Let’s be careful out there…

Feh, enough angsty transgenderism for this month. On to more entertaining matters…

This is for anyone who has ever had to suffer through any kind of industrial training. This is not for the squeamish, but it’s friggin hilarious. You have been warned:

Enjoy.

Sting like a bee

I went for another electrolysis appointment this weekend. Mind you, I would have preferred to be in Atlanta, but life gets in the way. I sprung for a four hour session this time–actually a two hour session with two electrologists. This one was a bit more…intense…than the last one, perhaps because the accumulation of pain was longer, leading my electrologist to theorize that I was approaching my pain threshold. By the end of the session, I had a serious endorphin high. It took me a few minutes to be confident in my legs so I could get out of the chair. This session was a bit harder on my skin, too. I got the swelling and redness that I expected from the first session this time. During the next session, I’m going to request that they go over the area that they’ve already cleared. There are still a number of white hairs there that I’d like gone. They’re practically invisible, but I can feel them. They aren’t the fine “vellous” hairs,” either. They’re stiff, coarse terminal hairs. I figure an hour on this area ought to do it, before embarking back up my neck. They haven’t even touched my face yet, but that was by my design, rather than theirs. They would prefer to be working on my face, because working on the neck is slower and more difficult. They can’t apply pressure to the areas they are working for fear of compressing the carotid arterey, or putting me in a kind of sleeper hold. And there’s no solid mass behind the skin, which makes things more difficult. At this point, I have seven hours down. I have no idea of how many more it will take. Closer to two hundred than one hundred, I suspect, but I have no idea, really. We shall see.

As a side note, I had removed my earrings the day before in order to clean them and neglected to put them back in my ears. This proved to be a fortuitous accident, because Shannon and Michelle were constantly using my ears as a spot to rest their hands. It would have been uncomfortable if I had been wearing the earrings. A word to the wise to anyone planning on electrolysis.

I had a conversation with Felicia, my long-suffering girlfriend, about all of this on Sunday. We haven’t really discussed this procedure much–I embarked on it more or less by fiat–and I was curious what she thought of it. In my mind, I’ve gone well beyond just “crossdressing” with this. Whether or not this is the start of a full-blown transition remains to be seen, but I suspect it might be. She hadn’t really thought of it that way. She views it as purely cosmetic, like a body waxing. Her main concern is the financial impact. She doesn’t really view electrolysis as a medical alteration to my body (even though it is), but she does see the money I’m spending and wonders whether it might not be better spent on other things, like our outstanding consumer debt. In truth, I don’t have a lot of consumer debt, myself. I have a mortgage, but thats a different kind of animal. Felicia does have a lot of consumer debt. A manageable amount, but enough so that it’s worrysome. I try to help her with it when I can, and she sees the money I spend on electrolysis as an impediment to that. I can’t say that she’s wrong.

Beyond the financial impact, though, the thought that I might transition is less frightening to her now than it was when we originally moved in together. Part of this is a long and honest relationship–a stable relationship. Part of this stems from the fact that when we met, she couldn’t conceive of herself in a same-sex relationship. She has since had a same-sex relationship. This has made her more comfortable with the idea that I might become a woman.

Although I haven’t really discussed it with her, I do actually have a plan for transition, though I’m not sure that I’m acting on it specifically. The first step was to stablize my finances. Buying the house was the key to that, and it’s the cornerstone of the plan. Electrolysis was the second step on the spreadsheet, though technically, I began five years ago when I had my first bout with the laser. The next step, though, moves me beyond the veil. I wonder if I have the will to take it, but I wondered about the steps I’ve already taken, too.

As I’ve said, we shall see.

Driven to Distraction

I haven’t accomplished anything this week. Nothing at all. I’m distracted at work. I’m antsy at home. And grouchy. The reason? It’s envy, pure and simple.

Every year for the past six, I’ve attended the Southern Comfort Conference, held in Atlanta every September. This year–and maybe next–I’m skipping it. The reasons are many and varied, but most of them come down to priorities. I could spend the money I’d spend on SCC on the trip, or on the car we desperately needed this summer after Felicia’s went kaput or on the house or on some of my consumer debt or any number of other things that need to be attended. It’s all part of being a responsible adult. But that doesn’t allay the knowledge that for a whole week, I could be living, breathing, and partying in my preferred skin. I could be meeting face to face and spending time with dozens of people I know online.  I could be networking.  I could be having fun. I could be defusing the built-up frustration of living as a man every other day of my life.

Some people, faced with the end of the conference, have emotional problems as they leave. I’ve never been one of those–I’m usually ready to give my feet a rest from a week in high heels–but this year, I’m having some problems with the absence of the conference. I regret not going this year–I regret it a lot–and I envy everyone who is there right now. I’ll get over it, I’m sure. But I’m not going to get anything done this week.

Yarrrr! Shiver Me Timbers…

src=\”http://dunyazad.files.wordpress.com/2009/05/1158678318-sc-7141.jpg\”

Avast there, maties! \’Tis once again International Talk Like A Pirate Day. So all hands aloft! Run out the guns and prepaarrrr for boarding!

Yarrrr….

(incidentally, should any enterprising sugar daddy or pyrate captain want to see your\’s truly in the outfit at the head of this posting, it can be purchased or stolen (in true pirate fashion) from Trashy Lingerie. I\’m just saying. ).

Yarrrr! Shiver Me Timbers…

src=\”http://dunyazad.files.wordpress.com/2009/05/1158678318-sc-714.jpg\”

Avast there, maties! \’Tis once again International Talk Like A Pirate Day. So all hands aloft! Run out the guns and prepaarrrr for boarding!

Yarrrr….

(incidentally, should any enterprising sugar daddy or pyrate captain want to see your\’s truly in the outfit at the head of this posting, it can be purchased or stolen (in true pirate fashion) from Trashy Lingerie. I\’m just saying. ).

Hey…Sexy!

Here’s another picture from this weekend:

I don’t like this picture nearly as much as the other–it lacks the “drama,” for want of a better word–though it does show off the design of the hobble skirt better. It was fun to dress up in an overtly sexy manner for the first time since, really, I moved to the new house (I was in the house by the time I went to SCC last year, but only just). I dressed up for gay pride this year, too, but it was “practical” drag for a 100 degree day. Part of my reticence to dress up here has been a lack of mirrors. The previous owners stripped every friggin’ mirror from the walls, but I’ve since replaced them. I don’t currently have a full length mirror and I really need one. And lord knows, the decor that I’m trying to build in my house is partly informed by my desire to take pictures of myself here. Anyone who tells you that crossdressers aren’t narcissists at their very core doesn’t know what they are talking about.

Anyway, I felt sexy. I felt powerful. I LOVE that sensations, and it’s one of the reasons that I haven’t been dressing up for the last year: I haven’t felt sexy. I’ve let my body hair go, I’ve put on a little weight, I’ve been feeling those periodic feelings of self-loathing that every Tgirl feels at some point in their life. If I’m not going to feel sexy when I dress up–if I’m not going to deceive myself into believing that every man who looks upon me will instantly get a raging  and noticable hard-on…well, what’s the point? Don’t discount the idea that feeling sexy isn’t a pre-requisite for feeling good about one’s gender identity. It is. I know a transexual locally who is so dissociated from her body and body image that she finds it difficult to even bathe herself–hence, she’s lonely, and isn’t likely to fix it any time soon; it’s a self-feeding cycle. I’m not screwed up along those lines–I actually do like my body, though I’d like to make some “improvements.” But I do like feeling sexy. I got into that headspace this weekend, in part because I’m taking what I think of as concrete steps right now to improve what I don’t like about myself. I’m consciously watching my diet. I lost some of the weight I put on after I came back from SCC last year. I started electrolyis. I’ve been shopping again. If you want to call them baby steps towards transition, I suppose that’s right, but I don’t necessarily think like that.

And then it all came crashing down. I woke up on Monday with a scratchy throat. By Monday night, it was a full-blown cold. And so here I sit, typing on the computer and feeling very UN-sexy. No one looks or feels very sexy when they are dressed in a big terrycloth bathrobe and old-man slippers, unshaven, and with a head full of mucus. With every sneeze, I check to make sure I haven’t launched my eyeballs across the room. I can only hope this is a temporary setback, because I had forgotten how much I LOVE that feeling of being sexy. It beats the living hell out of the feeling that your head might explode at any moment.

Alas…

Lube Me Up, Baby

Today is a somber day, not just because of the tragedy that took place five years ago, but because of the continuing tragedy of our society’s progressive derangement. As if the world hadn’t been turned completely upside down by the hysteria over terrorism, we have this observation by writer Neil Gaiman:

I have just read the TSA list of permitted and prohibited items in full.

Toothpaste is out.
Hairgel is out.
“Topical or rash creams” are out.
Lip gels are out.
Shampoos and conditioners are out.
Personal lubricants are… just fine.

I blink. I find I’m suddenly unsure whether or not that means exactly what I’m certain it does mean, so I google “personal lubricants” and yes, it’s talking about exactly what I think it’s talking about. Up to 4 oz. of personal lubricants are just fine…. practically the only liquid you can take with you onto a plane.

um….

I think I must be losing it.

For a moment there, I really planned to drive up to a drug store, buy a 4 oz container of personal lubricant, empty it out, wash it and refill it with toothpaste.

---

Fetish Fatale

src=\”http://dunyazad.files.wordpress.com/2009/05/1157853506-hr-6861.jpg\”

I recently read a blog that postulated that photographs were the Tgirl currency on the internet. I don\’t know about all of that, but if it\’s true, I\’ve been slacking.

I got all dolled up for the first time in what seems like ages tonight. I had intended to go to the drag show at SoCo, but then I remembered that today was a home football game and Mizzou won, so there will be drunk college students everywhere AND sobriety checkpoints. I think I\’ll skip it. I did take some pictures, though, some of which are even decent:

The hobble skirt in this picture is of my own design. I had it made by a local seamstress I know through the kink community. I like the black and white version of this picture posted above, but the color version isn\’t bad. I need a lighting rig before I take any more pictures in my living room, though. What this photo REALLY needs is a submissive on a leash kneeling beside me. I\’ll have to work on that. Heh.

Enjoy.

Fetish Fatale

src=\”http://dunyazad.files.wordpress.com/2009/05/1157853506-hr-686.jpg\”

I recently read a blog that postulated that photographs were the Tgirl currency on the internet. I don\’t know about all of that, but if it\’s true, I\’ve been slacking.

I got all dolled up for the first time in what seems like ages tonight. I had intended to go to the drag show at SoCo, but then I remembered that today was a home football game and Mizzou won, so there will be drunk college students everywhere AND sobriety checkpoints. I think I\’ll skip it. I did take some pictures, though, some of which are even decent:

The hobble skirt in this picture is of my own design. I had it made by a local seamstress I know through the kink community. I like the black and white version of this picture posted above, but the color version isn\’t bad. I need a lighting rig before I take any more pictures in my living room, though. What this photo REALLY needs is a submissive on a leash kneeling beside me. I\’ll have to work on that. Heh.

Enjoy.

Mnemonic Devices

You may remember this from school:

“Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.”

This is, of course, the first stanza of a poem by Emily Dickinson. I can recite this by heart. In fact, I’ve gone for days with this stanza in my head. Why? Because some nefarious teacher planted the idea in my head that most Dickinson can be sung to the tune of The Yellow Rose of Texas.  This is not an isolated incident. I’ll wager you anything you like that if you took a survey of the people in my age bracket, you would find an entire generation of Americans who cannot recite the preamble to the Constitution of the United States without singing it.  I learned the multiplication table for the number nine by remembering that the digits of the products of nine add up to nine until you get past ten.

I don’t have a point to this, really, except that some mnemonic devices are a bit TOO successful. True, I can recite Emily Dickinson, but right now I can’t get it out of my head, either. Why? Because someone else recently mentioned to me that you can also sing that poem to the tune of the theme for Gilligan’s Island.

Oh, the horror…