Saving myself for no one

The concept of sexual intimacy is not lost on you or me. However, somewhere along the line – growing up in a Christian household, trying to be a good, heterosexual boyfriend to the few girls who gave me a chance, my admittance of being of an agnostic, free-thinking perspective, and embracing my identity as a pansexual transwoman – I lost sight of what I should and should not deserve. Rather, I never had much of a chance to really explore the idea of engaging in sexual intimacy. For specific reasons, I just accepted that my time had not come.

My long-standing belief has been that one should reserve sexual intimacy for the person they have committed themselves to in a monogamous, romantic relationship. I have since realized that this line of thinking has been the last bastion of traditional, Christian-centric thought that had somehow survived through everything that had drastically shifted in my lifestyle. The idea had been deeply engrained into me, despite being “born male”, and the shame of contradicting this thinking loomed near whenever temptation arose. My parents being religious & fairly traditional led me to put my own romanticized take on it, believing that if I remained patient & virtuous, one day I would be able to entrust my body to the person I believed was “the one.”

I recently read a novel that turned me on (pun intended) to the very common practice of two characters meeting one another. After their initial meeting, both of them recognized their instinctual attraction to one another over time with each chance interaction feeding the heat between them. Eventually, one makes a move and the other is equally overcome with ferocious passion. For some reason, the timing in which I was exposed to that story – right around when I turned thirty – caused me to have an alternative perspective. Prior to turning thirty, I would have asked “who could possibly jump into bed with someone who clearly had no romantic intentions to remain faithful to them”? However, in the face of physical aging, sparse intimacy over my lifetime, and the high level of self-love I had cultivated as the woman I was born to be, what I read now appeared almost natural and sensible as my former mindset seemed almost something an insane, brainwashed prude would do.

#1: I can be shallow as fuck about looks.

#2: I am light-years from being a “prude”.

“Turning 30” has been a recurring theme in this blog as of late and sexual expression is not excluded from it. As I often do, I wondered why only I had to be the one sexually frustrated, swearing off intimacy just because “the one” hadn’t come along. I could count on one hand how many times I had believed I would marry someone. This romanticized notion of keeping myself “pure” for “my first time” when I was already perverted, unabashedly playful in my sexuality, and near legitimately considered a succubus among my close friends rapidly became outdated through rigorous self-assessment.

Being met with my cold logic quickly turned to frustration. I was three weeks into being 30 and had yet to experience unrestrained intimacy followed by sharing a bed with my partner. Like an ignorant, virgin teenager, I was still wondering how people [read: my friends] have sex and if there were any steps to follow for a successful romp. And then I was smacked in the face with the truth: This was all my own doing. I repeatedly declined the idea simply because no romantic commitment would follow when there were multiple instances where sex likely would have been welcomed.

Another hard truth washed over me: The combination of my past upbringing and now my present life as a transwoman had somehow made me believe by default I should never feel safe experiencing sexual intimacy other than with someone who had confessed their love for me. An amalgamation of anger and sadness careened through my body. There had to be a way to rewrite this automated preset equation that I had left unchecked in the midst of my gender transition.

I want to be a good woman.

Only sluts sleep around.

How do you take love out of sex? I’m so clingy. I’d fall in love with them and get hurt.

Will I ever be loved?


…why I should starve myself.

I’m desirable. Beautiful. Lovable.

If sex with someone I trust could make sense…

Experiencing intimacy with someone I feel comfortable with isn’t shameful.

Yes, I want to be loved. Sex doesn’t equal love. It never has.

I won’t be young forever. Live your life. 

Fuck who you want.

So I did.


On Harmful Childbearing and Social Constructs

renai_1491As more and more people I know announce their marriage and subsequent pregnancies, a strange discomfort settles over me each time I see the words “It’s a _____!”. I now quietly ignore said messages and shake my head in lament. Thankfully such announcements I rarely encounter on the physical plane.

But, as usual, I need to be real.

Discomfort is a nice way of saying I’m frustrated. Sorry, I’m not jealous – there’s really no need to be nice with no real names used – but as I continue to walk this path of womanhood, armed with nothing but my budding self-worth and honest feelings – these varying sensations of being alive becoming messier by the day – I find myself irritated at the very notion of a soon-to-be-parent immediately confining their unborn child in society’s neat little box. If you know me, or have read anything I’ve shared here in the last year, the reason why I feel this way should be palpable.

I have an acquaintance (we’ll call her “Candice”) who I’ve loosely kept in touch with over the years who was excited about having another child. Nothing wrong with that, as I congratulated her on her unborn child appearing to be healthy. However, Candice was beginning to stress about whether her child would be a boy or a girl because of matters regarding her current child who is, so far, of the cis male persuasion. I forget exactly how I worded it, but I casually suggested that rather than focusing on something she cannot control, let alone feel as though she has the right to lay claim to label her child’s gender identity, she should instead concern herself with her unborn child’s health.

“At the end of the day, Candice, you should be saying ‘It’s a healthy child.’ You have no idea who they are just yet, and it’s best not to assume.”

Candice responded positively to my suggestion, but I’m almost certain that she, like many other mothers & fathers, fell prey to what they have always known. Humans have become too accustomed to the social tradition of announcing what an ultrasound has determined their child to be based on their biological sex. In other words, their genitalia. I’m hardly qualified to pose a scientific case, but who said I have to? All anyone has to do is look over their own life to see how much pressure and parental expectation there is to align in every way with one’s boy or girl parts.

Guess what though? The concept of “girl parts” and “boy parts” (i.e. biological sex) is a social construct created for the sake of making sense of who’s who and what’s what. This age-old practice ultimately seeks to devalue one’s desired gender expression and, in many cases, is a poor excuse for transmisogyny. For the non-believers, I truly encourage you to read this article regarding the use of said “social construct” to denounce and devalue the very real identities of transgender people such as myself.

Despite a related, personal digression, I should hope that my frustrations are understood as an honest concern. Not just in my own right as a female, but for the rights of every unborn child. Human beings are immensely complex creatures. Whether we want to or not, we are constantly changing, relentlessly seeking, repeatedly discovering, and infinitely questioning. There is so much to experience and so much to be revealed in this unknown time and space we call life. When we really think about our lives in the grand experience of self-expression, emotions, roads traversed, etc….to be expected to be purely binary on the basis of what is or isn’t between our legs is, in fact, weird and, frankly, a regressive line of thinking in my personal opinion.

“We are so much more than our genitals!” A popular quote by transgender people all around. Yes we are, and it’s true, not just for us, but for every human on this planet. We are all so fluid in our being, but society can’t quantify fluidity. So the pressures of falling in line with the binary – to proudly proclaim “it’s a ____!” – continue to strangle the fluidity to be all that we can and should be. Cis folk continue to propagate this outdated notion of genital obligation, as those who diverge from what their parent(s) said they were supposed to be continue to be disowned, homeless, shamed, or, in the worst cases, violently taken from this world too soon.

Cisgender, transgender, queer, or otherwise – we should all be free to be who we are. And who we are should never be stripped away or forced upon us. Perhaps my frustration will one day seem silly to someone finding this space decades from now, having already educated themselves on the error of human constructs long before ever setting foot here…

Book Review: Tickle My Tush


I’ve had this book for like…6-7 months. This is like REALLY overdue. Apologies for that.

Being offered a reviewer’s copy of Dr. Sadie Allison’s Tickle My Tush was a turning point in my life. And when I say “life” I mean my life as a single, bi-gender blogger. Never in my dreams did I think I would have an opportunity to review a newly published work of such honest and intimate quality. I was very hesitant to accept the offer, given the content. However, to expand my horizons and possibly learn a thing or two, I took the risk. Seeing as how I have never reviewed a book in my life, I will do my best to paint a picture of what to expect and my personal perspective towards a work that touches and peeks in the naughtiest of places.

Let me start off by saying that Tickle My Tush is by far the boldest, most comprehensive piece of anatomical work I have ever had the awkward pleasure of picking up. I don’t claim to have read a ton of stuff, but this is certainly a book that isn’t afraid to make cheesy puns to remind you that this sort of intimacy between lovers is mean to be fun and pleasurable. For crying out loud, the quote ‘Bootylicious!’ is on the cover. You know what you’re getting into from the start, though the puckering ruby lips on said cover was a clever diversion.

The chapters begin with basic guidelines and terminology to keep in mind when engaging in anal-play. There is enough step-by-step information to leave the reader(s) engaged and curious and enough visual cues to keep the read interesting. Most of all, Dr. Allison takes great care to not skimp on the biological details that explain how sensory pleasure is felt and why everything in each particular location of the backside works the way it does. Even if you’ve never considered anal pleasuring and never will, you are sure to get the taboo lesson in Sex Ed just by reading this book.

If nothing else, “fun” and “safety” are the two most prominent themes in this book. Dr. Allison’s casual writing style focuses heavily on the idea of keeping the experience comfortable for both persons. Tasteful visual examples allow the reader to follow and understand the implications of each level of pleasure to ensure that there is sufficient communication between both parties. To put this into perspective, the real hardcore sex position stuff doesn’t come into play until the final chapters. Believe me when I say that Dr. Allison understands the nuances necessary for prepping, “warming up”, finger-play, and penetration on levels you never thought existed.

Overall, Tickle My Tush is a candid, yet highly visceral adventure that educates regarding myths & misconceptions, and succinctly guides the reader though the many layers of backdoor pleasure from start to finish. Campy puns abound with artwork that will bring back memories of your badly taught high school Health class. Dr. Sadie Allison’s expertise combined with honest, casual language makes this read nothing short of a pleasure trip for the reader(s) partaking. I honestly cannot imagine any other book as concise about the unspoken, taboo mysteries of anal pleasure than Tickle My Tush.

I give this book 4 of 5 glasses. See more legit positive reviews on Amazon.