Orifice Odyseey

It was a Friday afternoon as I sat in the legal aid office. It was my shift at the queer legal service, which the state had recently decided to fund. I had made enough money from years of working as a corporate lawyer that I could afford the pay cut to work for legal aid. It made me feel like a better person, plus I wasn’t a burnt-out wreck from the 60-hour workweeks anymore. That was, until they walked into my office. From looking at them, they seemed like a fairly straightforward person. Hair short and neat. Wearing a fairly basic ensemble of a t-shirt and jeans. No one would look at them and think they were queer, not that you can assume that sort of thing, which made me completely unprepared for our meeting.

“Hi, is this the legal aid queer hour?”

“Yes it is, please take a seat,” I pulled out the standard consultation form, something required for our recording keeping needed to justify our funding, as they sat down.

“Can I ask you for your name for our records?”

“Bizphotorix The Second.”

This didn’t faze me; I was used to clients having all sorts of unconventional names. Sometimes they were seeing me about the legalities of adopting such a name, and I had dutifully fought for those clients, even if I didn’t quite understand the appeal of being called Demon Slayer or Extravaganze Extrordinare “Umm, so is that your full name, like first and second name?”

“It’s just my name.”

“Okay, and you’re preferred pronouns?”

“I don’t use pronouns.”

Again, I didn’t bat an eyelid at this. I’d had a fair few clients who didn’t use pronouns. I respected their choice and tried to accommodate them, but man, it was hard not to use pronouns. It’s hard to break the habit of a lifetime.

“So how can I help you today, Bizphotorix?”

“The Second.”  Bizphotorix The Second added.

“Yes, sorry, how can I help you, Bizphotorix The Second?”

“Well, I’m trying to get Vaginoplasty surgery, and no surgeon is willing to operate on me. I want to sue them for violating my human rights.”

“Hmmm,” I said sympathetically as I jotted down some notes, “Did they give you a reason why? I’ve heard of some people being declined due to pre-existing medical conditions making surgery risky? Is it something like that?”

“No, they just said it was wrong and they wouldn’t be involved.”

“And you tried multiple surgeons?”

“Yes, all the ones who routinely perform Vaginoplasty in Australia, they all said something similar.”

“Oh wow!” I was stunned. It’s a fairly common surgery in the modern age, and to reject someone, even if their name was a bit unconventional, that was wrong. “That definitely sounds a bit serious, especially if they’re not giving you a real medical reason. Do you have any of it in writing?”

“Yes, I thought it would be best to bring evidence for you,” Bizphotorix The Second said as Bizphotorix The Second pulled some papers from Bizphotorix The Second’s backpack.

“Good, yes, it’s very helpful, do you mind if I have a quick read?” 

“Sure.”

I always hated this, reading while the client sat watching me quietly, but if you have stuff in writing, it’s best to read over it to get the context without the bias of the client getting things wrong. I was a few paragraphs in when it got weird.

“Ummm, so I’m a little confused by this part?” I asked.

“Yes?”

“Just this sentence: We do not think performing vaginaplasty on the patient's abdomen is a sound idea from a medical perspective." I looked up at the paper at Bizphotorix The Second, but Bizphotorix The Second didn’t seem to respond, “The vaginaplasty you want done, that’s to get a vagina installed into your abdomen?”

“Yes, for some reason, people find that weird.”

“Well,” I tried to remain composed, “It’s not the normal area that surgery is performed.”

“Because of bastard surgeons like these people not allowing it!” Bizphotorix The Second yelled.

“Yes,” I said, “That’s one theory. Just to be sure, could you show me where on your body you wanted the vagina?”

Bizphotorix The Second lifted Bizphotorix The Second’s shirt, and pointed to the right side of Bizphotorix The Second’s torso, just below the bottom of Bizphotorix The Second’s ribs.

“Yes, okay, this is all making a little more sense now. Why do you want it there?”

“Because it’s important to my gender identity.”

“Yes, but, I mean, isn’t it a bit more practical in the groin?”

“Not for me.”

“But wouldn’t, umm, intercorse, be difficult if it was in that part of your body?”

“Maybe. But that wouldn’t bother me. I’m asexual.”

“You’re asexual? What are you even going to use it for?”

“Things,” Bizphotorix The Second replied and folded Bizphotorix The Second’s arms.

I sighed, but then I thought about my own queer experience. When I came out as pansexual. All those friends who asked why I didn’t just sleep with the opposite sex, because it’d be easier and I’d face less discrimination. That’s probably true, but I would have been giving up a side of myself for convenience, compromising my identity for others. Was I doing the same thing to Bizphotorix The Second? Maybe I didn’t understand why Bizphotorix The Second wanted a vagina in Bizphotorix The Second’s abdomen, but did I need to? No, I just had to respect Bizphotorix The Second’s identity.

“Okay, I’ll take the case,” I was surprised to find myself saying.

Many months later, I found myself sitting next to Bizphotorix The Second at the High Court of Australia. Our initial lawsuit was rejected, but we have made it through several appeals and countersuits to eventually be sitting here.

Over the months, I’d lined up various experts. Psychologists who made surprisingly convincing arguments as to the sanity of what Bizphotorix The Second wanted. Surgeons who explained the mechanics of vaginoplasty and that there’s nothing that makes it necessary to be in the groin. An anatomy professor showed that a vaginal canal could theoretically be made in the abdomen with only a minor chance of a ruptured intestine. I found a sociologist and queer theorist to explain how gender is a social and cultural construct, and plenty of cultures practised body modification. Streams of queer activist organisations submitted evidence in favour of Bizphotorix The Second’s right to have an abdomen pussy.

The government had intervened on behalf of the Council of Australian Surgeons in order to stop what they called “A gross violation of ethics”. Unfortunately, it had been hard for them to mount much of an argument. Each court appearance could be summed up as their lawyers stating, “But it’s weird!” with not much effect. Of course, various conservative and gender critical organisations entered submissions against Bizphotorix The Second. But all of those really just boiled down to “But it’s weird!” in various different wordings. I hadn’t so much as gotten us this far so much as the defence had continuously fumbled the ball. 

There was a hush over the court as the justices entered the court and took their seats. This was it, the final make of break decision for our case.

“After much deliberation and going over the evidence we have reached verdict”, said the chief justice, “Given the lack of any meaningful argument put forward by the defence, their continued insulting and belittling behaviour towards the plantiff, including the use of slurs and disregarding preferred pronouns of the plantiff, I have no choice but to award in favour of the plantiff. The plaintiff’s human rights were infringed by the sugeons refusal to perform surgery that would allieviate the plantiff’s gender dyphoria.”

The news of our victory flooded the media. Everyone was talking about the first non-groinal vagina. Surgeons were soon flooded with requests from other people for non-traditional placements of genitals. The movement was quickly dubbed transgentialism by the media.

Transgenitalist queers were trying to one-up each other with weird places to have vagina’s installed. Some claimed the spleen was a better generator of pleasure than the prostate. Others wanted their lovers to feel their heartbeat pounding against their cocks when they fucked. Someone got one of their eyes replaced with a vagina and died during sex from a brain aneurysm. 

Soon, the trans mascs got in on the action, and then it wasn’t just vaginas being put onto unsuspecting body parts. Penis became the new body modification of choice. Ankles, Buttocks, Chests. Nowhere was safe from the rogue dick craze. People even replaced their fingers with dicks, under the proviso that they would always wear gloves in public.

Soon it was a free-for-all all. Instead of tattoos, people were getting penises, vaginas and breasts arranged in geometric patterns. People experimented with size. Some got fields of tiny dicks on their forearms. Others got giant dicks installed on their scalp, causing much debate on what counts as indecent exposure. Surgeons got extremely rich. As the supply of available surgeons expanded, it became easier and easier for trans people to get affordable surgeries done in reasonable time frames. It was a golden age for anybody who wanted new genitals.

I was back in the legal aid office on another Friday afternoon. Sure, I could have used my newfound fame as the lawyer who successfully won the case that started the transgentialist movement and got some plum human rights lawyer gigs in some prestigious NGO. But I decided to stay true to my roots and keep working in the community. 

Bizphotorix The Second burst through the office with a lot more anger than the first time Bizphotorix The Second had visited here, “We’ve got to do something!”

“Bizphotorix The Second! How’s the vagina? Everything you hoped for?” I greeted Bizphotorix The Second warmly.

“Yes, it’s been great. But I didn’t think it would lead to all this?”

“Well, yes, it’s called a legal precedent."

“But they’re getting vaginas put in all sorts of weird places. In the chest, the leg, even eye sockets!”

“I’m sorry,” I paused to let out a laugh, “You think they’re putting vaginas in places that are too weird?”

“Yes! Isn’t it obvious?”

“But yours is in a weird place!”

“No it isn’t! It’s in the most logical place you could put one.”

I burst out in laughter, “Well what do you want me to do about this?”

“Sue them for gross indecency or something.”

“That’s not really a thing I can do. Again, we set a legal precedent. It’s now illegal for surgeons capable of vaginoplasty to refuse to put them anywhere that it’s medically feasible. We can’t undo it. And even if we could, you would have to give up your non-traditional vagina too!”

“But they’re wrong!”

“Look, when you first came in here, I thought your ideas about where vaginas should go in the human body were a bit weird, still do. But I put aside my biases and decided to support your unique gender identity and helped you achieve what you needed to be at home in your body. Can’t you do that for all these other people who were inspired by you?”

Bizphotorix The Second let out a sigh and sat in thought for a few seconds, “Nope. They’re all sickos. I’m right and they’re wrong.”

“Well, I’m afraid I can’t take this case.”

“Well then! I’ll find someone who will,” said Bizphotorix The Second and stormed out of my office, slamming the door behind Bizphotorix The Second.

“There’s just no pleasing some people,” I said to no one in particular before taking a sip of my coffee and going back to looking at some affidavits for an upcoming case.