So Long Aunty Kate

So Kate Bornstein favourited tweets that were directly attacking me using blatant lies because they supported her "Tranny is okay to say and you all need to chill" narrative. 

That was the final straw to do what I should have done years ago; Excize her from my life. I've been putting it off for the longest time because of her cancer. I didn't want to be the girl who "abandons a friend over a philisophical disagreement". I wanted to be a supportive friend while she fought cancer regardless of how vehemtly I disagreed with her "Tranny" apologism.

But the EwPaul fallout has shown me that you can't be the nice girl when your friends are actively shooting your legs out from under you. Kate still, even through her cancer battle, actively promotes myths, mlies and utter bullshit to defend the use of the word tranny and is frankly condescending and dismissive of anyone who disagrees. Had she been ANYONE else that wasn't a friend I'd have blocked her for that shit YEARS ago.
But when a cis gay male drag queen started concern trolling me oin Twitter over my tweets to Kate imploring her to look at the harm she causes by pimping the word, expressing sympathy for my being hospitalized by a trans bashing but STILL insisting the word was positive despite how my bashers used it, who then started accusing me of "erasing Drag Culture" and somehow bashing Genderqueers and black gay people despite my ONLY ever having talked about the word tranny being a hate word and literally NONE of the shit he started pulling out of his ass, Kate Bornstein, my supposed friend, the woman who rode me like a racehorse to start writing an autobiography because she felt my writing was charming and intelligent and needed to be shared with the world, favourited three tweets where this man was directly personally ad-hominem attacking me because they pimped Kate's "Drag Invented Tranny so Tranny is Okay To Say" meme.

And that was when I realized. Sometimes you CAN'T be the nice girl.

Kate HAVING cancer was not a good enough reason for me to turn a blind eye and overlook her BEING a cancer to trans women. However much I care about her as a person and friend, she clearly cares more about pimping her Tranny narrative than about her friends. She saw me being attacked and she CHEERED THE ATTACKER. Because the attacker supported her narrative and I did not.

And I can no longer blind myself to the cancer of Kate Bornstein's beliefs, and I had to excise it. And so I did.

An Uncharacteristic Attack Of Rampant Self-Esteem

So I'm puttering about online tonight when I notice some greasy basement dwelling mouth-breather I've never talked to or heard of has decided to voice his opinion of my looks on Twitter.

This is the picture in question, shared with my friends on what used to be TwitXpic, a twitter pic site for naughty pics. Since you all know this is a mature content blog I'll just go ahead and assume tits don't make you run screaming for the hills lest you faint or get the vapours. And, as I happen to rather LIKE my boobs despite generally low self-esteem about other things, I have no qualms in showing them off. A great rack on a fat girl is STILL a great rack.

Now, to no one's surprise, the general attitude of my friends and family online was to just shrug this douchebag's moronic statement off as the unimportant bleating of some anonymous jerk whose opinion means nothing. And they're right of course. Even I with my generally poor self-opinion know that the opinions of people I care about should outweigh the insults of some random idiot being an asshole on purpose for a cheap giggle. So when his opinion on seeing my tits was to tweet "KILL IT! KILL IT WITH FIRE", my friends believed, rightly so, that I should just ignore him.

But if you've been following my tweets or reading my blog the past couple weeks, you know I've had an insane time of late, with ridiculous extremes of highs and lows, from greiving my cousin's suicide, to outdebating rightwing religious hatemongers so effectively their only defense was to either try to pray my gay away or just outright pretend I never existed. Oh and being bullied into standing up for myself by idiot mansplainers trying to dismiss traumas and horrors I lived through as irrelevant to issues of someone INFLICTING such traumas and horrors, which instead of shutting me up had the very odd effect of somehow making me see the value in my life and history that my friends and family have been trying to make me see for years.

So let's give the douchebags of the internet a lesson in Penny Logistics.

Yes I'm fat.

Yes I qualify as a legitimate freak of nature.

And yes sometimes my self-esteem is below sediment.

BUT.

In spite of my tendancy to believe myself that I'm nothing at all special, enough people disagree that even I have to acknowledge it. There's only so many times 100 people can tell one person there are flowers in the garden before that one person finally looks at the flowers that were always there but they couldn't see.

First of all, established successful authors Niel Gaiman, Kate Bornstein and Poppy Z Brite have all commented glowingly on things I wrote.

Neil, authhor of things like Neverwhere, Stardust, American Gods and Sandman, read my blog on Trans-On-Trans bigotry and called it thought-provoking and intelligently written.

Poppy, author of such brilliant gothic horror stories as Lost Souls, actually started following me specifically because I was out-debating Kevin Smith (of Clerks Fame) left and right when he actually had his fans start attacking me on Twitter for deciding politely to stop following him for a few days because I was put off by his particular idea of fundraising for breast cancer research.

And good ole Aunty Kate, author of Gender Outlaw, Hello Cruel World, and My Gender Workbook, has read and commented on this very blog more than once and is actually actively nagging me to get off my ass and write a book.

Get that douchebags? PEOPLE WHO MAKE GOOD MONEY WRITING have told me I'm a damn good writer. People who are certainly under no obligations to even acknowledge me let alone praise my talent.

Next we have porn stars. Women who are widely considered among the most beautiful on the planet. Women people pay good money to see naked. Women who could pick and choose who they even acknowledge let alone call friend.

And I have over two dozen on my Twitter list. No I won't name names. Anyone who REALLY needs to know so badly can figure it out easily enough by checking my Following/Followers list on Twitter.

But all of them call me friend. Some of them even call me a sister. I have been entrusted with phone numbers and private e-mail addresses, invited to private gatherings not business related, and publicly defended by them when stupid people get dismissive of me. One had me phone in to a Playboy Radio show she was a guest on and loudly verbally bitchslapped the hostess for belittling me when I said I considered a Twitter friend like her more than just a Pen Pal. And ALL of them tell me I'm beautiful. Some even get angry with me if I argue. I have had some of them openly tell me they'd slap me if I ever self-depracated in their presence.

So if these women, who are worshipped and adored by millions, decided I'm worth looking at and talking to, why would I care what greasy basement-dwelling cheeto-stained douches say? I mean, come on!

Women millions want to fuck,


versus greasy losers who mostly fuck their hands.


Whose opinion of my looks do YOU think holds more weight folks? Hmm.... I wonder...

And last but certainly not least are all my other friends, online and in real life. From blood relatives like my mother and my nephew to chosen family like my wife and my stepkids, my family needs me and loves me and tries to take care of me whenever I'll give in and let them. And then my online friends, scattered across the world, who care about an obscure lippy fat bitch from Canada.

My trans sisters, who know and share my struggles living life as a woman with a penis.

My cis galpals, who treat me no different than any other woman.

My handful of guy friends with more than half a brain, who don't dismiss my experience or treat me like I exist to service them.

From uppity bloggers and celebrities to every day folks and family.

From black and white to hispanic and asian to mixed race like myself.

From gay and straight to bi and asexual.

From Monogamous to poly to perpetually single.

From Christian to Aethiest and agnostic to paegan.

I have friends all over the world of all types, frome every race, religion, creed, background and belief. And every single one of them loves me for me. Not for what I can do for them, not for anything they can get from me, and not for any silly fantasy image of me. JUST for me, the person I am, as is, warts and all.

I'm no supermodel, I never claimed otherwise. I'm also not near as ugly as internet trolls want me to believe I am so they can boost their self-esteem in exchange for mine.

All of the people listed above think I'm pretty and kind and wonderful and terribly rare even when I'm down and think I'm fat and ugly and worthless. Famous, non-famous, religious to aethiest, black white, purple or pink, it doesn't matter. They are all my friends and my family. And they love me and I love them, and if THEY think I'm beautiful, creative, kind, rare and wonderful, well...

The obnoxious opinion of some snotty loser trying to give himself an ego boost by hurting strangers really holds no water with me anymore. It used to, I admit it. I used to care far too much what anonymous assholes online thought of me. I wasted two years once arguing with a super troll named SuperGayHomo who used to revel in getting under my skin by stealing pictures of my anatomy and putting it online on his buddy's server where he knew it would never get taken down. And I stupidly let him and his idiot buddies goad me into long flame wars defending my life and existance against morons who only wanted to laugh at how angry I got.

But a funny thing happened.

I finally figured out after near two decades online who was really worth listening to.

So sorry @misterchuck719, but you are, as they say on the interwebz, EPIC fail.

Thanks for playing but to quote Weird Al, you don't even get a copy of our home game!

The Threesome That Killed Mister Allen

Those who know me know I'm intersexed. For those not knowledgeable that's the proper medical term for what most people call a hermaphrodite. I'm biologically, genetically, chromasomally female. I have a uterus and an ovary. However I also have a penis and a testicle, and a genetic blood disorder that makes the invasive surgeries required to correct my genitals too life-threatening for any doctor to go near with a ten foot pole. At birth I had an underdeveloped vaginal opening embedded in a small scrotum, which doctors surgically destroyed as per common practice of "fixing" intersexed children by forcibly assigning them one sex rather than allow a living gray area out into their black and white world.

I was kept at the hospital for the four days it took to cauterize the mucous membranes and sew me up. My parents were belatedly informed that I was a boy and raised me as such, blissfully unaware of the years ahead of them of getting pissy at strangers for telling them what a pretty daughter they had and fighting with me over who I was.

I've been wanting to tell the stories of my little lifetime, given my declining health and the knowledge that I likely won't be around a great deal longer. This way some of me survives online with Hedon, and hopefully whoever takes up the role of Shaman when I'm gone understands the things that made me.

I couldn't choose between the two stories I most wanted to share today so I asked my Twitter friends to vote. Voting results said I tell this one. The reason for the preamble about being raised male is to help you understand some of the things in this story.

After Juvey I was all but broken. For those not easily triggered, or who really want to understand that sentence, go here. at 18, I moved out of my parents' home and didn't speak to them for years. I had always planned on coming out as a woman at 18, abandoning the Witless Protection Identity forced on me since birth. But what happened in Juvey delayed me badly. I was scared to be the real me, fearful because, if I could be so violated in Juvey while still living in the boy disguise, what would happen to me if I was out in the world as a transsexual woman? (I believed since Iwas 7 and saw a 60 Minutes story of a Transwoman's surgery that I was trans, as it wasn't until 7 years ago I learned what had been done to me as a baby).

So for 7 years I puttered miserably through life as an unhappy ugly chubby man, with the closest I ever got to being myself happening only when dressing up for the local weekly Goth Night. I didn't attempt sex til I was 23 and that ended badly. I was miserable, but still too afraid to come out and be me.

When I was 24, single and alone with no friends except some people online, I went downtown into Vancouver for New Year's Eve. I didn't drink, and I wasn't much of a partier. I had no friends to chill with. I just didn't want to be alone and suicidal yet another year. I wanted to be around people even if no one was talking to me.

At around 10 I was nursing a mug of Coke at the bar, staring numbly at the tv behind it, when one of the waitress flagged the bartender and pointed at someone and then at me. The bartender refilled my Coke and said it was courtesy of a pair of impossibly beautiful young ladies sitting alone at a booth.

Nervous as all fuck but curious, I went and asked to join them after thanking them. They smiled and invited me to sit down. My insecurity kept waiting for some cruelty, some "pick on the ugly guy" humour, but they seemed genuine and interested. After 20 minutes they invited me up to their room and the 3rd floor.

While managing to keep my shirt on so they wouldn't see either my bindings or the decently large breasts I kept hidden under them, two gorgeous women, looking like A-List porn stars or pin-up models, women who should easily of been out of my league, fucked and sucked both me and each other, passionately, powerfully, wildly. I'd be lying if I didn't admit it was probably among the best sex of my entire life. They got three orgasms out of me and I lost count with them after 5 or so each. It was truly amazing sex.

Now before you write this off as made-up bullshit for Penthouse's letters page, remember this is ME telling the story, and I don't get happy endings. There's almost always a catch.

We went back downstairs to the bar, and sat for another round of drinks. I should've just smiled and kept my mouth shut as they wrote down their phone numbers for me, but my goddamn insecurities reared their ugly head, and I stupidly asked them.

I was probably the least attractive guy in the bar. Chubby, plain looking, surrounded by fit healthy sculpted studs that were easily more attractive. With all those hot guys in the bar.... why did they pick me.

The brunette squeezed my hand, and the blonde, with a completely straight face and no visible sign of knowing how cruel she was about to sound, said,

"Well, because fat homely guys always try harder in bed, studs never care if we get off, fat dudes put in more effort so the cute girls will like them more."

For a few seconds I was still, absorbing what she'd just said. I quietly took out a ten to cover my drink and a tip, handed them back their numbers, and with tears streaming down my fat ugly cheeks I got up and left. They tried to call out for me to come back and they were sorry but I just kept walking.

I got on the Skytrain and went home, crying the whole way and crying myself to sleep.

The next morning I packed up all my guy clothes into a suitcase, along with all my guy crap like aftershave or cologne, and my breast binding. I took them down by the railroad tracks in New West and dumped everything into an old oil drum and burned it, along with every picture of me as a male adult.

Mister Allen was forever put to rest that day, and good fucking riddance. I've never ever looked back. In the end, after having the best sex of my life ruined by an offhanded blow to my fragile self-esteem, I decided the world would find ways to hurt no matter who or what I was, and if I was going to get hurt by insensitive shallow people, I may as fucking well do it with my make-up impeccable, my tits properly displayed, and a woman in the mirror every day.

So that's the story of the Threesome that killed Mister Allen. Maybe it was a mercy killing. Sometimes I wonder what I'd say to those girls if I met them today. I used to think I'd scream at them for being such insensitive cunts, but I'm old and softened now and in hindsight I know they probably honestly didn't realize how that would sound to me, and that I likely hurt them too by just walking away without another word or their numbers.

So I'd probably just hug them, tell them thank you for motivating me past my fears, apologize for walking out, and let them be.

Do I ever wonder what would have happened to me if I'd stayed? Of course. I'm only human. But what if's mean sweet fuck all in the end. The end result is what you have to live with.

I'm Penny Marie Sautereau-Fife. Mister Allen is long dead, if he ever really lived.

It really was amazing sex though, so at least he went out with a bang.