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In all honesty, I’m… not sure if this is the type of “paranormal encounter” you’re looking for. To be quite clear, I only think of it as paranormal because of how… bizarre it was. It really just… wasn't possible. So, sorry in advance if this doesn’t fit what you need, but… I dunno. I just thought that coming here would be the best bet.
Alright, well, there’s no way to avoid this, so I suppose I have to get it out of the way. I’m trans. I use he/they, but I’m completely a man. The name that I gave for this statement is my chosen name, but I got it legally changed, so you can contact me through that name, ‘cause it’s my real name. I’ve been trying to get a gender dysphoria diagnosis so I can start T, but that’s still a work in progress, so I haven’t gotten any sort of gender affirming care. Well– I’ll get to that. I guess it probably seems a bit odd for me to come out before actually telling you what happened, but I promise, it’s important to the story.
I do not pass. I got smacked with the transman 5 '5/165cm curse, and am decently fit, so there’s no sense of masculinity in my frame. My hair is normally kept short, but it was an inch or two longer at the time that this happened. Also, I’m alternative, and I do love it, but the stereotyping has gotten me clocked more than once. My voice is also disgustingly feminine for my liking, and until very recently, I had a rather noticeable chest, so passing is a depressingly uncommon feat.
The day that all of this happened was unfittingly normal. I had been out all day to run errands, and I decided to go to a bar after. Dysphoria had been kicking my arse all day, and I thought that a drink or two and shitty bar food would probably beat eating nothing and wallowing. There was a new bar close to my house, and I thought that it would be nice to try it out – plus, it was within somewhat reasonable walking distance, so I didn’t need to worry about driving myself home after. Not that I planned on getting hammered or anything, but I don’t drink often, so my tolerance is shit.
The bar was average. Bad food, good drinks, interesting people. The bartender was polite, so I ended up chatting with them for a decent amount of the time. There were a few others, though; there was one man I spoke to who swore that he would create the next big cryptocurrency, and a woman who managed to just barely miss a bullseye on the dartboard every time. The most notable person I spoke to, though, was a younger woman – if I had to guess, maybe 20 or 21 – who had bleached platinum hair, despite darkened roots. Her makeup looked like it had been done well, but had melted over the course of the evening. She wore an onoxiously pink tube top, low-rise light blue jeans, and two mini gold hoops, which looked almost like droplets if viewed from the front. She arrived in a comparatively larger crowd that I assumed had come from some event, as most of them didn’t seem to know each other and split up after entering. However, she did have a guy with her; average height with light brown hair down to his eyebrows, wearing a white waffle shirt with some band T-shirt on top and jeans. They made her way to the bar briskly and took the seat next to me. I wasn’t going to complain; not that I was, like, attracted to her – I’d already settled on the fact that the man with her was a boyfriend – but I was curious to hear where they’d come from.
Conversation was fine at first. The girl led the talking while the guy ordered their drinks. It was a bit uncomfortable for me, ‘cause she used a lot of feminine terms. Normally I’d get it – most everyone has had “girl” and “queen” and whatnot in their vocabulary at some point – but tonight I just felt profoundly dysphoric, and this wasn’t making it better. After a bit of her blatantly misgendering me to her boyfriend, I ended up speaking up and mentioning that I was a guy. The girl gave me an odd look and scanned my body for a second, her eyes landing on my hips and chest and face. I lightheartedly mentioned being trans, but she wasn’t taking it. All of the “stop indoctrinating children!” and “you just want to be in women’s spaces!” bullcrap that anyone with a modicum of education knows is not the goal of trans people. Her boyfriend decided to chime in as well, which is when things started to turn even more uncomfortable.
While I didn’t think he’d actually make any move to hurt me, the whole “you never know who is and isn’t dangerous” idea from growing up a girl is pretty hard to shake off, especially when you know that the people who are actively pissed off at you have been drinking. I decided it was my best move to just settle up my tab and get out of the situation before things got more opportunity to escalate. They seemed to fizzle out when I asked the bartender to close my tab, although I did hear more mumbled insults, and felt their eyes on me as I walked out.
I was still decently shaken up after leaving, so I was decidedly sobered up on my walk home, which is why, I think, I noticed them. They were tall in comparison to myself – around 175 to 180 centimeters or 5 ’9 to 5 ’10 – and walked with a predatory grace. The best comparison I can think of for her demeanor was a lioness. They had dark tan skin and curly black hair that fell to their ears, and wore a dark navy dress that clung to their figure, with silver moon-themed jewelry adorning them. She trailed behind me at a distance; they didn’t seem to make a distinct effort to hide themself, but they also weren’t right on my tail. Small wins I guess.
With the encounter I’d just had, I was terrified of the woman following me. They didn’t seem to pose a threat, but you really just never know. I decided that it would be illogical to go back to my flat, and instead decided to try and wind through the streets. There weren’t many people out, which only deepened my dread. I decided to increase my pace, but she quickened themself aswell. They seemed to now be catching up, so I ended up breaking into a jog and then into a run, which they matched with uncanny calmness and grace. Eventually, after having reached a part of town I didn’t know, I ran out of breath. Shockingly, constant binding is not very good for one’s stamina. I fumbled in my pockets or pepper spray, a pocket knife, anything that could get her to fuck off. What they said surprised me, though.
They said that they were glad to see I was willing to talk. I pulled out my keys and shoved them between my knuckles, telling her to go away in less polite terms. They let out what seemed to be a laugh and stuck up their hands, promising that they would do me no harm, at least, not “without my knowledge,” and simply asked me to hear her out.
They explained that they were in the bar when the couple had said what they did, and that they pitied my circumstance. As they said that, I got rather pissed, and said that I didn’t need their pity. They shook their head, letting another short string of giggles slip, and told me that she was also trans, and understood my discomfort. Most of my guard slipped hearing this, ‘cause my fear had mostly been that she was a transphobe or chaser who’d clocked me and had something to say. They did, however, still carry an uncanny air with them, and I noticed small details that, at the time, I’d chalked up to my being tipsy still, or tired. Thinking back, though, I can remember it clearly; her smile had too many teeth, and their movements were too graceful, possessing a flowiness that seemed impossible to achieve without having broken one’s bones.
They then made me… an offer, of sorts? This is the point you’re gonna say that I’m batshit, or you’re gonna call the police, but she asked me if I wanted to… give her my boobs. They said that I’d already given a “delectably large” amount of dysphoria with them, and that she could take them from me. It was so, so insanely fucking stupid, but I said yes. I hated my chest. I’d hated it since even before I knew why. It never matched my body, and I wanted to just forget it existed most days. So, when completely free-of-charge, free-of-scars alleyway top surgery was offered, I took the opportunity.
It was one of the worst and best experiences of my life to finally get my tits removed. On one hand, holy shit, I was getting rid of all of my chestal dysphoria, completely free of charge; on the other, however, was the actual process of it being removed. The pain was indescribable. I know that top surgery isn’t painless, I’m not stupid. But, this wasn’t like the pain from surgery. Hell, I’m not even sure this counts as a surgery. She moreso just… reached inside of me and took everything out. I know that that makes no sense, and that I sound like a blabbering drunk, but I swear I’m not crazy. I could – I can – feel their hand inside of my chest, scooping out the fat and tissue.
They put their hand to my mouth to try and muffle the screaming, to little avail. I can not begin to describe what I felt at that moment. I was scared of the outcome and regretful of having accepted the offer and, worst of all, I was in deep, indescribable, agonizing pain. I truly hope that you never have to experience the feeling of another human’s hand scooping out your tissue, because the pain is something you will never forget. It will haunt my dreams and waking hours alike, that bone-deep, sharp and encompassing agony. My chest wasn’t all that I lost that night; I lost the ability to rest without a buzzing feeling in my sternum, the memory of having had my body reached inside of and torn out again.
The rest of my encounter with the woman went… relatively smoothly. They absorbed my chest, and I swear that I saw their form fill a bit more, plumping to be fuller and to hold their new mass. They thanked me and seemingly disappeared, leaving a discombobulated and still-agonized me to blunder my way home.
The healing process was almost immediate. While there was scarring, it was miraculously minimal, with a faint like across my sternum serving as the only visual reminder of what they did. I was still fully able-bodied – I could raise my arms, exercise, and lift a decent amount of weight, despite the time elapsed not having been reasonable for me to recover so fully. I ended up coming out of a rough episode of bad dysphoria, and my newfound confidence also helped a lot with my passing, so the net positive is high.
And, yeah, that’s where I’m at. Again, I don’t really know if this fits your criteria for “paranormal,” but the entire encounter was so bizarre, I just… I had to go somewhere, tell someone that might not call me crazy, and I thought that you people probably get enough crackpots off the street to tell that I’m not some crazed lunatic with hallucinations. Err, thanks. That’s it.
Statement ends.