#Trans story

[selenedistress]

[crystalthayerr7]

Suck it or leave it?

[myllabrazer]

[mskataluna]

[queerism1969]

[unb1nding-t-b0y]

Transphobia/ micro aggression idk story cuz I see a lot of posts talking about transandrophobia but not as many stories about experiencing it. (Maybe it's just my Tumblr algorithm but regardless posting will hopefully help that too)

Anyways I'm 21 recently started transitioning and I've been performing at a drag place for a little bit. This elder queen (I don't even remember her name I think she was trans but with drag queens that have spent their lives In Drag it can be difficult to tell even when you hear them talk about themselves because many of these people kinda use male and female names pronouns etc interchangeably etc. I'll use she -her pronouns in the story because I'd rather not accidentally misgender a trans women and ik she doesn't care about being she/hered even if she is a cis gay) Anyways she asks bout me and I tell her my name, pronouns, and identity as one does in queer spaces. Upon hearing I was a trans masc she immediately feels the need to tell me the story of the time she *gasp* almost slept with a trans man. The story goes like this.

Shes at a drag night in some bar and a drag king approaches her and they hit it off. Shes into him and vice versa. They ditch the bar and make out in a car somewhere and when it's getting hot and heavy the dude pulls his strap out and tells her he wants to fuck her. All standard shit. But she goes on and on about how surprised and disgusted she was at both the fact that she's been fooling round with a "woman" and how off-putting it was to even suggest a BOTTOM get fucked with a dildo. She picks up. A. Drag. King. And gets surprised when he's trans. If a lesbian went to a drag night and picked up a trans woman and reacted in the same way people would call her an idiot for not bothering to have the critical thinking skills to consider that maybe that person performing gender up there is performing a different gender than they were assigned at birth. (Side note if you're gonna pick someone up without knowing anything about them you can't be mad about surprises. I swing both ways so a surprise is just fine for me but if you have a severe genital preference maybe fucking ask people before you're making out with them and wanting to fuck. Sorry you hate dildos but you should have checked, and honestly even if it's a cis dude you should at least try to verify that they get tested + use protection etc

Unfortunately the majority of drag kings I've run into have been CIS men. The place I'm in is very supportive and kind to cis men doing bare minimum performances (no choreography, no makeup, usually the dude just takes his shirt off at some point and that alone is enough to be praiseworthy. Or he wears a suit stands around and barely lip-syncs ) whereas drag kings that aren't cis or arent men are more often than not treated as outsiders.

The story also cemented what I was afraid of that ultimately I was viewed as an invader of the space. That for some reason cis queens and cis kings are more acceptable in a space that was pioneered by trans women and drag queens. The trans drag shows Ive gone to haven't had any trans men in them unless they are open call. It's hurtful it's alienating and it's frustrating. I AM STILL TRANS. IF YOUR TRANS INCLUSIVE SPACE ISNT INCLUSIVE OF ME ITS NOT INCLUSIVE. It's frustrating that as a trans man when I enter "trans friendly gay bars" I'm often treated like an annoying presence getting in the way of everyone else's dicks only zone. Sorry I don't have a cock but that shouldn't be a requirement to occupy these spaces and you can't call yourself trans inclusive when you really mean just cis gays and trans girls. At the time I couldn't really articulate how fucked up what she said was so I just kinda said some non offensive topic change and moved on but like most of the other queens ignored or avoided me and that moment I figured out why I always felt like the odd one out. Because I was.

[abyssal-author-and-artist]

My blog is generally pretty lighthearted and I stick to reblogging art and fic and fun stuff, but you know what. I feel like I need to say this.

I am a trans teen in the US. I'm seventeen, so too young to have voted. I'm terrified for my life right now. I usually post about college but I'm actually concurrently enrolled in high school still and the kid who sits behind me in first period government is a massive Trump fanboy. I'm going to have to go to high school Monday and talk about the election. I'm going to have to hear my deadname called and hear people in my super conservative high school talk about how happy they are Trump won. Everything is terrifying. I walk outside of my house and I'm scared I'll be shot. Several months ago I promised that I'd kill myself if that bastard won.

He did and I'm still here.

I'm not thriving. I'm not living my best life. I'm barely living. But I'm surviving. I'm coping. I'm trying my goddamned best. It's hard. I want so bad to just go and take as much medication as I can and slit my wrist for good measure and pass away in my sleep. But I'm still here. And I will be here.

I am in so much pain. But I'm living on spite and determination and everything I can scrape together. I know I need support and those around me need support. So consider this a support masterpost.

Support:

First thing you should see if you're a trans person in the US.

Here's a link to the Trevor Project and here's a link to their suicide hotline page. They've already saved my life once before. Please note - they recommend calling if you need immediate support. Donate if you can, please.

This post is both a suicide hotline masterlist and a post mentioning how something feels deeply wrong here with this election.

On the topic of something being wrong, sign this petition. I'm only seventeen but I did this and it might not feel like much but if we couldn't shoot that bastard (I am not pro-gun but I am when it comes to him) then we'll do the next best thing. Here's the link to the petition itself. Make sure to check the post every once in a while - the original petition got taken down and this is important.

I follow a lot of gimmick blogs, so I got to see this post encouraging us to be loud. Because we should be. Because if we die they've won and my mom didn't smoke weed on the steps of the state capital of Colorado to legalize it just so her son could roll over and die.

Here is the Tumblr Hot Beverage Masterpost, as I've taken to calling it. My personal favorites are the London Fog in the replies, earl grey with milk, honey, and vanilla (in the tags), and some additions from me are hot chocolate with peppermint melted into it, earl grey with lavender, caramel apple tea, and really anything else you can think of. Trust me. This post works better than you think.

Read this post if you haven't seen it already. It's half poem, half Tumblr being Tumblr, all wonderful to read.

Things I just like to see:

PM Seymour and Bettina Levy both have shown their support for everyone struggling right now. It might not be much, but I still really appreciate it and seeing support can really help.

The cat with the kind and reassuring face. No other context.

Four panel comic of hope. Because you're more than enough.

Can't find the post where I found this but this is a link to a virtual toy where you can make your own galaxy.

Please. Eat something. Drink a hot beverage. Draw, write, read, knit, sew, sculpt, bake, do something that helps. Reach out to friends, even if they're online friends. Talk to someone you trust. Make vent art. Write vent fics. It doesn't matter what you do as long as it helps.

Do not roll over and die. Live. Live on spite. Live on determination. Live on shitposts and live on heartfelt stories like this one. If you have anything to add to this post please do. Add more resources. Add more love to this post. I know I'm just a guy on the internet saying shit, but I still care about everyone who sees this post.

[almostafemman]

Teachers, please. If you find yourself saying the wrong pronouns for your trans students correct yourself and move on. That’s good enough for me at least! a small sorry IN PRIVATE or QUIETLY ASIDE if u want

Please for the love of gods do not make it a big deal ESPECIALLY in front of the whole class. Makes it 10x worse I swear

[introvertedandscared]

i was recently given a writing prompt simply titled 'blue' on an online forum i use, and wanted to try my hand at doing something for it.

i'm actually really proud of it- i dont know if its my best work, it always feels that way after i make something new, but it was really therapeutic to write and hey, practice makes perfect. ill never be any good if i dont work towards it.

this piece is an expression of my gender and identity, told through a narrative perspective. most of these events are either heavily fictionalised or not actual events in my life, and i'm unsure if the main character is actually me or not, but it is heavily related to my personal thoughts, feelings, and history.

its about 959 words, a short read, enjoy! and keep an eye out for more writing on this blog if you liked this ദ്ദി(｡•̀ ,<)~✩‧₊

Blue

My favourite shirt is blue. Not a bright, attention-catching blue, but a soft one. Like blue hydrangeas. That’s not why it’s my favourite—I don’t even like the colour blue all that much—but it’s what everyone notices about it. When my mother comes into my room and asks for the laundry, she’ll point out ‘the blue one that you wear all the time’. When my friends and I are coordinating our Halloween plans, they ask to borrow my blue shirt for their costume. My brother will tell me that my blue shirt has somehow ended up in his closet. I’ve come to think of it more as a title than anything else. My Blue Shirt. All words capitalised, because they are important.

The reason it’s my favourite shirt is because it’s mine. I bought it with my own money—I had a whole 15 bucks I’d earned from babysitting—at the small thrift store on the corner after school on a Tuesday. It had been the first thing I’d picked up off the rack, not even checking the price or size. I had a curfew, and I knew that if I didn’t buy something that afternoon, I never would. I was 12, and the shirt I grabbed was 3 sizes too large, but I didn't care. I wanted it.

I still remember the woman behind the counter that day. She was probably middle-aged. At the time, I was transfixed by strands of her greying hair. She seemed radiant and wise. Untouchable. She was beautiful.

When I laid the shirt out in front of her, she looked directly at me for the first time since I’d entered the store, an amused expression playing across her face.

“You know this is for a man, right?” She asked, taking in my short stature, my girlish pigtails and sport shorts. My t-shirt that had recently started clinging to all the wrong places on me. I hated my clothes; my mother bought them all. She asked me for my opinion, sometimes, but I was only ever given the option to choose between the lesser of two evils. This shirt or that one. Those skirts or these jeans. Lately, I’d just let her take over completely, letting my eyes wander through the aisles while she shopped. No matter what store we were in, my gaze would always land on the men's section. I always let it linger for a second too long.

“It’s… for my brother. Last minute costume change for his, um, dance team. He needs something blue,” I mumbled through my excuse, terrified the woman would question me more, but she’d already started ringing my purchase up. The bubble of hope that had been growing in my chest ever since I’d ridden my bike out of the school gates that afternoon finally burst, into something bright and fiery and right. Something completely new. 

Later, at home, I tried the shirt on in front of my mirror. It reached down to my knees and looked utterly ridiculous, but it also didn’t hug my torso and hips trying to accentuate not yet existent curves. It made my body little more than a formless mass of cloth.

Five minutes after I put it on, my brother walked by my bedroom door. He took one look at me and laughed, and I laughed with him. He said I looked ‘stupid as shit’—words I still found scandalous at that time—and I’d agreed, but once he left I couldn’t bring myself to reach my own eyes in my reflection. I was scared of what I’d see. 

It’s been four years, and I still have that shirt. I’m wearing it now, bent low over the bathroom sink, scissors clutched tightly in my left hand, watching my hair swirl down the drain. I feel bile rising up in my throat at the sight, but it’s not from… disgust or panic. It’s- fear. I am scared to see myself. I am scared to know, because once I do there is no going back. It may not seem like it, but I am not one to dwell on the past. I live in the now. The now where I have just sheared away all of my hair at 3 AM, in the house my great-grandparents built with their own two hands. I wonder if they would be disappointed in me.

I don’t know if my mother will be mad—it’s hard to tell with her—maybe she’ll scold me, or laugh and schedule an appointment to get the mess I’ve made fixed, or maybe she’ll reach out, eyes soft. Maybe she’ll finally see me.

But I need to see myself first. I have been blind for far too long.

I steel myself—taking a sharp, shuddering inhale of air—and look up into the face of the mirror before me. I look up, and it feels like the final piece slots into place. The final piece of a puzzle I’ve been trying to solve for four years. For my whole life. 

The face staring back at me is no longer a reflection but a reality; the burning feeling in the centre of me flaring to life, consuming everything I thought I was.

I press a gentle hand to my chest, pressing down the two masses of fat and connective tissue that have always seemed to burden me more than my peers. I let the folds of blue obscure them until it almost looks as though they are not there. I wish more than anything that they weren’t.

I take myself in, gaze reverent and disbelieving.

My blue shirt is my favourite shirt, because unlike all my others, it fits perfectly. Ever since I first bought it, it has fit perfectly.

[ianthomasmalone]

A woman at the pool who I hadn’t seen in a few years asked me how my bottom surgery went.

Told her nothing had grown back yet.

Doing my best to be a reciprocal person, I asked her how her genitals were doing.

She asked me if I thought she should get a labiaplasty.

I said it would be hard to tell without boots on the ground.

She said she wasn’t sure if we knew each other well enough for that, but she’d check with her husband first.

I’m sure that went over very well.

[thewestwardeye-official]

Are you a fan of podcasts like The Magnus Archives and Welcome To Nightvale? Do you enjoy shows like Over The Garden Wall and The Owl House? Or do you just really like cowboys? Then you’ll love The Westward Eye!!! The Westward Eye is a queer western horror podcast set to release in early fall! Follow us here or on TikTok and Insta @ WestwardEyePodcast for updates and exclusive bts content!

[myllabrazer]

Cum watch my show 💦

[mskataluna]

Ever wished to be fucked real hard by hot trans? Reblog and send a DM🥰❤️

[sn0wfa3]

Sleep Paralysis

He woke up with a start, except he didn't exactly "jump" awake- In fact he couldn't move at all. It was okay though, this wasn't his first time dealing with sleep paralysis; all he had to do was focus. He did everything he could to focus on curling his fingers into a fist, but they wouldn't move... something was wrong; his mind raced as panic overtook him, haze and static flooded his mind. He felt like he was falling trapped in his body, unable to free himself (all he had to do was make a fist and raise it); the noise grew louder and louder until it was going to split his head open. Help me, he weakly thought in the storm of static. Please"Fine, but don't complain if it hurts a little." he heard over the chaotic roar. A shrouded figure descended through the ceiling, just after his room's threshold. Silence and presence created order that stilled the static in his mind. Noise was replaced with stillness, but the figure continued forwards, fingers freely reaching out towards him. They looked down with infernal luminescence, their eyes fixed not on him, but in him? Next thing he knew he was screaming, or he would be, if he could move. The figure was reaching into him, just below his ribcage; he could feel their hand digging and grabbing for something. Their hand started moving up his chest through his sternum, and found its target. His heart skipped a beat as an ethereal hand gripped it, and pulled. Free from his chest, fresh with phantasmal haze he saw his heart stop beating. Something was wrong, she couldn't move. Normally, she'd make a fist and raise herself by it, to escape sleep paralysis. But she was propped up; with her back to the wall she could see herself. If she could match her expression to her emotion, she would have recoiled in horror. Her skin was an elegant porcelain, her joints were clearly visible, but in the place of bone, cartilage, or any other joining tissue, were delicate wooden balls. The paint on each joint matched her porcelain's decorative etching. Much to her embarrassment the etching nearly mimicked lingerie, compounded with the lack of any way to cover it. Looking forwards she could just make out her face in a mirror across the room. Something was wrong, he couldn't move, and he was a porcelain doll. He could live with looking like a girl, but he couldn't live as a doll, and certainly not as one that can't even "MOVE" a voice called out. She stood up, she was needed. He couldn't tell where he was going, he just knew he had to get there, and that he was a mere passenger in his body. He knew what he had to do. He focused on his hand, he focused on his fingers, one by one she curled her hand into a fist, and as she focused on her hand, she lifted it. She lifted her hand as high above herself as she could, and they were free. They moved their focus to their body and they ran- They didn't know where to go once they left the mansion behind them, other than to flee into the woods. There they found a cabin, with only a bed in usable condition, and they were certainly tired from running much of the day. They cozied up on the bed, but weren't sure if they could sleep in their body. So to pass time they shared what they remembered; made plans for what they would do after waking up, and as they talked about names for each other- both women, as they realized of their genders, fell asleep teasing the other.

[trans-at-30]

Reminder: Looking for a Magical Wish is available and updated!

Hi everybody!

I just wanted to remind whoever may be interested that my most recent story, Looking for a Magical Wish, is available on Tapas and is being updated every two days from here to beginning of December I think! You can read up to Chapter 5 in the link below.

Yeah, I'm not the best writer, and yep, I'm not expecting a lot of visits and I'm not publishing it for the visits, but for creative expression XD. Still, if someone wants to enjoy a trans story or something related to Magical Doremi, this is available. At this moment is going through the "tragic part" of the story, but things will end up well, promise!

[angelwoodstudios]

my boyfriend thinks it's cute to bury girls on a sunday.

My boyfriend is an asshole. He thinks it's cute to bury girls on a Sunday.

He thinks skipping Church is holy, thinks sins are counted in the fifth digits. I told him off for that melodramatic angst; he didn't give a shit.

My boyfriend thinks Angelwood burials are fated. 

"Romance ain't dead, lover-girl. Jus' buried."

My boyfriend thinks I'm meant to die on a Sunday. 

"I'd rather be a god than die in a hole with you."

He thinks this is some grand joke. 

"Immortal, Ther, really? The Ridge Grave Girls aren't that worthy."

My boyfriend is an asshole. My boyfriend is the one and only Ronin Beaufort. He looks at me with a shit-eating grin as he lowers me into my grave. It's usual, it's fine, I'm terrified, what am I saying?

There is nothing normal about this.

But it's necessary— part of the process, see. Girls die quietly in Ridge Grave. Right now, I'm a girl: I'm to die soon. 

He's trying to help me.

My boyfriend buries me. He knows how to do it safely: he buried himself, once a time ago, because they said he was a girl and he was the farthest thing from.

"Close your eyes," he tells me and kisses me on the cheek. "I'll grab you once 's all done. Promise it goes by fast. Jus' dream of me."

I roll my eyes. I close my eyes. The lid on my coffin thunks.

And I die.

When I wake again, it's to the clunk of shovels, and the scratch of dirt dragged from the wooden lid. The lid jags open, and I wince to the shaft of sunlight that cuts down on my face. And my boyfriend's shit-eating grin.

"Welcome back to the land of the living, lover."

He hauls me out of my grave, and I'm not her, anymore. I'm the farthest thing from. Romance isn't dead, but she is dead, buried in soft earth, with a dead name and a dead bygone. My boyfriend kisses me. I laugh again.

My boyfriend buries girls on Sundays. He kisses the not-girls better on a Monday. 

I hate that I love him.

A companion piece to "The Ridge Grave Girls" short film — out on Youtube now!