Pride means deliriously celebrating diversity in every way possible, and for some, living every moment as human performance art. So, ever heard of an ex-transsexual? You have now – s/he’s writing this column! Yep, I gave sweet, juicy head to endless oestrogen pills, which ruthlessly shrank my cock and ballooned my hips, butt and boobs, but for what? Disillusionment, big-time! Why be surgically rearranged with a crappy faux-cunt that – on a bad day – might leak faeces, spray piss uncontrollably and barely, if ever, orgasm?
And like fellow, reluctant traveller and presumably, still junk-attached Caitlyn Jenner, I realised cheese-grating my cock to free my inner Gaga was, just slightly, questionable! Instead, I spat on both easy options – staying textbook male or turning ditsy female – and embraced pure, rock ‘n’ roll androgyny, becoming my own special creation!
Good for me, but many transsexuals aren’t so wilful, and instead of mashing-up preferred surgeries, get pressured towards stereotyped choices. Me, I blame Sigmund Freud, that manic, deeply-repressed, pure-coke addicted fuck-up, plus the endless hordes of PC, identity politics butt-wipes kissing Freud’s tightly-virgin ass. Psychology – arguably the lamest pseudo-science ever – has routinely pathologised gender transition for sheer convenience. But who needs non-stop pity parties bewailing being born in the wrong body? Shockingly, I’m a shallow, vapid exhibitionist, and my deepest reason for semi-transitioning was sheer, overwhelming vanity!
And what’s wrong with that? Isn’t pure selfishness – as exemplified by Simon Cowell, Sir Phillip Green and Donald Trump – seen as the supreme good in our manic, pigs-at-the-trough society? So – much more honestly – I stuck my sexually ambiguous angst on the backburner, and became, quite fanatically, the horny slut goddess straight guys adored! Frankly, psychological revenge sex doesn’t get more satisfyingly perverse than playing some straight, juicy wet-dream fantasy to the hilt, then brutally saying ‘No’!
So who ever asked dumb, identity Nazis – straight, gay or undecided – to dictate how we gender-fluid mavericks fuck, dress and behave? Jesus, trans-fundamentalists nearly boycotted one of my own solo shows due to the presumed thought-crime of objectifying my own, gender-variant flesh!
Really, it’s no surprise I fully embrace plastic surgery – cosmetic, sexual or purely elective – as an essential, if voluntary tool in an artist’s performance repertoire. Despite idiotic pressure group disapprovals, isn’t any artist with a functioning mind in 2016 compelled to piss on mediocrity and live their wildest dreams?
At which point – ta-dah! – let’s give collective, pinky-up-the-rectum applause to the fabulous, beyond-Bride of Frankenstein brilliance of living art practitioners Amanda Lepore and Nina Arsenault. Both, remarkably, see transition as merely an artistic starting point, and they’ve both inflicted indelible, surrealist slaughter on clichéd notions of femininity with their own flesh.
So, do Nina and Amanda do fluffy, brain-dead Marilyn moments? Get real – their Monroe is a living, Picasso nightmare diva, all slashed, outsize lips Jack the Ripper would adore! Yes, Nina and Amanda contort, tenderize and test-drive basic female beauty standards to destruction, fiercely exploding dopey assumptions of MTF docility worldwide.
They need to. Appallingly, Jehovah and his grumpy pals still gag millions of dissenting queens globally, but what’s more delightfully subversive than an apparent pussy with a pecker? Frankly, the only swelling I want in pockets glad to see me is penile, not an Uzi or Smith & Wesson! And hasn’t Conchita Wurst – the universally acclaimed, bearded geezer-bird – seduced endless, psychopathic closet-cases with the irresistible sweetness of a Holy Mother Theresa slamming pure Prozac? No wonder fascists hate our fabulous freedom to love without repressive limits- that, always, is the true meaning of Pride!
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