I am so pleased Sylvester is recovering from his traumatic travels with me. His swelling has subsided and is almost healed.
It was a nasty moment but heâs doing just fine now. Rainbow came over with some of her lavender tea, which doubtless helped.  You can find all the gory details of our travels HERE and on my Patreon.
And while weâre on the subject of my Patreon I should highlight one of the Tiers that some of my members enjoy. I realise there are many of my members who have been with me for several years. For those who have got to know me in more detail over the years I do offer the âBehind The Scenesâ Tier. This includes some of the more personal aspects of my life. While the general tone of my content is generally upbeat and perhaps a little frivolous, the darker and sometimes difficult side of my transgender life is detailed in the Behind The Scenes section. If that appeals be sure to join that Tier on my Patreon at http://Patreon.com/join/fdobsonCD
Sylvester has been getting out and exercising to get his energy back, the poor lamb. However, he staggered into my kitchen this morning, while I was still out of breath from a particularly vigorous session with Sebastian. I really do find Sebastian really stretches me when we do the power yoga!
âWhat on earth is the matter, Sylvester?â I asked as he clutched at his eye.
âIt was those bloody kids!â he replied.
I knew he had to be talking about Auntie Kittieâs nephews and nieces, who are staying at her house for a couple of days as their parents visit the Montreal Transgender Film Festival. https://exposuresmtl.com/
âWhat have they done now?â I asked.
âI was walking up the lane and I heard this chanting. I thought someone was playing some sort of game or something and I was curious.â
âWhat were they chanting,â I asked, my curiosity piqued. Those kids do some wild things.
The soft sensation of nylon against my skin is almost the perfect form of foreplay. Pulling on the nylon stockings, and smoothing them up my leg, unhurried and luxuriously before a date is always enough to make me wet.
Perhaps itâs a response to my desire for something to
happen, or maybe itâs just a learned response. After all, most times I do go
out dressed in this manner I get what Iâm looking for, so itâs only a matter of
time before my body, hungry for the lecherous and desperate touch of a lover, is
served to my satisfaction. Youâll note that I said âmy satisfactionâ. I point
this out as I do like to play a little game.
Itâs been about five years now that Iâve followed a rather particular dating practice. I usually use one of the more popular apps, Tinder or some such, and there I will select a â now what should I call them â a project. Yes. I select a project. You know if you go to some of the apps you can even find me. Of course, Iâm not going to make that too easy for you, as I really donât want to give away all my secrets.
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As I think you know, I am a fairly modest individual. I donât take any pleasure in blowing my own trumpet. I need hardly tell you that on mentioning that to Sylvester he trotted out some trite comment. He really can be quite coarse at times.
With the small amount of celebrity that I have garnered over the years there are naturally moments when I am recognised and photographed, when out in public. I donât resent this. I accept that it comes with the territory of being a transgendered account executive at Canadaâs seventeenth most awarded advertising company. Apparently, with great power comes great responsibility, to quote Maya Angelou.
It was during the Pride Parade in Vancouver recently that a flock of paparazzi recognized me and descended upon me flashes flashing and video videoing. I must say, in the centre of this light storm I found myself very lightheaded. Perhaps it was the hot weather, or maybe the noise of the parade, but quite suddenly I felt very feint. A moment later the world seemed to tilt on its axis and I was suddenly falling, falling, falling.
When I opened my eyes I found myself in an unfamiliar place. I was surrounded by mist, and there seemed to be no horizon. There was a soft white light, no walls and no floor. A gentle fog rolled about the place, a little like when Sylvester had that smoke machine in the car and couldnât turn it off and we got pulled over by the police. Sorry, a story for another day.
From out of this monochromatic landscape a figure emerged with a long white beard and a scroll. Now, I know what youâre thinking. They always have a scroll, right? Why no Ipad? I know â Iâve asked the very same question.
I could not help noticing, whilst driving home from the advertising agency the other day, the names on the back of vehicles. The model names of vehicles are of interest to me, from both the branding perspective and what it tells me about the drivers.
A therapist member of mine recently pointed out to me that several of their erectile dysfunction clients did indeed drive muscle cars, in more than one instance a Hummer. Frankly I feel anyone driving a Hummer should be on their knees begging forgiveness from their children as the pump heat into an increasingly fragile environment. On the other hand, given the erectile dysfunction issues associate with Hummer ownership there’s a good chance that having children is one complication these thoughtless tools will not have to concern themselves with.
Sylvester, on the other hand has shunned the muscles cars and even removed the photo on his office wall of him posing with his Dodge Penetrator 3000. I am pleased to see him mellowing. I do remember the day he pulled up outside my house, on his phone calling me to tell me he was there.
âIâm just pulling into your garage,â he said. âNo wait, Iâm reversing. Pulling in again⊠backing up and going in again now. Perhaps I should go in the laneway round the back. I can get the back way, but itâs a bit tight.â
You know, I may have said this before, but Sylvester can be quite coarse at times.
Personally I like to drive a Buick Vagina. Itâs the limited Silhouette edition. So much more my style. Both feminine and powerful, with the twin turbo V6 with the cuddle seats option.
Vehicle names and designs do tell us a lot about their drivers. I noticed a Kia Soul in the traffic as I was driving home, and I can only speculate that some Korean designer sat down and thought hard about what a car designed for Spongebob Squarepants might look like, and then took up the challenge to build it. Ironically the driver of this particular vehicle did look like a cartoon character.
Sebastian, my vegetarian personal trainer, drives a Kia Hymen when not riding his electric bicycle. His sister, Rainbow, drives a Nissan Slide with a synchromatic gearbox. Amanda drives a Prius, which is entirely predictable, while of course Ali, my gardener, drives the Smart Car with a rifle rack on the rear window, adapted to carry his gardening tools. Heâs proud to declare he always shows up with his hoes.
One of my Vancouver members, Lenni, is originally from Alaska, and proudly tells of her mother having driven a Ford LTD wagon. This vehicle, with a 7.5 litre engine has the dubious distinction of being capable of hitting a moose, killing it, and then being able to transport it back to the trailer park for butchering. I canât help thinking life in Alaska holds wonders I am pleased not to have either witnessed or shared.
Instead I think Iâll go and get Sylvester to change the fluids in my Buick Vagina.
Why hello there! I’m Leah, and I’m a nonbinary trans woman making content for the LGBTQIA+ community… or anyone who wants to watch! My goal is to provide visibility, representation, and interesting / useful conversations while creating a community that helps bring people together.
I am very much aware of the distress of many of my members following the election. Many trans people are feeling vulnerable.
If you are feeling concerned and exposed please use the sign up form below to join a system I am setting up. The idea of the support group is to put members of each US state in touch with one another. There is no cost associated with this. By signing up you will be joining this fledging project, and I will email you instructions to join.
Be aware that this is a work in progress. I feel we should get active swiftly though, hence this post. The people who will benefit from this group are trans people in the US of all ages, who are feeling concerned about their healthcare, their physical safety or about social pressures in their area. This is not going to be of interest to people who are purely in the scene for dating/fetish activities. Donât worry boys, we have other activities for you at FionaDobson.com
If you feel youâd benefit from connections to other trans people in your state be sure to join and look out for the emailed instructions.
đ
Fiona
Support Group
Sign on for participation in the US Support Group.
A minor tragedy is playing out in London this week. Popular comedy writer, Graham Linehan has been arrested over some offensive tweets he had published on âXâ.
As people witness the growing voices of support for Linehan Iâd like to just bring a couple of facts into focus here, regardless of who wrote the tweets. First of all, going online and telling others itâs ok to beat up anyone is wrong. It doesnât really matter who those others are, itâs just wrong. This is something I think most people outside of this particular debate would agree on. The fact that itâs Linehan shouldnât really make a difference.
Secondly, the tweet in question was about the safety of women in female designated spaces. Only, it wasnât. Iâll explain. The fact is there are so few examples of women being assaulted by transgender people in female spaces that finding an example is near enough impossible. In other words, itâs a ridiculous suggestion to champion this non-existent cause.
In reality transgender people are massively more likely to be assaulted, and Linehan has now contributed to that.
So whatâs it really all about? Linehan has a history of physical abuse. His career in recent years has taken a downturn and his marriage recently ended. This is sadly a man in turmoil. I offer him my sympathy, but letâs not be fooled. This isnât about safety in womenâs bathrooms.
I have a confession to make. While I am everyoneâs idea of an environmentalist, I do yoga and I hate the idea of the cruelty of the fur trade, I own a couple of furs.
Yes, itâs true. I remember a time when, if you walked down Oxford Street in a fur coat someone would pour a pot of red paint over you. Yes, and I agree with that sentiment.
The trouble is my grandmother left me a beautiful hat which is unmistakably genuine fur. It was made very nearly a hundred years ago at a time when furs were really not so unusual. So, itâs not as if I went out and bought a hat made out of fox and supported any kind of business. I just happened to inherit a hat.
Now the reason I tell you this is that, following a week with an election that has left the rest of the world reeling, Sylvester and I decided to go out to dinner with Rainbow and her partner, Epiphany. Rainbow had said thereâs a new Thai restaurant and she wanted to try it out.
Since itâs turned a little chilly here in Vancouver I decided to wrap up well and took several of the hats in my wardrobe and put them on my bed and tried them on one by one. Sylvester then appeared as I was doing so and started asking all about the new restaurant.
âAnd where is it?â he asked as I tried another hat.
âOpposite the picture framers,â I replied looking at my reflection in the mirror.
âWear the fox hat,â said Sylvester.
âOn Main Street,â I answered.
You know, there are times when Sylvester can be quite coarse. I do wish heâd moderate his language.
Think about itâŠ
If you happen to be one of my many members who are transgender and feel the need of a supportive community as a result of the recent election, you can join a project I am creating. If youâd like to join a support group in your state please sign up here: https://fionadobson.com/the-resistance-starts-here/ My hope is to find sufficient people to build an online support group for those of us who need it. Thereâs no charge for this.
The first people you will meet in Marrakech are taxi drivers. Iâm not sure how you avoid this, as the hand to hand combat of the awaiting drivers is a gauntlet all visitors to the kingdom are compelled to run.
While taxi drivers in Paris and Rome are licenced to kill, in Marrakech they donât require a licence. Each driver exists only to go down fighting, preferably with his fare. Their only qualification, it seems, is to have a dead goat concealed somewhere in the their vehicle.
Sylvester and I got to our Bed and Breakfast, after our driver had kindly taken us to all the other ones, and we found ourselves staying in a beautiful Riad inside the Medina. With a front door that resembled the entry portal to a leper colony, the unprepossessing entry opened onto a palatial interior of a traditional Marrakech Riad. Tiling of exquisite detail, a cooling pool and a courtyard open to the night sky welcomed us.
I was looking forward to getting into the market in the morning to find something cool to wear. I do love some of the traditional styles.
You know Sylvester can be a total clutz. Yes, somewhere between getting on the plane in Lyon and here he had been bitten by something. He had a small but brightly colored bite on his elbow.
Now, I think you know me. I am a born healer. Itâs not just the sympathetic nature and gentle bedside manner. Itâs something âgivenâ. Bestowed.
Yes, I examined Sylvesterâs elbow and frowned.
âPolysporin. Definitely. And cover it. You donât want that going nasty.â
Simple words. Words easily ignored. Words that proved portentous.
The following night after a hard day of travel I took another look.
âI donât like it. It definitely doesnât look right,â I said. The bite had been banged around and looked quite livid.
Sylvester reluctantly agreed we should go to the medical clinic in the morning.
The following morning we taxied to the clinic. Sylvesterâs arm was very swollen and he was running a fever.
When asked by the nurse to roll his sleeve up Sylvester revealed the swelling.
âOh my god, that thingâs huge!â said the surprised nurse.
I cannot say her surprise filled me with confidence. What followed was the strangest medical exam I have ever been witness to.
Our nurse hurried of to get a doctor and I had the distinct impression it was to show them what was clearly an object of curiosity â Sylvester.
The doctor, another young woman, inspected Sylvester, presumably satisfied he was human. She palpitated his swelling, and Sylvester nearly went through the roof. She traced the outline of the swelling, and examined his arm in detail.
While the nurse readied an infusion for Sylvesterâs arm I couldnât help but notice a cat wander into the examining room. I glanced at the doctor and the nurse, neither of whom was the least bit interested in the feline visitor.
About to ask if the cat lived here, I was pre-empted in my guess as a security guard came into the examining room with a net. By now the cat was sitting on the beep beep machine, looking skeptically at the security guard.
His net was the kind youâd use to remove leaves from a swimming pool. Its long handle caught the doctor round the back of his head as the security guard maneuvered to catch the cat. The cat, being faster than the security guard quickly threw off the poor fellows attempts to catch him and scampered off in the direction of the morgue.
The chaos the security guard left in his wake seemed just an everyday happening as his running footsteps receded down a corridor.
After some X-rays, and prescription of various antibiotics I took Sylvester back to our accommodations to rest up and hopefully get over this thing. Only the following day he was worse. His fever was almost constant, and his arm had swollen more. The traced outline of the swelling now seemed more like a single contour, and we traced another, bigger this time.
And then there was the âveinâ issue. With the swelling being a livid red, I had noticed a redness spreading in a thin line up the inside of Sylvesters arm. I could see this was inflammation running up the basilic nerve. This was progressing hour by hour.
Sylvester was in and out of fever most of the day. Very disturbingly he seemed to get a string of WhatsApp calls from Amanda, apparently concerned for his health. I have some questions to ask about their relationship at some point, I think, but not just yet.
Now I was really concerned about Sylvester. Some of you know Iâve spent years in Africa, though it was a while ago. However, some things donât change. Here things can turn bad real fast. A minor scratch can lead to an abscess and become sceptic very quickly.
I should add that by now we were no longer in Marrakech. We were hours away on the coast. To leave meant a three hour dash through the bush before weâd even get to Marrakech. This was going to take some organising.
The following day Sylvester was too sick to move, but I booked the earliest possible flight out of Marrakech to Paris, with a connecting flight directly to Vancouver.
The following 48 hours were a taste of misery. I donât think I need to detail the flight across empty landscapes and then the onward journey. By the way if youâve ever wondered what qualifications you need to work at Charles De Gaul airport in Paris, believe me you only need one; to hate anyone who travels.
I resisted the temptation to tease Sylvester. I know what youâre thinking, I am all heart, I know. Itâs who I am. However, it was very tempting to say âif you think it hurts now, wait till the larvae start to hatchâŠâ
Eventually we arrived in Vancouver and one of our friendly border security people welcomed us home, along with Ali, Sebastian and Amanda all waiting for a very sick Sylvester.
As you well know, I like to keep my members informed and often include useful tips for travelers. Hereâs a little run down on how to get a taxi in Marrakech. You just never know when this is going to come in useful, so you might want to print it out and tuck it into your passport.
Haggling is the norm in Morocco. I like to point out that the object of haggling is to come to a fair and equitable price, not to rob the taxi driver blind. Itâs always a good idea to ask someone familiar with the area what prices are normal for taxi rides, and settle on a price before getting into the vehicle.
When ordering a taxi to go to the medical clinic.
Traveler: How much does it cost to go to the medical clinic? I need to take my wife to the clinic. If she dies who will look after my chicken.
Taxi driver: I too have a chicken! 50 Wackybangbangs.
Traveler: 50 Wackybangbangs? You canât be serious. This taxi smells like youâve had a dead goat in here⊠or was it your mother?
Taxi driver: OK. OK. 45 Wackybangbangs, but youâre killing me.
Traveler: I can give you 20 Wackybangbangs, not a shekel more.
Taxi driver: Thatâs a fair price, but I have to get my stinking taxi cleaned. Give me 25.
Traveler: OK. 25 Wackybangbangs.
Taxi driver: You are from Canada?
Traveler: Yes, Vancouver.
Taxi driver: Ah yes, beautiful. You want to buy a goat?
From this exchange, you might already have deduced that all did not go well in Marrakech. There will be more to follow shortly.
I am writing this watching the dawn break over the medina in Marrakech, Morocco. As the sun breaks through the temperature will soon rise to over 100F. I am surrounded by the sound of birdsong and the smells of the morning.
In a moment like this I find it easy to reflect on my progress through my own transition. I am aware of the many changes, and if you read much of my writing youâll know the least of these are the physical shifts. Perhaps the most unusual of these shifts is in the form of my dreams.
Last night I dreamed of a situation where I was being at first pursued, and then actively seduced by a woman. She was a statuesque raven-haired beauty. I couldnât quite make it out, but I think she may have been some sort of political leader, an autocrat, from a central American country.
“This knob is very stiff,” I said to Sylvester, as I relaxed in the seat.
Oh, I should explain, he’s been installing a new sound system in my car.
“I can loosen it a little,” said Sylvester, “but you don’t want it so loose that someone ends up jerking it off. You wouldn’t want that.”
“Speak for yourself,” I replied.
However, that’s not the reason I’m writing to you. Mildred, from Colorado Springs writes:
“Fiona, I’d like to be reminded of you every morning when I have my first cup of coffee of the day. And I’d also like to discretely show my support for trans people and those of us that are of a gender non-conforming bent. What can you do to help?
Love from Mildred, Colorado Springs.
PS. Why do I get so much mail that starts out “Dear Sir or Madam’? Is there something I should know?”
OK. One thing at a time.
Yes, of course I have something to help you first thing in the morning. And a discrete way to show your support to all our members and friends. I was in a conversation with Sebastian about this just yesterday. I can see him in my minds eye right now, sitting on my right hand after we’d finished yoga, while I enjoyed a soothing cup of Earl Grey Tea.
“Those nice boys and girls at Patreon can help you. They can make a cup and give it to any member who joins as a Unicorn and stays on for three months,” he told me while pulling his yoga pants back on.
“That’s a curiously random piece of information to have,” I replied.
It’s true, though. If you join my Patreon as a Unicorn after three months you will receive this lovely mug, complete with the image here. This will be recognizable to anyone interested in gender issues, though won’t really mean much to anyone else. I’m told it’s really a good idea. It is also a great conversation starter.
Keep in in this is my first venture into the world of ‘Merch’. It all sounds so very sordid. Anyway, Max will oversee the tech side of it. He’s recovered from the last flogging he had. I think that was for something to do with us being kicked off Tumblr. Again! Either way I will see it’s done well.
So, pound my button as hard as you can and sign up as a Unicorn Member and in three months you’ll get a cool cup to help you enjoy me every morning. Wait. That’s not what I meant.
