Trans Joy: A cute boy?
Ahead of Smutathon 2021, we’re publishing a series of Trans Joy posts. We want to flip the script on trans people being asked to perform their pain over and over again to prove that they deserve human rights. Instead, we want to celebrate trans joy and gender euphoria. We’ve teamed up with Quenby Creatives, whose Trans Joy series highlights the positive side of trans experiences to bring some balance to trans discourses.
Today’s Trans Joy post comes from the brilliant Grayson. Grayson is a polymath with ADHD (which is probably an oxymoron). A queer, trans, and disabled activist, he works to improve awareness of covered spots while pushing us all to make the work a better place through conversations, research, and equity work. Grayson can usually be found embodying the spirit of an old man while yelling at people on the internet. If he’s not doing that, he might be cooking up a storm, blushing at being called a good boy by his Sir, and writing at Chronic Sex.
A cute boy?
When I was four years old, I accidentally opened the door on my uncle urinating. While I already knew a little about the difference between ‘boys’ and ‘girls,’ my family figured I might have questions.
The only two I had were
- Why didn’t anyone tell me peeing standing up was an option?
- Why didn’t anyone else do it?
Over the next few weeks, I honed my skills of standing peeing up.
When I was twelve, my uncle left for basic training and subsequently moved to another state. He’d left a number of things behind, including his suit. As I pulled it out of the closet one day, I wondered if I would be a cute boy – more specifically,
“If I were I boy, would I fuck me?”
As I stood in my bathroom, wearing a 3-piece suit that hung off my body everywhere but my chest, I shrugged and decided that, yes, I would be a cute boy.
The next year, in eighth grade, I began to loathe my well-endowed chest. Physical education classes in the mornings led me to put on two sports bras after one too many times of hitting myself in the face while running and being bullied. I hated the compression but loved the way it felt.
Occasionally, even without PE, I would wrap ACE bandages around my chest to tamper down those tatas. I didn’t think once about anything other than seeing Christina Ricci do it in the 1995 movie Now and Then.
Seemingly on the edge of discovering my truth, I leaned heavily in the other direction wearing flirty and flowy clothes that showed off my curves. The sexualization I imposed upon myself while simultaneously writing my Extended Essay for my International Baccalaureate diploma on the juxtaposition of using sex to sell items in countries versus how they handled sex ed… well, the irony isn’t lost on me.
It wasn’t until college that I truly began to unpack the pattern laid out before me in these little snippets. One day, I told my mother that “sometimes I feel more like a dude trapped in a chick’s body.” I was told to never say such things again, an echo of the time I repeated to my grandmother what Ellen had said as she came out as gay.
Needless to say, my Mormon mother was not expecting or prepared to have a disabled, progressive, transgender, and queer sex educator for a child. Removing her from my life in 2014 was probably the first gift I had ever given to myself.
Fast forward seven years later.
My desire to pee standing up has long since passed. STPs feel awkward for me. And, honestly? I love my pussy. I love the way it allows me to fuck with ideas around gender, masculinity, and exactly who is submissive and breedable.
After two years of binders, I thankfully no longer have to bind my chest. This past July, I got top surgery – the first big gift I’d gotten for myself in seven years. Surgery was tumultuous and I almost died, something I haven’t fully unpacked yet.
As I catch my reflection in the mirror for the third time today, seeing a flat chest and facial hair, I can finally answer my question from back in 2000:
Yeah, I would definitely fuck me.
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