As of yesterday, I’ve been on testosterone for eight months. My belly is getting very fuzzy. Of course that doesn’t show up in the pictures. I have to shave my face more frequently, and my stubble prickles my neck at night when I’m falling asleep. Aside from a little more hair, the changes I see from month-to-month now are so minute they don’t seem worth mentioning. But they must make a cumulative difference; almost everyone called me sir this month, if they chose to address me.
I’ve been bad about working out now that I don’t have easy access to a gym. I have a goal to be in decent shape before my surgery. I will be off T for three weeks around the surgery and want to minimize the dysphoria from that. I won’t be able to work out for eight weeks following surgery and don’t want to start off excessively soft. I also want to be able to look at myself post-surgery and see satisfying results. So looking at my body in my skivvies this month, I feel a bit self-critical. Pics and video after the jump.
Coming out is both a personal milestone and a political act. It is not a one-time event, but a lifelong process. There is the first time you come out, often haltingly, to yourself. I’ve done that both as an adolescent and an adult. There are the intimate family comings out, and the big world-wide comings out. There are the awkward daily comings out (choosing pronouns to describe your partner, deciding whether to correct someone’s gendering of you).
And then there are the missed comings out. The family members who passed away, the friends from your youth you suspect would have had their own coming out to share, the bigot on the street you didn’t have the guts to say something to. Finally, there are the ones who choose never to come out – maybe not to themselves, or maybe just not to anyone else.
What I like most, though are the bonding sessions with other queer people over their coming out stories. Feel free to post yours in the comments. Happy Coming Out Day!
I was getting a hair cut and the barber lathered up my sideburns and the next thing I knew there was a straight razor against my skin. My heart pounded with bliss, living out a fantasy of masculinity that I didn’t know I harbored.