A satire…
LOCAL VIDEOGRAPHER TRAUMATIZED AFTER WEEK SPENT DOCUMENTING DOUBLE-TAKES CAUSED BY 6’6” TRANS WOMAN WHOSE PERSONAL MOTTO IS “GWEN DON’T BLEND”
NAPLES, FL — A freelance videographer named Kevin has checked himself into a quiet facility that specializes in “optical overload and sudden loss of heterosexual confidence” after spending seven days filming the public’s reactions to one Gwen Patrone, a 6’6” trans woman in heels who moves through the world like a friendly, cleavage-forward force of nature.
Kevin’s assignment was simple: stay at a discreet distance and capture every neck-snap, spilled drink, and full-body freeze that occurred as Gwen went about her day and evening club circuit. He was not prepared.
The motto “Gwen Don’t Blend” is not a suggestion. It is a lifestyle, a warning label, and apparently a public safety announcement.
Day one footage shows Gwen walking into a Starbucks. The barista mid-pour locks eyes with the combination of height, curves, and industrial-strength cleavage, forgets what hands are for, and creates what coffee experts later classified as “an abstract expressionist latte.” A man behind her whispered, “I think my sexuality just rebooted.”
By midweek the body count of dignity was climbing. At the grocery store an older gentleman turned so fast he took out an entire display of canned beans. Gwen, ever the good neighbor, helped restack them while smiling and saying, “Careful, sugar, the floor’s slippery and so am I.”
Three teenage boys in the next aisle simultaneously forgot how to operate their jaws.
The clubs, however, were where the documentary crossed into performance art.
Thursday night at a live music venue, Gwen entered in a dress that appeared to be negotiating a peace treaty with gravity. Kevin’s camera recorded, in brutal succession:
• The drummer missing an entire fill and staring into the stage lights like he had just seen God and God was wearing heels
• A bouncer who checked her ID, looked up at 6’6” of statuesque confidence, checked the ID again, then quietly sat down on the floor
• A couple mid-argument who both stopped talking, looked at each other, and reached a silent marital agreement to never discuss this evening again
One particularly committed gentleman tried to play it cool by leaning against what he believed was a support beam. It was decorative. Both man and column went down. Gwen walked over, offered a hand, and said with a grin, “You okay, honey? I get that reaction a lot. It’s the motto. Gwen Don’t Blend.”
Saturday’s highlight reel includes a slow-motion sequence of six guys at the bar turning in perfect unison, creating what one editor called “the first documented case of synchronized heterosexual short-circuiting.” One of them later told Kevin, “I didn’t even know I could look that hard without my retinas filing a complaint.”
When reached for comment, Gwen was outside a club waiting for an Uber, laughing so hard the parking meter shook. “Oh baby,” she said, “if someone’s out there with a camera just catching the looks, tell him the real show starts when I drop something and have to bend over. That’s when the documentary writes itself. And remind him of the motto: Gwen Don’t Blend. I’m not here to camouflage. I’m here to be the main event with a side of cleavage and a smile that says I already know what you’re thinking.”
Kevin has since wiped the hard drives, changed his phone number, and accepted a job filming extremely calm manatees. He says the manatees never make him question the structural engineering of the human spine or the limits of polite society.
“She’s six-foot-six of friendly chaos,” Kevin muttered on his way out of the facility. “And she knows it. That’s the scariest part.”
Dr. Gwen Patrone
#gwenpatrone #GwenDontBlend #DrGwenPatrone #DontBlend #Statuesque #EverydayTrans #ZeroDignityLeft
Trolling the trolls has become my new cardio.
You know the ones. Three followers. Profile pic of a lifted truck, a snarling dog, or some half-naked anime girl they swear looks just like their “ex.”
They slide into the comments like they’re delivering breaking news:
“It’s a dude.”
“Hey bro.”
“Isn’t it Glen, not Gwen?”
“I see your Adam’s Apple” (I’ve never had one)
And the really creative ones that make you want to bleach your eyeballs. Truly disgusting ones I’ll not put here.
I used to just block and delete. Peaceful. Efficient. Boring.
Lately I’ve been treating them like a cat treats a ball of yarn. 🧶✨
I bat it around a little. Let them think they’re winning. Then I yank the string.
My current favorites:
“Bro, if you think I look like a guy (spoiler: I don’t), Google already knows your search history is spicier than a gas-station burrito. Congrats on the self-discovery. The algorithm sent you here due to your flaming fetish.”
Or the classic:
“Oh shocker. I had no idea. Thank you so much for the public service announcement. I’m sure the entire internet was holding its breath waiting for your expert analysis.”
Nothing shuts them down faster than realizing the “dude” they’re trying to roast just made them the punchline in front of everybody watching.
I don’t do it to be mean.
I do it because some days the best therapy is watching a troll scramble for a comeback while their three followers slowly back away from the keyboard.
Keep your claws sharp, ladies.
Some yarn is just too fun not to play with. 🧶✨
Dr. Gwen Patrone
#gwenpatrone #trolls #TrollingTheTrolls #lgbtqia
At 65, retired Marine Corps Sergeant, four years of active duty in the early ’80s… you’d think nothing on this planet could freeze me in my tracks.
Then I started walking into the public square looking the way I look.
Suddenly even a seasoned Leatherneck wants to duck into the frozen food aisle and hide behind the peas.
You know that moment. The one where you step into a store, a restaurant, or just walk down the sidewalk and feel the air change. Eyes lift. Brains grind for half a second trying to figure out what they’re seeing. WTF? Holy Shit! OMG! It’s one of them!!! And for that half-second the oxygen gets thin. Your shoulders want to climb up around your ears. Your smile wants to hide. Part of you is already calculating the nearest exit or the safest shelf to disappear behind.
That was me. Early on, that first-look judgment was real. The Corps taught me how to face a threat head-on, so I did what any reasonable, over-six-foot veteran with a fabulous wardrobe would do:
I domesticated the fear.
I didn’t try to kill it overnight. That never works. Fear doesn’t die just because you yell at it. I took micro-steps. I trained it. I caged it. I put a leash on it and walked it around the same places that used to make my stomach drop, until it finally stopped barking at every stranger.
My tactical deployment? Overwhelming, disarming warmth.
I live in a deep red area of the country. The kind I get warned about. “Aren’t you scared?”, they’d ask.
Instead of bracing for the cold shoulder or the awkward glance, I hit them with a genuine smile, solid posture, and an energy that quietly says, “Yes, the weather is fine up here, thanks for asking.” I stopped waiting for permission to take up space. I stopped apologizing with my body language before anyone even spoke.
But what I also realized is 99.9% of the hate that’s spewed all over the media is a propaganda fest simply to get clicks and eyeballs on their shit. People are generally warm and courteous. True, they still may not approve of my life choice, but their attitude is live and let live.
So my tactic of a mega Gwen smile, a laugh and awesome bubbly charisma breaks through the thin vail of hesitancy.
It works like a charm. The second you lead with open body language and a touch of self-deprecating humor, the invisible tension just evaporates. That reflex to judge gets replaced by a polite nod, a laugh, or an actual conversation. I love conversation. It’s my chance to share my viewpoint instead of the purple hair, outrage mob crap the media throws at them.
You disarm the room before the room even realizes it was holding a weapon.
Let me explain it in simple terms.
Fear is just a dramatic, noisy pet. He’ll bark at every stranger, jump on the furniture, knock over your confidence, and try to convince you the whole house is under attack. He thrives on being the center of attention.
So, what do you do to such a pet?
You’re the master. Once you stop letting him run wild and start training him instead—short walks, firm voice, consistent rules—he learns who’s actually in charge. Pretty soon he’s walking quietly at your side instead of dragging you down the aisle by the throat.
You still feel him tug every now and then. That’s normal. The difference is you’re no longer the one being walked.
Once you realize you’re the one holding the leash, you can stroll right past the frozen peas with your head high—heels and all.
So I’ve got a legit question for you?
What’s the one irrational fear you’ve been letting run the house lately?
Drop it in the comments. Let’s see if we can tame it together.
Dr. Gwen Patrone
