The Meat Strap
WORDS / DELIA DETRITUS
CREDIT /RUB MAGAZINE
NOVEMBER 01, 2022 / 001
“If you think you understand girl dick, you don’t understand girl dick.”
The longer i spend bound to this meat sack i call a body, exploring my sexuality and probing what it means to be a woman, the more I think it’s a totally unresolvable subject for someone of intelligence level, it’s like fucking quantum physics. It’s like having Schrodinger’s cock between my legs, pop my knickers off and you can collapse the wave function of my loins with your gaze.
There is an urge as a trans femme to be reserved with how I write about my sexuality, for fear of every word being used to scrutinise my pathology or diagnose me as a predator with autogynephilia. I fear talking candidly about my sexuality could allow a reader with ill intent to move along with a sense of authority over it under the guise of discourse or a natural instinct towards safeguarding. There is a stifling urge to self-police the level to which I express my ability to love my body when it’s in the right contexts, or the right forms. I find myself constantly weaving narrative dead ends and confusing meandering attempts to justify why I have a right to communicate the way I will in this text, purely out of fear.
The idea that the solutions to the struggles that trans people face are in some way resolvable through academic means is quite disturbing to me, while I may make a few coy attempts at drawing parallels to quantum physics and ham fistedly grasping some of these huge concepts, I by no means feel like an intellectual, I dropped out of high school and higher education and have only a HND in sound engineering to my name.
The idea that the only way we should expect to succeed at defending ourselves is via the intellectual is something I find equally disturbing, the fact that most of my life feels like debate is bullshit. It lends to the idea that Trans people are some sort of anthropological phenomena or a by-product of society, rather than a fundamental part of humanity.I would firmly reject that we are something you can even study to any degree of accuracy given the wide range of human experiences that make us up as a group.
How can we be expected to defend something so innately linked to raw emotionality via the cold clinical hand of the analytical.
Most days my transness feels like a pulsing ball of raw energy in the centre of my chest that yearns to just slither and wrap its endless tendrils around my every synapse, how the fuck am I meant to quantify and calculate that nonsense? How do I bring that into a debate or a think piece without shouting or rambling?
When I sat down to write about my cock I told myself i wouldn’t include some stupid disclaimer paragraph explaining how I felt about writing this, but it became inevitable. I don’t exist in a world where i can freely write without priming the reader, without putting up feeble defences against the scrutiny exposing myself brings, because in a sense wether i like it or not i will always also be writing for a cis audience.
“Showing people that I love my cock feels as if it’s an admittance of incompleteness, a secret message to those who get to know what I have between my legs saying: “I’m not a proper tranny you know, I won’t go all the way”.
I feel people’s analytical wheels begin to turn when I start to talk about it, there’s this dissociated look in their eyes when they hear me say I’m fine with my cock, a moment where they drift off into a fantasy land where they can muse about me at will, on fairground rides of my meat, spinning around wild whirling shapes of pig headed preconceived notions, constructing whatever wild narrative they spin as a result of this, likely picturing a totally inaccurate self-produced mind porno of me fucking someone (or them).
If the person reading this is cis, they might be thinking “but surely that cant come up in normal conversation very often” or “you must just be obsessed with your bits!!!”.And if you are thinking that as you read this, well you are wrong. Cis people LOVE asking me about my dangler, it comes up A LOT. No matter how it’s packaged, coming from most cis people, especially strangers, it’s a fucking annoying question and most of the time they don’t really even want to hear my version of the answer.
While this text talks to Cis people, it’s not primarily intended for them. And while they are welcome to read it, they should not expect to feel a connection to this, or a clear answer. In a way I want everyone to feel about this text the way I feel about quantum physics. Sure I’ve watched a bunch of youtube videos about it and read as many texts as my adhd addled brain will let me and I want to understand it, but I only really “get it” in an abstract sense. Like trying to count the eyes of some sort of lovecraftian monster, eventually you just settle on the idea it’s a force so far beyond your comprehension that you should probably just lie down and have a biscuit. I primarily intend this text to be helpful to and understood by Trans Femmes, who are generally far more accustomed to eldritch horrors.
In a bid to inform this piece with the experiences of others, i began talking to my trans femme friends about their experiences with their cocks. For most it’s a touchy subject, but I have found girls like me, who’s shame and genital dysphoria is non linear or non-existent. While I won’t include all of the conversations or indeed any of the content of our discussions, I will talk about how they made me feel.
Enter Jamie,
I met Jamie through some collaborative work we did together, she performed a touching ritualistic piece in conversation with my durational sculptural installation. Crushing her first dose of estrogen in a small mortar and pestle, mixing it with soy milk, filling a teat made of a condom and hoisting it above her head she pierces the teat with her earring letting the torrent of feminising hormones pour into her mouth. She is on her knees in a freezing cold room in total silence, she is wearing an outfit of her own design made up of a variety of stolen and gifted items, she looks fucking stunning. The raw power that exuded from her performance was palpable and endlessly hot, I was immediately enraptured by her energy. Seeing her so free and comfortable with her body reminded me of the limits I was imposing on myself and the limits society places on us.
She was the first person I approached to interview about her cock, it was fairly nerve wracking approaching her about it, but with the benefit of hindsight she was the ideal first candidate.
I’m not really sure how I didn’t predict what would happen as a consequence of our conversation, by the end of the night we were smashing our faces together and I had her locked between my thunder thighs squeezing the air out of her lithe little body. We had spent the evening talking about how empowered we feel in our bodies when it’s contextually loved, how we don’t feel shame on a personal level about wanting to penetrate someone, no shame in being tops or vers, just the pure ecstatic euphoria of realising our flesh is where we want it to be. I’ve not met many women who are as comfortable with their bodies as Jamie and I left the night with a renewed sense of vigour, a level of unquenchable hornyness I had not felt for a long time, and frankly I have been acting like a bit of a slag ever since.
The other conversation of note was with my dear friend and artistic collaborator Willow. While i didn’t snog willow (would feel a tad incestuous to do so) talking to her always makes me feel better about my perverse desire to be a girl with a dick. She has been one of the primary inspirations behind talking about my willy. If you look at her work I would say a good 80% of her pieces have a crude drawing of a penis in them and as a consequence we’ve been speaking about our genital dysphoria since we met. Differing from Jamie she falls into the non-linear category of genital dysphoria, experiencing the same ebbs and flows I do.
Again, a nefarious reader could infer from her constant inclusion of penises in her art that she in a sense is obsessed with her cock, i would suggest the cis are obsessed with our cock, seeing them, talking about them, cutting them off …. This external obsession forces self reflection to a paralysing degree, if Willow lived in a futuristic utopian void i would guess she might opt for some form of biomechanic neo genital of her own design.
Talking to other transfemmes about my cock is easy. While we all have different feelings and structural impositions surrounding our piss tubes, when talking about it to them the words flow out of me like, well... piss. I know I will be heard when I explain the superposition of my cock to them. They have no interest in measuring me and therefore do not collapse the wave function. My cock remains entangled with my cosmic clit. It both does and does not exist and remains as such until I myself choose which of its dimensions to access.
In this regard it is my meat strap, a term I believe I invented? To describe my relationship with my cock post HRT, It is an attempt to encapsulate my non linear relationship to genital dysphoria. Pre HRT my relationship with my body was totally out of phase with itself, it felt as if i was tackling this object in a single state with its own emotionality that was totally at odds with how i wanted to express myself sexually. While medicalisation is by no means the only route to feeling at one with your body, in my case it has been. The further I move towards the body/face I feel is mine the more I understand the shape I feel I am meant to take the more embodied i feel, the more I understand how I want to relate to my junk. I realise now that I love my cock, I love it now that I can “take it off” in the eye of the beholder, or at the very least reduce it to a quantum state, where it both does and does not exist in its expected form.
Being able to shelve the meat strap has brought me back to a place of loving it and being comfortable with topping. I think the expected narrative for me to achieve a “passably safe” status is to undergo a fairly violent procedure where my body is sliced and reformed, nullifying the offending member.
“The thing is, in my case my member does not offend me, while for many transfemmes it can be an unresolvable misalignment with their projected self that can only be corrected by such a procedure, most of my pressure to undergo it would be entirely external.”
In an ideal world I would populate my body with some sort of remote controlled nanotechnology to bend my flesh at will, changing the shape and size of my cock to suit my partner, maybe programming novel genital shapes and combinations, giving myself new holes to be fucked in, changing the shape of my body to accentuate different outfits and reforming my flesh to suit the safety needs of my surroundings. I have always been obsessed with body horror, transhumanism and the modified self, playing games with the shape of my body through sartorial trickery or through direct intervention of marking my skin to suit my aesthetic desires.
In my mind’s eye, my cock, in the streets, barely exists. It’s an identifying factor I tuck away and attempt to pretend doesn’t exist, a decision made less out of some innate desire to not have it but more often a safety based body transformation. It’s the desire not to be clocked, not the desire not to have a cock. It’s societally imposed dysphoria, it’s not mine.
The body i want barely exists outside of fetishism and gender radicalism, there are next to no guidelines for how a woman with a cock should act, how she should wish to fuck and be fucked.
I have had to forge my sexuality in myriad unpleasant experiences, from sucking off nameless old sods from dingy early web chat rooms to being seen as an accessory to my dick, my value dwindling the second it softens, Playing a character that aligned with what society told me my body was for, who it was and how I should feel while fucking. The pleasure was at the end of miles of pain, a road that twisted into the abyss of euphoria.
When i first heard there were trans women who, after nullifying the testosterone in their bodies, were then applying testosterone gel directly to their genitals in order to retain full erectile function and prevent atrophy, it was like a bolt of lighting, i suddenly realised why i was so at odds with mainstream trans narrative, why i couldn’t always see myself in my trans sisters, i’m not just a girl, i’m a girl with a dick. So when the function of my dick began to change with the pumping emotional flow of estrogen, when it began to atrophy i started to feel a new form of bodily dysmorphia, the utopian sting of realising the limitless possibilities of my body outside of the cis gaze, realising the thing that made me want to cut at my flesh was a desire for safety and not the forging of my new and personal flesh.
If I purchased a strap online and it was all soft and floppy when it arrived in the post I would likely return it. This is the feeling I have about my post hrt cock. I want to be able to top with fervour again, I want to wear out my whole body way before my cock gives up and goes limp. I want to biohack my body to suit my needs, I want to localise the endocrine pattern I’ve been running from my whole life, I want to tame my meat mech and make it my own.
I want a hard girl dick.
Underworld extends its greatest thanks to Delia Detritus and Rub Magazine for allowing us to reprint this article!
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