Top surgery, part 1

We arrived in San Francisco a little after 4:00 Sunday afternoon, over an hour before our scheduled arrival time — astonishing, given the fact that we left the Denver terminal over two hours behind schedule. This would in part be due to the fact that throughout the night, it would seem the engineer was very nearly exceeding the 80mph speed limit across the Nevada plains; causing myself and, I imagine, several others to fear for their lives in the middle of the night as we awoke to the sensation of flying off the rails every time we changed tracks.

The ride overall was uneventful, and though I had expected to encounter boredom sometime after 15 minutes on the train, we were surprised to find that doing nothing for two days was quite peaceful; to the exclusion of the train breaking down for several minutes somewhere in nowhere Nevada. This did not altogether soothe ones’ thoughts during the previously mentioned midnight cruise. As we passed alongside a river for a number of miles, a large collection of rafters could be seen waving; and, farther up the river, exclusively mooning. It seems there would be a rural custom of which I am not aware.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After a cab ride to Dr. Brownstein’s office — and a call to his receptionist Kathy after standing lost on the street corner for several minutes — we managed to find the door. The office is nothing like doctors’ offices around Denver. It’s small, tucked into a side street, and very un-office-like. The walls aren’t all white plaster; instead covered with dauchsund pictures and vaguely abstract art. The exam room is next to his desk — seated in front of an intimidatingly enormous, overstuffed yellow chair remeniscient of something out of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory — separated by a simple wood-and-paper room divider no doubt obtained from Chinatown or similar Asian design shops.

Kathy and another receptionist walked me through the procedure, answered questions and set up the post-op appointments. Then we met Dr. Brownstein, who went over anything that the girls missed and talked about the drains and dressing I would be wearing afterwards.

We took a cab back to the hotel, ate a light dinner and waited for the 4:30 alarm the next morning.

Day 600 (1 Year, 8 Months)

“Oh, hey Jason – ohh, my god!” Visiting my father for a weekend, his office manager greets me in the morning as I wander to the kitchen of his half-house, half-office. Her hands fly to her mouth. “You look so different.”

I try to think when she has seen me last; and I think it must be a year at least. “Yeah, uh,” I chuckle as her eyes travel the length of my body, “it changes a lot.”

“You have a beard!” she exclaims. “Okay, just let me adjust.” She turns away and looks back several times, clearly baffled. Born and raised rural, southern yet astonishingly open-minded, she’s never seen anything like this. Having met me shortly before beginning testosterone, she’s never known me female, but she’s never seen me this male either.

I only notice change when I choose to look for it, but I find that I am almost always surprised when other people do.

“Those arms…” my brother mutters, shaking his head. “Home grown, my ass.”

---

I have come to the point where I will admit to people that I am nervous.

I realize that all of my defining traits have become exceedingly exacerbated in the weeks prior to surgery — in particular, always possessing a slight lack of control over the ability to sit still, though surprisingly less apparent after testosterone, I cannot seem to stop moving in some way or another. I am beginning to obsess on what must be done before we leave, the small details of our arrival, appointments and instructions in California, and what to expect following surgery; particularly given the physical debility and limitations in regard to my very physical day job. Stress-influenced weight loss, to be observed beginning in early April, continues as the panic mounts despite my efforts to maintain a healthy diet in the relative chaos before any such major event. I hope for the pounds lost during the past months to return following the surgery; as, certainly, a relief and calmness will settle after so much anticipation.

I admit that many mixed feelings have occurred in these past days, particularly as the countdown comes to two weeks and now, a mere week and day until our departure. While I cannot possibly imagine the experience of simply not having to think about my chest, it is the aftermath of the event of amputating a part of my body itself that concerns me. While breasts are, after all, something that enters my mind quite frequently during the dull moments of the day, it is some strange form of comfort that there is a manipulable pair in my immediate vicinity to entertain me, existing entirely separate of my male identity; yet not belonging to another being, merely existing independently. The curiosity presents itself that I may miss them; despite that they no longer represent anything feminine from the alterations of testosterone.

Still. I have attempted to prepare myself for the ghastly post-surgical appearance, contrary to the perfectly sculpted masculinity that my mind may wish to imagine. I am aware that the scarring will be horrific to my perception; as are, sadly, all transsexual surgical procedures to me; though I am also aware of the intricacies of what I am capable of accepting — this or this I could live with. This, I could not. While the latter is by all means not among the “unfavorable results” presented at Dr. Brownstein’s session last year, for reasons I cannot explain or even differentiate entirely, it is simply — perhaps shamefully — not an outcome I would accept easily.

I struggle with the selfishness of judging so critically a procedure of which the result cannot possibly be guaranteed, predicted or even expected. But I cannot help feeling a panicked desire for perfection as I move through my last days of physical purity, existing as of yet in an exceedingly healthy, unmarred 19-year-old body, free of the surgical alterations by which it will be defined for the rest of my life. I cannot help the sense of entitlement that I should receive an outcome which is not only tolerable but pleasing in this event of elective plastic surgery — there is no cancer; there has been no disfiguring accident, genetically mutating disease to require the need for aesthetic surgical procedures. I proceed entirely of my own pursuit and desire, and I cannot help but worry that the surgery to which I have pinned my freedom from my body may in fact imprison me in revulsion of its result, and that there will be nothing to blame for my ruin but myself.

Fuck yes, I am nervous.

Thoughts on Packing

“You don’t pack, do you?” My mother asks this question as we sit in slightly awkward silence after watching Boys Don’t Cry together; a query procured by the opening scene of Brandon adjusting the sock in his underwear. I am fourteen.

“No,” I answer with an obvious air; I cannot imagine the desire for such an activity, nor any situation in which the need would arise.

Two weeks after beginning testosterone, the need arose.

Aware of my small stature, I was cautious about size while constructing my own hand-made sock packer. As I had been too shy of yet to purchase my own underwear, I was disappointed to find that the one pair of male underwear in my possession was too loose to prevent it from falling sideways, or worse, in the middle of the sidewalk. Shortly after this, I began wearing pants that actually fit instead of pants that hid my figure — a full two sizes smaller, as I discovered. I was surprised to find that while they accentuated my new appendage, I was not at all self-conscious — in fact, I felt supremely empowered, and fantasies began to manifest in my mind that people were looking, or that they might care. The initial rush of masculinity and power dissipated after several weeks, and though on occasion I still find myself having the idea that a girl is looking at my dick, all in all it has become exceedingly normal to the extent that I feel as though I am missing a part when it is not in place.

Although it took nearly three years after the initial desire to commence the purchase of a binder, the idea of a genuine “packer” or “stuffer” has been a vague thought for only the past year or so. After extensive searching, it appeared that there exist only a few packers of quality while also being sensibly functional; having narrowed it down to two of, as it would seem, the most popular ones, and having recently received my tax returns in the mail, I decided that the necessity for realism did in fact exist.

My first choice was, perhaps predictably due to its popularity, the durable and impressive Mr. Right of Vixen Creations. (If you don’t want to see a dick pic, don’t click.) My foremost concern was sanitation; as, after all, this thing would be living in my pants. Mr. Right is made of non-porous silicone, being the safer and nearly universally agreed best material for sex toys, particularly because it can be boiled to the result of sterilization, or else placed in a dishwasher — to which, one might hope, is not accessible by your roommate or your mother. Certainly this is an advantage.

My second choice, and at the end being my purchase, was the equally known Packy of Early to Bed. While Mr. Right, in its quest for realism, has asymmetrical testicles, the Packy is nicely symmetrical, which pleases my OCD tendencies. It seems that many men may in fact wish to be symmetrical given the choice ; therefore, I feel that I have a distinct advantage in this regard. Mr. Right also seems to be rather ill-designed in regards to size; it would seem that its overall mold is somewhat impractical, as it would tend to hang in a way that procures a sightly bulge evident of an eternal, never-ceasing erection; while the Packy has the advantage of not looking like a porn star. Although the Packy is constructed of Cyberskin-like material, which is soft, porous, difficult to clean and tends to disintegrate in a method reminiscent of a bar of soap gradually losing its mass, it costs a pleasing $12 while Mr. Right is an intimidating $50.

I admit my first reaction upon receiving my mail-order dick was not altogether pleased — at radiant pink, the colour is striking; but truly, it occurred to me several moments later, any situation that would arise in which another individual had visual access to my dick would, hopefully, be one in which the relevant party was already aware of the situation; and having been willing to engage to a level of intimacy as to see it, would probably not consider the colour a hindrance at such a point in time. It is a reasonable size and, dare I say, pleasing to the touch, particularly as it absorbs body heat in a surprising amount of time.

Having also purchased a simplistic harness, it is in this method that I wear it for the first time. It juts out from my body horizontally and quivers as I move; a proud, radiant, 4½-inch presentation. Several moments after I decide to try it out in underwear, I am met with a distinctly masculine experience as, somewhat flustered, I attempt to squash it into an apparent flaccid state. After some observation I realize that the testicles are far too high, and lowering it several inches creates a perfectly angled presentation. As I pull on jeans, I am struck with how different it feels from the hard, oddly-shaped, ball-less sock: it is warm and soft against my body, and to my amusement I am instantaneously aroused as I feel its weight and mass while I walk. The egotistical empowerment of my first packing experience returns in a rush, and I spend a full day at home going about my activities with it extending proudly. I can’t keep my hands off it. I feel masculine, tightly wound and sexually charged.

I am obsessed.

By the second day, I am used to how it feels, and am no longer surprised to see it attached to me. It is almost surreal how normal its weight and shape becomes in my mind. It does tend to be pushed upwards and bunch into a ball when walking up stairs, running or walking for much time; though this would be easily remedied by an additional length of elastic sewn into the harness. For $12, overall I am very satisfied.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Surgery is in three weeks and three days; in three weeks exactly, we depart. The final installments of payment have been sent to Dr. Brownstein, leaving nothing remaining to do save for preparation. The total cost of the surgery so far:

Dr. Brownstein’s surgical fee: $5,250.00
Pathology fee: $200.00
Anesthesia cost: $900.00
Hospital stay during and following surgery: $1,800.00
2-way train tickets, sleeper cars: $1,082.00
Estimated hotel cost: $1,100.00

Total so far: $10,341.00

Three weeks!

Surgery update

Today, it is exactly one month to the day until surgery. Train tickets have been booked for sleeper cars in both directions; initially, the reservations had been for coach seating on the way to California, but the horrible thought of a surgery at 7:30 in the morning after not having slept due to uncomfortable seats and snoring passengers prompted a change in plans.

Also accomplished is the collection of a required letter from my therapist indicating her support of and recommendation for the surgery. After a short period of procrastination, yesterday I was able to pay the anesthesia fees over the phone; which has been great relief: As of this moment, a week before it is due, I actually have enough money.

After a final appointment and blood draw with Dr. P., the results of which I will bring to California in the stead of undergoing another draw while there, all that ultimately remains to be done is the final installment of payment, to hopefully be sent this next Thursday. I was pleased to find that my blood results differ hardly at all from those taken six months ago ; with the exception of slightly elevated iron levels.

Mom: Well, duh! You’re not bleeding anymore.

Once again my mother presents an obvious conclusion to a puzzling event which would never have entered my mind.

1 Year, 7 Months (Day 568)

I have begun to realize that I have developed a distinct awareness of my masculinity of late; of much more acuity than simply “I am male” or “I am treated as male”. Though both of these are entirely accurate, several extended intricacies of them that I seem to have overlooked before now have been presented to me recently.

I feel male, in a way different than I perceived it before. While there has obviously always been a sense of innate maleness, which saw a dramatic escalation after beginning testosterone, there is a greater value to it that I cannot recall noticing before: I no longer feel transgendered. I do not recall when this sensation may have started; but it has become apparent to me that I no longer mind seeing my body. My breasts simply exist; functionless appendages extending from my chest, but to me possessing no possible resemblance of femininity. I don’t think about what my voice is sounding like when I speak, or how my body looks when I move. I no longer feel the need to “prove” myself around either gender, and in particular, I do not worry among other men that I might act or appear any different. The rationale that I would be simply does not exist.

I realize today that I smell male. My bedroom began to possess the distinct “adolescent boy scent” shortly after puberty; perhaps due to a naturally higher level of testosterone, but it had not occurred to me that I myself would have a scent independent of what can be observed in small enclosed living spaces. Early on, I would use a number of deodorants, aftershaves, colognes and skin products that possessed aromas I liked, to facilitate the male smell detectable on men that I knew. I now realize that even without the aid of these products, I too produce a distinctly natural masculine scent. Even this far into transition, tiny intricacies continue to surprise me when I think there is nothing further to be discovered.

My mother and I depart for California in six weeks less a day. Hotel reservations have been arranged, train tickets have been purchased; and, thankfully, several thousand dollars has been loaned between both sets of grandparents to assist with the extensive travel, anesthesia and hospitalization fees.

From few who are aware of the surgery, I have been asked often what I think or how I am feeling as it approaches; a response that changes day by day. I admit that I feel very little regarding the surgery itself; it seems that its reality remains questionable yet. Somehow, it does not seem possible in my young world that in a matter of weeks, an entire part of my body will simply cease to exist. That the objects on my chest are something that I will never, ever see for the rest of my life. It seems odd to me ; much more so than the cessation of menstruation.

I recall having a particular fleeting thought sometime during the early hours of the morning; in which it occurred to me that the survival of my nipples despite the tissue around them being amputated seemed very important in the moment. I do not know what could possibly have procured such a thought, particularly during such an odd hour.

Six weeks.

1 Year, 6 Months (Day 542)

Almost exactly one year ago, on Day 191, I had quite a significant collection of facial hair. I was very proud.

Though I was, of course, aware that my hair growth was increasing over these past months, the actual rate of this had not occurred to me until coming across the photo posted on the aforementioned date.

For comparison, I present a photo taken this morning, directly following a trim — and, as it were, my first razor cut which is only slightly visible on my jawline. I admit having not had the opportunity to experience such a thing before, I was slightly astounded at the rate at which it bled, and went through part of the day with a band-aid across my cheek; about which wisely no one chose to comment. (And no, the freckle on my lip has not migrated — I thought to reverse the photo to be a better angle comparison with the former.)

A new voice clip from recently has been added.

Girl, Interrupted

Driving home from work, I remember that I had planned on buying groceries tonight. I remember to switch to the left lane so that I can turn into the store lot. I even remember to find the list from my back pocket, shutting it sticking out from the cigarette tray so I can be sure not to miss it.

Stoplight. As I gaze to the left, waiting for the opposing lane’s yellow light, I notice a rather pretty girl in the passenger seat of the car next to me. Her dark hair is in a ponytail and she has thin lines of makeup on her cheeks, like sports players sometimes wear to block the sun. I stare at her, not at all surreptitiously; as she is looking away.

Then she looks. I turn away quickly, but I see her flash a smile out of the corner of my eye, which she must think I have not noticed. As I wait for her to revert her gaze, I rearrange the wildly strewn CDs on my passenger seat to appear busy to her.

She smiles again as she catches me looking a second time. I grin, rather sheepishly. I look away as I notice the light changing, and I see the green arrow appear. Her car is in the turn lane. I look quickly back at her, and she leans forward as the car turns to be sure that I can see her. She mouths something through the closed window and mimes the universal sign language for “phone”.

Wait, what?

Wait! I throw the thought at her in my head, but the silver SUV disappears around the corner in vain. As the light turns and I continue down the road, all thoughts have suddenly become obsessed with the small occurrence. I begin to imagine that she had attempted to communicate a phone number while I was distracted with the light. Or perhaps held a piece of paper against the window like people do in movies. Had I just completely blown my chance? Had she merely been teasing? But what use could there possibly be for miming “call me” unless the intended recipient was in assumed possession of one’s phone number?

“Oh shit!” I declare audibly, in sudden realization, as I notice my turn approaching. I have passed the grocery store three blocks behind.

All through grocery shopping I am haunted by the wonder of her true intentions; yet simultaneously, acutely aware of my mind’s escalation of the situation. Still; I cannot erase her image from my vision, nor her fleeting sign from my imagination.

Enjoy the rest of your life, Fleeting Girl.

Thoughts from 1am after a horror movie.

00.45

When I arrive at the theater to see the last showing of Coraline for the night — an impulsive decision — I am surprised and pleased to find that I am the singular audience; naturally, I have my pick of seats. After several minutes, a young couple sits in the top row; quiet, unnoticed; perhaps the showing time attracts a particular like-minded breed of people. No one else arrives.

Afterwards, I leave the auditorium to find the restroom. It occurs to me as I cross the beverage area that I am, in fact, the only person in the theater aside from the couple remaining in auditorium #3 for the ending credits — the completion of which, in most cases, is mandatory in my book to fulfill the movie-going experience; a rule to which I make an exception for this distinctly disturbing picture.

The bathroom stalls are empty. No one walks the halls as I leave. There is no one watching the doors, sweeping the floors, or locking up. And having passed by the empty restaurants, shops and entertainment buildings, eerily aglow with fluorescent lights and decorations, by the time I reach the parking lot an unsettling, distinct sense of existing as the sole person on the planet has trickled into my consciousness. My car sits entirely alone, softly illuminated by midnight streetlights; and becoming increasingly disturbed, I break into a run across the parking lot to it, as if it would suddenly vanish at any moment.

The thought does not occur to me until I reach home at 12:30 in the morning. Alone, isolated among a deadened shopping mall with only the computer voiced GPS to guide me along unknown streets, I realize that while I was acutely unsettled, the concern of my solidarity did not once occur to me as it may have a year ago. Thoughts of my physical safety were not a concern as they were, ever presently, prior to testosterone.

That is not to say that I have no regard for my safety, as in most situations I am uncomfortably aware that I am a target as a minority, and as a youth. There is, however, an enormous sense of careless freedom in existing as male that, I am sure, is not fully comprehensible by someone not having undergone such a social change. Even having lived socially as male for almost three years, the constant fear of attack did not dissipate until the biological shift.

I am unsure what aspect of biology is particularly linked to this — could it be that, as I am more confident and capable in myself, this has led to the removal of concern in place of cocky carelessness? Or that it would be a subconscious knowledge that the possibility of being mistaken — or discovered — as female no longer exists due to a convincing physicality? Or perhaps for men security, like sex, is simply inbred.

The shift of predator–prey merely within the constraints of a year is surprisingly distinct.

1 year, 3 months (Day 455)

20.50

My surgery date with Dr. Brownstein has been scheduled for June 23rd, 2009.

It has been arranged for the double mastectomy technique; though the keyhole remains an option, unknown until my in-person consultation on the 22nd.

It is strange to me now, at 19, to read, and so vividly remember writing, journal entries from the years of 13, 14 and even 15. Strange to me as I look at pictures of my innocent, tiny, barely pubescent body at 13; and to imagine that person writing so desperately of the mastectomy which she thought was, somehow, solely reliant on her mother’s “okay” to commence. Surgery, and money, was not something that was understood nor comprehended past a $15 allowance and the small gum tissue transplant I had received prior to being fitted for braces. Merely, I was aware of the word “mastectomy” and its purpose from the encyclopedia passage; and I had siezed on the idea. Between 14 and 15, however, I had given up with the belief that 18 — the age at which, magically, I would be able to do anything in the world — was much to far in the future to even comprehend or hope to ever reach.

During this time, I had begun binding; first, successfully for only a number of weeks, with a self-made binder of duct tape, which would wrap across my ribs and fasten together with tape hinges. While it was certainly efficient in flattening what very little tissue I could possibly have possessed at such an age; the suffocation and bruising due to complete inflexability caused me to abandon it promptly.

Shortly after this I came across the very first website I had ever seen on transsexuality, maintained by an FTM seven years my elder — an astounding eye-opener for me; as this confirmed that FTMs who actually looked male did, in fact, exist and were not merely limited to eternal androgyny, as I felt sure I was doomed to. From the prompting of his “passing tips”, I began using Ace bandages and was immediately astounded at the difference from my rib-cracking duct tape. Satisfied, this must have quelled my interest in surgery somewhat over the next few years; as I do not recall having any particular desire or drive to achieve it until my 17th year, when the efford required to propose the same amount of flatness as had been within my ability to have at 14 had become quite troublesome. Despite this, I did not purchase my first commercial binder until the next year.

I cannot believe that this effort I have struggled with for the past six years will, suddenly, become meaningless in the span of five short months. The few tanktops, sports bras and bandages remaining among my belongings will not only be unneeded; but also entirely illogical in lacking the biology for which they are designed. Like with testosterone, it will not take long to forget what it was like when they existed — and odd to think that like periods, not experienced for a year at least, there will come a day when the flatness of my chest is simply not a thought to consider, ever. Out of existence, entirely out of mind.

At 13, reaching the age of 19 was a lifetime away, and imagining waiting until then to receive surgery would have been far too incomprehensible a thought to bother with. Today, I cannot believe that at 19½, so much younger than any transman I have ever met, I will be undergoing this surgery.

5 months.

1 Year, 35 days (400 days!)

13.32 One year and a month on testosterone.

I have neglected posting much of anything for some time now; half for the business of everyday life, but also for the fact that I have lost somewhat the ability to compare over the past year. I have stopped noticing changes in perception and mood, as it is difficult now to recall feeling anything different. I have noticed, however, changes since six or so months back, which are easier to recall as my state of being was much more similar to today than it was a year ago.

I suppose I would start by reflecting on some of the most significant effects experienced in this past year; though an exceedingly long post I surmise it might be.

~~~~

First, a short page of comparisons, from last year at this time to today.

~~~~

On Sex.

Though I don’t recall ever noticing it waning, it is some relief that I no longer hold the desire to have sex with everything. This took quite a few months at least, but it seems to be under some control nowadays. That is not to say that it is not still a constant thought process, easily awakened by the merest of sexy glances; nor that, shamelessly, I do not enjoy my share of lustful staring; but that I am now fully within the ability to ignore it.

Sex, predictably, has perhaps been the most significant introspective change on testosterone. I find I am acutely aware of female scents, and in some cases, even able to pinpoint a particular woman among others. This seems to me to be an evolutionary yet rather useless trait; unless perhaps one was attempting to locate one’s girlfriend at a crowded concert.

I also find something that I became imminently aware of not long after the first sexual surge of T: My perception of, and reaction to, feminine.

Prior to T, girls as a population were somewhat revolting to me. Swaying hips were something to mock. Cleavage peeking out from shirts was hardly worth acknowledging. Miniskirts might procure the occasional grin, but I was rather offended by the “schoolgirl” outfits often to be observed in various forms of men’s entertainment.

After several months on T, I began noticing the pleasure myself of watching women walk — the more sway, the better. A flash of panties under a short skirt evoked the lustful desire to chase after its wearer, to touch her, squeeze her, feel her. I began to realize that I was constantly surrounded by sexual imagery — shirts falling just below the waist of otherwise nude women in GAP ads at the mall, manaquins sporting langerie in store windows, tempting stares from women eating ice cream in magazine ads. My ideal of feminine beauty has become increasingly thinner, bustier, tinier and girlier — the tomboys I often found attractive as a lesbian now fall distinctly out of the category.

The greatest change has perhaps been the loss of comprehension over these things. Dressing up as an exceedingly feminine figure for Halloween this year, I was absolutely shocked at the amount of masculine attention I received — while in somewhat exaggerated forms of screaming, stalking and honking, it was interesting for me to realize that under my surprise, I was lacking in any manner of disgust or anger. It was simply understood — I was aware that I would have felt quite differently prior to T, but unable to comprehend exactly why. I rationalized that I should be flattered.

~~

On Food.

I would not venture far to guess that appetite has been one of the most perceivable differences to the rest of my family, such to the extent that odd looks are to be observed should I utter the word “full.”

Though genetically my family has always had exceedingly speedy metabolisms, this became painfully apparent several months ago when I began feeling the full effects of testostone in regards to hunger. It has become obvious to me that no matter how often or of what quantity I eat, I will be famished in a matter of an hour or two. It makes little difference whether I have eaten nothing or eaten four meals by the end of the day; in either scenario, I am just as hungry.

It is also to be observed that my tolerance of many foods is not withstanding, while a newfound ability to ingest others has emerged. This holds particularly with dairy products, which while I had some minor intolerance to prior to T, I now find I am nearly unable to eat at all for the risk of allergies, stomach cramps, and in extreme cases, food poisoning. Interestingly, it is reversed with regards to most meat; while I would experience nearly the exact same effects after eating ground beef, pork or bacon pre-T, I now find something of a craving for the same. Meat, even raw, does not disgust me as it did a year ago.

~~

On Strength.

Aside from my voice, this remains the one thing that people who have seen me throughout transition continue to notice — particularly those whom I have not seen in a number of months. Invariably, one of the first comments has always been, “..And those arms!”

I do not feel that I am particularly graced in the regard of bulging muscles; though the increase in strength has the effect of making me feel as though I am injecting pure steroids. Where my mother used to tickle me to my chagrin, I can now restrain her with one arm. As a girl, I had convinced myself that asking men the favour of opening bottles or lifting heavy objects was merely a courtesy or an ego stroke; as I had been strong for a girl and was, though it required a great deal of effort, able to accomplish these things singly; however, I now realize that things which my female accomplices struggle with — regardless of whether they eventually are able — are trivially effortless for me. Lids pop off with relative ease. Moving to a new house, I encounter many scenarios of, “Careful, that’s heavy,” before picking it up and exclaiming “Really?” in surprise.

I must say I rather take this for granted; as I did absolutely nothing to obtain it. My older brother on occasion has expressed amusement over my “fake” muscles.

~~

On Expression.

Early on in transition, I happened upon a copy of The Testosterone Files, and I recall a particular passage wherein a lack of verbal expression was to be observed after T. I remember finding this very funny; but it is all the more humourous now as my own verbal communication skills have become distinctly limited.

That is not to say that I have any less vocabulary or that I have in some way forgotten how to talk; merely, it takes a great deal more effort to formulate a coherent sentence without, “and, uh… yeah… so.. um..”

To my mother’s chagrin, much of my expression has been reduced to grunts of varying pitches and tones; which I find fully sufficient to sum up most situations, yet which she is entirely unable to translate. However, I find that this is not so when communicating with other men. I recall a situation at work once wherein I was passing by a door at a moment when a coworker was opening it; and, assuming I was headed downstairs, made a vague gesture towards the vicinity of the door, accompanied by an entirely unintelligible stream of mumbled sounds, with only a slight inflection to signify that it was a question.

With a similar wave towards the rest of the building, I replied with several well-timed grunts to indicate that I was staying. “Ungh,” he replied vaguely, nodding and closing the door.

~~

On Daily Life.

One of the greatest changes in regards to my daily life has been my wardrobe. Where I once could not fathom wearing anything more revealing than a t-shirt and baggy, below-the-knee-shorts — provided they were denim — I am perfectly comfortable with muscle shirts and “fitted” jeans which my brother raises eyebrows at. It also matters much less of what material clothing is made of, with the exception of lycra; which is awful on anyone. Pre-T, I would wear none of the loose, airy fabrics that sports clothes tend to be made of, and certainly nothing of the “sweats” variety — nothing that in my opinion would accentuate curvature.

I am much more able to function. The idea of speaking is no longer traumatizing. I have acquired a rather punkish defense of the WTF-are-you-looking-at variety — this is most apparent in the form that pre-T, I held a rather helpless disposition and as such, was commonly the target from which homeless people could easily exert money. The strange people on buses seemed to be attracted to sitting next to me exclusively. Nowadays, the same people that would chatter to me throughout the ride now will have nothing to do with me. This, I admit, is a good thing.

Of course, all this is not without its disadvantages. To my surprise, I notice a very distinct separation between women and I; not even limited to sociality. There was a point somewhere in the middle of transition when I truly felt that I was capable of going either way — I was included in whatever activity men might be engaging in, but I was also accepted within the female circle due to my age and, perhaps, my own femininity. Now, I really have no place at all among women in the way I once did. I experience a lack of ability to relate to most of the conversations I used to at least have an opinion on; and in most situations, I fear that my input would merely cause offense.

I find it difficult to comprehend or predict the range of female emotion, as my own have flattened out into much less of a variety — often reduced to anger, lust, hunger, or mere contentment. I am slightly disappointed to find that the complexity of women evades me like any other man. For this, where I once believed I was doomed to have friends only of the female gender, I now find I am acutely uncomfortable in their presence.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The idea that one simple hormone is responsible for the core difference between male and female continues to boggle my mind.