Inspired by: Why do some women “get it” quicker than men? by Catreece Macleod
And: Race Is a Social Construct, So I’m a Poor Black Orphan by Jim Goad
Take a good look at my photo:
It is amazing what modern surgical techniques and behavioral conditioning can do these days.
In person I am even more convincing. I can even summon up a post-menopausal “hot flash”. I even have cellulite, body dimorphism, and guilt for my privilege. I am a very convincing WASP female. Of course, my sheer size, muscularity, bone structure, big butt, and head for STEM give away my true origins.
OK. I lied.
However, I do not today have a nice, neat description of my upbringing, where I am from, and which demographic boxes to check even if I have two X chromosomes (and no Y). Since I attended nine different school systems as a child and we moved every two to three years, I don’t have a particular “culture” to draw on albeit it would seem that the majority of my childhood cultural influences were Ashkenazi or African American. Meanwhile, I was never allowed to forget that I was an “other” even in my own biological family, while being subjected to various physical, sexual, and psychological abuses mostly from my female peers but also from family members. Over time, I found that I felt “safer” in the company of men who were not family members doing whatever it was that they were doing. I still feel that way.
Once upon a time, in my thirties, I seriously considered a sex change, from female to male. I discussed this possibility with a therapist who was friendly to the concept (not so difficult to do in Southern California). I think that we all have “the right” to capitalize on our strengths and minimize our weaknesses and since my background and conditioning is so far out of all norms I didn’t do so well in the feminine/feminist swamp. Feminists and Social Marxists insist that “woman are all the same” barring obvious class-differences (which are constantly rubbed in one’s face but we’re not supposed to notice) and other power-plays. Since I am obviously not like other women in so many obvious ways, I was ordered to keep my mouth shut and otherwise be excluded from any possibility of leadership. However, given my history and particular childhood traumas, the notion that I would submit to female social leadership was out of the question.
Here is what the feminist and feminine social order have told me about myself:
- I am too tall/large/muscular.
- I am too physically strong.
- I am too capable of shouldering risk.
- I am too mathematically and logically inclined.
- I am not afraid of large men of different races.
- I don’t care about fashion and fingernails.
- I don’t have a desire to reproduce and otherwise perpetuate the pathology of my family tree.
- I don’t think children are superior to adult men, morally, psychologically, socially, creatively, artistically, or any other way.
Furthermore, I don’t think that femininity is superior to masculinity but rather they both have value on different scales and at different times. Nowadays, however, since femininity is in abundance and masculinity is under siege by pure economic cause and effect, masculinity is today more valuable on all socioeconomic levels. This phenomenon is known as “supply and demand.”
However, at the time—in my thirties—I believed that since I had been so unsuccessful in achieving the traditional feminine ideal of matrimony in terms of The American Dream and yet I was successful as a technical writer in the computer software, hardware, and finance industries (at the time, technical writing was still largely male-dominated and even as that changed, the industries in which I worked were still largely male-dominated), I thought that I would have a better shot at “social success” as a man. After all, I had an advantage over most men in that I knew what women wanted. I was confident that I could find myself an attractive, intelligent woman who would look to me as a leader and provider and who I could satisfy sexually—even if my own sexuality would unlikely be satisfied that way.
Sacrifices might be necessary, I thought. Since my sexuality hadn’t yet led me toward happiness despite my considerable record in terms of variety and sheer quantity of partners, I thought I should attempt to place it in subordination to other forms of satisfaction as a measure of self control and character.
My therapist instructed me to start making lists of the pros and cons of being a man as a way of deciding whether I wanted to start “living as a man”, which would, professionally, have meant contacting all of my professional references in order to inform them of my new identity. After “living as a man” for a year, I would more likely be able to find a surgeon willing to assist me in the final transition.
I believe that my lists looked something like this:
- I know how to lead a woman on the dance floor.
- I am tall, strong, and intelligent.
- I have a broad-shouldered, strong presence.
- I am good with service-people, arrangements, business meetings, and systems.
- I will make an excellent Product Manager/Systems Analyst as the Technical Writing field becomes more “feminized”.
- I will be socially in-demand by hostesses as “an extra man”.
- I know how to compliment a lady.
- I will be handsome.
- I enjoy the company of men in professional settings.
- I enjoy political debates.
- I enjoy hunting and am good with firearms.
- I enjoy weightlifting and the atmosphere of a man’s gym.
- I enjoy cigar clubs.
- I prefer not to socialize in the kitchen with a whole bunch of hens more than necessary however, I do enjoy helping open jars, reaching things on the high shelf, carving meat, and opening wine and champagne bottles.
- My breasts are so small I won’t miss them even though they are sort of “perfect”.
- My feet are men’s size 8.5 regular—really easy to find shoes.
- I’ll be able to wear men’s clothes “off the rack”. That will be a nice change.
- I’m not interested in discussing spectator sports.
- I’m not good at fistfights but I’m likely to get myself in hot water given my strong opinions on everything so I had better learn— testosterone shots might help there.
- It’s going to take some doing to disguise my broad hips and big butt.
- I’ll never again be swept off my feet, grabbed by the hair, a strong arm slipped around my waist, and sexually-dominated by the smell of testosterone. Oh I am going to miss that. Can I do this? Can I let that dream go?
OK, I thought. I’m going to have to write a personal ad one last time to see if there is a man for me out there somewhere. In those days, “personal ads” were still being printed in the back pages of tabloid newspapers.
Here is how that ad went:
Statuesque blonde F, hourglass figure, 36, seeks dominant, world citizen M. You be short, tall, aubergine or chartreuse but don’t be Western religious, bigoted, or closed-minded.
In less than six months I was engaged to a handsome, retired (and disgraced) Chinese American orthopedic surgeon with a brilliant plan. He was to brainwash, gaslight, torment, expatriate, kidnap, and rob me of my life savings.
I escaped. Soon thereafter, I met the most amazing man who was, oddly enough in terms of my own experiences, genetically similar to me and at least geographically similar to one set of my grandparents. He is also 1/4 Navajo which I believe has made all the difference.
He made me—for the first time—glad and proud to be female to the point of actually learning a few “feminine skills” for the purpose of enhancing his life. In return, I try to be the best for him that I can be. We have defined our relationship for ourselves and it would appear to be an unusual dynamic without the possibility of marriage or monogamy with no social-stamp-of-approval of any kind. Whereas I am an ardent anti-feminist, his attitude toward feminism is detached indifference although he supports my exploration of all subjects that interest me. Women (including transwomen) frankly throw themselves at him and he graciously entertains them. As for me, I still haven’t figured out who I am except in relationship to him and for now that is all that I need to be.
I love him. He loves me. That’s all that matters. Nothing and nobody can change that. Not even death.