I knew I couldn’t get it. My wife never accepted that her husband was a crossdresser. I’ve often wondered if that led to her infidelity, but I think not. She’s not the faithful kind of woman.
I’ve been single for over two years now, and I recently came across that book again. I’m single, so I have no one to hold me accountable, or to judge me, and I have an e-reader, so buying the book anonymously wouldn’t be a problem. So I bought it. I’ve had it for about an hour, and I’ve already read most of the first chapter. I can tell already that I love this book!
Dr. Novic has already touched on topics that I’m familiar with, ones that I have accepted as normal for me, but that has given me a sense of validation. There’s a brotherhood – or sisterhood; the choice of pronouns can get confusing – that I can relate to this. As such, although I’ve known this for a very long time, I found a measure of peace in knowing that I’m not alone.
I am a man, but I’m also in many ways a woman. I’ve been called a woman many times, sometimes in jest, but I can’t help but wonder if people sense that in me. It could explain some of the disrespect I get. Seems like effeminate men are roundly discriminated against and made fun of. This is a great topic which I may need to revisit another time.
For now, I’m going to continue to read Dr. Novic’s book, and feel secure that I’m not alone. I have a Facebook account, which exists solely to connect with other members of the transgendered community. I would love to get in touch with you all. It may not be possible to meet up in person, but for the moment, a virtual meeting place would be nice. You can find me on Facebook, and on Twitter.
I feel horrible. I’ve been neglecting my writing, but life has a way of getting in the way, but that’s no excuse. I’ll do better in the future, but I’ll have to figure out some sort of posting schedule to keep me on task.
I’m sitting here, in my bedroom, feeling as though I’m missing a part of me. You ever felt that way? I do most of the time. I live in a world where I can never truly be myself. I have to act as though I’m (somewhat) manly, although I would rather be wearing a cute dress or skirt. I would rather be wearing heels than sneakers. I want to dress like a princess, but I’m cursed, left to wander the barren wasteland, sentenced to wear these garments of shame.
I know, I’m being facetious, but at the same time, I’m telling the truth. I feel as though I’m a pretender, living a convenient lie about myself, that I am who I pretend to be. I’m not. Not really. Not that I’m not the man people see everyday, but there’s more to me, more than I allow anyone to see. I’m some freak of nature, neither man or woman, but both at the same time. Does that make any sense?
This is the image I want for myself. Sad isn’t it? Back when I was in my twenties, I may have been able to pull it off, but now that I’m nearing forty? Forget it. Still, I think it’s interesting to think about who we are, how we see ourselves versus how others see us, and how we want to be. I want to appear manly, but sometimes I wish I could give up the pretense and just be the silly little girl my heart yearns to be.
I envy those who could. I envy those girls who gave up pretending, who stopped living imprisoned within their genetic makeup, and did something to realize their true image of themselves. Sex and gender are too complicated to define via genitalia, The penis does not a man make, nor the vagina a woman. It’s painful when the largest sex organ, the brain, is at odds with the body.
So I hide behind the beard, shielding myself from the fact that I will never be pretty, nor beautiful. I will never be anyone’s princess. I will forever be the beast, angry and alone, praying for Death to take me, but who seems to be enjoying my torment.
Maybe someday things will change, but not now. I will put on my mask, trudge down the path that fate has dealt me. I wish I were strong enough to become who I want to be, but I’m not. And so I suffer, no one around me knowing, or caring, why I’m always in such a bad mood. Try living a lie. It isn’t easy to maintain a fiction and remain happy.
And thus bitterness is born…