Yes, the title is a reference to that old song by The Temptations.
"My girl, my girl, my girl
Talkin' 'bout my girl, my girl, talkin' 'bout my girl
I've got sunshine on a cloudy day with my girl"
And yes, this post is also obviously about Elle. But also about me. And about women in general.
Yesterday, I saw Elle wearing boobs for the first time. Boobs, a dress, high heels, a purse, a pearl necklace... Now, I've seen her in a dress before, and she's super cute. (To be fair, she's always cute. But cuter in a dress, in my opinion.) But the boobs made a big difference. She looked more "real" all of a sudden. Solid. Right.
She's got this smile when she's wearing a skirt or dress. Tight lipped, hesitant, but there's an inner light shining through. A light I never see when she's in her regular clothes; her hoodies, t-shirts and baggy pants. She looks afraid when she's wearing a dress, but also happy. Seeing her frightened makes me want to protect her. Stand in front of her with a shield and sword, to stop the world from getting to close. (What a terrible world we live in, when just wearing a dress is enough to make a girl afraid.) I never thought I would feel chivalrous, in that masculine "protect the women and children" - kind of way.. Yet here I am. She's my maiden in distress, about to be eaten by a monster. And I want to save her. It's a very unfamiliar feeling, one I haven't finished exploring yet. But it's not bad.
What is bad, or at least more difficult, is my own gender dysphoria. Seeing Elle and her room mate dress her, try on accessories, discuss make-up and underwear.. It was a very stark reminder of everything I've left behind. Everything I've fled from.
Then there's the boobs. I try to forget that I have any. Try very hard to not feel them, not think about them, push them out of my mind, ignore them. And most of the time, I'm successful. I'm a very old hand at dissociating, after all I did it with my gender for decades. To keep doing it with a body part isn't that hard. Just tiring and stressful, like all dissociation.
But dating a pre-op trans man this spring was bloody difficult, and there's an obvious reason why I don't date cis women. Even writing about it now makes me tense, my breathing shallow, my head buzzing slightly. Being reminded of my own breasts is painful.
Playing with Elle's nipples, touching her chest like you would someone with small breasts.. That's different. I think my mind knows that it's make-believe. It doesn't trigger anything. Seeing her with proper breasts though.. That triggered a whole host of dysphoria in me.
I'll be damned if I'll let it stop me, though. Or her. She's happy, she looks RIGHT, looks like she SHOULD. I'm really, really happy for her. I want her to experience that more often, I want her to feel free to dress in a more feminine way and look however she wants, without thought to how it might make me feel. I want to celebrate with her, as she steps forward into womanhood. Want to support her, cheer her on, rejoice in her exploration of her own gender expression.
She asked me, partially as a joke I hope, how far she'd have to get in her transition for me not to be into her anymore. (This is a reference to when I asked a straight, submissive friend in the BDSM scene the same question.) I can't remember the exact words I used when answering her, but I know what I thought: That I love her. All of her. As she is, and as she will be.
My own dysphoria will just have to fucking get used to it.
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