Dark Mintstress of the Night 🏳️‍⚧️

"Aaaaw, you transitioned into a dumb blonde. I love that for you. Nobody likes a clever boy." (I have not recovered from one of my best friends saying this the first time she hung out with me after I transitioned, and I am reminded of it every time I miss very obvious context clues or inneundo.)

"You're fine to leave the door open [to change out of a rain-soaked top and bra and into dry ones]." I feel like until a cis lesbian takes her shirt and bra off in front of me, I'm going to keep my modesty because I can't tell if this is fake flirting or an actual "it's fine" / gender acclimation.

Is it weird that I feel less likely to be sexualized inappropriately by lesbians than straight women? Maybe it's that we're all ace or demi living here, but I think I feel much safer. Maybe because lesbians have navigated being called intruders into these spaces before me, so they know my worries.

"You're fine to leave the door open [to change out of a rain-soaked top and bra and into dry ones]." I feel like until a cis lesbian takes her shirt and bra off in front of me, I'm going to keep my modesty because I can't tell if this is fake flirting or an actual "it's fine" / gender acclimation.

I realize I spent part of yesterday topless with my arms crossed as they cleaned the long cuts on my back and bandaged them, but I'm letting their actions set the comfort level in the house, even though I can tell I'm being... I dunno, trained? taught? acclimated? very deliberately by friends here.

Two sapphics who are going for a walk but they're both used to being the one walking slightly behind their partners so it's a contest to see if they can walk side-by-side as equals or if— Nope, looks like I'm going to have to take charge for this walk when the path gets narrow. Walk switch it is.

I was holding a cat who needed a claw trim when she got spooked, and she left impressively long and deep claw marks down my back that bled through my shirt while I got her calmed. So that's how I ended up topless while lesbians washed and bandaged my back, then did my laundry. What a weird day.

My very first time having to figure out how to cross my arms to cover my nipples while other people were around. Is this a rite of passage? "Here, take off your shirt and wrap this towel around you." "Wait, now there's no towel to dry your back. Nevermind, hand me the towel." Me: Just existing.

Watching a werewolf movie that is clearly a metaphor for female puberty, but for gym class, the werewolf has to tape her tail so nobody will see it and I'm starting to get some trans vibes here, too, in that everyone (even other women) see her as a monster.

Oh god, the scene where she's about to cut off her tail so she can fit in around other normal women. And now we have a DIY injection to make her feel normal as a subplot. And a man who has sex with her now wants to kill her. Maybe this is just a trans allegory.

It's weird to look back on the first decades of my life and think they were real things that happened to a real person who made decisions and performed actions about them and that person is supposed to have been me. I only gained agency when I asked for HRT, only became real when I got started it.

I had a male friend (my mom had been best friends with his mom, my dad with his dad) whom I drifted away from because he was a bit of a womanizer and fratboy, but we're overdue to catch up and it's my turn to call, but this'll be out first time post-transition. I'm not sure if I should call or not.

Her: Need help making the bed? Me, carrying clean laundry: Nope Her: Are you positive? Me: Okay, sure. Her: Wow, your bed looks so much smaller than the last time I was in it. Me: This is why I said no. But also, it's still a California King, it's just sideways. Lesbians: (Already lying on it)

There's something about a lifetime of having sex while dysphoric that makes you view it as being about trust, love, play, a game, a service to a partner, and so many other non-sex things that when HRT starts working you can't figure out how to think of sex as being about your sexual pleasure.

I want to be wanted. I want to be valued. I want to be respected. I want to be lusted after. I want to be pushed, lightly, past my current comfort zones. I want to be pursued. I want someone to have to fight for my affections, to want me enough to fight for them. I want to feel sexually valuable.

There's something about a lifetime of having sex while dysphoric that makes you view it as being about trust, love, play, a game, a service to a partner, and so many other non-sex things that when HRT starts working you can't figure out how to think of sex as being about your sexual pleasure.

I keep kicking the can down the road to after bottom surgery when dysphoria is at an all-time low in regards to sex and when Spiro won't be necessary so my libido might return for the first time since starting transiton. I worry it's not Spiro, it's just me struggling to know what I want instead.

There's something about a lifetime of having sex while dysphoric that makes you view it as being about trust, love, play, a game, a service to a partner, and so many other non-sex things that when HRT starts working you can't figure out how to think of sex as being about your sexual pleasure.

Me: "I spent all day yesterday with medical stuff, slept in my makeup, and just woke up to find out I need to get back to the hospital ASAP. What's the fastest this makeup can be fixed?" Roommate: "With the right smudging, this can become an emergency grunge smoky eye." Me: "You have saved me."

Me to the friend who stole my spot on the couch: "ONE of us is a brat." My friend, in a tone that suggests she thinks I'm stupid: "BOTH of us are brats."