I met a woman. She is a Dark Lady. Her features are not altogether dark, but who she is remains dark to me. She is a mystery.
My Dark Lady's eyes are large and laughing - the deep brown of lost innocence. Her voice is warm and sultry - a balloon of Cognac in Winter. It is the voice of French nobility languishing at a café, drinking Turkish espresso, her ennui acrid as the smoke rising from her expensive French cigarette.
My Dark Lady has one bright point - the red lipstick staining her espresso cup, marking her cigarette. Her full lips wear the red of roses, the red of passion, the red of danger. It is a red to offend every Midwest Christian mother.
I crave one thing from my Dark Lady. Her face is pretty, yes. Her voice is alluring, true. Her hands, no doubt, would be gentle on my body. But her attention - turned toward me - is beautiful. In the spotlight of her gaze, I feel beautiful.
I wish my Dark Lady to own me. I wish her to own me completely: an ownership so deep, so dark, that - being owned - I become her owner. In my core, I know what my Dark Lady represents. A gnawing need has built in me over weeks, perhaps months.
I need the release of sex.
No, the word "sex" does not convey my meaning. I do not need "sex." I need to fuck. I need to be fucked.
I have a deep need, a painful need. My need spans generations. It is a genetic imprint of desire. I must manifest the first prehistoric fuck responsible for perpetuating humanity long enough for lust to tear at my body.
I need to romp as kittens do in their innocence - biting, playing, unaware of danger lurking, unconcerned as danger arrives. I need to dance ecstatically at a cliff's edge to plunge to my death having attained ecstasy.
I need to drink deeply of my Dark Lady's Grail, to achieve everlasting life in a terse moment of orgasm.
Anything less is an insult - to her, to me, to the first prehistoric fuck.
I am married. I am also transgender. I know very well my kind are fortunate to find love at all - most of us are unmarried, many of us involuntarily.
It would be foolish to devalue my marriage. I am confident without my wife's guiding hand, I would not have experienced my 40th birthday years ago. I would never have had the courage to live as the woman I am today. My wife is my foundation. I would not hurt her to save myself.
My wife does not understand me, not my very core. I do not blame her - transgender is ineffable - as difficult to describe as it is to live. I want to believe my Dark Lady can understand me. I doubt she does, but I want to believe it.
Because if my Dark Lady understands me, I am allowed to eat her alive. My wife is present, known, to be loved; my Dark Lady is absent, anonymous, to be fucked. My Dark Lady and I would devour each other.
But I would no sooner harm my Dark Lady than I would harm my wife.
I am not a man.
The darkness lives within me, but it is the darkness of the Divine Feminine. It is the darkness of the womb, from which the future of humanity is born. It is the darkness of fertile Earth, from which the sustenance of humanity is grown.
I am not a man. The darkness that lives within me is that of nurturing, not of evil.
And it is evil to want my Dark Lady in the way I wish. Nothing can soothe my burning need. Nothing can fulfill my searing desire. Nothing can unlock the restraint my own body has placed on its carnality.
My parts are broken. I want to be fucked, and I do not know how. My body betrays me - I cannot bear the pain of touching parts foreign to me, not even to alleviate the pain of an overfull bladder.
I do not want to see or feel or use the foreign parts of my body. I cannot be fucked. I don't want the sex of a man, and I cannot experience the sex of a woman. I cannot escape the prison of my parts, and I hurt.
I am needy. I need love. I need to be seen. I need to be fucked.
But I cannot feel any of it. And I cannot suck my Dark Lady dry in hope I learn to feel.
I am a sow in heat. I am a teenage goth girl crying into her diary. I must turn inside and scream within my head, as I cannot release the pressure within my body.
I chose not to explain myself to my wife. I chose not to burden my Dark Lady further. Instead, I touched myself.
I touched myself, and the finish was not fulfilling enough. How could it be? The parts are wrong. The process is wrong. The result - all wrong. At best, I am subdued. My eyes are dry, yet my soul weeps.
I am not a woman capable of acting halfway. I cannot drink one martini. I cannot read one book in a series. I cannot care only a little for my work. I must act completely - lose myself completely - or I must have none of it.
But Amethysta will always be halfway. I can never be complete. I can never completely empty myself of need. I can never be who I know I am with all my existence...all except for my parts.
I can only ever be half. Partly fulfilled. A little bit happy. I cannot be made whole even by surgically removing the last of my parts.
I cannot be complete. But being half complete will never be enough.
Not even a Dark Lady can grant me peace.
I am, at base, a lie. I know who I am, but my birth was a lie told to the Universe. I must be female.
It is not enough to be intersex. It is not enough to be socially and medically transitioned. I must be female to the cellular level - naturally Assigned Female at Birth.
But I will not be Assigned Female at Birth. Not in this lifetime, and maybe not in the next.
Transgender people are special to the Universe. We are capable of understanding and utilizing both aspects of the energy of the Universe.
We can be feminine and we can be masculine. We can gather energy, build it up, activate it, direct it, and nurture it to birth.
We are special.
Being special, however, is a great burden. I want to be only one aspect of the Universe. But I must accept being both aspects.
I must see the potential in both masculine and feminine. I must accept the small pleasures of feeling feminine, and learn to appreciate the balance of the masculine.
I don’t want to accept the masculine. But the other choice is to destroy everything - my marriage, my family, my friends, myself. It is to reject the Dark Lady and the life she makes me feel. It is to reject the life I spent building who I am, what I represent, what I can do.
I cannot throw myself away. I cannot throw my family away. I cannot throw the Dark Lady away.
I am feminine. I am masculine.
I am feminine. And I am masculine.
I am feminine and I am masculine.
I was Assigned Amethysta at Birth.