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Introducing Rated XX, a new weekly column by "Doll," Racked National's first transgender guest blogger.
Always secretly wishing he'd been born a Barbie, Doll was a young army brat who grew up and became a citizen of the world. After landing in Manhattan, he became a New York fashion insider, working in a high-powered industry position, living a life worthy of a feature film.
After mysteriously vanishing from the scene, Doll recently resurfaced and has embarked on a new roller-coaster ride of a journey. Follow his transformation, week by week, right here on Racked.
I am what I am. I am my own special creation. —La Cage Aux Folles
Doll: Imagine walking up Park Avenue and having strangers double-take, turning around to stare, wondering aloud if what they saw is a boy or a girl. This is the normal reaction I receive on a daily basis. It doesn't bother me—in fact, I feel giddy with anticipation for the future.
I'm currently in the first three months of transition and the physical transformation has begun. I'm taking a bi-weekly combination of estrogen hormone shots along with daily testosterone blockers, under close supervision of a team of specialists and doctors. My first experience with the endocrinologist was my confirmation. The doctor said my testosterone levels were extremely low for a biological male and this should physically be a smooth transition for me.
With these appearance changes come new dressing challenges—wearing any top other than a button-down has become problematic.
It's as if I'm just beginning the awkward stages of female puberty. Emotionally, I'm feeling the mood swings and, physically, my skin is becoming smoother and my body is morphing right in front of my eyes. I was nervous that these changes would make me look like the bride of Frankenstein—instead, I feel and look more comfortable in my own skin than I've ever felt before.
But, unlike a typical coming of age, my first bra-shopping experience won't be with my devoutly Catholic mother, but with my best friends—real life Barbie dolls in their own right. Two blondes—let's call them Gwyneth and Cher—a brunette, Monica, and one foul-mouthed Pearl of the Orient (her words, not mine) let's call her Kylie.
Just last night, I was sandwiched in my king-size bed with Gwyneth and Cher sleeping on either side. It's a mutually beneficial friendship—they're in constant need of fashion and life advice and absorbing their individual auras is my crash course on how to be a girl. Everything—from how Cher deals with catcalls to Gwyneth's mannerisms and manipulative mind games designed to attract and trap men—is fair game. During our weekly slumber parties, I feel like Estella from Great Expectations—learning the ropes from my Barbie doll bunch of much-younger Ms. Dinsmoors. Chick-a-boom!
I'm aware my life is anything but conventional. Tonight, the dolls and I will be celebrating a birthday and painting the town red. No doubt, the night will end in another slumber party.
Next week you’ll meet my other support system—I like to call them the Gays of My Life.
Until then, Au Revoir!
· Read all Rated XX [Racked]