Last October, four years after Dr. Renee Richards tried to silicone his way into the U.S. Women’s Open, John Hopkins University publicly stated that its prestigious medical staff would no longer be performing sex-change operations.
Back When “Gender” Meant One of Two
Why? Because after four years of Frankensteinian fiddling, it had suddenly occurred to the staff that the business of removing people’s sexual organs had some frankly seedy overtones, and, further, that the rate of joyous “cure” among men seeking to have themselves castrated in order to become “women” had proved to be surprisingly (to Johns Hopkins) low. Of the A.M.A. and the medical staff of Johns Hopkins, I have only one thing to ask: do they have to do it on your head before you know it ain’t raining, too?
I mean, let’s look at this sex change operation: it is clearly the only experiment that the Nazis did not perpetrate upon Jewish prisoners in the camps; but if they’d thought of it, they would have, and today everyone would be horrified reading about it. Call me crazy, but experiments on twins seem no worse than the sexual mutilation by so-called upright and learned medical men of confused individuals who, although possessed of the penis and scrotum, persist in vehemently denying that they are men. It would seem clear — and, hey, I’m no doctor — that these individuals are basically alienated, rather in need of heavy psychiatric help. Imagine, men, if you can, looking at your penis — the organ that’s hung off your groin since Day One, the thing through which you pee — and saying, “Lop it off, Doc. I don’t want it. I wasn’t meant to have it. God made a mistake. I’m supposed to be a woman.”
Good. And now that you’ve imagined that, imagine how I, a woman, that is, an individual born with a vagina, feel about the insane chauvinist assumption on which this transsexual faddism has been based. I mean, let’s get it straight once and for all: CUTTING OFF YOUR COCK DOES NOT MAKE YOU A WOMAN! Okay, Dr. Renee Richards? Okay; Jan Morris? Okay, doctors at Johns Hopkins? Okay, media news reporters? Adam’s rib, maybe, but Adam’s cock — never!
In trying to rationalize this nationwide endorsement of castrating males and calling them females, I am left with only one explanation: that transsexualism is just another macho sexist scheme. Since men can no longer beat us, now they are trying to join us! And, look, I have to admit, of all the male-dominated plots so far, this sex change business really takes balls. I mean, it’s surprising, isn’t it, what a man will do for a free drink at “Happy Hour”?
Now perhaps transsexualism is only the inevitable result of centuries of traditional male role typing in our society. After all, men are repeatedly encouraged to show an interest in the purchase of female under- and lounge-wear as well as to have an uncannily thorough familiarity with designer scarves, long-stemmed roses, and French perfumes. They are rewarded again and again in schools and universities across our land for dressing up in drag and mincing around like women. What could be more normal than a bunch of hairy adolescents in tulle drop-kicking their way through a cancan? Or an all-male production of Charley’s Aunt?
Even the United States Army, that male-dominated bastion of pectoral polemics, has not been exempt. Anyone who’s ever watched Sergeant Bilko knows that no U.S.O. show is a success without at least three drill sergeants sporting jockstrap-stuffed D cups. I don’t know why they say women aren’t funny: every time a man dresses up like one he gets a laugh, but maybe I’m missing something.
Reviewing our history in this context of male-oriented society, most persons would have to conclude that lopping it off is only the next step and anyway all men are secretly gay. But I’m afraid that doesn’t wash. No selfrespecting gay would cut off his own cock just to pretend he’s a woman. He couldn’t perform anal intercourse if he cut off his cock. Sodomy is life’s breath to a gay; everybody knows that.
No. I’m afraid this time we can’t blame the homosexuals. We must come to terms with the ugly truth: for years men have been in training — accustoming themselves to women’s clothes and shoes, mimicking the way women walk and talk, and, most recently, culling the secrets of such female rituals as needlepointing, perms, and the wash and blow-dry — all in a repressively sinister backup action. They maintained they were trying to “liberate” themselves, to get used to our newfound equality and power base. They borrowed our recipes and told us they wanted to learn to cook so they could “do their share.” But they lied! They’re stockpiling those recipes for their future, sisters! Wake up! Men are trying to infiltrate our ranks — and they’re doing it by cutting off their cocks!
God, you don’t know whether to cry or to laugh. I believed men were fond of their genitals. They certainly worry about them enough. They even give them names. I suppose their obsession with blowjobs should have given us the clue: nobody would put something he really cared about into a germ-filled orifice that’s dirtier than a cat’s and that features 32 mini-guillotines renowned for their effectiveness in pulverizing meat. Think of it, sisters: you could have bitten it off any time. You just didn’t do it ’cause you thought they didn’t want you to.
“Transsexualism is just another macho sexist scheme. Since men can no longer beat us, now they are trying to join us!”
But now we must forget the past. We must mass together in an effort to declare transsexualism as a typical male trick designed to suppress and dominate the female element by means of a radically new and even more disgusting method of penetration.
We can best do this by questioning the claims of Richards, Morris, and their sex changed sidekicks that they have never felt like men; they have always felt like women. We might ask first if they’ve felt, one week out of every month of their adult lives, as if Mao and his Long March were tramping through their pelvic regions? No? Well, how about the shimmery twinge that knifes through the spine as one tries to sneak a look at the back of one’s skirt? Still no? Well, then, what about the joyous tingle of jamming a man-made paper product inside one’s body to stem a natural life flow that would freely cascade down one’s legs if men didn’t find it unsightly? Again no? Of course I’m talking about the curse, the monthlies, having your period. No amount of estrogen on the planet will give you that womanly feeling, sex changers. You may have paps, but you will never have a Pap test!
I won’t go into further detail about the many other femino benefits the No-cocks will never receive: the abortions, the D&Cs, tubular pregnancies, the constant changes of mind. The sisterhood is well aware.
It is time now to rise to action. To lobby for a simple, nonsexist, agenital legislation, using the surefire way to tell the difference between men and women that I learned at Ligoneer High back in 1964: (1) stand with your feet together, up against and facing a wall; (2) step three foot-lengths backwards, place feet together, and hold; (3) have a chair put in the space between you and the wall; (4) leaning forward until your forehead touches the wall and keeping your heels on the floor, bend down and pick up the chair by the seat and then straighten up all the way.
Women can do it. Men can’t. It’s as simple as that. Now I suppose this won’t keep anyone who’s hell bent on cutting off his penis from doing so, but it will keep him from being allied with us. I don’t understand men. Imagine, submitting to castration just to be eligible for the post of den mother. And yet, to be fair, there is one undeniable benefit for any man who becomes a transsexual: he will never again have to worry about getting it up.
Emily Prager, a former contributing editor to The National Lampoon, is coauthor of the film Mr. Mike’s Mondo Video and is currently writing a book of humor for Simon and Schuster. Should you wish, you can find Ms. Prager many places on Amazon still today.
