How To Tuck My Six
The struggle around how to tuck my six (er eight) is fact, y’all — for realz!
This is about my penis, so if that bothers you or requires a trigger warning, you may have to miss this one, ‘cause it is all about the lower-case “d” in my panties. There’s tucking involved, but this is way more about the attention, frustration, and general usage of the genitals I was born with—genitals that have led to much confusion, however way more delight. I struggle to talk about my dick. I struggle about what to call it. Is it really a dick, or is it something else now that the Spiro (Spironolactone , the testosterone blocker I take twice daily) has made it basically a giant clitoris, serving no function but to bring me pleasure from correct stimulation. I was taught my “pee-pee” was a “boy’s” thing. Other boys were willing to see past my Weiner dog, pretending I was girl friend in the bushes (or the bathroom or the closet). It’s been a mixed bag. As I consider the possibility of having it removed, I weigh the past pros and cons of having a penis.
My penis does feel very good. The sensitive cluster of nerves are a turbo boost to my arousal. Since HRT (hormone replacement therapy), I’ve experienced increased sensitivity, especially the underside, close to the tip. I don’t always want it handled by other people. Sometimes, I prefer to keep the touching of my magic stick to myself. I want my lower privates touched precisely and gently. I want them touched like a flower, not like a club. I’ve had some concern I’d lose that fun feeling in my reformed “wee-wee” after genital reconstruction (a vaginoplasty). I don’t fear that anymore. I have faith my surgeon will do their best to make sure to give me a vagina that works as expected. For my own pleasure alone, it’s either a wash—both options will feel good—or benefits line up in favor of a vagina for the gender affirming impact.
The idea of castration being affirming runs counter to non-binary theory. Women have penises. I know this because I am one of them. It shouldn’t matter that I don’t have a vagina. I could opt to work internally through therapy or other psychological approach, to embrace my dick. I might even succeed. That exercise doesn’t sound nearly as fun as looking down and having what I see between my legs tell a more traditional story—one that requires much less explanation. The body is not an apology and requires no explanation. Requests come along with accompanying interrogation , and fielding all of that is emotional labor I’d be relieved to put down (or try).
Most of the men—I sleep with a lot of people, I’m a proud slut—but the men, for the most part, identify as straight, while at the same time expressing a preference for putting my penis in their mouths, or other opening of theirs. It’s a popular meme these days—men who want to be “pegged” or have the urge to suck trans girl fore-genitalia. These men would be disappointed, or surely less engaged, if I lost that extra something . I myself have developed a taste for play with Dom tops who coax me into a pegging session where I get to pound them. I would miss that kind of sexual novelty as a girl with one.
It’s not all about the sex. My gender is barely linked to who I like to have sex with. Even fantasizing about sex with a woman, I envision a woman (me) engaged intimately with another woman (usually with me in the sub role). One of my current relationships is with a trans femme. I don’t “play man” when I’m with her/xe, nor does ze express a desire for me to do so. The sex is important. I’m not certain I’m ready to surgically correct for sexual gratification alone, but I am tempted to auction off first crack at penetrating my brand new snatch to the highest bidder. That’d be a boss f-ing move. It’ll probably cover the cost of the procedure.
—Notorious Pink
