“I’ll never forget the time that is first had sex after bottom surgery, ” Rebecca Hammond informs me about halfway through our Skype chat. Hammond, a registered nurse and intercourse educator from Toronto whoever short, asymmetrical haircut provides the impression of a bleach blond Aeon Flux, talks in a sleepy, seductive tone that nearly verges on a purr; her terms dealing with a supplementary little bit of vibration whenever she’s wanting to stress her point.
It’s been ten years since her procedure, and Hammond’s had a number of sexual experiences — good, bad, and someplace in between — but that first connection with intercourse with a vagina is the one which includes stayed along with her.
And yet, even while she fondly remembers that blissful sense of congruity, that feeling of closeness in a human anatomy that felt “right, ” she’s loath to provide power that is too much the concept that first-time intercourse is somehow transformative or earth-shattering. “Virginity is merely a social idiom for talking with purity and loss, me, and one with an uncomfortable, complicated history that doesn’t sit well with her” she reminds.
Once we chat, Hammond shifts between these two conflicting narratives of post-bottom surgery sex. From the one hand, she notes wryly, “You’re simply putting material your cunt, ” an work that hardly seems worth a lot of hassle and introspection (“I don’t have it! ” she cries giddily, her sound increasing a few octaves as she laughs). Yet she can’t shake the understanding that, even when “virginity” is an outdated concept — one that is profoundly linked to a cisgender and heterosexual (cishet) worldview that numerous LGBTQ+ people outright reject — it’s a notion that carries significant amounts of fat for several trans women.Read More›