The Forbidden Knowledge of Autoheterosexuality
Currents
I was in my 30s by the time I learned the name of my sexual orientation: “autogynephilia.” With its awkward mouthfeel and clinical aesthetic, autogynephilia wasn’t the most inviting label. Even so, I was gratified to have finally found a framework that described why it hurt to be male and why I wished I were female.
Autogynephilia is a sexual or romantic attraction to being a woman. This concept was coined by sexologist Ray Blanchard when he combined three Greek roots — auto (“self”), gyne (“woman”), and philia (“love”) — to describe a “love of self as a woman.” Autogynephilia can nurture a deep, long-term attachment to being a woman that culminates in gender transition. This concept has become controversial and even anathema to the trans activist community. But since autogynephilic love can be so powerful and its outcome so consequential, people like me deserve to understand our orientation, not only so we can have a better sense of ourselves, but so we can make more informed decisions about gender transition.
Scientists have been accruing knowledge about autogynephilia for over a century. Although Blanchard was the first to give it a name, prior researchers described the phenomenon of autogynephilia decades before he was even born. In 1910, legendary sexologist Magnus Hirschfeld published the seminal text of the transgender canon, Die Transvestiten, about people who wear clothing of the other sex as a symbol of inner personality. It contains 17 firsthand accounts from people whose sexuality drove them to embody traits they admired in the other sex, followed by Hirschfeld’s insightful analysis. In his book, Hirschfeld also reprinted an excellent account of autogynephilia originally found in Psychopathia Sexualis (1886), the most influential textbook on atypical sexualities to emerge from the early days of sexology. In 1913, Havelock Ellis published a pair of articles on “Sexo-Aesthetic Inversion” — an “aesthetic heterosexual inversion” that he considered to be “really a modification of normal hetero-sexuality.” Ellis included several lengthy firsthand accounts of autogynephilia and even added more in a later update. Some of these narratives revealed an intense romantic longing to be feminine:
"Every nerve in my body seems to cry out that, in spite of my outward masculine form, I am actually feminine, and I long for female clothing, the female form, female amusements, and female sexual gratification."
Since autogynephilia can create such an overwhelming desire to be a woman, it’s understandable that it can motivate some to undergo gender transition. This phenomenon led Ray Blanchard, in the 1980s, to speak with hundreds of autogynephilic males at the gender clinic where he worked. He also conducted statistical analyses on their questionnaire responses.
In total, Blanchard conducted three studies to discern how many types of MTF transsexualism there were. He began with a categorization system originally proposed by Magnus Hirschfeld and then adapted it as statistical analyses revealed new insights. In the end, he arrived at a two-type categorization system in which one type of MTF transsexual was homosexual and the other autogynephilic. In addition, he published review papers that added qualitative depth to his findings, as well as a theory to account for non-gendered forms of trans identity.
Blanchard’s research sharply conflicts with mainstream activist rhetoric about transgender identity and its causes. Trans is commonly regarded not as a byproduct of sexual orientation, but rather as a mind/body mismatch between gender identity and biological sex, resulting in a kind of psychological anguish known as gender dysphoria. While our understanding of trans-ness is still developing, there are a few things we know with reasonable confidence. Gender dysphoria is heritable, so genes are involved. Similar to findings on lesbian, gay, and bisexual people, neurological studies have found that some transgender people’s neuroanatomy has a cross-gender shift in structure, so neurological differences also seem to play a role. To make sense of these variances in neuroanatomy, some believe that prenatal exposure to hormones contributes to the development of gender incongruence as it seems to with non-heterosexuality. However, there is still no scientific consensus on the ultimate reason why some people have a felt sense of being a gender that doesn’t match their sex.
Since Blanchard’s research and autogynephilia concept cut against the grain of popular rhetoric about trans identity, not only has his work been attacked, but he has been personally defamed for it by activists. At the core of this controversy is a fight over whether sexual attraction to being a woman can be a real cause of cross-gender identity. In this heated discourse, Blanchard has often found himself on the wrong end of activists’ searing hatred. Many accuse him of transphobia, in some cases even claiming his theory is pseudoscientific and pathologizing because it alleges that cross-gender identity is a byproduct of sexual orientation. Fortunately, not all trans women feel this way.
Anne Lawrence, a self-identified autogynephilic transsexual and a leading proponent of Blanchard’s theory, continued where Blanchard left off. She found that many trans women who sought bottom surgery reported hundreds of prior instances of autogynephilic arousal, and presented compelling evidence that most trans women in Western countries are not the “homosexual” type of trans. Lawrence published the definitive text on autogynephilic transsexualism, in addition to comprehensive review papers and robust arguments that love of oneself as a woman often underlies the wish to transition gender.
During my search for the truth about autogynephilia and its connection to transfeminine identity, I also found out that some females have an analogous sexual orientation — a sexual or romantic attraction to being a man known as autoandrophilia (“love of self as a man”). Examples within the sexology literature were comparatively sparse, but they nonetheless were there: autoandrophilia’s existence was undeniable.
One autoandrophilic female reported feeling “spiritually male” (what we would now call a trans man), described how his first orgasm occurred while wearing his brother’s suit, and reported masturbating while lying prone and “making the movements of a male in coitus.” Hirschfeld himself mentioned females who were particularly attracted to feminine men and felt themselves to be homosexual men. Other sexologists reported cases of FTM transsexuals who preferred to actively mount their husbands from behind during intercourse, or FTM transvestites who reported arousal from wearing men’s clothing. A history of such arousal isn’t that rare among gay and bisexual trans men: one study found about a third had been aroused by dressing in men’s clothing.
A common theme in these accounts of autoandrophilia was a love of gay men and a desire to be gay men themselves. Lou Sullivan, a pioneer in raising awareness of gay trans men, was especially homoerotic in this way. In a letter to Blanchard, he explained:
“What made gay men more sexually attractive than straight men? Simply the fact that they were aroused by other men. All kinds of gay men appeal(ed) to me romantically and sexually — old, young, leather and muscle types, lithe femmy queens, clean-cut men in business suits. If they loved men, I loved them!”
Sullivan’s advocacy for the existence of autoandrophilia helped remove gatekeeping based on sexual orientation at gender clinics, where attraction to men was seen as a contraindication for receiving hormones/mastectomy. His personal diaries not only reveal an intelligent, thoughtful soul, but they also give an inside view into the kinds of thoughts, feelings, and sentiments that can accompany autoandrophilia.
Throughout my own process of discovery into these matters, I kept bumping into a hurdle that kept me from succinctly explaining the two known types of transgenderism. I didn’t have a word for “attraction to being the other sex,” which included both female autoandrophilia and male autogynephilia under a shared rubric. I eventually settled on autoheterosexuality, a term that a colleague of mine had used before. Embarrassingly obvious in hindsight, this autoheterosexual concept allows a clear explanation of the two-type transgender model:
In both sexes, there are two known types of transgenderism. One is associated with homosexuality, and the other with autoheterosexuality: a sexual attraction to being the other sex. Both of these gender-based sexual orientations are similarly common, and both can lead to gender dysphoria or cross-gender identity.
By the time I was able to articulate this idea, I was quite comfortable identifying as autogynephilic. But it took a while to get there. At first, the word and what it implied made me uneasy. It didn’t help that the concept of autogynephilia is extremely contentious, particularly in online spaces dominated by activists. On one side of the debate, I saw transphobes and trans-exclusionary radical feminists invoke autogynephilia to denigrate trans women and elicit disgust at their expense. On the other side, I saw trans women repeatedly argue that the notion was the pseudoscientific, pathologizing invention of a transphobic scientist. Nobody seemed willing to even entertain the idea that autogynephiles like me exist.
This bothered me. If I was actually autogynephilic, I wanted to be okay with it, which entailed being able to talk about it without being stigmatized or screamed at. It didn’t seem fair that I had to stay closeted just because some people couldn’t handle the idea that sexual orientation might be part of their wish to transition their gender. Above all, it seemed especially unjust that knowledge of my own sexual orientation had been hidden from me.
When I tried talking about it on social media, I encountered pushback from “progressive” friends seemingly motivated by a desire to help trans women. They asserted that the concept of autogynephilia is harmful to trans women, that it reduced their identity to a fetish, and that talking about it is “dangerous” because it promotes “transphobic violence.” They said these scientific studies denied the identities and lived experiences of many trans people, and that transgender studies conducted by cis, white men couldn’t be trusted because these scientists didn’t belong to the groups they studied. Amid the numerous moralistic arguments of this sort that I encountered, however, none addressed the truth of my orientation.
I needed to understand myself and accurately interpret my experiences. I needed to know why I was unhappy being male and why I yearned to be female. I needed a sound framework so that any transition-related decisions I made would help me rather than harm me.
As I delved deeper into current political trends, I realized the backlash I received was just one skirmish in the broader culture war between Critical Social Justice (CSJ) and Liberal Social Justice (LSJ). In Critical Social Justice, people are seen as parts of groups, and the truth is subjectively determined by societal power structures. In Liberal Social Justice, however, people are seen as individuals, and the truth is objectively determined by testing ideas as best we can against reality (i.e., science).
From a CSJ perspective, my behavior was obviously problematic. I was endorsing a theory deemed politically inconvenient to an oppressed group of people. Even worse, by endorsing such a theory, I was supposedly denying people their personal truth and implying that I understood their experiences better than they did, even when talking about my own life.
From a LSJ perspective, however, I was endorsing a theory that corresponded to the real world better than its competitors. Armed with a theory that offered a superior account of reality, people like me could better understand their situation and evaluate whether they would benefit from gender transition.
The obvious incompatibility of these two worldviews meant that I had to discard one. My prime concern was to understand the truth of my orientation. That made liberalism the only viable option. Although critical theories supposedly allowed me to have my truth, liberalism allowed me to seek the truth.
In practice, moreover, I found that critical theory’s apparent respect for “my truth” was itself a lie: the people who seemingly operated by its tenets were the same ones who said I shouldn’t talk about autogynephilia. It didn’t matter that I specifically identified as autogynephilic, nor did it matter that I’d spent thousands of hours combing through the sexology literature to ensure that I held accurate beliefs about my own sexual orientation. Instead, what mattered to them was simple guilt by association. The framework of autogynephilia has sometimes been used in narratives that disparage trans women — it is therefore totally unacceptable, no further thinking required.
By switching out the sexual orientation under discussion, it’s easy to see why this line of reasoning is flawed. For example, it’s well known that the concept of homosexuality has sometimes been used in narratives that disparage gay people. Given this troubled history, does homosexuality not actually exist? Should homosexuality’s connection to gender nonconformity and transgenderism be denied? Should people who identify as gay or lesbian be told to shut up about their orientations? Of course not! These types of responses also ultimately serve to stigmatize a sexual orientation under the guise of helping the people who have it.
I don’t doubt that true believers in critical social justice have noble intentions when they try to help trans women by suppressing knowledge about autogynephilia, but this ultimately harms the broader population of autoheterosexuals at an individual level.
Kept in the dark about their condition, people like me are unable to understand why we feel the way we do. As a result, we needlessly suffer from shame and confusion. A culture in which certain forms of knowledge are shunned will negatively impact not only autoheterosexuals but also gender dysphoric people as a whole. Crushed between these “kindly inquisitors” on the hard left and genuine bigots on the religious right, those questioning whether they might be autoheterosexual will have few places to turn.
Why does this matter? Medical transition is increasingly available on an “informed consent” basis in which trans people are tasked with being their own gatekeepers. It’s great that consenting adults have access to this treatment, but can a trans person be considered “informed” if they don’t even know which type of gender dysphoria they have? How can they ensure they’re making the best decision for themselves if the nature of their condition is hidden from them because of respectability politics?
Advocates for critical social justice may see this cover-up as justifiable because they think it’ll have beneficial political consequences for trans people as a group, but trans people don’t transition as a group. Gender transition is a decision made by individuals. This decision-making process is complex and highly personal. And given the stakes, it ought to be informed to the greatest extent possible. It is only by treating everyone as individuals and by handing transgender people an unredacted scientific roadmap to chart their own course through the gender cosmos that we can help them live the happy, meaningful lives they deserve.
Published May 29, 2023
