My new pussy

Added: Burgandy Chamberland - Date: 28.12.2021 18:17 - Views: 45784 - Clicks: 887

Andrea Long Chu. Published in Issue Head Case. Publication date Spring You can also buy the book in our online store. My cat was 2 the day I got my pussy.

By the time I found her, in a small shelter near the United Nations building in Manhattan, I had nearly thrown in the towel. Cats mate in spring and summer, so adopting a kitten in the winter can be tricky. But on the fourth day, at the fifth shelter, I met a tiny creature, silver and marbled and three months old, freshly fixed by the vet upstairs.

She clung to me like a tree, or a hope. She trembled all the way home. It was winter when I got my pussy, too. By de, the weeks leading up to surgery were a blur. I recolored my hair from metallic green to silver-gray with a violet undertone. I got new glasses. I saw a dentist. I got my first tattoo, a geometric vulva, on my forearm.

My new pussy friend held my hand. It would be no novel observation to remark that getting a tattoo is very painful, although it is a peculiar quality of pain that it never really gets old. All bodily pain begins with shock at the audacity of physical trespass, a kind of astonishment at the frankly unbelievable insinuation that one is not, in fact, the center of the universe. I learned this the electric way, during the yearlong depilation of my genital region, as each follicle was individually targeted with several tiny, precise bursts from a hair-thin probe.

In truth, I was collecting pains, pinning them like insects to the corkboard of my brain, scribbling little labels below. Together I hoped they might testify to a deeper metamorphosis than the mere rearrangement of flesh. The scrotum, its tenants evicted, helps to line the vaginal wall and form the labia. I dutifully observed the garden-variety anxieties: that I would have a complication, that I would regain consciousness on the operating table. But really, I wanted to be cut, sawn in two like a lady in a magic show.

On the eve of the operation, I held a small celebration on the second floor of a Brooklyn pub. Funeral attire was advised. My new pussy I arrived, I discovered that one guest had combed the party store for all the balloon letters needed to spell out happy new vagina.

That night we pantomimed the death rites. Someone gave me a pair of sexy underwear; someone my new pussy, a banana cut in half. It was pink. I was safe. Nine hours later, I was trotting awkwardly down a hall with an OR nurse, hospital booties catching on the floor. Jogging, we chatted. She told me that she had recently gotten laser surgery to eliminate the need for prescription lenses. They strapped me to the table. People in scrubs rushed to and fro, checking things, taking readings.

One of them joked to me that the scene felt like a pit stop. In this analogy, I was the car. Someone went about finding a vein. It is difficult to explain why I wanted a vagina. There were technical concerns: tucking is a major inconvenience, and often has to be redone each time you stand up.

Sex, too, was a big motivator. The message boards said this was atrophy, a side effect of testosterone blockers. Evidently, your body turns off the gas if you stop paying your bills. But the simplest explanation was that I hoped a vagina would make me feel more like a woman.

Unfortunately, this was also the most complicated answer. The situation of the vagina in feminist politics today is, even by optimistic standards, hairy. Zweiman has stated that the color pink was adopted in ironic citation of its girly, frivolous reputation. The critique of the pussyhat came to be dominated by two slogans: not all pussies were pink, and not all women had pussies.

The first objection, which amounted to an allegation of racism, seemed to turn on widespread but largely unremarked confusion about the multiple senses of the slang word pussywhich can refer either to the vagina, being the muscular birthing canal of the female mammal; to the vulva, which includes all the external genitalia labia, my new pussy, vaginal opening, even the mons ; or to both taken together. Add to this the fact that the word vagina is often colloquially used to denote the vulva, and all bets are truly off.

Vulvas do tend to reflect skin color, often having a darker hue; vaginas, however, are always pink, as sure as blood is always red. The same is true of the vulvar vestibule, that little curtained foyer you or a loved one may discover by parting the inner labia with your fingers. In the first place, it had the distinct advantage of being true: not all women do have vaginas, nor do all vaginas have my new pussy. Then again, the pussyhat was not an artistic rendering of the female genitalia but a simple bit of costuming. Its most literal suggestion was not that the wearer was a woman but that the wearer was a cat.

This ensured that the relationship between the hat and the sex organ was, whatever else it was, figurative: a verbal and visual pun that afforded demonstrators a sly bit of plausible deniability in matters of bourgeois decency.

Doubtless there were transgender women who really did find the hats alienating. In fact, trans women as a demographic had a variety of opinions about the pussyhat; some of us even had two opinions. Yet many cis women appeared to derive a disturbing sense of my new pussy satisfaction from projecting onto trans women their own ambivalence regarding the pussyhat not to mention their actual canals in the name of solidarity.

In reassuring one another that the vagina must be prevented from circulating metaphorically, these women were effectively arrogating the disputed organ to themselves. After all, the pussyhat could be arraigned on charges of biological essentialism only if one had decided in advance that the only possible relationship to the vagina was having one.

Somehow, under the guise of inclusivity, cis women had given themselves the responsibility of reminding us of our dicks. The pussyhats were silly and cutesy and looked like your mom made them. In this respect, the pussyhat came to ify youthfulness as distinct from biological age: a political youth whose identifying trait was a kind of embarrassing rhetorical childishness.

The real problem with the pussyhats was that they offered up, with the winsome naivete of the recently radicalized, the promise of a universal category of womanhood, which feminism has long made a cardinal virtue of forgoing. It would not be fantastic to suppose that those feminists who criticized the pussyhat most fiercely did so in part because they saw in its blithe adopters a younger, warmer version of themselves, still ugly-sweet on the romance of political consciousness, not yet having learned to be frugal with their hopes.

Embarrassment is usually just pride, later. Two months before my operation, I dreamed I was a character in a video game. As sometimes happens in video games, I died. When I respawned, I had a new face, the face of another woman altogether. I woke up in the recovery room delirious.

The pain was intense and sharp, as if I needed to pee but had been forced to hold it for a week. Two rubber tubes slithered out of my bandaged pelvis. I eventually became coherent enough to grasp that one was a Foley catheter, to drain urine from my bladder, and the other something called a wound VAC, which was sucking out blood-red fluid and chunks of something dark. Me, presumably. But what slumbered then beneath those bandages, no one could have said.

I began demanding food, petulant. Soon I was visited by a small parliament of blue scrubs who double-checked with the nurse that I was on a strictly liquid diet. She confirmed this without missing a beat. Now we both had a secret. I was in the hospital for another five days. My girlfriend slept on the couch in my room. I tried watching a cooking show on Netflix, but the glistening cuts of meat began to my new pussy too close to home. On the third day, I successfully staggered from my bed to a chair.

I was immediately nauseated, vomiting athletically into the oncoming trash can in a smooth parabolic arc. Friends stopped by with flowers and gossip. One brought me a garland of construction-paper vulvas she had crafted after getting high in Seattle. Another brought me a pussyhat. The final morning, the surgeon arrived in high spirits to unbandage her creation, pulling a long bloody ribbon of gauze from my introitus like a magician showing off.

With the canal clear of tubes and debris, she took out a teal rod lined with small white circles, gave it a dollop of thick lubricant, and slid it into me with the pomp of a woman at a gas station. It was a medical dilator, one of a set of three rigid polyurethane dildos.

This was mama bear. That night, in bed at my apartment, I wept. I wailed, actually, the way mothers do in ancient manuscripts. I felt exactly the same.

My new pussy

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