mureblog

[mureblog]

since i'm trans, i'm throwing out my bed

No, it's not a metaphor! I'm tossing it and will be sleeping on my floor, on a cute little cotton mat. Yes, the floor is cold and hard. No, I'm not uncomfortable.

❀

One thing I love about being transgender is freedom from cultural norms. When a core part of your identity makes many people hide their children when you walk by, what's one more weird quirk? This freedom isn't inherent to being trans, of course, but being trans forces it into stark relief.

Before I was a woman, I was a man. A very, very insecure young man. I'd gotten it in my head that my worth as a man was tied to having a girlfriend and having lots of sex. A failure to find a partner constituted an inherent moral failure, and though I tried many times, due to a combination of poor style (in more ways than just fashion), being a transgender woman (ha!), and luck (though I did not absolve myself of any responsibility at the time) I found neither a girlfriend nor much sex.

My mindset was extremely corrosive. When you place such importance on your romantic failure, the world conspires to attack you. Songs playing over store speakers, scenes in movies and shows, a couple stealing a kiss at the next table as you desperately ignore them, and casual references in gossip about how "he'll be single forever" due to his unlikability. Even if they weren't talking about me, the implication was clear: if I was single, I was reprehensible.

I came to hate most aspects of myself. My face, my body, my personality: ugly, inept, uninspired. Being trans didn't help. The features I had that should have been considered attractive on a man were lost on me, since I wasn't comparing myself to men. I unconsciously compared myself to women I found attractive. Like rating apples by how much they taste like a yummy orange, even the most attractive man looks bad next to women when judged as a woman. In my lowest months, out of disgust, I could not look myself in the mirror.

If I have one redeeming trait, it is holding myself accountable. I was a failure, yes, but I was my failure. I read self-help blogs and books for single young men. There must have been something I was missing, something which, if I could just figure out and fix, would make me attractive and lovable. I paid more attention to how people interacted. I forced myself to join activities and talk with more people. There were decisions I made that I would have been happy to do for myself, such as going to the gym or taking better care of my hair, but there were other behaviors I only adopted to be a "real man."

One example was driving. I rather dislike driving, but I read a comment online: "women want a man who can drive," and I scrambled to acquire my driver's license after neglecting to do for years. Another example was my voice, where I briefly dropped my high and colorful alto for a low, gruff monotone. It sounded fake and made me cringe each time I tried it.

In spite of my efforts, nothing panned out during my time as a man.

❀

You must see how it was a great relief when I discovered I was a woman. I was freed of what it meant to be a man, and no one had told me how to be a woman. I was not quite a blank slate—perhaps a fresh palimpsest.

Transitioning would place me on the outer edges of society. The pool of people who might be compatible with me shrank from around half the population to the speck where "sapphic." and "would date a transgender woman" intersect. I concluded I would rather be a single woman forever than a partnered man. A false equivalence, yes, but one I would come to peace with anyway.

This meant that I could drop any mannerisms I had adopted to be a "more attractive man." I was no longer a man, and I saw the probability of meeting someone as so low that reducing it further by an unconventional lifestyle would barely move the needle. I discarded the idea of getting a car and started biking everywhere. I worked out less obsessively at the gym, and picked other ways to exercise that I found more fun. I donated most of my wardrobe and filled it with copies of a signature outfit. I cheerfully adopted a lifestyle which many would considered painfully frugal.

The bed is part of that. Other people have thoughts on me tossing the bed. They've said, "sleep is important, don't compromise!" "You'll destroy your back." And of course, "Mattresses on the floor are for broke and gross college students. I'm a woman, and if I saw you didn't have a bed, I'd walk right out."

Maybe they're right. If you are ever so unfortunate to decide on my place after a date, you'll just have to put up with the soft glow of fairy lights in a cozy apartment, my pleading eyes, gentle arms pulling us together, a caress of hair as your lips sink into mine, a giggle as we tumble down onto the sheets, and the sound of fabric gasping as you fuck me senseless on my cute little cotton sleeping mat. Oh, the humanity.

[mureblog]

The first day of my new life

It was a cool, sunny Wednesday in March. I do not consider myself a religious person, but that morning, I had awoken from a dream I could not deny.

❀

I had been performing drag and dressing as a woman for over two years. Drag is often an extravagant, exaggerated affair, where the low lights and blaring music of nightlife establishments turn gaudy into fabulous. But the makeup, body proportions and personality which let so many drag artists dominate the stage had never appealed to me, and my drag persona was a comparatively modest individual (once, after a show, an audience member expressed surprise that I was a performer and not a spectator).

I hesitate now to call her my drag persona, although that was the term I'd used in the past. In my mind, she was a separate person who I would occasionally inhabit the body of. Instead of disappearing when she left the stage, I imagined her returning to a life not unlike my own. She collapsed into bed at home, exhausted after a show, and went to school or the office or the mall the next day. She cried over a particularly harsh assignment, or yearned over the cute girl she'd met at the club meeting.

I would dress up and do each of these things, pretending I was her. I must have looked odd. Wigs, makeup, and revealing costumes are hardly fitting for grocery shopping. But I found the exaggerated femininity smothered the man's body underneath. It was physically uncomfortable to dress so, but I did it nevertheless.

It delighted me to experience the world as a woman. She could enter this world for only a few hours, but in that time, every action I took felt so right. The same actions, with elevated context. She had lent me her body and her life, and I would not squander it. At the store, I would pick out an apple, inspect it intently, and place it in my cart, as if I were on stage in front of a thousand people. Infused with energy. Born for this.

This all being known to me, I concluded I was a queer man who occasionally liked to "go out in drag," and was not particularly transgender.

❀

And so this continued for many months. I went out as her with increasing frequency, and less accessory. I swapped the brightly colored wigs for black, pink lipstick for nude, and heels for boots. I asked people to use she/her pronouns when dressed as her. This would be okay, I thought. I could continue this for the rest of my life, and be content.

After I graduated from college, I had a lot of time to think. I read up on articles written by transgender individuals, and browsed online spaces. I found a rare few people in similar positions, often femboys or other feminine-presenting individuals on testosterone. They also wondered, "can I be a man but pass as a woman forever?" And to my horror, the replies would read, "probably not."

They suggested I had a certain youthful androgyny that made it easier to appear feminine. That age, and further masculinization of my features under testosterone, would rob me of that ease. I do not know if this is true. But when I looked at pictures of my father, I could imagine it to be, and I was shaken.

❀

She came to me, a few days later, in a dream. An empty bar in the afternoon, sunlight catching dust through small, high, windows. She sat at the counter. It was the first time I'd seen her as a person entirely separate from myself. She was beautiful, in the way only someone in a dream can be. I had not realized she was so beautiful.

A sense of longing and loss came over me. We did not speak, but if I were to translate what went between us, she would have said this:

"You've known me for a while, but this is the first time I've spoken with you, isn't it? I am so, so happy for all that we have shared together, and I think we still have some time left. Maybe even a long time.

"But I am dying. With each passing year, I find it harder to be you. Or for you to be me. You've seen it too, haven't you? You made me, made me not as someone who will be kept away, or brought out for occasion. You designed me for every aspect of life. For the dreary meetings and warm bed sheets as much as the stage. You imagined me to live each moment with authenticity, to revel in every action I take! I deserve that, and no less.

"I will not abide.

"You have a decision to make. Do nothing, and when you are old, you can look back at this moment, at me, and sob at everything that could have been. At how beautiful and right you could have been. Or you can choose me. Give him up, all of him. And be me, forever."

❀

I awoke, the next morning, a woman.

[mureblog]

my first heel

Oh, I remember them dearly! An ankle boot in black suede. A stalwart pointed toe, like the bow of a ship breaking waves. Just a bit of chunky platform in the front, and a small patch of metal studs on each side. And of course, the wicked five-inch stiletto.

I put them on, and for the first time, I was a woman. Or, at least, my feet were. But a girl's gotta start somewhere~

❀

"Sooo… I've decided on my Halloween costume!" I giggled in the Discord call. "It's going to be this." I pasted a picture of Umi-chan in the chat, since I wasn't sure I had the nerves to say it aloud. Umi-chan was the fictional brainchild of Diana, one of my artist friends. She was an anthropomorphic bunny girl who wore many different styles, so I figured could pass off whatever clothes I scrounged as "in-character." Umi-chan was well known within my circle.

"That's great!" My friend Qinglan exclaimed. It sounded like she was smiling a little.

"I know!!" I waited a second to see if she was going to say more. Something like, wow, you're going to dress up as a girl? I didn't know I was transgender back then, and this was my first time seriously saying I wanted to dress as a woman. I was happy that Qinglan thought it was great, but slightly miffed that she hadn't made bigger fanfare.

"Do you have any Umi-chan clothes yet?" She asked instead, after a moment.

"I have a spreadsheet. I'll need some bunny ears, a pink skirt, some sort of top, some tights, a wig to match her hair, and some heels. Makeup, too, though I'll probably make a mess. And it's three weeks until Halloween, so I should have plenty of time."

I looked at the picture of Umi-chan I had sent in the Discord chat. I imagined how it would feel to be her for a day. Shiver, and smile.

❀

Standing next to the women's shoe aisle at the thrift store, I felt like a creep. Who was this weird man ogling women's footwear? Now that I was here by myself, a deep shame had replaced the excitement of the call yesterday. A mother and her young son walked in front of me, and I looked away.

I hastily looked over the shoes. What an eclectic collection! Leather, suede, plastic, and snakeskin. However, I had eyes for only the stilettos. I couldn't verbalize it, but I felt the intoxicating, indulgent femininity of that pointed heel. They found me quickly, those ankle boots in black suede with the small patch of metal studs. Black for versatility, a boot to conceal my rough, wide foot, and the five-inch heel which marked it unmistakably as a woman's shoe. And just twelve dollars.

My foot slid into the heel, only slightly too tight. The flexibility of suede was a friend to me. I stood up slowly, and—woah! balance all off—took a wobbly step. The thrill, like committing a crime!

I took maybe five steps before taking them off. I couldn't meet the cashier's eyes as I checked out, and stuffed the shoes in my backpack at once. But my heart was pounding, pounding with delight. Those heels were mine!

❀

My dormitory room was a narrow, carpeted rectangular box. As soon as I returned home, I took out the heels. In my hands, I held a small piece of the womanhood that had been forbidden to me for so long. The suede was smooth under my fingers, and smelled of musty thrift store. I put them on, and stumbled over to the speakers, where I played a song. Then, I closed the blinds.

Stroll down the runway, another payday / Cover of magazines

On that dormitory carpet, discolored with age, I walked back and forth. I tried to strut, to cross one foot over the other, to sway my hips. I moved like a penguin, but I wasn't thinking about that. The music pounded with each step, and when I looked down, I could see a woman's feet. It was the first time I recognized the woman in any part of my body.

Cover girl, put the bass in your walk / Head to toe, let your whole body talk

I walked, and walked, and walked in those delightful heels. I would take them outside for miles down the sidewalk until my feet were sore and bleeding. Looking at me, you would have seen an awkward, unfashionable boy stumbling down the street. I felt a little of that shame and embarrassment. But small, yet growing, was an irresistible feminine confidence in each step.

❀

The heels broke from overuse after a few months. I still have some photos of me as Umi-chan that Halloween. They're not very good photos, and the costume ended up rather campy. But you know, I loved her, just as I loved those heels.

[mureblog]

post-drag show

I did drag for two years before I realized I was transgender. Mure was my drag name, before it became my real name. When I started drag, I didn't understand my gender identity very well, but I was inexplicably drawn to drag queens from the very first time I saw a friend perform. How could someone I knew as a man look so much like a woman on stage? I wanted that.

❀

We walked into the McDonald’s at eleven at night, three drag queens after another show. It was a bit of our tradition in our small, unofficial drag house. The other two queens had changed out of their outfits to various extents. Leo had taken off his long, ratty orange wig and was walking in a short tan dress dotted with black fuzzy shapes. Eric, who had changed entirely, looked more like a college student who had spent too many hours awake. McDonald's lighting isn't a drag queen's friend.

I liked to keep all of my drag clothing and makeup on for as long as I could, and spoke in my best woman’s voice, which I’d been practicing. My voice had the timbre of a beginner flute player, airy and weak, but thankfully, no one made fun of it. I was wearing a pair of chunky white boots I'd found online, a sleeveless light blue top made of some cheap shiny fabric which smelled like chemicals when I ironed it, and a matching thin blue skirt which was really too short for how well it caught the wind. On top of my head was my favourite part of the outfit, an adorable wig with twintails and bangs, in a very Japanese anime style. I don't even like anime that much. But I loved the innocent cuteness of that wig, and how the tails flopped around as I danced.

I suppose that was the first sign something was different. It wasn’t exactly comfortable to be in drag, but why would Eric spend all that time under the makeup brush to not show off his glamour for every second possible? Why would Cinderella go home and undress well before midnight called her? I relished every moment as Mure, no matter how itchy that pretty, pretty wig on my head was.

❀

We ate in exhaustion over a sticky table. I watched Leo dip a fry into his vanilla shake before eating it in one bite. "Yummm!" I commented. "That was a good show, right?"

It wasn't much of a conversation starter, but it was good enough for Eric. "Girl, I hate Jane Suede!" He said. "She must have been a professional dancer before drag."

"I know! It's not fair," I whined. "But your number with the exploding drink was really good too."

"How much did two make in tips?" Leo chimed in. We weren't paid by the organizer, so tips were our only compensation for performing tonight. "I got thirty five."

"fifty! They did like my exploding drink," said Eric.

I looked at the two five-dollar bills in my hand. "Just ten.."

"They don't appreciate you enough, Girl! You even did that death drop!"

"Maybe they don't like my k-pop music choice." I hadn't realized the other two had made so much more. "It's fine. I'm pretty happy with my performance." Less happy now.

"Yeah, the crowd likes the popular songs." Leo had finished up his fries. "Still, I think you should keep doing what you're doing. We could use more diversity in the scene." He yawned. "I'm so tired. Time to go?"

I didn't want to go yet, but I had work tomorrow. I yawned back, and we cleaned up and left the fluorescent busyness for the cold, crisp night.

[mureblog]

intro post

Hello! I'm Mure, a 24 year old trans girl.

It was only a short time ago that I realized I was trans, and I've decided to blog about my experiences here! The world can be an isolating place for a trans girl, so maybe I can share some of myself with you through this blog. I won't focus on any topic in particular, but instead give you little chunks of my life, some of which you can hopefully connect with.

This blog was previously briefly on cohost, so I'll be moving those posts over here!

I'm looking forward to meeting all of you on tumblr! :)