The Bussy Beat: My journey into sexual satisfaction and loving my body

by Anya Lee

I always had complicated relationships with dicks. While, even at 13, I knew I liked other dicks *very* much, I wasn’t quite as fond of my own, which is quite the telling thing to think as a child. Because of my anatomy I was always weirded out or hesitant to bring it up, to the point where I often wished it would just disappear and I could have literally anything else down there: like, genuinely, if a Pikachu or something was down there, I feel as if the quality of my life would’ve improved tenfold. Imagine the self defense capabilities if my genitals could produce enough electricity to zap grown men? That sounds like a life worth living.

As I got older and transitioned, “it” just became obtrusive and was something I just tucked away (figuratively and literally) to better fit into whatever pair of ultra short whore shorts (™) I was wearing at the time, slicked back between my taint for several hours a day. I was made to feel insecure about having a penis, like it was just something I didn’t need, or something that stopped me from being a woman. And, at some point (I’m not even sure when exactly), I really just stopped… caring.

Something had awakened in me. After years of passively bottoming, never touching or having myself touched by whichever horny stranger was drilling me (use protection!), the weird desire to cum had awakened in me. I was SO tired of never cumming. To the point of potential psychological complex. It wasn’t like I was on powerful antidepressants that caused me to have to jerk off for 20 hours to cum, it just wasn’t an action that was facilitated typically in my less than subpar history of dick hunting. Even in a (mostly) monogamous relationship, I found myself unsatisfied, bored, listless, and passive aggressive. The root of it all?

I was having no nuts. Zero nuts. Squirrels had more nuts than me (I proudly supported deforestation because of those CHEEKY squirrels brandishing how many nuts they had) and the only thing ‘nuts’ about me was the fact that out of years of inconsequential sex I had never once had the audacity to suggest the idea that I may want to actually cum. The concept of that is hard to digest, though: trans people are often assumed to have some sort of genital aversion and while that’s true for a lot of people, and myself, in practice, it often left me feeling unsatisfied with sexual encounters.

Why did I have to be afraid or ashamed of my own body? There was so much silent tension based on the concept of my genitals, and many people asking if it was okay — and honestly, I didn’t know. 

But, now I do. There’s no reason to be ashamed of one’s natural body, and there’s nothing selfish about ensuring you’re sexually satisfied as well.

This, naturally, isn’t without consequence, as is any aspect of embracing one’s sexuality a little too much. To further press the idea of compulsory femininity for trans women, a lot of us cling to feminine coding and signifiers to better pass and therefore, secure our presence in society in a less dangerous way. Oftentimes, the less visible you are as trans, the safer you are, and that causes a lot of us to hyper-fixate on the ways we can reduce our space taken, and validate ourselves.

This includes only taking the role of passive bottoms, who don’t require our genitals to be acknowledged because *that* is a deterrent to our perception as “real women.” But perhaps, to some scathing notion, I’d like to present a fact: we’re not cis women. Our bodies are of our own, and that includes our genitals, and any person who sexually explores us is likely aware of the fact. I feel as if it’s important to remove that notion, to further press and liberate our own identities as trans people, because there’s nothing inherently wrong with being just that. We don’t need to muddle ourselves or alter every facet of our beings to adhere to something we won’t be.

In my quest for sexual release, I found a new level of comfort with my body despite the dysphoria I’d feel otherwise. I accepted many facets of myself that I believed to be ugly. It’s okay to have a wide rib cage, muscles, or broad shoulders. It’s okay to never be hairless, it’s okay to have a penis (and vice versa, for transmen!) and to simply “be.” Being trans seems to come with a price tag and we enforce it upon ourselves constantly out of fear of never being accepted, but the people who accept us aren’t going to do it just because we’ve modified ourselves to fit a niche we can’t meld into. People who are going to accept us don’t have to be persuaded.

I struggled so much with melding aspects of my sexuality into being as convenient for people to fetishize me as possible, and naturally, that attracted people who critiqued my natural characteristics. I couldn’t help it if my dick was bigger, or I had hair somewhere, or I grew stubble or had a certain body: it was simply a fact. I could deny that fact and surround myself with people who would constantly desire me to be something I couldn’t be, or I could accept it — accept myself and recognize that these characteristics are what make myself me. My womanhood is not dependent upon having my face altered beyond recognition for funsies, and yours shouldn’t be either. My lesson was to embrace myself, and embrace people who did just that — and that included learning to love my magnum dong.