Somebody asked me today (with a straight face) if estrogen makes my penis fall off. My stupefied look prompted further clarification: do I still have the same genitals? I told him that unless he's gonna have sex with me (which he isn't), that's a really inappropriate question. "I was just curious", came his indignant reply.
But you can't really fault curiosity, and it's hard to keep track of all the physical changes happening (as he quite astutely pointed out, "so you take that and your boobs grow?"), so I put together an article that should answer his question about my genitals very thoroughly. (NSFW text)
While you're not going to notice much on your first day, soon after starting hormones your penis will start to feel increasingly itchy and irritated. Scratching it won't do anything but leave long, whitish marks on the foreskin, and just like dandruff that hasn't been washed away in a while, a slightly dry yet oddly oily residue that smells like tonsillitis will get trapped under your fingernails.
After a few weeks the itch gives way to a crawling sensation just underneath the skin as if maggots are burrowing through the live flesh, hollowing it out in the process. Yellow, squishy blisters form on the surface, similar to the pus-like excrement apple worms leave behind.
Whether you pop them or not doesn't make much difference (other than staining your underwear with infectious discharge that can be smelled from a few feet away); they will soon drain out on their own, leaving behind crusty scars like the dry, cracking earth on a hot summer day.
If you try to have an erection, searing pain will course through your penis as it engorges against an array of tiny, sharp scab needles that are all pointed inwards.
Like a leaf in the fall, the foreskin shrivels and dies. It becomes dry and flaky, and you can claw off chunks and crunch them in the palm of your hand, making an oddly satisfying sound, reminiscent of a relaxed, leisurely stroll down autumnal Central Park.
The glans becomes very crumbly, as easy to tear off as feta cheese is to sprinkle on top of a Greek vinaigrette salad. The shaft itself is more resilient, having the strength of dying wood embers, but is still weak enough to accidentally tear off when you go to the bathroom.
Hanging on to the progressively deteriorating scrotal sac, the testicles will eventually create a tear in it that will become wider and wider until, just like an oozing garbage bag, they fall off and you tread on them by accident, releasing vile spew everywhere as if you stepped on a pair of particularly ripe, seedless grapes.
The external changes start to die down and soon, the only vestigial aspect of your former penis is a slight I-shaped bulge with a hole for urinary discharge and one slightly larger orifice through which purulence can drain.
Internally, however, the conversion is just beginning. Entire wads of tissue start to liquefy at a rapid rate, and the light, yellowish-green necrotic residue continuously drains through the frontal aperture, dripping down your pants and creating slimy, biohazardous puddles inside your shoes that make a squishy noise every time you take a step.
Fortunately, the days of abject filth are numbered. The last traces of suppuration ultimately subside, systematically replaced by new, healthy, metamorphosed tissue that begins to eject clear, vaginal-smelling lubrication. Above and around the effusion site, fresh proliferation grounds emerge, rebuilding nerves and muscles into a new configuration.
Slowly but surely, the last scar tissue begins to desquamate, leaving behind a thin transparent layer over your reconstructed genital area. Like the plastic sheet over a new smartphone, peeling it off symbolizes your unqualified ownership of your vagina, and evicts all records of this eight-month ordeal into the realm of memory, as well as the garbage can.