Caution: This article contains phrases of a sexual and obscene nature.
So now I’ve decided to have my penis cut off, since I’m having a hard time carrying it around with all the weight of its meanings. It’s funny, it was my family that first sentenced my penis to death. My penis always was an organ that acted independently of me—it just wouldn’t get up for what it was supposed to.
It wouldn’t make even the slightest move during heterosexual encounters, it wouldn’t show the faintest sign of life. I didn’t want this, I who was programmed to be hetero—but ever since then it’s been clear what I am, I would rebel against any kind of programming. Faced with anything considered wrong, my penis would stand up, put on its little cymbals, and start dancing like the very finest belly dancer. As if that weren’t enough, it became friends with my ass, and then as if that weren’t enough, sometimes there’d be crazy moments where the two of them would dance in rhythm together. One would take the other inside and then the other would come out dancing, get drunk, and vomit from pleasure. Sometimes it would go and dance in the dark before coming back to lie down—but it would never have anything to do with any hetero relationship.
My mother and brother’s heterosexuality was solid as a rock, there’s nothing truer than that, of that I have no doubt. Even though I came into a world suited for hetero bodies, my family, understandably, just didn’t get what I was doing to myself, and it was during those very years that my rebellion began. And it’s a fact that it was only because of all my dick’s hustle and bustle that it was so hard to live at ease in society.
My brother—he and his penis—was born seven years right after me, and neither what our dicks are drawn to nor anything else we like in life is similar. My brother says:
“I can’t even introduce you to my kids! So do what you gotta do. Just go and get this dick of yours cut off, it’s got no connection to a heterosexual life. Just do it and be like something, like a woman I mean. If I’m going to have you in my life, tell me what I should say.”
“You little bitch, why don’t you just come out and say what you see and what you know. What the hell do I care? And what the hell does my poor dick care? Whatever you tell them I am, that’s exactly what I’ll be to them, and in return I can show them I’m human, too, and be a part of their lives. It’s not my problem what you tell your kids.”
No matter what I say I can’t get my brother to accept me—but to my mom, I’m still a heterosexual male. I really don’t get how she came to this opinion. She doesn’t know anything about my bisexual relationships, but to her I’m a man. Anyway, even before me, it was she who gave my dick shape and form—in some heterosexual ceremony she put a mark right on the tip of my dick and sent me off to surgery. First she had some birth prayers read and did some rituals, then she had the drums beaten and danced all round my dick, and after that my dick’s mission was clear. It was never my decision but my whole life I was going to go around with a mark, a decoration right at the tip of my dick, and of course it would be some quaint gypsy who’d do the ceremony. It’s weird how it’s the gypsies who dictate heterosexuality in this society—that’s basically the only job left for them.
It was clear even then that part of my poor dick, promised to hetero male society as it was, had to be killed, but now my mom says my dick absolutely must not be removed and nothing that cuts should go anywhere near it. Well, isn’t that strange? And it’s strange how my hetero brother tries to get me to be fucked more like “the norm,” trying to make sure I’m better understood, even while my poor mom basically wants me to fuck the whole world. I mean, as far as my brother’s concerned, the only solution for my manhood is for my dick to be murdered, even though there’s no going back from that, while for my mom I just can’t give up on my Turkish, Muslim, Sunni, soldier, hardworking, and perfectly good wiener. And she’s not entirely wrong, either: no one knows better than my mom how hard it is for a woman to live in this world.
Of course, all this is what my mom, my brother, and that cult of a family want for my dong. But then there are a bunch of my transsexual comrades who I live with and who’ve already had their surgeries, and they’re all shouting, “Ooohh, Gani baby, isn’t it time you got that dick cut off already? Enough is enough, girl, that dick of yours has fucked all of Ankara now, let’s get it cut so you can be like a woman. Let the color of your identity reflect you!” Well, my girls aren’t wrong, either, they all know how hard it is if your identity doesn’t square with who you are—but since I mostly live with my transvestite friends, they’re all like, “Girl, you better not get your dick cut off, you’ll be dying of pain and no one’ll fuck you anymore,” and then they’ll go, “Even if you can’t get it up, some man hand’ll slip in there, suck on it, rub up against it. Fuck that, don’t get that dick cut. That’s where you come from! And transsexuals can’t come.” But then the transsexuals are like, “Bullshit, girl, we come like fountains.”
My transsexual friends who get their dicks cut off all start living some kind of divine love story as soon as their dicks are gone. You know, now that they’ve got no dick, society accepts their husbands and their boyfriends, so they start sharing pictures on Facebook where they’re eating grapes together or whatever. As if that weren’t enough, they’ve got doilies on their end tables and they’re all 100% woman now. For a while they stay away from the transvestites and just socialize with women or other transsexuals. It’s weird, every transsexual’s got, you know, a sanitary pad in their house, and they go and put it in the bedroom in the most visible place. And then on that cunt’s very first day they open it up and show it to everyone: “So how is it? What do you think?” They’re trying to get approval, it just seems piteous to me, it makes me sad to think we’re these weird freaks looking for blessing for our womanhood.
Please don’t get hung up on that word “freaks”—being a freak isn’t as bad as you think. I know I’m a freak, I’ll even go so far as to dub myself queen of the freaks right out in front of everybody, so being a freak can’t be bad. And you know, I think everyone’s got freak potential, and it seems easier to be a freak than to be a man or a woman or even a tranny. Freakhood isn’t hard, it’s a concept everyone can get some reward from. But I know this, it takes real guts to be a freak. Being a freak is resistance. This is a whole different problem. And thank God, I’m the queen of the freaks, so I’ve got no problem. Look, now I’m way off topic, I started talking about approval and ended up declaring myself a queen, so that’s that.
Gay guys, I mean faggots, sometimes when they can’t find anybody else they’ll come up and grab my dick and start working it and shit—but they leave you alone when they don’t end up getting what they want. Hardcore lesbians don’t want anything to do with my dick, I swear, they’re real solid girls. That’s what I love about them. They want nothing to do with dicks, or at least not with mine, though I hear they mess around with dildos and whatnot. And so what if they do mess around? Aaahh, I’m going on and on about everything… Anyway, it’s just a toy, what’s the harm? Oh, and hey, I’ve got to be fair, the tranny guys in this new landscape here have never done anything with my dick, either—no shit. When it comes to that, they’re real strict and they get all worked up about it. And forget about my dick, they don’t even talk about their own dicks. The whole world’s cunts and asses are on display and the tranny guys’ll still say their dicks are their most private places. What’s it to me anyway, baby, they’re real stand-up guys. And never mind mine, they won’t even suck their own dicks, what would they do with my sad little dick, and why should they even care? That’s why tranny guys are the most solid guys of all. And that’s exactly why they love me, and I love them, too. Sometimes it seems really weird to me, I mean lots of guys who call themselves hetero will come and check whether I can get my dick up or not. They just don’t get it, and then they’ll go and stick it in their mouth—but I don’t like the guys with tiny little mustaches. The ones with long beards turn me on more. What? Am I wrong? I use my dick a lot, I don’t want it getting scratched up by those little-mustache fuckers’ whiskers. I prefer guys without mustaches.
Look at that, all day long I’ve been meaning to talk about the size of my dick and I just got side-tracked. It’s the size of a finger. I’ve gained a lot of weight lately, so I’m talking about a prick that gets buried up inside my fat. If I got just a little fatter, you might not even be able to see the tip for all the fat, but I swear, my family and friends and everyone around me just keeps talking about my dick and its duties, that dick of mine that’s all ready to crawl up inside itself anyway. Still, thank God that’s all that’s happened to me because of a little dick. I can’t say I haven’t thought about what I would’ve done if I had a cock the size of an arm.
My dear family, all my lovely friends, comrades, lovers and ex-lovers and fuckbuddies—stay away from my dick. It’s what defines my being in this sacred community called society. Leave my little oddball be. Stay back, all of you. It can make it on his own, with or without you, and sometimes when it gets a bit pissed I just rub a little and it throws right up. It doesn’t need any of you, or to be given so much meaning, either. My dick and me, all of us in fact, we can live happy and then die. I kiss you all on your cocks and cunts.
Main image: Garry Winogrand
Translated by Michael Sheridan