THIS is transgender
Cross-dressing is a psychosexual disorder of men who wear women’s clothing for the purposes of becoming sexually aroused. It is a chronic disorder – it cannot be cured, and it will never go away. It is a progressive disease – what starts as masturbating to ads for women’s lingerie progresses to wearing mothers or sisters panties progresses to buying, or stealing, their own lingerie progresses to more complete outfits in tight sweaters, skirts and high heels progresses to wigs, makeup and falsies progresses to sneaking out in public while dressed as a woman progresses to a complete obsession with being seen by others as a sexually attractive woman.
It is a disease. It is men practicing their sexual fetish in public. Exposing innocent women and children, as collateral damage, in their pursuit for greater, more prolonged, sexual arousal. Their desire to publicly practice their sexual
Transvestic Fetishism progresses to Autogynephilic Transvestism. Autogynephilia creates such an obsession with “being a woman” that men look for excuses to justify their obsession. They become convinced that were actually “supposed to be a woman”. They come to believe they were born with a “woman’s brain”. They claim they are “a woman trapped in a man’s body”.
This isn’t internal, innate identity. Its sexual fetishism. It’s the practice of public sex, with participation forced on others.
Providing arousal. That is why men want to be woman. It provides them with sexual arousal.
I didn’t say the right thing. I could see that. He had been watching me so intently, his mouth curved in a slight smile that I didn’t recognize. His head forward, face down a little, tilted, as if he was presenting his cheekbone to me. Looking, up, almost, at me from the corners of his eyes. His eyes.
It was a very generous gift, I said so. And added, with a smile of pride, enamored, that he had very good boyfriend skills. Imagine me, my smile said, with such a fine catch as you!
It wasn’t the right thing.
I made mental notes, and the next time I touched on how well his mother had reared him, to give such thoughtful and unique gifts. They were just perfect. Because, they were. And he knew it, his eyes glowed as he watched me unwrap.
But, it wasn’t his mother. That wasn’t the right thing. That, very much, was not the right thing, said the involuntary tightening at the corners of his lips. The deadening of his eyes.
On the next occasion, I could tell by the way his eyes roamed over the gifts, almost caressing them, that a great deal of thought had gone into his selections. That he had thought deeply of me, of what I wanted most, when he made his purchases. I complimented his memory and attention to detail. Both very compliment-worthy attributes, but no, not the right things. Not the right words.
As a class, the word is appropriation. Those males, tired of their self-compliance to gender socialization, who decide it must be easier to be a woman. Who decide they can be better women than they were men. They re-define and re-word and re-create and re-claim. They appropriate.
As an individual, the word is inhabitation. He doesn’t want to be like me. He wants to be me. He wants to occupy me, my life, who I am.
Those gifts, they were never for me. They were for him. For his inhabitation of me.
“You’re beautiful. I wish I looked so good.”
“I would never have the confidence to do that, I wish I was as strong as you.”
“But you have so many friends, and they’re all great! I wish they were mine.”
“I wish I were you”
My skin is all dry and flakey now. I threw the lotion out months ago.