My Shenis is Shrinking — and I Don’t Know What to Make of That
By: Cassie Brighter
Tags: Transgender, LGBTQ, Queer, Sexuality, Gender Transition

Gender Transition

My Shenis is Shrinking — and I Don’t Know What to Make of That

The strange dilemmas of gender transition

My penis is shrinking and I don’t know what to make of that.

Yeah, I know. Even I think that’s a weird sentence.

The changing body

I’m a trans woman. I’ve been on HRT (hormone replacement therapy) for four and a half years. The estrogen & progesterone going into my body, and the testosterone blockers impeding the flow of testosterone in my body, have profoundly changes my anatomy and my body chemistry.

Many of these changes I was ready for. My libido definitely shifted — becoming an entirely different set of responses to sexual stimuli. I used to know something is stirring sexual feelings in me because I’d feel my member grow into an urgent, throbbing hardon clamoring for attention. Not these days. These days my body reacts with a soft murmur, a hint of a feeling. On my mouth, my lips engorge, and I feel the urge to kiss. My nipples stiffen.

Occasionally, there’s a mild sense that my genitals want some attention — in a very vague and timid sort of way. Should I pursue the matter — should stimuli continue, either with someone touching me, or myself touching my body, then yes, an erection will usually follow.

Fears & Hesitations

For the last few years, I’ve been reading up on vaginoplasties. I’ve been wildly going back and forth about a GRS (genital reconstruction surgery) — or GAS as some call it (gender affirmation surgery). The truth is I’m so scared. I don’t like surgeries, to begin with. I don’t like hospitals. And several friends of mine, who’ve undergone vaginoplasty, have described it as “the worst pain they’ve ever experienced.” Well, that doesn’t sell it for me.

I also have strong reservations about the neo-vagina. I’m very aware — probably far TOO aware — of female genital anatomy. I know the elasticity of the natal vagina, and I know surgeons cannot give me that. My canal would be functional, but would lack that elasticity. I also know that my neo-vagina would not be self-lubricating, and that I’d have to dilate on a regular basis to prevent atrophy. None of this excites me.

The biggest deterrent against surgery, for me, is knowing the workings of the internal clitoris. Surgery doesn’t come close to providing me with that marvel. Instead, surgeons would leave a portion of my penile glans, serving as a clitoral glans.

I’ve heard many reports from women of trans experience who claim to be highly orgasmic. Still, I’ve also heard that there’s a 60% (approx.) chance of a climactic neo-vagina. So, you roll the dice, you take your chances.

What I have currently (what I like to call my clit, or a ‘shenis’) is climactic. It’s functional. Sure, it protrudes in an ungraceful way, making it a challenge to wear yoga pants. And tucking is uncomfortable for me. It becomes painful after a few hours. But the thing works. It delivers orgasms, and that’s a benefit I’m not willing to overlook.

Now, having a shenis creates social challenges. My former partner in my most recent long-term relationship was wonderful about this — they recognized my shenis as a clit, always referred to it as my clit, only stimulated it as one would a clit. I never felt dysphoric with them, and I never felt that it got in the way of our sexuality. Not so with new partners — especially in casual sex scenarios. We still live in a world where people see something that looks like a penis and, even if it’s attached to a woman, immediately make a long list of assumptions as to what it is, how it will respond, what they should do with it. And almost all of these tend to be wrong.

My need for acceptance and love have pushed me into trying to satisfy those often inaccurate expectations, usually to my detriment.

And now I come to discover my shenis is shrinking.

Old patterns die hard

I lived over four decades trying to negotiate the world as a man. Trying to fit into that paradigm as best I could. I copied expressions, I mimicked behavior, I tried to ‘pass’ as a man. I was pretty good at it — only a few times did I get raised eyebrows or scrutiny.

When I was understood as a man, I looked like a very, very short man. I’m 5' 2" in height. That created a social stigma that I was well aware of. So it was comforting to know that, clothes removed, I was, let’s just say, respectably endowed. It gave me comfort to know that. And the reactions from lovers confirmed that line of thinking.

Like that mug with the picture

So my shenis is like a nice relic, a nice antique. It’s not something I would actually use, in a penetrative way. (I mean, never say never, but it’s not in my comfort zone). It’s just like something from your youth that you’re no longer actively using but you don’t want to part with. Like that mug with the picture of a much younger me, that I’ve kept in a box somewhere. I’m not using it, but I hesitate to throw it away.

I fully imagined at some point I’ll confront what’s probably inevitable — at some point my need to feel whole, my need to have a vagina will overcome the fears and hesitations. At that point, I expect I’ll go into a hospital, fade off into wakeless slumber and wake up with my body transformed. Penis gone, and vagina in its place. (well, swollen mess, days of recovery, icepacks, bed rest and, eventually, a vagina in its place). The notion is a happy one, fears and all.

The unsettling disappearing act

What I had not prepared for is the disappearing acts my shenis has been doing.

Anyone with an outie has measured the damned thing. I have measured and re-measured, and I have clearly lost about an inch and a half of length.

“Isn’t that a good thing?” my cis girl friends ask me, surprised at my anxiety over it. “I don’t know,” I reply.

I was prepared to trade the one for the other.

I wasn’t prepared for the one to fade off into the distance, like the end of a Western, leaving only a ghost town behind.

At the heart of it, my deep, deep worry is, “who will ever want me?”

This is the worry of so many of us. Even young, cute, ‘passable’ trans women are constantly finding it frustrating to be rejected by potential partners over the trans stigma.

Then again, the only lovers I’ve had that have satisfied me to any degree, that have made me feel good about my body and about myself, have fully understood me as a woman, and have not burdened me with undue expectations over my outie.

A year ago I connected with a woman over OkCupid. I asked her whether she had dated women before; she said yes. I asked her whether she had dated a woman like me before; she said, “what do you mean like you?” I referred her to my profile (to line one of my profile). “You’re trans?” she said. “Well, how big is it?” I immediately concluded I would NOT sleep with her.

It’s just strange. We get so loaded with these gendered expectations.

Maybe it’s ok, because these conversations filter out people who are not suitable lovers. So maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe it will all be ok.

I just don’t know.