Month: July 2021

When I was in 6th grade I had a girlfriend, my first in fact. Her name was Sara Ferguson. She was also the first person I kissed. After our “relationship” ended, as in when summer began, I used to run into her at the town swimming pool all the time. It was a small town. The girl looked amazing to me and all my friends who had huge crushes on her. She was pretty cute. I lived in a small country hick town in Kansas. She had just moved there from the exotic and foreign land of California. She had his mystery about her that drove us geeky kids wild. Of course she had a flaw.

The girl thought she was fat. She was very thing let me tell you. I got to see her in that bathing suit and let me tell you she was not fat. I was, absolutely mom and gym teacher plus bullies all reminded me of that near constantly. So were two of my other friends who idolized this girl. None of us could believe how she could possibly believe she was overweight. 

That’s the thing with body dysmorphia and other disorders where you learn to hate yourself for your appearance. It is an unfortunate side effect of a western culture obsessed with looks and beauty, aka sex appeal. It is a society that rewards those with sex appeal and tortures those deemed to not. 

I, on the other hand, was very much overweight. I had a protruding gut, “man boobs” and a double chin. Things that other, athletic aka thin kids picked up on, and picked on quite a bit. 

I began secretly crossdressing at the age of 11. The first time, let me tell you I still remember the feeling of euphoria that day when I put on a girl panty and dress. It was the greatest day of my young life. One of the first articles of clothing I discovered was an absolute necessity was a swimming suit. I needed something to not only cover up the ugly fat body I was cursed with, but to hide the boy parts and help shape me into a slightly more feminine look. I insisted on wearing this swimming suit in the shower or bathtub. It caused me anxiety whenever I was in a situation such as camp or a school away trip where I couldn’t bring my swimming suit but was still expected to shower or bath. I couldn’t explain to my parents the reason I refused to shower so often, which led to more bullying because let’s face it I smelled and had crusty hair not going to lie. The truth is I hated looking down and seeing that penis staring me in the face. It sure had an ugly face too. If I could bring my bathing suit I was fine. I intentionally called it a bathing suit internally to remind me it was for taking baths or showers. It was something I needed to perform a basic human task because gender dysphoria is so extreme at times. I’ll say it, having one probably helped keep me alive. 

By the time I was into my teen years I was semi athletic. I had gotten into breakdancing along with some friends, male and female so it felt gender neutral enough for me to enjoy plus it gave me an excuse to listen to disco music publicly. I was also in track and field as a shotput thrower and distance runner. I wasn’t getting into great shape but at the urging of my peers, this time in a positive manner, I was trying. Something happened that pushed me back into panic mode and depression yet again. I stepped on a scale and had lost nearly 30 pounds. I was getting fit. My muscles were expanding and hardening. My gut was flattening out. So was my chest to my horror. Even though they were just “man boobs” I needed breast tissue to push back the dysphoria. I needed to have fatty tissue because it helped keep me soft and feminine. I went on a binge eating spree. I gained 60 pounds back to erase the “damage” I had done. I would stuff myself silly, gorge on junk food, drink nothing but soda and Kool Aid and kept pushing myself. I couldn’t lose weight. If I did, I risked looking too much like a guy. 

Of course now at nearly 39 years old I am transitioning and once again trying to lose some weight. This time it is for the right reasons not peer pressure. Health reasons. My doctor diagnosed me with prediabetes and high cholesterol. He said it was imperative I lose weight. Also there is the transitioning benefit. The more weight I burn from my belly the more it will redistribute to the places I want it to be, like my breasts, inner thighs and maybe my booty. 

Yesterday I was listening to one of my favorite podcasts, Frigay The 13th. It’s a show where two gay men talk about horror in real life and horror in the media. The topic that got me was body image. I broke down into tears. I have long struggled with hating my body. Either because it had too much fat on it, or when it didn’t have the right fat in the right places. My choices were harmful. Even now my constant throwing up could be a psychosomatic manifestation of that internalized hatred of my own body. I have been to doctors and even the ER and they can’t find anything physically wrong with me causing all the puking. I know it’s not bulimia because it’s not conscious and I do resist the urge to puke but I can’ help it I’ve thrown up at least a third of the meals I have consumed in the last two months. Even if it’s subconscious or not I have in the past considered puking as a method of weight loss.

Listening to those two men read stories of women who starved themselves to death broke my heart. I have friends in the spotlight. Good, intelligent women who have to maintain a certain body image to preserve their careers. It is a disgusting world we live in where women are valued by their sex appeal. As a woman who feels very unsexy most of the time I can tell you it is indeed a terrible feeling hating your own body.

Do I want to be thin and pretty? No I like being fluffy. I enjoy eating. I want to lose enough weight to stave of further damage to my body. I want to redistribute the weight I have left to the places I would prefer it to reside. I want to adjust my diet to intake foods that will help me live longer. But I don’t want to be thin. No offense to those who are, you are beautiful no matter what. That is where I want to get into my head, find my own beauty and ignore the haters calling me fat, even the voices that whisper it to me in my own head. Because I a beautiful and nobody can tell me otherwise.

Being a transgender woman means I m often battling gender dysphoria. It’s that feeling ever trans, nonbinary or genderfluid individual feels when their gender identity doesn’t quite match up with our sex assigned at birth. We often, especially those of us who are trans, go out of our way to find those little moments where we can express ourselves in the gender we identify with in order to stave off that dysphoria. It’s an altogether higher level when we can achieve gender euphoria, that is when we feel like the woman we are presenting as if we are AMAB. Today was one of those rare days I felt true euphoria in every activity.

It started with my morning routine. I woke up from my slumber wearing nothing but panties and a hot pink PRIDE t-shirt I slept in. I went to the bathroom, took a shower during which I shaved my legs, arms and underarms. Then after the shower I fixed me some breakfast. I put on a hat, my best Sunday dress and grabbed my purse as I got in my car for church.

I drove to my church, it’s known by locals as the “gay church” in Dallas. It’s a pretty great Episcopal church. After the Mass I was invited to stay and chit chat over a cup of coffee. A woman who’s name eludes me told me her story how she discovered the church and how she, as a cisgendered heterosexual felt safe among all those gay men. It was quite refreshing to be around so many supportive and affirming Christians who shared my beliefs. The revered, who is gay, and one of the church members who is also gay both approached me and offered me hugs, which I gladly accepted.

Once I left church I arrived at my house where I live with my sister Robin and her wife. I went upstairs and once I was in my bedroom I watched a Twilight movie I had been putting off. This was, of course, after I finished watching Legally Blonde, a favorite of mine. Between films I listened to an all-female vocal playlist while playing some Minecraft.

Midway through the Twilight film I grabbed some cotton balls and fingernail polish remover. I took the blue polish off I had been wearing and replaced it with a white color I wanted to finish off. After this I went downstairs and had two slices of pepperoni pizza my roommate had cooked. I then went upstairs, did my evening bathroom routine which culminated in my sitting on my bed with a hairbrush brushing out my hair.

To any cisgendered woman assigned female at birth who might take these things for granted let me first say I appreciate the struggles you go through and the feminist fight to break down gender stereotypes. While I, like many ciswomen choose to perform feminine behaviors out of a sense of personal satisfaction, I do feel some societal pressure to “pass” for female at least when I am out in public. That being said normally when I am sitting a home, alone with no audience I don’t stop being trans. I don’t perform women tasks for an audience. I do not pretend to be or mimic the behaviors of a woman. I simply engage in those activities women in western culture are conditioned to perform. I do this by choice not out of obligation. I do it for my own mental health. It feels good and that’s part of what being trans is all about, finding those moments where your gender does align with how you feel.

Not all of my love stories ended in tragedy. Some ended before they even began. Others were near misses. This is a tale of a near miss that came closer than I could admit at the time and also ended in tragedy.

I was 15 years old when I met Dominic. He was the first boy I ever had a legit crush on. Everyone that met him, male or female, had a crush on this guy. He was legit gorgeous. He was charismatic, popular, athletic, kind hearted, giving and a true gentleman. He was also African-American. That isn’t as relevant but it comes up later. He and his brother were the only two black kids in our whole school. The majority of students were Hispanic. There were a few other ethnicities including some white people such as myself. It was a great example of everyone just getting along.

Dom and I met in choir. He also lived next door to two of my friends, Israel across the street and Victor immediately next door. So growing up I spent a lot of time at his house. Every single person I knew wanted to date, bone, or be Dominic. He was that guy. He was *THE* guy. And he was a great man.

Dom was the type who would host the best parties in town. If you wanted to have fun you hung out with Dominic and Phil. The fun times followed them. Dom was the first person to get me drunk. He was the first person I lived with outside family. He was a last to be around.

I remember every moment we spent together as a moment worth living. He was really cool guy. He was into comic books. He was the first person to explain to me how the DC Universe worked. He was in love with Superman and Green Lantern, two of is favorite superheroes. Oh and he idolized late Lakers legend Kobe Bryant, whom he met and took a picture with before his passing.

Dom was such a Lakers fan he literally, NOT exaggerating, only wore Kobe jerseys. He owned every single one, from his All-Star jersey to his different Laker number. If it was a jersey Kobe wore it hung up in Dominic’s closet.

It was 2007 when he asked me to move in with him. His sister moved out suddenly. I was fighting with my parents and desperate for a place to live. He offered me the bedroom, rent free, as long as I helped keep the place clean and didn’t bitch if he was up all night with a sexual partner. How could I the man was a legend every night just about he had someone in his bedroom, on the couch, etc. He wasn’t shy about his looks, personality or his charm. He knew he had the stuff.

Even when I was suppressing my trans feelings I never hesitated to let myself explore fantasies of me and Dom hooking up. He was a beautiful man and no just physically. I could tell stories of his generosity all day but frankly there’s not enough time. Let’s just say NOBODY he met was ever in need.

Was he perfect? Fuck no. He did drugs. He drank excessively, he was not a stand up “boyfriend” to the women in his life. He treated them right but he wasn’t into long term he wanted sex. He made that known. He was basically a walking hard on, as he put it. That, well frankly, did get him in trouble with women he went after who were less than available. But I still felt admiration for him in every way I could. He took care of me when we lived together. He made my car payment for me. Let me stay there rent free. He took me with him to the supermarket to buy groceries and he insisted if I wanted it just put it in the cart and he got it. He bought me clothes. Hats, shoes, shirts, jeans, etc. Hell, he even gave me a big screen TV when he bought himself  a brand new one. This was BEFORE flatscreens were the rage, he gave me a 37 inch Sony CRT monstrosity. He even gave me permission to sell it when I was broke and needed the cash he said hey it’s our tv do what you need. He even bought me parts to upgrade my computer.

He confided in me one day he was gay, or bisexual. He said gay. He said he did women because it was his cover. He said he had been into men and told me he wanted me to know because he cared about me and he trusted me more than anyone. As he told me inside I was giddy because I thought I too could come out of the closet and the two of us could have a relationship together. But I had since moved back in with my parents. I was going to church every Sunday to purge myself of those feelings. So, in a real dick move, I said I couldn’t be his friend anymore because my parents wouldn’t approve. He didn’t give me shit. He said I understand. We remained friends until the day died.

Speaking of his death, that was torture for everyone. He had been diagnosed with Huntington’s disease around the same time his first marriage ended. He deteriorated fast and was gone within five years of his diagnosis. The day I got that phone call Dom passed I broke inside. Here was a man I truly loved, who loved me in ways I never fully recognized who told me such and I rejected him because of my own internalized homophobia directed at myself and him. I spent a good lifetime with Dom. I met him when I was 15 and I lost him when I was 29. It wasn’t enough time but I cherish ever moment we had together. Even the ones we’ll both take to our graves. I miss you Dom, rest in peace, I know you’re an Angel now.

I started this series as a way to help me unravel what love means to me. I chose purposefully to start with a story that would rip your heart out as it did mine when I lived it. That was because I needed to set the stage for this next story. Which is the worst heartache I have ever felt. The worst broken heart I have ever experienced. A pain so gut wrenching it still haunts my dreams. Carmen was a prick of the finger. This was a stab in the chest.

Her name is Rebecca. She is the one of the most beautiful women you will ever meet. We met at an early age and became best friends early on. She is the person who was always there for me, no matter what. The first person I ever sorta told I was trans, in a way. She was also my biggest, earliest supporter.

We were two pees in a pod. We liked all the same things. We were both super into Star Wars, horror movies, Nintendo, Dungeons and Dragons, punk rock, break dancing, skateboarding, etc. Everything. There were few things we disagreed on.

We used to do everything together. When we were teenagers our love really blossomed in a way I can’t believe I ever had someone so wonderful in my life. We used to spend literally all day at the mall together just goofing off. We’d go to Spencer’s and she’d look at the gags and sex toys. She’d drag me to Hot Topic to look at punk rock t-shirts and horror toys. I’d drag her to Mr. Rags the skate shop were we’d look for breakdancing or skating videos we could watch together. I loved her more than life itself. My relationship with Carmen burned short and intense. My relationship with Rebecca was a life-long true love.

The story of how I lost her tears me up to this day.

Rebecca and I had gotten an apartment together with one of her best friends in 2006. We were of course living in the “big city” of Salina, Kansas. It was the first time either of us had truly live on our own. Together the two of use worked our asses off to start Mean Green Records, failed underground music studio where I would release 5 albums over the span of 3 years. She supported my techno/hip hop music. I supported her punk rock endeavors. I even bought her an electric guitar on her 16th birthday to help her start her rock band. She shoved me into the wall so hard my back popped when I gave it to her. It was the most intense hug I had ever received in my entire life. And the most sincere I love you anyone ever uttered towards me. I knew she meant it too.

I helped her learn to play that guitar. I even helped her write songs. We wrote our first song together, a duet we did that would have been on her album if we ever finished it.

It was in Salina our relationship began to go sour. After the record studio fell a part and I lost my job things got too difficult for me, so I ran away. I left her there to fend for herself. I moved back in with my parents. She married my sisters brother-in-law 2 years later.

The next time I saw her we had made up. We remained friends. Our love was too great to ever wane truly. I remained a part of her life for several more years. Watching her kids grow. Watching her buy her first home and start a family. I remember holding those kids in my arms thinking wow she was so happy, and I was so happy for her.

But our relationship did come to an end eventually.

In 2011 my sister Candy divorced her husband. The thing is. Rebecca was still married to Candy’s exhusband and so things became complicated. During the brutal custody battle I took Candy’s side and made a vague threat nobody would take those kids away. I said I would kill anyone who tried. Since it was her mother-in-law trying to take the kids her, and her husband, interpreted it as I threatened to kill her mother. They moved across the country. She told me in her goodbye we were threw. I would never see her or her kids again. Her husband said if I contacted his wife again he would hurt me.

This killed me inside. I never loved anyone, not even Carmen, more than I had loved Rebecca. To this day I wake up in the middle of the night balling every time I have a dream with her in it. Whenever a mutual friend of ours shares a picture of her and her family smiling their little faces off it cuts me even deeper. Whenever I think about her I cry myself to dehydration.

I do not say this lightly but I would kill to be in her life again. I would die for her or her kids. I have never loved a person on this planet the way I loved her. Rebecca, is my baby sister.

I have a confession to make. I only first told my mother I loved her this year. Same with my dad. It was always difficult for me to muster the words. I knew deep down in my heart of course I loved my parents, right? But I still couldn’t say the words.

I never understood either. I knew it wasn’t because I was afraid to. I said it once to a girl I was planning to marry once upon a time. I said it once to a girl when I was in high school who broke up with me I was trying to get back. That backfired by the way. Literally, her dad, a cop, threatened me with a shot gun! 

Looking back on my life I still, to this day, have to stop and ask myself, what is love? Do I feel loved by others? Do I feel love towards others? I had to give this some serious consideration recently when I started telling the people in my life whom I think I love that yes I do love you. But it’s deeper than that.

I was raised in a bubble. I wasn’t sheltered from the world by my parents. However, I sheltered myself from the world because I was afraid. I did venture out in my teen years and make some friends but even that was a chore. I always felt like it was one of those things you said ONLY when you really meant it or when the time was right. I knew I didn’t want my mom to be dying in a hospital before she heard me say those words to her, because I did love her in my own way. I just didn’t know how to express it. 

Then there was a part of me that was embarrassed to show emotions. That was rooted in my mask. I needed to hide behind a cold hearted shell to deter anyone from accusing me of being too feminine. I grew up in the Midwest in a rather conservative area so men weren’t supposed to show emotions and if they found out I wasn’t really a man, it could have been bad. 

I look at the women I know I have said or felt love in my heart over the years. The first was a girl named Hannah. I can’t tell you at what point I went from she was a friend I cared about to a person I truly loved but I know it was after we broke up and before I moved away and lost touch. But it was one of those things where I kept asking myself did I really love her? In a way I was asking myself did I earn the right to say I loved her. I felt like I was her friend, we kinda sorta “dated” in a way for a brief moment after a long drawn out friendship culminated in a really bad decision on both our parts. I thought I loved her maybe as a friend but I never “loved” any of my other friends. So I went back to what did it mean to love someone.

Then I looked at Carmen. She was the woman I not only gave my heart to she gave me hers when she said she would marry me. Our courtship was intense but brief. We me on a hot summer day in July. I remember it like it was yesterday. She was next door watering the trees in her yard kinda looking over my way and tossing the water up at the tree and smiling. Then she would take a break, get into her car, drive around the grain elevator across the street from our house and pull back into the drive way. She would get out of the car, look my way and smile. The third time she did this I got the hint, drove my car over to hers, blocked her in at he driveway and said Hi. She smiled and said took ya long enough.

From there we parked our cars in their respective drive ways. She walked over to the property line and we chatted, in the hot summer sun for three hours nonstop. She told me her entire life story. I didn’t tell her much other than my deadname, age, where I worked and the very basics. I didn’t want to talk I wanted to listen. I wanted to soak up every word she uttered like it was coming down from heaven. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen and here she was talking to me like I mattered. Me, a lonely loser with too few friends for her own good.

We talked that three hours. She told me about her brother who died in a house fire. Her mother who went crazy and ran off. How she was raised by foster parents. How it took until she was 15 before her dad got her back in his life. She told me she was a teachers aid at the elementary school up the street. She was finishing high school. Full disclosure she was 19 at the time and I had was about to turn 21 so we were both legal age. She was on the autism spectrum but I knew that going in. She had her faculties but she was definitely quirky. Which I loved.

The next day she knocked on my door and asked if I wanted to come over and have some carrots with her. We sat on her back door steps eating carrots dipped in blue cheese dressing and talked about nothing and everything. We went for a walk down the country road by our houses. Walked back and forth at least a half dozen times before both our parents, yes we lived at home, yelled supper and that was when I realized I spent an entire day in her company. No shame. It was not time waisted. 

After a couple of weeks she came over to my house. We were talking. It had only been a couple weeks maybe three or four at most. We had spent every hour of every day we could together. I went to her school for lunch. I worked at Dominoes in th evenings so I brought her home a pizza or cheese sticks from time to time. Her step mother was encouraging us to blossom our love while my parents were hesitant but supportive enough. 

Then one day in a whirlwind of emotions after a make out session discussing out futures I just said Carmen I love you and I don’t ever want to be away from you. Would you consider marrying me? She threw her arms round my neck, pressed her lips to mine and nodded yes as we kissed on it. It was kinda nice but also scary. I was very afraid how our parents would react. Not to mention in the back of my mind still wondering if I could suppress the inner woman fighting to get out forever. 

It didn’ matter. We told our parents we were going to get married in the summer and move into an apartment that fall. Our families were split. Her step mom was al for it. Her dad not so much. Her uncles were dead set against it. My dad was indifferent. He said things like if that’s what you want or are you sure you’re ready but he didn’t push me either way. Mom was a little more assertive in her objections but she said her peace and left me be.

Things were going great until her grandmother stepped in. Remember when I said she was on the spectrum. Well her dad explained to me what that meant. She was 19 but had the mentality of a 15 year old. He said this was okay she could legally marry and he said he wouldn’t stop us and that if it was what we both wanted we could. But he told me she had an emotional state of a child. If she got worked up she could go into a fit. Worse, he said she had another issue they couldn’t cure that if it was triggered she could take a turn for the worse. 

Needless to say her grandmother fought us tooth and nail. She lived with her stepmom, dad, and one uncle in her grandmothers tiny house. It was crowded. She got in trouble and was “grounded” for staying out with me too late. We of course ignored this and kept seeing each other anyways. This culminated in a stand off between me and her two uncles. The other one live in town. We lived out in the country.

It went south when she had one of those mental breakdowns over a fight one day when her uncle came to my house and dragged her, kicking and screaming, back to hers. Her dad came out of his house and began swatting her on the bottom. She hit the ground and began throwing a temper tantrum kicking, screaming, rolling around balling like a child. She got up, got in her car and drove off. The chased her down. The next day her dad explained to me she had an episode. She was having a breakdown. She needed time away from everything to cool down. One of her uncles was a truck drive. She was going to go on the road with him for a run across the country for three weeks. It was supposed to give her time to clear her head. 

While she was gone her father gave me a choice. She said she needed help I couldn’t give her. He said he wanted to send her to a doctor to get her help. He said if I took her and married her she might not be well. In the interest of doing the right thing I agreed to break off the engagement and end our relationship. This was the first time I can honestly say I had my heart broken.

When she returned from her trip she was acting distant and weird. She wasn’t herself. She came to my house to get ready for church. We went to Sunday school in my car her and I. On the way there she broke into tears. She said her uncle molested her and she didn’t know what to do. I was disgusted. My instinct was to believe her. I went to my parents told them what she said she told them the story she told me. One of the ministers at our church was a cop. We told him. He opened and investigation and I was dragged into it. They subpoenaed our letters we wrote back and forth. I was interrogated. I was asked to divulge our sex life. I explained how we didn’t have a sex life. I was a virgin. They told me, repeatedly, you can tell us it’s okay you’re not in trouble, she was legal age to consent we just need to verify a few thing she said. I said we never had sex. We petted twice. That was it. Nothing else ever happened.

They took me aside, the officer took me aside in a private room and said be honest we need to know if you two had intercourse or oral sex ever. She insists you two did it all the time. I insisted we never did those things. She offered me oral once, I said, I refused because I was scarred. 

After that they concluded and told me she was either confused or in a mental fantasy she couldn’t get out of. She was telling them all kinds of stories that never happened and thus no charges were filed. Naturally this put a rift between our two families so we moved. The end result one day one of the lawyers came to me and explained she was going away to a mental health facility to get help. 

I asked if I could ever see her again. They said flat out no. They said she was gone and there was no indicator if she would ever come back. They said she wouldn’t recognize me if she did see me. I knew this was likely true because she had a tendency to retell the same stories over and over and get surprised when I knew how they ended. 

They explained how the intensity of our relationship and the way it ended, the trauma of the breakup and the fighting, the road trip, everything, broke her inside. They said she may have been molested but because she insisted her and I had relations I insisted we didn’t the couldn’t trust her testimony. She couldn’t even tell them her phone number or address. She was gone. Empty. I lost her and was partially responsible for her new life.

They said if I ever want to get in touch the best I could do was write to the officer who could get a message to her case worker who could ask her lawyer if she could get it. I never got any further word on her. I never learned her fate. I walked away hollowed out wondering if I even knew what love was anymore.

To this day I see her face, I hear her voice. I remember whispering in her ears “I will never forget. I will love you until the end of time.”

Now, here I am two 19 years later and I still don’t know if I can love again. I still don’t know if I can ever lose someone like that again. If she had died, I could have grieved but the not knowing her fate. Knowing she was, what happened…I will never forgive myself.

Years later I tried to look her up. As a journalist we have tools available to dig deeper than the average joe. I did some digging. I came across a Facebook thread by her long lost mother asking everyone if they knew what had happened to her daughter. When I read her cousin tell the story from his perspective my heart broke. I was the bad guy in the story. 

What is love? In my experience it’s just another painful emotion I would rather not have to live with.

The world is changing around us. How many times have you heard that line? If you are one of the millions in the LGBT community you know that in some ways we’ve made tremendous progress but in other ways we remain under constant attack. I firmly believe we need to be more vigilant then ever now.

Right now LGBT people have a lot of visibility. We have a lot of positive, and not so positive, representation in media. We’re starting to gain ground in the political spectrum. But the more visible we become, the more aggressive our attackers become in trying to strip away our freedoms.

When you look at traditional media you see we’ve made strides but we’re still far from treated fairly. Most gay men are presented as a stereotype. Lesbians are presented as a male fantasy. Trans people are ridiculed. Don’t even get me started on genderfluid or pansexual people, their hardly represented at all and when they are you wouldn’t recognize it other than as caricatures.

Let’s face it, we’re still regarded as sideshow freaks to them. Sure we’ve come a long way but we’re not quite there yet. We have a long ways to go.

For this reason I feel strongly that it is absolutely imperative than LGBT people, and our allies, support other LGBT creators as much as we possibly can. Sure this does include patronizing LGBT owned businesses but that’s a topic for another day.

Here’s why it matters. In the media business views attract advertisers, sponsors and loyal followers who will purchase your merchandise if you have it. We all know the LGBT community is small, compared to the world at large. But by the numbers there’s more people who identify as LGBT than there are people in the United States of America, world wide. In fact the estimated number of LGBT people on earth is over 700 million. That’s double the size of the US. And those are conservative estimates based on out members of the community. We all know realistically the number of us still in the closet could be much higher.

It matters because as a coherent community on the fringes of society we have a strength that gives us tremendous power. In order for a traditional newspaper to make money it has to have enough readership to lure advertisers who are willing to pay it enough to cover its costs. But an LGBT publication can survive on a smaller, more concentrated fanbase because LGBT people tend to be loyal to each other. An LGBT newspaper might give its content away for free, forfeiting the money it would get from subscribers and it might even forego advertisers altogether. It makes money to survive from its readers who donate above and beyond what a typical newspaper subscriber would. Same goes for that LGBT podcast you listen to. Sure you want them to get sponsors that will pay the bills but we also expect stand up members of the community to donate to their endeavors. We do this because we want quality LGBT content to persevere. A small podcast can survive with a very dedicated fanbase who donates directly via its patreon, purchases it’s merch and donates equipment, webhosting, etc, to help cover costs. These are ways we can help keep good LGBT content being created.

I don’t currently have an active patreon campaign and I will NEVER run advertisements on this website. I will gladly accept a sponsor who wishes to help keep me going but other than that I don’t want to take money from corporations that use their money to attack us.

Another thing to consider is audience size. Many LGBT podcasts, websites, blogs, YouTubers, etc., do depend on advertising dollars. But they can’t get that money if they don’t have viewers. Think about it this way. You only have let’s say 60 minutes a day you can allocate to consuming YouTube content. Every 3-15 minute video you consume comes out of the same time budget. If you spend half your time watching videos that benefit creators, companies and organizations that hate you, you’re effectively funding your own genocide. That’s frightening. In some ways there’s not a lot we can do about it. I mean even if you consume exclusively LGBT content chances are eventually you’ll get burned out. Not because there isn’t quality content to go around but because those creators can only do so much. But you can make more room in your day to specifically support LGBT creators. Maybe you have 25 dollars a month you can afford to donate to various patreon campaigns. Consider allocating all of that exclusively to LGBT creators. Yeah you might really like listening to that nerdy podcast about retro video games or that horror podcast that looks at real ghost stories. But that smaller queer podcast you listen to when you find the time needs your support more than those others. We know LGBT people struggle in this world. Even if we’re doing okay financially speaking we face discrimination, adversity, politicization of our existence, etc., we kinda desperately need a support network.

The best way to stick together is to tell yourself okay I am going to seek out specific LGBT podcasts that might offer a similar atmosphere to this other show but I can support a member of my community. Consider seeking out queer YouTubers who cover the same topics you enjoy. If you’re into Twitch gaming look for LGBT streams you can follow instead. We can’t change the world overnight but we don’t have to. We can exist outside the norms they created and thrive in our own world. We do this not just via crowdfunding, we do it via loyalty to our LGBT peers.

If I find a locally LGBT owned bake shop I can assure you I am buying their baked goods and nobody else’s, period. I had to give up some really great podcasts to make room for more LGBT shows. I only give money to patreon campaigns of LGBT creators.

I deleted my YouTube channel and started only watching LGBT creators under my personal account. This way Google advertisers can get a better feel for how queer I really am and can feed me ads from other LGBT businesses or those that support our community. I noticed I no longer see ads for Viagra and now see more ads about HIV prevention.

That’s the other side of it. Like it or not, Google has all of your personal data. Your viewing habits shape the ads they feed you. If you want to see ads for that lesbian bake shop that makes the cutest pride cookies you won’t if Google thinks it’s more profitable to feed you generic ads for Betty Crocker instead. It’s a broken system but if we stand united we can defeat it. We can manipulate it to our own advantage. But we have to persevere.

Then there is the human cost. That Transgender makeup YouTuber you watch occasionally might be struggling with depression. If you spend more time engaging with her channel, watching and sharing her content, leaving supportive comments, donating to her Patreon or whatever she uses, buying whatever merch she sells and yes supporting whomever does sponsor her content, you might not only be making her day, you could be saving her life! Think about that.

Here is a personal story from my own life. I was literally on the brink of suicide. I wanted to end my life. I mentioned how much I was struggling on Twitter and a number of my followers reached out via DM and not only made me feel better about myself, they gave me a purpose while giving me new friends along the way.

When I hear a LGBT Youtuber recommend a new channel I go to it right away, hit subscribe and add them to the family. I can’t afford to give to every patreon but I can give them watch hours. I can rewatch a video of theirs I enjoy over and over. I can share that video to all my friends. I can write about how fantastic it was on my blog. I can even leave comments on the video saying how it improved my life even just by being entertaining. Those things help that algorithm that decides what content to recommend next which in turn tells advertisers seeking to get some of that sweet LGBT money who to target.

I could ramble on all day but listen. If you are LGBT and you’re not seeking out LGBT content you need to be right now. You can find plenty of LGBT authors who write fantastic books. There’s podcasts, radio shows, YouTube, twitch, yes even stuff like RuPaul and Queer Eye. We have to stick together. I will try my best to create quality LGBT content and I will go out of my way to share what I find with you lovely people.

CONTENT WARNING: This is going to be an intimate dive into male-female sexuality. It will be explicit in nature.

Back when I was still burdened with functioning male genitals I used to believe women who said they could go months without sex or masturbating were lying. Being stuck in a sexually mature male body meant one thing, sex was quite frankly on my mind all the damn time. Based on conversations I have had with cishet guys and what we know from our sex-craved culture, yeah it musta been on every other guys mind too. It sucked by the way.

I was a virgin. A male virgin who grew up in a state with legalized prostitution. This meant I was surrounded by sex all the time. Nearly everyone I knew was either having sex, or watching other people do so on their computer screens. Yes, I did masturbate myself. I did it three times a day. My sex drive was insatiable. I hated it too. I was disgusted by it. Sure it felt good physically but inside I always felt bad. Not guilt for enjoying something that is absolutely perfectly natural. My guilt was enjoying “guy sex” and fantasizing about women in sexual scenarios. As someone who secretly wanted to be a woman, this offended me to my core. Yet come erection time I was right there not giving a shit.

I got started fairly early. I was 11 the first time I fingered a girl. She was, not 11 unfortunately. I chalked it up to kids being kids. It was, well as consensual kids can be. Legally speaking it was probably not but she was down so I did what she let me do. Jerking off actually came later. Not later that day later in life after I matured a little bit. Why was I compelled to do that particular deed that day? Honestly I’d rather not divulge that just yet.

I was 12 when I discovered if I rub things long enough something magical happens. And hey let’s be honest masturbating, like partnered sex, is magical. It feels fucking great. We all know that. What we don’t all know is how to control our urges or how to be respectful to others around us. That we have to learn. I learned to avoid social situations for a number of reasons. One of which was my extremely discomforting mixed feelings of sexuality. I didn’t want to be gay but I wanted to suck a dick. I wanted to be a woman but I also wanted to keep my functioning penis because it gave me pleasure to explore it. Let’s be real it feels good damn it.

So whenever I would hear a woman on TV tell a guy she could hold out for months if she wanted I either thought women don’t really enjoy sex, which made me feel sorry for them frankly, or they were lying to control men. In my mind there couldn’t be any other explanation for that. Once my sisters and other female friends confided in me their sexual pleasures I started to realize girls do like sex. Making friends with a lesbian girl taught me a lot about how much they can enjoy it, apparently more so than men allegedly. 

Now I previously stated my masturbatory explorations often included anal stimulation. I discovered I could have vastly more intense orgasms if I went to town in the back door first. Sometimes the ejaculation would just be the finale not the climax itself. Yes, I could climax without even bothering my penis. Not often but it would be done. I found this quite enjoyable to be honest. 

I started HRT one year ago last month. The first few weeks I kept on keeping on. Lying in bed, day-dream I was a girl getting nailed by some hot dude and fall asleep with wet, sticky underwear. Nothing changed. Then a few months in I started noticing my morning wood was gone. It took more stimulation and a great effort to get an erection. I could still finish but it was dry. Nothing came out. I rather enjoyed that to be honest because it was less messy. Then about 5 months ago it just stopped working altogether. I can rub but it refuses to get hard. I can kinda feel stimulation but I can’t climax that way anymore. And I couldn’t be happier!

Remember when I said I did anal stuff. Well since losing my male sex drive the first thing I learned is women were telling the truth. Sex is the furthest thing from my mind now. I am free to think about my writing or to work on a puzzle or even build a model kit and I am not doing these things to distract me from a nonexistent sex life, I am just doing things I enjoy minus the pressure to cum. 

It’s been great! I have met asexual friends online who shared similar stories of despising their male sex drive and being thankful once it was gone. I have no clue what it will be like once I get my bottom surgery and can have sex as a woman. I can tell you this, backdoor stimulation still gets the job done but like those women on TV, once every couple of months is more than enough to hold me over. I no longer need, or even want it, daily. Yes I say freed from the burden of male sexuality because ladies, it really does suck constantly trying to push sexy thoughts out of your mind 24/7. Is it okay to think about sex? Sure, as long as you do so respectfully. It’s even okay, perfectly fine in fact, to enjoy sex. As long as it is mutually consensual. 

What I learned beginning my journey to become fully the woman I always envisioned myself as is this, woman can and do enjoy sex, just in a vastly different way than men. Having experienced both I can tell you this, guys do in fact have the short end of the stick, lol. That being said. I am happier now with my sexuality than I ever have been before. And quite honestly as great as jerking off and ejaculating felt, I am glad I don’t have that burden anymore. It’s quite a relief for me. I can’t wait to see what it feels like once I have my female genitals. 

If you listened to the most recent episode of the Transposed Podcast you know my heart is broken right now. It wasn’t an easy decision to come to, but I stand by it. I knew I had to step back from the show at this time.

I want to take a minute to look back at everything I went through to get here to help those listeners wondering what happened find clarity.

I also need to get some things off my chest.

First, let’s talk about how I became involved in the podcast in the first place.

It started almost immediately after first meeting Robin.

We met through a trans social networking app. The goal for both of us was to find another transperson going through the same thing as each of us to connect with. Our first few weeks our interactions remained mostly isolated to that app. Sporadic messages back and forth getting to know the woman I would soon find myself attached to in more ways than one.

The first time we met in person was my first time visiting the city she called home.
At that time she was doing a photoshoot for me. She helped me make a Christmas card I could share with my friends and family to help them see the progress of my then new transition.

It didn’t take long before we were both comfortable enough, and frankly needing each other enough, that our conversation migrated away from the app to Facebook, then phone calls followed.

It was during one of those phone discussions the day I was in the used video game store selling all of my video game consoles and games Robin told me about her plan to do a transgender centric podcast. It was also during that conversation she invited me along for the ride. Of course in full disclosure, she asked me to help her get it off the ground, to teacher her how to do it and to be involved in those early episodes to have someone she could bounce ideas off. Somehow, in my chaotic brain, I interpreted it as she wanted us to be full partners and I ran with it. It wasn’t long before I realized I had somehow pushed myself into her project, and her personal life soon after.

She will tell the story differently. The way I remember it is she called me the day the snow fell because I was frozen, without internet and kind of in a panic. She invited me to her house to take a bath, spend the night and regroup. The plan, at the time, was for her to help me find a job then apartment in the city. Somehow, through all that ice mess that nearly crippled the entire State of Texas, it went from a night to a short term stay. Eventually it was left open to as long as it takes. I, wasn’t comfortable with that despite her constant reassurances she had adopted me into her family.

Since that time we came to agreeable living terms, and a mutually beneficial financial arrangement I was comfortable with. That included my continued involvement with the podcast. That was, with the understanding from day one my co-hosting duties were always temporary.

After a few personal clashes stemmed from opposing views regarding what was ultimately her show, we both agreed I would begin looking for a way to step back. Her concern was my mental health. She knew I was getting burned out and pushing myself into too many projects getting pulled in too many directions.

My concern was with our relationship. I enjoyed doing the show simply because it was something we did, together. The downside was it led us to one too many fights. In the interest of preserving our friendship I told her I would step down soon. I didn’t give a time frame but she was prepared. She began looking for and trying out guest hosts. She thought I would hang in there until the pre-arranged deadline for my finding a place. However, after my breakdown, and subsequent cancelling of all my projects I knew my time on the show had ran its course.

That’s the story how I got here. But why did I, a self proclaimed writer, get wrapped up in podcasts and YouTube videos in the first place?

One word: vanity.

The truth is, the hard ass real truth is I have very, very little self esteem. Being a somewhat known podcast host, on top of a respected and moderately known journalist in a small market gave me confidence plus a sense of purpose I was hesitate to give up.

A friend recently told me a story how she too used to get her life’s meaning through her work. And she took a similar career path as myself. Then she found a different form of fulfillment in her family. That’s where I am now, that’s the direction I want to go. I want my own family. Not just leeching off Robin’s family. Sure, she has grafted me into her extended family of which I am eternally grateful. But the truth is I need to have my own life apart from Robin. I will still be in her life. I will still be involved in the podcast. But I need to find my own path right now. In the coming months my plan is to get into an apartment with a good friend of mine I am wanting to springboard me into my own house down the road. Eventually, sooner rather than later, I want to get to where I can adopt a child. Maybe I do so alone or with a partner, but that day will inevitably arrive.

In the meantime all I want to do is go to work, share selfies to my Instagram and write in my blog. That’s the extent of my creative outlet at this time. I plan on getting back into streaming very soon. I will not be doing another podcast right away.

I would also like to take some time to focus on my deteriorating health while there is still chance to reverse some of the damage.

As I stated on my farewell episode, I love Robin with all my heart and I trust she will take care of her show without my interference better than ever. I also know our friendship can begin to heal now. I also meant it when I said I love all of my followers who supported the show and well as me personally. I will be back but it won’t be right away. In the meantime I will be taking care of myself. I need to focus on my health and mental health. Stay cool.