Can you fuck dysphoria away? That thought just hit me in Swedish and it struck me as so bizarre when I thought of how I came to start liking my pussy again.
My strange experiences with packing with my new stp is bringing back those not so old thoughts of bottom surgery again. Not in the sense I'm re-considering it again, but more in an analysing past thoughts, kind of way. As I placed the packer in my underwear to try to see if I could pull it out peeing style in briefs that had no pocket and my leather pants that were the only fitting pants with a low enough fly, it worked just fine and seeing that ultra realistic silicone dick poke out of my fly as though it was my own... and as I stroke its smooth head and shaft, in the same manner I would caress a cis guy's dick in an intimate moment with him, in a wanting, affectionate moment that's perhaps more emotionally intimate than truly sexual, I felt an unfamiliar connection to it. Somewhere in the back of my mind a thought gently said "this is my dick" as I could feel my motions through the silicone gently transfering down to my own anatomy underneath, vaguely mimicking what it could maybe feel like if that silicone was my actual flesh.
I stroke its head more and more as I got increasingly more aroused by the phantom feeling alone, as though as I was jerking off. But a moment later the intense feeling weakened until I eventually let go of the packer, looked down at it, shook my head and stuffed it back into my pants again. Did I feel disappointed? Yeah, probably. And silly too. But at the same time I knew, that it was just an echo of what could be a phantom limb sensation latching onto me in that moment. I've heard many other trans men describe having had similar moments themselves, but I've never been able to connect to packers like that before. It likely happened now because using it as an stp is actually working well over my expectation. It's working, not like a device, but more like a dick. It's just a plastic toy! -I've kept telling myself while shaking my head at it. What would I really know.
Perhaps that's a downside of being a gay trans man. That even the best resemblance of a dick in silicone is never ever gonna truly measure up to all the amazing dicks I've seen, held, felt inside me, traced gently with my fingers over softly bulging veins and silky smooth glanses that I love to tease with my tongue just underneath it as I gently wrap my lips around the head, that I've felt the warmth and growing of in my hands and mouth, and felt the warm expulsion of cum come out of as I've eagerly tasted every drop of it, and that I've just held still in my hand for simply comfort as I fell asleep in its owner's embrace. Silicone feels dead and cold in comparison. Like a sculpture of a loving pet that's passed away. It doesn't help, it hurts. Being in such total awe and worship over that male beauty also kicks me in my own metaphorical nuts over what I'll never have myself. But do I have to? Well no, but sometimes reminders sting.
Do I still have dysphoria over my own genital configuration? Well, whatever remains of it is barely even there anymore. I feel fine with what I have, on most days. And usually on days I don't particularly like it is when I'm in a desperate, stinking need of a shower, and in need of another trim of the ever-growing bush. When it's clean and trimmed, I do feel a certain sense of pride over it, and can hardly keep my hands away from the pleasure I know I can find in there. And I find beauty in its looks, and its female contrast to the rest of me that appears male appeals to me. Choosing which erotic zone to stimulate to orgasm on any particular day is like going into a candy store and having everything thrown at you for free... but then you look to the other side of the street and see the liqour store, but you can't go over there for that booze you long to get drunk on, cause you're locked in the candy store.
Is it greed? Is it a need?
Have I fucked my dysphoria away...
...or was it never dysphoria to begin with?
Now it feels more like I wallow in that candy store, satisfied with it and everything it can offer, and I love it when liquor comes in and wants a taste of my candy, and I'll get a sip of booze enough to rouse me, cause shared pleasure is always gonna be special, one way or another. Sometimes I still glance over at the liquor store and feel a bit of a sting, but then I wonder: is it just because I can't be it, only dream it?
The more I fuck it and enjoy the erotic sensations it gives me, totally for free and without objections, as though it's been begging, yearning for my hands to stroke it like that again and it purrs like a kitten every single time I give it that attention, the more I forget about that penis envy and yearning for what I can't have.
And it comes down to wanting to have the cake and eating it at the same time. For that I slap myself hard and tell myself to get a solid grip on the slipping reality again. Cis men don't exactly get to choose to have both sets of genitals at the same time either. But then they never knew what it's like to have a pussy filled to the brim and far beyond with pleasure and having it filled up with dick as well until you lose all sense of sanity and reality for a moment in the most beautiful chaos taking over your entire body and bringing it somewhere amazing, for just a moment in time but it's worth the whole eternity. If cis men knew that and had that, somehow I don't think they'd trade that away for dick either. We who are slaves to the flesh are all weak to it, aren't we?
Or maybe it's just my own dick-like organ that's dysfunctional somehow. Its apparently 8 thousand nerve endings barely bring me to the roof in an orgasm, while my g-spot alone has the potential to shoot me up into outer space and spin me around Mars. Then just imagine the potential of stimulating all the many spots in and around that area at once.
So now I wonder, did my orgasms and re-uniting with my vagina again after 10 years of hating it, somehow make me re-connect to that part of my body as though it wasn't wrongly gendered anymore, or was it never wrongly gendered to begin with? Or... does it simply not matter anymore that it is wrongly gendered? But even if that's so, it still kinda looks like I'm treating my genital dysphoria with sex. The most likely to be poison that somehow turned out to be medication.
Oh, if anything in this world could make me a total, literal sex addict... that would be it.
If I'll be using sex as a treatment for an incurable medical symptom... I won't be having many days of some kind of celibacy, ever. As if I have for a very long time, when I count in masturbation as sex. It's not that it bothers me, but it does stress me out a little bit. It does put a bit of pressure on me. But at the same time, there hasn't been a single day since the first time I ever masturbated 20 years ago, that my body hasn't been screaming to be touched like that, whether by my own hands or someone else's. Except on the day I was raped. So I'm already addicted to my own endorphins that release in an intense rush for every orgasm, and if I don't get it for a day or two, I'll be acting out like any other kind of addict not getting his fix soon enough again.
So it hardly bothers me or even changes my habits, to rely on it some more. But perhaps it does make an already heavy burden weigh a little bit more heavily. Knowing that I cannot make myself stop, even if my life so depended on it, that then I'd die jerking off, sometimes chokes me. Like a leash holding me too short, it's choking me between real life and instant satisfaction.
Will I fuck the pain away?
Is pleasure my reward or my pay?
Sometimes I wonder where I wander in my thoughts, and where the music carries me. But over all, I feel okay with my parts as they are now, but there is occasional envy. And I'm very pleased with my new packer, the comfort and gender validation it brings me. Just walking into the bathroom and seeing the toilet seat is up, gives me an intensely satisfying feeling of being a man who stands up to piss. I smile whenever I look at my new packer, and feel it was worth every single one of its 230 dollars. But being attracted to the same gender I feel I should have been born as but wasn't, sometimes fucks with me. I sometimes call it my "double attraction" by which I mean the attraction to maleness that I have goes both outwards (to other men) and inwards (to myself). I feel incomplete in comparison to other men, until I have sex with them. Then I feel as though we're one and I don't care about what parts I have as long as they enjoy it too. What matters then is just the feeling. That feeling. Yes, that feeling that I keep building castles of sand and mirrages of dreams out of, yet somehow expecting for them to not fall apart when the act is over and I wait for the next and the next and the next until all that I can think of is getting that void between my legs filled up again and again and again.
Is it the void where my dick should have been and I just keep borrowing other men's dicks to fill it temporarily... or is it just the rush of pleasure that temporarily frees my locked up mind from its own restraints, which makes me keep needing it over and over again?
I used to be a cutter for eleven years. Do you know why cutting your own skin is actually also addictive?
Cause it releases endorphins when you create a wound as your immune system hurries up to attend to the damage. The same hormone that orgasms release.
I think I replaced the razorblades with sex.
Why candy and liquor?
It's the sweet and the strong.
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