Shot in the Butt Part Two

I got my second shot last night, then went out with my roommates to a ridiculous restaurant and had two lavender lemon drops and my share of a calamari basket composed of tiny octopuses each the size of a thimble. So much for masculinizing effects. I then proceeded to make a anise ginger martini for myself and watch Morrissey music videos with my roommates, and then, of course, drunkenly put on my absent roommate Gracie's floral kelly green 70's sundress and almond hair oil and lip-synched the entirety of In The Aeroplane (on vinyl.) Just so you know how cool I am.

I definitely feel like my body is different than it was two weeks ago. The aforementioned notes, of course, plus the skin on my face, though not sprouting beard, feels rougher. People are saying that my voice is slightly deeper, but I think they're humoring me. My voice is definitely cracking though, on occasion, sometimes at inopportune moments. I'm definitely passing marginally, and situationally: I'm pretty sure I got a dirty look walking by the river holding hands with a dude (for some reason this observation reminds me of Woody Allen's "I distinctly heard him say 'Jew'" bit in Annie Hall), but when I'm at somewhere like, I don't know, an antique store or a foofy bar with women, it's "How are you ladies doing?" At the big silent auction fundraiser for work last weekend, someone said of me and my mom, "I thought you were sisters!" My mom got a pretty good kick out of this. I think she's getting accustomed to the whole thing.

Minor Notes That Might Gross You Out

Anyone who has read my other blog will know that I love blogging about menstruation, and since this current bout is probably (or hopefully) my last, I feel like it needs to be mentioned in passing at least. A farewell salute to the expelling of blood and flesh from my nether regions. A fond farewell, I'm sure.

Oddly and in conjunction, I don't suppose you've read what the studies and anecdotes say about growth in that region, as it were, but I stand proudly before you to declare that it's all true. It's a bit disconcerting; I have to ride my bike slightly differently. How do you penis-bearers do it? I'm officially amazed.

My next shot is in two days, and boy do I ever need it. I'll leave you with an amusing passing story from this weekend: At a party, a drunk guy I'd never met told me he envied how clean-shaven I was. "How do you shave so close?!" he said. "That's amazing!" "I don't really..uh...grow facial hair," I replied. My new little pal Ben winked at me. I told Maia that that's really why I go to parties: I pass much better in double vision.

importland

I went to Portland this weekend. Nothing terribly gender related, except I made a point of using the Amtrak Station ladies' room for the last time. The terrible florescent lights in there are superb. And I went to a superhero themed party as Super Gay. I had really good gaydar, could turn people gay with my rainbow lasers, and also I could fly.

I both am and am not feeling the T. Nothing seems remarkably different, but just imperceptibly, slightly different. I feel more "present in my body," as the hippies say, in that I have more energy and am really into stretching all of a sudden. Plus my voice feels imaginarily deeper, and I certainly smelled like a teenage boy when I got home from PDX last night.

Wild Things.

So yesterday I got my first shot. !!!!. I went pretty fabulously, I think; it barely hurt at all, and I didn't even get slightly faint.

The immediate rush of being on T was a little intense, and I didn't quite feel normalized until this morning (a day later.) I felt like I was high on some strange drug, or, rather, an unfamiliar drug; the effects couldn't quite be classified as strange. I felt like my field of vision was a lot flatter, if that makes sense. I also just generally felt hyped up, but that's probably just my generally being hyped up about starting. I felt more productive (hence, perhaps, waiting until today to write in this blog on alleged work time.) I listened to a David Cross show and scrubbed the shower until it glistened.

But today I feel less rushy, though in a certain way almost imperceptibly different than I felt a few days ago. And even though I logically know that I won't probably see too many changes for another month or so, I have an irrational expectation that people will start calling me sir immedately and I'll wake up with a Sam Beam beard one of these mornings. And somehow now my general ambivalence about going this route has evaporated, at least temporarily. It's like jumping in a mountain lake: scary, but totally satisfying when you finally get in.

I'm just glad I'm starting now and not a few weeks ago, as I still want to be able to have a good hard feminine cry when I see "Where The Wild Things Are" tonight.

Also, an update on Summer the flirtatious and perhaps-hopeless-in-the-face-of-my-faggotiness barista: she stopped by my office and gave me some chakra crystals and her digits. I don't know what to do, but I will probably call her and see if she wants to go out and do something and lead her on like a jerk until I get too uncomfortable. Does it really count as being a jerk if you're confused about your sexual orientation? Moral quandary here, kids. Help a boy out.

Again? So soon?

Just to be brief, and I know sexuality isn't the same as gender, but for me, the two are pretty closely intertwined. I'm a man and I'm a gay man, which any reasonable person will tell you is miles away from being a straight woman.

As anyone who knows me knows, I've spent a good part of my life as, ostensibly, a dyke. It made sense: I was a girl, I had short hair, I was queer somehow, at least, and not averse to making out with girls. But I think Carey Mann hit the nail on the head when he described me as "the worst lesbian he'd ever met." I was pretty bad at it. I had one really pretty fantastic relationship, but otherwise it was a lot of stilted affection and profound awkwardness.

Anyway, today I think I realized that I really am for real gay. It's not that I don't like women, or even am not attracted to them. I am just so "bad with girls" that it's not often worth it to me to get through the neurotic ridiculousness that it would take to be in any kind of real relationship, or even casual dating situation. That, and I'm more romantically interested in, and less devastatingly neurotic around, men.

Case in point of my being bad with girls: So there's a barista at the natural food store across from my office. Let's call her Summer. She is, by all accounts, totally rad and totally hot, by my kind of standards: small, bespectacled, clothes in a anarchopunk meets mall punk style. She shaves the sides of her head and has the rest of her hair up in an elaborate Rapunzel bun on the top of her head. Even better, Summer makes possibly the best, most consistently tasty coffee in town and fucking constantly chats me up whenever I go in there. Like, seriously chats me up. Once she gave me a vegan coconut milkshake FOR FREE. When I wasn't even in the coffee section of the store. As in I was buying soap and she comes over and hands me a milkshake. She remembers my name and asks me things like "How's it going in Russell-land?"

If I were a reasonable human being I would ask her out like woah. Whenever I leave I always kind of kick myself and think, "Shit, she was totally fishing for a date. And she's clearly awesome. What the hell is wrong with me?" Just today I realized. It's because I'm a huge faggot. Maybe I'll ask if she wants to go shopping.

Testosterone Ahoy!

Once again I'm writing in this blog, because now, a year and some change after starting it, I'll be starting the magic testosterone in less than a week, and it makes sense to write about my experience with it, for the purposes of mewling self-indulgently and sharing this strange and fabulous experience with others. And to procrastinate a bit.

I'm in the mode of shopping for needles, as this stuff is injectable. I believe I want to shoot butt as opposed to thigh, as I won't have to look as directly, so maybe 1.5'' would be better, though honestly I don't have much of a butt and 1'' would probably be sufficient and less frightening. I'm thinking 23 gauge, since from what I read 25 is too thin and takes forever to squeeze and 21 is too much like stabbing yourself with a steel twizzler. We'll see how it goes. I feel faint just writing on the subject. Hopefully after taking T for a while I will at least metaphorically grow a pair.

I had a fine time at the pharmacy. The pharmacist, who probably would be played by Toby Maguire in the Hollywood film version of my life (though he didn't really look anything like Toby Maguire, and if I had any control over casting would be played by some hipster-ish sandy-haired unknown with thick smoke gray frames and the dreamiest take I've ever seen on the Safeway Pharmacy uniform of a blue dress shirt and maroon v-neck), gave me an inexplicable and incredibly kind discount on my T when I went in. My co-worker Sal suspects that he was "family," though he could have just been pure magic.

In other trans news my counselor, who is totally rad and named Jordan Shin, gave me a copy of Jan Morris' Conundrum, an account of the author's life and transition as an MtF in the 70's. It's pretty hilarious in its earnest wonder at the whole process, and in a weird way fulfills the my love of 20th Century Oxford Queer Lit (Brideshead Revisited et. al.) At the same time, it is fairly dated, especially in Morris' well-meaning upper class British condescending racism, for which there is ample opportunity, considering her career as a travel writer. Oh well.

More than anything, I'm fucking psyched. Though I'm sure my own gender identity will remain pretty queer and mixed, I'm thrilled to be intelligibly masculine.

Also, thanks to people who have sent me checks recently, both for my birthday and for trans crap specifically. Nothing like good old fashioned monetary support.