A journey to San Francisco to become no less than Me. (BLOG REBOOT: Former site of Hairy Legs.)

(*And for your information, I happen to very much like how the first word that anyone reads on this blog will be “fucking” as long as this is the latest post, and anyone who finds that offensive probably shouldn’t be mucking about in this territory anyway.  This post gets explicit.)

Hormones.  How long throughout my adolescence I thought the whole hormone stigma was a cop-out for people who can’t deal with their emotions in a healthy and rational way!

To be fair, looking back, I went through more of a boy-puberty than anything.  At about 13, I hit a sex drive amp-up that pretty much took the forefront of my mind.  It was then that I started wishing for a fuckbuddy.  I wanted a girlfriend, a boyfriend, ANY friend, that would, above all, have the drive of a sex-starved orangutan.  I didn’t care about looks as much as personality (read: a horny personality.)  And for years, because I was a repressed, shy little boy who was humiliated by being forced to wear skirts every day and socially awkward because of an overbearing religious lifestyle, I kept that to myself.  During a considerable chunk of my freshman year, I couldn’t concentrate during class because visions of humping danced through my head.

I also discovered masturbating at about that point.  It became like a drug, to the point where I’d be so wired by sexual tension throughout the day that, often, I’d come home and the first thing I could think of was running to my room and jerking off.  I remember a point in my adolescence where the average j.o. tally for the day ran around 5.  When you think about it, it’s not that hard to imagine, since not being limited to a “reload” time ofen led to multiple sessions.  Waking up with the proverbial morning wood almost every morning, it became the “best part of waking up.”  Returning home from a school, off to the bedroom with ya.  And most of the time I couldn’t fall asleep without getting it out.

It became a very comfortable and integral part of my life.  It was really the only emotional need that was overbearing, and since I could take care of it in a private and non-intrusive way, I considered myself a very rational and unemotional person.  For many years I didn’t cry about anything, ever, not even at my mother’s funeral.  I could always think things through steadily and come up with a reasonable solution at the end.  I never experienced PMS and thought that girls just used it as an excuse to be dramatic  And looking back from this end of things, I guess I had more of a testosterone mental setup than anything.

Enter sex.

This was where things started to shake apart.  I began to realize the difference between orgasm and fucking, where an orgasm was a physiological reaction that released feel-good chemicals, reduced stress and put me in a generally happy place for a little while, while fucking was an above-all important psychological need.  And not just sex.  Lying there and taking it, bottoming… well, it felt nice if I was in the mood, it gave some intimacy, which was okay, but I could get all that if I wanted it through snuggling.  The physical act of fucking something, topping it and dominating it, was an all-important stress release mechanism that was so bittersweetly close to what my body and mental map needed that it took me into a new emotional place, where screaming, laughing maniacally, and even crying were permitted.  My beautiful partner gave me all that and more when I gave him a desperate bootycall last year, and the rest, as they say, is history.  Most people don’t build relationships based on sex, but as fairly simple, male-minded creatures who each needed nothing more than sex, our relationship couldn’t be better.

But back to fucking.  It almost became humiliating how obvious my emotional need to have a functioning dick was.  I’d be there on top, humping and fucking furiously, almost completely unaware that the phantom sensation of my missing dick was, for all intents and purposes, unreal, lost in my passion and frustration, so close to climax and yet so far from the physical act of ejaculating, and right there, where the tension between how close I was and how far I was reached critical mass, I’d lose it.  I’d reel into a kaleidoscopic paroxysm of mania and lose control of my reaction, yelling, sobbing, and generally throwing a fit.  I came to the conclusion that the only way for my body to physically come was through my tear ducts, and tried to cope with the embarrassment of my sexual inadequacy and the emotional issues on top of it without falling into a complete wreck.

I wasn’t doing so hot.

My gender dysphoria, particularly in an area so important to my mental health as sex, started taking over my life and, paradoxically, the more I realized I was meant to be in a man’s body, and the closer I came to trying to right this wrong, the more emotional I got.  But it generally remained in the bedroom, up to a certain point in time.

Enter birth control.

Up to this point, everything had been naturally occurring.  My emotional roller-coaster had been due to the increasingly obvious need to be in my proper body.  But now, stupidly, I threw something else into the mix.

You see, me and my partner both love sex in all its various forms so much that, often enough, I’m willing to take it the traditional way, as long as I’m feeling confident enough in my own gender that having sex with the wrong body parts doesn’t rock my mental boat.  I generally prefer your traditional gay buttsecks if I feel like bottoming, but sometimes it’s just easier to work with what I was given.

Well, to that end, and since one of my longest and most gripping phobias is pregnancy, we decided that being responsible with our condoms was not enough and opted for birth control.

This was the worst idea I ever had.

I chose to go with Depo, which is a birth control shot that works for 4 months without having to take any pills.  It seemed like a good idea at the time.  I’m notoriously bad at remembering to take pills, and since at that point I was convinced that hormones are such a psychosomatic and easy to control thing, I was confident that it wouldn’t affect my mental state in any way.  One of the other things that I flouted was that once you take the shot, you’re STUCK with the effects for a third of a year and there’s nothing you can do about it.

I underwent one of the most horrifying transformations of my life.  I’m not sure what kind of hormonal cocktail is in those shots, but I’m convinced that it kicked my estrogen production into overdrive.  The fatsacks on my chest decided to grow half a cup size, my figure feminized as my waist slendered and my hips packed on fat like fucking camel humps, even developing stretch marks.  And the worst thing was what it did to my mind.  I took this shot five months ago and I’m just barely beginning to remember what it was like to be rational.  For the first two months, I didn’t even connect the dots and realize the shot was the cause.  I just thought I was going insane.  My sex drive dropped off the face of the earth for no adequately explored reason, which confounded and horrified me.  For the first time since I was tiny, I knew what it was like to not want sex every waking moment, and it was unbelievably uncomfortable to the way my mind worked.  (Also, though I guess it could be considered a good thing, my compulsion to masturbate dropped to only once or twice a week, though in itself it was a frightening sign of things drastically changing in me.)  When I was challenged with something, I’d become frustrated and overreactive, sometimes screaming something in response before I even realized what I was saying; a stark contrast to my previous mode of thinking any response through before letting it out of my mouth.  I was bitchy and moody, getting angry over the stupidest, most inconsequential things, and my relationships with people were falling apart.  It killed my social confidence, and while I outlashed at the slightest provocation, my initial aggression and assertion waned.

It was the worst thing I have ever been through, and when I realized it was the result of a compound in my body that would be gone in a matter of months, I praised Jesus (in spite of all the things that man has done to fuck up my life in current society).  My head has been clearing slowly but steadily, and though I still have the occasional irrational backlash, I’m definitely feeling more stable these days.

Enter the Pill.

***

Other methods.  What can I say?  I’m on medicare and it only covers the shot, the IUD (which we tried and failed to insert), and the Pill.  I have a prescription for it sitting down at the Rite-Aid pharmacy and I’m scared shitless to go pick it up (as if, just by touching that demonic little round case, I’ll be turned into a raging psychobitch again).  Of course, the major benefit is that, if I don’t like the side effects, all I have to do is stop taking it and wait for it to filter out of my system, which will be more a matter of a week than several months.  But after that horrible experience, I don’t want to be like that even for one more day.  Of course, I have to factor that into my terror of having a living alien spawn inside of me, growing and sucking off my life force, and then clawing its way through the most unwelcome part of my body into the world to guilt-trip me into figuring out what to do with it.  Fuck that, all of it.  The entire idea has been completely unsavoury to me since the first time I heard where babies come from, and I’ll have none of it.

I guess it’s off to try these stupid, evil little pills.  Last resort.  If it does what I hope it won’t, it’s back to condoms and hoping something doesn’t go terribly wrong.

Of course, all of this confirms to me that testosterone is the Good Idea of the Year.  I’ve been to one end of the spectrum and it scares the living shit out of me, and being fairly convinced that I’ve been living closer to the other end of the spectrum naturally all my life anyway, I’m just more at home there.  Besides, it’s possible that I’ve always naturally produced more testosterone than usual anyway.  My physical body has some evidence to it.  I’ve always had broad shoulders (one of my friends once said I had a “man-back”), heavy musculature and strength that surpasses any female (and a lot of guys) I’ve ever had the chance to arm-wrestle.  I’m a little hairier than your typical bio-female and I’ve always craved far more red meat and general protein than anything else. And oddly enough, when I’m really in domination macho-man-mode, my boyfriend says he thinks he can see a little bit of five-o-clock shadow, which is really strange because I thought I saw it before but decided it was too silly to bring up.  I mean, I don’t know if it’s possible to be so mentally male in a certain moment that your body puts out an extra shot of the corresponding hormone and it causes a slight physiological reaction (especially in facial hair, which would be doubly weird because it apparently goes away after a little while), so I think he and I both are probably just seeing what we want to… but it’s enough to make you wonder and dream.

Of course, my biggest fear is the whole hormone-reversal bit, in which you get too much T in one dosage and your body amps up the estrogen to try and balance it.  Or anything else along those lines.  Or even that T will make me as crazy as that Depo shot did, which I seriously doubt but still fear to an extent anyway.  Long story short, that experience with the Depo has made me very wary of fucking with my hormones ever again, but in the long run it’ll probably just make me more cautious, which could be a good thing anyway.

Fuck it, why do I always try to make the ends of these things positive?  That shot with the Depo SUCKED ASS and that’s all there is to it.

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