Category: Fun


its-not-the-beard-on-the-outside-that-counts-its-the-beard-on-the-insideI once swore that I would grow a big bushy fisherman’s beard once in my life, just because I could. Sadly, nearly three years of testosterone has failed to nudge the follicle pixies into action, and what scrawny facial hair I have would never make it onto a Fisherman’s Friend advert.

I have hair on my stomach, hair on my shoulders, even hair on my chest (if you squint hard…) but my face remains, for the most part, silky smooth with a hint of fluff. I see pictures of guys who have what I would call ‘proper’ man hair within a few months of starting T, and I am filled with envy. Even a teensy bit of bitter resentment. So why not me? And why does it matter?

Perhaps I should clarify here – when I said ‘for the most part’ silky smooth, I didn’t admit to the wiry growths sprouting from the lower part of my chin. Little clumps of hair that need chiselling off my chin, rather than shaving, and which resolutely refuse to join together into anything that might be recognised as a beard. I am surprisingly fond of my chin hair, to the point of not wanting to shave it off at all, rather letting its wiry strands form into some sort of portable art installation. It’s not that I don’t think it will come back (it does, in record time) but because this is one of the few things I have that hints at masculinity. Of course, many women have facial hair, so it probably doesn’t help me out that much, but I like to think that someone trying to work out whether Mark is short for…Markaret?…or not, might be swayed by my luxuriant chin sprouts.

I don’t come from a particularly hairy family, so genetically I am not predisposed to looking like Blackbeard. I didn’t start testosterone until I was nearly 40, so that may also count against me. Let’s face it, I am just me, and just like everything else in transition, it’s silly to play compare and contrast with anyone else. I am mostly very happy with who I am and how I look, and that, folks, is all that matters. HOWever, my lack of facial hair, combined with my (still) rather high-pitched voice, does make it hard for me just to fade into the background. I don’t like to stick out, and looking and sounding unusual for a man does become tiresome.

I may never be able to grow my fisherman’s beard, but I’d love to be able to manage a funky goatee. Or even a soul patch. Basically something that looks deliberate. As I mentioned earlier, it is mostly (though not all) those who identify as men who grow, and style, facial hair. I like to think that fewer people would misgender me if I have a ‘tache.

So what to do? I shave off the wiry bits, and the fluff, reasonably regularly, as I understand that this may finally persuade the follicle pixies to wake up and smell the Brut. I eat healthily, take my testosterone like a good boy, and short of going back in time and changing my entire genetic heritage, I don’t think there’s a lot else to do. Transition is a waiting game, and I may just have to buckle down and be patient. Or I could cheat and persuade one of the cats to sit permanently on my chin…

To celebrate nearly 20,000 post hits on my blog, I wanted to write about something that maybe isn’t often talked about in the way it should be. Sure, lots and lots of people are obsessed with what’s between a trans guy’s legs, and what ‘they do with it’, but that doesn’t help those lucky folk who happen to find themselves in bed with a trans man.

To be honest, you don’t really need to read further than number 1). Everything else I have to say comes back to that. The other thing to remember is that, as in everything in life, we are all different, and what is true for one trans guy will be the complete opposite for another. Just be aware of those differences, and refer back to number 1).

1) Talk to your man. Ask him about his body, and how he relates to it sexually. Find out what turns him on, turns him off or turns him into a quivering wreck (in either a good or a bad way). Communicate BEFORE you hit the sack – there’s a time and a place for “if I do X to you, will it make you feel dysphoric?”, and I recommend before, not during.

2) Find out what language he uses for his genitalia, and for what you’re doing in bed. Apart from the fact that you’ll both be more relaxed using terminology you’re happy with, if he suddenly yells “suck my [insert nickname for bodypart here]” it pays to know what he’s talking about.

3) Don’t assume that because your partner identifies as male that he will necessarily scorn sexual contact usually enjoyed by female-bodied folk. Some trans guys do have a problem with touching that involves what they see as inappropriate ‘female’ anatomy. If this is the case with your beau, make sure you talk things through to find his sexual comfort zone. However, a lot of guys enjoy vaginal penetration (if they call it that…who invented the word ‘vagina’ anyway? No-one with any aesthetic sense, that’s for sure). That doesn’t make them ‘confused’ or somehow not doing transition ‘properly’. It just means it feels good.

4) Be prepared for some super-sensitivity. Testosterone androgenises the clitoris (or the bodypart formally known as clitoris), making it larger, and often a LOT more sensitive, though equally, sensation may be patchy. A lot of change is going on down there, and it takes a while for everybody with a stake in the area to get the hang of what’s going on (including, I suspect, Mother Nature). If you have been with your trans guy pre-T, you may find you have to modify your technique now his anatomy is changing, or you might just find him clinging on to the ceiling by his finger nails mid-sex.

5) Strap-ons can be a blessing and a curse. Be aware that even for those of us who don’t yearn after our very own dick, attaching a fake one (however pretty/all singing, all dancing/guaranteed to satisfy/etc etc) where we can’t actually feel what we’re doing properly can be hard (pardon the pun). On the other hand, I’ve yet to meet the trans guy who hasn’t done a little manswagger on donning a strap-on. Let him enjoy his moment, and save the Freudian analysis for another time.

6) As hard as it will be, try to accommodate his body issues. If your loved one is pre-surgery in the chest area, he may want to wear a T-shirt during sex. Equally, if he is very unhappy with his genitalia, he may not thank you for staring lovingly at them, and describing what you’re doing to him in graphic detail. BUT, please realise that the way he feels about his own body does not reflect on the way he feels about yours. If you’re a girl, I’d bet a lot of money that he adores your breasts, and would be happy to play with them til dawn. Distaste for his own genitalia doesn’t mean he dislikes yours. If you’re a guy, whilst he may envy your flat chest and male genitalia, that won’t stop him desiring you and all your bits, because he finds you sexy.

7) Playing sexy dress-up, or getting into role-play, may feel uncomfortable for a trans guy – for some of us, it wasn’t that long ago that we were ‘expected’ to conform to ‘female’ dress codes. But you know what, if your fella wants to see how it feels to wear stockings, why not? It doesn’t mean he’s not actually serious about being a man, just that he’s comfortable enough with who he is to play around.

8) A common picture of trans guys is that they suddenly acquire a sexual appetite the size of Mount Etna. This is sort of true, and sort of not. Yes, one’s sexual appetite does change, and you may find your favourite trans guy indulging in a lot of…ahm…Self Love, but overall you won’t find he’s turned into a Sex Monster. If he didn’t have a very high libido before T, you may find it’s increased, but not necessarily as much as you’d expect. Those guys who end up very aroused a lot of the time may not find it a good thing, so try to talk it through.

9) Lots of lovely lube. T can, in many cases, dry things up a little. Bearing in mind what I was saying earlier about things also being Very Sensitive, I’d definitely recommend purchasing plenty of good-quality lube. If you’re using silicone toys, or your partner has a silicone ‘playing packer’, avoid silicone-based lubricants, and if you’re using condoms, don’t use oil-based lube.

10) Be safe. Bear in mind that it may still be possible for your partner to get pregnant. However sure you both are that his ovaries have been fried, it does still happen. Use a condom. Whatever your gender, STIs can still be spread however you like to play. Keep your sex toy hygiene high, and if you’re with a new partner, or have an open relationship, get a quick check-up. That way, you can relax and enjoy sex with your beautiful sexy trans man.

In every sexual encounter or longer-term relationship, there’s a lot of ‘shaking down’ to do, and because transition is necessarily a time of change, that can be very hard for all concerned. However, in my newly adopted role of ‘Uncle Mark’ I’ll just say, stick to number 1), respect each others’ bodies and minds, and enjoy it when you get it!

I started writing this blog to reach out to family and friends about the changes I am going through, and the reason why I have made these decisions in life. It was also intended as a useful way of me committing my thoughts to print for my own future reference. I’ve never been any good at keeping diaries, so a blog seemed like a pretty good idea.

My blog has by no means gone global in the usual sense – I haven’t had any calls from newspaper or magazine editors or funky online zines begging me to contribute, and my viewing numbers, whilst steadily rising, reflect a fairly small audience. I average around 280 post views a week, as opposed to 100-ish a week this time last year, which makes me very happy.

I have gone global in a different sense, though. On February 25th this year, WordPress started providing bloggers with information about what countries their views come from. It makes really fascinating reading. The picture at the top of this page shows all the different countries where people have sat at a computer, and viewed my blog since Feb 25th. The list runs downwards, rather than across. Everywhere from Jersey downwards has just had the one post view, but all others have had more than one.

I’m no egoist (though some might disagree) but the thought that my blog has been read so far across the world, and in such diverse places, is exciting, and a little scary. This isn’t just me talking about my boobs for friends and family any more.

Now I’d be the first to admit that it is unlikely every one of these post viewers was looking for information on the trans experience. It’s clear from what search engine terms people use that actually they’re looking for p*rn, or advice on swollen ankles. However, I like to think that for every misdirection there is another person who has found exactly what they needed. For every “what on earth have I found??” there’s an “It’s not just me, then”. Whether that’s in Worksop, Walnut Ridge or Warhapur, that makes me very happy.

The internet has opened up the world, there’s no doubt about it. Arguably that isn’t always a good thing, but in the case of linking up trans people across the world, it can really affect quality of life. In places where people experience no support from family, friends or the wider community, reading a blog, watching a YouTube video or chatting to someone via Messenger, or using Skype can mean that you feel a bit less alone. Whether the person you’re in touch with is on the other side of the world, or in the next town.

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The map below shows all the countries where someone has looked at my blog from 25th February 2012 to the present.

I haven’t been swimming for years. A whole host of issues surrounding my body and transition effectively ruled out swimming for me.

The number one problem was what to wear. Swimming is one of the few sports where there is a distinct difference in the way men and women dress. And anybody not identifying with either of those poles has to make a decision which way to go, swimming cozzie-wise. Easier said than done, when your body says one thing, and your brain very definitely says another.

Technically, of course, I could have continued wearing a woman’s swimming costume. But in reality this would have been far too much of a mind-f*ck. Having my breasts on display in skin-tight lycra would, psychologically, have been disastrous. I contemplated wearing a T-shirt over the top, but let’s face it, once water hits a T-shirt, everything’s still clingy.

I know that in other parts of the country, it is more common for people to swim in T-shirts, or rash vests, but round here that seems to be less common (in my experience) and the last thing I wanted was to draw attention to myself.

I did briefly contemplate going swimming wearing my binder, and then a T-shirt, but bearing in mind how hard it was to breathe in a binder, and how close the whole scenario was getting to that part of your swimming badge where you have to jump into the pool in your pyjamas, I gave up.

Fast forward to the present, post-chest-surgery, and a little further on in my body’s slow but steady creep towards the stereotypically masculine. My bum, hips and thighs are smaller, I have a ‘treasure trail’ creeping up my stomach, no breasts, man-sized nipples, oh, and quite a lot of tattoos (which, whilst playing no part in my actual transition, do seem to mark me in people’s eyes as less feminine. Ridiculous, but true.) My hair is a shade short of a buzzcut, so most things are pointing, at a casual glance, towards me being a man.

There is the small issue of scars. I have a purpley-red raised scar running from not-quite the centre of my chest to my armpit on both sides. It’ll fade with time, but given my track-record with scars, probably not entirely. It was suggested to me that I wait to go swimming until the scars were less obvious, but sometimes you’ve just got to bite the bullet, haven’t you?

Besides – what could anyone possibly say that would stop me in my track? “Cor, you’ve got big ugly scars!” Yes, yes I have. “I saw that Transsexual Summer programme, and they had scars like that! Are you a tranny [sic]?” Close. I prefer the word transgender. “That’s disgusting!” You’re entitled to your opinion. “Woah! Were you in a car crash?” Yes, yes I was – they had to operate to reconstruct most of my ribcage. Etc.

So anyway, I decided recently that it was Time. I purchased my first pair of swimshorts – which contrary to my promises to friends are NOT covered in palm trees and scantily clad ladies. Remember the bit about not wanting to stick out? I sat at the computer plotting my movements, checking the timetable, price, etc. I decided to go to a particular pool as it has a unisex ‘Changing Village’, so no immediate ‘what are you doing in here’ issues, hopefully. I also had to plan when to put on my testosterone gel, as it has to stay on your skin for 6 hours, so that went into my bag. Deciding whether or not to ‘pack’ at the pool was an easy one. Quite apart from not feeling it was necessary, I had horrible visions of something coming loose, and my little silicone buddy floating off towards the shallow end (or doing the front-crawl, depending on how imaginative I was feeling) so that also had to go in my bag. It was like packing for a military campaign.

I walked down to the pool, feeling far more nervous than I had anticipated. Visions of being laughed at, pointed at, etc. filled my mind. I was having to do a serious job of calming myself down. After all, what could possibly REALLY go wrong?

The pool was shut. A pool cover problem meant no swimming til it could be repaired. I was devastated.

Which is ridiculous – this was just a trip to have a swim, but for me it meant far more. I was finally going to do what I’d never done before, courage girded, and suddenly couldn’t. As I was close to work, and it was raining, I called the boss, and arranged to start work a couple of hours early, and sat at my desk in a sulk for the rest of the day.

I tried again the following day, this time phoning to check all was well with the pool cover. Changing was no problem, but that moment when I unlocked my cubicle to go put my stuff in a locker took an unreasonable amount of courage. The other problem I had is that I take my glasses off to swim, and prefer to leave them in the locker, so I was flying blind. This could be an advantage, as if anyone had stared at me, I couldn’t see them! It did mean, though, I couldn’t work out which was the gents toilet (the sign was at the top of the door…too far away), and anyway, there was no way I was going into the loo barefoot without being able to see the contents of the floor, so I saved it for later (and no, I DIDN’T pee in the pool!!)

Getting into the water was a dream come true. It was cool, embracing, and on ME, not cloth. Amazingly, I could still remember how to swim (just – I’m a one-stroke-and-not-all-that-good-at-that kinda guy) but honestly most of my time was spent just enjoying how good the water felt, and how good I felt. How free. I stopped worrying about how I looked after the first 2 minutes. Having achieved a real dream has given me a huge confidence boost. And swimming 30 lengths, albeit slowly, made me feel pretty pleased with myself.

Having got myself out of the water without losing my shorts, and changed, and testosteroned, etc. I decided to treat myself to a cup of dodgy coffee and some crisps. I’d just sat down with my goodies, and was giving myself a mental pat on the back for surviving the experience, when the fire-alarm went off, and the whole building, including the pool, was evacuated. Had that happened 15 or 30 minutes earlier, I can leave it to your imagination how I’d have felt…

An Online Christmas Carol

Once upon a time, on Christmas Eve, old Mark Scrooge sat busy in his office writing his ftm transition blog. It was very cold outside and in Scrooge’s office it was not much warmer either. Suddenly, a cheerful person entered the office. It was Scrooge’s partner, Will.

“A merry Christmas, Mark!” Will said.

“Bah!” said Scrooge, “Humbug!”

“Christmas a humbug!” said the eager-faced Will. “You don’t mean that, I am sure?”

“I do,” said Scrooge. “What’s Christmas time to you? You have to pay bills without money! You’re a year older but not an hour richer!”

When Will left, two gentlemen came in to collect money for the poor who had no place they could go. Stingy Scrooge, however, didn’t give the gentlemen any money, because they wouldn’t accept Paypal. When it was time to close the office, Scrooge talked to his clerk, Bob Scratchit.

“You want all day off tomorrow, don’t you?” said Scrooge.

“If that is okay, Sir,” answered the clerk.

“It’s not okay,” said Scrooge, “and it is not fair. After all, my YouTube stats will still need compiling. But if it must be, I want you to start work even earlier the following morning.”

Scratchit promised that he would; and the two went home.

Scrooge lived in an old house. The yard was very dark and scary that night and rather spooky, but Scrooge was not frightened easily. “Humbug,” he said, opened the door and walked in. He locked himself in, however, which he usually didn’t do. But then he felt safe again and sat down in front of his computer, powering it up whilst pondering on what to Tweet about his day.

Suddenly, Scrooge heard a noise, deep down below, as if somebody was dragging a heavy chain. The noise came nearer and nearer, and then Scrooge saw a frumpily dressed, but strangely familiar ghost coming right through the heavy door.

“Who are you?” said Scrooge.

“I am the ghost of your younger self, Markina Scroogetta.”

“But why do you come to me now?”

“I must wander through the world and I wear the chains because I was so unhappy in life. Three spirits will come to you. Expect the first tomorrow, when the bell tolls one.”

When she had said these words, Scroogetta’s ghost disappeared; and the night became quiet again. Scrooge went straight to bed, without undressing, and fell asleep immediately.

When Scrooge awoke, it was still very foggy and extremely cold, and there was no noise of people in the streets. Scroogetta’s ghost bothered him. He didn’t know whether it was a dream or not. Then he remembered that a spirit should visit him at one o’clock. So Scrooge decided to lie awake and wait to see what happens.

Suddenly, the clock struck one. Light flashed up in the room and a small hand drew back the curtains of his bed. Then Scrooge found himself face to face with the visitor. It was a strange figure – like a child: yet not so like a child as like an old man. Its hair, which hung about its neck and down its back, was white as if with age; and yet the face had not a wrinkle in it.

“Who, and what are you?” Scrooge asked the ghost.

“I am the Ghost of Christmas Past. Rise and come with me.”

The ghost took Scrooge back in time, to a place where his younger self, Scroogetta, was a child. There Scrooge could see a sweet-natured girl reading books, playing with friends and listening to music on a record player. Scrooge shook his head – those really were the Stone Ages before Kindle, Skype and Spotify. How had he made it through childhood – no wonder he was so messed up these days.

The spirit also took Scrooge to a University, where Scroogetta was a student. Scrooge saw the merry times they spent in the student bar. There was drink and music and dancing and Scrooge could see Scroogetta spending the night before essays were due in drinking copious amounts of Thunderbird and typing up her work on a twin-floppy machine. The thought of those days before available Internet made him shudder. “THIS is why I’m so mean”, he thought to himself before the Ghost of Christmas Past led him onwards.

Then the spirit took Scrooge to yet another place. Scroogetta was older now. She was not alone, but sat by the side of a wholesome young husband.

“It is sad to see,” he said, softly. “that another love has displaced me – the love of The Sims. I think it is better for us to part.”

“Spirit,” said Scrooge in a broken voice, “Take me back! I cannot bear it any longer. Stop rubbing all these memories of my broken past in my face!”

He struggled with the ghost to take him back. And finally Scrooge found himself in his own bed again. He was very exhausted and sank into a heavy sleep.

Scrooge woke up in the middle of a snore, just before the clock struck one again. He sat up in his bed and waited for the second ghost to come. And there it was – the Ghost of Christmas Present. It had curly brown hair, sparkling eyes and it wore a simple green robe with white fur, endorsed with the logo ‘iGhosts’. Its feet were bare and on its head it wore a holly wreath with a single green apple on the crown, one bite missing.

The ghost took Scrooge to Bob Scratchit’s house. In the kitchen you could see Mrs Scratchit preparing Christmas dinner. Her children were cheerfully sitting playing Gears of War on the Xbox. Then the door opened and Bob Scratchit came in with Tiny Tim upon his shoulders. Tiny Tim was Bob Scratchit’s youngest son. He bore a little crutch and had an iron frame around his limbs. He stared intently at the screen of his mobile phone.

“Come away from Facebook for a while, Tiny Tim”, said Scratchit, “You’re starting to remind me of Mr Scrooge”.

“In a minute, Dad, I’m just poking some hot girl in America.”

“Ok, Tim, but no Angry Birds while you’re at the table. And kids?” he called to the other children, “You’d better not be playing that on my profile!”

Then Christmas dinner was ready, and everyone sat down at the table. As the Scratchits were very poor, it was not much they had for Christmas dinner. But still everyone was joyful and you could feel that they all had the Christmas Spirit in their hearts.

Scrooge and the Ghost of Christmas Present visited many homes in many places: they saw sick people who were cheerful; couples whose love spanned the miles, poor people who felt rich that day – all because of the Christmas Spirit.

“Maybe,” thought Scrooge, “Just maybe, Christmas Spirit is more important than all the technology that I thought I couldn’t live without?”

The bell struck twelve. The Ghost of Christmas Present disappeared. And at the last stroke of the bell, Scrooge saw the third ghost coming towards him.

Slowly and silently the ghost came nearer. It was very tall and wore a deep black piece of clothing, which covered its whole body and left nothing of it visible but one outstretched hand.

“Are you the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come?” asked Scrooge, “I fear you more than any other spirit.”

The ghost did not say a word, and Scrooge was really scared. They wandered through the city and Scrooge heard some men talking about a massive Facebook server meltdown. Scrooge felt a pain in his guts and wanted to find out what they were talking about. But the ghost moved on, and Scrooge thought once more of the Christmas Spirit.

After that, the ghost led Scrooge through streets that were familiar to him; and as they went along, Scrooge looked here and there to find himself, but nowhere was he to be seen. They entered poor Bob Scratchit’s house and found the mother and the children by the fire. Quiet. Very quiet. The noisy little Scratchits were as still as statues. When Bob Scratchit came in, the children hurried to greet him. Then the two young Scratchits got upon his knees and laid their little cheeks against his face and said, “It’s the Red Ring Of Death, father. What shall we do?”

The ghost moved on and took Scrooge to the window of his office. The spirit stood and solemnly pointed to a dark hunched figure sat at the desk. Scrooge slowly went towards the window, and following the ghost’s finger saw himself, weeping incoherently, clawing at a computer screen that read only “Application returned no data. This may be expected or represent a connectivity error.”

“Spirit!” Scrooge cried, “hear me. I am not the man I was! I will not be the man I must have been so far! Why show me this if I am past all hope? Good Spirit, I will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year, rather than spend all my time online! I will live in the past, the present, and the future. The spirits of all three shall be within me. I will not ignore the lessons that they teach. Oh, tell me that I may change my fate!”

Full of fear, Scrooge caught the spirit’s hand. But the spirit suddenly changed – it shrunk and faded and finally turned into a bedpost.

Yes! And the bedpost was his own. The bed was his own, the room was his own. Best and happiest of all, the time before him was his own, and he could make the best of it. Scrooge immediately hurried over to his PC to write a blogpost about his experiences, or at least post a Facebook update, then stopped himself.

“I will live in the past, the present, and the future.” Scrooge repeated, walking away from the computer without turning it on. “I don’t know what to do! I am as happy as an angel! I don’t know what day of the month it is. I don’t know how long I’ve been among the spirits. Hallo! Hallo there!”

He ran to the window, opened it, and put out his head.

“What’s today?” cried Scrooge, calling downward to a boy in Sunday clothes.

“Today?” replied the boy. “Why, Christmas Day! Are you mental?”

“It’s Christmas Day!” said Scrooge to himself. “I haven’t missed it! The spirits have done it all in one night. Hallo, my fine fellow! Do you know the Wholefoods at the corner? And do you know whether they’ve sold the big tofu log that was hanging up there?”

“What, the one as big as me?” returned the boy. “It’s still hanging there now.”

“Is it!” said Scrooge. “Go and buy it! I am in earnest. Go and buy it and come back with the man that I may give them the direction where to take it. I’ll give you £50 for it. Come back with the man in less than five minutes and I’ll give you a copy of the X factor winners album!”

The boy was off like a shot, returning briefly only once as the tofu log was £85.

“I’ll send it to Bob Scratchit,” whispered Scrooge cheerfully. “It’s twice the size of Tiny Tim.”

Scrooge then went to church, which had been turned into a beautiful art gallery, and looked at the pictures for a while, then walked through the streets, and watched the people. He had never dreamed that anything could give him so much happiness.

But Scrooge was early at the office next morning. Oh, he was early there. If he could only catch Bob Scratchit coming late. And he did it; yes, he did. Bob was full eighteen minutes and a half behind his time. Scrooge sat with his door wide open, that he might see him come in.

“Hallo!” growled Scrooge, in his usual way. “What do you mean by coming here at this time of day? I am not going to stand this sort of thing any longer. And therefore,” he continued, jumping from his stool, “and therefore I am about to raise your salary. A merry Christmas, Bob.”

“Well actually, Mr Scrooge, I just came in today to hand in my notice. PC World is looking for staff, pays much better than you, and frankly I’ve always hated this job. Sorry, mate.”

Scrooge was shocked. “But what about that wonderful tofu log I sent you?”

“Mrs Scratchit sold that on eBay last night. We bought an Iceland Prawn Ring, and the rest of the money’s going towards the new Xbox. Cheers, anyway. See you.” And at that Bob Scratchit left Scrooge’s life for good.

But despite all of these setbacks, good reader, did Mark Scrooge become a better person? Did he learn that Christmas Spirit was far more important than social networking? You will have to decide for yourselves, by reading his future blogposts, viewing his YouTube videos, or catching him on Facebook.

Merry Christmas, one and all, wherever you and your loved ones are.

If Ever I Stray

Forgive me someone, for I have sinned
And I know not where I should begin
And some days it feels like you just can’t win
No matter what you do or say.

Things didn’t kill me but I don’t feel stronger
Life is short but it feels much longer
When you’ve lost the fight, yeah you’ve lost that hunger
To pull yourself through the day.

But if ever I stray from the path I follow
Take me down to the English Channel
Throw me in where the water is shallow
And then drag me on back to shore!

‘Cos love is free and life is cheap
And as long as I’ve got me a place to sleep
Some clothes on my back and some food to eat
Then I can’t ask for anything more

So come on everybody sing it 1, 2, 3, 4

So we all have secrets that we hold inside
They’re the worst little things that you never confide
And the worst one of all that you just can’t hide
Is that you’re never quite as strong as you sound
So I’m sorry baby, for the times I’ve hurt you
Sorry friends, for the times I desert you
Most days it feels like I don’t deserve you
And I wonder that you’re all still around

So if ever I stray from the path I follow
Take me down to the English Channel
Throw me in where the water is shallow
And then drag me on back to shore!

‘Cos love is free and life is cheap
And as long as I’ve got me a place to sleep
Some clothes on my back and some food to eat
Then I can’t ask for anything more

So come on everybody sing it 1, 2, 3, 4

Come on and join me in the water
And we’ll swim for home
Sometimes it’s hard to remember
I couldn’t do this on my own

So if ever I stray from the path I follow
Take me down to the English Channel
Throw me in where the water is shallow
And then drag me on back to shore!

‘Cos love is free and life is cheap
And as long as I’ve got me a place to sleep
Clothes on my back and some food to eat
Then I can’t ask for anything more

I won’t ask for anything more

The path I chose isn’t straight and narrow
It wanders around like a drunken fellow
Some days it’s hard for me to follow
But if you’ve got my back I’ll go on.
If you’ve got my back I’ll go on.

If Ever I Stray by Frank Turner

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A Hairy Question…

Help me out here, please. I’ve been shaving like a good’un for decades. Not because I really wanted to, but to keep the rest of the world happy. Now my underarm shrubbery has reached Kew Gardens status, it’s getting a bit unruly. I don’t go round looking at other men’s hairy bits, so I’m relying on you for help! Please vote in this poll….

WordPress allows me to see the terms that people have put into search engines to get to my blog. Some of them are pretty predictable. Things like “ftm operation”, “ftm surgery”, “ftm penis” and “transman genitalia” do kind of bear out what I’ve said before about the world’s seeming obsession with what’s in my pants. Others are kind of bizarre, and I can only guess how shocked or disappointed people were to be referred to my blog. Here are some of the best:

“boy ankles” – Can anyone enlighten me as to why ANY sane person would type this into a Google search? A cub scout fetishist, perhaps?

“does taking oestrogen gel curb my appetite” – No idea, but good luck finding out.

“how can I tell if I am retaining water” – Yeah, I know I did a post on my water retention issues (classy, me) but I’m pretty sure I wasn’t what this person was looking for.

“hairy cankles” – Ummm…a Cub Scout Leader fetishist this time??

“are you talking to my boobs?” – Who was this person asking? Me? The computer? Her invisible friend?

“the characteristics of the most feminine body” – Bwahahahahaaaa. I am so the wrong person to be asking for those!

“my boobs are evil” – I hear you. I mean, not necessarily yours…I’m sure from the outside they’re very lovely…unless they’re possessed…I’ll shut up now.

“images of hairy fairys” – Really? I mean, really??

And the top three searches since I started this blog? Drum roll, purlease….

1)     “transman penis” (Doh)

2)     “transgender transition” (Fair enough)

3)     “pictures of transgender transition mtf” (These people must have been gutted when instead of pics of gorgeous transwomen, they got me gurning about the state of gents’ toilets)

And my own personal favourite? “Vegan ftm”, because for once I may have been just the person that searcher was looking for. I like to think so, anyway!

Compare and Contrast

15th July 2010

to

28th May 2011

Have you ever considered how hard it is to book a smear test when the computer system at your doctor’s surgery has you listed as male?

Gotta laugh…