Forced Effem: A thesis.

CW: NSFW text. Use of the F-slur, self- and other-referential.

An Unsexy Preface

A lot of trans girls figure out their deal through forced feminization, or something like it— an erotic interest in femininity that, as they engage it more and more, starts to feel more and more like their authentic way of being. It's a classic trajectory; I have the utmost respect for my sisters whose experience that is.

Here's the thing. It's very much not mine.

Forced fem has always been deeply uncomfortable for me; I was opposed to the idea that there was something humiliating about femininity, or that— if I wanted to present femininely— I would need a narrative of coercion in order to manifest that desire. And, to be honest, I grew up in the background radiation of a radical-feminist tradition with strong transmisogynistic undercurrents; the erotic cross-dresser, and more broadly the sexual transfeminine, was deeply frightening and destabilizing to me. I have since made progress in how I evaluate my own body and the bodies of other trans women, but the trappings of forced feminization and erotic crossdressing remain upsetting to me.

My femininity expressed itself, instead, through effeminacy— faggotry, to be more explicit; a disruptive, overtly-gay, campy femininity, a cultural knowledge and shared form of resistance, a refusal to meet the demands of my assigned sex and the heterosexual role it had supposedly marked me for. To some degree this began early; I was always something of a nancy, and in middle school I was already experimenting with eyeliner, chokers, faggy self-styling. This, of course, marked me for homophobic abuse by straight boys (or, at least, afraid boys) and straight schoolteachers. I developed a harshly-critical perspective on heterosexual masculinity, into which I invested some of my own disidentification with men. For years and years, 'fag' was as far as I thought I could get from 'man.'

I have since found a further remove to go, and a great deal of relief and comfort, in the form of womanhood. But I am still a faggot; I have always been a faggot, I will always love my faggy brothers, sisters, and assorted siblings, and I'm proud of it goddammit.

Faggy Desire

Here's the thing about living in the world as an out-and-proud faggot for two-plus decades: I taught myself not to be attracted to straight boys just to save my own neck. It only takes so many masculine, heterosexual men beating you up and sexually harassing you (... I'd really like you to just dwell on that a second) in locker rooms and dressing rooms before that avenue stops being remotely appealing. No more throwing myself to the lions; no thank you.

Today, having transitioned, I find myself an adult woman who strongly prefers men who code as gay; that is, men whose attraction to men has shaped the way they express gender through clothing, voice, and mannerism and made them identifiable to the likeminded. I wouldn't call that equivalent to effeminacy, necessarily, but I certainly do desire effeminate men; and a loud and proud, flaming, queeny faggot? Honey, I am gag-ging! (And, if all goes well, gagging.) We two can dish tea and eat cakes too.

There certainly are bisexual faggots in the world, and thank God for that! But most of the men who contact me on sites with any dating element (OkCupid, Fetlife...) are straight; more than a few want to crossdress, and feel that a trans partner gives them some special license to do so. And I wonder if the latter group— specifically the erotic crossdressers who are not, at some point, going to transition— could get the charge they're looking for another way.

Forced Effem

Here is what I am imagining. > Me: Hand me that choker. > Boy: [picks up the choker, moves it toward me] > Me: No, not like that. [taps his wrist] Again. > Boy: [droops wrist] Yas, Queen. > Me: Better. [places choker around Boy's neck as he lets out a soft whine] Ooh, henny, you look delicious. I could eat you up. > Boy: I am serving Looks tonight, Mama! > Me: Good, but can I see you loosen up that posture? Again, but more flamboyant. > Boy: [smirking, slanting shoulders, craning neck, crooning] Ooh, Mama— [shuddering gasp] > Me: [caressing Boy though his Nasty Pig jockstrap] See what rewards good little faggots get for bad behavior?

If some het boy gets up in my inbox thinking his baggy cargo shorts are the ticket to pound town, more fool him. If many, many shabby-lookin' straight guys get up in my inbox, that's a different order of problem.

Perhaps it's time I embraced the role of educator and redeemer in the lives of sad manchildren.

If I can't find a queen, I'll make one, and he'll be hotter for the effort. Trim his beard Castro-clone neat. Zhoozh his riah. Get him into a neon-pink COME IN ME BRO muscle tank and the skinniest jeans I can find. Make him cum to Britney Spears. Make him memorize Chaka Khan, Cher, Whitney Houston, Kylie Minogue. Teach him to death-drop— in stilettos. Drill him on the deprecating moue, the sidelong glance, the nonplussed “Okay Mary...”

Recommended gear: Colorful baseball caps. Andrew Christian. I Am ... Sasha Fierce by Beyoncé. Ultraviolence by Lana Del Rey. Artpop by Lady Gaga. Fleet enemas. Rush 'tape head cleaner.' Lipgloss and a bold eye. Temporary color for beard and riah. Chokers, crop tops, booty shorts, mesh shirts. Florals. Lace. “NO NATURAL LOOKS. NO MATTE SURFACES.”

Soon enough, Ms. Thang's got haself a makeover. And if I can find ha another good little faggot to practice sucking dick, eating ass, and hitting poppers with— sis! Don't threaten me with a good time.