There’s one thing that’s really bothered me since my decision to transition. It’s kind of a strange thing to be bothered by, given all the things out there I could have an issue with, but this one is relentless and I just can’t shake it.
When I spoke from the perspective of a female, I considered myself a female dominant. Not of the fetishized, stylistic type out of men’s porn, but the real-time, “I like making men cry and scream and make them unable to tell if they love or hate me” variety. This is what my local community saw, and this is what my partners saw. I was extremely vocal about the solid fact that I was *woman*, and I would be happy to break anyone in the room to prove it. I was the goddamn poster child of femdom, always ready to pick a fight anyone and everyone who said that women were ‘inherently submissive,’ and men ‘inherently dominant.’
And then I came to terms with my identity myself. The issues are, for me, entirely separate. Mentally and emotionally, I’m very much okay with notion of myself as a male dom. My boy now calls me ‘Sir,’ and my idea of ‘dressing sexy’ is combat boots, grey jeans, and a black tank top. I’m very comfortable with this.
Until the subject of femdom comes up, and the bio men in the group start talking about how it only exists in porn. About how women only do it because society ‘makes them feel obligated to,’ and ‘makes them resistant to give in to their innate submissive desires.’ And I ignite. It’s not that I believe them now– I’ve met plenty of incredible dominant women. They’re out there, in real life, probably hiding because this fucking mentality makes them never want to associate with male doms again. I don’t blame them– it’s frustrating, and more than anything, it’s misogynistic no matter how many times you say, “I don’t believe that women are not equal to men, but I do think they are different.”
But every time I start arguing against it, I get the same response, since they believe that their veiled misogyny doesn’t exist because they view me as a guy, even though I’ve still got boobs. (How enlightened, right? Like they’ve granted me the privilege to be viewed the way I should be.) “Well obviously, we’re right, because you started out as a femdom, but ultimately end up telling us you were a guy anyway. See? You just help to prove our point!”
No, asshole. I have nothing to do with your goddamn ‘point,’ nor do I want to. Please to be leaving my gender identity out of the discussion, thanks. The fact is, I existed as a dominant woman just as much as I lived (and still do, in some circles) as a woman in the rest of the world. I listened to the male dom bullshit from that end, about how even when ‘true femdom’ pops up, it’s somehow different from male dom. Once again, no. Look somewhere other than porn for once.
Many men don’t like hearing about truly sadistic women that have come from places other than their imaginations. They are dangerous. They can hurt you. They can make you bleed. They can make you cry and drool and snot the same way you do an eighteen-year-old girl. And it’s not because crying and drooling and snotting are feminine things, and that’s what women do when they’re submitting. It’s because it fucking hurts, and the sensation is too much, and the restraints are too tight to do anything else.
But it’s harder to make that case as a trans man. They feel that I validate their cause, because I affirm their stereotypes.
On that note, I know I don’t pass. Fine, I have no problem with saying, “Actually, I prefer male pronouns,” when I first meet someone. So for many people, I just look like a dyke. Which is also fine, since I don’t much care if random passers-by look at me as a man or a dyke, since I probably didn’t give them much thought either and will never see them again. And I know that you make assumptions about people by the way they look. It’s human nature, and I won’t deny that.
Yesterday, J and I stood in front of the table where we waited to purchase this awesomely-awesome cane. I smiled at the guy on the other side and handed it over so he could ring me up. “Thirty dollars,” he said. Looking him in the eye, I handed him the cash and smiled again.
And he handed the fucking cane back to J. J, who, while obviously male and nearly a foot taller than me, was wearing a goddamn collar. I took it from his hand, stared hard at the retailer, and extended my hand for the change.
Now, regardless of your fucked-up preconceived notions of D/S, if I hand you the money, you hand me the fucking product. That’s how it goes. If I am in a restaurant, and I hand the check to the server, with my card in it, I expect him to hand it back to me. This goes the same everywhere.
In reality, it’s a small thing, but fucking seriously? He wears the collar, I conduct the transaction with you, and you give the cane (ie: my money) to him? That’s not how it works. It aggravated me then, and obviously, more than twenty-four hours later, I’m still thinking about it. He gave a gruff, noncommittal ‘Sorry,’ but I think it was my obvious irritation that dragged it out of him rather than any real admission of wrongdoing.
Aside from that, the flea was fantastic. Spent time with friends, spent more money than I should have, and met some interesting new people. All in all, it was a very worthwhile day (and evening that followed!), and I’m very much looking forward to #32 in February!
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