Accueil > Non-Fiction > Pas Mon Genre > Breaking Rules
An intimate deep dive into the path from transbienne T4T to voidpunk and beyond.
Comes a time in a trans girl's life when she realizes she's a girl. Let's say you're that girl. Let's say it just dawned on you, and before that you've always (always?) considered yourself a guy attracted to girls.
So now you're a girl. You explore that at your own pace, secretly or under the sun, alone or guided... but sooner or later, you become comfortable with that, and before you know it, you're a girl.
That's when it dawns on you. (Again.) Someone in the street calls you a lesbian. Or a friend calls you a lesbian. Or you just find yourself holding a girl's hand, like you always did, and you see two girls' hands holding each other, and you think "I'm a lesbian".
And then, you start noticing other trans girls. It's like they suddenly appeared, but in fact it's just your new eyes seeing them for the first time. And you find them beautiful, because you've come to see a new shade of feminity in yourself, and you've come to appreciate it, and before you know it you've learned to love it.
You don't even realize how natural it is to date a newborn trans girl when you're a newborn trans girl, because she sees your newfound beauty just the way you see hers. After all, you like girls, and she's a beautiful girl. And before you know it, you have a girl's dick in your mouth.
That's when it dawns on you. (Again.) You have desire for her body. And you're not a guy doing a blowjob to another guy. You are two girls trading vulnerabilities. And in the way she breathes, she moans, she arches her back, it feels more familiar than you would have thought. After all, you like girls, and she's a beautiful girl. But your body is very similar to hers, a body you desire, and suddenly, true magic happens: the perpetual noise of your mind loathing your own body... went silent. You didn't notice when, exactly. Unfortunately, it's still there tomorrow morning. But you now know it's not perpetual. And you now know a day exists, somewhen down the road, when that noise goes silent forever.
But now, still, you're ever so slightly more comfortable with your own body. And before you know it, she has your dick in her mouth. You remember how it felt when you were a guy. (Were you ever a guy? Let's say "when you pretended, even to yourself, to be a guy.") But this time, in the way you breathe, you moan, you arch your back, it feels less familiar than you would have thought. She is being gentle, because you're a girl, because she knows she's not a guy doing a blowjob to another guy, because she has the same soft, fragile organ as yours.
And maybe your story ends here. You're a lesbian who never touched a man, and you live happy ever after. And this is where you stop reading. But maybe, just maybe, the crack in the ground opened by your transgression of a natural law of the universe isn't mended by your flawless womanhood. Maybe, just maybe, the crack widens a little.
Comes a time in a trans girl's life when she realizes she's attractive to guys. You've been catcalled in the street (and it felt different than being insulted; not better, just different). You've been eyed by old men (they have even less shame than the young ones). Maybe an old friend, from the group of boys you used to belong, complimented you with a cornered smile. A sincere smile, nonetheless, but as cornered as yours when you answered a cheerful thanks, because you both remember a time, not so long ago, when neither of you thought all of this possible. Guys talk over you, overlook you, your skill and your knowledge, sure (after all, you're a girl), but some of them find you funny, witty, beautiful... and one of them tells it to you. After all, he likes girls, and you're a beautiful girl. And before you know it, your cheek is resting on a naked, flat chest.
That's when it dawns on you. (Again.) It doesn't feel as bad as you would have thought. You might even chuckle, because not so long ago, you had a hairy, flat chest just like this one, and you liked when a girl rested her cheek on it, your hand idling in her hair, just like his hand is idling in yours.
And maybe your story ends here. You're a bisexual girl, you found your place in the world, and no door is closed to you. And this is where you stop reading. But maybe, just maybe, the crack in the fabric of reality beckons you to touch that wall between the doors, and tear through it.
Suddenly, you find yourself unable to cobble your gender back together. Being a girl became easy, but so is being a guy, and you could... if you wanted... just for a day... After all, you're a beautiful guy, when you want to. You start blending everything, bending every rule to your whim, breaking them on purpose. Non-binary pansexual can't even begin to describe what you are. You could pass for a trans guy, now. You were born naked, and the rest is drag. What is your gender? But what is gender? You love people, not genders. You wear clothes, not genders. You are you, nothing more, nothing less. You can walk the streets as a living, breathing gender confusion, casting every human who lays eyes on you into an existential crisis, like a lovecraftian horror, giving them no other choice than to reject the truth you incarnate, or break apart and wake up in a cloning pool guarded by machines.
The crack widens and widens. You repeat the same pattern with every rule: learn, master, bend, break. You broke the gender binary; heterosexuality doesn't even make sense anymore, through the lenses of your many eyes. Monogamy dissolves under your fingertips, and the crack keeps widening. You embrace your autism as if it was nothing. Actually it is nothing, you're just surrounded by allist people, and they are the ones unable to communicate properly. You find your kin, the ones made of the same clay as you, as easily as if they were glowing gold in your matrix vision. Some of them are just discovering themselves, and through you, they are seeing their kin for the first time. Others are even further than you on their journey, beckoning you to mutate again, to keep breaking walls after walls, to keep becoming yourself each and every morning. Maybe you try to become so many different things at once that your mind split, and you welcome your many selves as warmly as they welcome you. Or maybe your mind was broken a long time ago, and only now are you able to go back inward and save them all, becoming whole again, or becoming many, and maybe both at the same time. Plural, System, Voidpunk, Therian, Transhuman... Labels on an ever-shifting entity.
But your story doesn't end here. And this time you can't stop reading.
The crack never stops widening, until you find yourself not on the verge of a precipice, but on the top of a world's end cliff across an ocean of primitive void. Walls are rubbles around you, their doors a distant memory. Love is beyond recognition, having nothing in common with the unique, sacred union between two opposite halves you used to know, and you now see it in its true form: a liquid web, spanning across worlds and eons. You disassembled and reassembled Family to suit you like a second skin. Money stopped making sense a long time ago, and you now see capitalism for what it is: a net ensnaring almost everything, and you fail to understand why everyone isn't trying to escape it. Your precious body is your vessel in this world, it doesn't belong to you, it is you, and you belong to no one. Being perceived as human or not is a mere byproduct of it all. "Reality" is just the topmost fiction, and every fiction matters, because the emotions you live in each of them are real. "Reality" matters no less, and being mean to fictional characters damages you as much as being mean in the topmost fiction.
All the illusions are gone, now, and remains only the truth, the last walls, the only real ressources: Time, Death, Love and Art. Your final understanding is to merge them: Love and Art are one and the same; Time and Death are the only limits to the Love-Art you were, are and will be able to be in this world. And this Time-Death vessel of Love-Art is... it's so simple, so obvious, it's almost vain to say it... is what is called Life. Your unique, precious and beautiful Life you are carving day after day. The colorful thread interweaving with all the other colorful threads, together making up... what is called the World. And in that World, every thread is precious. Not just some of them. All of them.