The thought of transitioning never scared me more than the thought of adhering duct-tape to my dick. Maybe I’m a naive transgender woman but I’ve never subdued this fear, nor have I surrendered to it. 

In lieu of tape, I have doubled up on too-small underwear. I have worn-to-death innumerable pairs of Uniqlo body shapers. I’ve even donned bikini bottoms over homemade gaffs in desperate attempts to wear Levi’s wedgie fit denim shorts in the dead of Summer — The effect of which was later described by a friend as “fat pussy energy.” This description is yet to quit ringing around in my skull whenever I look in the mirror, or when I feel that oh-so-familiar sausage-packing tension at my feminine inseams. 

The men on television who impersonate women for money seem to have no issue pasting their penises up their lower-backs for extended periods of time. But I share little more than genitalia and a remarkable taste for Celine Dion with them (soon, though, I will share nothing more than the taste for Celine Dion, if you catch my drift.) I am not one of these men who impersonate women, for I am not a man and I do not impersonate women. What I am is: A woman with a Lady-Dick and a surgery date and nowhere to comfortably store the former before the latter takes place. 

Kim Kardashian’s shape-wear boasts a “solution-focused approach to shape-enhancing undergarments.” The solution, of course, can’t discernibly have included the solution to hiding one’s female penis between one’s asscheeks and maintaining a steady grip on one’s inguinal canal where one’s testicles must hide throughout one’s day. Nevertheless, I ordered Skims hoping to put her product to the test. I’ve never watched Kim’s show, full disclosure, but I’m prepared to adhere my She-Schlong to my lower back using her underwear. Here’s what I found:

The product showed up on my doorstep discreetly. Order from any “crossdresser” online store and you’ll find the same courtesy.* Transgender folk know better than most where privacy is more than a novel idea, and thus the here-and-there products which we’ve been able to market to ourselves often come in entirely misleading boxes. When I received my Skims in the mail I stared at it thinking — Oh god, did my mother send me another self-help book off Amazon? 

*For those who don’t already know this — and dear god, I hope you already know this — the term “crossdresser” is not synonymous with transgender. The point I’m making here says just as much about the marketability of products made for crossdressing cis-men as it does about the marketability of transgender women’s products.

Upon opening the discreet box, I found not a self-help but a beautifully wrapped little gift as though from Kim herself. I savored this sweet detail for only a moment before tearing the paper apart, uncovering the storied “solution-focused” undergarment within. 

The garment slid up my legs with great resistance — perhaps I bought them a few sizes too small? But, as they reached my hip-bone, they unfurled like a magic trick, molding me from my crotch all the way up to my ribcage. Here, I realized that I hadn’t considered the full effect of the shapewear — distracted entirely by the prospect of a tight tuck. 

Here’s the thing: I have a long torso and I have no actual waist. I am skinny, yes, but I do not have that enviable curve between the bust and the hips that I so desire (you know the one I’m talking about.) Let’s call this enviable curve a “little dip” and acknowledge that in my transgender quest for feminine sensuality, the incidental creation of a “little dip” softens the relentless discomfort of hiding my not-so-little dick. Looking in the mirror, I realized that in my Skims I had achieved more than I’d bargained for, all in on garment, with one approachable price-tag.

They felt remarkably light-weight, were restricting only where they needed to be. So, when it came time to wear them “out” for a full day of work, I felt oddly unprepared to leave the house, as though I’d forgotten to put on my shoes. I reassured myself — phone, wallet, keys, tuck, mascara — and I set out on my journey. 

I was on the 7 train when I realized that I was a free woman. I caught my reflection in the dark window of the subway car, taking the opportunity to inspect my stretch denim — not a bump in sight. These pants were of the high-waist, skin-tight, hike up your ass like a push-up bra variety — they didn't leave much to the imagination, which means that wearing them was risky but rewarding. I arrived at my stop and galloped fiercely through the station, aimlessly surpassing every suited himbo on his morning hobble to the office. The long staircase to 34th st, which had previously been approached cautiously, meant nothing anymore. I ascended it with reckless abandon — nothing fell out of place on my person, well, other than a sultry lock from my brunette head. My testicles? What testicles? Never heard of them. I whipped the sultry lock back into place.

The hours of the day fell away like petals from a hot holland tulip, but I remained perfectly intact. Formed. Tight. Noon? Three in the afternoon? Six in the evening? I knew not the time, I knew only my unhindered thigh-gap. I knew only the angelic weight of one single, soft layer underneath my jeans. I made it morning to night with little trepidation, with no hurried trips to the ladies' room carrying large, random objects in front of a strange, lopsided bulge.

Had Kim’s “solution-focused” shapewear considered solutions for girls like myself, I imagine they’d be a little wider in the crotch — as they are, I was not without some spillage. Spillage, though, pales in comparison to duct tape. I’d much rather push too much into too little space then find myself scrubbing adhesive from my privates, but that’s just me folks. 

In conclusion. For years I and my Womxn-Sausage have awaited this redemption. Long have we squandered the days hiding in bathroom stalls, trying desperately to hide the multitudes of nylon and secondary sex organs. So thank you, Kim Kardashian. My Mademoiselle-Meat owes you one.