Gender Fluidity, Work It!

 

No. 5 of 30

Self-Abuse September

I’m a big fan of gender fluidity, which doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with fluids, although, ultimately, it always does. It’s one of the kinks, pleasantly defined, no judgment, that makes the world go ‘round. Face it, if it weren't for a little backwash now and then, none of us would be here.

People feel it, want it, choose it, are chosen by it. They're glad to go along for the ride, which whether it involves their choice or essential identity -- temporary or permanent -- is a good ride. Three cheers to you! You look great, you are what you feel, more power to you, you’re beautiful, you’re handsome, whatever your basic identity, let it all hang out. There’s certainly nothing wrong with it, I'd say. It’s somewhere in the biology. We are what we are, naturally, but what we genuinely are isn’t always defined by outward appearance and social categories.

OK, but this isn’t a college paper, instead a blog this month on self-abuse -- a lovely term that we should never let go, though it's dripping with someone’s judgment. Which isn’t a bad thing, I hope we agree, because boundaries are useful, because how can you cross them unless they exist? I'm saying gender fluidity is normal, but you might want me to condemn it because, “Forbidden fruit is the sweetest.” Most people, friends and lovers, want a little kink. I get that, I know the scope of things.

My own opinion is it’s perfect normal and healthy, but you might still want to keep things in a category of their own (with all that entails) so that, like self-abuse, there’s some edge to it. Grandma’s underpants stashed under the bed, anything... Keep your fantasies, keep the edge, don’t let it slip away into pure boredom, unless that’s what you're after, a square peg in a square hole, nice and tidy, six of one, half a dozen of another, Jimmy Durante, “Goodnight, Mrs. Calabash, wherever you are!”

Speaking of grandmothers and Jimmy Durante. I had a great grandmother who died before I was born. But one of the stories was she had Jimmy Durante’s picture on the wall and turned his face to the wall whenever she got dressed. That’s a kink right there, and while I find it funny it’s still a powerful thing. Dear old great grandma probably hoped Jimmy would find her one day and talk her into dropping her bloomers. “Turn my picture around, will you?” he says with some mock-irritation, "Well, we’ll just see about that!” And suddenly I have unknown older cousins with a big nose and raspy voice.

But we're looking at the guys in bloomers these days, kind of a renaissance of the 16th century, which were heady times if memory serves. And being the beautiful dolls our families always wanted. Softness, daintiness, made up, ready for the ball, a princess without peer, a coy blush, pretty in pink, sometimes abused by the evil stepmother, belittled and made to clean the house, with each thing out of place being strictly punished. 

Gender fluidity is a great turn-on. But there are many hidden pitfalls. One of which would be, you don’t want to get caught, and yet if there’s no danger of being caught, where’s the kink? Whether it’s truly your identity or a temporary guise -- it's all-consuming regardless -- it’s a great thing in the rich annals of self-abuse.

The Time Machine Got Me a Domme

Earlier this month I watched the 1960 movie "The Time Machine," based on H.G. Wells' novel. Maybe you remember it. The guy goes far into the future, all the way to the year 802701, farther than anyone's ever gone before, to my knowledge.

Well, it just so happens that the H.G. Wells Museum is only 35 miles from me, the pride of Silage City. And to add one more incredible coincidence, they've had his actual time machine on display the last couple of months. To get right to the point, I messed with it, accidentally taking it back before the museum was built. But Grandma's house has been around forever, so I hauled it home. Then when I realized no one would be looking for it, I started carting it around in the back of my pickup. And had no good reason to use it ... until the other night.

My current lady was a meek and mild gal, delighted with any little thing I might do for her. I asked where she wanted to go for her birthday. At first she said I should just save my money and not bother, but I'm saying, "No, I want to treat you right, kitten. C'mon, let's go, you're worth it." So I took her to the nicest place in town, steak, potato, salad, endless bread, the works, and desserts to die for.

After we ate, I suggested one of the desserts. In her meekness, she was very reticent, until I convinced her it'd be OK. "It's only money." "OK, darling," she said, "If you think it's best." So meek. The guy brings us the most delicious looking apple caramel cake sticky ice cream mountain plate thing and two spoons. I can see this will be bad for me, because now I wanted it all for myself and not to share it.

So I excused myself and ran out to the time machine. I had a plan. I would go back to the time and place of her birth, across town, thinking that if I could just delay her birth 10 minutes, it'd give me time to get back and eat the dessert. Then 10 minutes later, likely, she'd appear across from me. So that's exactly what I did. I'm at the hospital, 1953, and pulled the fire alarm. It put her parents in a panic and her mom's contractions completely stopped.

I get back to the present and my lady's not there, just the dessert, which I'm able to eat in peace. Success! But then I'm waiting, waiting, waiting, and she never shows up. I'm thinking, Crap, maybe there was a problem with her not being born. At this rate I'm not even going to have a lady! And I'd hate to walk out of here alone, always a bad look for a guy. OK for losers, not me.

So what other choice did I have but to fix things? I told a waitress I'm going to the can. Then out I went again, through the restroom window.

I get back to 1953, this time two minutes before I would arrive the first time. I hid around the corner, saw myself going toward the alarm and killed "me." I looked down at my body and dragged it away. Always one of my greatest fears, to be dumped in a janitor's closet. But there was no time for anything better. Now I'm heading down the hall to the birth chambers, when what do I see but the waiting room is actually on fire. I pull the fire alarm again and hurry down to counsel anyone having fits.

But this time I see her father pumping up her mom with confidence. The only difference apparently was the first time there wasn't a fire but this time there was. The first time uncertainty led to anxiety but this time certainty gave them confidence. I made a note of it, a great self-help point to tweet in the future.

Before I could get into the delivery room I heard her mother doing some extremely loud pushing, out of her confidence, then the cry of my future lady, a very bold cry for a baby, like something from Wagner. One of those big gals with the winged helmets. A real take-charge sound!

I rushed back to the present as fast as I could, and found my lady already at the table. Not only that, but her whole new life had been one of boldness, daring, and confidence -- all these years -- meaning that in this present continuum she's always the boss. She demanded to know where I'd been. I said the restroom and she called me a wimp. "You can't hold it 10 minutes?" I sat down and saw that she had not only eaten the entire dessert, but heard her setting down a new rule, that since I am hopelessly out of shape and a constant disappointment, I must never eat any dessert without her permission.

And that's the way it's been the last few days. She went from Zero to Hero. I now have to ask her permission to do anything, get up, take a nap, go for coffee, spend a nickel, etc. All of it's kind of kinky, if you know what I mean, but the micromanaging has a huge downside too. I mean, so what if I want an occasional beer with a friend? I can't get the permission! A friend calls and I'm like, "Brunhilde says no, and for you to never call again." I'm her slave!

All because of H.G. Wells and his stinking time machine, which I also had to ask her permission to destroy. So embarrassing crawling in. "Mistress, I know this is an odd request." I looked up at her, just narrowly not breaking the rule against eye contact, and saw her look of imperial impatience and disdain. "But I have a time machine I have to destroy. May I use the crowbar, just this once, Ma'am?" She kicked my ass and sent me on my way, which I took as a reluctant "Yes."

Before I destroyed it, the temptation occurred to me, I could still fix this.

My Christmas Gift to My Readers

It's almost Christmas Day! And that means something to me, lots of things. One thing it means, very relevant to this blog, is getting something out to each of my readers. To show my love and appreciation. 2014 has been a great year.

As you remember, last year it was a French silk pie for many of you. Then I had a few complaints, what you might expect. 1) Too fattening; 2) Distribution was poor; 3) Many were left out; 4) Several pies were crushed by the time they arrived, etc. So pies were out this year.

Not only that, but the number of readers has grown so much. Now I'm getting around 36,000 regulars, almost too many for me to keep up on, with birthdays, clothing sizes, letters back and forth about family milestones, and everything.  I needed something that's good quality, sure to please, and easy to ship. So I got each one something very much like what you see in the picture, a planter with funny little creatures with big eyes popping out. Very nice, aren't they?

Then, being ever the optimist, even though I only needed 36,000, I figured by Christmas I might have another 4,000 readers, so, hell, let's just get an even 40,000. At $8 a pop, that's ... It's quite a bit, but what's money when it comes to making someone's Christmas a little merrier? Grandpa and Grandma left me a little cash. I keep it in the very bottom of the freezer. Right under the fish I still have from the mid-'60s. Then there's my own disability payments (game toe). I've been able to save back around $10 every check.

It's the least I can do. I remember what Christmas always meant to me as a kid. Back then I got dolls. Grandma made them. Jet black, like a quaint old world craft. Lovely. Except I used to dream of them sitting up suddenly in the night, going, "Mama!" I'd wake up in shock. Whatever gender ambiguity you may have noticed in me, it started about that time. "I'm not your mother," I'd think, then I'd wonder, "Maybe I am. I don't know anymore."

Everyone please be patient, your planter's almost on its way. Right now they're individually wrapped and stacked to the ceiling, both house and garage, with a few thousand in the cellar. I have a couple of high school girls -- maybe they're boys -- getting extra credit for doing this kind of charity work. They'll be helping me get them to the post office, so everything's going to work out for your happiness, and mine.

The Man Of The House Movement

Lately I've been perceiving that there is something truly revolutionary (and wonderful) afoot in terms of the basic relationship between men and women. Call it men's intuition on my part, or something I dreamed about, or just an educated guess. Whatever it is, there can be very little doubt I'm right.

Of course I'm talking about the shift in the authority within the household, as evidenced by ... well, there's plenty of evidence, if you open your eyes and look. This shift -- which just a few short years ago would have been seemed incredible -- is taking us away from the woman's authority in the household (gynarchy?) toward a more traditional stance, with the authority of the man reestablished. We tried something else, it failed.

I've noticed it -- I feel I've noticed it -- to such an extent that I'm actually prepared to declare it officially a movement. A swelling tide like this isn't incidental, an all-out push, a thrust like this is more than happenstance. It's gathered a true head of steam at a fever pace, so much it can't be honestly denied. It's bigger than all of us. It's real. It's a movement.

The way I see it -- and this is palpable -- is it's so big I'm giving it a name. And it's such a juggernaut I'm giving it a big name. I'm calling it "The Man of the House Movement." How about that? Do you catch the distinction I'm making? Not a man in the house, i.e., something of a partner, something of an equal, someone to be pushed around. That would be substantially what we've had in recent years. This is man of the house, with the fullness of authority that that label connotes.

When you're the man of the house, you've got something, you're established. Like my grandparents. It was very clear, Grandpa was the man of the house. Grandma had her place, cooking, cleaning, making sure the grandkids had popsicles, etc. And Grandpa was the man of the house, in charge of the overall facilities, the well, the car, the grass, the weeds, where the outhouse was placed (it was periodically moved), etc. He wore the pants, literally, since weeds and lawn care, taking care of the well, moving the outhouse, etc., is something you'd hate to do in a dress. There wasn't all that much guff between them either; they worked as a team.

Something's happened in relationships, as I said, where it's swung back to the old ways. And not a moment too soon! It's easy to see why. You have that extra level of security -- these are very insecure times -- when you're working as a team, and where the man of the house is the man of the house. He's not out sowing his wild oats -- God forbid! -- or drinking beer in bars. To me, that'd be despicable. He's taking care of things, he's got it going on, in terms of responsibility and his ongoing care for the little woman.

Wrong Sex Corrigan

OK, folks, it's official! I'm now 60 years old, having been born some time in the first three months of the year. And as people go, I'm definitely one who's getting "more bang for his buck" for being 60, since I've had a million thoughts, happy, sad, and in between, about this milestone. It sounds very aged, and yet I don't feel completely different; I just can't quit thinking about it. It's given me a lot of opportunities to reflect back on my life.

One of the facts of my life that I can't help thinking of, for some reason, is that I was proclaimed a girl when I was born! And I'm a guy! That sounds weird, and I know it is, but it was actually fairly common here in my town in the early 1950s. And my parents probably should have questioned the situation, being familiar with the problem, but in the excitement of the birth of their "little girl" they forgot. One thing to note: This was back when babies were immediately whisked out of the room away from the mother, to be tended by professionals. It wasn't like now, where the mother and father's care is seen as primary. So, being absent from them, they just had to take their word for what I was.

I said it was common for babies to be misidentified as to their gender back then, but it was only in our town, because the town's main obstetrician had problems seeing. In fact, he made so many mistakes, he was nicknamed "Dr. Wrong Sex Corrigan," a play on the famed aviator who ended up somewhere he wasn't going. Our "Dr. Corrigan," not his real name, had problems in making the right call, presumably when a baby was moving too much. I'm guessing here, but I'm thinking he just didn't want to second-guess himself, or seem less than professional, so the way he called it was the way it was. It took my parents a lot of money, time, and trouble to get the official birth certificate finally changed! Not to mention the embarrassing exams I was subjected to...

So here's the way it went down. I was born, I must have moved too much when "Corrigan" was making the identification, and he declared to my mother, "Madam, you have just given live birth to a female baby, a real doll, who will someday truly make the boys' heads turn!" She was like, "Thank you, doctor, for a successful delivery and the exceedingly good news! A girl in my own image!" Then I was whisked out of the room, not to be seen by her again till sometime early the next morning, when they allowed her to watch the nurse feed me.

In the years since, of course, I've heard many tales of Dr. Wrong Sex Corrigan, that in delivering girls he was proclaiming, "You have given birth to a fine, strong, bouncing man child," and the like. Sometimes he was right, but thanks to movement, he was more often wrong. This is one of the dangers of having poor eyesight, being cross-eyed or whatever, and trying to be an obstetrician. You give people big problems, and the child him- or herself can develop all kinds of complexes. To this day I like the color pink and hate jockstraps.

After a while, "Dr. Corrigan" either died or retired. Which was good, because people didn't like him, thanks to this whole gender business. I remember my grandpa -- I remember this clearly -- saying if he ever saw the SOB in the crosswalk he would run over him. Grandpa used words like "son of a bitch" all the time, and probably would've run over him, indeed, had he ever seen him in the crosswalk. But "Corrigan" was spared this fate by the fact that you never see a doctor in public, apart from the office. This is true: The only doctor I've ever seen in public was a doctor people liked.

My Board Of Editors

I want to thank everyone for their applications to join the Grandma Slump blog in an official capacity.

When I first had the idea, some weeks ago, I was apprehensive, thinking maybe no one would apply. Or just a few internet scoundrels and ruffians trying to cause trouble. But I was very gratified, and frankly overwhelmed, when the applications started pouring in. I didn't count them all, but it had to be several hundred. The fact that you took the time to fill out a 70-page application, and did it with such optimism, and most of you with such false hopes from the get-go, is something I'll never forget.

Well, today, I'm happy and relieved to say the long and involved process of getting just the right people is over! Whew! The positions are all filled. Gentlemen, I give you The Board of Editors:

Of course that's me on top. As publisher and editor-in-chief, I keep the supremacy. It's my voice you will continue to hear, pretty much exclusively. The others are new, wet under the ears, and it's not been determined what exactly they will do.

Below me, and occupying a rank together above the last three, are two guys named Trade and Mark, the Smith Brothers. Both have facial hair, as you can see, and other talents. I put them in the middle mostly for symmetry, one on top, two in the middle, three as a base.

In the lowest position, then, under the Smith Brothers and myself, more or less in a supporting role, so far also with undetermined duties, are Dale, Frank, and Delilah. I'm not going to worry about their last names at this point. We'll first let them prove themselves fit for the job.

Dale doesn't seem as serious as Frank, just my impression. Which might come in handy, because sometimes I'm looking for someone to bounce off crazy ideas. But  Frank, being more serious than Dale, might also serve me well, since sometimes I put away the crazy stuff and am serious.

Delilah comes in for special mention for a few reasons. One, she's a woman, a lady, and that's how we're going to treat her, with respect. That's going to be my rule. And if I see any of the guys coming on to her, particularly when they're on duty, that's going to be it. I don't want her sexually harassed in the slightest.

One of my first duties, I guess, should be to come up with a written policy on what I mean. When she's in the bathroom, let's say, there better not be anyone at the keyhole. If I catch them, that's it! They'll never work at this blog or any other blog again. I'll be paying special attention to what everyone says around her. And if anyone so much as hints certain things about himself and her, he'll be gone.

Of course, if one of them and Delilah strike up a romance after hours, then somehow come out officially as a couple, at that point it will be different. I will work with them if that happens, so they'll be allowed to address one another in a loving way, etc., depending on how explicit they choose to get.

As for her duties, I will be gentle. Being a woman, I will not overburden her. She already makes a mean pot of coffee, so that's good for now. And it's nice to hear a woman's cheerful voice around the place, something I haven't heard much of since Grandma died. And I probably don't even have to say she's easy on the eyes. Something not true of the Smith Brothers, despite their higher ranking.

The artwork I have of Delilah probably doesn't do justice to her actual figure. The jacket's so tight, surely her boobs must be fairly compressed in there. And maybe it's just the pose, or again the tight clothes, but her hips don't show the kind of curves that she likely has. The long legs are just right. And the boots. You've probably heard my Number 1 statement on women's fashion: "Boots always make the outfit." I literally do a double-take on every pair of boots I see women wearing. Even galloshes.

It's going to be nice, I hope, working with a board of editors, an editorial board. I'm very possessive about the blog, as you must know. And I won't give that up easily, if at all. But as we get used to each other, me and the board, who knows how things might change? I might trust the Smith Brothers to take out the recycling.

The first thing I'm going to do at our next meeting is give them each a press pass and a firm handshake. And maybe a brotherly peck on the cheek.