The New Flesh
Or, Why Only Trans Men Possess the True Phallus
"What is ape to man? A laughingstock or a painful embarrassment. So shall man be to transman: a laughingstock or a painful embarrassment."
-Friedrich Nietzsche, probably, if you translate 'Ubermensch' just a little bit creatively
I was a bottom before I was a top. I'd always been a size queen. For a long time, I mostly had sex with cis men, and I was happiest with the most hung ones.
I avoided other trans men because I didn't realize how truly cock-identified a trans male could be. I didn't realize how vividly we can learn to feel through our prosthetics. I wanted a man who I could feel cumming in me, and in my mind, at that time, that meant a cis man.
Then Vincent came along and converted me, and I've never looked back. Gone were the days of relying on fallible erectile tissue. Soon, Vincent was sliding me 13 fat inches on the regular, having multiple orgasms inside of me, and never getting soft all the while. No risk of pregnancy, very little of disease, and the dick could be as big as my greedy holes desired. I was hooked.
When I discovered the joys of topping, and finally, finally connected to my prosthetic, it was an even more of a revelation.
The phallus is mythologized as a powerful, rigid manifestation of masculine will. That's only really true for trans men. The reality for cis men, sadly, is that their penises have minds of their own. They get tired. They shrivel up in the cold. They have been known to lose interest when the man attached to them is far from disinterested. They spring to attention in the tightest of pants, at the most inconvenient of times. They can be overeager, shooting their loads prematurely. They might be smaller than you wish they were, or occassionally bigger. They get infectious diseases and make babies. And their balls are oh-so-painfully sensitive.
I have none of these problems. My dick does exactly what I want, when I want it to. My dick will never let me down. At this point I personally wouldn't get bottom surgery for all the money in the world. (OK, maybe I would take one for the team for the chance to redistribute wealth to the proletariat, but it would be a sacrifice I would be genuinely reluctant to make.)
Sure, it's less sensitive than it could be, but it feels enough for me to get off, and hard. Frankly, if it was any more sensitive, it might be too much for me to handle. The slightly muted quality of my pleasure allows me the more intense, intellectual and spiritual pleasure of idealized masculine control. It gives me time to build deliberately towards my climaxes, which have become shockingly physical and intense. (The subtle body orgasms of my rubber cock now cause me to squirt a little bit, with no additional physical stimulation.)
Trans male cock is indomitable, infallible, perfect. We're talking bigger, harder, faster, stronger. No refractory period. No waiting. No fucking around with condoms. Just toss it in a pot of boiling water for sterilization.
Sure, sometimes fiddling with a few buckles is a minor inconvenience; and Vincent would literally lose his own cock if it wasn't attached to him (and it isn't, and he does). But the downsides are very much outweighed by the pluses. The truth is I can strap it on in far less time than it takes the average cis male to get hard, find a condom, put on a condom, and get hard again; and if Vincent temporarily misplaces his dick, he has twelve others on standby.
The feats of potency that are available to trans men are almost cartoonish. The only limit on how long we can last is physical exhaustion. And stamina can be trained for.
Also, I can punch myself in the nuts without flinching, which is really funny to do in front of cis men, even if they know I am wearing a packer. They always cringe. But I might as well have balls of steel.
I am a fucking cyborg. I am the Ubermensch. I am a GOD. Long live the new flesh.