Orgasmic

I first posted this in March 2014 on another platform. I am posting it now, here, because I realised I wanted everything important to me to be in one place.

@AngharadsWife asked me the other day if I could remember the first time I masturbated. I can’t remember why the topic came up but she was shocked because I have no recollection at all of my first wank whereas she can remember hers in detail. I can, however, remember the first time I experienced an orgasm.

There were a few months on the cusp of puberty when climbing a rope in P.E. or sliding down stairs elicited an extremely pleasant feeling, a feeling which made my whole body tingle from the roots of my hair to the tips of my fingers and toes. I first felt it climbing one of those ropes primary schools had hanging from the ceiling.

We had a back, former servants’, staircase in the house we were living in at that time and we spent a lot of time sliding down them as boys especially when I discovered that the same sensation happened if you slid down forward on your front. I spent a lot of time sliding down the stairs.

Looking back from adulthood these were obviously my first orgasmic feelings made more fascinating because they were androgynous in their nature. I was not thinking about my body, my sexuality or those of anybody eIse. I took pleasure in my body in a way that I have never been able to do since. With the benefit of adult eyes, particularly my now more liberated eyes I can see that, pre-puberty, without hormones, my body was responding in a different way to stimuli than it can now that it is flooded with testosterone.

I can still remember the disappointment when, without warning, one day the feeling went away. I didn’t have orgasms to that intensity for about 20 years and have never since had one that felt like they did. When people with vaginas describe an intense orgasm, I am transported in time to those dark, curved back stairs because they are describing that feeling exactly. But then puberty took over and my hormones kicked in.

Breasts!

I first published this in March 2014, on another platform. I am republishing it here because I want everything that is important to me to be in one place.

A couple of years later, at a party, another guest admitted to having done something quite immoral to her husband. During the awkward conversation that followed, it became clear that he was the only person around the table who had not been aware of the said act. In a moment of sheer madness, caused by the urgent need to change the subject and knowing that this could only be done with something sensational, I heard myself announcing that I had a collection of famous breasts on my phone. As the tumbleweed blew around the room in the ensuing stunned silence, I realised that this was one of those moments when the idea should have been thought through and rejected as a plan. This premise did not change as the phone was passed around the table and my choice of, usually, 34-38 B/C was decried. There was no mention of the fact that the breasts were not, on the whole, naked, one or two were but the vast majority were tethered and usually clothed. Indeed, had I not stated that they were pictures of breasts, most of those sitting in judgement would have said that I had collected a fairly sad collection of, admittedly scantily clad, women.No, the only comments related to the mundaneness of my collection.

@angharadswife was, as usual, the most surprising as she did not appear angry or upset at all. I think she was, but mostly because I had informed the whole world in a very public way rather than just telling her. She was much happier than other people with the 34-38 B/C collection. During this whole toe curlingly mortifying evening I texted my bi friend and told him what had happened. His first response was to ask who’s breasts were in my collection, his second was to slag my selection off due to size and similarity and his third was to send a photo of a pair of prosthetic silicone breasts to add to my collection! The semispherical shaped ones rather than the tear drop shape. The whole evening was so distressing that I thought nothing of the picture at all. My mistake!

Standing In Kings Cross station today, waiting in an interminable queue (the wrong queue as it transpired) I mentioned to @AngharadswIfe that I was about to tell this episode of my stumbling journey and she commented that she hoped that she would get a decent explanation of that particular event! I don’t think “decent” really describes it but with the benefit of hindsight: I was embarrassed about having blurted out my story and angry with myself that @angharadswife had to cope with it with no warning; I was upset by the reaction I had got about the breasts chosen; and oddly, I felt quite violated despite the fact that it could be said that I had been the violator. These were my breasts, the breasts I wished I had.

I no longer have a collection on my phone. I don’t need them because over the next few weeks I realised that I had been collecting them to compare. I did not need them any more. I was very upset that the breasts I loved and desired, were thought of as too small. A poor excuse but a big step in my self awareness programme.

On Fancying Men

I first blogged this in February 2014. I am reblogging it now as I want everything about me in the same place. I realise that my Tumblr account has become almost exclusively “likes” and “rebloggs.” This actually follows on from my first post on here which you can find here: https://charlotte-j.co.uk/2014/04/07/2/

Seven years ago my friend, who I have known since we were 18, announced that he was bisexual and admitted, albeit after much “gentle” quizzing, lewd innuendo and (quite a lot of) alcohol, that in the past he had fancied me!

@Angharadswife found this very funny and made many references to watching or filming any event that may happen. This did, however make me think hard about my sexuality. I realised that I was entirely comfortable with my friends change of sexual status. In fact, I was fascinated by it. There were many questions l wanted to ask: how did he know, had he slept with a man, as he walked down the street did he check out the men walking past? I was also flattered by his admission, though I don’t think I ever told him that. Many of the questions and conversations went unasked as the telling his family process exacerbated unforeseen problems which are not my story to tell. Through all of this I did, however, realise that I did not fancy or desire men at all. I am fascinated to know what having sex with a man would feel like but have no desire to try it.

A Commentary for my Daughter!

I published this article, written by my daughter, some months ago. At the time I commented that, although it saddened me that she was unable to truly support me, I was very proud of what she had written. However, in the light of recent events, I have been wondering how to respond to her, showing her all the thought and consideration that she has given to me. And I have decided to critique what she has written, hopefully paragraph by paragraph. I intend all my additions to be in this colour. This is the first part of my response.

It’s the 21st century. Every day we are making bigger leaps into inclusivity, the acceptance that all people are different and that those differences are what makes us human. We are finally beginning to learn that we are far better off embracing those differences than we are trying to deny them. We are also learning that perhaps these differences are not as rare as we once thought.

This liberation of all LGBTQI+ people really started 51 years ago in the Stonewall riots, which were mostly about the rights of Transgender people to wear what they wished and assume whichever gender identity they wished. In a strange way, the campaign against Clause 28 (which became section 28) banning all UK teachers from even mentioning homosexuality, brought everything much more out into the open. We had brave actors, musicians and journalists as well as many others coming out to the world at the front of marches. And then the internet happened. And finally, people stopped feeling alone. They found that there were others , the same as them, often as good as living next door. The excitement at finding there are others who dare to feel like you, some of whom announce it to the world, is impossible to describe. As those who are different have learned to embrace their own difference, the world has become a richer place, though this is often not recognised by those around us. Indeed some people find it challenging that others are embracing that difference in themselves.

It seems that now we are constantly able to celebrate the bravery of someone else, who we either know personally, or who we know via the media, or through friends, who has decided to come out and state to the whole world who they are. I can only imagine the fear which must accompany that decision and just the idea of ever having to come out in the part of the world I live in terrifies me. As a straight person I will never have to fully experience that feeling, nor will I have to make the decision about whether or not I tell people, and if I do tell people, who I tell and when. But there are people all over the world who struggle for years and years with their gender identity or sexual orientation without being able to fully admit who they are for fear of being on the wrong side of the law, or that their families will not accept them. By living in the UK I live in perhaps one of the most LGBTQ+ inclusive countries in the world, or so it seems from my straight point of view, and yet the idea of coming out for many is still a horrifying concept and too many people never manage to declare openly who they are.

Coming out was, is, the hardest thing I have ever done. I say is, because it is constant. I am naturally shy, possibly because I have never spoken as Me. I have found it easier to allow my style (or lack of it) to speak for me. I am flamboyant in what I wear, because this then allows other people to strike up conversation with me, something which I can never do. But this does create anxiety because I must be constantly ready to field a question or a comment.
“Why are you wearing nail varnish?”
“Why not wear nail varnish?”
“Do you always wear pink?”
“Yes!”
“Why do you have 2 earrings?”
“Because when I was 20, if you were male and wore one on the left in some areas you were gay. If you were male and wore one on the right in other areas you were gay. I was not a gay man so I wore one in each!”
“Why do you wear hoops?”
“Because I like the feel of them.”
“What’s with the clogs?”
“I like them!”
“Are you a poofter?”
“Do you want a snog?”
“Do you want a smack in the mouth?”
“Go on, give us a kiss!!!” (I only had to take a kiss once!)
I was terrified before I told my wife. I was right to be terrified too. I had put very little thought into what it would mean to her, because I still loved her. More on that later. I was terrified when I came out to you and your brother. Now I find out that I jumped the gun on that too, I shouldn’t have told you when I did. But I am glad I did. When I came out to my non-binary friend, he could not match my narrative with what he knew about me from living with me for years. How I wish we had talked during those times! When I told my friend I was scared that this would be the last time she would be my friend. I am terrified that my charlotte twitter will be linked to my other accounts. Literally only a handful of people know and I have built myself up for weeks or months before telling each one and each time it is terrifying because each person was important to me and there was a danger of losing them. You are correct when you say that we live an a much safer society than others do but …..

The suicide rate for young people in the LGBTQ+ community is sadly still on the rise, with 42% of people in a national survey of young people in the UK saying that they had sought help for anxiety and/or depression and 56% reporting they had self-harmed either recently or in the past. Perhaps worst of all, 44% of those who were part of that community said they had considered attempting suicide at some point. The idea that someone would ever feel suicidal in any situation upsets me more than it would be possible to say, but the thought that people may be considering it over whether they are part of the LGBTQ+ community I find unfathomable because I cannot understand how now, in 2019, it is possible that we could still be living in a world where people care so much about other people’s sexuality that they would be able to drive someone to end their life.

But it is very easy for me to understand. We live in a society with hidden, but actually quite strict social norms. Even in school it is important to “fit in” otherwise it can become, or at the very least feel, like a dangerous and lonely place. To an outsider, the rules for “fitting in” are unfathomable and, by and large, are gender based; there are exceptions to this, goths and emos being 2 examples, though obviously I am so far above the age range that what am I to know? All of this training, these “rights of passage,” allow us to move through into adulthood, give us signposts of what to expect when we meet somebody for the first time. It also means that if somebody moves away from those norms society feels threatened. They may not know why they feel threatened, they may not even know that they feel threatened, because the threat induces anger, or fear which in turn induces anger. It’s like if somebody stands to close when speaking to you or stares into your eyes all the time. It feels off, we feel annoyance at that person, but we don’t know why. It happened in the past. Witches were often just different or, in many cases, were intelligent women, which threatened the men who lorded over them; I suspect that sometimes they were women who lived with women (easier to call them witches than have to admit that they could live without men!). People who love other people of their own sex have, in the past, been pilloried, exiled, imprisoned, executed, indeed in about 20 countries in the world, execution is still the punishment for Gay Sex.

There are rare moments in history when this has not always been the case; ancient Greeks allowed pederasty (men having sex with boys) though under strict rules, after they were married and only for a year or two, to train the young “citizen” so that he in turn would have a marriage of convenience and train up his own young boy, men were still not allowed to love men (in fact, men often had so little to do with their wives at this time, that women invented the dildo, made of strips of leather stuffed with wool); the Roman Empire was started by the Etruscans and each Spring they celebrated the God Bacchus with a week long orgy which almost certainly include having sex with people of the same sex, though this threatened to get out of hand and when the Romans took over, they banned the celebrations for a hundred years and imprisoned or executed followers of Bacchus; eunuchs (men who have had their genitalia removed) were essentially treated as women and allowed to look after and serve Harems, where no men were allowed; there is a history of gender neutrality or transgender people in several areas of the middle east, in particular, the Indian Subcontinent.

But these times aside, reactions to behaviour perceived to be outside the norm are those of fear, anger and exclusion. If your view of yourself evinces fear of the reaction then there seems to be no point in continuing in this life of falsehood and pretense. Sometimes it can feel comforting that you control enough of your life that you can think about ending it.

But that is what anti depressants are for.

Feminist solidarity empowers everyone. The movement must be trans-inclusive

Feminist solidarity empowers everyone. The movement must be trans-inclusive https://www.theguardian.com/society/2020/mar/10/feminist-solidarity-empowers-everyone-the-movement-must-be-trans-inclusive?CMP=Share_AndroidApp_WordPress

This is a powerful and wonderful article by Zoe Williams. In it she explains why she has been wrong in not writing about trans issues for 10 years and argues that the feminist, climate and trans campaigns should be about acceptance and inclusivity.

A Letter to my Wife

I wrote this to my wife by email when she opened a letter to me, from the hospital, inviting me to Speech and Language Therapy.

I was 600 miles away at the time…..

My lovely Wife

I have been the happiest I have ever been over the last few months. I have loved Christmas this year as never before. I have felt closer to you all, my family, than I ever thought I could, in ways that I did not know were possible. For you three are my family, without whom my life would be empty, meaningless, purposeless.

I live in fear that I will lose all of this and I know that that is a very real thing. It is something that I cannot imagine. It is something that makes my skin crawl just thinking about it. It is something that I cannot speak about, nor can I remain silent. When I wake in the middle of the night I am silently screaming in terror. I look at you and try to imagine what life would be like without you and it is beyond my imagination! I turn over so that I am not looking at you or, when you put out your hand I grab on to it so that I know that you are still there. I am not just comforting you, I am comforting myself. If I could I would hold your hand every night.

I also know that at the moment you are sitting at home, angry, upset, confused. You sent me a WhatsApp a long time ago and you are waiting for a response and are scared because it has not arrived!

And when I am awake? When I am awake, I want to tear my skin off. It is something I live with every day, I wish I didn’t have to but I do. I am seen as a man in all the areas of my life. I am judged as a man, I am told that I am lucky to be a man, that I don’t know what it is like to be a middle-aged woman. I have no role in society that I can be honest in. Except on line. I have discovered that I love clothes, that I want to be able to change my look with what I wear and with the make-up I choose to wear or not wear. I want to wear looser dresses or more constricting corsets.

And therefore I self harm. I self harm every day. I spoke, the other week, and above, about wanting to claw my own skin off on a daily basis. To stop that I need to let “her” surface sometimes. But I cannot do that so I suppress all of these things and the only way I can do that is to be in pain. I tuck myself really tightly every day, all day. This has 2 outcomes. One is that I can get rid of the bulge that reminds me every day that I am male. I can get a shape in my crotch that is more feminine. I can look in the mirror! The second is that, after a few hours, it all begins to ache and I can then relax. I spend all day at work in pain. And I look forward to it. I sometimes wear a sanitary towel because then I can get it even tighter and even flatter. The Nirvana is to make the whole thing numb. The best is on a long journey because I can tuck so tightly that I can sit on it all, all the way. When I sit with my palm between my thighs, I feel nothing. You asked why I was wearing two pairs of pants the other day, it is because I miss the feeling of material riding up between my cheeks!

It is strange that, because I can now make them numb, my muscles do not behave as if I have a penis because they have not been able to make it respond for a long time. My only muscles that work now are my pelvic floor muscles. When I am making you come my whole body responds as if I am coming in that area, I feel a sense of peace flooding through me. I would happily stop there and would really like to do that far more often. I feel sated and happy and cocooned. Touching my penis makes betrayal an inevitability. I either betray you by not getting an erection, or I betray myself by getting one.

So, am I gaslighting you? No. But I return to the first paragraph. Why have I been so happy this last few months? Why have I been so terrified this last few months? Because in my head I have come to the conclusion that I will have to do some transitioning. Perhaps just hormones, I don’t know, I would like to be able to talk about that with you. I could carry on with the tucking, I have grown so used to it that I think I would miss it. I have not done anything about it, but I cannot not. I have known this for weeks and weeks which has allowed me to relax, as well as be terrified and yet so happy. I have breathed it all in because it may be the last time, the last Christmas, the last birthday, the last away trip. I have relished every last minute of it because the memories are so precious to me. The only bitter sweet part is that I could not share this with you in the same way.

I have begun a letter like this many times, but this has forced me to actually finish writing it. I have known that writing this could change everything, and probably will but I still have a hope in the back of my brain that we will come through it. A forlorn one probably but there it is.

I meant what I said at the top. Not one single thing has ever made me regret moving in with you. I have adored every single second of it and hope to adore many more hours, weeks, months and years to come. You ask sometimes what makes me cry. This letter is making me cry. Finlay hasn’t noticed and I hope it stays that way.

When you sent me that WhatsApp my whole body went cold because, shock that it was, I knew you would want to know everything and I knew I had to tell it all to you. I went from happy to cold dread in a split second. Please wait til I get home so we can talk about this face to face.

I love you.

Now I have to have the courage to send this to you. I am terrified but I have to send it. The only thing I have hated is not taking you on this journey. The only thing that terrifies me is that you will not be on the journey with me because, most of the time, all I need to do is hold your hand and I can do anything. Bollocks, really crying now. All I can ask is that you read this to the end!

LGBT Reception Review

I have come away from the LGBT Youth Scotland Reception at the Scottish Parliament feeling really upbeat.

The event was brilliantly compared by 2 MSYPs, C-Jay Quigley and Owen Brand, each of whom gave some testimony of their work. The opening performance by a group of young people highlighting the battle to repeal section 28 was atmospheric, thought provoking and PINK!

Celebrating the 20th Anniversary Repeal of Section 28

Banner on a Ban Clause 28 March April 1988

I have to say this bit did make me feel old as I spent my student days campaigning against the introduction of clause 28, a fight we lost in 1988. It was a shock hearing Thatcher’s voice squawking out of the ether proclaiming it was for the safety of the children – there are similar parallels to the current claim by some that transgender women’s rights need to be curtailed for the safety of “the girls/women.” It was brilliant hearing the stories of those who were on the frontline of the repeal in 2000.

I was a Secondary Teacher in London in the 1990s and Section 28 always hung over us. Because we knew that we had gay and Lesbian young adults in our classes, and we knew that we were failing them, in what we did not teach them, isolating them and failing society as we were creating divisions that still remain today. I was a trained Sex Education teacher, I wrote the year 9, 10 and 11 curriculum for my school. It did not mention the words Gay or Lesbian! I was radical though as the law said that we could not promote a gay or lesbian lifestyle, so I mentioned it in passing. I would mention using extra strong condoms and a water based lube for anal sex. And we discussed rimming!

Now I am a primary teacher and rimming is not mentioned. Well, not by me anyway and I would wonder what online age inappropriate videos are being watched online by the one or two boys (always boys) each year that want to discuss this or other more niche (can I say that?) practices.

Thank you to #LGBTYS for putting on a great, thought provoking event and taking me down (bad) memory lane.

LGBT Youth Scotland

I am at the Scottish Parliament to attend a reception for LGBTYS. I have no idea what to expect but I am looking forward to it. I will report back later.

While I was waiting I went to watch the Scottish Parliament sitting. Way more efficient than Westminster. The electronic voting system meant that they could debate and vote on all of the amendments rather than a cabal deciding which should be debated and which not. Way more democratic.

I am representing the NASUWT, however I am in male disguise, dressed in a suit as I came straight from work the train. It is amazing being around transgender people even if I am closeted as usual!!!

The Ether

This is the first blog in which I have managed to write more than a few posts.

I love the idea of a blog in the same way that I loved the idea of writing a diary when I was a teenager. My room was littered with notebooks with, at most, two entries and I could never work out how to enthuse myself to write more often. Because although I found it cathartic to write down my teenage angst, tell an “imaginary friend” what my thoughts, fears, loves and gripes were, I could not sustain it for more than a couple of entries. I had ideas of what I wanted to write, they would wander into my mind at impossible moments such as the middle of a Chemistry Practical or a play rehearsal, times when I could do nothing about them, and then slip noislessly away when I approached a notebook. The brain was willing but the mind was weak.

I also mourn my missing diaries in ways that I had not imagined would be the case! I would love to be able to remind myself of past events and the overthinking created by them. I can remember Helen Richards kissing me in the tent in my garden, but not my thoughts afterwards or the events leading up to it! That is a nice memory. More are not so nice! Now, I am pretty certain lots of nice things happened but my memory banks only remember the embarrassing, or worse. So I wish that now, 30 to 40 years later, I could read about the every day nice, character forming memories that my brain has deemed meaningless enough to jettison to make space for other, equally immemorable trivia.

So why, now, am I finding the diary writing habits so long locked away? It is not that I have the time! Time is the one thing I do not I am extremely short of; I am a manager, a counsellor and a parent of an elite athlete who drives for 40,000 miles per year transporting said athlete. It is not that I have a new thing in the forefront of my mind that is overpowering all of my thoughts and forcing me to put it down on (virtual) paper, I have been struggling with the transgender question for 6 years and have started this blog twice before!

It is simpler than that. I have made a friend, a friend who, I know, is reading this. A friend has trusted me with their flaws and troubles and is shouldering some of mine! It turns out that writing to my diary, or to my secret/invisible friend does not satisfy my need at all, I am not able to write into the ether. It would appear that I need to know that somebody will read what I have written, even if it is only one. I am not sure what the difference is between that and a letter. But for now, I am happy because, for whatever reason, I am writing and it is helping!

To Be or Not To Be (Me), that is the (toilet) question!

I have my next meeting at the Gender Identity Clinic on Thursday!

Yeah, gulp. How does that make me feel? Anxious, divided, undecided, excited, shaky, positive, disloyal, over joyed, frustrated, negative, …… You get the picture!

But surely this should be a good thing. This is what I have been looking forward to, working towards, dreaming about. So what are the problems?

In this day and age, if you are transgender and out of the closet in any way at all, you are constantly bombarded with information, both positive and negative. I may only be out, in the real world, to my immediate family, 2 friends, one of their families, my doctor, my psychiatrist my hairdresser and several other hairdressers up and down the country (including one in France!!), but online I have a presence as Charlotte on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram and Tumblr.

On Twitter, in particular, there is no shortage of self-opinionated people who will tell me that I am wrong, evil, going to hell, a pervert, misguided, a danger to others and much, much more. On the other hand, there are plenty of people who will support me because I only follow people who, on the whole, think like me. Does the support outweigh the hatred because it is not just online that I would get abuse if I were to show the real world my identity.

There are people around me who openly question why a “man” would want to become a woman. Because they cannot understand why a man would give up the privilege that comes with being a man, there is some suspicion that there must be an ulterior motive, such as cheating at sport or gaining access to the ladies toilets! I would be giving up strength, my position in society, friends (probably), I would be gaining things that, once gained are not easily lost, such as breasts, hips, bigotry. This is a decision that once acted on, cannot be completely reversed!

On the issue of toilets, nobody has actually explained to me what the risk is? Presumably the chance of being overheard doing a wee or, presumably worse, accidentally breaking wind on the toilet would be psychologically damaging? I am not sure. One person did suggest that the embarrassment of opening a tampon would be even worse if a “man” could overhear. These things are part of the human condition. We have inherited the Victorian prudishness that has created a society able to keep women down because we cannot bear to speak about bodily fluids, sexual organs or periods. I do not want to use the women’s toilet because I wish to eavesdrop, I wish to use the women’s toilet because I do not feel comfortable in men’s toilets because I am not a man and men’s toilets are utterly disgusting. And they stink. Many men do not like using urinals in case somebody sees their penis, so they use the cubicles. And wee all over the seat. And the floor. And very often the wall too. And often don’t flush even after making a deposit!!! So when I go in the first thing I have to do is clean up, make sure nothing goes on the floor in the puddle of yellow liquid, pull my knickers and trousers down to my upper thighs and sit down on a freshly cleaned seat. Sometimes the state of the sit down toilets are so bad that I have to use the urinals, which brings on my dysphoria. In private toilets, I have not stood to wee for 35 years.

But I digress!

I had a lovely Christmas Holiday. We did not travel anywhere, we stayed at home, shared great food with 2 of the 3 children (and my MiL but you cannot have everything!), entertained the teenage friends of the teenagers for New Year’s Eve, in short, we rested. But there was one little black cloud on my horizon. The GIC appointment. Or more accurately, how to tell my wife about the GIC appointment! I am terrified that this may be our last idyllic Christmas. I have savoured every minute of it, attempting to store it all up in my memory. And I don’t know how to tell her!

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