Question #3 in the Ask a Tranny series by the trans comedian Sarah Maywalt. Feel free to ask a question that you would like addressed in her next article in the comments section below or via email at [email protected].
“What is your relationship with your penis?” – Ernie
Warning: I’m about to talk about my junk.
Well, it ain’t good. I don’t have a lot of happy penis parties. I may as well just say it: I’m looking for a divorce.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not angry at my penis. It isn’t his fault. This was an arranged marriage. Call it God, call it the fates, or call it a clerical error in my mother’s womb, but someone joined our lives without our permission. Neither of us is too happy about it.
I never had a nickname for my penis while living as a man, but since transition I’ve come up with two: God’s Mistake and Hairy Houdini. God’s Mistake should be self-explanatory. I call it Hairy Houdini, because it seems to get out of every straight jacket I try to put it into. It’s also hairy.
Life with Hairy stinks, often literally. Tucking creates a warm, moist breeding ground for all kinds of bacteria and fungus, and the gaffs I use to hold my penis in place are not as much underwear as Atomic Wedgie Machines™. The gaffs often reek with swampy butt sweat after a day of use, so I rub a stick of deodorant on them before I put them on. I know that sounds gross. Some say trans is beautiful, but no one sane says trans is glamorous.
Then, there are the erections. Fortunately, four years of hormones have made them very rare, but every so often a cheerful morning wood greets me like a middle finger from God growing out of my crotch. Erections in public are a real problem and potentially far more embarrassing than the erections of homerooms’ past. That’s what the gaff is for. It’s the last line of defense between me and the ultimate transsexual tip-off. One shouldn’t skimp on a gaff investment.
Also, getting hit in the balls still hurts.
That said, I really feel bad for my penis. It’s a good penis! It’s above average in size, and before I started hormones, it was certified fertile. I haven’t had a problem with it in all our years together.
I wish I could set it free. It would be nice if I could just drive it out to a sorority house and let it go. I wish it could live the proud life a penis like mine deserves. If I didn’t need it for sex reassignment surgery, maybe I could donate it to a wounded veteran. It could serve a man and my country. Every erection a salute to liberty, but alas, it is my penis’s fate to give its life for my shiny new vagina.
Joking aside, I don’t like thinking about my penis. It makes me feel like a fraud. Even now, somewhere in my mind is a voice that says that no real girl has a penis. There are times I look at it and see the future—the pain and cost of surgery, the frigid facsimile of a vagina that will take its place. In life, as in this article, I try to spend as little time as possible on that. It’s best to appreciate the possibilities modern medicine gives me rather than lamenting what isn’t possible. It’s hard not to feel cheated sometimes, but who’s to blame? Just chance, and chance has been far more cruel to others.
My penis and I are nearing the end of a long relationship. Our separation will be for the best, but my penis should be remembered as a good one. It’s a noble organ whose end has come too soon. If there is any justice in the universe, it’ll be reincarnated as a wild steed, and it will spread its seed farther than any steed before it. But for now, it’s a dead dong dangling, and its end is near.
Follow Sarah on Twitter: @SarahMaywalt
