I was talking with my bestie the other day and we were spilling tea

Apparently some guy in her dynamics class asked if she wanted to join his sunday bible study

And luckily I shared a bathroom w him freshman year and I could tell her about how ripped he was. I saw that man's bare chest every fricking day, and it was the hottest fricking shit. It's so awkward for me to go into the men's room bc men are HOT and they have pheremones and shit. Plus it just feels kinda wrong to be a woman in a men's space gawking at all the men.

so thanks for coming to my ted talk. this is why you shouldn't force trans WOMEN into the MEN's bathroom. Because it's just fricking weird and feels like an invasion of privacy.

!cuteandvalid

Comment if you c*m

No cap though it's kinda weird to see chuds posting tumblr screenies in the year of our lord 2023. And they just kinda grope at the ideas without totally getting it?? Wild.

It looks like a joke but the reviews are all serious and positive:

I loved this book. I read it cover-to-cover the day it came out, and then the very next day, I did it again. That's how good it is. It's delightful, heartwarming, at times tear-jerking, and definitely worthwhile.

Transgender issues are definitely the issue of the day. And the belief that trans women are just men pretending to be women, or vice versa, is at the heart of it all. So actually understanding the trans experience should be important to everyone, regardless of gender, and regardless of whether or not you know people who are trans and want to understand their experience better on a personal level.

And “To Own the Libs”, which could be retitled “Transition 101”, is definitely a good way to come to that understanding, on both a personal and political level.. It doesn't talk about surgery (FFS or GRS), but pretty much everything else. There are trans characters at various stages of their experience, a non-binary character, and cis LGB characters as well. And while the book is far from explicitly political, issues like the accessibility of gender-affirming hormones, anti-trans violence, bathroom access, and the attitudes of TERFS are very much a part of the story.

But above all, “To Own the Libs” is just a delightful story, one that will bring a smile to your face, and some tears as well. Highly recommended.

Or

I cannot begin to properly put into words how wonderful this story was. An utterly absurd premise, somehow written in a completely believable - and even relatable - way. Well, that is, for anyone who's ever been an egg themselves, anyway.

The core story flows from humorous to touching, from heart-wrenching to deeply heartwarming. And then on top of all that, you have some amazing epilogues that point towards the future.

I'd put off reading this one, because I knew it was going to destroy me, and I was right. 12/10, would get emotionally destroyed again. This one goes in the re-read list.

I'd been on hormones for only two years when I first discovered the liberating power of kink. That early into my gender transition, I felt painfully androgynous. My hair was still growing, my fat still shifting. Even in the oppressive heat of July, I forwent a cooling swim. What if onlookers stared, trying to solve the riddle of my body? Its slowly softening facial features, its budding breasts that could just as easily be moobs?

I wanted to curl into a chrysalis and emerge only when my exterior fully reflected my womanly interior. But my hunger for connection ultimately kept me un-cocooned. And thank god it did, 'cause I met Jake*.

I was visiting a friend in Montana when I found myself browsing Grindr. Jake's mischievous eyes sparkled through a mess of brown hair. He was big, with thick arms that I'd soon learn could lift me up and make me seem delightfully small even on days when I felt like a clunky, unsexy paperweight. I barely held it together when we met at a park and he flashed his mile-wide grin. But after hours of great conversation, I let myself melt between his car and his strong body. Our tongues clashed as his stubble sanded my cheeks.

He knew I was in town for only a couple of weeks and yet never tried to pivot our trajectory toward just casual s*x. He was invested in me, and that was fricking hot.

…Although not quite as hot as when—midway through fooling around—he kissed his way from my butt (which he'd been eating very well) all the way to that part of me I'd felt so ashamed of for so long. That part of me that surgeons would one day refashion into a vagina but until then I'd refer to as my clitty. “Peepee” so woefully missed the mark.

I realized only after coming out why receiving oral had always felt strange and disconcerting: It drew focus to a dysphoric part of my body. But as Jake slowly began working his mouth, my muscles relaxed. His steady, lustful gaze from between my thighs reflected what he saw: a woman. My clitty was merely a rarer variation on the female body, and it deserved pleasure just as much as any other, more traditionally feminine part of mine. His fingers pressed into my pale, doughy thighs—his lips wet, his tongue swirling. I could only whimper.

I was so moved—so breathtakingly floored by this sense of being fully seen and appreciated—that I chose that moment to break the Guinness World Record for saying “I love you” too early in a relationship. And as if I needed more reason to actually mean it, he responded with preternatural compassion. “I'm not ready to say that yet,” he replied warmly. “But you saying it doesn't scare me away.”

Our goodbye at the end of my visit felt like Velcro ripping apart. We stayed in contact after I returned home to Maine, where I'd worried that long-distance would reveal our chemistry was purely physical. I was wonderfully wrong. We agreed that the gushing texts we exchanged throughout the day were a constant comfort, and when we video-chatted at night, he made me snort with laughter.

Yet even as our affection and admiration for each other grew, an elephant entered the room. We had similar temperaments and things we enjoyed doing together, but we wanted fundamentally different things out of life. We buried the knowledge of our diverging paths deep into our subconscious. But when he visited me in Maine a few months later, we couldn't ignore it any longer.

His visiting my turf—reflecting my own visit to his—seemed a fitting conclusion for our romance. But we bemoaned this circumstantial breakup all the same, holding each other as we cried. “You're gonna find someone amazing,” he told me through tears. “You deserve so much.”

It was the definition of an amicable split. So why should we cancel our plans to try shrooms on the final day of his visit?

It was a drizzly Saturday in August when we choked down the rubbery fungi with spoonfuls of chocolate pudding. Half an hour later, we watched the lamplight on my bedroom ceiling slowly congeal and fracture into its composite colors. We marveled.

Everything contained everything.

My love for Jake suddenly took on a whole new light—both awesome and terrible, a fire that excited yet also burned me. My insecurities flared up in all their ugly glory as I childishly accused him of never loving me as earnestly as I loved him. He, in turn, expressed hurt over my therapizing him, dredging up trauma he didn't want to process.

During a break in the rain, we walked, fuming, to a nearby baseball field and sat in the dugout to watch the diamonds of the chain-link fence undulate like a curtain in the wind—its movement as mysterious as our shifting emotions. A psychedelic trip can feel like a whole lifetime. So we swam through an ocean of heartache before ultimately rediscovering each other in my bedroom, once more as hungry and humble as the young lovers we were. Apologies gave way to kisses as rain pattered the sill of the open window. Some singer crooned through the Bluetooth speaker in the corner.

Then, gingerly, Jake slid down my panties.

I'd recently become intrigued by the notion of being restrained or flogged. Jake, who was more experienced in kink, could guide me. Maybe it was the shrooms that made me more amenable. Maybe I was just feeling adventurous because this was probably the last time we'd have s*x. Regardless, when he told me to turn around and put my hands on the dresser, I listened…like a good girl.

He cupped my butt cheek. “Don't move your hands,” he said.

I nodded. “Yes, sir.” It felt instinctual.

My flesh chilled as his warm palm vanished. But no sooner had this thought crossed my mind than I jolted with the force of a stinging spank.

My heart pounded. I was panting. But I steeled my resolve and gripped the edge of the dresser harder.

“Count it,” he commanded.

“One.” My voice quivered.

Once more, the warmth of his hand vanished as he pulled back for another impact. Every muscle in my body tensed. But this time, he halted his powerful swing a millimeter shy so that the wind from his would-be slap washed over my pinkening flesh. A nervous, exhilarated, and absurd-sounding giggle bubbled out of my mouth.

I'd never felt anything like it—the cocktail of fear and excitement.

When he faked another spanking, the same chaotic hyena laughter escaped me again. I craned my head to show him the surprise and earnestness in my eyes: This laughter was a physiological reaction that I couldn't stop. He grinned. “Interesting…” he said, like I was a toy showing off a new trick. I loved that even though I sounded like the fricking Joker, he still wanted me.

He waited for my giggles to subside before ordering me to lie belly down on the bed, with my hands behind my back for more spanking. From this position, I was even more powerless. Yes, I could move my hands to cover my butt. And indeed, they instinctively jerked an inch to do so every time that powerful hand landed another blow upon my flesh. But I was drunk on that cocktail of fear and excitement. I loathed each spanking—yet that loathing somehow excited me all the more.

For Jake's part, I wondered if the shrooms heightened his own experience—if perhaps he found transcendence in the variations of pink and red and white on my butt as he continued to mix spankings with fake-outs, making me cackle nervously.

Each blow stung, and yet a delighted whimper escaped my lips every time the pain shot through me like a lightning bolt. I couldn't be spanked forever, of course. But I felt strangely content in this power dynamic. In fact, it occurred to me that it was the dynamic itself I found so pleasurable—spankings be darned. Kinksters call this headspace I found myself in “subspace.”

Later, I'd think about my Christian upbringing, how I was told to give all my worries to our almighty God. There was something vaguely similar—and even more wonderful—about entering subspace: forfeiting all control to someone who sees you as you really are and appreciates it, who has your best interests at heart. There will be pain, but he'll never give you more than you can take.

Perhaps what I enjoyed so much about Jake spanking me and ordering me around wasn't his domination but the novelty of feeling so safe that I could indeed lie down, hands behind my back, fully vulnerable. In this way, my submission was merely a byproduct of a healthy relationship—one in which, for the first time, a man saw me as the strong and beautiful woman that I am.

And what a gift that is: to be loved so totally that you can lower your walls and explore other parts of yourself that you dared not look at, lest they make you more unlovable. To not have to say “I love you” just so you can hear it back—because their actions assure you that they do.

I mean…doesn't that just make you wanna say, “Yes, sir”?

*Name has been changed.

hey kids! I'm going to be in chicago soon, and I was wondering, would YOU like to meet up with fellow dramafriends in Chicago? No chuds, no photos, just drama

This isn't exclusive to /h/transgender or anything, but if you've been exiled from here, you aren't invited. I don't need drive-by shitposters taking pictures of me and posting them online.

@MrsFrozenClaus I know you live in Chicago and expressed interest in a meetup

!cuteandvalid lmk what you think

Anyone else struggle with unironic racism towards the British? I hear a British accent on my FYP and I'm gone. This isn't some ironic meme either I legitimately am avoidant of all things bong

I feel like it's math, philosophy, and CS. natural sciences and engineering don't seem to have that many. art and psychology probably have a few.

kiss s. love s. hold a and tell her everything will be okay. slam dunk a 's doubts into the trash can. protect beautiful s. comfort a and give her a warm cup of tea. bearhug s. defend s from bullies. play fun video games with a . take a in holy matrimony. go on cute romantic dates with s. tell s they're beautiful. make a feel safe walking at night. befriend a . mandatory hugs for s. hold hands with s. spend quality time with a . make s feel valued. make s laugh with corny jokes. let a feel vulnerable and validate her struggles. cuddle with a on a cold winter morning. watch a cry tears of joy as you propose to her. show s that life is worth living.

The comic is very funny but glorifying being gross neets is not going to help people see you as real women. Also

>girlsmell enjoyers

and people are complicated

please be more understanding of others

username is traveling_trans_girl might be 1 word not sure

anyone here go by that handle?

probably the only trans person on reddit who was able to annoy and be in a comment chain debate with me for more than 4 replies deep

and this happened on three separate unrelated accounts, I only noticed because every time I checked the user the name looked familiar and by the third time I already recognized it

i'm God's favorite princess

I don't care what libtards expect me to say, being trans is one of the worst things imaginable. This is not "internalized transphobia", it's a mental illness. Yes I'm saying it, and the only reason you wouldn't want to admit it is if you stigmatize that. Basically it's an intersex condition and it's very very painful to live with. If gender is all a social construct it means nothing and only exists to oppress people, so why encourage it by identifying as a gender?

I'm aware that some s have no trouble with their bodies. I'm sorry but you're just normal "cis" people who have internalized sexist beliefs. You think you can't be your "assigned" gender because you don't perfectly match the stereotype. And apparently everyone who isn't Chad or Stacy is non-binary. No, they're not. Except in very rare freak cases there are only two genders, which are NOT the same thing as personality. You shouldn't be identifying so strongly with something like gender. And frick gender pronouns. Why do we even have them in the first place? Can't we just use he/him or she/her for everyone? How is gender the single thing that's so important about a person that it merits different pronouns? We should be eliminating them not adding a million more. Same with names and making people live completely different lifestyles, it's all so stupid and arbitrary. It's a cult. I don't care if it's a survival mechanism, crappy lives aren't worth surviving. If it weren't for all this sexist crap the trans thing wouldn't be so confusing.

I'm constipated.