It seems to be a traditional coming of age as gay experience to equate sexuality with genitals. In an unforgettable first season Queer as Folk scene, 17 year old Justin proudly declares to his mother and a psychologist that he knows he’s gay because he ”likes dick.” In the same vein, lesbians like that they like pussy. Bisexuals tend to break away from this mold to a certain extent, preferring to declare an attraction to people regardless of the cock/cunt dichotomy.
The inclusion of transgender people on this scene rudely disrupts this conversation by peeling apart gender and genitalia. What do you do when confronted with a man with a vagina or a woman with a penis or a person with a set of something entirely different? Many folks opt to simply respond with pity, disgust, revulsion, or hate, which is probably why most transgender folks attempt suicide at least once and the murder of transgender person makes the news every week. There is, however, another option. You can, naturally, rethink the matter entirely. How very queer. Don’t you think? To start off the discussion, here is an exceptionally provocative, yet appropriate essay from over at The Official Fauxmos Blog:
A Y-chromosome is no excuse for not having a pussy. Yes, I know, the mirror doesn’t lie. Nevertheless, it’s a feeble, literal-minded gesture to unzip and with trembling fingers point to a full-grown cock nesting comfortably on a bed of balls and pubes.
Hello! There you are, my snake, my drill, my hammer… The vocabulary of insecure boys is brimful of power drills and lethal weapons lurking beneath every bulging crotch.
What is pussy-like about this lovely, smooth-skinned cock, this beast that has so often sparked up at the mere fragrance of its female counterpart?
Let’s unzip and take a look. Growing erect, free of his denim prison he unfurls, hardens, rises to the stroking teasing of a finger. Hard and agonizingly sensitive, he’s a funny monster—ven in the passionate folds of a tightly clenching vagina he sometimes becomes overstimulated, the moist ecstasy tipping over into pain for a moment. Even there, while I stroke this hard boner, she’s in there. Right there under my skin curled around every cell in my body, the sturdy X embracing her spindly brother Y.
Likewise, a pair of tits is no excuse not to have a cock.
I have never been with a woman who didn’t have a bit of the cock about her. Which woman doesn’t have a cock? Doesn’t even the most virginal virgin sometimes feel the urge to penetrate, to sink into the wet depths, to be an invading phallus with her fingers, her hand, and to become that mirror organ that already has a place made for it inside her? Some women have bigger cocks than others, but they all have one, whether or not they can find them. It only takes a bit of patience.
And how do we find our inner cocks and pussies? We get help. Vulnerable, curious and hungry we spread our mouths, legs, fingers and arms open to each other, inviting and getting invited. Entering and being entered. The specific gender combination is utterly irrelevant; only the game matters. The play of appetites consuming each other.
I found my pussy playing a game like that. She’s right there. Growling, purring, from below the pit of my stomach to the deepest whorls of the cerebellum, she is me.
I don’t want one; I have one. Wanna see?