My will to bleed for more strength

My past is screwing with my future. And I feel stuck between my past and my future. I know sometimes I have to brutally shove myself forward to get anywhere at all and stop spinning in circles. Even if that shove hurts like hell, if I know it's the right and only good thing and that it has to be done, I will. Cause 99% of my strength is in my willpower, and that willpower can be very, very strong. It tends to surprise other people just how strong it actually is. And practically unstoppable. That when I'm certain I want to do something, not even a train racing in super speed towards me can stop me. Not even the end of the world can. At least figuratively. Then I beat all odds with a confidence that is out of this world.

And sometimes that overwhelms me. Like I get dizzy cause I can't keep up with myself or understand how it's even possible. It's a dizzying feeling when you've outdone yourself in extreme ways that seem impossible. I don't understand my mental capacity, cause I know most of my potential is hidden from me most of the time, and only when I want something really, really badly, that wall within me breaks down and I fall out of myself and into an entirely new universe of possibilities. Temporarily. It's like... how?

But being rather used to that I have the ability that I do, I can accept that it's somehow real, just not constantly available to me. Most of the time there are walls around me that prevents me from reaching any further, but there are hidden openings on those walls that sometimes let me tap into secret pathways. Like the Diagon Alley in Harry Potter. That brick wall, you know? That you tap in a certain way and it opens up a shopping mall for wizards and witches. I've got something like that in my mind, in terms of my willpower. Just that it only works when I really need it.

Just imagine what I could do with my life if I somehow someday managed to tap into that at all times? I'd be close to invincible. Makes me think of a movie I once watched, about a specific kind of drug in pill form that if you took them you gained full access to everything that's stored in your brain, like all the knowledge and memories you have. So you'd remember everything written in any random book you read 5, 10 or 20 years ago, for example.

I don't think that could be reality and it's not what I meant either, but something somewhat similar to that, in an abstract way. Like not being hindered by my own flaws, pretty much. Like my fears, self-doubt or my sense of logic, for that matter. I mean, sometimes I tend to doubt things could work because I think logically it can't be possible. But when I can say screw that shit and just do it anyway, then I reach much further. Sometimes being a little crazy gets you further in life. And taking risks that you're not sure you can handle, as long as you think they're worth it. And sometimes even doing things you think that you might regret - if you can think that you'd regret it more to not do them.

I often think about life like that: that I'd rather regret having done a lot of stupid shit - than regret not having done them. That I'd rather look back at my life having done a lot of crazy things that I wouldn't recommend anyone else to do, than look back at my life knowing I lived sheltered and safe and secure but ultimately a boring and uneventful life. I'd rather have lived too much than too little. And I feel jaded about not living my life to the fullest. And to me, the fullest, means to fill my life with anything I can learn and grow from, if not also enjoy and laugh at. Good and bad experiences I seem to want, as long as they're not gonna hinder me from attaining more other kinds of experiences afterwards.

Like for example getting raped and suffering various kinds of abuse, getting evicted or being broke are "bad" experiences I'm fine with attaining cause they're not likely to cause a permanent hindrance. But getting all limbs amputated, becoming completely blind or end up getting paralysed from neck down would have a much more permanent effect on me that would cause me to not be physically capable of fulfilling my goals and dreams in life, so I'd either take such experiences last thing I do or not at all. I don't think mental/psychological harm can (for me) ever be a permanent thing unless we're talking about a literal lobotomy, but like psychological trauma such as being abused, could ever be too detrimental for me. But I hope I'm not wrong on that point cause I know I could be.

Perhaps I'm overestimating my ability to shake off and heal from mental harm. Perhaps one day I've caused myself too much of that and it either turns me into a psychotic serial killer or a drooling zombie in a straight jacket. Both would probably be equally bad, and equally likely to happen. I'm still struggling to figure out if it's really so bad that I keep wanting more mentally difficult experiences for the sake of growing as a person and becoming stronger and tougher. If that can actually be considered a form of self harm. Cause to me, I'm just thickening my skin by slowly turning it into sturdy scar tissue while still tending to its beauty. I want for my mind to be so strong it cannot be shattered. For my feelings to be so tough they cannot be hurt. And I'm not even 30 years old but already very close to that goal. So I don't think it's impossible.

But the process of hardening myself to stone is both painful and heartbreaking. And also not so damn easy to push myself through. It may sound like madness to want negative, painful and heartbreaking experiences in your life enough to actually actively seek them out. And I know I've been fighting relentlessly against my own choices when I think I've made a grave mistake and regret my own stupidity with all I've got, cause I can't wrap my head around having made some of those choices. No one in their right mind would! But oh, I grew up in the wrong mind.

At least I know, on days like this one, that every choice I've made in my life so far, I had my reasons for and ultimately something good came out of them. Even moving to this god damn island, cause it made me being able to medically transition cause of changing gender therapist team. Even though I kept kicking myself over a lot of those kind of choices for years after years after years, I kept kicking myself bloody for the choices I made, and sometimes I still do. But I do know at heart that it was meant to be, that I had reasons for every choice I've ever made. Reasons I stand up for and still believe in today. Even when the outcome ravaged me. At least those choices. And that is why I cannot actually regret them. Just that in the moments I feel emotionally overwhelmed by how fucked up my mind must be, I have a hard time accepting myself for who I am and what I've done.

I'm not like most people, at least on that point. That I intentionally make awful choices for the sake of teaching myself very important lessons that I cannot otherwise learn. I know I told my rapist that I wanted to go home with him even though in that moment I was 100% aware of the risk he could rape me, but clearheaded I said yes to going to his place, because I knew what I was doing. And I know the reason I'm still kicking myself over it is because I have still not yet fully learned the very lesson I intended for it to teach me, and because I struggle to accept that I willingly chose to go through something I so definitely did not want to experience.

It's a weird conflict in my head, that I wanted to be raped, as I keep swinging back and forth between thinking it was all on him who did wrong and then blaming myself for what happened. But I'm not looking at the bigger picture or from the right angle: I chose to go through something that I feared so that I could learn to get over that fear. It has nothing to do with who to blame. Where to put the blame is irrelevant, but I keep forgetting that. Cause of wanting something I did not want. It's a paradox in its own right. I might have to do it again someday, if at all possible (you don't run into that kind of opportunity every day) to hammer it in properly. Cause sometimes you have to take an extra course to learn the lesson. And the lesson... it's a lot more intense and very different when you choose it, compared to just having it thrown at you. How's that for mental torment?

I may not understand why I think it's a good idea to collect tragic experiences just as much as I try to collect beautiful ones, but I think it's soul-deep and not meant for human minds (including my own) to fully grasp. I know I can connect to my soul in ways that might be unusual, but I cannot possibly understand it completely. It's like an entity of its own, yet it is me. It's like the beginning of every thought, the hunch of every feeling, the intent of every action. And it's also the result of everything, every experience I ever collect. It is the entirety, from start to end and all the way through, that cannot be put properly into words. At best I can describe my soul as my consciousness and my subconsciousness, me and Anna. It's my library of everything that makes me, well me. As far as I can understand it at least. And I love it very dearly.

I've been, more and more, starting to see this life on Earth as a journey, as a kind of preparation for existence beyond and after my death. It's intriguing, yet terrifying. It also makes me suddenly understand why I keep saying that "I took the crash course" cause I only have one chance. Or, one more chance, I should say. Not exactly forgetting my past lives. But the thing is that I can't get more than one life to excel and reach my potential, because I have to start over for every god damn life. Not just losing memories, but also losing abilities cause you're not exactly born an adult. And I cannot count on keeping my memories for yet another life too.

I have trust issues, remember? And I especially do not trust whatever kind of entities are involved in the process of reincarnation of souls. They're sketchy as fuck, and that system is very corrupt. Especially if it's actually angels that handle that business! Holy shit, angels are very far from trustworthy beings. This demon knows. They showed me their ugly side. And it's even uglier than my ugly side.

So I'm trying to learn everything I possibly can in this life, and I realise now that it was entirely my own choice. I've always suspected that it was my choice, but now I know it was and I know why. Cause I need to escape the cycle of reincarnation and break free, release my fettered soul. Cause it's crying to be released. Its cries are like nails against a chalkboard. And I know I can only do that if I'm full of knowledge, about myself mostly. I need to know my limits so that I can break them. And I need to know how to break them without breaking myself in the process. Basically, I need to reach my full potential before I die so that I will know what to do and how to do it to break my soul free from the cycle of reincarnation at the moment of my death, cause that is my purpose here.

I used to only know that my purpose was to learn as much as possible in life, but I didn't know why or what kind of knowledge I was even supposed to aim for. But I've lately I've figured it out. It was my own choice to go through this life as if I was on speed trying to catch 'em all, because I knew that would be the best and most effective way to reach my goal and that I could do it. That goal is and was entirely mine, and was not decided for me. So maybe I should stop worrying about the size of my pecker after surgery and whether I'll miss my vag or not cause I've got more important shit to worry about?! Ugh, not but seriously, that does sound rather petty in comparison somehow.

Fucking hell that stresses me out. Not like it's a simple goal, and it's touching upon being impossible... but what was I saying about my willpower again? I'll remind you: that it's incredibly strong and unstoppable, and seems impossible... yet it is somehow possible. Hope, let's live on that. And don't ever give up.

Well, where would I start then? I already have. Long ago. I started when I fought back against my bullies in elementary school. I started when I decided that being "mainstream" was a waste of time and effort at the same age. I started when I decided to live life on my own terms, regardless of what it meant each time I made that decision. I don't start, I take the next step. I don't need a change of plans, but rather stick to them. Get surgery. Start selling sex. Do whatever I can think of to improve and enjoy myself while still stuck here. Earn money. Enough to buy and keep a place in Stockholm. There, and only there, my next chapter starts. Then we ramp it up a notch more from there on. My journey will be both spiritual and physical, both intellectual and emotional, both social and solitary, and everything between and beyond. I cannot do one without the other, cause they're all connected and dependent on each other. But I know I can do it... somehow. Or at least I need to try. I found my purpose in life. Now I just need to fulfill it.

The whisper of a dream

(Wrote this a couple of days ago, been procrastinating posting it, cause ugh, editing...)

Well, that was a hopeless sleep of barely 4 hours with a strange dream. But I had to get up so that I could write it down, and not like I could sleep anyway. It was an elusive dream that I kept drifting in and out of sleep from, but it felt important. It was sad, yet in my role I was empty, despondent, conflicted but also loving.

The dream was set in an alternate reality in which my thoughts of having a kid never quite went away, but they faded a bit. I lived somewhere else, in a messy apartment somewhere on the mainland, but I looked pretty much the same, just a little heavier, didn't have bottom surgery. I suspect I was a few years older than I am now, but took a different route in life to get there. I was sleeping around with strangers but not for money, and one of them accidentally knocked me up and on a whim I decided to keep it. Whether I stopped taking testosterone during the pregnancy or not was not clear, and I can't figure it out in retrospect. A lot wasn't clear. It was but a whisper of a dream.

But anyhow, I didn't go to any hospitals or had any ultrasounds, basically just stayed at home and seemed to barely even care about that I was pregnant, like I forgot about it on and off. Didn't prepare my home much at all for a family. Gave birth to the kid in my own home, completely alone. It went way too unrealistically well on a physical aspect, but it did give me a postpartum depression with a vague hint at psychosis. My senses weren't entirely there and it was probably cause of it being a huge shock. But I got a little girl and she was very cute, rather quiet and not very responsive but definitely alive. I made a crib for her out of an old drawer, pillows and cut off pieces of blankets, and put her in a pink romper with a matching hat. I did love and care about her, but I wasn't a very good parent at all. I kept dropping her cause I couldn't hold her weight or focus enough on what my arms where supposed to be doing. Then dropped her once too many times and too far a distance. She survived the initial fall, and I gently put her in the home-made crib but barely even had the time to tuck her in before she was dead. Just a few days old.

I felt immense sadness and lied down next to where she was in the crib, and just lied there and held her and spoke gently for probably several days. Then I just let her lie there as I tried to get on with my miserable life somehow, and slowly came back to my senses again but couldn't really deal with the loss or figure out what to do about her rotting corpse in my home. Since she wasn't registered at any hospital in any way, and no one knew about my pregnancy, I was the only one who knew she ever existed, which meant I had to keep her secret to not be charged for murder/manslaughter, and I wanted to keep her remains too, so I guess why not. I don't even know if I ever fed the kid (not like I could have breast fed), or if she was born healthy or with issues that also caused her death. As I said, a lot wasn't clear.

Then years went by, about two of them, I think, before my mother suddenly visited me. She found the corpse of my child which was just a sleleton at that point, still lying in that crib, shoved in under my bed. So I explained everything to her and that was a strange conversation to have in my head. I told my mother in the dream that her granddaughter had my nose, but otherwise wasn't so similar to me. She really did have my nose though, blue eyes and reddish blonde hair. It was weird and creepy when I re-visited her skeleton and looked at it, for the first time since she had died. I wanted to keep the skull, cause I didn't have any pictures of what she looked like alive and I had serious problems letting go. My mother wanted to throw it away, I could tell she was very disturbed by that I wanted to hold on to that kind of thing, but she also didn't try very hard to convince me otherwise.

Then we just sat there on a couch in my home, sad and horrified over the ordeal without really knowing what to say about it.

It was like the dream was a piece of a vague thought that had been lingering on and off in the back of my mind for many years but never quite surfaced, and now it just floated up like driftwood. It felt like a vague "could have been" that I feared would happen. Not necessarily the means to the end, but the results of it. I definitely feared that if I ever had a kid I would accidentally kill it just by negligence and clumsiness. And I also feared I wouldn't really be mentally there or connect quite like I'd suppose to. And raising a kid by yourself when you're a mentally disabled cluts... definitely comes with some risks. Risks that I ultimately was not willing or prepared to take.

That's callous. Cause no matter how much "motherly love" (and I say "motherly" only cause of my biology being female and giving birth like one, cause the parental bond to a kid is generally stronger for females than males) I could have had for a kid, having a kid for selfish reasons when you know you're inept at caring for a kid, especially if it's so to the point you think you have a legitimate fear the kid could come to harm, even severe harm... then having that kid in the first place would have been callous. It would have been comparable to getting a pet you know you can't care for and then it dies in your "care", when you wanted it just because you thought it was cute and you couldn't stop obsessing about it. Except that comparing a human baby to a random pet of any species doesn't sit quite right with me. Not really cause of whichever of those have more or less value, but rather because a human baby of my own making would be a little bit closer to heart, than just a random fucking pet. Even though some people treat their pets as though they were their babies, and some people treat their babies as though they were pets. But I think you should probably make some amount of emotional distinction.

So I guess that's the moral I take from this dream. It was never meant and I know I'm making the right choice to get sterilised. Cause getting randomly knocked up by a complete stranger I've fucked... not an entirely unrealistic scenario. Just because the last one wore a condom doesn't mean the next one will. Or the one after that. And so on, but having a hysto will definitely calm me the fuck down in worrying about shit happening in that department, at least. Cause having one thing less to worry about in life is always something I consider to be good. And if I can lessen the amount of worries that I have, that's good too.

My sacrifice

God fucking damn it mother of hell. I'm starting to have doubts about me proceeding with having SRS. Not the totality of it, but certain things. I'm starting worry I might regret having a vaginectomy. It's the bloody last thing I needed! I'm struggling with this god damn conflict in my head about maybe actually wanting to keep the vag but at the same time I don't. What would be the best? To have it open sometimes but closed most times. Yeah, I literally want a freaking zipper on it. Can't I get one of those surgically installed? No? Didn't think so. I still want metoidioplasty with all of what that entails, and I still want a full hysto, so it's literally only the vaginectomy I'm nearly constantly going back and forth about like from second to second I'm like "yes-no-yes-no-yes-no" like a sickening and disturbing mantra echoing in its chamber.

Right now I wish I could talk to someone about this. Preferably another trans guy who has had the procedure and did have some kind of doubts or who decided to keep it but kept considering it before. But I don't want to post in the facebook groups about it cause I don't want for them all to think I've changed my mind completely or hear guy after guy tell me I should book it off until I'm 100% sure again. Urgh... that god damn entitled issue of wanting conversations without consequences with specific people I can't possibly find without facing those consequences.

Hua, guess I'm gonna try to figure it out by myself for a week or two at least. Cause it's possible I might get a date for surgery in just 3-4 months from now. And I'm also really worried about telling my therapist about that too, cause of her having the really scary authority of actually making sure it gets cancelled if word gets out... and I don't want to worry my mother about the possibility I may have some regrets after, whether I'll manage to sort this hassle out before the surgery or not. Yeah, I will still have that hole after the first stage as it's planned, but tissue from it will be used for the urethral lengthening which does have a high impact on its function. However I've heard of guys being able to dilate it (just like how trans women dilate their neo-vaginas if they have their version of SRS) after exactly that type of procedure. And I should in that bloody case probably also start using that kind of local estrogen cream thing to deal with its state of atrophy.

But I don't really want to keep it. Cause I hate how it feels to just have it there with the constant fucking leaking and femaleness of it. I cringe just thinking about it. I wish there at the very god damn least was a way somehow to make it stop super-over-lubricating like a broken fucking fountain that can't be turned off. I don't think I could bare even the thought of using tampons for it, and that's the only thing I've ever been able to think of that could stop the constant flow at least just temporarily. But I'd feel gross having both male and female genitals at once. It's weird enough for me to have a dick-like clit with the rest. No offense to intersex people, you're born that way, it's different, no I don't think you're gross. I think it would be a gross choice to make, but not gross if it's natural. Like natural chimeras are beautiful, majestic creatures - but if a surgeon would put parts of two different animals together I'm sure I wouldn't be the only one to feel iffy about it. And no, I'm not saying surgically constructed dicks or pussies are gross either. I'm saying I would personally feel gross if I had a nice, surgically constructed dick and balls with a fucking arbitrary, badly misplaced vagina between them. Cause then the vagina would be the eyesore, not the package.

Fucking hell, why did I have to go and make things even more complicated for myself...? Why did I have to go sit on his dick and feel good about it? But I know these thoughts have chafed in my mind since before then, but that did intensify them a lot. I've been so damn horny ever since that sexual experience, it was an appetiser that gave me an insatiable hunger for more, no matter how much I masturbate, and every time I do I come so fast and hard just thinking about that experience. I was afraid of this happening, if I dared to try it out again. And now it did happen. I enjoyed it. It did mostly sting, but I felt something else deeper inside, perhaps a latent g-spot that mildly sparked alive. Now what am I supposed to do?

Cause I'm torn apart between my dysphoria and my sexual desires that stray in two opposing directions and pull each other apart as they're connected at the centre. I cannot go my entire future life wishing I had kept my vag, but I also cannot wait any longer for surgery cause my dysphoria is literally tearing me apart. I can very barely stay above the surface. If I sink below it I'll be too unstable for surgery. So it's a very difficult time and I know cancelling it would fucking break me. Yet I don't know if I dare to go through with it. Why the fuck couldn't I just have been born cis?! Male or female I don't give a fuck anymore! Just no more dysphoria... please. I swear to God and Satan I'm gonna cry and scream my guts and heart out, before I stuff them back inside me again, for making the most difficult decision of my entire life. I guess you never really know what sacrifice is until you stand before it. Only then you might know that the most important decision you'll ever make just fucking has to also be the most painful and emotionally exhausting one. Cause there's no going back if I go through with it.

I've often thought I'm extremely unlucky... while at the same time also extremely lucky. Cause I seem to get both polar opposites in abundance in the most unexpected ways, times and places. I guess that's partially why I live in chaos, and partially why I'm always kept on edge unable to relax. Life in a storm: sometimes you're flying free, other times you get smacked face first into a pile of dirt and debris. Should I just go ahead with my plan and hope for the best? I know it won't be that simple. I'm not expecting it to become an easy journey. Last step of the way, it's not exactly meant to be easy. But backing out would be like taking off elsewhere when you're finally just at the finishing line that you've been fighting your way towards for a decade.

And that completely over-nagged quote "damned if I do, damned if I don't" has never before felt so true to anything in my life. Cause damn... it very, very much feels like exactly that now. Somehow I did expect it though. And I instinctively glance upwards as to hint to the god I shunned for having shunned me. And how I feel I've gone against my path by transitioning in the first place, that I wanted to, but it for whatever reason was not decided upon before my birth. And now I'm pissing off mother nature by doing something I wasn't supposed to. Something happened and I broke the contract. Took Satan's hand instead and followed him to an unbeaten path that he showed me. Now I'll hold on even tighter to his metaphorical hand as I before asked him to save my life - now I'm putting it in his hands. What else can I do, he's the only one I feel I can trust, cause he never betrayed me. He was never a leader to me, he's always just been a very good friend from the moment I stopped underestimating him, but sometimes you need for a friend to help carry you over a particularly strong current river cause he can easily help you over but alone you'd drown. Then once on the other side, you let go and walk by yourself again, beside your friend. Cause the path is mine to walk, but this particular, unexpected hurdle I wasn't prepared enough for, I do want and need some help to get across. Then I'll manage on my own again.

Of course I bloody start rambling about Satan in such a state of mental distress. What? You've never seen a religious person in mental distress before? We fumble for our gods when in need of comfort, like a cold person fumbles for blankets. Because our gods are our blankets. It might sound weird, but trust me, it's completely normal. And that my favourite god of choice just so happens to be Satan, really doesn't have anything to do with it. It just means most other religious people don't understand where I'm coming from, because I seek comfort from a smaller, often disliked and misunderstood blanket that's been pushed to the side, instead of the big and fluffy one that everyone keeps saying is the best and warmest of them all, but I don't like that one and they just don't get it. And atheists just think we're all stupid for fighting over and fumbling for blankets when they just wear jackets instead. But I digress.

Well I guess it looks like I'm gonna have a lot of front hole sex until surgery, and hope at least someone will be kind enough to stick it in my butt as well/instead to at least get some practice in that department before that's the only thing I'll have to rely on in terms of being penetrated. While hoping I won't start liking the front more, but if I do... welp, I don't know, I might as well bang my head in a dead-end wall trying to get through it while my skull gets smashed to pieces because that wall won't fucking budge. The way I see it I only really have two options to pick one or the other of: go ahead with the surgery as planned - or cancel it entirely and find some other way to handle my dysphoria as well as treating that vaginal atrophy somehow. I'd need a hysto either way though. I don't trust my uterus to behave and a permanent contraceptive would be a fucking blessing. And I'd need a straightjacket so I won't commit suicide over making such an impossible choice.

The way I really see it: I'll likely regret either decision at first, but I can't figure out for sure which one I'd also regret in the long run and which one I'd be able to live with. Maybe both? In that case it wouldn't matter what I'll do. I think, I still do feel as though going ahead with the surgery is what's gonna make me happy in the long run, which is what's most important even if that means crawling through hell first to get there. Life taught me that. Cause I can't fight dysphoria with will power and stubbornness. I learned that the hard way too. But sexual issues I could find a way to handle, cause they're not immutable and even though they might be stubborn, what exact details turn you on or not is possible, but not easy, to change. If they don't work anymore and you just have to find some other way. It's just that it's gonna be a hell of a lot harder to have sexual issues as a newly starting out prostitute. Oh god, someone please rip my head off and put it in a cement mixer. It needs a serious restart and the buttons don't work. Damned if I do, damned if I don't, then I might as well do and just fucking work with it from there on.

Cause I'd rather treat my extreme dysphoria and sacrifice a huge heap of my sexual desires... than continue like this. Cause I haven't managed very well these past 7-8 years. And this is hell. Dysphoria 24/7 and then just one random good fuck once every 5th year. How the bloody hell would that be worth saving? It just isn't, and I know it, but I'll still cry my heart out as I'll make that sacrifice. All because of nostalgia over what once worked, now 10 years ago. Yeah, nostalgia really, really is a bitch you can't fuck with. But she fucks the everloving shit with you. There's no way to find a win-win solution. It's gonna be either win-lose or lose-win. Fucking fantastic.

Maybe I should sleep on it. For a few weeks. Sleep on it, fuck on it, myeah, something like that.

A spontaneous trip

Just got back home from a totally spontaneous trip to Visby. Was gonna post yesterday that I had just randomly booked a "date" for the following day, but I was too drunk and tired to post anything. Yeah I made sexual reservations with a complete stranger online while I was drunk. I wouldn't recommend it to anyone who doesn't know well that they won't regret that kind of stuff when sober again. Cause I've learned what kind of stuff I would regret and what I wouldn't, and I only act on what I know I won't regret. Yes I get more brave, verbal and more horny when I drink like most people do, but usually I have the same mindset, the same goals and wantings. It simply removes some of my unwanted, hindering barriers.

That is exactly why I have a tendency to become alcoholic sometimes. Because drinking enhances me in ways I like and desperately need. Sadly. It seems to temporarily "remove" or "unshield" a lot of my asperger symptoms. Makes me dare to do what I wish I dared to while sober. However, on a more positive note, my drunken adventures have helped teaching me how to live without regrets. But few people relate to their own drunkenness in the same way. So I can only say: it works well for me, but I really hesitate to say it's a good idea. Generally it is not, but exceptionally it can be.

Honestly I wasn't sure I was gonna make it there today, cause I was hungover and tired as fuck, with a pounding headache, but I drank coffee, a protein shake, lots of water, took painkillers and pushed through to it. To spare you whatever worries you may possibly have: The whole event, everything included, went really well. The only issue was (not surprisingly) getting a little lost in Visby. I literally took 1,5 hour to walk a 15 minutes distance. But woe is me, right? I had arrived at the bus station in Visby at 5 pm and wandered around confused and frustrated but refusing to give up, although that thought hit me several times, until I finally got my tired ass to his door, at around 6:30. But I wasn't really upset or stressed about getting lost, I just kept going and checking google maps, some kind of gps system in my phone and sighed my way forward.

It was a pretty good gps app thing, but it didn't show me the correct location of his apartment, but about 15 meters off. We kept chatting so he could eventually guide me to the right door. And the fucking relief when I found it! Jolly jezus crap! He had been very adamant about me being descrete and not catch attention from his neighbours, and I just really hope that me having wandered around in that area for a good 10-15 minutes or so didn't make anyone think of me as suspicious. But maybe the fact that I kept looking at my phone and looking around confused out in the open probably made anyone who saw me just think I was trying to find my way to somewhere I was invited but hadn't been to before. There were a few people walking their dogs there, but hopefully they were not immediate neighbours to him. But anyhow. Inside the entrance I worried about running into a neighbour of his but there was no one there. I was as silent as I could be. He had told me to not knock or ring the doorbell, but to just walk right in.

So I did, as quietly as I possibly could, and stepped into a very cosy, small apartment. I only had to glance to my left to find him naked on a bed in a dark room, curtains closed. And in that very moment when I saw him all my nervousness just washed off of me. A gorgeous, thin man with incredible eyes gazed longingly at me while stroking his dick. I had no hesitation from then on. We had agreed upon that I was just gonna suck him off and then leave, but oh boy if I got a penny for every time guys say that and then proceed to want more! So of course I was prepared for possibly doing more, but silently so. I like giving the impression of being more prudish/shy-ish with a "yep just that, nothing more" attitude but then when asked for me be like "I hoped you'd ask" as if I'm just positively surprised by the random suggestion and had nooo intention of possibly proceeding further all along. I'm such a tease...

So anyhow, I just took off my jacket, bag and glasses before I gently dived in on his manhood. He definitely enjoyed it, and beckoned me to rim him as well, which I did and I could tell it pleased him. First time rimming another guy: check. It was nice, sexy, and he must have showered very recently, which I appreciated. I went back to sucking him a bit more then, and then he asked me "Do you want to sit on it?" and I was only hesitant for one reason at that point: I wasn't sure if he knew about my pussy situation or if he was expecting a dick. But I also knew he did have access to full on nudes of me online where we met, so I thought what the hell, I'm sure he must know. So I thought for a short moment before I said "yes, sure", took off my pants while he slipped on a condom and then I took a seat.

Yeah, I let him slip into my vag and then I rode him for a couple of minutes or so while gazing into those pretty eyes of his, lit up only vaguely from a small opening between the curtain and the window wall. And despite the slight stinging sensation inside me, it wasn't really bad. I guess my reason for doing that was quite simple, yet hard for me to make understandable and not sound more self destructive than it is: I still have this annoying hole, and for in those moments when I only have mild dysphoria and feel comfortable in any particular man's company, I might as well if he wants to and it doesn't have to be a big deal. It's a very convenient part of my equipment, always wet and easy to use with basically no foreplay or effort needed. I know its tightness is often appreciated too.

And as it really is that easy, to literally just strip and sit down, then why not? However at this particular point I was definitely turned on and wetter than usually. I'm not saying I want or like to use it, even though my subconscious keeps begging for it, I still want to get rid of it for all the same reasons I've always listed. But yeah, I definitely have a very complicated on-and-off hate relationship with that hole. I hate it but sometimes I let it have its way when I'm not so emotional about it. It seems to have a bit of a will of its own. But at best it's "meh, stings a bit but whatever, I'll survive this too" yet it yearns. It's never nice, but it's not always horrible if I'm in the right mindset. And I can like being in that kind of atmosphere, like the psychological feeling of having another man inside me and being connected in every thrust. And pretend it's actually in the other hole that I'm not dysphoric about. What I'm hopelessly trying to say is: while it's still unfortunately there, on good days, I might as well use it. Basically: if there's a hole, why not fuck it. Some people say I think like a dude, but I didn't think it was quite on THAT level...

Sometimes I tend to think that maybe I'm using my pussy in the same way many cis guys use their dicks. But what do I know, huh? I'm not cis. I don't know how cis people really relate to their parts, whether they're men or women. But I'm not using mine as carefully or privately as I suspect women use theirs, and certainly not always (or often, for that matter) with my psyche connected to it. I think that is exactly how I've managed to fuck around my dysphoria in the past. To disconnect my psyche and only focus on the physical sensations. Until those got ruined too.

So no, it wasn't so bad this time, and I did thrill in the closeness and warmth, the sexiness of the situation, that he liked it and how he showed that, how hot he was, how turned on I was, how well it felt like we connected, how we seemed to vibe in synchrony somehow, how relaxed and soothing yet exciting it felt for me to be with him in that moment, and it was alright. It was right, cause I clicked so well with him. At least this time it was and I realise I likely won't click that well with so many others in the future. It was a lucky off-shot of a chance. Anyhow we didn't go on for very long, I knew he was likely to cum fast cause he kept telling me, and after having been riding him for just a couple of minutes or so, he asked if I could suck him until he cums in my mouth as he was very close and I said yes. It was a lot more bitter than it usually is, but I swallowed without complaining as I usually would. Then he thanked me over and over, and since I had a such good time too and also felt a really good connection with him, I smiled genuinely and thanked him too. As I see it, it wasn't just for him, it was for me too. Then I got dressed again, said good bye, that we'll talk again soon, and that was it. Lit a cigarette when I was back outside and had walked out of sight. No neighbours around that time either. I looked up how to find the bus station from where I was at the gps thing on my phone again and found my way back easily.

When I got back to the centre of the city again, which probably didn't even take 10 minutes, I had an hour to wait for the bus. I was hungry and tired, but most stores where closed at that hour (around 7 pm), so I went into a grocery store in a shopping mall which was still open. Wandered around in the store for a while until I found something that could be mildly edible, and bought more bottled carbonated water while I was at it too. Then I took that weird chocolate pudding thing I had just bought (categorised as "yoghurt" but whatever) with me to an empty staircase which was the only place to sit other than the floor itself, and dug into the pudding with very little appetite for it. However, getting the taste of bitter cum out of my mouth felt like a somewhat higher priority than how much better the pudding actually tasted. Don't get me wrong though, I like swallowing cause I think it feels sexy, but no I don't always like the taste, although most of the time I do. And also it's hella convenient to do. No mess to clean up. Slurp.

Then a woman I didn't know walked up to me and asked if it was permissible to sit on the staircase I was already sitting on. I told her "Well why not? They don't have any benches here" and she agreed that was reason enough to use the stair as a bench. I'm always creative about places to sit when out and about wherever, and saw no issue with sitting in those stairs. It was pretty cold outside with just one or two plus degrees and I still had about 45 minutes left to wait for the bus. So I talked to her for a while there to pass time and cause I had time. She talked about how she didn't like her noisy and high crime neighbourhood and that she used to live in a calmer place on the island. She hinted at that she had to move from there to get away from an abusive relationship. She didn't say it outright but I read it between the lines. She appeared to be somewhere in her 50's from what I could tell, tired after a long day and struggling to move, but seemed happy to talk to me for a while. There was something about her that I couldn't quite pinpoint, but that made me feel like I could relate to her mentally.

She was going with one of the city buses and we soon departed after we had started walking out from the shopping mall together. I walked slowly towards the bus station and annoyingly realised I had 15 more minutes to wait than I had first thought. So from then on I had 45 minutes to wait instead of 30. Oh well then. It wasn't good enough reason to bother my mother about it, so I stuck with waiting out in the cold at the bus station. Then I got into the bus when it was ready to leave, but unfortunately it wasn't much warmer in there. So I shivered all the damn way back to Hemse. Should have brought a bloody extra sweater as I had planned to but of course forgot about.

When I go for these kinds of adventures I can't layer 300 complicated clothes on like usually, even when it's winter. It has to be convenient and to be perfectly blunt about it: easy to remove and put back on, cause I don't want to stand in a stranger's home and fiddle with putting my clothes on right for half an hour, just as much as I don't want to do the same amount of fiddling when wanting to get naked asap. But being dressed simply and conveniently does also means freezing my butt off. My cell phone battery was at 25% during the bus ride and I hoped it would keep the phone running all the way back home. It did, and I was glad to have gotten on the one bus that actually stops at a stop closer to my place than the main bus station in Hemse, so I got a shorter walk that last bit by luck and chance. Then I shivered my way back into my apartment and here I am. Went at around 3:30 pm and was back home at around 9:45 pm.

So that was my little 6 hours long, spontaneous Thursday evening adventure. For a 10 minute stay with that guy. But ah, that's the beauty of having little to no concept of time: in the future, it's gonna be those 10 minutes that I'll remember and look back at with a smile, and all those hours of travel and waiting and getting lost will be forgotten. So yeah, in that sense it is worth it. And because my life on Gotland would be even more insufferable if I didn't go ahead and do things like this every once in a while. No matter how not-worth-it many others would seem to consider them to be. If that isn't worth it, then what the fuck would be worth it with the very limited options that I have? I'm stuck on an island with little to no local/bus traffic and no driver's licence or car. And fuck yeah, I'd rather travel for 6 hours just to sit on a random hottie's dick for two minutes than just sit on my own arse at home for yet another day like all other bloody days, if that's the only way it can be arranged.

Was it crazy? Yeah probably, but it's not even weird for me to do this kind of thing anymore. Turns out, if you keep doing it you'll get used to it eventually and then it won't be so scary or weird, but exciting, fun, sexy or at least better than sitting at home 24/7. I may have quirky interests... And yeah, of course I know there's a risk I'm taking, never even knowing who I might meet. Especially this anonymous variety which usually means agreeing to meet a total stranger I have no idea what he looks like, or much of any personal information about him. I may know his age, sexuality and possibly dick size, but that's pretty much it. However, one thing that's dawned upon me lately, is that the main reasons why some guys choose to be so very secretive has literally nothing to do with their looks or them "being creeps" or whatever.

Main reasons are: they don't want to get outed, they don't want for their neighbours to spread rumours about them, they might be scared to lose a job or spouse, or a family member, or a kid for that matter. No matter how much I wish it wasn't so, homophobia is still a thing, and that especially in smaller places like this entire island, people talk. So they're scared and worried, and they have good reasons to, at least to the point where I can understand and show compassion and do my best to be helpful, but they're certainly not out to harm or trick you. They're protecting themselves because they're good people, not because they're bad. And this is also why I have no issue being with married or otherwise partnered men too. Cause we all have our demons and insecurities and I'm not judging any actions unless I both know and understand the reasons behind.

I used to think that the anonymous meetings were the most risky, and perhaps they still are, but I'm also still 99% likely to end up with a pretty damn decent and sweet guy. And when I think about it that way, I could fuck 99 different guys and have a good or at least mediocre time, for every 1 guy who might treat me badly. That's a lot of good and safe fucks in comparison to bad/rapey experiences. The ratio is certainly in my favour, and with such a low risk, or even if it was 2% of bad apples, it's still worth it for me.

But anyhow. As I walked out from the house of his apartment and back into the cold late evening, I thought to myself that I could so easily do this for money as well. That it wouldn't even phase me. Would be so damn easy, and not take a toll on my psyche at all. I read on some website listing various common reasons for why people become prostitutes and one in particular felt very relatable for me: to get money for sex I would have had anyway. Cause I really don't think the difference would be that big. But no, in case you wonder, I did not get any money or anything else for that matter (except from a good time with a great guy), from this little adventure. In fact it costed me a couple of hundred kronor for the travel back and forth. I thought that if he would for whatever possible reason offer money that it would be retarded of me to say no, but it didn't come up, I didn't expect it and I didn't say anything about it. The deal was for it to be for free. But if it had brought me money, I would have been fine with it.

However I do still see this as some kind of practice for that kind of thing. Like an introduction course, or something. Although, it's not very likely to give me much of any orgasms, I've realised, perhaps sadly, perhaps shruggingly. Cause my plumbing is just way too fucking pedantically picky about stimulation for it to work easily at all. It requires lots of patience and for me to be very relaxed and without a care in the world, basically. And for the guy I'm with to also be very patient and not stress about it. And most of the time, whether I'm talking about how it's been so far or for the future whether it will include a money reward or not - I cannot possibly count on getting orgasms. Cause yeah of course I'm keen on having a good time and enjoying myself as well as giving the guy I'm with a good time and pleasure - cis guy plumbling simply is far easier to work with to get to the point of orgasm, compared to female- and trans guy plumbing which is much more complex in its nature/biological reality. It's just the facts. And something I can't do much of anything about. It is what it is.

Something else that might need to be said, although I'll try to be quick about it cause I'm really tired, it's really late and I want to sleep... is that I definitely can appreciate and do feel sexy when others find me sexy. I have a weird ability to view myself objectively, practically through the eyes of others, and appreciate that I do have beauty and sex appeal even though I do not actually think that of myself. I imagine what others must see when they find me attractive and fuckable. And I absolutely love it when others look at me that way, and when I can feel it in their touch that their hands crave it. I can easily lose myself in that feeling and it turns me on to no damn end just being wanted like that. I do not see anything wrong with it, being objectified or even fetishised, I think it's an amazingly warm thrill to be in. And it doesn't matter who it is that shows me that kind of lust or how they show it. In fact I love it how everyone shows their lust in different ways, and it's always amazing to be wanted like that. I really can get high on that feeling. And for me, that is what ultimately draws me in. Well I guess that's the very long and complicated way of saying: it turns me on that I turn you on. And I think it's a beautiful thing of synchrony.

Let's get real again

Why have I always been so excited, fascinated, enticed and nearly obsessed with the idea of prostitution? Cause it has to be said at some point. I've been glorifying it like fuck, ever since my teens. When the sad, drunk, cigarette-smoking, drugged, cheap hooker chick in unkempt, revealing clothing and running makeup was the image I undeniably completely idolised. And tried my hardest, in the most subtle ways I could think of, to obtain. But I don't glorify as some kind of blurry fever dream anymore. Now I just want it cause it's fucking money that I could obtain so easily, with my kind of "expertise" of already having the mentality of someone who's forgotten that sex is somehow supposed to be intimate. Or rather, someone who never knew sex ever could be that way. And I still think that is in some way or another very closely related to my experiences of sexual abuse and going through the aftermaths of those traumas that just kept piling on until I got numb of it.

The saying kind of goes, I mean if there is such a saying it's certainly hushed, that there are one of two ways people typically react to having been through such trauma. But maybe it has to be extreme, or repeated too many times, or a bit less of each if you were once a sensitive soul like I once was. That either you become frigid, sex repulsed, basically asexual and struggle to hold a healthy relationship - or you become hypersexual, addicted to it, loose all inhibitions and you struggle to hold a healthy relationship. But the former is much more commonly spoken of, so to the point where the latter is almost considered a myth at this point. But it's not. It's very much true. Cause I'm living that stereotype.

Someone reblogged a gif from one of my favourite movies "Jolene" on tumblr, that I saw on my newsfeed, and it awoken these thoughts in me again. Cause that's why I love that movie and that's why I relate so hard to the main character. Cause she's that stereotype, just like I am. Although she a bit more extreme than I am. And I'm embodying several more stereotypes than just that one. I haven't yet fucked several hundred guys like her but I have certainly fucked hopelessly and just as self destructively, I haven't been married 3 times but I have been in 3 miserable relationships in roughly the same amount of time, I haven't yet sold sex technically although I almost did once but I have traded it for booze and clothes and possibly also drugs and I've long wanted to trade it for money too, I'm not sure if I could be classified as a sex addict or not but I've sure as hell fucked the wrong people for the wrong reasons repeatedly but months or even years apart instead of just hours and I'm definitely addicted to masturbation.

But the mindset is pretty much the same even though not every story is. That hollow craving that you're not quite sure you understand what it means but seems similar enough to what people commonly call lust. That "whatever" sentiment to yet another guy taking advantage of you cause you're so damn used to it and you know it will happen again but somewhere along the way you forgot to care. That you just can't quite distinguish between what's supposed to be private or public, love or lust, passionate or abusive, just one more time or maybe you had enough long ago, being seduced or coerced, regretting a bad shag or haven been taken advantage of. Everything blurs together until you can no longer tell and you no longer care. What difference does it make? Sex is just sex, it's just physical, it doesn't matter if it goes wrong sometimes. But your "wrong" is most people's "rape" and your "right" is most people's "vague fever dreams I hope I just woke up from". But please take that last one with a huge grain of salt, cause I don't fucking know what my "right" is. I'm not even sure it exists.

It becomes skewed, cause it was never right to begin with. When your first ever sexual experience was that of abuse as a way too young child to be exposed to such things, cause you were too young and uninformed to know what sex even meant back then cause no one had told you and you couldn't grasp the concept of it, then it seems it has a high likelihood of messing with your perception of what sex is "supposed" to be like as a fully developed adult. You missed a very important lesson that you're now too old to learn. You learned too much too soon that prevented you to learn what you were supposed to. It planted a seed of fear and disgust within you, and you've been trying to fuck it away cause that's how you got it in you.

I'd seriously be offended if you told me I'm not fucked up. Cause I think that would be a very misguided thing to say to someone so self conscious yet self loving.

What is sex to me? Well, some kind of weird power-play in which I try to balance pleasure and torment for it to be kinda 50-50, cause for some reason I tend to crave both. It seems to be very hinged on that power-play aspect though, that either I'm the one with the power or my partner is. If I can't figure out who is in power I get confused and try to logic my way to who could it possibly be. Cause it has to be one of us, right? I know that's my brain missing a screw that it keeps searching for but cannot find, cause on some level I'm pretty sure sex is mostly just about sex drive and wanting to satisfy it, or possibly about wanting to show love too. Depending on what you may or may not feel for the person you're fucking.

But even then I'm not sure cause somehow that doesn't sit quite right with me either. Something feels off about that description, but I don't know what about it. To be completely fucking honest: I have no sodding idea what other people think sex is for or why they have it, but for me it's a tool, a means to an end, and endless chase for pleasure and orgasms like food is an endless chase for fullness but at least I like sex, and it's definitely a weapon too. How do I weaponise sex? Well, that's simple. I just give in, especially to the scary, sleezy guys who won't take no for an answer, until I'm at a point where I don't know if I want it or not, cause the more dangerous it feels, the more it turns me on. Very few times I've actually done something like that and I don't know what to feel about those experiences. I'm a mess, okay, but here's a little bit about that rape I'm not sure if I've said already or not. I mean I might have but it's making me a bit coldsweaty so also maybe not:

When we were kissing each other on his bed and he kept touching me which I kept objecting to by pushing his hands away and saying no. I somehow still kept responding to his kisses, although less and less and reluctantly, but I was still a virgin and a pretty sexually frustrated one. It turned me on. And as I felt the blood in my pussy pounding from the excitement one of those little annoying intrusive thoughts popped into my head (you know the ones you really, probably shouldn't give into? Yeah, one of those). It said: "if he touches me down there I'll do it, I'll let him fuck me". I'm not saying I suddenly wanted the entire experience, but I'm saying that temporarily, in some sort of way, I kind of did...

But god damned is my rape story a conflicted fucking mess I just cannot figure out. Was I even raped? Or did I actually want it but was just extreeeeeemely nervous? And really didn't expect for it to be quite that painful? Oh fuck, I'm still calling myself a pathetic crybaby for not enjoying having been raped more. I mean, come on! Try living in my head for a while. Or wait maybe that wouldn't be such a good idea. It's a quicksand in there.

...Or maybe I was just too scared to be able to think clearly at all and kept switching between trying to get him off me and giving in to let him have me just to get it over with to then start fighting again... like switching between fighting and giving up and then fighting again...

That really isn't an easy kind of situation to get through, when neither talking nor fighting works. Eventually I had to give in, I know it, and I know I keep blaming myself for it, and deflecting it like fuck. Eventually I had to just lie still and let him have at it no matter what it could lead to. It was terrifying the moment I made that decision, but I know I had no other choice. And I knew it in that moment too. To do something like that, to just let the man who is trying to rape you, have you however he pleases, it's nothing short of terrifying. Of bloody course it fucked me up for life. It felt like lying down on a railroad when I for once wanted to live.

You have no idea how much its been tearing me apart, year after year after year. That's not a good first time. It's just not. It's the worst possible kind of first time. But what's worse is that I still fucking blame myself for it. I still do. Because I gave in, and because I agreed to follow him home, for fantasising about him a decade later, and for being conflicted. And most of the time I don't even notice that I keep blaming myself. It's the powerlessness that's the worst. That knowing that you can't do anything but give him exactly what he wants. It must have put me on a constant loop, like a broken record - to always give them what they want. Does it make sense to you now? Cause I think it does for me. I can't say no. Unless I'm in love, then I can't say yes. That's where I'm broken. That's why I can't connect sex and love properly, or figure out where to put myself.

...Cause he did touch my pussy, just seconds after I got that thought, and I know he felt that it was soaking wet. I probably moaned too. Even though I was still scared as hell, I liked that feeling and kissed him more responsively again. For a moment. Then you know the rest.

Let's get back to the present.

I probably relate to sex in a very similar way to how I relate to food, or sweets rather, but I don't act on it in the same way, cause I like sex more than I like sweets and it's more intense too, and cause sex is a bit more difficult to attain. But they can both be used and abused in exciting ways, can't they? And just like I can't or at least not necessarily relate eating cake to love or romance, I view sex the same. It's just an activity like any other but of course it can be used in a romantic or loving way too. Just like sharing a delicious chocolate cake with your one and only can be special, why should I then only eat chocolate cake with people I'm in love with or only for romantic reasons? Cause just like that, casual sex with strangers is more like going to a café and sit down by a friendly stranger. The cake is still just as likely to be good or bad, but it's the setting, the goal and the people involved that is different.

I think that's the best analogy I can make for it. Also it's a bit funny considering how popular it is to compare sex to chocolate and bicker about which is the best, but that's not the argument I'm making. I'm saying I enjoy both things in very much the same way. Also cause sometimes I eat way too much chocolate and suffer the consequences, or try to abstain from it until it ultimately leads to me craving it like crazy and stuff myself full of it again. Cause whenever I've tried to abstain myself from dick I always find myself craving it like crazy until I find myself choking on dick again. Cause I love that feeling. Somehow. I never managed to understand really why I simply enjoy the everloving fuck out of just feeling another man's dick in my mouth, how it seems to almost magically tickle me all the way down to my crotch as if there's some kind of secret connections there, but I guess that's why they call me a slut! However I still wonder if eating pussy would have the same effect... Cause at least in my fantasies feeling a wet clit and those beautiful folds on my lips and tongue is nothing short of amazing. I mean, it's not beautiful on me, but on others it truly is... man, I really need to find out some day.

Proud owner of that title though, slut, I mean, whether I'm being called it in an endearing or derogatory way. It's still the same word, and it still has the same meaning. And I both like it when I impress and disgust people with my sexual endeavors. That's the kind of freak I love being, uncontrollably. And hush, I'm allowed to call myself a freak, I damn well reclaimed it from my bullies when I was 6 or 7 years old, and it was the first slur/derogatory term I ever reclaimed for myself. It's a very important word for my own personal liberation. Cause now anyone can call me anything and I won't bloody mind. And that's power you just cannot argue with.

But yeah, back on the topic since we almost came full circle there before spiralling off again. I know I really do fuck indiscriminately... hey, why have I seriously never thought of that phrase before? It almost sounds elegant in its hideous state of decay. Like a skeleton propped up with flowers and gold. I fuck indiscriminately. And oh god damn look what I found, a piece of real life example of exactly how sjw's want for people to fuck: like I do. With everyone who says "do you want me?" I whisper "yes" without hesitation as I find myself horny for whatever reason or just looking into your eyes as you lick your lips or I imagine that your pictureless text does, or maybe I'm just lonely cause I can work up some horniness on demand with nothing more than a finger. Yours or mine, you get to decide, whoever you are. And I hope you don't stop with just a finger, I want more, I want all of you. Fuck me like you mean it and I'll try to do the same. Until I don't want you anymore, then you can go home again, and maybe I'll see you again or maybe I won't. And hey who are you, wanna cum inside? I ask the next stranger, whoever he is. This is how you fuck like a TRUE RADICAL LIBERAL INTERSECTIONAL FEMINIST. Now get right onto it if you don't wanna be a bigot! You can't deny people sex for being aesthetically impaired, overweight, disabled in any capacity, for any age over 18, for any race, biological sex or which set of genitals they have, or even if you happen to be related, just enjoy it! Everyone has the right to have sex... with you! So get busy!

Sorry I really just couldn't help myself there, but I do have a good point. The point is you're obviously not a bigot for being discriminatory sexually. It's healthy. It's normal. You're supposed to do that. That's literally just your biology trying to tell you to spread healthy genes and keep natural selection moving in the right direction. Don't bloody do what I do, I don't really recommend it. Not unless you're damn sure but I still doubt most people could handle it. It takes more than just a damaged psyche to go lalala into that kind of sport and still be walking up straight after every game. But what exactly more it takes, I'm not sure. Perhaps start with a lack of empathy. A heart permanently scarred from having been broken too many times to feel properly anymore. A high pain tolerance, of both the physical and mental kind, cause you're gonna need a lot of that. An ability to move on from anything and the belief that you will. And you cannot possibly think anyone else is in any way beneath you or not worthy of tasting your flesh, or you could think that they all are and it somehow doesn't matter, as long as you're fine with any random person you see on the street or wherever (I often play a game with myself in which I people watch in any social place like a grocery store or park or wherever, then pick any random stranger that I can get an as much full view of as possible, and just fantasise I'm having sex with them). You're now a buffé that is for everyone to enjoy, not a private dinner for two. Then you might manage it, but I cannot give any guarantees. Cause I surely don't always manage it either, but it's what I do.

And if you think this is me actually giving you a manual on how to become so sexually hollowed out you might as well be a sex robot, that's not what I meant. I only displayed the meny like that. But I don't bake anything written in it. If you want it, make it yourself. But it might be poisonous. However I think this is very linked to why I want to become a prostitute. That it is pretty much going from one stranger to another, from one sexual thrill and danger to another. Just that I'd get paid for it instead. I think, when it comes right down to the bottom of it, it really is just that simple: fuck like I already do, indiscriminately, but do it for money. Cause don't we all want some of that? And if you could get it so easily with no quarrels or privacy issues, wouldn't you too? I can't know that, but I know that I would, and I don't see why not.

Fuck me up

(When I initially wrote this, I thought these thoughts were going to become way too personal and risky to share, as I hadn't formulated them properly in my head before yet, but as I got further and further with my writing, it didn't feel so bad to make it known, and I wanted to share it. It doesn't change anything I've already decided. It doesn't mean I've changed my mind or that it would be the wrong decision. It just means I have some unfinished business I need to take care of first. Bare with me, if you will.)

I know I won't ever want to post this anywhere, but I should probably write it just for myself. The thoughts won't form on their own, they're pushing in one direction as I'm pushing in another. What now? I know I still have some doubts about getting SRS, shit I don't want to recognise or already have and came to the conclusion it could safely be discarded. But it keeps clamouring me. I don't even know what the fuck it actually wants. It's like a child saying "daddy?" every third second and every time you say, a little more frustrated and annoyed each time "yes, honey, what is it that you want?" because the kid's answer every time is "nothing" but he/she looks sad or upset by something they won't tell you.

That constant reminder of how good it used to feel to get fucked in my pussy, over a decade ago now. And mind you, I've kept on doing it ever since, up until a little over a year ago. And it's so weird cause I just thought of Chase Ross on youtube once talking about how he had to mourn the cis dick he never had and never could have, cause now I'm thinking maybe I have to mourn the death of my pussy, what I had but now doesn't work anymore and have to get rid of. Not because of me wanting and going for a vaginectomy though, but because it's already dead. Just not buried yet. It's a broken machine that can only malfunction. It's like my old laptop that I kept trying to start and use, but it just kept crashing, and I kept trying because I wanted to have a functioning laptop. And now I have to put my pussy behind me like I did with that laptop. I should toss it, wherever the fuck you're supposed to toss broken computers. The laptop, I mean. Cause maybe, since the metaphor corresponded so well, if I can toss that laptop so that I'll never bring it up to my lap again for another desperate attempt to get it to work, then maybe it would be easier to also toss my pussy in the trash.

I have difficulties moving on even when I so desperately both want and need to. I have a habit of keep trying in the same way over and over expecting a different result each time but it only results in another failure, and another, and another. I yearn for a release from this burden, yet I somehow hold onto it. Because nostalgia is a fucking deceitful thing, telling you that it can be good like that again if you just kept trying to achieve it, with no concern for the fact that sometimes what was once good can never become good again. A once beautiful house destroyed by a fire cannot possible return to its former glory again. The only thing you can do is to either try to renovate it or tear it down and build a new house if the damage is too severe.

And my pussy is like such a house now. I keep being pulled back to the nostalgia of its former glory. But it's history, it's history that cannot repeat and I don't even want to live there anymore. I hated that damn house! I wanted for it to burn down, I prayed for it, I was the fucking one to lit the torch! But now I hold on to it like a broken childhood toy, trying desperately to put it back together again. Like I just can't give up, I just keep screaming "I give up this is useless I give up I give up" over and over but I never actually stay true to my words. I want to give up, but I'm stuck in a repetitive motion of undivided stubbornness.

It reminds me of that teddy bear I once had as a small child, when I was around 4 or 5 years old, until I unintentionally left it in the vestibule where the dogs stayed. Found it the next day and broke down in tears on the floor cause the dogs had completely chewed up its entire face. It chilled me to the bone, as if I was looking at something from a horror movie. It etched into my spine and raised the hairs on my back while my stomach turned. And I still remember that my father picked up the teddy and took it away from me. Some time later he gave it back to me. He had made a new face for it. I was very grateful and thought it was the sweetest thing anyone could ever have done for me, but the teddy wasn't the same. It looked weird somehow and still smelled like wet dog, I couldn't hold it close to me anymore. I felt sorry for the poor thing and told it I still loved it, but it was too difficult, so it ended up somewhere in a closet where I could forget about it, or at least try to. It wasn't a favourite and I had many teddies and other stuffed animals that were much more dear to me. It was just one of many others that I didn't ever really care about. But after that, after what it had been through, I felt so horrible for the love I could never give it. It broke something within me. I felt inadequate, shallow, like a betrayer. Both to the teddy and to my father, and even to the dogs who never meant any harm. I still think I had way too many and way too big emotions for a kid when I was one. It felt like I carried the weight of the world on my shoulders, from birth.

And now I start crying when I think about it. Sometimes I just feel so broken with all the thoughts I still can't really allow myself to entertain. That now my body is fake, that it's artificial and altered, and sometimes it gives me that same feeling as I had about that teddy. That it's not real, that it's unnatural and made up. A costume. I don't feel like a real man. It feels like I'm just pretending to be a man cause I couldn't stand being a woman, cause of self hatred or trauma or whatever, cause I couldn't stand what I was born with. And I've always felt weird about people who have gone through a lot of medical or cosmetic procedures to change their looks. Scary, somehow. Like an imitation of life. Like a doll or robot trying to look human but something is off about it. You know what I mean, I hope. That it's creepy somehow. That you think it's human, but then you stare into its eyes and you see a mechanical, dead stare inspecting your every move. I was too fucking young when I watched the "Terminator" movie about killer robots as well... about 8 or 10 years old. It gave me ideas, fears... and nightmares.

I don't truly feel that way about myself though, I'm not scared of my mirror reflection, but I think it. I question myself to the point of not knowing anything anymore, but this thing about feeling fake has always been around. I guess I've just kept hoping it would go away at some point. Maybe it will, maybe it won't. It doesn't matter, but I still need to think about it and try to figure out what it means. I know it's not a rare feeling/thought to have as a trans person, cause on literally every online forum for trans people some fucker always brings it up in one thread or another. It seems like very many of us struggle with the same fear, or insecurity. But I keep asking myself why do I think I'm male? Is it only because of my past life or have I woven that idea into it later on? Yes I must have. I didn't know about who or what I was in Dala until sometime in 2010, and by that time I was already into my transition. I know it's probably a weird question to hear from a trans guy who's been transitioning for the past 9 years, but it's unfiltered, it's raw and it's how I feel it. And just because I know I'm trans and that transitioning is right for me, doesn't mean I have any god damn understanding of what it really means, or what it actually is. So the question still stands, why do I think I'm male?

I know the answer is simple, but that's just it. It's too simple to satisfy me. Cause I want a dick, that's why. And all the secondary sex characteristics that males have. Except from possibly back hair. And it's because I like it when other people see me as a guy, refer to me with male pronouns, use my male name. But none of that satisfies me as an answer cause it's just physical, biological, dysphoria related. And I'm looking for a spiritual answer. An answer that confirms that my soul is somehow male.

Oh my god, this song is fucking horrifying to listen to. Just get this chorus:
"We are the ones you should be fearing
Come in the night and take your teeth away
Now sew up your mouth, and go to sleep, 'cause
We'll be there soon to break your heart and spite your face"
Really makes me want to check my teeth, you know? I've been listening to a lot of songs like that these past some amount of hours now. Another song text keeps repeating "this is motherfucking torture" in a calm telephone-operator-voice, and yet another has a very upset and scared-sounding male voice speaking "don't you give up" repeatedly to someone else who's crying. I think it's from a movie but google wouldn't find it for me. Very dark industrial songs with horrifying lyrics that crawl into the marrow of my bones and fester in it. Somehow I find it soothing, like finding a creepy stranger in a dark alley who you somehow end up sharing strange drugs you don't know the names of with while you're talking about something otherworldly that you can't grasp the concept of but you hold his hand and his kisses are soft. Why do I keep dreaming about meeting a stranger like that? Maybe because I like mating with my demons.

Somehow that does seem like a very fitting figure of speech for what I'm doing. Like, okay, people keep saying you should "face your demons" by which I assume they mean doing harmless things that scare you for some irrational reason until they're not so scary anymore. But I say I "fuck my demons" by which I mean I dive right into the actually harmful things that do scare me cause I'm looking for a thrill. And no one gives better orgasms than the masters of sin. Of course they tickle my fancy and I let them tickle it all night and all day. God damn it, now I'm horny again.

Anyhow, what I wrote earlier about my pussy, I'm not exactly done trying to release my thoughts and feelings about that. Just got off track a bit. I started thinking about it just now cause I just wrote a really quite dirty poem inspired by those dark industrial songs I've been listening to. It's probably the most direct, yet still somehow poetic, dirty poem I've ever written. I think it screams desperate casual fucks, sex addiction and low self worth, along with some odd form of suppressed self love, gender dysphoria and not feeling man enough for my own standards. If it had a smell, I'd say it smells like some nasty, dark alley in a Stockholm slum quarter, oil, gas, muddy boots and sex. I thought I'd include it here for context:

~Entangled from the start~

"I'm damned if I don't, for nothing chafes more against my soul
I'm damned if I can't, for it's the only thing that can console
this gutting misalign at the heart of where pleasure should be
my constant reminder that I'm not the man I within myself see

This permanently attached road block, and whinging cock block
forged in a biological mishap, now I'm loading up the stock
of unsavory desperation, a fight and flee response
wanting to tear it all out, what I'm meant to ensconce

Bewildred by the drama of my heart
a love entangled from the start
I know that when every orgasm ends in disgust
I'm torn apart between my dysphoria and my lust

Come crawling in between my thighs, I shun you I desire
your fervent touch that upon contact burns me like fire
it's not how I remember it, it's not even what I want
but I'm held back by what I need and what I flaunt

I have no shame for what I've got
it's not a dick but you like it and it's hot
somehow your attraction leads me on
and once again I'm lost before I'm gone

And then I close the door between us and in my solitude I fear
that my reality-detached fantasies could interfere
with the realism I pursue
to awake anew

My force of will, grants the power to fulfill
any desire I may possess, and I must confess
that I'm damned if I do, break as I reach through
and damned if I don't, find what I need to confront"

But the thoughts about my pussy did start earlier than that. I have to go back over 24 hours to when I was about to go to bed yesterday, or some hours before bed. I started watching some porn like I usually do and I've been trying harder to kinda force myself to only look at gay porn with just cis guys in it, cause if there's a trans guy or a woman, I keep imagining that I'm in the position of whomever has that pussy which is getting penetrated. And right back I am reliving exactly that nostalgia from the past that I can't let go of.

I only ever focus on it when I masturbate cause that's what gets me off like nothing else ever can. And it's fucking annoying. Cause I really don't want to still have to imagine I have female genitals AFTER my surgery. Fuck. If the thought of me having male parts can't even turn me on, how would it turn me on when that's literally what's between my legs?! I know it's just a memory that is fucking with me. A memory of eleven orgasms in one go. From a G-spot I no longer can stimulate, cause all that gives me now is dysphoria and pain and more dysphoria. I wish I never did lose my vag-virginity. I wish I never knew how good it could feel. Or, at least I wish I hadn't tried until after dysphoria and testosterone destroyed that erotic sensation there. Then all I would have known about vaginal penetration would have been discomfort and pain. Then I wouldn't have been so conflicted now, so stuck between my past and my future.

I kind of wish I could just keep the hole and not be bothered by its existence, and have all the other procedures, to leave the option open for whatever unforeseeable future. But I can't, cause just knowing it's still there makes me literally incapable of relaxing even somewhat during sex. With anyone, no matter how good the communication ever could be. Cause I can't trust anyone. Cause I just keep being tense up to the freaking roof by the constant thought that "what if he puts his fingers or dick or tongue in there" and can't enjoy myself because of it. I wish the damn thing had a zipper or something. That I could put a padlock on. But the thing is I can't even trust myself. Cause how many times have I been so dangerously close to letting him, whichever dude it was at the time, just to get it over with cause I knew that was what he wanted, so at least one of us would get something out of it. As some kind of really idiotic sacrifice that would certainly only have ruined my night instead of it having just been kinda ugh.

I get that thought every time I'm with a guy and he wants to fuck me there. Like when I do want to have sex with him, but just not in there. Like literally anywhere but there. Any god damn millimeter of me, but not in there. And I just keep banging my head to splinters against the wall in my mind echoing "why can't anyone accept that I hate it in there, that I don't like it, regardless if they believe in my dysphoria or me being trans or a guy, regardless... why can't they just accept when I say I don't like the feeling?" but I guess they don't care. I guess they can't imagine what it's like to be born with certain parts but wish your fucking heart out you had the opposite and that your actual parts give you so much emotional torment that you can't possibly find any pleasure in using them the way nature intended for you to. I guess that's what I can't communicate to any random, horny stranger.

Is it a sacrifice just to make my sex life easier for me? I guess there are worse reasons cause my GOD do I yearn for being free of that burden. That constant fear of "please don't put anything in there" while struggling to force myself to relax enough to actually enjoy having my pussy licked or tongue kissing another man who lies heavily on top of me while I'm on my back, or when I gently caress his dick with my wet tongue and lips while he's masturbating me, or whatever's going on in all those moments. Cause I wish to just being able to let go of that fear, of not having any reason to fear it anymore, and that useless hole is just dead meat that I hardly need for any kind of survival. I think reproduction might just be the least necessary biological function of the human body for any each individual. At least at this point when there's over 7 billion of us. Everyone who is alive today will still live just as long if they got infertile. It's as useless as the appendix, in terms of your own survival.

But whatever, I wouldn't need an entire vaginectomy if my only issue was wanting to become infertile. I need it to get rid of that fear and to stop it from constantly leaking which only that spirals my dysphoria out of control every time I even just masturbate and I'm sitting in a fucking pool of that icky goup in an amount equivalent to what my pee bladder can contain and that's just what's on the outside, or it's literally running down my legs all the way to the floor into a puddle if I'm standing. It's that much of it, and I can never feel clean. It's as though I wasn't able to close my mouth and would have drool in my entire face where all kinds of bacteria would collect and start to smell, but between my legs and into my clothes instead. Every minute, every hour, awake and asleep. Doesn't matter if I'm horny or not, masturbating or just writing an angry hate comment on youtube. And that horrible cold wet feeling every time I've been to the bathroom and have to pull up my underwear again, even if they were prefectly clean just an hour earlier, cause of what's collected in them during just that one hour.

No I won't stop, I need for you to understand what a fucking torment my crotch has been causing me for at least the past seven years and it's all thanks to the testosterone (of all things?! Why oh why didn't it dry me up instead...) which I don't want to fucking live without. I don't care how gross it is, I won't stop telling you that it does collect in my underwear immediately after I've put on a clean pair directly after shower which I'm reminded of every time I go to the bathroom and put on the same underwear again, cold and sticky wet against my crotch again, and it gets yellowish and literally bleaches the fabric over time until all of my underwear look like a fucking nightmare from Elm's street even when they're newly washed cause that discolouration doesn't come off again. And it doesn't bloody matter what colour underwear I use either. White ones get yellow, all other colours get a much lighter and slightly yellowish colour where the goup has been. Can you imagine how disgusted I am by it 24/7 and knowing there's absolutely nothing I can do about it except from getting that entire hole completely sewn up? Do you see my frustration? And how much I just want to shove up a whole god damn roll of toilet paper in there, until I remember that just gently placing a lubed tampon in there hurts like the ever living hell. There's nothing I can do but scream into an abyss that doesn't even respond with echo.

And I need the vaginectomy cause the hole serves no purpose anymore and is only causing me pain and suffering, in case that still wasn't clear somehow. It's a giant, gaping fucking wound that's constantly leaking and hurts by the slightest touch, it's incredibly gross to me and it's just a constant god damn mind fuck to have it there. I literally feel like I'm some kind of highly dysfunctional chimaera. Like a half octopus, half leopard creature who needs to both be on land and in water but it can't be eitherwhere without killing the other half. It's time to get this wrong purchase back to the hellhole store it spawned from and get what I was supposed to order from the start instead. It has become something like malware at this point. But fuck me what I'm harping on today. Jeez, can't I ever just get to the bloody point?! So let's just get it over with then: yesterday while I was trying to masturbate to some hot gay porn vid, I couldn't even focus on it and my clit was just "meh, get this party going, for fucks sake, I don't have all day before I go numb from overstimulation" while my thoughts were taking me elsewhere. They took me to a fantasy in which I imagined I was with one of the guys I've been with in the past, and in that fantasy he was nagging to stick it in my pussy and my response was hesitation before letting him. And NO this isn't just me giving you smut for no reason, I do have a point this time, I promise. My point is that I wanted that. I wanted it for real, I wanted to force myself to feel that agony in someone else's pleasure until it would completely break me. So that maybe then I'd fucking learn to stop wishing back a memory that I can't fuck back. For it to stop tormenting and haunting me. For it to stop being the most prevalent fantasy and the most important aspect of me reaching orgasm more than 99% of the time every god damn day. No fucking wonder I feel like utter shit as soon as I'm done. Cause that's really talking about self-induced mind-rape. I think I was born to be self destructive. It's just one way or another, one way dumber and more complicated than the other.

I want to fuck the pain away by forcing it upon myself. To scare myself away from forever. Like forcing myself to sit on a hot stove to remind myself to never wish for hot stoves on my butt again. How fucking dumb can I be? How fucking retarded is my frontal lobe (is it even connected to the rest of my brain cause it seems to have gone way off to lala-land) to need to get tortured to understand that "no, we don't WANT to be tortured, you complete dumbass!" but ugh. Sometimes tough love is the only way, apparently. So that I never want it again. I don't even know if that would be considered a form of self harm, or just the purest and dumbest form of desperation I ever could experience. Like almost as dumb as deciding to jump off a high building just to check if you really can't fly, to make sure you'll fall straight down and land like a human being by becoming meat-farce connected to asphalt and not lift to the sky, just a test, then we continue life as normally. I'm having problems...

Because the point wouldn't be to cause long-lasting harm, it should be temporarily painful, preferably incredibly fucking painful to the point of hyperventilating and nearly passing out while feeling like I'm getting my entire reproduction system pulled out, stuffed back in again, pulled out again and so on until it's literally impossible to hold any tears back or screaming (good thing that me having a really good time during sex compared to me being in horrible pain during it actually both sounds and looks pretty much the same), but it would be for the goal of achieving a long-term result of relief from what's been haunting me all these years.

It seems like that could potentially be the worst thing I ever could do to my own mind even though my body would probably be fine or just a little bit sore after, considering it would more or less be self-rape, if there even is such a thing. And I think that would tear me up like nothing else considering my already existing traumas of rape and sexual abuse. But what the fuck am I supposed to do? My mind won't budge, and obviously if I decide not to, then have the surgery, and still am tormented by that memory, then there's no way I can do it. Then I'd literally be chasing a ghost. A dead and buried ghost. It may already be dead, but at least now it's still corporeal. Tangible. There. Usable. A lifeless body, but still a body. This was a terrible metaphor. Instant regret! Sorry about the necrophilia reference, my mind obviously isn't connected to its senses like it should be. The fuck is up with me and being attracted to literally anything that even just barely resembles a human being as long it's male and it doesn't matter if it's 150 years old, 2 days old, living or dead?! Oh, that's right: the sexual desire centre of my brain has no inhibitions whatsoever. Let's keep that in there, shall we? *stuffing the shit back where it came from again*

Fuck, I should do it. Rape myself back to sanity, if there's any left of that somewhere in my head. I think that specific demon I really do need to mate with just one more time. Or it will never leave me alone. I should hurry up. Might take a few weeks to find someone willing, or months if I'm unlucky. Hoping a lot of guys get "spring fever" soon maybe. Should probably use a condom that time though, especially. Cause it would certainly be a very bad idea to show up for surgery while pregnant with STD's. If you catch my drift. Cause it would most certainly be annoying if I'd have to postpone it even more just to have an abortion and get treated for whatever STD's first. Even though I know it's extremely unlikely I'd get knocked up, considering how much testosterone I have flowing through my veins, blocking my body's own estrogen and making my ovaries kinda sleepy. But they wake up sometimes! Like that 6 months long period I had just over a year ago. So you never fucking know with that.

I guess I needed to vent out my frustrations, fears, nasty cringey jokes, sad childhood memories, poems, music inspirations and letting my juices flow freely for a bit. And I don't think I would mind posting this. Why should I? Cause if this would make anyone else start thinking I'm not ready to have my SRS, then here's my answer: no one is ever truly ready for anything. Especially decisions for permanent, life-changing things that you can't possibly undo should you change your mind. You're always gonna have a few "what if's". It's scary as hell, but I'm still sure that this is what I want and I want it so badly I'd give both my legs for it if I had to. I'd give a kidney and a lung for it too. I wouldn't be able to keep living the rest of my life with my current genitals. I'd rather take an axe to them.

I dream of a future with them looking more like something resembling male parts, even if it wouldn't be quite 100% like it. I yearn for it. It's something much better than a hell that I'm trying to grab, and it's so close now I can almost touch it with my finger tips. I just need to deal with my pussy-madness in some creative and effective way. And I can't think of anything more effective. I need to give back that teddy to the dog that ate it and watch it tear it to pieces entirely while I cry my heart out. Then, and only then, I can give it a proper burial. I have an itch to scratch and I need to scratch deep. All the way into my bones. Because... and this is not just metaphorical, but also literal for me: itching is always so much worse than pain. Give me chronic pain that never goes away, I rarely even complain about it, but give me one mosquito bite and I'll tear my entire fucking skin off.

Enough wall-texting for now. I only edited once, but it has to be enough or I'll be up all night and the next day if it continues to just become more and more like this... Sweet dreams.