A very shemale Xmas
My first tranny Christmas (1998)
“The body is the work of God. I don’t believe that should
be changed” grumbled my aunt Barbara. I’d traveled three hours to
a farmhouse near Belleville, Ontario to meet my extended family
for the first time as “Nina.” (I looked like a guy with a women’s
Chanel haircut and plucked eyebrows.) I stuttered, then stopped
talking about hormones and plastic surgery with my mother’s sisters.
They chit-chatted about quilting, craft sales and United Church
gossip. Tiptoeing out of the room, I avoided the mistletoe as the
men of the family brushed by, heading for the gun rack and festive
coon hunting. They didn’t say a word to me. Mom reassured me, “No
one will say anything bad to you out of respect for me and your
father.”
Silent night, holy shit! (1999)
“Mom will be upset if you don’t join the family for Christmas,”
warned my brother Tim. I drove through a snowstorm seven days after
having five consecutive cosmetic surgeries. Pus was leaking into
my mouth due to an infection from a displaced cheek implant. “Isn’t
my new nose so much prettier?” I asked my female relatives. They
changed the topic to their congregation’s new minister. I mentioned
my boyfriend and the men, stone-faced, stared at the decapitated
head of a deer above the fireplace. My swollen cheeks and the bandages
that went from my nose to my mouth hid hurt feelings. Leaving early,
I recovered in my lonely apartment.
All I want from Jesus are two 450cc silicone
breast implants (2001)
“Could you cover up your new breasts so you don’t make the family
uncomfortable?” pleaded Mom. Miffed, I changed out of a see-through
purple tank top into a black blouse, but in protest I left the neckline
dangerously unbuttoned. With my plump breasts displayed over Christmas
stuffing, Aunt Barbara sighed, “I just don’t understand what he
– uh, she – is doing to himself – herself.” I wanted to bitch, “I
don’t understand wearing track suits with penny loafers everyday,
but I’m not criticizing the type of woman you want to be.” Instead,
I filled my mouth with turkey to keep the Christmas peace.
Like a tranny Mary Magdalene(2003)
“We saw you in an ad for shemale strippers!” blurted my cousin Jessica.
“We wondered how you made money to keep changing yourself. Whoa!
New ass, eh?” A few of my aunts’ husbands muttered hellos to me
this year. When the ladies were leaving for midnight mass, Jessica
nudged me. “People there will call you – well, how do I say it?”
She whispered a single word to me: “whore.” I offered to change
my skin-tight leather pants for something more Christian, but she
protested, “Your plastic surgery made you very… sexual-looking.”
They left, and my dad hugged me. “Nina, I’m very proud you have
the dignity to be yourself in front of these people.”
A tranny Xmas prayer (2005)
I had a smaller nose, a more refined chin and new, larger breasts.
Mom told me she loved me no matter what the family thought. Then
she smiled approvingly when I covered my bust with a designer scarf.
After Xmas dinner, my cousin Jeff listened as I told him about breaking
up with my boyfriend. He said, “Lots of guys will want you.” My
aunts worried that I was still stripping, but their concern was
now for my safety. My uncle Steve commented on how good I looked.
Jeff drove me home to Toronto, and we spoke about how well I fit
in this year. He noted, “You’re still too sexy, but you’ve changed
so much it was hard for anyone to think of you as anything but a
woman.” I got home and said a quiet prayer. I asked that trannies
be accepted everywhere, no matter how they look.
nina arsenault
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