If you don’t know what the inside of one of those gateways to Heaven, otherwise known as a ladyboy bar, is really like, I hope this little video will help you visualise the legions of loveliness that populate them. I found the video a few years ago and decided to re-edit it to Billy Idol’s ‘Rebel Yell’. It’s an all-time favourite and frankly, is far more in tune with the passionate yelps of a toothsome young transgirl in bed than the music the video originally had!
You’ll need a ‘guest-friendly’ hotel, if you don’t use one of the ubiquitous short-time hotels which are, by definition, open to customers bringing along a girl or three. Although generally, budget hotels are fine, it’s probably better to avoid those run by farangs. I have to say, with regret, that the only time I’ve ever had any real issues with ladyboys in bars, restos or hotels in southeast Asia, it has been in establishments run by that species of bigoted Australian male who would, frankly, have been better left as a stain on his mother’s bedsheets.
Something that I have thought about a lot over the last seven years is this: why would a man not want to date a transwomen? I see, practically on a daily basis, the hot stares of men as they scope a ladyboy. Most of the t-girls here are slender, with little in the way of silicone, other than maybe a boob job. Men can’t stop themselves. You can see them sliding their eyes up those long brown legs — and legs are something ladyboys do magnificently, never mind those tight little backsides. They know their good features and they don’t hesitate to show them off — exactly as other women here do.
Most amusing, perhaps, is the Western male, the Anglo-Saxon particularly (Mediterranean types have a different take on life.) So often I have been sitting in a bar watching one of them, or sometimes sitting in the same company. I saw them fascinated, practically salivating, over a girl nearby, and then their reactions as one of their companions leans forward and murmurs something crass like ‘You’ll get more than you expect with that one, mate, she’s a bloke!’
Ladyboys are like hobbits; they have big feet. Although, and fortunately, not usually hairy.
My dearest and truest friend, my distant confidante and beloved adopted sister, Andie, is sitting on the brown vinyl sofa in my rented condo in Pasig. She has delicately hoisted the hem of her long floral skirt with one hand and with the other she is holding one of her slippers — flipflops in Filipino — against her leg.
‘Ugh,’ she says. ‘You see? My feet are longer than half the length of my shin.’
She drops the slipper and the hem and takes to regarding her feet with evident distaste, elbow on knee, chin cupped in her hand. She wiggles her toes.
‘I could possibly cut them off,’ she muses. ‘I should cut them off.’
The Portman and Tavistock, the UK’s main gender clinic, recently reported a more than 4500% increase in referrals over 8 years. FOUR THOUSAND, FIVE HUNDRED PER CENT in EIGHT years. The total referrals in the last year accounted for were some 2500, up from 97 eight years ago. Of these latest figures, 1800 were young females. Nearly 2000 were under 18, last year alone. That beats any stats on this, anywhere and to make it even more shocking, whereas the historic prevalence amongst females has always been less than 1/3 that for males, in the recent referrals this is reversed, with more than 2/3 being female. But what has this to do with Feminism?
In classic theory, gender transition is provoked by Gender Dysphoria (GD), a sense of more or less intense discomfort at being obliged to socially present as the gender one’s birth sex might suggest. It occurs in males and females and in two completely distinct forms in each: homosexual and non-homosexual. This might not always seem to be the most sympathetic way to triage the forms, especially in cultures which remain deeply uncomfortable with sex, such as the Anglo-Saxon ones, but it works.
Transtrender is a word that will become familiar to everyone in the West.
How things have changed; from a position, 15 years ago, when very few people knew what even transsexual meant and far less had actually thought about it, we have seen an explosion, first of ‘transgender’ and now, ‘transtrender’.
Suddenly we are faced, we are told, with thousands upon thousands of ‘trans’ people appearing all over society. While it is true that there is an uptick in genuine referrals to gender clinics, transtrenders rarely seek to actually transition; they seek instead the social status of a ‘trans’ label.
Because that is really all transtrender is: a label, a cultural fad, an Identity Politics membership card. It is no more real than Emo, New Romantics or Punk. But it might be a bellwether for much deeper social ills.
On the tenth anniversary of completing the first draft of The Warm Pink Jelly Express Train, I am republishing this article about it. It describes an affair between a Brazilian transsexual prostitute and a Western straight man.
Poaching is essentially a romanticised memoir; Warm Pink is nothing like that. It is far deeper and more introspective and writing it, along with the later Why Men Made God, was what shaped my current world view.
My ideas about gender in particular were formed by the research and writing of Warm Pink. Although it is a breathlessly-paced romantic adventure, it required me to dig deep into the natures of gender and sexuality, something I had never done before.
Sexual transformation from boy to girl has always been hot. Enter the girly-boy: the transsexual or TS.
The oldest records we have prove the early existence of TS individuals, often priestesses or shamans. Their direct descendants are in the hijra of India, the kathoey of Thailand, the bekis of the Philippines, the travestis of the Americas, Blanchard HSTS and a host of transsexuals, trannies and shemales across the planet.
From the ‘Dancing Boys’ of Afghanistan to the trans girls of Asia, from down-town Sao Paulo to Paris, in every culture, all through history, boys become girls in order to attract men. The beautiful girly-boy has always been with us, and she is not going away.
(Note: This is a light-hearted, humorous article. If you are a Usican or a feminist you might need a humour transplant before reading it. Just saying. Everyone in the pictures is over 18, thanks. Those capable of taking life with a pinch of salt, and wit, read on.)
I am not ashamed to say that I love the Philippines. Nowhere else that I have ever visited manages to capture so much of humanity’s amazing variety. It’s an incredible place and I am so lucky to have found it. This is a selection of pictures from that trip. I’ll let them speak for themselves.
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Autogynephilia is a self-reinforcing, sexualised self-reward system. It is stimulated by a man’s desire to be, or appear to be, a woman. It is satisfied by achieving this. Although there are other rewards, the most powerful one is by having sex as a woman. That is to say, by being penetrated.
Because it is self-reinforcing, the more often the satisfaction is achieved, the stronger it gets. It is narcissistic because it is focussed on the male self as a woman. Because sexualised reward is so strong, autogynephilia is extremely powerful and compelling. Sex as a woman turbo-charges it.
The Philippines has become very important to me over the last four years. It’s now the focus of much of my life and I want to spend more time there. The winters in France are just too cold for me now.
When you visit a country for longer periods, months at a time, as I do, you can’t do quite what the holiday tourist does. It’s partly to do with budgets but also with burnout. You have to learn to chill and take it easy.
Flying out to the Philippines
Before the start is always the bit that has me in a fankle. I get travel stress a week before The Flight. No matter how long I give myself for preparation the last few days are a nightmare — and I always forget something. (This time it was the sandwiches for the train — but I had time to go back.)
Because I live in rural France, just getting to the airport is a journey. I take the train from Chagny to Charles de Gaulle airport. You can either go direct to Paris Gare de Lyon and then get the RER across to Roissy, or take a direct train. I do the latter. And after nearly missing the flight on a previous trip to the Philippines — because of a train delay — I always leave a lot of time now.
When I find myself on the platform at Chagny, it’s OK. The pressure goes away. I’m in the pipe now, and at the other end of it is the Philippines. All I have to do is get on the right trains and planes and I’ll get there.