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
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
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
Well, mine are, at