I’m scared of the process of having to potentially relearn how my body will want to have sex post-hrt. I’m 26 and I only just recently have felt very sexually free and confident after a few negative experiences in the past. I’m scared that my skills and interests won’t apply and I’ll have to start over. What can you tell me about the trans sexual experience during your hrt journey but not bottom surgery related.

Also because of health reasons I’m not a big anal gal.

Cross posting this on Reddit cause they sadly weren’t helpful at all. Thanks so much for your time 🩷

  • mystique@lemmy.blahaj.zoneEnglish
    2·
    8 days ago

    You’ve gotten a few helpful replies, so I’m going to respond in a slightly different way. My favorite poem, by Alastair Reid, discovered long before I accepted my gender identity but which carries more weight every day I live in the present:

    Curiosity

    may have killed the cat; more likely the cat was just unlucky, or else curious to see what death was like, having no cause to go on licking paws, or fathering litter on litter of kittens, predictably.

    Nevertheless, to be curious is dangerous enough. To distrust what is always said, what seems to ask odd questions, interfere in dreams, leave home, smell rats, have hunches do not endear cats to those doggy circles where well-smelt baskets, suitable wives, good lunches are the order of things, and where prevails much wagging of incurious heads and tails.

    Face it. Curiosity will not cause us to die– only lack of it will. Never to want to see the other side of the hill or that improbable country where living is an idyll (although a probable hell) would kill us all. Only the curious have, if they live, a tale worth telling at all.

    Dogs say cats love too much, are irresponsible, are changeable, marry too many wives, desert their children, chill all dinner tables with tales of their nine lives. Well, they are lucky. Let them be nine-lived and contradictory, curious enough to change, prepared to pay the cat price, which is to die and die again and again, each time with no less pain. A cat minority of one is all that can be counted on to tell the truth. And what cats have to tell on each return from hell is this: that dying is what the living do, that dying is what the loving do, and that dead dogs are those who do not know that dying is what, to live, each has to do.

    It’s either worth it or it’s not: sexual drive or physical appearance or anything else has nothing to do with it. And that fucking sucks, but it’s true. For me, 3 years in at 30+ years old, there’s no other choice. It’s all worth it and I’m thrilled for every day I get to live as my truest self.