Trans Joy: It’s As Real As You Think It Is
Ahead of Smutathon 2021, we’re publishing a series of Trans Joy posts. As we’re fundraising for Gendered Intelligence and Trans Lifeline this year, 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 comes from the wonderful Louise Kane. Louise Kane (louisekanewrites.com) is an erotica writer who lives by the motto: Write smut. Read smut. Live forever. She lives in Seattle, WA, by way of Chicago, IL, with her feline companion, Marge.
It’s As Real As You Think It Is
First, a confession: I didn’t know if I should write this piece. I’m at the stage where trans feels like claiming too much space even as, in the same breath, I’m asking my friends to use any and all pronouns when they refer to me because that’s what feels right.
Regardless of the imposter syndrome that seeks to claw away at certainty, I’m here. And I want to share some of the moments that have made my gender feel the most real.
Sitting in a car on a packed ferry to the San Juan islands, windows steaming from our comingled breath as you reach down and press your knuckles into me. This boy thing is new, and as you curl your hand around air where my cock should be, I lose sight of everything outside of this act—even though there’s someone in the passenger-side seat of the SUV parked a foot away. While your teeth are buried in my neck, your hand slides up and down and I can’t believe you aren’t grasping flesh. I come and turn shy, burying my face in your neck. You stroke my back. Murmur good boy.
Waking to the soft morning light streaming through your windows, promising brilliant sun if we’ll only roll out of bed and open the shades. Instead, I curl against your back, press my face into your shoulder, wrap my arms around your stomach. I don’t notice at first, but the second time your hips shift, I follow. Again and again, until it’s no longer a subtle dance and I’m breathing hard against your sleep-warmed skin, my fingers sinking into your hips to keep from drowning as I thrust against your ass. We’re inside the fantasy of inexperience and youth and being taught the ropes by someone who knows better. I get so worked up that it feels like I come. It takes me more times than it should to realize that I did—that it’s different when I’m a boy.
It’s you starting HRT and letting me come along for the ride. I kneel at your feet as you remove your day-old T patch and adhere its second-hand stickiness to my arm, my thigh, my stomach. You rub the skin where the old patch sat, cleaning away the residue and joking about the scent of rubbing alcohol becoming a trigger for my lust. I’m shy because it already is. Later that week, I rip the patch off the moment before a doctor walks through the door for a routine check-up. I don’t want to explain its presence; I assume a medical professional won’t be pleased at this particular way we play with gender. But my arm will feel bare without it—until the next patch, and the next. Each a piece of you, given to me.
Reminding me that it’s real. That it’s not play-pretend.
That I’m everything I claim to be.
Donate to Gendered Intelligence
Donate to Trans Lifeline
At time of publishing, we’ve raised: