A Letter To The New Girlfriend



You don’t know me – at least not in person – but I am sure your new boyfriend (or perhaps he has already persuaded you to call him “girlfriend”?)has told you about me. Priming you for the possible eventuality that our paths might cross. I’m sure he has you well prepared, just as he did with all the others that came before you. All those well meaning young women.
You look young. Maybe fifteen, perhaps twenty years younger than him? He likes young women. In his head his “female self” is a young woman, crazy about clothes, make-up, partying and music. Thats probably why you have a great time with him – he has all the interests of some young women, women un-burdened by the life experiences accrued over 5 decades of a female existence in a world that hates women. He won’t ever be bored with “girlie talk”. He’s like no other guy you have ever met. Isn’t he?
I wonder, who’s idea was it to both dress up a-la Moulin Rouge for Halloween? To have matching dresses (of course his was slightly better made, his corset expensive and boned with strong steel rather than your cheaper version). Did you giggle when he asked you to apply his make up? Did it make you feel special? Did you feel you were in your own little bubble with him? The ritual of his preparation eating into your own time for preparation. But you didn’t mind – it was a special time, wasn’t it? How exciting and edgy it must have felt.
Do you know about the profiles he still has on “adult” sites? Sites for men seeking domination? For men seeking women to “transform” them into “sissy sluts”, or “male maids” or “shemales”? Have you discovered his obsession with “shemale” porn? His longing for and to be one? Do you ever wonder what he is thinking of when he lies there, eyes closed, passive (of course he is – he’s playing the part if “woman”!) as you masturbate him in his version of “sex”. Do you know he was on those sites just last week? Telling others that he needs a woman who will make him her living doll, a plaything to do with as she wishes? Willing to relocate *anywhere* for the right woman “of any gender”. Did he tell you that “it’s not about sex”? Has he tell you that he believes he is a transsexual? Did he tell you the touching story about wanting to wear a dress on his first day at school? Do you feel you want to help him? To be his “special” confidante? Do you want to alleviate his “pain”? To protect and nurture his “feminine” self? It seems like such a project, doesn’t it?

I wonder if after the special Halloween outing, he has said that he would love to go out as his “true self” *every* weekend. It’s exhausting, isn’t it? Particularly since it limits where you can go to places where “she” feels comfortable, and where “she” can be sure to be seen and admired. Say goodbye to going to the cinema – too dark to be seen and flirted with by creepy men, or middle aged men dressed as 18yo party girls, so whats the point? Do you ever go places where *you* want to go? And if you do, does he go with you happily, willingly? Or is it more like being with a sulky 3 year old? Easier just to let him have his way, isn’t it?

I wonder if, when you are at home with him, he casually slips into something “femme”. Do you feel awkward, particularly with your young child there, but don’t want to say anything in case he cries? After all, he is just being his “true self” – how monstrous you would be to deny him (or is it “her” in your head yet?) this right to self expression. Or perhaps you notice that he comes home and puts a bra on. Not a simple, un-wired, barely noticeable bra, but a padded, underwired, lacy construction. Perhaps enhanced by cleavage boosting inserts that push his hormone-induced “breasts” up and out. These “breasts” that will never droop or sag, unlike your own, natural breasts. He’s very proud of them, isn’t he? He likes to show them off, doesn’t he? Have you caught him hanging out the window yet, dressed in just a bra and panties (or maybe with the addition of a suspender belt
and stockings) having a smoke? He likes to do that. I found hundreds of cigarette butts under my window. Hundreds.
So it’s easier just to manage the situation by not having friends around, or people you might have to “explain” it all to. It becomes just the two of you, in your bubble.
He’s blissfully happy, isn’t he. Are you? How do you see your life a year from now, five years. ten? Still so excited about your special bubble?

I hope you have good, close friends. I hope you keep those friends. I hope you don’t, bit by bit, be consumed by his obsession. His obsession with “Zoe”.

I hope you escape before it is too late. Before you are obliterated.

But of course that wont happen, will it? No. You are special. You are amazing. You are the woman of his dreams. His soul mate. He’s never known a woman like you. He loves you. It must be true. He says so.

I Know

OUT of My Panties, Now!!!

“What? Why?”, I ask him. The time and place vary, the questions vary, his specific displays of stress, shame and discomfort vary. His answer does not.

He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know what it is that he wants. He drops his head, refusing to look me in the eyes. Mumbles, “I don’t know.”

He doesn’t know why he wants to be seen as a woman. But this is what he wants. He wants “to be” a woman.

“Why?”, I ask him.

He doesn’t know. He squirms on the other end of the couch, twisting away from me, stares out the plate glass window.

“What do you like about being seen as a woman?”, I ask.

He doesn’t know. He picks at the cuticles of his fingernails.

“What do you dislike about being a man?”, I ask. “I don’t know!”, he snaps, exhaling heavily, rolling his head back, eyes searching the…

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Houston, We Have A Problem

Satellite_450x350It has been a while since I wrote anything for this blog. I went through a period of needing to step away. I hadn’t realised when I started this that doing this would have quite the emotional impact on me that it has. I started and abandoned several posts, but needed to take that space to concentrate on other things – to avoid being consumed again.
For years my life revolved around someone else’s emotional comfort. Someone else’s want’s, wishes and desires. I became a tiny satellite in orbit around planet Gender. Unable to pull away from it’s gravity, spinning around and around, sending the occasional signal out into the universe, never really being heard. Believing that nothing or no one was hearing my distress signal. Sometimes the signal would be picked up, only to be reflected back at me with a message saying that my message was faulty, that I should return to base for adjustment.
In oh so many ways, it was this that damaged me most. That gave me nightmares. That almost literally killed me with self-neglect. I stopped taking medication I need to function daily. I ignored clear warning signs of serious physical problems. I ate, and ate, and ate, till I could hardly move my body. I self-medicated with alcohol. There are years that are just a blur of self-loathing and numbness. The feeling that the world had gone mad and I was the only sane person left. The self-doubt – maybe it’s *me*.
I have seen a few of my critics say that I have based my “TERF” “bigotry” on my experience with just one bad apple in the trans barrel. I have been accused of lying, of exaggerating. They have said that I was unlucky to find myself with an abusive man. That I shouldn’t extend my “hatred” to a community as a whole based on a bad experience with one individual. As if saying “The Emperor has no clothes” is an act of “hate”. I have been added to their ever expanding list of “TERFs” and “hate groups” (hellooooo, Dave (Dana) Lane Taylor).
To them, I say this:
You have no fucking idea of how I got here. And your opinion means less than nothing to me.
I knew I was in an abusive relationship. I felt paralysed to do anything about it. I just wanted to get my life over as quickly as possible. I actually *felt nothing* any more. No hurt, no joy. Just existence. How many other women live like that? Countless numbers I suspect. It wasn’t till I came to realise that it’s all connected that I saw a window to escape from. It’s all Patriarchy, it’s all gender. From FGM, to “domestic” abuse, to pornography, to prostitution, to men who say they are really women – it’s all connected. It’s all men getting what men want in a man-made world. It is men determining what women are, what women are for, who we can associate with, where we can draw boundaries, whether or not we are fully human. It is men who benefit from erasing our female experience, and instituting a kind of mass amnesia, enforced by threats – of suicide or physical, emotional, or social harm. It is male dominance. It is male violence.
So maybe this blog hurts the feelings of a few men who wish they were women. Quite frankly, I don’t care. It’s not for you – fancy that! I will continue to speak out. I will continue to tell others about the underbelly of transgenderism. I will continue to speak about how GENDER HURTS. `
I know this post hasn’t been a new revelation about my life with a man who thinks he is a woman (I notice that the “confessional” posts get more clicks), and I promise to post something in the next few days. I just needed this off my chest. Thanks for reading.