My Original “G” Spot
Finding my G spot at 55 is lit, y’all — for realz!
The G spot, formally Gräfenberg spot, is part of a whole clitoral network, of which the clitoris itself is the literal tip of a submerged “iceberg.” It’s touted as the key to a titanic orgasm if you, or a partner, can get hands (or mouth, or other penetrative object) on it. It was discovered by a lady doctor named Whipple. She found it the way many do—by accident and exploration. In spite of Dr. Whipple’s success, and the experiences of countless individuals, science and medicine still find the idea of a spot on a woman’s (or trans-masculine) body that is intended for her (their, hir, Judy’s, or his) pleasure.
I’ve talked about my non-dysphoria when it comes to my body vis-à-vis my gender alignment. Some find it odd to hear me say that, especially when I am taking steps to more traditionally “feminize” myself. In truth I have always had an issue with my face. I don’t like the effects testosterone has had on my face over the years. Body-wise, I kind of already had the boobs and have always felt very feminine in what I forwarded to the world as a “man’s” body. Once I started living as a woman, my body as-was, made a lot more sense than I ever experienced as a so-called man.
Still, nature managed one particular feat on me that had cause me a little stress, especially recently—I was born with a penis. I was born with a very desireable penis. I’m not bragging. I’m not particularly proud of it. I’ve never even measured it with any care that the information mattered. I’m speaking based on a lifetime of reviews. Regardless of how cavalierly I may touch on the subject (titter), I am a woman with a large member to steward. This bothered me.
“How big is your clit?”
When I got the question the first time, I assumed the guy (a straight man—most of the men who swipe me right are straight now days) was talking about my butt hole, and whether I could handle a substantial tool. It did not take long to figure out they were not talking about my anus, but were actually being physiologically accurate. As we all start as girls, and then some of us continue in metamorphosis with the internal clitoris eventually developing into the external penis, the dick is actually an overgrown (and outgrown) version of what is known as the female sex organ (which some refuse to believe exists).
It appears to be a thing among straight men who embrace trans women as women, and therefore a different sex than their own. I’m pretty blown away that such affirming language exist where chivalry once threw down its cape over the mud for ladies to walk over. Real talk: a lot of these men who pet name my genitalia to fit their cognitive resonance are pigs. They want to see a picture of it. They want to get “pegged” by it (pegging is sex where the assumed woman dons a strap-on dildo and penetrates the partner who is generally assumed male). In other words, these are straight men who like cock.
Regardless, there’s been something comforting about embracing this pound of flesh between my legs as an expression of uber-femininity. I like having a clitoris, even if it is the size of a Tall Slim. If everybody in the room can feel affirmed in their gender and orientation by making that little cognitive sign change, more power to everyone in the room. I wonder now most what my cis-female friends think about it, and if somehow this equates to genital blackface. I hope my long ass clit doesn’t offend anyone. Regardless, it seemed like the kind of experience of living out, and trans, that would be of both interest and potentially of use (especially if you are trying to get up under this Goddess’ skirts. Goddess starts with G.
— Notorious Pink
