Normal

Male. Female. Born. Body. Sex. Biological…

Male. Female. Born. Body. Sex. Biological…

Male. Female. Born. Body. Sex. Biological…

Male. Female. Born. Body. Sex. Biological…

Male. Female. Born. Body. Sex. Biological…

Male. Female. Born. Body. Sex. Biological…

Male. Female. Born. Body. Sex. Biological…

Many people don’t understand the limited meaning of phenotype vs. the complex reality of genotype when invoking the “biological argument” concerning sex and gender. You know, that argument which mistakenly believes it’s trumped a whole discussion thread about who’s allowed to identify how by blurting out, “there’s two sexes, male and female, you can’t argue against biology!”. When one actually looks at the science which is biology though, the biology argument is quite clearly in favor of behavioral diversity and a spectrum of identities. In short: don’t judge a book by the cover a doctor drew of a newborn baby’s genitalia, because there is much much more to a child’s genetic story…

Instead of “Male. Female. Born. Body. Sex. Biological.” Let’s go with:

Phenotype. Genotype. Chromosomes. Gonad development. Hormones. Brain development. Behavior.

Based on biology we should respect each individual’s identity, which can be defined and redefined over the course of a lifetime by the person who owns the body in question. The number of times a day I introduce myself with inaccurate shorthanded terminology is exhausting, but it’s the only way to get a conversation started with most people:

Bisexual

Male/Female/Trans/FTM

Born/Body/Sex

I do not, these days, use the shorthand “Biological Female” or “Biological Male”. It would be inappropriate for a number of reasons even in reference to myself, and it serves as a form of erasure for intersex individuals when everything is argued based on that false dichotomy of terminology. Here are some reasons I don’t even know if I am “biologically female”:

  1. I don’t know what my chromosomes actually are, I’ve never had them tested. It’s entirely possible my chromosomal arrangement is not 46xx.
  2. I do not know for sure what the state of my gonad development was, I’ve never had them looked at in depth — though I was pregnant for a few weeks at the age of 17, so I can assume my gonads developed in a typically female fashion.
  3. I do not know what my hormone levels were prior to taking Testosterone for HTR (hormone replacement therapy). Now that my hormone levels are more in line with a typical male’s levels, and I am am physically attaining secondary male physical characteristics, I think we can safely say I am not currently 100% “biologically female”, even if I was prior to HRT.
  4. I have never had my brain scanned (excellent and very recent article, btw). Over the years there’s been mounting evidence that there are differences in cis male, cis female, and transgender brains — even prior to any HRT regimen. These differences indicate that brain sex develops separately from gonadal sex, and there are measurable reasons why some people with passing female or male external genitalia feel, think, and experience dissonance with that sex categorization.

If something can be masculinized or feminized, like the gonads are and the brain is in fetal development, doesn’t it stand that “masculine” and “feminine” are by default on a spectrum which everyone, regardless of sex, has access to and may fall developmentally within grey areas of? There is much more to our genetic realities than phenotypic categorization, which is useful only as a generalization, and in that generalized state does much harm to certain individuals.

He said “You’re attractive as a female”. I know he didn’t mean it that way. By “that way” I mean I don’t think he was dismissing my stated genderfluid identity on purpose. I think this specific man is older and doesn’t have the language practice to say something more refined, or interesting and affirmative such as, “you’re attractive” or “regardless of your sex/gender/identity I find you stunning and want to spend time with you.”

I don’t want to be attractive “as a female”, just like Clair Huxtable didn’t want to “still look good” on her 46th birthday. I want to be attractive explicitly “as me”. Why is there a need for modifiers, which only serve to trip people up? The concept that attraction is gendered rather than an individualized appreciation is ludacris.

I identify as: woman, boy, imp, and creature. Not girl. Not man. My phenotypical femaleness is an annoying base description which persists from the mouths of those people who refuse to or fail to acknowledge the transness of my whole identity. Over and over again, the shorthand persists, even though it is hurtful and incorrect for all of the reasons I’ve stated above. Repeated emphasis from bullying mouths wears one down. I don’t like being exhausted by persistently advocating for who I am because of the way people want to (read: feel comfortable) typify me — a thing they have been taught to do by a limited language full of misnomers fed by schoolyard repetitions. It’s disheartening.

I love my body. My body is the body of a genderfluid person, not the body of a biological female. That is what is normal for me.

Normal is how I feel on Testosterone. Before which I experienced a lot of anxiety and depression, and didn’t like myself as much.

Normal is people seeing me as trans, fluid, and nonbinary (not man or woman) and celebrating all of who I am instead of asking me to pick a side for their comfort.

Normal is the expression of my whole self, as I’m feeling it in the moment, visibly communicated and understood by the world around me.

Normal is my natural body, hair unshaved… (record scratches to a halt).

Here’s something interesting and newly observed by me:

My entire life I have felt uncomfortable when I’ve shaved my armpits. Fascinatingly enough, I shaved them a week ago, which is the first time I’ve shaved my body hair since starting on testosterone. Historically any time I’ve shaved my armpits, even in adolescence, I felt as though my naked armpits were ugly, naked whale looking things, and I’ve only enjoyed them when they’ve been shaded by the growth of my natural hair. I don’t feel that way this time around. I have no opinion with hair or without hair about how my armpits look. This is new.

It reminds me of my lifelong connection to my hands. My whole life, since childhood, I would look at my hands and they never seemed real to me. I felt like they were supposed to be paws and that they should look more like paws. I never really “recognized” my hands as my own when I looked at them. Shortly after starting testosterone last June I had the experience of glancing down at my hands and recognizing them as hands, and as my own hands. Normal. I can see my body as mine and as attractive and right for the first time in my life.

If HRT is causing me to be less dysphoric about my body, what exactly does “dysphoria” mean when pertaining to gender identity?

My medical records state that I have Gender Dysphoria. However, I feel better than I ever have about my body and my health since I started HRT. I feel normal. Perhaps what this indicates is that society is dysphoric in its dichotomic expectations of individual human beings, which lay outside the parameters of varietal biological reality. Maybe in a world where when I said “I identify as gender neutral/fluid/FemmeBoy” and I was treated and recognized as such, I would not “need” testosterone to feel normal in my body and less anxious. Then again, even in that world I would still wish my facial hair would grow, my clitoris was larger, and my sexual appetite more regular. Yet again, also in that world being prescribed testosterone for these reasons would probably be “on label usage” instead of an off label experiment to allay the psychologies of those with a dysphoric “mental illness”.

This is all just to say, “I am me, and you are you”, let’s respect one another for the experiences and preferences we have about our own bodies, shall we? Those preferences and experience are backed by a science we call “biology”.

Play On My Friends,
~ Creature

Please support my work on Patreon. For one time donations click here: Support the Artist 
~Thank you.

Terrain of Change

So far this week I feel like I’m winning at being the femmeboy creature I am. I attended a “Drag Brunch” on Sunday. It was fun, and inspired me to spend some time playing with makeup that day. It’s been a while, and I forget I enjoy playing in “painting your face” mediums of expression. Usually when I crack open my make-up kit I’m creating a face for a character, and I don’t think to just play on my own making pretty or interesting things happen on this Creature/Karin-shaped canvas day to day.

This week my chin hairs have been sprouting more fully and my mustache has been darkening. I was a day late taking my shot this past T cycle. It seems as though when I wait longer between shots or take a slightly lower dose than usual my hair sprouts a little more aggressively. Counter intuitive it seems, doesn’t it?

This (less surprisingly) is an inverse of what happens to my clitoris. The higher the dose of Testosterone I take the more my clit grows, gets hard throughout my cycle, seems present on my body throughout the day, and my average daily desire for sexual intercourse seems to go up.

Interestingly, on slightly lower doses of T my desire for BDSM or creative sensual connection seems more present than specifically sexual desire (as in intercourse).

I wonder if I’m the only one like this, if I’m an outlier for noticing things to this level of specificity, or if because I’m not bleeding anymore (due to taking Testosterone injections) that these reactions are actually layered over a monthly hormonal cycle I’ve lost track of? Other T takers: have you noticed similar or different effects?

Tiny locks for tiny chastity cages… One of my favorite sadistic activities is a combination of CBT and orgasm control.

I wish I was a part of a medical study. I’d like to be contributing to the better understanding of what taking Testosterone shots does to AFAB bodies.

Regardless, enjoy the photos! I have a lot of intrigues running through my mind these days. I need more people with whom I can play and express all the different parts of me that run through my imagination. There is a fear that holds me back from putting myself more fully out there on dating sites and such — the fear that I’m too masculine for those who like femmes, and too feminine for those who like masculinity, too trans for people who don’t understand non-binary gender, or not trans enough for those who have an idea of what trans looks like… Silly, I know, because at the end of the day my entire journey is about feeling more like me so that I can ultimately feel more comfortable around others in general. Desire is a rock and a hard place sandwiched between the judges in my head. At least Bound in Boston is happening this weekend, so I’ll get to blow off some steam while throwing rope with friendly strangers!

Play On My Friends,
~ Creature

Please support my work on Patreon. For one time donations click here: Support the Artist 
~Thank you.

Meandering to the Edges

Photo by Jonathan Beckley

There is something calling to me out of the corner of my vision. I’ve been trying to catch it, chasing the blur year after year. I’ve captured a handful of righteous moments, fleeting focus of the thing. Imbalance urges me on, falling forward. Never quite catching up. Trying.

There is a version of me bought into by masses. A mask represented in photographs I never signed a waiver for, the charged feeling of a theatrically lit room as I pass through. Focus and melting. Hot breath, titter of seductive dis-ease… This mask is not a picture of me and my cat at home cuddling, depressed, in a puddle catatonic, working to find the worth of my own mind; fearful I’ve lost it. I appear to the outside world as strong I’ve been told. Resilient. Powerful. Handsome. Magnetic. Honest… and I am, inside, just like you. Yet, it is those particular public moments and the stage which are remembered en masse. The moments I have saved up enough energy for the sentence I have to say, and I ignite in the colors of this mask to be remembered. I upstage myself, become mask for a moment. It is of my heart and making, it is not my everyday.

Gossip seeps into the bones, and I avoid it like the poison which kills healthy weeds. Stirred-up half wishes pinned to a board like bugs, sacrificial spell fodder for someone’s experience of envy, dissonance, disagreement, or discomfort. Standing in full icon there is no third dimension into which one can breathe or be recognized as complex, mistakes wrapped in caring, or bumbling human truth. The comments list for miles, iterating “yes/no” forever. Words cease to mean, broken by the binary language of not listening. It doesn’t change things that one stands up to circumstance and takes responsibility, or holds boundaries. It matters that a mask is damaged by someone with emotions who wants to deface, and masks are visible against the crowd.

Our modern commitment to the hunt.

With more modes of communication at our fingertips than ever before, these should be learning days. The sting of hurt can be tempered, worked, and processed until it cracks away upon cooling. We can become resilience and strong beauty, knowing more than we did yesterday. The responsibility and the privilege of our age is in learning. It could be forgiveness too, complex understanding. Today’s emotions are so easily typed into lynch mob campaigns, and these mobs find no remorse at the end of the day, as no corpse but the one imagined has been left swinging. Except a real mind and body hidden behind binary is skewered still. At home barely breathing. We do not stare at blood in the dirt and wonder about our own veins’ worth, only how to spin a moment of temper in someone else’s direction.

It feels to me as though this “civilization” is looking for a magical cure. We seem sure it’s in the pantry and involves ACV, garlic, mushrooms, and a dash of advice from the talking heads on TV. Maybe it’s in the purse of a stranger, that degree being paid back after so many years, or is it in the books on one’s bedside table, the articles building up in bookmark bars, lunch with superficially supportive friends, workaholism lashed back at in too much willful fun? Is it in the fiery stars spelling out a powerless fate, the number of likes we maintain, or the awards an artist takes? Is it in the silent agreements we fulfill: not talking shit at the table, smiling tersely when an off color joke is made, not ever asking for enough, never giving too easily? This thing we call civilization is anemic and it is anything but civil. Teeth bared, weapons pointed, the temptation to prick is unchecked in most households, schools, police departments, statehouses, or by sanctimonious holy. I can’t make sense of it for the vitriol.

I know what it is like to walk, bare feet on dirt, toes muddied and toughened by minerals in the soil. I know what it is to be scraped up and smell of pine, to hear the chatter of a hundred bugs rise and fall with the passing of clouds, the smell of wind bringing the corners of my country to me. I feel my body degrade year by year into the comfort of a couch, a regular relationship, the ease of a few dollars saved up now and again. To pull myself out of fester isn’t comfortable or easy… so I degrade. Start again.

I know what it is like to sound rolling echoes of an orgasm so loud my lover’s roommate moves away. My body is mine and I have a right to it. Your body is yours and you have rights too. Where we intersect there is passion and fear, anger, inspiration, nerves, opinion, getting by, sorrow, annoyance, compassion, love, and desperation… It is common to rewrite history every day based off the ideals we want to feel, traps we long to escape, emotions we want to pass instead of square off and face. Perspective is ever changing as we grow, yet the breeze from politicians, ad execs, and holy men would have you believe it a fundamental crime to touch your own body with love. What evolution is that?! How can we look at each other with love, reach out to touch tenderly, nourish from the richness of connection human beings opportune, if we cannot feel righteous doing pleasure onto ourselves first?

Play On My Friends,
~ Creature

Please support my work on Patreon. For one time donations click here: Support the Artist 
~Thank you.

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