My first piss at a urinal was notable both for the fact that I was 28 years old and, as I only noticed afterwards, my penis was upside down the entire time.
My penis is constructed from silicone: a purpose-designed funnel connected to tubing threaded through a silicone sleeve which I pierced myself in our kitchen with a steak knife.
Despite the occasional gaffe, it’s been the single greatest addition to my life since I began my transition to living as a man two years ago.
If you’ve scarcely had a conscious thought about taking a piss in a gendered bathroom, it would probably seem strange that this urinary device has had so much impact on my life.
I used to avoid drinking water so I could avoid having to pee. I wanted to avoid being perceived in such a vulnerable state, having to confront myself.
Yet ‘born in the wrong body’ has never rung true for me. My body has always been my own. I’ve simply, through persistence and the life-saving miracle that is testosterone, made it into something I can bear to connect with and to live in.
'Passing' is a fraught concept, but something I still crave: to be seen as the man I am. The first time it happened I was at a restaurant with female friends. The male waiter approached, looked me in the eye, and asked me personally: "Table for four?"
I had never been the assumed authority before. My friends were used to the treatment. I had been used to it too.
'Passing' is a fraught concept, but something I still crave: to be seen as the man I am.
Passing is situational. I can spend an evening at dinner with my dad who won’t get a single pronoun right, but when I ask the waiter where the bathroom is he will respond, without a moment’s hesitation, "This way, sir," pointing across the room to the men’s.
The first time this happened I felt only dread. I couldn’t back out, even if I didn’t feel ready. I had built this moment up in my head for months.
I was confronted with three urinals, the two outer ones occupied, the middle open. I’d read countless pieces about urinal etiquette; stating a man should not take a urinal next to another man, and certainly not between two men. But I couldn’t know what a man raised in the culture of being a man would really do in this situation. All my training couldn’t have prepared me for the reality of the men’s room.
I had thought that the men’s would be an austere place where men stand and urinate silently, gaze locked forward, pretending not to notice anyone else, and indeed it often is like that; but the real men’s room revealed itself to me now.
I sensed a man queuing up behind me. My heartbeat was all I could hear. My diaphragm spasmed in the size-too-tight chest binder that allowed me safe passage into this place.
All my training couldn’t have prepared me for the reality of the men’s room.
My gut told me to use the urinal between the pissing men. It was probably some internalised toxicity telling me to act manly, act like your balls aren’t made from silicone. I stepped up to the urinal, pretending to be confident, and peed like I belonged there.
Then I noticed my wrongly-oriented genitalia and tried to steal a glance to check if anyone had seen. The man next to me angled his body away for modesty, and then did something no think piece could have ever prepared me for. He began singing a jaunty tune. I had not expected any sort of verbalisation in this place; perhaps a grunt or fart at most, never a song. He zipped up and grooved over to the sink, still humming.
A few weeks later my penis fell off at karaoke. I excused myself to the bathroom and was adjusting myself in the only stall when a man knocked on the door. I doubt he wanted the privacy for the same purpose as me.
Still sticking to my rule of never uttering a syllable in the bathroom, after a beat it occurred to me that this situation warranted a reply, so I grunted one out. I abandoned my task and left the cubicle with my eyes down. As I was washing my hands, his voice came unexpectedly: ‘Cool haircut dude!’
I babbled thanks and bolted from the scene, still needing to pee.
The men’s bathroom isn’t as scary as I’d thought it would be. The think pieces had left me woefully unprepared for the camaraderie to be had in there.
Early in my transition, I watched a documentary where a cisgender shop owner gets into a friendly-enough conversation with a trans man.
"I know that when you’re standing at the urinal … and you’ve got that in your hand, that’s what makes me feel like a man."
He goes on to call the trans man a slur and states it’s "fashionably cool" for young people to think they’re trans now.
The men’s bathroom isn’t as scary as I’d thought it would be. The think pieces had left me woefully unprepared for the camaraderie to be had in there
I hate men like him. Pre-transition, I feared testosterone itself might make me become like him. I haven’t become hateful, but I have had to reconcile that we now have more in common. When we walk into a restaurant, waiters look to us for direction. I wonder if it was a man like him who complimented my hair. I wonder whether he still would have if he’d known about the silicone in my pants that lets me stand. The thing I hold in my hand and feel like a man.
I know I’d still be a man even if I sat to pee for the rest of my life. There are guys out there who will never put as much thought into urination as I have.
But I do feel that thrill of euphoria when I stand and deliver. It just feels so damn right. It makes me want to be the kind of man who’ll show guys like him how wrong they are. But first, I’ve gotta make sure my penis is the right way up.
Blake Alexander is a transgender man living on unceded Wurundjeri and Boon Wurrung land.
This article is an edited extract of an entry chosen from the 2021 SBS Emerging Writers' Competition.
Blake Alexander is a pseudonym.
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