Under the Dysphoric Moon

[Please be aware that this post may be triggering or uncomfortable, especially if you are gender dysphoric]

I am going to be talking about genitals and sex, not in great depth, but it’s deeply private to some and others not so much. This is your warning in advance, the issues in here are deeply personal and probably should be embarrassing in some way. But I can’t help what I am born with. So, here goes.


Everyone faces roadblocks, it’s a part of life. The things we want, the things we need, don’t always line up with what life brings us. I’m generally alright with the things I can accomplish with my transition. I’ve said in the past that I don’t have an issue with keeping my penis. It’s still true, mostly because the odds of me ever having the money to get GRS is zero or in the negative. I could try the route of a Gofundme kind of thing, but I’m not personality dynamic or extroverted enough to even make part of what it would cost that way. Saving isn’t a viable option with children, and I’m not blaming them at all, but it is a factor. For the most part, I can ignore my penis until I must use the bathroom or the rare occasion where sex becomes involved.

That I have a penis instead of a vagina has always been a very big issue for me. From the first time I saw a vagina, one of my father’s porn magazines, when I was a child. I knew that was how I was supposed to look, that this penis wasn’t supposed to be here. I didn’t think there was a single thing I could do about it, that it was just how it is. When I was around 6 or 8 I learned how to push my testicles into the inguinal canal, I didn’t know it was called that, I just knew I could make them go away for a time. I could tuck my penis and for a short while, I felt better about myself. But eventually you just learn to live with what you cannot control at all. I compartmentalized it and pushed it away until it was just a vague annoyance that this penis existed. I used it for relieving myself and for sex, neither was a pleasurable experience. I would get through sex, not enjoy it, if I had to use my penis. Often, I would think I could get away with just lots of foreplay and oral, but inevitably, I would be expected to penetrate someone with it. It was always a lackluster experience and I would be expected to make the noises of completion. Often, I faked orgasms so that I could stop using my penis.

Don’t get me wrong, I love sex. I love how another person feels beneath my fingers, in my mouth, against me, inside me. I don’t care about the gender at all and another person’s penis isn’t an issue for me, far from it. I revel in others bodies and I am entirely in the moment with them. But the moment my penis becomes a part of this, my enjoyment has ended. As if you put water on a lit fuse, I am done and it’s back to only acting my part. When my wife and I were trying for a child, as much as I love her and wanted another child, it was never the part I enjoyed in our love-making.

When I was in my 20’s I had read about a man that had cut off his penis and they couldn’t find it to repair it, so they fixed it as best they could. I don’t know what his motive was, but I could understand the impulse.  I contemplated cutting it off and getting rid of it. But I also read about people doing this and bleeding to death. There was still a strong pull to cut it off, despite the pain and danger. After all, living like this was akin to being dead. I was acting like I was a guy and I could never ever be me instead. I was locked behind a mask that I felt would never be removed, that I would die like this anyway. Then I heard the horror stories of “sex change” operations, that despite the cost and the pain, I could easily end up mutilated from all too often botched surgeries. This wasn’t true of course, but I didn’t know that at the time, it was what the publications were pushing to sell copies.

Compartmentalization works only for a while, then you have to face the things you pushed down, because they will come back into the light. Eventually, I know must deal with this issue, but I have no recourse, so this will still be unresolved. I am past the self-harm phase of things, that was when I was younger and in deep denial of who I was, things had built up to dangerous levels. I’m still in shock when I see it in the mornings, like seeing a raccoon eating a TV dinner while watching Netflix on your bed, that kind of shock, sans the amazement. This has all come up for me because a friend of mine is getting her GRS surgery soon. I am extremely happy for her, and yes, I am a bit jealous but only in a vague way. This just brought my unresolved issue out of its prison. I am also annoyed at needing to get the surgery at all, that I couldn’t have just been born correctly. So, each morning, I deal with the shock, and push the image away in my mind and go about my day, less enthused with the day itself. We can’t always do the things we need to do, I have to find a way to come to terms with this.


2 thoughts on “Under the Dysphoric Moon

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