Urethroplastypalooza, Part 1: This Hole Was Made For Me

This is it. Wednesday, June 15th, two days shy of Spot’s first anniversary. Take 3 in trying to stop scar tissue from “healing” my dong’s urethra shut. Stage 1 of a 2-stage urethroplasty.

(Or is it Stage 2 of a 3-stage? I had a suprapubic catheter put in a month ahead of time, just to give the whole area a chance to calm down if anything was inflamed from trying to pee through my stricture. But anyhow.)

For this surgery, Dr. Elliott used buccal (inside of the mouth) tissue to rebuild the urethra’s strictured area from scratch. And for as cringe-worthy as “we’re stripping the skin from the inside of your mouth” sounds, I can easily say that this surgery was both 1) the most painless, and 2) the oddest-looking, as far as results go, that I’ve had yet.

Pictured above: what the *outside* of the harvested area looked like, three days after surgery. That’s not hair on my lip; it literally looked black on one side from bruising.

But as far as pain went? There was so little, I was off the Percocet the docs gave me after only a day and a half. I could feel the ends of some thread poking from where the inside of my mouth was sewn back up, but other than that… Y’know when you accidentally bite the inside of your mouth, and it’s a little raw in that spot for a couple days, but it doesn’t really hurt? Imagine that feeling, only on one entire side of your mouth. I’ve burned my mouth on pizza and had it hurt more.

The only *really* annoying part is how I could only open my mouth a tiny fraction on my ‘good’ side at first. It’s slowly getting more forgiving, and should be back to a normal range of motion within a month or so, but watching me try to eat this first week has been pure comedy. Picture a sloth, using one hand to hold a forkful of something mushed flat, its other hand sloooowly trying to guide the fork through the tiny slot of its open mouth, and you’ll get the idea.

It was that same Friday night, a couple days after surgery, that I discovered the sutures sealing a giant pad of gauze in place right underneath the base of my penis and over my vulva. (You’d think I’d notice something like that sooner, right? But nope. Like I said, no pain!) This is when I started to get a little nervous. “I’m sure they have a perfectly good reason why they sewed my vagina shut,” I thought to myself hopefully.

And indeed, I found on my follow-up visit that next Monday, nobody had actually sewn anything shut– it just *looked* like they did. A quick few snips, some forceps tugs, and the sutures and gauze pads were gone, leaving a hole underneath the base of Spot, riiiight where my original factory-issued urethra used to end.

Here’s what’s going on inside that hole, as it was explained to me. The surgeons put a small slit down part of the rebuilt urethra, facing the outside, and lined it up with a hole to the skin’s surface. For most FTM guys, this hole’s usually made to go through the scrotum, and that’s where you pee from for the next few months. Since I didn’t have a scrotoplasty, they put my hole right above the top edge of my vagina. You could be forgiven for thinking the pee comes out there, it’s so close.

(That’s right. All you confused eight-year-olds out there can consider yourselves justified; there’s at least *one* person in the world who pees out their vag. Kinda sorta.)

Now all I have to do is wait three months before I go back in to have my doc scope around the area and see how the former stricture area’s healing. If no more scar tissue’s cropping up, then *six* months from now, they’ll be sewing the urethra slit shut again, and this whole year-long journey can finally come to a happy end.

As an aside, three cheers for my follow-up doctor for agreeing to take photos of my crotch as soon as she’d opened the area back up. She got even more bonus points from me when she aimed the camera and said, “Open wide… and say ‘cheese’!” 😀

Three-month Extravaganza!

Aaaa, can you believe it? It’s already been three whole months since I first got my phalloplasty!

While I couldn’t find any party hats tiny enough for Spot to celebrate the occasion properly, I’m instead offering a photo retrospective showing the then-and-now of the surgery.



^ THEN: Three fistulas opening at different times, all underneath the head, made urination tricky. Marker lines left on my dong from surgery team looked a little awkward for the first couple weeks. Stitches everywhere.


^ NOW: Fistulas have healed! Yay! Urine stream has healed… a little oddly, veering waaaay over to the left, but it does so in a predictable pattern, so it’s not any trouble to correct for. Stitches have faded to a birthmark shade of light purple. No skin bubbles left underneath the shaft between stitches. The tip’s gained some scruffiness from arm hair growing back in.

Overall, my dong even got a seal of approval from my general MD back home during my annual physical exam a couple weeks ago! She was all kinds of impressed.



^ THEN: Looked like nothing alive. Had the sickly sweet smell of
wound dressing and disinfectant. Needed at least five minutes to
unbundle all the bandages and dressings to reveal itself to the world
and possibly terrify any children/onlookers. Healed with such thick
scarring at the wrist as to cause me to lose most of my hand/wrist
mobility for some time.


^ NOW: Much more healthy-looking in its color and overall appearance. Regular hand therapy has returned hand/wrist motion nearly back to normal, with some wrist stiffness and a slightly swollen/reddish hand. Still terrifies small children if left uncovered. This Halloween opens up a whole universe of possibilities.



^ THEN: Sticky gummy hell for the first week, then itchy flaky hell for the next two. Had to be kept constantly bandaged, so as not to soak anything laid over it. Made sleeping at night… problematic.


^ NOW: Has healed immensely! No drippage, stickiness, or shedding snow-like skin flakes anywhere for months. Barely even looks like Rocky Horror Picture Show lips anymore. More like a rectangular mild sunburn.


THEN: Scourge of daily living from five days after surgery through ‘till very recently. Needed bandaging at all times, lest it soak through whatever I was wearing and make it look like I’d pissed all over whichever car seat I was riding in.

NOW: Killed in Vietnam. Or healed itself out of existence. (I always get those two confused.) It will not be mourned.


THEN: My immediate giddy thought whenever walking past anything standing still: “I could pee on that now. Should I? SHOULD I? I TOTALLY CAN!! Wait no that’s probably a bad idea…”

NOW: I have somehow not racked up any public indecency charges. This baffles me. I had no idea my willpower could hold out for this long.


– Carry objects over 25 pounds! Yay, I get to… start taking out the trash every week again. Hm. (Still, yay!)

– Accept penetrative sex with my original plumbing (or as I call it, the Warp Zone)! [NOTE: I had the okay to be on the penetrating end of penetrative sex a month earlier, with the downsides that (A) without an inflatable rod put in surgically, I’d be nothing but floppy, so (B) I’d probably have to double-bag Spot with a couple of condoms to attain a hope of being rigid enough to put it in. The More You Know!™]

Here’s to another three months, and then another, and another, and so on! [blows party horn]

Day 35.

First day of arm flexing exercises! I lost most of my range of motion in my left wrist after the phalloplasty, just due to how thick the resulting scar tissue ended up being. Which won’t happen to everyone, or even *most* folks, from what I understand– but be aware of this as one of the risks of using your forearm as a donor site! Lucky for me, I’m a righty.

I’m now taking hand therapy sessions twice a week to get that motion back. This is Day 1, and, uh… Baby steps, keep in mind. Baby steps.


I was surprised tonight by this welcome-home / dick-quisition party / sausage fest (no, really, there was a bunch of sausage there to stuff in your mouth, if you so chose), including a dong crown made of glitter, pom-poms, and felt, a show-and-tell with Spot for any interested parties, more phallic-shaped sugar treats than you could shake a gigantic dong lollipop at, and dick puns. Lordy, the *dumptrucks* full of dick puns.

I was even given a rubber chicken, so my new arm wouldn’t be lonely!

Youguyyys. I have the best friends.~ [heart hands to you all, you know who you are]

From over on the main blog. ‘Cause sometimes you need to celebrate the little victories.

Day 27.

Heyyy! It’s our old friend Rubber Chicken Arm again. It’s been getting some natural color back lately, woo! Also swelling up my hand something fierce, but I’m assured that’s normal at this stage.

Off to my last follow-up doctor appointment before I take my flight home in the wee morning hours tomorrow. This time, the catheter’s coming out for sure. Can’t wait!

Day 16. And today, to my surprise, the leg skin graft patch lifted from the reddened skin underneath! At last, freedom from the scabby flake trails that’ve been following me the past two days as it fully dried out!

…Or at least it would’ve been free, if the whole thing hadn’t have snagged on the *one nano-millimeter* still anchored to the skin, opening up a gusher of fresh blood as it fell.

It’s okay. I had cupcake bandages on hand.