Sissy Hypno

Self-care is not productive. 

There is no way this essay will get done if I stop every five seconds to figure out “how to use a hair clip”. “Oh!” I say to myself 19 videos in, “so you gotta twist the hair”.

 Self-care takes time and energy, my therapist says. More time and energy and thought than your little ASMR videos would have you believe. I show them a Wiki How-To on properly filming your bath bomb to post to Instagram. Is this the best use of our time? They ask.

Self-care is removing the spiky collar for five minutes in the bathroom before returning to the party. Then dutifully reapplying.

 My therapist should be more of a friend, I think. I want to ask them over and over if I am a good person. If they could tell im good just by my shirt and how pointedly devoid of logo’s it is. Tell by my hair which is getting softer with the estradiol. In sissy hypno, estrogen is called
juice,
the sawce,
Ladymaker’s Mark.
End game.

Self-care is never asking your friends if you’re a good person. 

Self-care is not putting anyone in that position in the first place. 

Self-care is chewing the nail bed to extract a little more claw.  

Self-care is p(l)aying a video game that tells you exactly what to do and how to use it. 

Self-care is putting your brain in the jar while you make grilled cheese

Because you don’t know how to cook anything else. Self-care is a couplet in the bath, celebrating today because this is the only time they could

this week. Self-care is the transcendent shame you feel the first first time you

underboob sweat. It is a new found constipation. Bloating. Splotchy

from crying. Praise be, bitch, it’s a whole ‘nother body.

Self-care is expensive. As I wander the blogosphere parched for inspiration, I see that, if there’s any commonality to be found, self-care is more of a mental state that has no exact direction, no thesis. 

Self-care is a pre programmed himbo sporting nothing but a black bow tie and my Starbucks.

Abuse is not self-care. Self-abuse is a slippery function of 

         ((time / expenses) X Sephora coupons) -- how many cums = ???

         Self care is watching Season 8 on purpose 'cause they are all just friends at the end.

         no one deserves to sashay away. so Chi Chi DeVayne...

         had to be the sacrifice.

         Self care is (I think, but don't say) look at all these drag queens running around

         all of 'em. trying to play    me.

Self-care is going to school all online with your camera off.

A thesis is a thing evil teachers made up to confuse me and everyone like me. Everyone in the dumb class.

The DeviantArt sissy hypno post I left open in my tabs, Umu ygser: 4068dhe79hd9 suggests: 

 “The sissy is a species like no other. It devours cock like an incubus, mixed with a succubus, mixed with Iowa. Legally, the sissy holds no brains, no property. It holds cock above all else because it’s mere existence undoes the phallus as a symbol of the intractable.

The sissy, in reaction to seeing the fallacious depiction of cock within mainstream discourse (metonymically, or no), uplifts the fallace so as to return to it the dignity and complexity it refuses to self-generate.”

(lesbian sissys may disregard the previous two stanzas)

 My therapist has not asked why one of my pronouns is ‘it’ because they are polite and know there’s no cure for what I got.

 Self-care is another trans person 
confiding in me that he witnessed our mutual friend mess up 
on their new pronouns and saying 

“I felt good seeing that”. Good because every tranny has trouble believing in ourselves at first. Probably always. I love my boyfriend. I love our friend. We all sit around my head all day nibbling cuticles, murmuring, “valid, valid, valid”.

Self care is hearing Creep.
Bimbo. Idiot. Slut. creep. pervert.
stalker. rapey
tiny eyes. clockable collar
bones. aggressive.

Self care is the relief that I'm not a boy, and haven't been for forever. And the relief that, if I believe in myself hard enough, I can let go of my stigma I have against men.

Self care is an egg bagel w/ butter
and bacon egg and cheese on a egg bagel from actual fucking New York

Self care is not reading a TERF forum. It is not exploring how the other half lives. 

‘It’ is not straining through the monitor at a grown ass-literal-women saying "don't feel bad for [dead name redacted], HE probably enjoyed it". 

Self care is not thinking about how these people are women, also. How they’re my people...

Self-care is texting my mom
and saying, “you know you get to prioritize your own needs sometimes, Mom.”
And her saying “Andy, if I do that, what’s everyone else gonna do? Actually, GeeET to school? Actually MaaAKE their appointments?

HA! I think NOt.”

...

sissy’s mantra

i have a bobby pin headache. i have a lot. i have cookies and weed and Donkey Kong. i got abundance and a canker soar. 

i walk outside and pride campaigns

staring at me
and Kat Blaque cant ignore. 
says it's good 

i cant help feeling seen.

…

Sissification: A True Crime Story Time Story Time Story

Like most girls in highschool, I learned sex changes us at a cellular level. Incellular phones. Like most emollennials, I fell in love on Facetime. Facetime was the first time I had sex. Sex will always feel like something wet pressed against glass. 

When she and I first started having sex, when she was coming to understand my anatomy, she had to call “it” a “no no”. What I now call a clit. She dreamed that what I harbored would rise up against her, snapping and slobbery. 

But, after a few hundred miles of wifi, what she found laid belly up on a lily pillow, A snake with its tongue lolled out, playing dead. She said it was cute! How it would bounce with my blood. It brought us both delight. I was a good “no no”. A faux paw. On Facetime it was easier for us both, actually. Everything was imaginative. A not in her stomach.

In my senior year, I had to show her. SHe said I needed to be on camera. I was the show. I liked the way she made sex a pageant. She couldn't cum without me. Or, at least, she said, it wasn't as good. And she’d be so disappointed. It would ruin our night. So I’d show her. She showed me herself a few times, but her wrists got tired. I wasn’t comfortable. "We're not the same," she said. "It's different for boys and girls".

In highschool, I was directed when I couldn't handle it. Face, honey, she'd say if pleasure drew me out of frame. It was my job to handle the production side. She was director. My clit wasn’t enough. “I want to see it on you, or else it just looks like a dick, you know?” 

Since my junior year when we met, I said my name was Woody, but she would only call me Andy. To my face, to her friends, to my friends. In HER life, I was Andy. Because Woody was gross. It stood for something I didn't under stand. I didn’t understand why “it” made her uncomfortable. She watched me anytime she wanted, how she wanted. She called it perfect. 

In highschool I was Mr. Perfect on her phone. No emoji. Contacts is everything, honey. Summer before my senior year, she would find my “no no” in the back of a museum. She scruffed it. So we held it up to the half-unboxed sarcophagus, smiling. “Hey, we love your vibe.”

When we first started facetimeing junior year, she would say that she read online that if you suck long and often enough, male nipples could awaken, chew to the surface of his parched chest. And, if you're diligent and lucky enough, something approximating milk would be expressed. I had to see the articles myself.

On Facetime, when we had summers to kill, we would study together in our rooms. Asynchronous. She’d send me links. Told me to set our messages to “never delete”. So I could go back to them any time Mistress asked.

That summer slid off me like dopamine. As the articles and Reddit conspiracies slid eagerly into my DM’s, I could see the future hinting through my inbox. I liked that Mistress was giving me attention. And that attention was paid to my body. No other girls did that in highschool. 

Girls expected me to approach, to hold my hips below my shoulders and talk about whatever it was people talked about in the 2000’s. (Windows...to Walls...I believe?). But Mistress would have loved me even if I had boobs. Even if I produced milk. Honest-to-god. She even wanted me to! And people didn’t seem to want a lot from me.

Really, I was just thankful that we had an activity. Highschool summers sucked looking back. I couldn’t hang out with my friends if she was gonna just be home all alone. Was that fair to Mistress? I can still find one of the articles she sent. We must have read this one August. Scroll back and there it is, still flat and sciencey on my phone.

         “Through modes of direct address to the viewer, on-screen captions, and audio-visual montage, [Trans* Porno Remix] videos construct a trans* imaginary that is coproduced with the porn consumer and create space for viewers to experiment with gendered embodiment through imagining a future-oriented transformation into a trans* subject.”

         —Sissy Remixed: Trans* Porno Remix and Constructing the Trans* Subject, by Aster Gilbert

One day, when it wasn't highschool we slipped into the woods outside of the movie theater and traded panties. My first thong. Not to brag, but I didn't fit. With a smile, I cried about the ruthless string. She asked too many times if I wanted to trade back. I balanced over the string like an arrow in the bow. 

In college, I told her that, when I really thought about it, even though I didn't understand before, I do now. I understand that I would want to be milked. I would want to nourish her the way a girl can. Like a cow. Like something that, if you keep it, and tend it for long enough, it will produce. Return on her investment.

…

— p. 2/3