My name is Lucy, it used to be Luke

* make us famous

About six months after my sexual reassignment surgery, I was ready to fuck. Really ready. My daily sessions with the vaginal dilator and its not-a-cock inertia had become a cruel torment. I found a man on OkCupid. He looked perfect: tattoos and thin cruel lips. His name was Franz. We agreed to meet at a bar.

I should have known something was wrong from the very beginning. I have DD tits and Franz didn’t even glance at them. He chatted about his job—he subbed at a preschool—and he did not try to get me drunk. I got drunk anyway. As soon as there was a lull in the conversation, I told him that I am a filthy slut and that I wanted to lick his boots while he violently fucked me with no consideration for my pleasure. 

Franz nodded thoughtfully and told me that he appreciated my candor and that he would like to get to know me better, but he thought that sexual intimacy should be free of coercion and violence. “And anyway,” he said, “I don’t own any boots. I don’t like to have sweaty feet.”

My next encounter was with a meaty, bearded biker named Rob. I wore six inch platforms and a pink latex minidress with a zipper that ran all the way up the front. My neovagina throbbed with anticipation all day, but five minutes into the date Rob informed me that he was a passionate feminist. He couldn’t stop talking about Hillary Clinton. After a few drinks he started ranting about clitorectomies and foot binding. And then he cried.

Wayne was next. Wayne, who literally apologized for having a cock. He said, “Hi, I’m Wayne, and I’m really sorry for having a penis. I realize it represents a history of repression and exploitation, and I want you to know that I have made a vow to never, ever use it.” Then there was Jonathan the aromatherapist and Will the sous-chef. They were brothers. When I casually mentioned my willingness to gag on one of their dicks while the other one pounded my cunt and slapped me around a bit, they both laughed for a very, very long time. Will, after recovering, took out his cellphone and showed me pictures of their mother.

All my life I knew I was truly a woman. Knew. When I was in college I begged my roommates not to clean the bathroom; I felt that it was my job. Later in life I would unbutton my shirt for job interviews and spend my lunch hours standing around outside construction sites imagining what it would be like to be gang raped. Those were the days when I really believed that anything was possible. 

Now I’m not so sure.