“So as a transwoman, do you have a vagina?”
A. “Nope! I have a modest slit shaped like an inverted Y, which opens in three flaps to reveal a moist, hungry hole. It has teeth.”
B. “I do not! I have a small patch of sensitive, ever-waving cilicia, and two sharp tusks on either side that come out when I’m aroused.”
C. “Nah. I do, however, have smooth flesh with intricate phosphorescent patterns that can flash in such a way as to insert a Killing Word into your brain.”
D. “No. What I have is a colony of fire ants burrowed into the flesh between my legs. I have a symbiotic relationship with them; when they bite you, I get off.”
Not that anyone has ever been rude enough to actually ask me that question; my habit of sometimes putting “pricklady” into free-form gender fields makes it superfluous. But someday, as I work on spreading my fame, I will be asked this question. Probably by a male comics nerd. And I will be ready.
(And of course the real answer is “that’s a question that should really only matter if we are going to get into bed together, when you decide what to do with your mouth to get me to moan happily.”)