Rambling Faggy Tranny,
Living in Utah.
My name is Dexter and I was assigned the gender "female" at birth. Since December of 2008, there's been a whole lotta social and physical transition going on up in here. Why? To help my brain and body physiologically connect. Even though my gender identity (genderqueer) hasn't changed, after a series of social pickles (like being unable to use my debit card!), I am now dude. who'dathunk.
I'm currently a college student and a McNair Scholar majoring in Neuro/Social Psychology. I intend to nab me a PhD!
Kiddle Era:
Can you count, suckers? I say, the future is ours... if you can count!
Trans Guys Disclose
There are some things about ourselves we don’t immediately reveal to other people. Meet Billy, Danny and Atari - three guys who you may be surprised to find out were born biologically female. Story produced by Monique Schafter and Ali Russell for Hungry Beast.
(Source: oscar-a-non-y-mous)
For almost three years now I’ve been self-injecting. The very first time my hand quivered and I literally couldn’t do it - but every injection since then? No problem. It had become such a menial automaton task that when I switched from bi-weekly injection to every week it wasn’t no thang.
But then, something happened. About a month ago.
I don’t know what the hell it was, but when I went to self-inject, I just … couldn’t do it. This was a little over a month ago. I remember feeling extremely frustrated and confused over the whole ordeal and eventually cracked and had a friend help me.

I figured that this was just a one-time anomalous incident. But no! Ever since, every Thursday, I can’t self-inject. I couldn’t even look until last week.
What the hell?
Seriously.
So this morning I wake up, determined to self-inject. I get the needle ready, cleanse the injection site with an alcohol wipe, go for the plunge and… nothing. Couldn’t do it. I felt closer this time, but still froze up. So my dad woked, poked, and it was a done deal.
But I’m so frustrated. Why would I be able to self-inject with absolutely no problem for almost three years and then bang! start freezing up? It’s bizarre to me. By next week, hopefully, this little phase will be over with. Maybe it’s just school stress or not enough strawberries in my diet or who knows the hell what. Somethun.
Just to show that I really mean it.
Go Buck Angels! I’m totally gonna make some.
Uh, something unprecedented and exciting has occurred in the land of my facial hair. I’m not sure when exactly it happened, but it did - last month I had developed what I’d argue passed as fo’ real real facial hair. It got to the point where, as I posted about prior, I could shampoo it, condition it, comb it, and trim it. Life was good. And then Halloween happened - where I had to shave it for my costume. Life was sad. But fun.
This is where the unprecedented and exciting took place:
After shaving, I looked noticeably different. My baby bare face was actually jarring to me. Now, this is unprecedented and exciting because this is the first time I’ve ever a.) grown facial hair and b.) shaved it and actually looked different because what I shaved was actually noticeable.
It’s taken me two days now to adjust to my baby bare faced self and I’m growing it back as.fast.as.I.can. I suspect that I’m going to turn into my dad who went 20+ years without shaving until doing so and horrifying everyone about a month ago. Which was also exciting and unprecedented seeing as that was the first time I’d experienced having more facial hair than my dad. Or brother. Boo-ya.
Even better - when I went back to school Monday with nothing but sparse stubble my peers were also jarred. Which, again, reaffirms how fo’ real real my facial hair had become! I received comments like, “You look so much younger!!!”, or, “Where’d your facial hair go???”, or, “All you preparing for No Shave November or what?”.
When I started this transition shindig I absolutely couldn’t wait for the day I’d develop stubble and, even better, epic facial hair. But when it finally started to happen, I was disturbed by how brittle and wiry it was in comparison to hair elsewhere. I expected it to be coarse - but it was so… dry and unmanageable and grody-feeling. Especially on my chin.
With my brother and father as facial hair role models, neither of which really do much in the self-maintenance department, I had resolved that my fate rested in either the land of coarse torture brittle or lame-o baby butt bare.
I had no idea that a solution to this predicament existed - but it does. And it goes by the name of beard conditioner.
Beard frickin’ conditioner.
And little beard frickin’ combs.
Once I made said discovery I’ve been letting these face whiskers grow! Every morning and night I rub some of this Bluebeards crap in:

- and then use a li’l Kent beard comb. It’s kinda the most adorable thing ever:

Afterwards, any little stray whiskers are cut with scissors.
This system is so good. Bang! Facial hair obnoxiousness dead!
After working from home on a recliner chair in jammies for a week, I returned to the office yesterday. Wee!
I’d predicted that the worst case scenario would involve my being an idiot and trying to lift shit when I shouldn’t - but, that didn’t happen. Instead, the worst case scenario turned out to be the bro shake. I hadn’t realized how often this happens in my world… or maybe just on a college campus (and elsewhere?), but there’s a LOT of grab-hand-hard-and-shake-arm-or-fist-bump-or-variations-of-this going on. To which I’d whimper and respond, “Ooo, careful. I just had surgery.”
This happened about five painful times. “Hey! Haven’t seen you around in a while! How have you been??” *hand flies out towards mine, grab, firm swing while my hand flops around like a flaccid fish*.
There was one feller who bounced in to the office while I was in there with a couple other student government peeps. He was in student government last year and I shared a class with him. When he went in for the bro shake I diverted with, “Just had surgery. No shaking for me.” He of course asked, “Surgery? What for?”
Me: “Chest…”
Him: “Chest? Did they operate on your heart or something?”
Me: “No, no! Top surgery.”
Him: “Top surgery?”
Me: “Yes. To get rid of my breasts! So relieved!”
With this, he was clearly caught off-guard. His mouth literally fell agape and his brow furrowed as he tried to process my response. Meanwhile, in my neck of the woods, I replied with, ya know, the honest reason that I couldn’t shake his hand. If I’d dislocated my shoulder skating along a sidewalk or something, I would’ve blurted that out instead. But, when it’s presumed that I’m a cisgender feller and I reply, “My boobs are gone!”, clearly there’s a whaaaaa puzzle pieces clicking cognitive disconnect going on.
Fortunately, instead of feeling compelled to elaborate and before he had a chance to respond, we were interrupted by someone else in the office asking me questions about something on the H:\ drive something another. And then he had to run off.
a.w.k.w.a.r.d.
Earlier today I learned that Dr. Cori Agarwal’s medical secretary, Haley, was able to come in and take photographs during my 3 hour surgery on August 11, 2011. I had asked her to 6 months ago and, fortunately, Dr. Agarwal also wanted her to come observe this type of surgery. Double-win!
As a warning, these photos are extremely graphic, but also incredibly informative and educational. This is why I’m displaying them after the “read more” button below instead of as a photo gallery. Proceed with caution!