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recurring dream 1959-62, drawn 1996-2002, by Chris Wayan
large screen? Full comix version


It's hard to live in a boy body, if you've been a girl too many lifetimes.

I constantly dream I'm in various times and places -- and bodies. Did my weak tenancy in this body free my spirit to wander? Or did my shapeshifting sharpen my discontent with my particular skin? Whichever came first, I feel... confined. Often, in dreams, I'm female again. Happier. I draw more of the dream journeys I make as a woman, especially ones where I felt sexy. Not because sex sells--quite the opposite! Sex limits who' ll market my work. But I'm trying to anchor myself in life, not return to the spirit world, and tempting me with sweets like sex and beauty helps (I woo myself with chocolate, too.) I'm not a total trannie candidate--I dream I'm male just as often. But I'm uneasy drawing myself as male... ASHAMED of my boy body!

It pisses me off that I see only women as sexy. Or likable. Or sane! But my mom was an early feminist, and I grew up surrounded by beautiful, Mensa-bright sisters, so for me, girls were the norm, boys were... suspect. My dad was bright, but he seemed an exception--the boys in school seemed subhuman. Understandable, as they averaged 30-40 IQ points behind my sisters, and it showed in every word and deed. Plus they were mean, just as my mom warned.

So I felt wary of my own boy body... ironic, since it's slender, delicate-boned... without dressing in drag, I'm still sometimes mistaken for female!

Feels like passing for white.

Me in dreams: as a unicorn, as a fat ballerina and punkzine writer, as a feral cat, as a vampire cyberbat in the dusk between creations, as a bug with amnesia, as a harp-playing krelkin 20,000 years from now, as a fox-spirit, as a sea-dragon, as a great heron. Click to enlarge.
My dream-selves are tremendously varied. As a unicorn, as a fat ballerina and punkzine writer, as a feral cat... As a vampire cyberbat in the dusk between creations, as a bug with amnesia, as a harp-playing krelkin 20,000 years from now... As a fox-spirit, as a sea-dragon, as a great heron... hey, I'm happy! ANYTHING but that.. BOY BODY.

When I'm female in dreams, my guilt is gone. I know what I like, I don't take crap, and I'm free to love other delicate unworldly shaman-girls like me. As a male, I'm usually too shy.


From age four or five up to seven, I had this recurring dream. A mysterious transmogrifier appeared in our schoolyard. If you crawled into the box, you came out a geek, bulbous and fat. No clothes could fit a geek, of course. So, we had to attend school naked. I've never been clear -- was I forced, or did I crawl into geekdom... by choice?

Me at six as a penis geek, naked and laughed at. Click to enlarge.
Did I like grossing out the girls? Some boys did, but I felt mostly shame. But a sort of quiet defiance, too -- geek was how everyone made me feel, and now they all have to face it. Our teachers pretend we're normal, but I can sense the strain--the same way they pretend not to be racist--but they treat us differently.


One root is my mom's proto-feminist view of men -- shall I count the ways? Penis geeks are: violent, stupid, dishonest, hairy, insensitive, greedy, oppressive, horny, competitive, complacent slobs. Oh, I still buy it! Infuriating. Boy whose torso and penis are faces; cartoon by Wayan. Boy's giant brain; cartoon by Wayan.

But also, I'd heard Bill Cosby's standup bit about how cows walk funny "cuz they got the thing in the middle." So, my "thing" is as funny as a cow udder! And when I was five or so, I'd read that one man with elephantiasis grew a sixty-pound penis he had to carry round in a wheelbarrow. That image haunted me, merged with Cosby's funny udder...

The final root: the IQ testing craze had just begun. I scored 187, and was (1) labeled a prodigy, (2) skipped up a grade or two, (3) resented, laughed at, lied about, spat on, hit, and called a BRAIN. Even my teachers called me a... body part. How did I feel, as a soft naked organ, waddling around school? One guess, you pricks, you cunts, you assholes. Reducing YOU to body parts was a fighting insult. You did it to me routinely, endlesssly, treating it as a simple fact. I wasn't a boy, I wasn't a prick; I wasn't a girl, I wasn't a cunt. I was a brain--a third gender. Gray, convoluted.. neuter.

You cut off my body.

You took my me.


Over the years, mostly through dreamwork, I reclaimed my penis, regained my sex. But... it's a girl!

 My penis is a girl.
When she feels a loving touch, she wakes, stretches, uncurls, eager to nuzzle and kiss and immerse herself in love. A lesbian envoy, willing to play butch to please our lover, but still, a girl at heart. An envoy from our boy body.
My penis closes her eyes, about to kiss the Virgin Pussy wearing her usual rosy cloak and hood, her clit-heart beating excitedly, as she says 'Bless you, sister! Come unto me!'
It's a makeshift solution, I know. Inside that horny girl is a pre-geek boy whose body was stolen--who's robbed again whenever I draw my sex and sensibility as female. In his outrage and hurt, what will he do?

Thus men are made.

My anima dancing on the tip of my cock. Click to enlarge.
As I wrote all this, dug up the old bitterness and hard memories, suddenly I flashed on my anima, my female soul, dancing happily on the tip of my cock. Such bounce! Much nicer than those cold, hard medieval pinheads. A warm proscenium , a flying buttress, a bridge to joy, love, even kids--to the future. As good as a womb.

We've come a long hard way together, from... udder loathing.


Parking brake levers are phallic too, aren't they?

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