I want to talk about my relationship with cock - partly about the mechanics, and partly by way of entertaining my reader with silly anecdotes.
Cock seems to be a bit of a trans standard - the absolute delineation of how far you've got. 'So do you have a dick still/yet?' gets thrown at me, and my friends, both FTM and MTF, and occasionally cis-gendered too.
To which my response is 'Yes. I have five, and they're all bigger than yours.'
So, my cock. Well, that's a weird one. I do not have a physical cock that is attached to me, because I am not yet medically transitioning, and even when I do, I am deeply reluctant to let anyone get near my genitals with a scapel. The constructive surgery required to make a cock is reputedly quite dodgy and prone to issues, depending what procedure you go for and what surgeon you get. And surgery is looking increasingly distant as Charing Cross ignore my repeated attempts to get an appointment. So currently, I am making do with a knotted sock down my trousers.
And I dress to the left. I made a conscious decision to do this, because apparently most guys do. (Note for statisticians - this is drawn from observations made in the 'Hite Report on Male Sexuality', and a conversation I had a while back, when me and a couple of other guys concluded that men dress to the left because they put it away with their right hand, and therefore it automatically ends up on the left side. I'd love to get a research grant and spend a few years idly pursuing this line of inquiry on an academic scale, preferably with tenure and a book deal, but that ain't going to happen).
So, working from anecdotal evidence only, I dress to the left in order not to draw attention.
I reckon it helps my passing. I know I look at other mens', obviously, and I understand from 'Queer As Folk', 'My Secret Garden', and a number of other sources that other people do too. So I quite want it to look realistic.
For those interested in the mechanics, I use either a football sock or a longer, almost knee-length one, which I knot at the base, looping the free end through the knot til it's basically a lump, and then pulling the free end through the fly of my boxers to anchor the thing in place. (I have had it slip, and suddenly fall down to knee level. I tell you, unobtrusively trying to kick the packer down your trouser leg, and then retrieve it from the floor, is not fun). Then, as I said, I pack it to the left.
'Packing' is a common term for wearing a knotted sock, silk glove, folded hankie, silicone soft dildo, or other device for verisimilitude. It's derived, apparently, from the term 'packing heat', or wearing a concealed gun. I like what this says about phallic imagery.
I was cautioned as a baby-transguy that it needs to look soft. No semi-ons need apply. The fact that I needed to be reminded of this bears out another of my theories about my transition. I am, in fact, going through male teens in my twenties. If I had anything to measure with a ruler, I would, and this also says something about phallic mythology and masculinity as we learn it.
Also, it makes me walk differently. Having a physical bump at crotch level makes me remember to move differently, reminds me to make a realistic amount of fuss if I inadvertantly crush it on the arm of a bus-seat (which I have done), reminds me to adjust it every so often - not too obviously, but as if it was bothering me. These are things I have observed, and am copying, deliberately and with aforethought, because they look right. The hardest thing to learn was readjusting. I hadn't realised how massively ingrained it was, as female, that you don't scratch, fidget, or even touch your genitals, at all, ever, in anyone's presence, til I started doing so as a guy and found it so profoundly difficult.
But presentation in public is probably the easiest side of packing. The question is, what do you do when the pants come off?
There are surprisingly many mechanisms by which a female-bodied person, or anyone else who wants one, can get a simulacrum of a dick. The She-Wee, the Whiz Freedom and the Pack And Pee have solved the problem of pissing standing up for those of us without an exceptional ability at projection. And very handy they are too, when camping, at a festival, walking home from the pub, or being kettled by the Metropolitan Police. They requires practise, but that's all.
Then there is the bewildering selection of dildos currently on the market. You can get realistic, pornographic-realistic, and horrific-realistic, anywhere on the web. Then there are the rather less unpleasant silicone ones which don't attempt total realism at the expense of good taste. I mean, a cock when attached (biologically or otherwise) to a person I like is an awesome and delicious thing. A cock on its own, in stark isolation from a human being, is just a bit icky. So I tend to buy silicone ones, matt black or purple for preference, and enjoy the obvious genderfuckery that goes with them.
I bought my first strapon when I was about twenty. Because I had no money, it was cheap, and the wrong shape, and the wrong colour, but I still used to go to sleep wearing it, just for the first few blissful seconds of waking up with a hardon. It was consoling - a sort of trans safety blanket.
Then I got one (gonna plug this, cause it's good - it's the Sh! Dickie ) which was cock-shaped but not in any way veiny or 'flesh-coloured'. (I have a beef with 'flesh-coloured' in describing dildos, as with tights, make-up, etc, as meaning pretty much exclusively 'flesh-coloured if you are white', but that's a whole nother post).
In the last couple of years, a few 'strapless strapons' have appeared on the market - the Feeldoe being the most famous, and the Share is, in my view, the best. They have one end which is more or less phallic, and the other end is egg-shaped, and can be worn in the vagina by the wearer/active/giver/whatever. They're good because they allow for sensation for the wearer. I've found that conventional harnesses have no direct sensation benefits for me. (Apart from the optical thrill, which gives me a buzz, but can wear off quite fast.) They also require PC muscles of steel to control properly, and limit the positions you can do.
Buit I still feel lucky, despite all the limitations, logistics, and the fact that when you boil it right down I have a female construction, fuelled by oestrogen, and my functioning and sensate genitals have nothing to do with what I think and feel should be there. I have a couple of major advantages.
I love cock as attached to others. Cock is beautiful, powerful, cute, vulnerable, appealing, and sensual. (And here, I must apologise to those who don't share my enthusiasm, and ask them to bear in mind that my relations with cock are dictated by what I feel about my own body, by a firm compromise with my androphilic side, and by genuine affection for some men and their bodies more then either).
But - I don't have to have a relationship with my cock which is such a cliche it's become a fact. I don't have to stress over whether I was circumcised or not, I don't have to freak about the size or the width or the response to alcohol or tiredness. I need never worry because it doesn't look like all the other guys' in the showers. I need never, like Lord Rochester, address an entire poem about premature ejaculation to it.
I'm a transguy, so I get to create my own. If my friends and lovers will willingly suspend their disbelief, (cue Blackadder Goes Forth joke) I can have a lot of fun with my silicone toys, and then leave them under the pillow when I want to.
But I don't see myself shaking off that bit of patriarchal brainwashing - I'm too hardwired to fit into the masculine mould society had prepared for me. So, as and when I get some testerone in the system, experience male puberty, and announce proudly that it's grown to nearly two inches, you can all point out this article and laugh at me.