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t-girl - issue 285


 


A very shemale Xmas

My first tranny Christmas (1998)
“The body is the work of God. I don’t believe that should be changed” grumbled my aunt Barbara. I’d traveled three hours to a farmhouse near Belleville, Ontario to meet my extended family for the first time as “Nina.” (I looked like a guy with a women’s Chanel haircut and plucked eyebrows.) I stuttered, then stopped talking about hormones and plastic surgery with my mother’s sisters. They chit-chatted about quilting, craft sales and United Church gossip. Tiptoeing out of the room, I avoided the mistletoe as the men of the family brushed by, heading for the gun rack and festive coon hunting. They didn’t say a word to me. Mom reassured me, “No one will say anything bad to you out of respect for me and your father.”

Silent night, holy shit! (1999)
“Mom will be upset if you don’t join the family for Christmas,” warned my brother Tim. I drove through a snowstorm seven days after having five consecutive cosmetic surgeries. Pus was leaking into my mouth due to an infection from a displaced cheek implant. “Isn’t my new nose so much prettier?” I asked my female relatives. They changed the topic to their congregation’s new minister. I mentioned my boyfriend and the men, stone-faced, stared at the decapitated head of a deer above the fireplace. My swollen cheeks and the bandages that went from my nose to my mouth hid hurt feelings. Leaving early, I recovered in my lonely apartment.

All I want from Jesus are two 450cc silicone breast implants (2001)
“Could you cover up your new breasts so you don’t make the family uncomfortable?” pleaded Mom. Miffed, I changed out of a see-through purple tank top into a black blouse, but in protest I left the neckline dangerously unbuttoned. With my plump breasts displayed over Christmas stuffing, Aunt Barbara sighed, “I just don’t understand what he – uh, she – is doing to himself – herself.” I wanted to bitch, “I don’t understand wearing track suits with penny loafers everyday, but I’m not criticizing the type of woman you want to be.” Instead, I filled my mouth with turkey to keep the Christmas peace.

Like a tranny Mary Magdalene(2003)
“We saw you in an ad for shemale strippers!” blurted my cousin Jessica. “We wondered how you made money to keep changing yourself. Whoa! New ass, eh?” A few of my aunts’ husbands muttered hellos to me this year. When the ladies were leaving for midnight mass, Jessica nudged me. “People there will call you – well, how do I say it?” She whispered a single word to me: “whore.” I offered to change my skin-tight leather pants for something more Christian, but she protested, “Your plastic surgery made you very… sexual-looking.” They left, and my dad hugged me. “Nina, I’m very proud you have the dignity to be yourself in front of these people.”

A tranny Xmas prayer (2005)
I had a smaller nose, a more refined chin and new, larger breasts. Mom told me she loved me no matter what the family thought. Then she smiled approvingly when I covered my bust with a designer scarf. After Xmas dinner, my cousin Jeff listened as I told him about breaking up with my boyfriend. He said, “Lots of guys will want you.” My aunts worried that I was still stripping, but their concern was now for my safety. My uncle Steve commented on how good I looked. Jeff drove me home to Toronto, and we spoke about how well I fit in this year. He noted, “You’re still too sexy, but you’ve changed so much it was hard for anyone to think of you as anything but a woman.” I got home and said a quiet prayer. I asked that trannies be accepted everywhere, no matter how they look.

nina arsenault

 



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