Life

I haven't done this in a while, and I wasn't sure what I should come and talk about. So I asked my wife, yes I'm married to a woman, who knew, certainly not me, I asked my wife what I should come and talk about, and she said life. She's full of helpful stuff like that. So I asked her if she could narrow it down just a little, given I had already mentally excluded my award winning inorganic chemistry routine, and she said sex. So. Sex it is. 

Not sure where to start though, which is generally what I say before I start having it. My problem as a transsexual, is that I'm a terrible backseat driver, I keep saying pfft, I wouldn't have done it like that. 

Did I just out myself? I'm not very good at being stealth, I tend to assume it's obvious. If I wore a wig I would doff it like a cap.

If there is anyone here, by the way, that is thinking to themself they don't approve, or they don't believe in being transgender, or anything like that, I didn't either for most of my life. Maybe you should be worried about yourselves. 

I didn't feel like I fitted the cliché model of the trans person I'd seen in the media, so I spent six months in assessment with a gender clinic and then waited with bated breath for an assessment to officially see if I was, an assessment which basically said "Duh." 

They padded it out with more sciencey words, but that was the gist. 

My life has been full of moments of revelation about myself. I was once sitting watching a documentary about how they worked out how to fix club feet in babies, where you're born with feet on their side like that. See, like that. Not exactly like that, because that's a hand. Are you following this?

So she says, I'm a little disappointed they didn't come and interview us. I said why would they interview us? I was already mentally working out if I could afford to put her in a home. Turns out, not only was I born with a club foot, but I was like the alpha run of the methods to fix it. If you were born with a club foot, and you no longer have a club foot. If you were born with a club foot and you no longer have a club foot, you have me to thank.  People came from all over the world to look at my foot. And I don't remember any of it. 

I don't really have a joke for that bit. I asked my wife for suggestions and she suggested "I used to have a club foot, no wonder I like Spider-Man". Nope, me neither. To be fair to her, she was asleep at the time. "Spiders, spiders in the cocoa". 

Also l, as a teenager I was obsessed with sex, like most people are, but bearing in mind that I grew up before porn was so readily available, that was a difficult time for a more than slightly effeminate spotty Doctor Who obsessed pubescent. I have actually modelled my life on Doctor Who, in that I spent most of it looking like a bloke, and now I'm a lot less popular as a woman. 

Anyway. Girls were just not interested, as far as I knew, wasn't like I asked them. And I was constantly being accused of being gay. Which, in the early eighties, was not an acceptable thing to be. And despite appearances, I really wasn't. Honestly. Not a single boy I had ever seen stirred my loins. So there I was, just pleasuring myself with pictures in my mum's Cosmo, which sometimes meant in desperation it was a cartoon of a leg in the corner of a duvet advert.

Incidentally, it feels really odd miming wanking like that these days. People sometimes ask me if I have a penis, and I generally say yes, I have a whole box of them under the bed. 

This was a situation which needed to be remedied. So I located a sex shop just outside the centre of town. I wasn't quite 18, but I'd got to close enough age where I felt like I could pass for it. 16. Ever the optimist. Well, I was tall, right? That'll do. I've never been carded anywhere, ever, no matter how much I've tried to look shifty at checkouts. That's how you know you're getting old, when not being allowed to buy Lambrini feels like a compliment.

Where was I? Oh yeah, in a sex shop. So yeah, there I am, walking around and looking at covers and trying to work out which of the labels over the more obscene acts were just stuck on for the sake of modesty in a public space and which were printed on to comply with the law. It was like an extreme and expensive scratchcard. Please be a penis, please be a penis, damn, more inside. Bastards. The eighties were shit. 

Then the guy in the shop assumes I'm gay and starts to come on to me, quite aggressively.

I said "Sir. Whilst, unlike most of my contemporaries this decade, I am not homophobic, it is a mistake to judge someone's sexuality by their mannerisms or their appearance. Gaydar is not really a thing, and your association of feminity with sexuality is merely another projection of patriarchal assumptions about the world."

Actually, that's what I meant to say. What I actually found myself saying was" Yeah, alright then."

And that is the story of how I discovered I was bisexual.