In Vent #1120, I tossed out some ideas about possible adjustments to one’s presumed desirability, and how this could be done through body modifications. At some point, I said:
Novelist Francis W. Porretto has a series of stories in which a small percentage of proper biological females somehow emerge from the womb with boyparts.
FWP sent me a long, detailed response; I incorporate sections of it here, along with my reactions, mostly because his ISP’s spam filters suck out loud.
[F]ew persons are aware that there’s a significant sex trade in “tgirls,” largely centered in the Indochinese and Asian Archipelagan countries. Large amounts of money, and a number of charter flights per year, are put to that purpose. It has an outcropping here in North America as well, though much smaller than the mass it’s acquired in Thailand and the Philippines.
I was generally aware of the Southeast Asian market, though I’m pretty sure I’ve been underestimating the size of it. Photos of “ladyboys” are easily come by in the States; as is the case with born women, some are quite lovely, others, um, less so.
Here in the U.S., transsexualism is currently “faddish,” but as I’m sure you’re aware it’s been going on for several decades. The current foofaurauw over it tends to occlude its lineage. Transsexuals who transitioned prior to the emergence of the sociopolitical contretemps have generally lived very private lives; they haven’t gone looking for publicity, if we omit a few exceptional cases such as Tula Cossey and Andrija Pejic. The ones I know — two transwomen — are unhappy about the current state of things. They would like to see a return to discretion and an ethic of personal privacy.
I’m figuring one of them is Blaire White, whom I’ve been following for some time. She takes no crap from those who would set themselves up as Trans HQ. One I follow is Meghan Chavalier, who was active in the porn industry around the turn of the century but has since retired. Her politics and mine are more or less diametrically opposed, but while she describes herself as an “LGBTQ activist,” there’s little to distinguish her Twitter feed from Kirsten Gillibrand’s, though admittedly I have no photos of the Senator with a candy cane dangling from her phallus.
The stories and novels in my Futanari Saga are attempts to explore the transsexualism phenomenon as if it could be divorced from its faddishness and its political components. They’re almost entirely sexual-behavior free. My focus is on the difficulties such persons must face: both the born futanari and the transwomen who elect that state of their own free wills. Like any human being, they seek acceptance, respect, and love. Those things are hard enough for us regularly configured types to find. When one’s coupling gear is nonstandard…?
Sex scenes can be, and too often are, amazingly tedious, and changing the hardware specs won’t make a bad scene less bad.
Oh, and one of those two trans women I admitted to knowing well is a Second Amendment hardliner; she runs a nonprofit called Operation Blazing Sword, which began after a massacre in a Florida gay bar. Their function: to offer training in self-defense to the various letters in the LGBTQ community who have figured out that they can’t count on the authorities to protect them in their time of need. She’s fun to talk to.
Addendum: The very first photograph I ever saw along these lines was back in 1996, with a nude couple strolling the beach. I noted with amusement at the time that her dingus was larger than his. Eventually it dawned on me that it had to be a fake: protrusions notwithstanding, their pubes, when blown up several sizes, proved to be utterly identical.