Not A Pretty Story

imagesA person I care deeply about wonders about my opinion on men. It’s a legitimate question. Because of the love I feel towards this individual I am writing this post. I want to advise the casual reader of my blog that this is not my usual smart-ass semi-amusing tripe I publish, or even something about the books I publish. So unless you are willing to read some serious shit, just skip this one and wait for the next post. This ain’t pretty.

Are we alone?

Have they all left?

OK, my love, here’s the deal. Prologue: by growing up utterly confused as to what the hell I was, what I was looking for out of life, I was led to some really dark places. This is not a unique experience for transgender people of my age. What I was was never covered in my high school health class, so how could I possibly know? By leading a life of cross-dressing and exploring the gay lifestyle — all of which proved unsatisfactory and unfulfilling — I grew depressed. Suicidal.

By suicidal I mean driving home from work considering which bridge abutment to steer into suicidal. When I found myself carefully studying the construction to decide which would be the quickest death I felt I just might need help. But when I sat in the middle of my barn on a bale of hay holding a gun I knew I had to do something now.

I saw my GP. I told him all these things. Scared the shit out of him, poor guy. He did tests to see if it was something chemical, but nope. All psychological. He advised me in the strongest possible terms to get to a therapist.

The Washington Blade. I don’t know if it still exists but it was the periodical of the area for following all things gay. I studied that bad boy like it was my Master’s Thesis. And I did find an article about a therapist who was holding a public meeting for those struggling with gender issues. I went. I listened. I talked to those also attending. Finally, I asked if she’d treat me and she agreed.

Now the raison d’etre of the story: two years go by. During that time, once she was certain she had me figured out, she wanted me to go out publicly en fem. Before we approached what she felt was best for me (SRS) I was to actually live full time as a woman. This was the step before that, however.

Seeking out venues that were safe for a man in a woman’s dress that was receiving no hormonal treatment at all, for a man who had five o’clock shadow by noon, one such venue was a drag club in North East Washington, DC. Not a good part of town. Not by a long shot. Back then you drove through it with your windows rolled up and didn’t look around or make eye contact. Yet for some bizarre reason, that is where the best shows were. Dupont Circle had much nicer bars but few shows. This particular NE club had a restaurant and bar along with live entertainment. I liked it.

So mid-evening I left the club headed for my car. There was no parking lot as such. Everyone had to park somewhere on the street. I was walking back to where I left my car. Ahead of me a group of noisy young men was on the same sidewalk headed towards me. I crossed the street. Bad move. Apparently they noticed that and did the same.

Trigger warning: don’t continue if you don’t want to read some sick shit.

The noisy men turned out to be sadistic assholes looking to torture someone like me. Yea! I won the door prize. They grabbed me and pulled me into the nearby alley. I thought I was in for the raping of my life. If I had only been so lucky. Instead two of them held my arms. I was immobile. They were younger, stronger, and far outnumbered me. I was at their mercy… of which they had none.

The leader lifted my skirt and roughly grabbed my manhood. The tight squeeze just added to my weakness. The pain was incredible. He had both my cock and balls in his hand and was pulling on it like he wanted to rip it from me Which I guess he did, actually.

Then he showed me his switchblade. The longest fucking blade I’ve ever seen. He held that in front of my face so I could study it carefully. He was talking trash all this time and the others loudly encouraged him. My ears were just ringing and I’m not sure I heard the words in a coherent way.

With one hand he held my aforementioned cock-and-balls and put the knife at the base of them. I’ll remember these words. In short, if I wanted to be a girl he would give me a free operation right now. I knew I was going to die. I knew if he cut me down there I would bleed to death before anyone came, and no one would come until I was gone. This was it.

I shit myself. I pissed myself.

Oddly, I think that saved my life. He backed away at the stench. He seemed to think that was the funniest thing he’d ever seen. Laughing and pointing, I was suddenly released. I fell in a heap. I passed out.

When I came to I found just a small cut under my ball sack. Everything was intact. Messy. Smelly. But there. I managed to get to my car. I never again went out en fem in Washington, DC. I stopped seeing my therapist. I’ve been scared of crowds ever since. I stay to myself and will become nervous around any boisterous group like in a restaurant. So I eat at odd hours so there aren’t other patrons around. I got a job at a law firm working the midnight shift alone. I drove from the suburbs to my office downtown DC, parked in the underground garage, then drove back out. Just me, a computer and a constant workload. No human interaction for a few years. Loved it.

I left the area the day I no longer had to worry about working. Living in a small, very small, Florida town I interact with no one.

So there you have it, darling. The reason I say I don’t like men. It’s because they’ve never brought me anything but pain, real and psychological. To this day I have trouble sleeping without recalling those events. Except now I’m dreaming more and more about you.

There you are. A loving, gentle, caring person, the diametrical opposite of my past. Someone in whose arms I feel protected and safe. I’ve hurt you with my words. Please, darling, understand where I’ve come from and work with me. I can trust again with the right person. You are, without question, the right person. I love you. Please wrap me in your strong arms and tell me everything will be okay.

6 thoughts on “Not A Pretty Story

  1. Thank you very much. I’m hoping for some closure. My lover’s understanding will go a long way toward that.

    BTW there should be some option besides “like.” I run into the same problem, yet i want to acknowledge to the OP i understand what they’re going through LOL.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Good morning my love!
      I know we have chatted and sent each other emails on this.
      Everything will be fine,
      We have found each other and I love you deeply
      I’m not going anywhere

      Liked by 1 person

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