More FtM Blues


Indeed. In my tiny life, to pack or not to pack, haunts and sustains me.

As long as I can remember, I’ve obsessed about the size of my package. And I’m talking about nerf balls in my underpants in the third grade, too.

Despite my fascination with cyborg imagery, I shock myself when I call my various packing devices prosthetics. No, I say. Artificial legs, arms, eyes. Those are prosthetics.

My pink piece of cyberskin is, what? Me? A manifestation of a yearning?

I don’t know. I guess I think I should know by now. After all I’ve been packing in some manner for about 30 years. Still I don’t.

What I do know is that I haven’t packed at all in the last few weeks. The worry about what others might think about my lacking package just sort of fell away.

Stuffing my underwear every morning feels like too much work. Too much not me. My package is tiny….a microbrand, if you will. ;-). That used to bum me out, radically. Now I just think it something true for me.

I am most suprised by how much my obsession is just so masculine/male/manly. Guess I’m not too different from alot of other guys. Each of us is left to decipher and decode the package of the penis/phallus/cock.

To pack or not to pack. To stuff or not to stuff. What matters is this: which choice represents the most compassionate act I can do for myself?


  1. Indeed! The ability to treat oneself with compassion is a virtue worth cultivating – because I don’t know about you, but that definitely doesn’t come easily or naturally to me.

    To piggyback on your story, I would like to share with you an anecdote from my early days with my wonderful partner Ms. T. A day or two before one of our first dates, she called me and asked me how I would feel if she packed when we went out later that week. I sat stunned as I considered my options…

    Now, I must confess that at that point, I had had close to zero experience with the whole issue of whether or not to pack. So my first response was to assume that she was referring to sleeping over at my apartment – something I was definitely not ready for, for a number of reasons, chief among them being that I was unable to sleep with another person in my bed.

    So I launched into what I thought was a very proactive negotiation with my new lady friend, and we discussed my level of comfort for the remainder of the conversation. When I hung up, I thought no more of it.

    She called me back a few moments later, laughing. “What I meant was,” she sputtered between guffaws, “whether or not you wanted me to pack my dick, not spend the night!!!”

    I still feel a slight humiliation for being so naive, but it does beg the question: when does packing say less about who you are, and more about whose expectations you’re trying to satisfy? 😉

  2. Jay,

    an awesome post! I don’t know what to say in response, but to tell you that once again you have cut through the outer layers and gone to the heart of the matter…which is, what is the heart of the package?

    thanks for continually suprising me with the way you can make me think!

  3. Jennifer,

    The Divine Ms. H. shared with me last night the following:
    “When I first saw the cartoon, I thought ‘to pack or not to pack. Oh. This is about the buddhist box…”
    The buddhist box is an exercise where you must divest yourself of all materials items save those that can fit in one xerox box….

    I guess a box is better than underpants?!

    And I think packing does say alot about me and needs to have something I believe I may not have. I am one transsexual man who would, given the opportunity, take a fully functioning penis.


    Thank you! Thank you!

  4. To build off the “packing” theme, I think that it important to know that not only can you pack a dick, but you can also pack a Vagina.
    I had the unfortuate experience of finding that out this summer. I had a complete hysterectomy and partial ooferectomy the beginning of June. Although I am struggling to find out my gender identity, this procedure was medically necessary for my physical health.

    Everything went fine… until 3 weeks after the surgery I started to bleed. Ok it was more of a hemmorage. So 12 am on a Friday night my fantactic partner frantically drove me back to the hospital. We were told I was to be packed to try to stop the bleeding.

    Ms. Gee and I started to try to giggle due to our already vast packing stories, until the doctor walked on with about a 4 inch thick roll of gause which was then rapidly (and totally dry I might add) shoved into my vagina. I got to go thru this 3 times over the next few days.

    when all is said and done, I would prefer to pack a dick athank you!!!

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