Tuesday, April 5, 2016

Does Dating a Transwoman Make You Gay?

The age-old riddle ... solved. Well, sorta', I guess. 


By: Jimbo X
JimboXAmerican@gmail.com
@Jimbo__X

For years and years, the name "Kelli" absolutely tortured me. Was she an ex, or a co-worker who rode my ass (in the bad way, of course) at the office, or just some random female in my life I couldn't stand? Nope. She was a person I never met, who I've never seen in person nor really encountered beyond a one hour window circa 1999. 


Let me explain this one. Picture it - the pre-George W. Bush years. Your mild mannered Jimbo X. American was in the eighth grade, and being a latchkey kid and all, the big screen TV in the living room that we bought with our tax refund instead of saving it or investing it in something that wouldn't be absolutely worthless 10 years later was more or less my guardian, confident and secret lover (well, that is, until our illegal cable TV hook up with the free Pay-Per-View channels went kaput.) It was in these pivotal after-school hours that who I was as an adult took shape. Re-runs of The Match Game on the Game Show Network aroused my love of the English language and all its quirks, the odd airing of old creature feature flicks like Tales From the Dark Side: The Movie got me into critical analysis of media and episodes of the Louie Anderson-hosted Family Feud reboot encouraged me to never, ever become a lard-ass. Hell, if I was lucky enough, that old half-hour ESPN show about hockey with Barry Melrose on it might be playing, and if it was around Halloween, The Box (fuck, if you remember that, you are old) would be playing videos by The Misfits and Thriller every twenty minutes. Aye, they were good times, indeed


This was also prime time for TV talk shows when they were at their absolute trashiest, too. While The Jerry Springer Show cornered the market on FCC-baiting daytime sleaze (probably my all-time favorite moment was the episode where they wheeled out the puke fetishists), The Maury Povich Show, in a lot of ways, was even worse. With Jerry, you felt like the people on the program - if they were legitimate at all - would just crawl back to their trailer park or ghetto hellhole with the whole lamentable affair on national television hardly impacting their lives at all in the long haul. With Maury, though, it was almost like the producers WANTED to sadistically create some sort of memorial for when the lives of the guests went horribly, horribly downhill. Finding out your girlfriend cheated on you with the Guatemalan pool boy two mobile homes over on syndicated television is one thing, but to find out the child you thought you sired was the product of somebody else's baby batter while hundreds of slobbering zombies in the audience hoot and holler at your woman for being a skank? Yeah, that's humiliation porn of the highest quality right there. Alas, every now and then, Mr. Connie Chung would sometimes break the highly predictable "who's your daddy" format for an entirely different type of episode - one in which a dozen or so beauty queens would walk across the stage and the audience members had to guess whether or not they were born women or men, oftentimes saying kinda insensitive things like "naw, dawg, she got an Adam's apple" or "look at the size of those hands!" 


Well, it was during one of these episodes - and how the fuck I was able to find it in less than three minutes on YouTube, I can never explain - that I met Kelli; A.K.A., the talk show guest that would make me question my sexuality for at least another decade. 


Kelli - with her pal skin and bouncy blonde hair and dark red lips - was quite the looker. In fact, watching her scamper across the stage gave me - how to put this delicately? - a big chub. Of course, there being a 50/50 chance Kelli was born with (or maybe even still has!) a ding-dong filled me with quite a bit of anxiety. So much so that I watched the remainder of the episode, just to find out if this pallid vixen had some XY chromosomes still floating around in her. 


Of course, when the big reveal came, I was upset. Yes, Kelli was indeed born a man, and much to my chagrin, that male-to-female transsexual got me - to put it subtly - as hard as a baked potato left behind a radiator for a week. You have to remember, this was WAY before Glee and Obergefell v. Hodges and all that, so you REALLY didn't want to be associated with the "g" word in any way, shape or form. So, like all red-blooded heterosexuals are conditioned to do, I simply shrugged off the notion that a shemale on TV gave me a boner and angrily played Doom for the next three hours. 


That night, I had a dream that would scar me for years and years afterwards - one in which I experienced a torrid makeout session with (insert ominous chimes) ... Kelli from the goddamn motherfucking stupid Maury Povich Show! Yes, that barely memorable dry humping reverie was enough to push me to the brink, spending the better part of the next day weighing whether or not I was ... shudder ... a homosexual. I mean, dreams are like your subconscious feeling and shit, and subconsciously, it appeared I wanted to play tongue lacrosse with M2F trannies. Naturally, this meant I had to overcompensate with plenty of macho, heterosexual public acts, including threatening to beat the dog shit out of a "homo" in the locker room for touching my day planner and making out with the trashy girl down the street with a crush on me for years and years (she really did look like Captain Caveman in strawberry Lip Smackers - hey, a masculine biological woman is still better than a feminine biological male, I reasoned) simply because I knew she was the lowest hanging ovarian fruit in the vicinity. If there was any sheet rock that needed to be hung up or any deer that needed to be wrestled into submission, I probably would have eschewed algebra homework just to verify my own straight-male-ness


It's going to sound like absurd hyperbole, but because of that one incident, I didn't watch Maury for a solid year. Things got even better when I was watching some late-night show on HBO that I thought was two chicks making out in a bathtub, only to nearly go blind when one of them got out of the Mr. Bubbles slinging a seven inch Johnson. I didn't watch HBO for TWO YEARS following that one, naturally. By then, of course, the psychological damage had been done, though, and I had developed a pronounced fear of male-to-female transsexuals. There was just something about those dual-sexed creatures that made me WAY too curious for comfort. If a shemale was hot enough and she seduced me, would I give in and have the butt sex with her/him? Or even worse, would I let him/her put their wang-doodle inside me? As a super-straight male, the immediate answer that was SUPPOSED to come to mind was h-e-double-hockey-sticks-no. But in my heart of hearts (located right next to my left testicle, it seemed), I just didn't know how things would play out if, hypothetically, someone like Kelli propositioned me


Very, very recently, I stumbled upon the term femmephile. An offshoot of polysexuality, it basically means one who is attracted to individuals presenting themselves as explicitly feminine, regardless of the biological gender. It's a term I really wished someone would've explained to me way back when, because it certainly would've saved me a lot of needless angst. 


Admittedly, I've never been with a transwoman. As I am in a committed relationship with a cisgender woman, that's probably going to remain that way for the foreseeable future. Alas - and this, despite some of my squabbles with the categorical definitions of what constitutes transgender identity and the immutable nature of genetic science - HAD the opportunity arose in my post-high school, pre-committed relationship-days, I would've dated a female who was born a biological male and never thought anything was weird about it. Yeah, not exactly the sort of surprisingly liberal stance you'd expect from a dude who might vote for Donald Trump this fall, no


The appeal of transwomen for "straight" dudes is apparent. Over the last few decades, there has been a general cultural shift away from the old standards of feminine beauty; no longer infatuated with the vibrant, glamorous aesthetics of Grace Kelly and Marilyn Monroe, today's 20-and-30-something women feel perfectly dandy in the drab, desexualized, normcore template popularized by schlubs (and confessed child molester) like Lena Dunham and whoever those people on Broad City are. Some of them don't even bother waxing their upper lips or shaving their legs anymore, under the assumption they can just slap on some Kylie Jenner-endorsed lipstick and some $95 Juicy Couture shorts and somehow we'll overlook the fact that they have Burt Reynolds mustaches and thighs reminiscent of Chia Pets. 


Transwomen, however, embrace that old-school femininity. They look super glammy and diva-tastic - the huge hair and the flashy makeup and the form-fitting wardrobe that actually emphasizes their curves instead of masking them like a potato sack. They wear stilettos and fishnet stockings and hoop earrings and have beautifully manicured nails and they spend hours making sure their hair and makeup are on point. As painfully hetero as I am, I am not ashamed to state that I find previously male individuals like Andreja Pejic and Gigi Gorgeous extremely attractive. In fact, I'd go as far as to say that they are just as alluring as any "biological" female celebrity, actress or model out there. 


Of course, this does bring up that age-old philosophical dilemma. If the occasion arises and a heterosexual cisgender male engages in sexual activity with a transwoman, does that make said heterosexual cisgender male, for at least one at-bat, a homosexual

Well, the Wi-Fi went down recently and it gave me plenty of time to mull the matter. Hope you have your mechanical pencils and spiral-bound notebooks handy, folks, because this is going to clear up the quandary once and for all


First things first: post-op transwomen are 100 percent fair game. Sure, they may still have some of that SRY protein floating in their genome, but a vag is a vag, regardless if it was something an individual was born with or they acquired via surgery. I mean, does it really matter that much to you if the lake you are swimming in is all natural or man-made? As long as the view is nice, it's wet and it doesn't have toxic chemicals in it, what's the difference? 

Pre-op transwomen, obviously, present a thornier matter. Here, it's not so much the theoretical homoeroticism that's the question as it is the degree of homoeroticism. No matter how beautiful she may be, at the end of the day, there is still a penis and some balls down there, and as such, any sexual contact implies a certain amount of gayness. 

Here, I propose the inherent gayness hinges on the proportionality of mutual penis contact. As far as I am concerned, as long as there is no direct penile contact, it ain't gay. So rest assured, heterosexuals, you can maintain your straight cred after engaging in some torrid French kissing with a drag queen or fondling the medically-augmented breasts of a ladyboy. 

Once things move below the waist, however, the homoerotic element becomes impossible to discount. As always, though, this is something that rests on a continuum, and the overall gayness of the interaction depends heavily on who can be considered the hypothetical "giver" and "recipient" of the activities. So let's say you're slow-dancing with a T-girl, you both get hard and there's some obvious friction below the belt. If both parties acknowledge the mutual pleasure and actively seek to increase said penis-to-penis friction, yeah, that's pretty hard to NOT consider homosexual activity. Alas, it isn't technically direct inter-Johnson contact, so activities of the sort can only be considered semi-gay or quasi-gay behavior at the most

When exposed flesh of one party makes direct contact with the anus or penis of the secondary party, however, the scenario goes from partially-gay to at least half-gay, depending on who the primary pecker or butthole handler is. For example, if you are the recipient of a handjob from a transwoman, it's certainly a non-hetero experience, but I don't think you can be considered ACTIVELY gay until you make flesh on wiener contact yourself. So if a T-girl blows you or tosses your salad, it's certainly not a straight experience, but it can't be considered formally gay until you ram your tongue up her buttocks or gulp down a wad of her sweet, salty man cream. 

Regardless of one's status as recipient or giver, it's pretty hard to consider any form of consensual rectal stimulation as anything other than profoundly homosexual. So even if HER penis never touches you, if you pound the backdoor of a T-girl, that automatically makes you three-quarters gay, or at the very least invalidates you from declaring yourself legitimately "hetero" on any dating site profiles from that point forward. And - although this really shouldn't have to be addressed - if she puts her ding-dong inside your dookie chamber, fella, you just joined Team Bisexual, and there is nothing you can do to reverse course. 

But then again, maybe the whole problem here is this obsession with maintaining rigid definitions of "gay" and "straight." There's a popular adage out there that sexuality really isn't a binary - that, ultimately, we're just various shades of bisexual in a constant state of fluctuation. It's a controversial assertion, to be sure, but that's actually one of the few tenants of modern day post-liberalism that I agree with. Guys, there ain't a damn thing wrong with being attracted to a transwoman, and merely dating a T-girl doesn't "disqualify" you from being considered "straight." If Sarina Valentina stuck her tongue in my mouth, I would gladly accept it and if Bailey Jay wanted to give me a hand-shandy, I wouldn't object one bit. Granted, I've never been in a scenario where a transwoman's wiener was offered unto me, but you know what? If she's hot enough and I'm worked up enough, who is to say I wouldn't wind up with some wing-wong in locations I never considered before? Regardless, if that activity is construed as gay or not, I wouldn't feel guilty one iota about it, and neither should anybody else. 

Fellas, if an attractive transwoman asks you out, I say go for it, and if you encounter an attractive transwoman, what could you possibly lose from asking them out? Go out on dates with them and if it leads to full on tonsil hockey and second base adventuring, more power to you. And if she ends up touching your wang-doodle or you end up touching hers, who cares? As long as you enjoy it, she enjoys it and nobody winds up with an STI, everybody wins. 

If you are a straight dude attracted to transwomen, a gay dude attracted to transwomen or anything in between, just embrace it. Nobody in this day and age should be ashamed of whatever gets their rocks off, just as long as it isn't rape, illegal surveillance or stuff involving minors or animals. Maybe transwomen are still men on the genetic level and maybe they still have dongs, but if the outward appearance is feminine and pretty, I don't think it makes that much of a difference. And hey, who knows, you might actually like playing with another penis, and being bisexual ensures you'll never, ever have a lonely Saturday night ever again. 

So, to recap? No, being attracted to transwomen and even engaging in non-genital contact with them isn't definitionally gay, and even if you DO partake of inter-penis or inter-anus festivities with a trans-gal, it's certainly not 100 percent gay in the traditional sense (hence, that surprisingly large subset of the biological male community that enjoys have sex with pre-op transwomen but have absolutely no interest in having sex with non-femme gay guys.)

Self-professed straight guys into shemales? Don't worry, there's nothing "wrong" with you whatsoever. You just like what you like, and there's no reason at all to be upset with yourself. And pending you're not married and\or planning on breaking up a longstanding relationship with your gal pal, I'd encourage you to get out there and mingle with some real-life transwomen and have some experimental fun while you are still unchained by the shackles of adult responsibilities. 

Gay, straight, bi, femmephile polysexual, whatever - they are just labels, and they shouldn't mean diddly to you. If you've got an itch for the T-girls, why not scratch it at least once?

I mean, at the end of the day, what do you really have to lose ... besides, perhaps, a flustering case of blue balls?


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