A detrans psyop

Some radical feminists online learned me all about Ray Blanchard, AGP and HSTS. They told me that being a feminine gay guy is a natural thing, not something to feel shame about. They said that a woman is not a failed man. They said I had to realize this before it was too late.

They said that I, like other husstusses, was homophobic and obsessed with straight men. I couldn’t help thinking that maybe they were right. Blanchard’s theory made me see the husstuss as a loser. Someone who can’t adjust to society, who just gives up. The discussion about the importance of female-only spaces made me feel like an intruder, and I got obsessed about passing. I could never relax.

I remember one rad fem comparing trans women who seduce straight men in stealth or trap mode to rapists. And so I started to feel really bad about passing too. I thought what I really longed for was just to blend in and be invisible. A normal person, not gay, not trans, not queer, not anything.

And then all the medical stuff came up. Pics of surgeries gone wrong. Someone claiming long time effects of HRT were not being researched. They said capitalism was engaged in an aggressive promotion of this treatment to a mass market. They made me think the trans trend risked erasing a whole generation of homosexuals. And I was reminded over and over that this practice is also used in Iran, with openly homophobic motives.

The clinical setting made me feel sick. Instinctively I felt I had to run away from there. To solve a psychological problem with a knife was madness, they said. I felt it had to be another way. It just felt barbaric, and banally evil. They told me I didn’t need big pharma and plastic surgery to be myself.

I also met some terfs in real life, and their anger provoked me into questioning myself even more. One of my closest friends started to talk about how the trans movement created problems for her as a female. I started to ask myself if this change that I craved really was worth all the pain it created.

A bitter husstuss said the trans woman - straight man relationship was false. Either the trans woman had to lie to the man or the man was by definition not truly straight, she claimed. We talked about the obsession among husstusses with pure tops. “Sure, a trans girl can get some love from a mostly straight man” she said. “But so can any feminine male, including most gay guys. And a bi-curious, mostly straight dude, will usually end up with a cis woman when he is ready to settle.”

I thought about the small number of men that are only or mainly attracted to trans women. I was disgusted that these guys were often bottoms and possibly even AGPs. To me the obsession with trans girls among these men felt a bit - or very - fetishistic. They were not at all what I dreamed about.

I was increasingly transphobic and in denial. I was so sick of looking femme but acting masc. So sick of getting a million lustful looks from unavailable men. So sick of people staring in confusion. So sick of feeling narcissistic. I just wanted to focus on relationships with other people. Being normal, not to repress, but to enjoy life and live in the moment.

I was convinced most people had an instinctive aversion to cross-dressers. And I thought it wasn’t only because it looks strange and unnatural in many cases. I thought all people I met assumed a sexual basis of it, and that they felt disgusted by that.

I was asked if I was trans and I just said ”no, I don’t identify as trans anymore”. I didn’t want people to read me as that. I felt so sick of all the boxes and labels. I felt like just saying, “we are human, that’s it”. But it only took a few minutes. Then the gender stuff came up again. I thought it was a curse. Like something from Adam and Eve. Or just the patriarchy.

The detrans therapy made me feel like I was neither worthy nor capable of real love. Infatuations sure, but not a deeper longlasting commitment. It made me say my trans life was deep down just an escape from my boyfriend, an escape from his affection. Of some reason he was still around, sitting in front of me like an invitation to love.

The triggers were still there. An image or a story dragged me down a rabbit hole of memories and fantasies. I saw a beautiful stylish woman and immediately I wanted to become her. I shaved my legs and touched my soft skin and raised my heel… But I stopped myself from going any further. It was a slippery slope. Just like the alcholic can’t just drink one glass of wine, I just couldn’t present as trans one day. It was dangerous, maybe even evil. So I had learned to think.