Testosterone & Tirades

The Rants of an Agender, OCD, Autistic, Demisexual, Gay Trans Man

[testosteroneandtirades]

Tumblr has changed a lot since I first used it a long time ago. Apparently, mature content requires a login, and that creates too much of an accessibility issue for me, so moving the blog to Blogger.

[testosteroneandtirades]

Just a Horse

Unicorns have taken on a whole slew of meanings in contemporary society: queerness, youth, sophistication, uniqueness, rarity, wealth, purity, and mystery, just to name a few. In this essay, I’d like to focus on the unicorn as a symbol of transmasculinity. 

In medieval European literature and folklore, the unicorn was deeply entangled with ideas of purity and virginity, particularly through its association with chastity, feminine purity, and the Virgin Mary. Its capture through the use of a virgin as bait can also be read, through a postcolonial lens, as an image of domination achieved through manipulation rather than brute force. The chained unicorn of Scottish heraldry predates its incorporation into the Royal Coat of Arms of the United Kingdom, but its later position there creates a particularly provocative image when viewed through a postcolonial lens: Scotland's national beast, restrained. 

The basic concept was that a virgin girl (of course it was a girl!) was to go out into the woods as bait to lure the creature towards her (every hetero man’s dream, right?). Once the unicorn rested his (of course it was a he!) head on her lap, the hunters would emerge to capture, imprison and/or slaughter him. Unicorn horn is a key ingredient in vital medicines, you know (those poor narwhals)!  

I know, I know! There are a lot of implications and hypocrisies in there, including colonial control over nature and all the uncomfortable patriarchal implications of using a virgin girl's sexuality as bait, but let’s stay focused! 

Consider, for a moment, that the virgin is a transmasculine youth; society sees them as a thing of beauty and purity in their pre-transition state, a state those invested in their femininity may insist must be maintained at all costs. In this metaphor, the unicorn now becomes the internal trans identity. The youth is then asked by their caregivers to call upon this internal identity under the guise of nurturing it (“You can tell us anything; we'll always love you.” “Get out of my house, you disgusting creature!” Totally didn’t see that coming!) The unicorn wants to protect the youth and keep them from having to suffer a life of misalignment and entrapment in a body that isn’t theirs. The unicorn wants to take the youth away to run free in the wilds of the woods where they can shine as their true self. But the youth has been tricked by society and instead suppresses their transness to appease those in power. The youth becomes complicit in their own internalised transphobia, enlisted by those in power to suppress their own identity. 

If the unicorn is imprisoned, the youth may visit that side of themself and contemplate freeing their inner truth, or question the wisdom of their decision to hide that side of themself, and confront both the transphobia imposed upon them and the transphobia they have internalised. If the unicorn is slaughtered, the youth's connection to their transness is destroyed through social repression and their own coerced participation in internalised transphobia; this could show up as religion, politics, family, media, etc. There is no shortage of negative depictions of transness, and internalised transphobia is a real struggle (I still find pockets of it within myself).

From this perspective, it seems counterintuitive for a unicorn to represent queerness. In fact, it seems very much to represent the repression of queerness. Even the 1982 film The Last Unicorn follows this path if read through a trans lens: the Unicorn/Amalthea’s kind is hunted by the forces of the colonial patriarchy, driven into the sea by the Red Bull, and imprisoned there. On the Unicorn/Amalthea's mission to rescue them, she is captured and treated as a freak of nature for others to gawk at; later, when hunted by the Red Bull, she is transformed into a human against her will under the guise of ‘protecting’ her. In the end, the unicorns are ‘rescued’ and returned to their true forms, but are they really restored? Read through this lens, they are scarred with the trauma of being treated as lesser beings, of being hunted down for something they didn’t choose, for something they had no control over (Ok, sorry, this essay got way more serious than I intended; I’m even tearing up as I write this.) Even Unicorn/Amalthea did not escape that trauma; she could be read as even more traumatised than the others because of her forced conversion, and now has to live with being the only unicorn that understands regret (a feeling I know well as a late transitioner). That got heavy fast. Ok, so back to the unicorn as a mascot for queerness. I get that it represents uniqueness, magic, and the inner self; however, I really struggle with the connotations unicorns carry in media, particularly the idea of taming inner nature and inner masculinity. Even the removal of the horn, the castration of the masculine identity, is disturbing in its representation of transmasculine repression. In contemporary children's fiction, the loss of a unicorn's horn can literally render him legible as an ordinary horse. In Mary Stanton's The Road to Balinor, Sunchaser's horn has been shattered, and in the human world he is known simply as Chase, Ari's ‘ordinary’ horse. He hasn't stopped being a unicorn, of course. Others have simply lost the ability to recognise him as one. The extraordinary has become acceptable after losing the very thing that allowed others to recognise him for what he was. He's safe now, normal, acceptable. Just a horse. 

From where I sit as a trans man with a degree in media analysis (Yes, I have more than one degree), I struggle to find comfort in such a disturbing symbol that I see constantly plastered around my community. As a friend once explained to me, the cicada is a much better symbol for the trans experience (perhaps an essay for another time).       I totally did not read this article before writing my essay, but I thought it was too serendipitous not to include, so check out this other perspective on The Last Unicorn as a trans narrative: https://www.mdpi.com/2410-9789/6/1/2 

[testosteroneandtirades]

The Next Meal

I wrote a very dark, intense horror story based on prompts from the journaling game Carnivorous by Monroe Wells-Soto (Game Link: https://monroeroe.itch.io/carnivorous). Because the themes are too extreme and mature for Tumblr, I have hosted the full text externally. If you are 18+ and comfortable with severe body horror and highly explicit adult themes, you can read it here (Telegraph Link: https://telegra.ph/The-Next-Meal-08-13).

[testosteroneandtirades]

The Endless Suffocation

Deep in the richness of the soil, I planted my roots. As my strength grew, I burst out into the open air and saw light for the first time. I drank in the rich soil filled with nutrients and felt the openness that would allow me to flourish.

The seasons changed. Droughts came and went. Many creatures climbed in my branches, and I felt the vibrations of passing herds in my roots. Life was a stable cycle of growth, of seasonal change, of predictable patterns, and the forest around me was vibrant with life.

The annual migrations were my favorite. The hundreds of birds that landed in my branches, that flew overhead, whose powerful wingbeats shook me down to my roots. It was because of them that I was able to grow tall and endure. Their annual passing made my forest fertile and clear.

Every time small plants began to creep around my trunk, I knew it would only be a matter of time. With the return of the flocks, the growth of the newcomers would be suppressed, and I could breathe in the open air once again.

As the cycle of life continued, season after season, decade after decade, small shifts began to occur. The herds lessened, their frequency no longer following a predictable pattern. The powerful vibrations of the flocks decreased, and I knew that something was happening. Something beyond my forest had impacted these frequent visitors.

As the seasons continued to cycle, their numbers decreased, until one day I realized it had been a full cycle and they had not come at all.

With their diminishing numbers, the forest began to grow dense around me. Other trees and plants, once trampled, once suffocated by the droppings of the flocks, now competed for dominance in my once bright clearing. As time continued, their growth oppressed me until the light thinned and the air around my trunk grew still, crowded by a forest that was no longer my own.

And once, when the cycles were predictable, I had cast my seeds aside, knowing that my offspring would find their own clearings in this forest. But now there is uncertainty. With no room, how can such offspring grow?

And as I continue to age, I know that my line will end with me.

[testosteroneandtirades]

Transposed

It was a day like any other.

I was out admiring my home when they came for me.

There was no warning, no sign. One moment the world was familiar and the next it was full of noise and commotion.

They rounded us up and forced us into cramped, airless spaces.

The darkness slammed shut around us.

We had no idea who they were or where they were taking us.

We feared the worst.

Time became meaningless.

Some became sick while others died.

All of us shivered in the cold, pressed together because there was nowhere else for our bodies to go.

The smell was suffocating, the darkness absolute.

We whispered prayers to no one.

Days, weeks, months—we couldn’t tell.

There was no sun, no night, no rhythm to cling to.

Eventually they moved us again into a different kind of confinement, one that roared as it shook.

They separated the dead, but not before the living had to lie beside them.

When I finally woke to brightness, I had forgotten the concept of light.

For a brief moment, I was exalted, certain I had returned to the midday sun of my home.

But as I came to my senses, I found myself wedged in with others, all of us in shock and stunned by the harshness of the light after so long in total darkness.

I looked around to examine this new place and saw a strange being watching me through a transparent barrier, silent, assessing, waiting.

Before reaching toward me.

As it grabbed me with its soft, blunted claws, that was when I understood.

Whatever world I knew before, the home I had known for over a decade, was gone forever.

[testosteroneandtirades]

Sleepaway Camp Made Me Gay

Ok, not really (since I was already gay), but I thought it was a funny title, because Sleepaway Camp does a hell of a good job inviting viewers to engage in the homoerotic gaze. If you haven’t seen it yet, go watch it and then come back. Otherwise, you’ve been warned about spoilers and accept the consequences.

80s media was full of what would now be considered gender-bending or gay concepts of masculinity: long hair, big muscles in small clothes, makeup, close-ups of male bodies (though very few full-frontal nudes, unfortunately), and men getting really physical with other men. So, I’m hard-pressed to find an 80s film that doesn’t evoke some sense of gayness within me. However, Sleepaway Camp takes this to a whole new level.

The entire film seems focused on the nubile bodies of young men and boys: sexy, muscled, and hairy camp counselors in short-shorts and crop tops; or camp attendees with muscular abdomens, low-riding shorts, who seem to use anything as an excuse to remove shirts. The boys are often roughhousing and finding excuses to touch each other, even play homoerotic pranks on the less attractive of the characters, such as the “mind over matter” scene where one character is forced to ‘kiss’ the ass of one of the more attractive boys, almost like they are playing at homosexuality and find the pranked kid’s distress absurd (wait, is this a gay movie?).

The film tends to linger on these scenes and shots without giving much direction to what the viewer should be focusing on, except the sexy boys, of course! Meanwhile, the girl and young woman characters are rarely shown in any sexual fashion, except for Judy (we’ll come back to that). At first glance, the film seems to lack plot and shots seem almost random or pointless, but while the viewer is scanning for clues, it encourages those second, third, fourth - Oh, what the hell! I can’t keep my eyes off these sexy boys any longer!

While there is only one scene that explicitly shows gay desire, Angela’s flashback to seeing her father post-sex with another man, there are several explicit depictions of heterosexuality. Judy is the most prominent of those.

Judy is the only overtly sexualized girl/woman in the film, a stark contrast to other slasher flicks, such as Friday the 13th. Judy is described as having large breasts and being desired by the boys. She wears the most scantily clad outfits of all the girl/woman characters and really likes to show off her cleavage. However, she is depicted as such a cunt (haha, see what I did there?) that the boys lose interest in her. Instead, Angela is depicted as the shy and mysterious object of desire, and Judy can’t understand why Angela’s lack of femininity intrigues the boys. In essence, Judy’s heterosexuality is treated as undesirable.

In fact, all depictions of heterosexuality are considered undesirable. Angela’s almost rape scene (straight man and presumed straight girl) is shocking as the film’s first depiction of heterosexuality; very few viewers would find that sexually appealing, and most are rooting for Angela to be rescued from this demonized version of male desire. Mel, the camp owner, has a sexual relationship with one of the much younger counselors (you guessed it: a woman). The relationship is treated as inappropriate and gross by the film, and the counselor is killed for interfering with the movie’s homosexual direction. Even Angela’s aunt couldn’t hold onto her heterosexual marriage; she tells us in a flashback that her husband left (for another guy?). Notice a pattern? Heterosexuality = bad, homosexuality = good. A strange direction for a film of the age of the AIDS scare…

Which is why the ending is so shocking. Ok, sure, some people were surprised to find out that Angela is actually homosexual Peter who was socialized as a girl by his crazy aunt. I think it is shocking because the film is essentially forcing viewers to engage in the homoerotic gaze and shun heterosexuality, only to be told that they were crazy to do so. The full-frontal nudity (I did say few, not completely absent.) in the closing scene draws the viewer’s, now homoerotic, gaze towards Angela’s murder-induced erection. While the phallic metaphors aren’t as strong in this movie as other slashers, it is clear that penis envy (I swear I’m not projecting as a trans man!) is the true killer.

Take the curling iron scene, for example. A phallic object is used to rape the heterosexual body of Judy, essentially burning away her womanhood, the very thing that draws men towards her and away from homosexuality. Angela could be read as jealous that the penis of the boy she desires was being eaten up by the monstrous feminine, and thus the evil vagina must be slain.

However, the closing reveal of Angela as murderer shocks us into questioning our empathy and compassion towards Angela, and thus homosexuality. Sleepaway Camp was released in 1983 during the beginning of the AIDS panic, when homosexuality was not only culturally coded as immoral but disease-ridden. Remember now, gay men are killers! They pass on the deadly AIDS virus, essentially murdering innocent men by maliciously tricking them into acts of sexual deviance! Sleepaway Camp seems to echo this sentiment by making male desire for the male lethal through its twist of the male gaze now turned homoerotic. And to further add scrutiny to the viewer’s participation in the homoerotic gaze, the whole film acts like a trick to make you question any and all possible empathy you could have for gay men; even worse, the film implies that actual gay or questioning viewers are monsters and mentally deranged.

While the following is not the focus of my essay, I will address the elephant in the room: transphobia. This film seems to follow along the same lines that are currently being used to argue against trans women being allowed to use women’s restrooms: secret men planning to hurt daughters. However, there are two spins here: 1) it is actually sons these trans women are after, not girls, and 2) Angela is not actually trans since she was forcibly raised as a girl by an adult. Again, the message seems to not necessarily be about trans women, but really about AIDS and the dangers of allowing your children to commit sodomy.

While Sleepaway Camp is not a blockbuster hit by any means with its crude acting and terrible lines, it does stand out in the slasher genre for its intense crusade on homosexuality, after manufacturing that very desire within the viewer. A strange take on the slasher genre when most 80s slashers focused specifically on heterosexual sex, and thus sex in general, as immoral. Guess only deviance needs to be manufactured since everyone is straight until proven otherwise (an essay for another time).

[testosteroneandtirades]

Husband’s Little Helper

Are you the person in your relationship who acts as the administrator? Are you the one who runs the calendar, organises lunches, keeps track of data, archives, organises the house, plans logistics, and, in general, keeps total chaos from overtaking the life of yourself and your family? 

Some people may see this as the role of the ‘wife’ in a relationship. But what if there is no ‘wife?’ What if there is more than one ‘wife?’ 

As a gym rat, autistic, OCD, gay trans man, I take personal offence to the idea that my role in our household is seen as ‘womanly.’ People generally do not see me as the ‘woman’ in our relationship; I am clearly the ‘man’ of the household, but I like to run a tight ship. People don’t look at military sergeants and think, “How cute, he loves things tidy and organised like a good, little housewife.” 

So, why the fuck do I get treated like one by medical staff when my spouse refers to me for scheduling appointments? Do you realise how much work it takes to keep track of medical appointments and work meetings for a two-month-old, an AuDHD spouse with chronic pain, and a neurodivergent trans man running their own business and a bunch of very ambitious projects? Bitch, do you realise I have a master’s degree in data management? This household ain’t your mother’s family planner. 

Those Karens who hear me on the phone and assume my voice is that of a dutiful cishet woman who sucks her husband’s cock (ok, maybe they got that part right) piss me the fuck off. And this happens in our business work too. When I’m providing technical assistance or supplying administrative data to my spouse, who is maintaining the call (my spouse is much better at talking to people without getting pissed off; maybe I should include anger problems in the title of this collection), those fucking Karens make the same assumptions! 

Why do so many people make assumptions about relationship dynamics? Even the LGBTQIA+ community is guilty of this. Even cis people have a variety of dynamics. And has anyone taken a peek at the BDSM or polyamory communities? Now, explain to me how there can only be one assumed dynamic, a dynamic that makes me the ‘woman’ in a gay relationship just because I’m the organized one with the fucking degree in data management. 

Of course these Karens will never examine their bias, because they spend too much time sitting at home drinking wine and letting their brains dribble out their ears from watching Leave It to Beaver reruns. I think it is time we gave them what they are asking for: a playbook in true patriarchal power—American Psycho. 

You want to see film reenactment? You want to talk about trans penis envy? You want to tell me I’m not a real man? Well, the best part about being a gay trans man without bottom surgery is that I can pick the size and shape of my cock. Ever wondered what it might be like to be fucked by a chainsaw? Me too! Oh, did I mention that being gay doesn’t extend to my sadomasochism? Let’s see if your husband can beat that. Who has penis envy now?