thin line

(english version below)

La ligne devient de plus en plus mince entre la dignité ou je ne sais quel autre principe qui te retient de ramasser le butch a terre ou de te mettre a ramasser des canettes, et la réalité, les besoins. Les besoins finissent par prendre le dessus. Quand t'as faim, quand t'as envie de fumer ou d'une bière and your need it so bad, ce principe s'amincit. Si je l'écris, c'est parce que je le vis. J'en suis pas aux cannettes, mais j'ai ramassé des mégots. Et cette bonne femme qui passe subrepticement avec un sac a ordures noir… je l'ai déjà vue et peut être que c'est pour nourrir des enfants qu'elle se démène ainsi. Parce que moi aussi j'aurais besoin de deux cannes de tomates. De la margarine… Cinq piastres, je peux aussi acheter un joint, ce qui peut me sauver la vie.

The line is getting thinner and thinner between dignity or some other principle that keeps you from picking up that butch from the ground or starting redeem cans, and reality, the needs. Needs eventually take over. When you're hungry, when you want a smoke or a beer and your need it so bad, this principle thins out. If I write it, it's because I'm living it. I'm not at the cans, but I picked up cigarette ends. And this very normal looking woman who passes surreptitiously with a black garbage bag… I've seen her before and maybe it's to feed children that she is struggling like this. Because I too would need two cans of tomatoes. Margarine… Five bucks though, I can also buy a joint, which can save my life.

Dominique Rock

Mile-End Eight

This is the 8th blog post about me, a not so passable but still very sexy mature transsexual woman wandering in the streets of Montréal, Québec after landing in a shitty small room in a 65 room building following an eviction for renovations...

and after spending most time after transition locked away inside the apartment where I lived since 2015 and that I had to leave in a rush on July 5, 2021. It's not necessarily written in a chronological order, and I might (so it seems) be repeating myself. Excuse my English: not my 1st language.

Models

It might be always when the expectations are the lowest that better things happen. I went out last Friday with the lowest expectations ever, and a handsome young man smiled at me as I was going into the dépanneur to get cigarettes (with my last 10$), then at my exit smiled again and told me : how beautiful you are today!, in French, so the feminine ''belle'' made it very obvious that he was underlining my femininity.

It felt great, so is the feeling I get when my friend who lends me 30$ tells me I made a real difference in her life. I helped her quite a bit getting on the right track for a couple years, up until not long ago.

I tried all my life to help younger people grow. Share my experience of life without judging their behavior or thinking, never. I am young too. I really did always try to help, as soon as younger than me started to be around me; for the first twenty years or so of my life, I was always the youngest, so I remember… not being helped by anyone older than me, and I craved it, as I was the youngest of the family.

And I'll remain young. I had decided that already in my twenties. That means welcoming change. That means reinventing myself constantly, and it means also to really welcome change, novelty, and bad reactions to sometimes what I had liked the most and is now outdated, and much more letting go.

So now… now that I’m stuck here in this shitty room…

I really need to reinvent myself now. I didn't chose to do it this way, or to do it at all. I guess life always gets me stuck at some point where I have no choice but to do that... erase the past and try to look forward.

One of them turning points was when I admitted to myself I'm a woman, a transsexual woman, late 2008. It took me like seven years from that point on to the day I started my hormone therapy, by taking light testosterone blockers, low dose spironolactone (25mg? Yea, think it was). I felt its action in the minutes that followed on my scrotum and testes, within an hour, I swear. Then I couldn't stop, I liked it too much, and the next eight months saw my testosterone flew my system... my brain. Mostly my brain, and my body start to change under the action of the estrogen dermal patches I was prescribed by an incredible doctor I had then but who now quit the trade.

So I took the train, that was six years ago. I had a whole life of trying to be a man behind me, and I needed to let all my feminine side out, which I had simply hidden the best I could till then. As I posted here before, I realized early I couldn't fit into any of the categories of people... any model. I'm unique and special and cannot escape being myself, I realized it early in life. And I told my shrink in 2010 that I knew I would be a special kind of trans also if ever I came out.

(and also, I must add, I also admitted to myself I’m bisexual in 2008. It’s important to specify, as gender and sexual orientation are two separate things. I probly should have admitted to myself that I like sex with men earlier, as I always was hit on by members of the gay community, all along my life, and, uhhh. I guess I missed a lot of fun, but really, I could have put this search on myself aside and remain a trans woman nonetheless, it’s really two separate matters)

So... I get lost in all kind of digressions but my point is models.

I only could put a name on why I don’t have models, and found out at the same time it’d be very difficult for me to have one no matter how hard I try: 

I'm ASD. I'm into the autistic spectrum disorder and my behavior, many ways I had acted in the past are actually simply autistic traits. I'm not that unique, the way I act is the same way many other ASD act, it's even predictable. I can predict how I will behave and react, and that's why I smoke cannabis. It smoothes down ASD symptoms, traits, whatever you call it.

I first realized I’m ASD reading a weekly chronicle in a daily free paper, Metro. I went on her blog and all her articles were there; she simply described how she reacts, talks, think... I read them all, and it seemed she was describing my own life. That's when I realized I wasn't that unique, and that the fact that I was weird corresponded to autistic traits, I mean how I acted, how I talked to my bosses, how I lost my jobs all the time...

Then I read and read on autism, many very specialized books, and I understood how it works, and I can now not only explain my own behavior, I can also quickly identify autism traits in others, and predict how they will behave, if I know them well enough.

So I can predict my own future, in the short term, I do it all the time to try to avoid shit, to try to avoid saying things I shouldn't be saying, or at that moment.

I'm checking on myself. I have a big tendency to speak too much. I don't know what to say, so I say anything. I just open the valve of my brain. Direct stream. That's the Asperger side of the spectrum. Other ASD I know don't know what to say and therefore speak not. Especially about themselves, the inner self. Personally, I do that all the time. Direct stream. It's two opposite sides of autism, but it's the same problem at the source : the socialization chip is malfunctioning, or maybe is from a different origin (different type of homidae). ASDs think differently than most people. It's very rational, and emotions work differently.

Anyways I'm losing the subject again, here, maybe I'll remove these paragraphs about ASD, that wasn't my point.

My point was that, if ASD behavior is identifiable and detectable, they follow some patterns, it's the same for neurotypicals, that is those who are not on the ASD spectrum, so like 85% of any given population (in my opinion), there are models, transmitted by imitation (like any ape does in order to learn) that are so strong that it seems I'm meeting the same people on the street as 30 or 40 years ago, but they are 30 or 40, so… those I met in the past are either dead or 70-80 years old, and themselves look like the elders I knew then, so…

Humans repeat models, neurotypicals by imitation, those in the ASD by genetics. Yes. I’m saying that. Simply explained, I can read or see other people on the ASD behaving just like me, thinking just like me, and I don’t know them, never heard of them. I'm not following a model that I learned but many sides of my behavior can be found described in books on autism.

I never followed any model by imitation, I’m just not capable of doing that. I’m just myself.

There are, though, people on the ASD who follow models, certainly there are. It’s a spectrum. I’m somewhere on the spectrum, maybe mixed with a severe attention deficit (it plays in the same zones of the brain anyways ASD and ADD) where I’m totally to the opposite it seems.

And when  someone on ASD follows a model, they follow it very strictly and rigidly, with a deep belief that this is the only truth possible.

So... not me. I really tried to in the past, but the only models I can dig is languages, words, syntax, the only ones.

Communication with others is very important for me, with trees and dogs and cats and birds as well as with other humans.

I'm desperately trying to fit in a society that uses models without being able to follow any model.

It's the absurdity of my life.

Dominique Rock

Mile-End Seven

This is the 7th blog post about me, a not so passable but still very sexy mature transsexual woman wandering in the streets of Montréal, Québec after landing in a shitty small room in a 65 room building following an eviction for renovations...

and after spending most time after transition locked away inside the apartment where I lived since 2015 and that I had to leave in a rush on July 5, 2021. It's not necessarily written in a chronological order, and I might (so it seems) be repeating myself. Excuse my English: not my 1st language.

My Strange (ASD) self

I’m just being myself.

I wasn’t being myself completely before my transition, I did try hard to fit into one or another of my society’s preset box and patterns that are acceptable for a male individual at many points in my life.

I’m just being myself and it’s an original and unique way of being. I’m not feminine enough, I don’t pass enough, I’m too old… I don’t know what it is exactly but I don’t feel good.

I actually never felt good in this life, and it’s getting much worse.

At one point in my life must have been when I was around 15 years old, maybe earlier, I remember childhood… Anyways I realized it would be impossible for me to fit correctly in one or the other of those patterns. Impossible.

I was strange, special and one of a kind, I was told that often early in my life, even in childhood.

Actually, I realized that I couldn't be anything else but myself, and that I had no models (I understood less than 10 years ago why: I’m ASD)

Then again in my twenties I tried to fit models, with my two friends and roommates, they tried to make me fit, to show me how. Then again later in my thirties… I mean I really tried, haircuts and all. No use.

I can't be anything else but myself, and I realized, rather, admitted to myself too late that I'm a woman.

And now it's too late. The hormone replacement therapy doesn't really work...Surely no doubt it would have worked better if I had started when I first realized it, age 16 when my friend told me so. No doubt, would it be only hairwise: I had practicly no beard untill age 30. But that was so long ago, being trans then was like completely off the wall, and I knew if I headed that way that I would surely live an underground life… I still hoped to fit in as a man. My brothers were not that manly either… like yo I didn't know… I was 16 and didn't want to even respond to the calls of the gay community, I got hit on sooooo much in my teens.

Just like now as I'm typing this on my phone, and recently… I'm becoming a character in this park especially. I always have older or disabled dudes staring at me. I suppose they're gay. Maybe bicurious? They seem to find me very attractive (maybe strange also though), well… Many told me so very directly.

Now I’m out of cannabis and I realize how much I need it and why: everything is so dark and grim without it. I keep thinking about suicide all the time. I mean not precisely how and when I would do it, but when I try to think about… I don’t know.. like the future, or even just the state of my relations with my family or those who at one point pretended to be my friend, and the rest of society, it gets all dark in my head and I see only one escape possible and it’s death. I can even feel anger, I get angry at everything. Cannabis calms me down, otherwise my ASD keeps getting me to react to too many things, and too strong. Past scenes that come back make me want to kill, mostly recent and mundane scenes, like the French renting the room next door who had welcomed my arrival at this building by swearing in his mother tongue “putain, non mais c’est pas vrai!” behind me as I was walking back to the building, and having a good look at my legs and crop top for a first time. At that moment I wanted to just stop and confront him and ask him what was wrong precisely, but I was also scared so I did not, but later I replayed the scene in my head and ... I just censored a couple of paragraphs XD

So… I'm stone now, I found some hidden change I had and bought 2 strong joints at the SQDC. Cannabis is legal here. Government store. And uhhh, I'm addicted. Without it, everything gets too grim and dark and suicidal thoughts are omnipresent.

It's been my anti-suicide medication since… actually always. Since I was 14 when I first got buzzed on local leaves.

And it's my fuel for writing too, and has been for almost 15 years. Before also but since I was trying to fit in, and supply was then irregular… and I was writing then mostly professionally, as a reporter and communications officer, but I did start to get buzzed while working, then starting around 2008, I was mostly stoned when I wrote professionally.

It's my medication because… life has no meaning nor any goal, nor is there any kind of God. There is nothing.

That is the subject of my novel, in French, Le Sentier des monstres, that I will soon publish on Kobo.

But I need to come back to what I was saying also LoL.

I’m a very special individual, there is nothing I can do about it, I was when I was a child, I would have been a very special trans woman if I had transitioned in my teens or twenties, I just can’t escape myself.

And my social skills aren’t very good. I’m better at socializing if I’m buzzed on cannabis, otherwise, I say things just out of the blue, I react too much to everything, I rationalize too much, I look like a real fool, a nerd. I really need cannabis to help me smooth things out, both ways, what I say and how I react, and every sensation coming in, by any of the five senses.

Well that’s the autistic Spectrum Disorder for you. One of its faces, somewhere on the spectrum, there I am.

Did you know that ASD and transsexualism are linked?

Dominique Rock

x

Mile-End Six

This is the 6th blog post about me, a not so passable but still very sexy mature transsexual woman wandering in the streets of Montréal, Québec after landing in a shitty small room in a 65 room building following an eviction for renovations...

and after spending most time after transition locked away inside the apartment where I lived since 2015 and that I had to leave in a rush on July 5, 2021. It's not necessarily written in a chronological order, and I might (so it seems) be repeating myself. Excuse my English: not my 1st language.

 Against the grain

I cannot think freely, no human being can think freely at any time.

There are presets in my brain, or any human brain, that were passed along by genetics, firstly very basic things to ensure I will flee or fight if facing threat, to ensure I will be thirsty if I get dehydrated, hungry… I will crave sex to insure reproduction, etc.

I can work on not eating even if I’m hungry, same for sex, thirst, any of these basic presets transmitted to us just like to any mammals, but these mechanisms in my brain remain nonetheless. It’s a good part of what a human being is: we breathe, our heart beat… we don’t have to think about it.

The need to socialize is another preset that was transmitted to us by genetics, and the ancestors developed culture to respond to that basic need, or both evolved in parallel.

I met many people in my life, even many professionals like my psychologist, doctors… who told me to fight, that life is tough and that one has got to fight… and that this was the essential part of the human being: its capacity to fight.

Now come on! Fighting isn’t at all one of Homo Sapiens’ skills. Au contraire, it’s the fact that they are social, even with strangers, with other species (of hominidae and others like the wolf), that they bred with them in the past, and it’s the fact that communitarianism was at the center of the life of Homo Sapiens that made us, first survive, then thrive, certainly not fighting. Yes they had to fight big prey, but they did it in groups, and without that culture of being together, sharing, helping, language, we wouldn’t be here today, because first, we wouldn’t have been able to kill big prey, therefore our brain wouldn’t have developed, and so on.

War was only part of hominidae for about 10,000 years, most of our existence was spent without any knowledge even of war. War brings nothing good to humans, nothing at all (and Neanderthal and Homo Sapiens did not fight one another, not at all: they bred together, that’s what they did, just like the Natives of America welcomed the European newcomers and offered them their daughters. They did! Encrypted in our brain is also the need to mix the genes, and that’s one point where human cultures have gone wrong since a couple thousand years).

Fighting is not the essence of humans, more resilience, adaptation and communitarianism.

So what I’m saying is that the need to socialize is one of the most important parts of Homo Sapiens. Culture was developed around that need.

And therefore, culture is a very important part of Homo Sapiens, but none of it, none at all, zero, nada is transmitted by genes to the next generation.

It is learned, all of it. Transmitted by the peers, by the elders, tradition… But still, it’s a very, very important part of Homo Sapiens, an imaginary thing (one cannot touch culture per say, traditions… it’s not real, it’s invented by the human brain), transmitted by peers and learned, and becoming so strong that it feels like the truth… THE truth; this particular culture of one group of humans feels to them as if it must have been dictated by a superior form of intelligence.

So then humans invented God.

All invented, it’s not real, it’s not palpable, it… doesn’t exist. Just in our mind. Like the language… Humans feel as though their language, their culture was always like how it is here and now, but it’s not the case, it evolved by adding up many little presets in the mind of these humans.

Presets, yes, just like the ones transmitted by the genes. Culture has become so strong, so important for humans that it has become as important for human’s survival as the basic needs presets, hunger, thirst...

All this to say that it’s impossible for humans to go very far, thrive and evolve if they don’t answer those basic needs, all of them.

It’s even impossible for them to think completely outside culture, or another, or a new one, culture there needs to be. Because simply, without culture, we go back a couple million years, and back then, hominids weren’t very much able to think, they were then similar to chimps today.

Therefore, therefore... it’s impossible to think outside these learned presets just as it is impossible to stop responding to the basic needs like hunger and thirst.

I can adopt a new culture, invent a new one, but at the base, it’s very difficult to overcome what was learned in childhood, and that is another preset we live with: what was learned before age 8 remains encrypted very deep in the brain, much more than whatever was learned further down in life. The likes for music, food, and many other things that we learned in our culture before age 8 remains the most important and very difficult to erase.

In order to think freely, one would need to bypass all those presets, which is actually quite impossible, just like one cannot go without eating.

And that is why it’s difficult for a older and not very passable transsexual woman to go out in society. About 70% of the people I go by on the street, in parks tell me with their eyes that I’m going very much against one of their presets. It hurts them; I hurt them, it touches them deep inside.

I’m going against the grain. I’m even a threat, a threat to the survival of the species. We’re not even from the same culture, often, I mean Montréal is a very diverse city, but there are some basic things that pretty much every Homo Sapiens culture share, and one of them is that a man is a man and a woman a woman.

And again (I feel I wrote this before), I’m not sure what defines that exactly, as I feel I just don’t pass enough so that the brain of the people I meet on the street doesn’t flash: error, error! Is it my face? My lack of breasts? The fact that my cock shows, somewhat, in my pants?

I’m really not sure. As I said before, I have the body of a top model, tall, very slim, flat belly, small breasts. Check the clothings ads... 

Maybe with more work, like plucking my eyebrows more, putting on make-up, jewelry… Well no. I always went against the grain. I feel I serve more humanity doing that then conforming to any presets, and I’m just being myself. Finally.

Dominique Rock

Mile-End Five

This is the 5th blog post about me, a not so passable but still very sexy mature transsexual woman wandering in the streets of Montréal, Québec after landing in a shitty small room in a 65 room building following an eviction for renovations...

and after spending most time after transition locked away inside the apartment where I lived since 2015 and that I had to leave in a rush on July 5, 2021. It's not necessarily written in a chronological order, and I might (so it seems) be repeating myself. Excuse my English: not my 1st language.

 Old and alone

I never realized it was the Gay Pride Parade yesterday Sunday. I went to Jeanne-Mance park where I’ve been hanging in the morning for the past week or so, then started to type on my PC, rolled a joint.

I found there were many policemen. Then I saw gay, and then a trans flag, then again more coloured flags I’m not sure I can identify. Bisexual flag?

Many queers with flags started to sit all around me in the park… 

That goes to show how much I’m not really a part of this community.

I wasn’t aware… this was THE day I’m allowed to be myself, especially here, in the middle of all the queerests in Montréal and from elsewhere around.

But all of a sudden, I started to feel not queer enough kind of…

I had no flag, I wasn’t on a celebration day, just usual stuff, about to pluck a few hair on my face, wearing my usual shorty shorts and white flowery crop top. I do that there, it’s vast and most mornings an empty space (I can’t do that at home, I need the sunlight). 

Anyways… I pick up my things and go back to my luxury shelter, mainly to get rid of the PC and try to join this party, hoping they wouldn’t all be gone already when I come back, since it’s only a march this year due to Covid, no floats.

So I wasn’t late, I didn’t miss the march. But it made me realize that I’m alone and always have been. There were not many people alone in this parade, this 4 km march, everyone could count on a support person, right there besides them, and if I didn’t feel as though I’m the weirdest thing around as I usually do, I still didn’t feel accepted, amongst all those whom I’m supposed to be connected with, being a trans, and bisexual woman.

I’m old. That’s my category now, whether I’m transsexual, queer, strange looking, it only kind of adds up to the main fact: I’m not in the game, I cannot be, I’m too old.

I didn’t feel any connection. I’m just old. There were not many older people in that march, I’d say… 4% were over 50, no more than that. Including me.

I’m from a past that is being rejected by the youth in many ways, and they’re right to do so, because change is always what humanity needs, always, and only the youth brings that.

Only youth and some like me who remain young... who are working on it, it’s not natural for humans to do that (but I’ve always done it, since I’m like 24 years old, when I started to feel old).

Naturally, the youth relies on the elders to have some directions, that they modify with some novelty, so naturally, when a human gets old, they like it and remain in their tradition. Not me, I fought that all my life.

I wrote a post earlier on this blog about that, maybe in French though: humanity is a mix of tradition and novelty, that is a break in traditions, that’s what ensured its survival and progress, and evolution. Because without any tradition, survival is at great risk in natural conditions, as what was most of the 200,000 some years of existence of that species Homo Sapiens, and without novelty, without an unacceptance of tradition, there is no progress possible.

So traditions are for survival, but so is novelty. Neandertal lacked novelty but their very strong traditions (how to hunt, the tools…) saw them survive some 800,000 years before novelty (Homo Sapiens who came from Africa) hit them and totally surpassed them. They never evolved, really, in such a long time, so they eventually went extinct, smashed by novelty.

Now Homo Sapiens is a mix of the two species, Neandertal granting some 4-8% of the genome. And that mix was very good, for pure Homo Sapiens probably lacked good reasoning.

Yes, I’m saying Neandertal were more rational than Homo Sapiens.

Why am I talking about that?

Oh yes, youth is rejecting me since I’m old, that’s why, but they’re wrong on this one: I carry no tradition at all, I fought against tradition all my life, and especially the past 12 years since I admitted to myself I’m a woman, well a transsexual woman.

I mean actually, I always knew I was a trans woman, I just found other ways to call it, or justify it, like saying in all of my previous incarnations, I was a woman, or that I am a pink man, or a mauve man as I used to say en français. Not gay, just… not like usual men.

But anyways, I have to come to terms with that: I’m not part of the youth… well I mean they don’t see me as one of them (even though I am), so therefore, I am not one of them. It’s always just a matter of recognition.

I am barely being recognised as a human, and that’s nothing new. I never completely felt accepted wherever, neither my family…

I have no friends anymore, and those I’ve had were not friends since they’re not in my life anymore… I mean, a friend is forever, or else it’s not a friend.

Maybe I’m being too optimistic about friendship. Friendship is like love, it lasts forever. Or at least many decades.

Anyways to end this Blog post, I’ll just say that as soon as I left the crowd of that march, people started giving me strange looks again.

I’m alone, too hey. Most humans are not alone. If I’d walk with a friend, or whoever, things would be different.

I don’t have a friend. That’s why I’m writing.

And I’m old, and many boomers find me attractive.

ok… well… next blog post maybe. About those Boomers.

Dominique Rock

Muse

 Muse

My motivation

What drives me on is you

Your sweet and sulky mouth

It tells me no

And you just don't know

Whatever not right now

All right just tell me how

I sit and try to think of ways

To satisfy your every needs

I try to guess what they could be

Maybe the moon if I could reach

My motivation

What drives me on is you

Your sweet and sulky mouth

It tells me no

And you just don't know

Whatever not right now

All right just tell me how

The warmth that spills out from your room

You text a smile, I cook for you

It feels just like I fly a plane

Your chocolate smile: I go insane

I just love your moods

I crave for your moves

To meet your eyes…

You're motivation...

My motivation

What drives me on is you

Your sweet and sulky mouth

It tells me no

And you just don't know

Whatever not right now

All right just tell me how

Sweet Sunshine Queen I see you rise

I want to stay just by your side

A muse can go with any guys

Just let me art your dreamy eyes

My motivation

What drives me on is you

Your sweet and sulky mouth

It tells me no

And you just don't know

Whatever not right now

All right just tell me how

Dominique Rock

5e anniversaire 5 years!!

This blog is five years old today, I just noticed. It's a bilingual blog but will tend to be more in English from now on.

Je viens de remarquer par hasard que ça fait exactement cinq ans que j'ai démarré ce blog, le 15 août 2016.

En relisant vite fait, je suis pas mal contente du résultat, exactement ce que je prévoyais: un rien non organisé, mais il y a ici de profondes réflexions sur la vie, de la poésie, des brouillons, des extraits de mes manuscrits, toute sortes d'affaires...

Mais aussi, lorsque je l'ai mis sur pied, et d'ailleurs le nom du blog Mue à l'envers en est tiré en quelque sorte, je venais de terminer la première réécriture de mon manuscrit, que j'avais d'abord soumis une première fois à des éditeurs en janvier 2015.

Et aujourd'hui, 15 août 2021, je m'apprête à publier en ligne, à mon compte, le même manuscrit, qui a subi depuis une deuxième réécriture, plus majeure celle-là, et je considère le fruit mûr, à point.

Par contre, les éditeurs ne m'ont toujours pas choisie. Je suis par contre honorée que Les Herbes rouges m'aient signalé qu'ils l'avaient lu en entier.

Donc... preeeesque.

Enfin, bon, je sais pas pourquoi ils le refusent tous, faut que je l'envoie à Flammarion et à Seuil, mais ça coûte cher, ils n'acceptent pas par courriel, je suis à Montréal...

Donc, anyway, ils refuseraient.

Je prévois donc publier d'ici quelques jours Le Sentier des monstres sur Kobo.

Entre temps, je continue de documenter mon espèce d'étude sociale que j'ai entreprise malgré moi en étant évincée de mon logement, et forcée de vivre ma transitude sur la rue puisque c'est pas possible de rester toute la journée dans une petite chambre minable telle que le shelter de luxe que j'occupe depuis le 5 Juillet.

Oui, c'est en anglais, j'aurais peut-être d'ailleurs dû écrire Le Sentier des monstres en anglais.

J'écris surtout en anglais désormais, le français, c'est trop limité comme public potentiel, d'autant que j'écris plus ou moins en français, dans mon français québécois que les Français ne veulent pas vraiment se donner la peine de comprendre. Ils se crissent ben de nous les Québécois, les Français.

Sais-tu? Je pense que je me crisse ben d'eux aussi, maintenant. Ils envahissent le Plateau où c'est que je vis, se croient chez eux... importent leurs us et coutumes et réactions à... moi par exemple. C'est pas très évolué, la pensée française, c'est même presque assurément gage de tradition rétrograde, la France.

Confirmé par une Française à qui j'avais loué une chambre dans le temps que j'avais un logement et que je pouvais faire ça: une fille sexy ou encore pire tatouée, en France, ça se fait traiter de pute à tous les coins de rue.

Alors sachez que c'est pas comme ça au Québec, encore moins à Montréal. Vraiment pas.

Je voudrais pas être transsexuelle ailleurs qu'à Montréal.

C'est ma ville et je l'aime.

Dominique Rock

Mile-End Four

This is the 4th blog post about me, a not so passable but still very sexy mature transsexual woman wandering in the streets of Montréal, Québec after landing in a shitty small room in a 65 room building following an eviction for renovations...

and after spending most time after transition locked away inside the apartment where I lived since 2015 and that I had to leave in a rush on July 5, 2021. It's not necessarily written in a chronological order, and I might (so it seems) be repeating myself. Excuse my English: not my 1st language. 

Luxury Shelter

I live with the poors, out on the street and in different parks every day, spending 14 hours outside most days since July 5.

In the neighbourhood where I hang out, where my luxury shelter is, the Mile-End, I pretty much met all of them by now. Beggars, homeless people, simply unemployed, poor and having nothing to do, and living in a small room like mine… Picking up empty cans and bottles all day, some do it very seriously and systematically, others not at all.

They’re nice people, most of them, and very respectful. Really! Society denies them for they look dirty and are obviously NOT in the same world as they are, busy, having lunch at the park with a colleague, waiting for the bus or for the green light to cross the intersection.

“Would you spare change please, madam? Do you have a cigarette. Have a good day”

Annoying for most people, and they don’t even get close to them, for fear of diseases, fleas or bedbugs. But enough of them spare some change so that they can go on.

There is one on the corner of Saint-Urbain and Saint-Joseph, he works hard every day, offering a windshield wipe, very respectfully. He told me he spent last two winters outside but is working on a plan to avoid that this year. I think I saw him sleep on a porch on Laurier Street, around 1:00 am one night. He says he does enough to survive. He greets me “Bonjour madame”, every day with a smile. His workplace is right between my luxury shelter and the nearest park where I hang out most.

Or anyways, that was before… I don’t go as much in parc Lahaie anymore, since one of the homeless there hit on me constantly, appreciating my sexy slim body that apparently, according to him, I show because I want sex.

No, I wear light clothes because it’s very hot outside. I’m only wearing short shorts, just like many other girls on the street.

Well I guess since most people see me as something else than a woman, and once again (I wrote about this in the previous posts)... I’m not allowed to wear these “normally”, in their mindset, their system of thoughts, of arranging things. In their mind, since I wear these, I’m not a “normal” person.

And that gives them rights over me, the right to catcall me (one actually meowed at me, minutes ago), which is very uncommon nowadays in Montréal for “normal” women, and to comment on my style, my clothes, on my state… my condition, whatever, I mean how they classify me in their head.

So anyways, these were the three most fantastic days of the year, weather wise, and therefore, everything else wise. The heatwave is ending tonight, and unless September has something in reserve, we’ll slowly head to Fall weather, and quickly Winter.

And it looks like I’m going to have to stay here, remain in my luxury shelter. I finally tamed the shower and toilet in the hallway, cleaned them up, so it’s the 3rd day of a heatwave, but I took showers, I’m freshly washed in the park now and I feel great.

I have a small refrigerator and will do grocery later on with the last 30$ on my Visa, and I will cook me meat and stuff that I’m planning to keep me fed until I get more money in like two weeks, actually more… I’ll need to borrow.

So my situation is much better than that of those I live along… Well actually, I often try to avoid them too. They’re not very interesting. They have nothing ahead, that’s the thing. All in the past. (well they’re a lot in the here and now, and their here and now is boring: he stole me a beer the other day, I told him to watch out for him… whatever, their conversations are right down boring, but they are nice people anyways).

I try to avoid that. The past. More and more. I’m running away from my past life, I’m a trans woman now, I cannot have had girlfriends nor even worse, have been a father. It’s such a nonsense in people’s head that I’m learning to avoid talking about my past.

But I’m old. Estrogen made me look much younger (well I alway looked younger than my age but estrogen really gave me another couple years younger looking, fading away the wrinkles).

I’m old, that’s another category… There are the homeless and the poors, but also there are other categories of people who are set apart by Society. Irrelevant people.

I tried once again to get into a roommate ship, had some kind of an interview with a bunch of youngsters drinking fancy drinks with mint leaves in them.

It’s no use, I’m in the ‘old folks’ category. The slope is too hard to climb again. The only way I’m going to live with youngsters again is if I get my own apartment and rent rooms. But it has become impossible for me to do that. I’m too poor, the prices of the rents and red tape all around the leasing of them, credit check and all… is too much.

I can’t stand to be old. I don’t want that.

So I’m down to my luxury shelter. I have to get used to it.

But about me being a transsexual woman, I now more or less understand the place that Society is leaving me, I think I can manage with that. Problem is Society is pushing me aside mostly because I’m old, and there is nothing I can do about that.

I have so much problems ahead, such a black hole ahead, I don’t have a prescription for estrogen anymore, I’m in need of a doctor, a specialist, anyone… And that’s another steep slope.

It would be possible for me to find a man who can offer me either a space to grow, either 400$ of pot every month. It is. my legs rock, my slim body is very hot, some dudes get very excited seeing me on the street, especially if I show my belly, flat firm belly. I could put an ad on a network… Many Boomers are so bored… and have money.

This is confronting me now: I can take that step, I mean go in that direction. Just uhhhh…. the type of guy who hit on me so far, is… I’m not sure. I was hoping for better.

So I’m facing myself: I can go all the way, be a woman and cook for a dude and have sex with him. It’s possible if I’m really seeking that.

Am I seeking that?

Dominique Rock

Mile-End Three

This is the 3rd blog post about me, a not so passable but still very sexy mature transsexual woman wandering in the streets of Montréal, Québec after landing in a shitty small room in a 65 room building following an eviction for renovations...

and after spending most time after transition locked away inside the apartment where I lived since 2015 and that I had to leave in a rush on July 5, 2021. It's not necessarily written in a chronological order, and I might (so it seems) be repeating myself. Excuse my English: not my 1st language.

 Loss of credibility

I guess I was due for a change. I was getting my feet caught in old habits. I hate habits. I was seeking something else though, but certainly I would have maintained many of those habits that lead into old age if I hadn’t been through such drastic changes into my life. Like my listening habits. I used to listen to the news all the time and was really always up to date on any news, local, international… Now I now nada of what’s going on with the pandemic and all the rest, politics, whatever. I did see things were getting nasty in Afghanistan with foreign troops retreating… Well what’s new in that anyways? Will the Talibans change the world again?

Whatever. I’m into here and now, trying to, anyways.

And before I got evicted from that apartment I lived in for 6 years, which was a record for me, I was already feeling the encrusting of time in my older bones… I was again drowning into oldness and repetitive stupidness of habits, as I did a couple times already in my life.

So I appreciate the change… I’m trying to convince myself about that, trying to see the better side of things.

For one thing this new start in my life is forcing me to live into the world, outside on the streets and parks mainly, and live out, and confront the world with my transiness.

As an older transsexual woman, transitioning very late, mid fifties, I tended to remain by myself, and mostly meet only my ever changing roommates, I had three and managed the place.

I mean I know I don’t pass, the best I’ll get from people on the street is to be recognised as a trans woman, but again (I said that in the other posts as well), most people out there see me as a whore, a male transvestite whore, and I get offers most days, being outside all the time.

I’m outside all the time, and meeting the homeless around, whose home I’m into, being there all the time, same parks… I was going to say: I’m outside all the time because the only room I managed to rent is right down shitty (see precedent posts), although I am getting used to it somewhat.

But still, every night I come in to fix me a some kind of supper with the little space and tools I have there, I get depressed and can’t believe this is where I live.

And that leads me into what I was going to say about transitioning is that I lost all my credibility, I guess wearing what I wear short cut off jeans with girly embroidering on them, crop top showing my flat belly. That’s why I wasn’t able to get anywhere else to live: total loss of credibility.

Yeah, everywhere I go, everyone I meet…

They see me writing (typing on this laptop PC), I claim I’m a writer and it shows they don’t believe me. Or they think I write some rubbish with full grammar mistakes, or they think I’m faking this and actually use my PC to connect to networks and get dudes to fuck me.

That’s what people think: I lost all credibility, people see me either as a whore or as homeless, cause now it’s been 6-7 weeks I linger in the same places, cross the same intersections…

Is it the fact that I now present as a woman that made me lose all credibility? I mean I used to walk into a store or a restaurant and get respected, I speak well (I mean the French, it shows I’m educated, as opposed to typical French Canadians who speak another kind of French), I have a deep voice, I’m tall, people would tell me: yes sir! with a smile. Now any store owner or restaurant worker is not at ease when I come in, either thinking I might steal something, or simply that I will make other customers go away.

I have to work much stronger than before to convince people I’m a serious writer. It’s probably not because I present or try to present as a woman, rather because my clothing and style of body (tall and slim), my messy hair… whatever it is.

It’ kind of a live social study I’m doing. I study people’s reaction to me being very weird (so it seems, but I feel totally normal).

Dominique Rock

Mile-End Two

This is the 2nd blog post about me, a not so passable but still very sexy mature transsexual woman wandering in the streets of Montréal, Québec after landing in a shitty small room in a 65 room building following an eviction for renovations...

and after spending most time after transition locked away inside the apartment where I lived since 2015 and that I had to leave in a rush on July 5, 2021. It's not necessarily written in a chronological order, and I might (so it seems) be repeating myself. Excuse my English: not my 1st language.

 I'm not allowed? or what?

I took the initiative to clean the toilet since it had remained gross since I moved into this shelter a month and a half ago. Apparently, one of the five dudes I have to share the toilet in the hall with is over 80 years old, he might be the one who splashes his shit all over. Really gross. I have to live here.

So the other day I come in from my lingering in the park with a big need to pee and I come up to, again a messy toilet. No time to clean, I sit on one hip and pee, then go to my shelter two doors down, pick up my disinfecting kit and go at it. I do a complete job, get noticed doing so by the handyman who, I understand it then, is also one of those dirtying the floor and sink by using it as a service sink while he’s working on things.

Anyways the word got out very quickly to the managing couple who now love me.

That’s a very good thing because most of the 64 other tenants of this 65 room building, that I didn’t choose to live in, kind of hate me. I’m trying to define what it is, either in my behavior but most likely the way I dress, that shocks people so much that I hear comments all along the streets as I walk, oh’s and ahh’s, and stunned looks, just like when I meet the 64 other tenants of this place.

I see many girls dressed the same style I am: not too revealing crop top, shorty shorts and black sneakers. It seems ok for them, maybe some dudes are tempted to comment as they go by but would look like old pervs if they did. So they don’t. The girls are powerful in Québec, in Montréal. Dudes don’t comment on the sexy girls.

But they comment on me, with frowning eyes. I live it constantly, plus dudes who offer me sex with explicit details on what they would do to me, others simply thinking I’m working the street, since I show my legs and it’s like… past midnight… or sometimes 2:00 pm on a sunny Saturday WTF dude, I ain’t working, I’m just a regular citizen talking a walk.

There are many sexy girls out there, very lightly dressed, walking along with me on the same sidewalk. On Friday nights, corner of Main and Mt-Royal… that’s where youngsters started to hang out since the Covid pandemic, just by the now closed Belmont Bar, a popular discotheque for decades. It all seems ok for them young girls to be dressed with sexy tops and jeans shorts, but it’s not for me. Even them young girls show a strange face when I pass by them; they unsure what to think, they probly like my clothes, but just find weird I’d be wearing them… what am I?

Obviously, for them, for most people who see me in the street, I cannot be a normal person. I’m a man who wears women’s clothing, girlies’ clothes, even. Well I show my legs, and the crop top shows my flat belly. I know my body is right down sexy, I’m tall and slim, just like a top model would be, with very little breasts… well actually, too little.

Anyways, I manage. I mean I manage to try to look sexy, the only way I know to look like a woman. I guess I… always liked that kind of clothes. I was wearing pretty much the same things when I was like 30, and hetero guy.

Well that’s the thing, you see: was I a hetero guy? I was trying, and claiming to be just that…

If people see me as a whore now, according to what I wear, that makes me a whore.

What I claim to be now isn’t recognised at all: a woman, a trans woman, and that’s just like when I was presenting as, or pretending to be a hetero guy, and not being recognized as such. Probably most people back then when I was 30 some saw me as a gay guy. I know the gay gys did think I was gay too. 

So… what I’m saying is it’s difficult to be recognised as what we claim to be, no matter what we are, it’s mostly the peers’ perception that makes us what we are, more than anything else.

And it’s difficult to have control at how the others see us. I cannot project what I am strong enough so to convince the others, I never was able to do that, never ever.

So, most people see me as a man who dresses with girly clothes, or a whore,a transvestite male whore. That’s not what I am at all, it isn’t what I claim to be (some would argue it’s what my clothes say but I disagree, the same on a girl is ok, I see it on the street), but still, that’s how most see me, and it’s neither what I claim to be neither what I am.

Is that the difference? I noticed I get more reactions when I’m showing my flat belly. I’m very slim. My legs are long and some girls obviously envy them as we wait for the green light to cross the street under the sun.

But it’s the belly, and my lower back I guess too. I notice this is what get guys excited a lot. And, uhhhh.... I remember when I was a hetero guy checking out girls, I remember the flat belly effect on my groin… the lower back… with low rise shorts…

Anyways, I guess I’m just now allowed to be trans, to be a woman, I don’t pass enough… I don’t know.

Monday night, I will go to a trans meeting, I need support. Things have been pretty harsh recently. I have not a doctor nor a prescription anymore, and I found out on Friday that it’s going to be a very hard and long process to get a specialist, an endocrinologist.

Last night I got again hit on by this dude, a black guy, originally from France, I guess his parents from Somalia… Anyways he’s a very nice guy, but he had his hands all over me the first time we met after not even 2 minutes, explaining what he’d do to me, and detailing his huge engine. Well he shouldn’t have LoL,, said it hat a fat 10 incher. That’s too big for me.

For a first time. I never did it with a man yet. I’m bisexual ‘cause videos get me excited, but I must say I’m kind of paralysed when a dude offers it. I’d like to but…

The dude from last night is probably a homeless, he hangs out with them at the table at the center of the park. missing many teeth… dirty finger nails… Too dirty, I don’t want to start with that… kind of clientele.

I don’t know, my situation is desperate, I do need more money, and I don’t care if I have to give sex in exchange, as long as it can be good, and not aggressive. I have absolutely no bias against prostitution, I think working 40 hours a week for a poor salary is prostitution anyways.

But I’d like to chose the dudes. I was thinking of getting on some network with a nice pic of me… But I cannot get a nice pic of me. I don’t look that nice on pics, I’m not photogenic.

Anyways I’m losing the point. The point I wanted to make is the following: we are what other people think we are, unless one can get his or her own projection of themselves overcome whatever the others could have been thinking. 

I realized too late in life we need to create a character in society to be recognised, whether you lie or not in order to get a good projection of yourself.

Well I don’t project. The only way I can project is by holding a flag, or with my clothing I guess, or the fact that I’m typing quite fast on a computer laptop at the park, and like… non stop. So it shows I know how to write many words rapidly.

I’m not sure I’m very interesting today, and not saying anything about my state of mind right now.

I’m really on the verge of… nothing. There is nothing ahead. I’m also going through a heartbreak, une peine d’amour. I’m being rejected by everyone, most of my family, my ancient friends who are not my friends anymore… The new friends I had mad recent years.... Everyone is pushing me away; seems like their interest in me was… in one direction or I don't know how to say.

That’ll be enough for today, maybe just a foreplay to what I should be writing

Dominique Rock