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I am now the proud owner of a  pussy! Or as my doctors like to call it, a neovagina. And it’s about time my readers who don’t read Swedish also get to hear the good news.

On the evening of the last day of January I checked in at Karolinska sjukhuset, a big hospital here in Stockholm, in preparation for the operation. They put some needles in me in preparation for hooking me up to drugs and stuff.  I got some meds to help me sleep. Needless to say I was quite nervous.


On the morning of February 1 they rolled me and my bed up to the operating theatre. After climbing up on the table I lay on my side so they could insert a needle into my spine for an epidural block. On my back again I got some more meds and a mask over my face.  I can’t recall anything more than a short pleasant feeling and then I was under.

Some hours later I woke up in the recovery room. Woke up might not be the right word, more like drifting in and out of consciousness for an indeterminate time. I looked down and found a big package of bandages between my legs. They kept me in recovery room for about half an hour, my sense of time was a bit out of wack. When the pain had eased a bit I was rolled down to my room.

This happened on a Monday and I was to spend 24 hours a day in it until Friday with strict instructions not to move at all. Or the whole thing might heal all wrong. It was incredibly boring, The TV in my room was broken but luckily I had my computer with me and there is WiFi in the hospital so I could watch telly and download audio books and movies. Besides I was tired after the op and drugs. The pain wasn’t so bad as I was on strong painkillers.

Friday I was taken up to the operating theatre again and the bandages were removed. I was still wearing the catheter and a smaller bandage but could move around as I liked on the bed and also take a few short walks in the corridor.

Saturday and Sunday was spent getting more mobile. Monday morning the catheter was removed and the small bandage replaced with a sanitary pad. After I proved to be able to do both number one and number two on the loo I was released to go home. So I splurged out on a taxi to take me home to Casa Caisa.

The recovery took longer than I had anticipated. The wounds are healed now since several weeks, but some pain is still present around the edges of my new beautiful cunt.

I have to exercise it twice a day for 30 minutes to keep the depth. The excises consists of putting in a silicon  rod and keep it there for the 30 minutes. And no it isn’t the least exiting or sexy. In fact it’s rather boring.

If you are curious about the procedure here is an animation of how it’s done. Don’t worry it’s not scary or bloody.

At last!

Yesterday I got a phone call from the Karolinska hospital here in Stockholm. I now have an appointment for the gender correction operation. On January 28  I will grab my bag with the necessary stuff and jump on bus number three .

It’s been a long journey but now I’m about to arrive. I hope to be healed and ready by early spring.

That leaves the task of finding a girl friend for pure lesbian joy and ecstasy. 😉

I’m on Route 66

As of January 19 I am 66 years old. For some reason I like the number 66. Maybe it’s the way it looks. Maybe it’s because of the connection to the classic rock son. Maybe .. Anyway I like the number.


What I’m not so fond of is that it also signifies how old I am. I don’t feel like a an elderly lady. 🙂 More like an alluring milf. 🙂


I gave myself a birthday present – a tattoo. It’s a magickal symbol I designed back in the eighties. It’s been living on the wall above my bed ever since. Except for a brief period lasl November and December when it was part of an art exhibition consisting  solely of cunt related art. It was called Fittkonst, Swedish for Cunt Art.OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

The joy of vaping


I’ve been smoking cigarettes for over fifty years. Imagine how much money Big Tobacco have made from me during those years. A quick estimation makes it over two million USD! Not to mention the effects on my health.

During the years I’ve tried all the usual ways of quitting. All to no avail.

Then last year I tried electronic cigarettes. The simplest kind, small as a regular fag with a cotton filled tip where you filled the e-juice. It was rechargeable via an USB connection. However the smoke wasn’t that great and I had to carry several loaded and filled fags whenever I left home for longer periods. All in all it was a hassle and not very satisfying. So vaping with them became an occasional pastime.

Now it might be overdue to explain vaping. It’s a term invented by ecigg aficionados for using e-cigarettes. It’s the act of inhaling the vapour, hence vaping.

Last summer I  bought two clearomizer (the end you suck on which contains the ejuice and a coil to vaporize it. A battery and two small bottles of ejuice completed my purchase along with a charger for the battery.

What a difference! The vape was full and tasted better, the battery lasted longer. I almost quit smoking but I needed more batteries and clearomizers.

So now I have several mods (batteries) and far better tanks (clearomizers). Which means I will never be without my vaping again. The ejuice comes in a myriad of flavours, plain tobacco, candy, fruits, almost anything you can think of. My current favourite is StrawNectarPear.

I don’t miss my tobacco at all (we call them analogue fags).  The juice I use is a variation containing nicotine. But eventually I will switch to ones with no nicotine.

When I try an analogue now it just tastes like shit and it gives me no joy at all.

So if you are a tobacco user switch to ecigg. Experience the joy of vaping!


Come Out, Come Out, Whoever You Are

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Keeping something secret about yourself, who you really are, your innermost desires, will eventually do you more harm than any consequence of letting the secret out. And the consequences are almost always not as bad as they are in your imagination. When you come out to the ones that are close to you you may get a wide range of responses. From “So what, if that’s what you need and and makes you happy.” via “Why didn’t you tell us before.” to the worst one “You’re not my daughter/son any more. Out of my house.”. Whatever the reaction is, it is something you can deal with in real life. Not some awful possibility that grows and grows in your mind.

If you don’t come out the secret will fester like an infected boil. It will grow bigger and more painful everyday. Fear, self loathing and anger will become an ever bigger part of what you are feeling until one day the boil bursts and it all comes pouring out. The worst case scenario being that you try to take your own life.

And ANYTHING is better than that. If you feel like you’re about to take that final step I recommend that you try to get a hold of a copy of Kate Bornstein’s book “Hello Cruel World” and as a first step visit her website. And also try to find a friend or counsel to talk to, a therapist, a priest, anyone as long as someone is listening to you it doesn’t matter who. You can also find help online on the net in some of all the social media that is out there.

How you should come out is something only you can decide. It can be face to face individually, you can invite all those closest to you for a cup of coffee and tell them all at the same time (alcohol should probably be avoided), you can write letters and explain all to them, but avoid email as it doesn’t have that personal touch. You can drop hints before the big revelation. What kind depends on what you secret is. “Isn’t that L-word series great?” “I think George Cloney is kinda cute.” “I think women have so many great outfits to chose from.” “I wish I didn’t have to wear a dress at the prom.” I’m sure you can figure out hints that suite you.

Besides the fact that keeping the secret festering inside you makes you fell bad it’s not really honest to keep the real you hidden from the ones you love. I don’t suggest that you suddenly bare every nook and cranny of your soul to all and sundry. But that you let those close to you know the basic you.

My own coming out story is not at all dramatic. I started coming out a bit at a time at the place where I worked, at the café of a free cultural organisation in Stockholm. I organised something I called Café Queer once a month with different themes and artists. At this stage I was more out as a gender bender than transsexual. Eventually I came out fully at work and was also part of something we called Queer Qult which was an explicit LGBT event. We had some very good events with great artists and other guests, hi Nina, hi Jan, as well as workshops. So, I was out at work but my family didn’t know. Which left me with a constant worry that I should bump into them on my way to work or that that they should just turn up at the café.

When I started the assessments for getting diagnosed as a transsexual I wrote a letter to those closest to me, my daughters, parents, siblings. Not an altogether wise move as it some felt it was too impersonal. But the negative reactions I had expected to the message itself, that I started the process of changing my gender, were completely absent. We have other issues, as have every family, but none regarding my transsexuality. I guess I’ve been very lucky with my loved ones and also lucky to live in a society that, in general, have no trouble accepting me as woman who was once a man.

What people seems to have a hard time getting their head around is that I have always been sexually attracted to women and always will be. That now that I’m the woman  I was meant to be I’m also a lesbian. The hetero norm is so deeply embedded in us all.

What this post boils down to is: For your own sake, your mental and physical health. coming out is almost always better than staying in the closet and suffer silently on your own.

Let’s all be out and proud!

I’m an out and proud lesbian transwoman and anyone having a problem with that can go and castrate themselves.

Love, hugs, kisses and lashes until next time

A letter to myself on my 15th birthday

I am you, only 50 years older. Strange, isn’t it? And if you ever were to see this letter I guess much in my life will be totally different.Today you are dreaming, among other things, about having a moped now that you are of an age to drive one. Don’t worry you will, in a couple of months. I will enclose a picture of it at the end of this letter.
But we both know that’s not the biggest problem. You keep running away, to Stockholm, Malmö and other places. Pretty soon you will be heading down to Amsterdam. And you are not running away from something, not really, your parents and friends are pretty decent people. No one is abusing or hurting you. What you are doing is trying to run to something. You just don’t have any clear idea what it is.Seeing it all a bit clearer from way off in the future I’ll give you a few hints to why you are feeling outside, like you don’t really belong anywhere. It’s common for all teenagers to feel something like that. But you have more reasons than most do.
Why? Let’s think about some things. You look at girls. Of course you do, but not only because you desire them. If you could admit it to yourself  it’s also because you know, deep inside, that you were meant to be born a girl. Remember how exited you felt when Gunilla said you had girlie lips that were perfect for lipstick. And then… No wait that haven’t happened yet.
This could be a frightening revelation. And what you are most afraid of  is that means that you have to make love to guys if you are a woman. Don’t be stupid! In your head and your heart you are a girl and you are attracted to girls. What does that make you? Yes, that’s right, you are a lesbian woman!
Even back when you are now there are ways to correct the mistake of your anatomy. I know that you have heard of Christine Jörgensen. If you could do that now I know that you’d be a lot happier and that you can avoid much of the troubles that lies ahead of you. But I hope you don’t do anything about changing your gender until 1972. Why? Because on your birthday that year you get a wonderful present, Your youngest daughter will be born. That’s right! You will have two lovely daughters!
But after that go for it! Don’t wait till you/I are/am 64 to do final transition.
Love from you future self
Oh, here’s the pic of the moped I promised you will buy soon. I know you’ll have fun with it.


To pass or not to pass

On several mailing lists I’m on there have been a lot of debate about passing for transwomen. How to pass as a woman and how important it is to pass. So here is my take on some aspects of passing.

Of course we transwomen all like to pass as born women, and preferably beautiful ones. (Don’t all girls want to be pretty?)

We all have different aspects that makes it difficult to pass. In my case it’s mainly my voice (very low), my height (187 cm 6′ 1½”) and a more or les bald head.

The baldness is easily corrected with a wig. And as I am diagnosed as transsexual the Swedish state lets me buy wigs for a sum that  about covers the cost of two synthetic wigs a year. (At the time of writing I’m a redhead.) 😉

As soon as I open my mouth it’s obvious that I was born male. That will take a lot of training to correct. But I will soon  resume my  regular appointments with a speech therapist. And in two previous visits with her she concluded that I have the range to achieve a low female voice.

Height is not much I can do about, but i console myself with the fact that Venus Williams also is 187 cm. 

A few years ago I was very pessimistic about ever being able to pass. But now I think that I do it most of the time (except when i speak). So what has changed? I basically look the same. I think it boils down to some basics.

I don’t use any exaggerated, supposedly, female ways of bodily expression. That would just make me look as a drag queen. What those expressions are vary from culture to culture. But widely swinging hips and permanently “weak wrists” is a dead give away. A study of women around you will give you clues what to do. I’ve found that shoulders held back, a straight posture, chest out and head held high will do a world of good re: passing.

Make up is another area where it’s easy to go overboard. A night club make up when you just nip down to buy some fags and danish is overkill. I just put on some mascara and maybe lipstick. LIpstick, if chosen with care, is a great help in passing as no men use it. They may use foundation and/or mascara but never lipstick. So the painted lips are a strong sign that a person have a woman before them.

How you dress is also important. Mainly you have to find a style that is you and that suits your body. . I don’t give a damn about dressing “age appropriate”, at the moment I’m wearing black leather trousers and a black T-shirt with the text ” When the Goddess made this body she was showing off”. When I say that I don’t give a damn I don’t mean that I’ll ever wear litle girl clothes or try to look as a cheerleader, that would only look silly on a 60 + year old Golden Lady.



On a preliminary consultation with my plastic surgeon (If I wasn’t lesbian I would “swoon”, imagine a younger and much more handsome Dr House without the bad manners.) he made comment that I could easily pass and mainly because I didn’t seem to care what others were thinking.

And I think that this is the main key to passing:

Be proud of who you are – a “self made” woman. You have every right to expect people to respect you for the person you are wether they clock you or not. And if they don’t it’s them that have problems with their attitude.

What’s My “Type”

Today I’m going to be utterly shallow and talk about looks and my take on why we all have a “type” that we are especially attracted to.
I think the picture of that ideal some one is formed at an early age by the people that surround you, by the culture you live in and by your peers. And who better to serve as an example than my own humble (sic) self.
I grew up in a mixed lower middle class/working class environment in Stockholm and Göteborg in the fifties and sixties. For those that are geographically challenged  that’s the two biggest cities in Sweden. And in those way back when days, my children, we didn’t even have television. Well most didn’t until the late fifties here in Sweden.
My point is that kids of my generation and location had almost exclusively Caucasian women to relate to. So that’s part of the reason I adored Sophia Loren as a child. I hadn’t seen any of her movies but could secretly gaze at her photos for ever. And she’s still the most beatiful woman over 70 I know.
That narrowed down the number of available types considerably but the variations within the remaining group are many indeed. Tall, short, thin, fat, blonde, redhead, brunette, small tits, big boobs. The combinations are endless in number. So how come I ended up with my type out of all the available ones ? I don’t fucking now, do I?
I’ve had sex with women of all shapes, creeds and most ethnicities. And what they all had in common was the fact that they were women. So i guess when it comes down to real life what really matters to me is the person I’m making love with. Not if she confirms to some type or not.
(Flashing on my inner screen: The tall redhead Icelandic girl, one night in Borås. The short dark Mickan with her wonderful breasts. The blond celeb (who shall remain unnamed) I found naked in my bed one morning. [Stop the bragging you old crone] OK, OK, I’m done for now. )
[But you were going to tell us about your type,. Come on. Spill!]Do I really have to?
[YES!]OK. “My type” is Sophia Loren. Or in the current crop of celebs Malena Ernman. But as I said I love the person not the…


[Shut up, You’ve been blabbing enough for one day] If you say so.
[I do.]

Love & lashes till the next installment

What’s in a name?

that which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.


When I started using the net as a woman I wasn’t out at all to anyone. The first name I chose for myself was Linda. I’m not really sure why and after a year or two I didn’t like it at all, besides it’s not a name that suits a woman of my age and nationality. So after a great deal of pondering I decided on Caisa. Caisa is a name that has a long history in Sweden and is still in use. As an added bonus an ancestor in the early eighteenth century was called Caisa.

So that took care of my first name. As I was coming out more and more I chose Persdotter as my last name, Persdotter means daughter of Per, Per being on of my male names as well as my father’s and maternal grandfather’s. Hence my Gmail name caisap, and on a few other sites where Caisa was already taken I’m known as Caisa Persdotter or variation thereof. But as I came out to everyone that matters I am now Caisa Viksten.

So, what’s the problem with choosing a new legal name? Well, I want a middle name or two as well. I’ve asked my parents if they did have an alternative name if I had been born a girl in body as well as soul and brain. But no, they called me Olle while i was still in the womb.No help there then.

I was for a while considering Vendela Magnona. Strange names yes but there is a romantic legend from the late seventeenth century behind them. According to the story Vendela Magnona Fleming, the daughter of Lars Fleming (a high-ranking Swedish noble man) was supposed to marry a man of similar social status. But Vendela was in love with a common village smith, Ström (first name unknown). On the day his beloved was to marry he turned up at the church with a horse and wagon. He looked at Vendela with tear filled eyes, she turned around on the church steps and saw him. Not hesitating for a second she run to her smith, jumped up beside him and off they went.

Vendela was stricken from all official records but upon her father’s death they found a sort of testament written on calfskin. In it he granted Vendela and her husband the right to the name Flemström and the use of a plot of land at Graninge Bruk in perpetuity. The letter was supposedly destroyed in the mid-nineteenth century but to this day the plot is known as Kalvskinns åkern, the Calfskin Field.

The story is probably not true but I love it. And if it is true I can trace my ancestry, via Flemström and Fleming, back to a knight in twelfth century Germany. In the end I decided against taking the middle names >Vendela Magnona. Too much of stage name I think.

But now I’ve made up my mind. My legal name will be Caisa Katarina Viola Viksten. Katarina after my maternal grandmother and Viola after my paternal grandmother.


The Musical Revolution of the Sixties

Two things were important in the sixties to make me into what I am today. Well, of course there were many more but these were the major influences: The new music from Britain and the opposition to the war in Vietnam. It radicalized me and gave me the courage to break with the traditional way I was supposed to look and behave.

I was 13, and because of too much skipping of school I was on “leave” for a year. I was working in a posh store in central Göteborg, Sweden. They sold curtains, carpets, furniture textiles and oriental carpets. I was a kind of helper in the oriental rug department. It was there, in the storeroom/lunch room in late 1962 that I first heard the Beatles and Love me do on the radio. From that moment everything changed.

It came in the best possible moment in time for me. Before I was a nerdy, shy boy with ugly glasses. In the fall of 1964 I was a full-fledged mod. The hair long(ish) and, because my mother liked the fashion and is very good at sewing, dressed in clothes that were only seen in the papers. I still have the jacket that she made after having seen the Beatles single cover, and it still (almost)fits. We followed everything in the Swedish journal Bildjournalen. and when we could afford we took the tram in the centre of Göteborg and a shop that sold New Musical Express and Melody Maker.


The jacket mama sew. It still fits. 

I also started school again, eight grade at another school. After being one of the nearly invisible and ignored in my old school I was soon one of the more popular in the class, togeher with my brother and one more guy. This was really brought home to me in the ninth grade when we had a “klassdans”. An after school event were we brought records to play and dance to. I had been in town at Götaplatsen, were the mods hung out. I was late to the dance and several of the prettiest girls were about to leave. But when I arrived they changed their mind. I wasn’t told this until a few years later. Had I known it then I probably would have fainted. From an ugly duckling to a soaring swan in about a year.

As so many mods we were threatened with beatings because of our hair and clothes. But it never came to anything but words. Then I read in NME that the mods in London had started wearing make up. The girls I knew were more than happy to help out. As I understand it now the English mods just used eye liner and mascara. But I went the whole hog, lipstick, eye shadow and nail polish. Onto the tram and into town we went. US Army jackets, boots, flared pinstripe trousers and tons of make up. Teenage girls in the early sixties were not famous for subtle make ups. The reaction among our fellow mods were mixed. Some laughed but some, mostly girls, liked it and thought I was brave. Needless to say I revelled in the attention. We then ventured down “Avenyn” away from our usual hunting grounds.

That’s when things changed. The looks I got were hostile. And a bit up Östra Hamngatan we were surrounded by a gang of “raggare” (Best described as a sort of red necks.) One of them took a swing at me. It would probably have been a KO. But a friend yanked me out of the way and my antagonist hit one of his friends. We ran up towards Götaplatsen but before we got there two older guys (17 – 18?) who usually hung out with the mods pulled us into a shop entrance and tried to force me to rub of the make up. I don’t know were I got the courage but I refused. They didn’t beat me up but threatened to do it if they ever saw me with make up again. A few weeks later they did but I was in a big crowd so was safe.

In hindsight I can see that it wasn’t just a desire to be like the mods in London or to show my independence. The joy I felt when made up and having long hair (sometimes with a cute bow) should have made me realise that I really was a teenage girl. But I’ve always been good at repressing what I’m afraid of. If I had had the courage to face it I don’t know what I could have done then, back in the dark ages. If I could have fathomed the possibility of a sex change and still being attracted to girls I think I’d been on a wholly different course in life – a tall thin baby dyke.

But this was supposed to be about the music. I soon left Beatles behind for Stones, the Who, Kinks, Pretty Thing and local bands like the talented but unknown Beachers.

When the tickets for the Stones first concert in Sweden were released the crowd were behind a simple rope barrier. Needless to say the rope didn’t hold us back. That resulted in a historic event in Swedish police history. As we were milling around out of a side street came a company of police on horses with drawn sabres, the last time that happened in Sweden. We were very naive in those days and couldn’t imagine that the police would hurt us so we just laughed and leered. Some girls who were riding in the same stable were the police horses were quartered went up to them an patted them.

The concert in Svenska Mässan was great the first ever big concert I went to. I’ve since seen the Stones several times, but that first time was marvelous!

So it wasn’t just the music that made it revolutionary. It was the attitude that went with it. We no longer wanted to grow up and be like our parents. We questioned everything and every authority. Most of my generation “grew up” and became a part of the establishment. But none of us were unaffected. Though very few became like me: A lesbian transwoman anarchist.

So, ladies and lassies, let’s continue the history lesson  about why us Golden Ladies are so knowledgeable about music.

I left you hanging in the mid 60s. Today’s story begins in the spring of 65. I had begun my journey leftwards and had older friends that were active anarchists, writers, artists and situationists . My musical taste at this time was leaning towards Billie Holliday and songs from the Spanish civil war. Rather limited I know, but then that’s the way it is when your 16.

With my brother and parents we went to Copenhagen for the first of May holidays. I knew a Danish guy from a meeting of the situationist international so we hooked up with him. Who wants to spend a weekend in Copenhagen with your parents when you’re 16? He was also active in the anarchistic movement Provos. We in Gothenburg were also much influenced by this Dutch movement. But we called ourself “Vulgär Anarkister” – Vulgar Anarchists.

Chairman Mao’s little red book had just been released in the west and we had copies of it. Armed with that and our youthful spirits we sat out to “preach” to the citizenry of Copenhagen. Waving our little red books we rushed along “Ströget”, THE street in Copenhagen, shouting: Provo, Anarki, Mao. Now and then we would stop, my brother and I in a worshipping position on our knees while our Danish friend read out loud. Then up, running and shouting. We repeated this on “Rådhuspladsen” and on the courtyard of the royal castle “Amalienborg”.

Well this haven’t been much about music so far. But maybe it gives a feeling of how the mood was among us on the far left in the mid to late 60s. Anything was possible and the old, rotten society would crumble any moment.

As the decade progressed the political climate all over the West became more and more radical, leftist and revolutionary. Not that we ever were a majority. (Except for a short period 68 in France.) To a large extent the music and the “youth culture” paved the way for this. As did the growing opposition all over the world against USA’s criminal war in Vietnam. In Sweden the left was dominated by the different brands of communists, we anarchists called them all stalinists.

The domestic music scene changed drastically in Sweden in the second part of the sixties. A lot of groups rejected the big labels and started their own independent labels. The music varied from folk to very experimental. The texts became very important, sometimes poetic, sometimes political. And some of the artists became popular even among “the common man”.

At the end of the decade the popular music all over the world had changed. Gone were Perry Como, and only old folks were listening to Frank Sinatra. Even Elvis tried a shot at being socially concious with In the Ghetto. We got great artists like Jimie Hendrix (I heard him at Gröna Lund and my oldest daughter played with his child at Eriksdalsbadet) Janis Joplin, the Fugs, Mothers of Invention and many more. In Sweden we got Nationalteatern, Nynningen, Träd, gräs och stenar, Hola Bandola Band, Philemon Arthur and the Dung…………………

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