A gynecomastic manlet with no penis
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A gynecomastic manlet with no penis makes the most beautiful girl in the world. Isn’t life so unfair? A 50% bet on what sex I’d end up as, it was the wrong choice. To be the gynecomastic manlet with no penis, I said goodbye to being a beautiful girl. With performance enhancing steroids, I get uglier and uglier, eventually that girl will be unrecognisable. It excites me. For a long time I did the right thing and dressed myself to be more attractive. This made me feel absolutely nothing, good nor bad, but o ne day I closed that door and any attempt to look like this past self fills me with utter dread.
If I style my hair right and wear clothes that elude the weak curve of my shoulders, I can trick just enough oblivious passersby to approximate my past life as a XY male;; my past life where I deserved my current life’s punishment, and I never ever got it. I imagine I -- the male me -- was someone to be afraid of. I could have an unyielding authority. I could ask a girl on a date, and she’d be afraid to say no. I could be oblivious; instead of her discomfort wearing damp on my conscious, it’d fly straight over my head, unimportant. I could have a son, or a daughter, although a son would be easier. I could, could, could -- this neutered life, all these things I could’ve been , that I try to be -- never can be. The illusion shatters hwen I open my mouth to speak.
Growing up, I used to think you had to be lobotomised to want to be a woman, you have to lack some vital shame us ‘Men’, a category I’ve instilled myself in complete abstract and with no second opinion, have embroidered stigmatic on ‘’our’’ beings to stop us from utter emasculation. It seemed gender-neutral objects and animals are always assumed as male, with the female having to be ‘proven’ by some detrimenting quality. In the example of me: my breasts; the squeaky lilt of my voice; my height; my emotional infancy. I thought I had pride that these female traits were corrosive to. I realize this faux-pride itself is what’s corrosive, and that these traits::: all things I’ve always found incredibly attractive in others,, are neutral. Aren’t I a feminist? I get angry and frustrated when women talk to me like I’m not evil. It’s unearned charity when in a parallel universe I was male, I’d hurt them, and they’d let me. Obv iously, I don’t have to worry about that;; no one wants a tranny.
This is a relatively new phenomena, at least to the general public… I watch in pain wincing as other transgenders show every angle of our growing pains,a nd cluelessness, where they fumble through making us all look like disgusting freaks. I think I hate them, but I can’t hate them, truthfully, I’m so jealous I could die… I wish I didn’t hate being an otucast, that I could radiate on the outskirts of society. I wish I could cuckold my male mind to watch my female body coital with the world around us, unprotective of my relationship to her. I was born in the wrong body is true, but unrelatable to the normal lobotomite cissexual. How would I explain being transgender better than that..? Really, I thought I’d have some answer to cure every descenters’ suspicions, but nothing beats ‘What would you do if you were a gynecomastic manlet with no penis?’ It deprives of any semantics and paints the painful reality I live in, where I live in total humiliation with unwanted tits and lack my weiner. I’ll have a penis one day.
