Foremost, before getting to the flesh and bolts, know that my masculinity is not debatable.  If you’re having a hard time seeing me as a man, deal with it.  I’m probably having a hard time seeing you as interesting.  Don’t explain to me the conditions under which you will accept my masculinity, or those under which you will not (“Well, as long as you stand up…”).  Remember that heterosexism questionnaire that delighted you the first five times you read it?  The one that asks how people know they’re straight if they’ve never made sweet, sweet love to someone of the same sex?  Well, I’ve lived as a woman.  I’ve seen the ‘other’ side (though we all know gender isn’t really binary, right?) and know in my heart that I am not one.  Most men know that without ever having lived as a woman; I at least made the effort to do the research.  If there were only so much masculinity to go around, who would be more deserving:  the guy who hardly noticed his, or the one who dwelled on it, paid countless dollars, lost the support of supposedly supportive people, and generally took great risks to be who he is? 

As are many FTMs, I am passable.  Unless you have seen many, many transguys, (seriously, a lot of transguys) you’d assume I was born male if I approached you at a bar.  I am officially average height for an American man, tragically hairy, and last month I was called “straight-acting” by a guy who seemed to think I would find it a compliment.  As are many FTMs, I have a muscular chest with surgical scars - which I’d prefer were absent, or at least less prominent, but the fact is that I was stacked, and I’m grateful that the surgeon got the topography right.  Being able to just put on a t-shirt and rush out the door is a luxury I now try to remember to not take for granted.

There are many reasons that transguys often choose not to have bottom surgery.  Amongst them are access to proper medical care, the monetary cost, and dangerously varying results.  My reason, however, is that after top surgery and the better part of a decade on testosterone, my body is already awesome.

The clitoris has over 8,000 nerve fibers, more than any other organ in the body of any sex, and exists solely for sexual pleasure.  Mine is on steroids.  Time permitting, I can orgasm about five times a day and never once make a mess.  Impotence isn’t anything for me to worry about (my impotence, that is).  Partners with sensitive gag reflexes have no problem with me, but can feel in their mouths the difference between erection and post-erection.  If I am so horny that my vision blurs, I can slip my hands into my jeans and bring myself sexual relief without the sounds or evidence typical of bio males.  There’s no need for a jock strap, because my equipment doesn’t flop all over the place (rude!).  Then there’s my opinion that a flaccid penis tends to appear depressed and resigned, as though the subject of an insufferable country song.  If I want to piss standing up, or bend a hot guy over the couch and fuck him, I have attachments that will do the trick – any size, shape, or color, electric or standard, so long as we both shall live.  Transguys and our appendages have come a long, long way together.  And if the health of a particular appendage was to come into question, it could be replaced much more easily than one permanently attached to my body. 

To take this thorough analysis one step further, men-loving-bio men:  If you assume your partner needs a dick to give you a good time in bed, you are unimaginative and uninspired and possibly not doing it right.  Necessity breeds creativity, and I’ve learned how to get what I want and fulfill my partner at the same time.  If you’re dependent upon something up your ass to get off, great; you can suck off your FTM top and have him bend you over within moments – we don’t take nearly as long to recharge.  More bang for your buck.

I could have explained all this to the hot guy at the disco that night, and maybe I should have.  But I wasn’t obligated to share so much about myself after a little dancing and groping, or give an impromptu workshop on tranny loving, or – worst case scenario – have to defend myself in any way.  I shouldn’t have to, because I’m not wearing a disguise.  What you see is what you get, and if you’re seeing things that aren’t there, you need to watch more Priscilla.  Assumption is the mother of all fuck ups, baby.  Maybe I could have taken home that hot, dark-haired bottom, pushed him down, and gotten right to business without giving him the chance to be a jerk.  Maybe he’d spent years dating FTM tops and hoped I was one.  How the hell do I know?

The moral of the story is that there’s often more to transmen than meets the inexperienced eye.  We were never the elusive unicorns that we are sometimes made out to be, though we played the part of something that felt comparably foreign.  Take it from a top, guys:  If you come across a hot transguy whilst cruising the bars, consider whether you are reading his sexuality correctly.  If you make the right moves, he, like a leprechaun, may just bring you good luck.  You might not be used to our charms, but they’re delicious.

Well, mine are, at least.