"Whenever I go into a restaurant, I order both a chicken and an egg to see which comes first"

Tuesday, January 14, 2020

Trannies And Neutrois - Gender Issues? No Problem, Just Pick One

Denise Parker, formerly Dennis Parker was not as happy in his new skin as he thought he would be.  In fact he realized that he had made a bad mistake, and had almost lost his ‘junk’ before it was too late.   He should have known early on, during the sex-altering hormone treatment that had messed with his head.  When he saw a beautiful woman, he automatically turned and watched the sexy, slow, high-heeled sashay down K Street.

Heads turned his/her way as well, for the lawyers on the corner were surprised to see an elegantly dressed woman, far more attractively attired than the rest of the Washington bureaucratic cadre who were inelegant, workmanlike, and as dowdy as Iowa housewives. The coincidence was a marvelously hip, millennial ménage-a-trois – Denise watching the sexy, stilettoed, sashaying woman; the men looking first at the sensuous walker and then quickly to the Dior-Chanel-Armani woman who was fascinated with Madame X who was headed downtown.

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This event so bothered Dennis that he immediately consulted his doctor.  Why was he having distinctly male feelings? Was the estrogen therapy not working? Should he be given a higher dose? The physician did indeed up his hormone cocktail (not only estrogen and progesterone but a mix of recombinant DNA additions that were designed to address his transitioning X and Y makeup, and recommended that he make an appointment with his psychiatrist, a doctor like his physician who had been trained in gender transition therapy.  Both doctors coincidentally had been trained at a well-known medical school which had pioneered this new branch of medicine.  Why the medical school was so far advanced is a story in itself, but understandable when one looked at the growing progressivism within the university proper.

The University had been at the forefront of social reform for decades, and was now a champion of gender-neutral nomenclature, a successful crusader in removing any and all statues, paintings, books, and casual references to slavery or the civil war itself.  Despite being in the South, the University was ‘region-neutral’ as the publicity material proclaimed; and it was true that a walk through the campus was like being on the set of The Truman Show or Pleasantville – a perfect, Utopian world without contention, conflict, or unnecessary clamor.

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It was not surprising, then, that the Drs. Hamilton and Peruzzi, both graduates of the university’s undergraduate college and medical students at its Medical School, became practicing associates of the university hospital.  The university had succeeded far more and better than most in rescinding retrograde social, religious, and most recently scientific programs and procedures.  The assumption of the absolute certainty of two sexes, male and female – had been challenged first in the early days of feminism.  Men and women were exactly alike, said radical feminists at the university, and they were completely fungible and interchangeable.  But for irrelevant sexual equipment and body shape, gender differentiation was itself irrelevant. 

It didn’t take long for that assumption to take on more dramatic expressions.  If there was absolutely no difference between men and women, then why shouldn’t men and women of either sex make up their own minds about which gender they preferred.  Cross-dressing, and fabulist concoctions of male-femaleness showed up in the Castro, the Bay-to-Breakers parade, and most importantly the Folsom Street Fair where every sexual combination and permutation showed up – not only male-female costuming, but whips and chains, traces and bulldog collars, leather and Harleys as well.

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This too was not enough for those convinced of the coming of real gender transformation.  The Folsom Street Fair would be child’s play compared to the fully transgendered fairs in the near future – a literal riot of unleashed sexuality, sexual adventure, and satisfaction. 

Progressive transgender advocates knew that if the decision to transition were faced too late in life, conservatism would rule; and men and women would timidly stick to their Folsom Street plumed hats, stuffed brassieres, and rock-filled jock straps far longer than they ever should have had to.  So, start early, win early was the mantra of the new gender radicals.  Even kindergarten is not too early to start transgender training, for it is at that innocent, formative age, that all and any ideas are considered fairly.

Especially in more socially liberal areas such as San Francisco, Portland, and Cambridge kindergartens and even some Pre-K schools adopted aggressive programs of gender education.  One major feature was to rid every child of the notion of male or female.  Not only were books introduced to suggest ‘other’ alternatives, but transgender persons were invited to playgroups and reading circles, but teachers were taught to break up ‘gender cliques’, gossipy little girls and shoving little boys.  No trucks, dolls, or any other gender-ascribed toys were allowed.

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So it was some surprise that little Dennis Parker had doubts about who he was sexually since his re-education was so complete.  So many woke parents encouraged their children to dress ‘inappropriately’ and sent their boys to school in dresses and their girls in factory floor denims and work boots.   In short, everything in these evolved schools favored transgenderism – or at the very least a fungible place on the gender spectrum.  This alternative, short of physical transformation, was ideal; for anyone could pick and choose where they thought they fit or where they would like to fit; but nothing held them to that choice.  It would be a gender free-for-all.

Dennis/Denise was not a very bright child, stumbled through arithmetic and mathematics, had a hard time remembering dates, got confused every time teachers referred to Kant, Russell, and Plato; and was thoroughly befuddled by anything more than linear thinking.  He, in short, was the ideal candidate for radical gender re-assignment.  His parents – died-in-the wool progressives, grandchildren of the followers of Samuel Gompers and the Labor Movement of the early 20th century, acolytes of Saul Alinsky, Paolo Freire, and Noam Chomsky, and activists in the struggle for civil rights, the environment, and a more peaceful world – were delighted that their son had been favored with such gender attention, and followed every prescription that Movement leaders recommended.  Dennis, slow as he was, never protested, and went along with whatever his parents and teachers had in store for him.

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It was only after he had reached puberty and then some, and was well on the way to transition through hormonal adjustment, that he began to have these conflicting thoughts.  Sex after all, is hardwired, no matter how fervently transitionists disagree, and so it was not surprising that the boy still got an erection every time he got within fifty feet of a girl.  As hard as he tried to conform to the adjustment program and accept treatment, the more confused he became.  Before long he was masturbating to images of hot girls in leggings and singlets.  What was that all about?

He confided these troubling desires to both his physician and psychiatrist; but they, good soldiers in the just war, refused to listen.  They were sure that with patience and staying the course, Dennis would be Denise in no time.

They guessed wrong, and sooner rather than later, the boy said, “Bullshit” and pulled the plug.  He had been had, and he wanted no more part of it.  He tossed the red, yellow, and blue tablets down the toilet, refused any more injections, and told the psychiatrist that his treatment was finished.

His parents were at first disappointed, but his father, once he saw his son looking like a real man – a handsome, muscular, alluring, and seductive male (much as he secretly thought himself to be) – he was delighted.  He regretted putting the boy through it all, but never blamed anyone.  He was only glad that Dennis had seen the light before it was too late.

“Bullshit”, Dennis said repeatedly when asked where his frilly dresses were and why he no longer sashayed down the corridors.  “Bullshit”, and thus the moral of the story.,

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