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I can never be a woman. There, I’ve said it. I can present as a woman, can be accepted as a woman by some amazing women (I am) but actually BE a woman, experiences visceral womanness, that I really can’t. The longer I go on my transgender journey, the more aware I am of this. But I think there is a sense in which I have always been aware of this. That is one reason why I write. Ever since that evening of sex in the woods when my then lover rode me, when I came twice with the kind of shattering orgasm that sends explosions of colour through your head, when I watched her carefully arranged hair unravel, the misty far away look in her eyes, how she massaged her clit so that we came together, I thought that female sexuality was something rather different from mine, something rather wonderful, something that I wanted to experience, knowing that I never could.
Not for the want of trying, I have now had sexual relationships with men, discovered the joy of giving a good blowjob, I have had sex with women who accepted that I had no interest in penetrating them, and who allowed me to learn more and more about the wonders of their sexuality. But I still had to write. I write, I explore, I learn about myself. I advance further and further on my journey that can never reach its destination. But there is a sense in which I don’t want it to reach its destination. The journey is its own reward.
There is an analogy her in language. Imagine going to live in France and learning the language. In time you will achieve fluency, you will live your lie in French, you…
