#sweaty transsexual fucking

[redheadedfailgirl]

I need a healthy dose of self-control because girls will be like 'sweaty transsexual fucking?' and I'll be like 'sweaty transsexual fucking 👀👀👀' and they'll be like 'sweaty transsexual fucking 😌' then we'll go get coffee.

#based on a true story that happened five minutes ago #t4t #sweaty transsexual fucking #transgender #trans women #are just like that #its fucking wild #but so much fun #i'd say someone needs to castrate me to keep me from doing this shit but i already did that to myself #and it just #keeps #happening #aaaa

[thatweirdguyinthebushes]

HYMN FOR THE RECALCITRANT TOOTH (HRT)

a poem about god, transsexuality, and learning to box

THE FIRST TIME I TRY TO KILL MYSELF, GOD VISITS ME IN MY HOSPITAL ROOM AND SAYS “MAN UP, YOU FUCKING FRUITCAKE. YOU’RE NOT GETTING TO ME THAT EASY.”

A list of things a boy learns when he stops going to church and starts learning to fight in his dad’s backyard:

1. God is a pair of boxing gloves that smell like teenage sweat. He’s a thing you put on your hands to grasp the world better. He’s a lack of coordination and a near loose tooth. He doesn’t start to look holy until you paint something of your own onto his knuckles.

2. Prayer is something you have to learn to do. Women in long dresses and men in fancy suits don’t pray like we do, us queers and trannies in summer backyards, sweating into latex and tanktops. It doesn't feel like I'm talking to God if I'm not bleeding. “Are you trying to punish me?” I asked God one bloody weekday. “Was my sin the stone or the apple? Is Hell about me or my father?” He will tell me that you have to learn to pray, and part of that lesson is accepting the lack of an answer.

3. My little brother isn’t much like Abel, but I’ve seen him slaughter his fair share of sheep. Once, after he gets me hard in the chest, I throw a punch at his back when he’s walking away. I am not much like Cain, but I have known well the rage of the older, imperfect brother. They say Eve was tempted first, but I’ve yet to find a kind of hunger a man can resist.

THE FIRST TIME I TRY TO KILL MYSELF, GOD VISITS ME IN MY HOSPITAL ROOM AND SAYS “A TRANSSEXUAL IS THEIR OWN KIND OF PROPHET. YOU’RE GONNA BE RIGHT YOUR WHOLE LIFE, AND NO ONE WILL NEVER BELIEVE YOU.”

A list of things a boy learns when he stops fighting in church parking lots and start stabbing himself with a needle once a Sunday every Sunday for the rest of his life:

1. If you want to love a man you have to hate him first. Before I almost drowned at church camp, before I ate of poisoned fruit, before I bled into cotton pads and summer grass, I could never have loved God or myself.

2. If you want to worship someone you cannot always believe them. When Hannah has her first boy, she says to the lord “he will be yours always.” When he reads me this passage, I tell the youth pastor “that wasn’t her promise to make.” When I tell her I am starting testosterone, my mother cries. Just as priesthood was not Samuel’s, girlhood was not my promise to keep.

3. If you want to learn to pray, you have to learn to look for answers. A bloody boxing glove and a sweaty top lip and a not quite loose recalcitrant tooth. This is a Psalm if you know how to hear it. I do my first t-shot in my boyfriends bathroom, and the blood bubbling out of the wound sounds like a hymn.

#poetry #bpd poetry #poem #slam poem #writing #original writing #original poem #transgender #ftm #suicide tw #homophobia tw #religion #religious trauma #christianity #lgbt #queer

[thestoryofnone]

I like pussy. No, I fucking love eating pussy.

My problem with transgenders who identify but not transition as female is they have dicks and flat chests.

I do NOT like sucking dick. And those fucking disgusting sweaty balls, like licking toes that haven't seen the light of day in weeks.

So for that simple reason, I will only fuck with transsexuals or women. I don't give two shit if you have had boy parts at some point or not.

I just don't want to be fucking boy parts. If I wanted to fuck boy parts, i'd have come out as bi instead of lesbian.

If you identify as a woman but will poke me where I want to eat you, you're just playing at being a woman.

#pussy lover #trans is vague #fully transitioned or you're just playing #transsexuals over transgenders any day

[tururus-stuff]

Zim hated the heat, he hated the summer, he hated the sun, he hated the world, and he hated not having a pool at this hot time of year. If it were up to him, he would make the sun explode, even if it sounded stupid and meant the total death of life on earth, he would do anything for it to rain or at least have a cool breeze, but the heat had barely left his house. hit even harder than the time his brother Gir cooked when his parents were away and accidentally hit his face with a hot frying pan that still had oil on it (Well maybe the heat outside wasn't that strong, but it was horrendous and Zim was a exaggerated).

His T-shirt rested on the sofa, he practically only wore a pair of shorts, he had the fan on (his air conditioning stopped working a week ago due to the effort of its continuous use, it is not as if he had tried to improve it himself, of course not, it was fault of the strong heat and now there were not many people willing to go to the middle of the forest to repair it) and to the maximum but even so the damn heat lasted, it felt like it was cooking between those four walls.

Her back was pressed to the tiles, she was cool, and it was better than the sofa next to her with its warm fabric, the sound of the news broadcasts talking about how you could fry an egg on the sidewalk until you brought up the topic of global warming. Interesting, but he didn't make the slightest attempt to get up, grab the remote and change the channel for a more interesting one.

He heard knocks on the back door of his house, loud and short, he did not feel like getting up, even if he knew who he was, after all, there was only one monster that would visit him in this heat and to top it off would knock from the back door of his house (For something the front was the main one, but it seemed that Dib thought that the one behind was the main one even if Zim tried to get him to go in and out of the front, he was a human with little patience and days ago he stopped trying to make it more civilized ). There were more blows at the lack of response, Zim inhaled.

"JUST COME IN AND STOP FUCKING" He yelled in annoyance, he didn't feel like getting up, going to the kitchen and being hit by a heat wave. He heard the sound of the door opening and closing, along with the heavy footsteps approaching, he did not want to get up, his back felt sweaty and sticky, his skin probably stuck to the tiles and the idea disgusted him but he did not have the courage to do something at all. respect.

He saw a shadow approach out of the corner of his eye, unintelligible growls and claws raking the fabric of the largest sofa in the living room before hearing this squeak. Zim gathered all his strength to get up while the mothman did not take his eyes off him, curious about the human's pale skin, he had small moles all over his body, it was curious, he reminded him of the sky with inverted colors; white with black stars, cute.

Both hairy antennae stood up when he heard a drawer close tightly, he narrowed his eyes and glued his antennae to his skull, seeing the necklace that Zim had in his hands, he did not like it at all, he had only used it a few times, it was cold, hard and uncomfortable, he could even say that it suffocated him a bit, maybe he would complain later, even if he felt that Zim would insult him for it. He didn't understand the human, nor why he seemed to want to meet him, and even if he asked him he never had a clear answer, even if it was sincere, it was weird. Actually Zim was totally weird.

"You know how it is" The brunette detached one of the edges of the necklace, extending it to Dib, who grunted but in the same way brought his neck closer so that they put the necklace on him, a "click" and now everything was in its place "Now, It's too hot. Why the hell are you here? Zim doesn't feel like being with Dib-Beast "Okay, that hurt.

"I just wanted to hang out with you" He wasn't lying, it's not like he had much to do in the forest, and he was curious about the human in front of him and he didn't point a gun at him or run away in terror, probably in his entire life it was the first time he had met such a rare human. Zim wrinkled his nose in annoyance, and now that he was looking closely, his eyes were blue, no, purple. A mixture of both? Could humans even possess such a combination? Rare.

"Your visits are more frequent, and considering that before you didn't even want to see me, it gives me the impression that you are lying" He felt his back cold, and the sweat falling from his face, but he did not want to go back to the floor, Zim decided to throw himself on the small sofa that in where he had left his shirt, folding it and hanging it from the back.

"And yet you decide to let me into your house" he sneered, sticking his tongue out of him, similar to a human's but longer.

"Uuuuugh" he put his head and legs on the armrests while his hands rested on his stomach "Aren't you hot?"

"The sun was worse ..." his growl was silenced little by little, almost as if he was short of breath.

"Oh shut up" Could it be worse? It was the least he wanted to hear now.

The silence didn't last long, a fierce growl erupted from Dib's chest and Zim turned to look at the mothman, he seemed ... Angry? Did he get angry because I told him to shut up? He was never going to admit it, but that had scared him. The alien fangs were sharp, clearly from a predator, the claws were equally sharp and ripped the fabric of his sofa (He complained internally about that, insulting Dib) almost taking out the filling, and for the first time, his red gaze flashed pure fury .

"Who?" Zim's gaze dropped from Dib's eyes to his neck (A change that something inside him appreciated, an angry cryptid didn't sound and looked pretty) to read that sentence, he didn't understand it and the silence only made him growl even more. mothman, there were no letters until after half a minute along with another growl, Zim wondered if the translator was working properly or Dib was just growling mindlessly out of reflex.

"Who what?" He asked back, raising an eyebrow.

"Who made you those scars?" It went from being a simple fierce growl to a continuous growl, the feathers of his wings and chest vibrating, responding to the anger that Dib possessed. Zim looked down at the same place as Dib; his chest, where two scars from a recent surgery rested (literally made a couple of weeks before moving into the woods).

"Oh, these" She ran her hand over the fine lines where his skin would have, preventing it from being separated by fine black threads.

"Yeah, those" Dib growled back, he didn't understand why he was so angry, but he didn't care, the important thing was who he had to dismember for touching Zim.

"They're from surgery." The response seemed to appease the mothman, the growling ceasing for a second before returning, less violent, but back.

"I do not believe you"

"You don't have to believe me"

Silence, damned awkward silence, Dib stilled, but he let out one last growl exhaling through his nose before fully loosening his wings, leaving them limp on the couch. Zim looked up, saw doubt in Dib's eyes and had the need to explain, he sat down correctly and suddenly he was not as hot as before, maybe getting distracted helped him.

"Do you know what transsexuals are?" He started with a simple question, hoping for an affirmative answer.

"No." Even if Dib searched the back of his mind, he never heard such a term. Well shit. Zim inhaled, taking a deep breath to explain as if he were speaking to a child, a large, feathered child with sharp teeth.

"Look, transsexuals are people who are not comfortable with their assigned sex and decide to alter it with hormones and surgeries. In my case, I was born female, but-" He was interrupted by a grunt, frowning, not happy with the interruption.

"Are you a woman? You look like a man" Now Zim felt flattered and angry.

"Exactly. I am a man, but I was born in the body of a woman, I did not like my breasts so I removed them with a surgery a month ago, I still have to wait for the scar to heal, and one day it will not even be noticed that I lowered my breasts "Dib tilted his head, an antenna trembled and Zim wanted to laugh at his attempt to understand" Sure, it's not like you could easily understand if you didn't live it, or if you're not human- H-Hey "The air left his lungs with that last screech when he saw Dib get up and in seconds put a hand on his shoulder, Zim froze when he saw him kneel and pass a claw from the other hand through the scar, Zim feared that he would break some of the threads.

"They hurt?" Dib looked up from his chest to the human's eyes, his eyes were red, but Zim could notice a small point of lighter red set in the center. Was that his pupil or was it just the glow? It seemed to be his pupil, he sweated cold when noticing that he was looking at Dib's eyes for too long and the heat was rising up his chest and cheeks.

"They stopped hurting a long time ago" his cheeks were very hot, his pulse was racing and he felt that the words were going to chop in his throat. Dib found that cute color, and decided to step back, separating his hands from the human body, he didn't know that they changed color. Did it hurt him or did it make him feel uncomfortable? I lowered his antennae at the idea.

"They're cute scars." He didn't know why he said (grunted, actually) that, but Zim snorted, wrinkling his nose again and taking a position similar to an angry child embarrassed by his mother's kiss at school. primary.

"You like weird things"

Dib just laughed, and Zim raised an annoyed eyebrow.

"What are you laughing at stinking beast?!"

"I bathe once a day for your information"

#mothman!dib #zadr

[reubsworld]

This Mess of a Man: The Manics and Masculinity

The Manics never really bought into rock’s testosterone mythology — they’ve always been determinedly androgynous (albeit reluctantly, in some cases), and their entire aesthetic has drawn heavily on the more gender-bending aspects of rock’s past: glam, LA spandex rock, punk. The band’s lyrical/political wing — ie. Nicky Wire and Richey Edwards — took great pleasure in subverting rock’s machismo, and the fact that James Dean Bradfield and Sean Moore are more conventionally masculine has only heightened the sense of fascinating variety in the confines of a single group.

Beyond this, both Wire and Edwards have written from a female perspective in a manner that seems at least both well-intentioned and credible. These songs have addressed subject matter that many of their contemporaries would approach with trepidation — prostitution and the male gaze (“Little Baby Nothing”), eating disorders (“4st 7lb”), self-mutilation (“Roses in the Hospital”), destructive relationships (“She Bathed Herself in a Bath of Bleach”) — and generally done so with insight and compassion. Their interest in feminism is also reasonably well-documented — after all, this is a band who were quoting Andrea Dworkin when James Brooks was still in diapers (not, incidentally, a jab at Brooks, whose ongoing engagement with feminism has been fascinating.)

Personally, though, for all that the band’s feminism has been welcome and inspiring, I’ve always been particularly fascinated with their examination of the other side of the gender binary: the nature of masculinity. For all that rock ‘n’ roll is full of chest-beating declarations of manliness, songs that make a genuine attempt at addressing what it means to be a man are thin on the ground — Joe Jackson’s “Real Men,” Pulp’s “I’m a Man,” a few others.

For all their we-destroy-rock-'n’-roll bravado, from the very beginning, there was always something deeply vulnerable about the Manics’ lyrics — some of intentional, no doubt, some of it I suspect less so. Edwards, in particular, seemed deeply ambivalent about many aspects of manhood. Sex was memorably described as “nature’s lukewarm pleasure” on The Holy Bible album track “She Is Suffering,” but even before then, both he and his co-lyricist had oscillated between bravado (“Starlover,” for instance, and the ripsnorting cover of Guns N’ Roses’ “It’s So Easy” they used to do live) and vulnerability. As I wrote yesterday, Gold Against the Soul-era b-side “Comfort Comes” summed this up neatly, switching between the two perspectives in the course of one song.

Anyone who has one Y chromosome can relate to this — as a man, you’re meant to be relentlessly sex-positive, and any ambivalence about it is by implication a slight on your manhood. And even beyond sex, the Manics’ early to mid-'90s output took aim at traditional manifestations of manhood: marriage (“Hibernation” and “Comfort Comes”), libido (“Nostalgic Pushead,” and its killer opening line “I am the raping sunglass gaze/ Of sweaty man and escort agencies”) and even grooming yourself in the morning (“Yourself”.)

The most plaintive expression of this came with “Life Becoming a Landslide,” which found Bradfield howling the simple declaration “I don’t want to be a man” — the immediately obvious implication is that this is a statement of not wanting to grow up, but then, perhaps there are gender implications beyond that, because as well as discomfort with the societal implications of manhood, many of the band’s lyrics also discuss a discomfort with the body. Clearly, this is something particularly identified with Edwards — apart from his well-documented eating disorders, the imagery of torn skin and mutilated forms appear throughout his lyrics, both in his earlier work and on the lyrics that eventually surfaced on Journal for Plague Lovers.

But for all that Edwards’ lyrics moved repeatedly through this territory, the most simple and powerful declaration of gender ambivalence in the band’s ouevre comes instead from Nicky Wire.

Manic Street Preachers — “Born a Girl”

“Born a Girl” is truly one of the most confessional and compelling rock lyrics you’ll ever read,  especially its startling chorus: “I wish I had been born a girl instead of what I am/ Yes, I wish I had been born a girl and not this mess of a man.” It can be read in a variety of ways — as a declaration of latent transsexuality, as an expression of dissatisfaction with the male gender in general, or just as a deeply personal meditation about gender identity.

There’s another layer of complexity added by the fact that Wire gave these lyrics to Bradfield, the band’s most conventionally masculine member, to sing. This wasn’t lost on the singer, whose thoughts on the song are worth quoting in their entirety:

“If I get, ‘What a fucking poofter,’ who fucking cares? Obviously I’m famous for not being androgynous like Nick and Richey were, so because I’m singing someone else’s emotions and ideals I have to describe it to people, like addressing small child: No, he’s not gay, no he’s not a Madam Jo-Jo TV, but he feels there’s no description for him. I think these are Nick’s purest thoughts, complete, unabashed… not courage, that’s too pugnacious, but just… there’s no shame. Whatsoever. He loves wearing dresses, he prefers women’s clothes and he says at the end of the day his favourite person in the world is his mother, because she’s the most pure, beautiful and sensitive person he’s ever known.” [via]

That’s perhaps the most succinct declaration of what’s always fascinated me about the Manics’ examination of gender and masculinity. They’re one of the few bands to look honestly at what it means to be male, and to understand that as with any aspect of sexuality, masculinity is a spectrum — not, as Richey Edwards once wrote, a “fixed ideal.” Their continuing exploration of this idea has been a source of inspiration and insight for me, and I suspect I’m not alone.

#manic street preachers #androgenous #transgender #sexuality #gender #gender identity

[wreckedgreg-blog]

the anti-hero's journey (5)

An unwanted mystery guest: Killing John Gee

The welcome speech was boring, tedious and prone to technical difficulties. After the 15 minutes of stuttering, mumbling, microphone feedback and utter niceties, the profusely sweating fat man, who apparently organized the whole thing, lumbers of stage.  When it ended most people got up and went to the talks in the small rooms. I stayed. They were putting more chairs, more microphones and some tables on stage. I moved a couple of rows to the front, still looking around in wonder at all these strange people. Some people with cameras are sitting in the front seats. Apparently there was some media interest for this literary freak show.

Some intern with a great ass puts down name cards. It looks like the photocopier, or printer, was broke, even from a few yards I can hardly read the names on the cards. There are going to be seven speakers.

I look in the program.

Chair: Richard Olafson- Publisher

panel:

Craig Cresent- writer and expert on sincerity

Ronald Twinshing- on-line literary critic

Xantasma Welch- activist writer of the literary blog ”please rape me”

Bernd Flour- professor and literary critic

Joachim Stein- writer and artist

and welcoming our very special guest

John Gee-successful writer and educator

They finally set up the stage. I notice Kessler sitting a few seats to my left. I smile and wave. He raises a can of cheap beer. The auditorium was slowly getting fuller. It looks like a zoo, or an asylum. Barely human rejects. The all looked deplorable and washed up. It looked all so miserable. I feel like “collective suicide” would be the only group activity this gathering is suited for.

It should have started five minutes ago, but the panel is only half there; the fat sweating organizer, who is chairing the thing, a psychotic looking emaciated young man in a black leather jacket, old and tired looking man in a brown checkered suit. The seem to ignore the small audience and even each other. A young unshaven man in a cartoon t-shirt and childish sneakers and masculine transsexual almost complete the panel. The second and fourth seats still vacant. Nobody seemed to pay any attention. The panelist were starting to mumble amongst themselves. Ten minutes after the panel should have started, the big shot, the star, walks on stage.

He appeared taller than he was. It was like some optical illusion; he seemed to shrink as he approached his chair. His imaginary tallness was mainly a result from his unnatural skinniness. He was swaying like a bamboo sprout when he walked and his silly fluffy hair added to his cartoonish appearance. To diminish his clownishness he left his usual side kick, his brother who looks like the aborted part of a Siamese twin, at home. Still, he looked like a fool. He was a successful writer and a total tool. A typical modern eunuch; the type that worships women instead of loves them; that 'respects' his brothers instead of challenging them. A total waste of human genome. One of those creatures that made you question the validity of Darwinism. He sat down and nodded uneasily towards his fellow panelists.

The sweaty man coughed. “ I am sorry to say that Mr. Stein could not make it. So I suggest we get this forum started. I won't bother introduce anybody here, because you should already know every one here or you wouldn't even care.” Muffled laughter.  “So what does sincerity mean to us? As writers and as readers?' The blond fat guy was looking at his phone, the tranny was staring at John, the psychotic man talked to the professor, who politely chuckled. Fat paranoid Richard was sweating even more and was looking desperate. “Anybody?” John looked around and smiled.

“I think we all want to be sincere here. I think we all appreciate what people like Dav....”

“Don't say his name! You piece of shit!” Twinshing, the young psychotic was standing up and foaming at the mouth. I thought he would jump on table and tear John Gee apart. “Don't you dare speak His name!”

The old fat professor was trying to calm down the internet lunatic. With a crazed look the internet critic pushed away the aging academic “Away with you, foul ghoul!” The fat little man fell back in his seat, nearly tipping over, not unlike a studious roly-poly.  Xantasma was body blocking the insane critic

” Back off crazy!” Richard made a feeble attempt to calm the panel. “Guys, can't we just play nice?” He did some weird giggle. “Good job, fatso!”  Some guy is jeering and trowing a paper cup. Richard is gleaming with sweat and looking around  like a caged animal. “Fight, fight!” The crowd was getting worked up. John Gee was getting agitated, rubbing his face and arms.

Who would invite a person like that to a “troubled writers event” ? Was this a set up? It looked like at least one person was going to die as result of this shit. John is clearly dismayed and surprised by the hate. He makes some weird facial expressions and leans in for his mic.

“He guys , relax. I came to check out this scene. … to share my knowledge.... to...”

His microphone was barely on. The feedback is getting louder than his voice, which was less shrill than I expected. Ronald Twinshing in his black leather jacket was hitting Xantasma, almost a full foot taller than him, was blocking him effortlessly.  John was staring at the table and Craig was filming the assault by Ronald. In the mean time the aged professor, the cowardly Bernd Flour made his way off stage, slowly and painfully, like a shot animal. Richard was stuck in a loop of looking at the audience with a retarded grin and a looking in horror at the chaos of his finely selected panel.

Thisd was going to be messy.. Did that paranoid fat bastard set it all up?  I don't believe so: he has nothing to gain from this chaos. No, it was just pure entropy; everything was gravitating towards its basest level. Xantasma knocked over the tiny basement dweller. He scampered to his feet, lunged towards the large transexual, plowing him/her/it into John. Craig steps back and keeps filming, with no  expression on his face. Richard yelps and runs off.

Kessler Laughed heartly, baring his unbrushed teeth. “This is too good to be true!” I saw guys clenching their fists, a fat guy doing a little autistic excitement dance, some other guy flapping his arms like he was going to have a full on seizure.  I grew nervous. The crowd looked up to no good. Yeah, I hated this ass as much as the next guy, but getting charged with GBH or attempted murder is not my my idea of “a good time” or even “useful life experience”. John Gee got up to his feet   There he stood. Mr. Bigshot. The successful writer. Looking like a big lost child. He did not understand where he gotten him self in to. We weren't envious, we were disgusted. The nerve of that insincere paedophile to show up at our little gatherings of sincerity and hate. He thought he could show us “the way”. We would show him. The audience stormed the stage. The other panelists were ignored and trampled. People were grabbing and tearing at John. He was crying.

“Why don't you like me?”

“You suck!” Somebody who smelled like sweat and dead animals was yelling in Johns face.

“Why are all so angry?”

“You are shit!”

“I thought I could teach you guys something about tolerance and...”

“Fuck you!” The Failed Writers Guild seems unanimous in their hate against our Johny, the prodigy, the success. Then suddenly things get really ugly, really fast. It was a flurry of animal frustration and violence. It was pure insanity.

So that is why I am driving at 2am in Kesslers car with a famous writer in the car booth. “One day Greg, you'll laugh about this.” “I doubt it” I snort and try to keep my eyes on the road and the car straight.  Fuck. Fuck. I thought I could relax by embracing writing, not cause more stress.

#amwriting #John Green