I started this blog intending to only post once a week, because I felt the discipline would be good for me and because I thought the content would be consistently of higher quality. These things may still be true.

But lately I find that things are happening, and I can’t stay silent. There is no one I know IRL who has a clue about my secret life; and, while I hope that continues for as long as possible, at the same time I need to proclaim my truth, even if no one cares or listens.

In searching for the right label for who I am, I thought “genderqueer” might apply; but I don’t think it does. I’m not genderfluid. I know who and what I am. I am a feminine soul in a male body. Does this make me transgender? I think some would say so; but I don’t. I believe that I – the I between lifetimes, who knows more than I can hope to – knew that there were things I needed to learn that an incarnation as a male would help me to learn. Have I learned them? I don’t know. Does this mean I should turn my back on femininity, since incarnating as a male is kind of a slap in the face of my femininity? I can’t believe that, either. My femininity is *me*; this is who I am. Maybe that means I’ll have to do this again – gag! – but, for the time being, I am rejoicing at finally finding myself.

It has occurred to me that perhaps the time I’ve put in so far in this lifetime is enough, and I’m being paroled, given the rest of my life to “come home,” so to speak – to retire, from the burden of trudging through maledom. That’s my favorite interpretation.

My mother told me that, when I was a very small boy – two years old, I think – she found me in the tub with a razor, blood streaming down my legs, and I happily announced to her, “I’m shaving!” Until recently, I always thought this was merely funny; but, because of recent events, I’m looking deeper. Why would a boy of this age seek to identify with his mother, rather than his father? Perhaps I’m reading too much into the event; but it makes me think.

My upbringing was hellish. I don’t want to go into too much detail, because I treasure my anonymity. A number of years ago, a chance meeting on the internet wherein I unintentionally disclosed a tiny bit more than I should have done resulted in a perfect stranger figuring out who I was and calling my parents on the phone. OMG. That ain’t going to happen again. Suffice it to say, I was raised in hell. It isn’t hard for me to believe that the girl within was repressed along with a number of other things. Knowing my parents as I do, if I looked genderqueer to them, it would have scared the crap out of them.

Goddess, I feel so free these days. Because of the nature of my work, I daily spend extended periods of time away from my co-workers; and, as time has gone by over the last few weeks, I have noticed and increased femininity about my personal expression – movement, basically. As part of my project of schooling the body to free the soul, I’ve begun working on my handwriting, trying let my femininity flow more freely there; and just today a female co-worker commented that my handwriting was “so pretty.” Goddess, that was such a shot in the arm. If there is one word I would want to claim as my own, it is that one: pretty. I want to be pretty. I want to be pretty so badly – and yet, I know that in this life it will never happen. Except. To the extent I can let my feminine soul free, I *can* be pretty. And I have seen evidence that the soul can trump the body, and shine through. That is my prayer for my own life.

The notion occurred to me a few days ago, and yesterday I did it. It could have made me late for work, but I did it anyway. I was getting ready for work – shower, shave – and decided I was going to shave under my arms, something I’d never done in my entire life. And I did. Then, after work, I came home and shaved my chest and belly. I learned that I need to buy an electric razor; this is harder than you might think. I’ve got chest stubble. I’m going to shave “down there,” when I figure out how and work up the courage to get near the package half-blind with a sharp instrument. It was inevitable, really. What self-respecting woman would endure chest hair?

It would be nice to find a woman to do it for me; besides, I can’t shave my own back, and that needs doing, too. I suppose I could hire a hooker, but that’s kinda pricey for what’s basically barber service. Can you imagine her reaction? She shows up expecting to give a guy at least a BJ and he asks her to shave his back. Come to think of it, I bet a friendly cosmetologist would do it, and for less.

Dudes get waxed all the time, don't they? Shouldn't be too hard to find a place that can wax your chest and back.....

Btw I find your posts very interesting and at times delightful!