A boy with a girl's breasts
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Two o'clock in the morning isn't a time I welcome being awake but I'm reconciled to it. Often I let the dog out for a piss, smoke a cigarette, check my email. In my teen years I often had trouble sleeping, no, sorry masturbation wasn't always a cure. Over time I learned to entertain myself when restless in bed. Back then I assumed I'd grow up to be a mathematician or theoretical physicist and I'd lie there playing with patterns of numbers.
Biology and society forced me to grow up. No complaint, adolescence is an experience best left to the young. My early morning thoughts are usually of commonplace things: what I need to do at the shop, divers things about my weblogs, all the evil things that time an entropy may precipitate.
Ineluctably I think about myself sort of meta-ponder my thinking about myself. It could easily be suggest that my self-absorption is a sign that adolescence isn't something I've really left behind me. I get a kick out of my self-exploration: the examined life may not always be worth living but it is entertaining.
Last night my mind when back to an afternoon on Peachtree Street in Atlanta when I was eighteen. Not far from the High Museum I wished I could have sex with a boy who had a girl's breasts.
A boy with a girl's breast not a woman with a phallus. That was how I pictured Hermaphroditus (based on what I don't have any idea). It'd be years before I discovered that I had the capacity for finding womanhood or mostly womanly attributes sexually desirable.
As far as I knew there were no such people. Biological androgyny was something of myth only. Like many notions that I didn't have the will or know-how to make real it went out of my head.
Several years later in San Francisco this old erotic dream returned. Answering an ad either in The Advocate or The Berkeley Barb I called what must've been a pre-op transsexual. An ignorant young man I dimly knew that sex reassignment surgery existed but nothing really of transsexuals even though I'd met a couple. The voice on the other end was very creepy and told me I'd have to make a donation. I hung-up don't know if it was the fee or the voice. Happy enough with nelly gay boys I forgot about it. A few years during a phase of sexual self-discovery I rediscovered those desires.
Last night's minor revelation I treasure for a couple of reasons.
When I see the word 'ladyboy' the accent is on the boy. When confronted with the images aimed at shemale chasers I'm not seeing anything close to my young self's dreams. Often you wonder if there is more silicone in the face than the breasts.
The granularity of the self-insight is my real pleasure. The broad outlines of our inner lives aren't that hard to discern. But the truth and value is in the nuances, inflections, details.