Great news, everyone: Dylan Mulvaney has finally figured out how to piss like a woman. After much observation in the ladies’ loo, he twigged that ‘peeing from a vagina sounds different than a penis’. ‘Vagina peeing is quieter’, he says. Keen to mimic these wondrous hushed tones of the female urinator, our trans hero sits on the toilet, tucks his knob between his legs and aims its contents at the bog’s ‘porcelain sides’, thus muffling the splashing noise us fellas normally make. Well, ‘I’d hate for my penis peeing to be the thing that blows my cover’, he writes.
Carve out some space in the history books. Get ready to etch Mulvaney’s name next to Sylvia Pankhurst’s and Rosa Parks’s and Harvey Milk’s. For he’s cracked it, the final frontier of social liberation: the right of men to relieve themselves in the women’s bathroom. ‘As a woman, I would NEVER stand and pee’, he writes. And why should you, sister? Plus, if he’s wearing his ‘pink-and-green strappy stilettos’, that ‘would make for a much higher aim’, he writes, thus increasing the likelihood of noisy ‘penis peeing’. So he sits, for us all. Eat your heart out, Mrs Parks: you might have sat where you pleased on the bus home from work, but our boy Dylan sat on a woman’s lav and let it flow.
This is all from Mulvaney’s new book, Paper Doll: Notes from a Late Bloomer. It is – and I choose my words advisedly – batshit insane. It traces his ‘gender journey’ from being a gay boy to being nonbinary before he eventually arrives at ‘girlhood’. And then the holy land: womanhood. He’s definitely a woman now because he is ‘blonde and my tits [don’t] need a magnifying glass to be seen’. Plus, he loves pink. At one point he pulls on ‘the pinkest… outfit I own’, thinking that ‘the more feminine’ he appeared, the less likely it is he’ll be ‘misgendered’. Blonde hair, big boobs and a pink dress? Woman!
Mulvaney is the TikTok irritant who hit the headlines for his ‘Days of Girlhood’ posts on social media. Over 365 days, he traced his journey from being a gurning theatre kid with a five o’clock shadow to being a ‘girl’. Albeit a girl who has to ‘tuck’ his bollocks with tape that looks like a ‘giant Band-Aid’ so that his bulge is not ‘conspicuous through clothing’. Of course, only folk who’ve guzzled down the Kool-Aid of woke lunacy think this bloke who writes about the struggle of ‘penis peeing’ while wearing high heels is a ‘girl’. Folk like Kamala Harris, who sent Mulvaney a birthday card back in 2023 on his ‘365th day’ of ‘living authentically’. Trump’s not looking so bad now, eh?
Some people will bristle at my use of male pronouns for Mulvaney, but if you think I’m saying ‘she’ and ‘her’ about someone who’s so obsessed with his own schlong that he has a name for it – ‘Missy’ – then you must be off your rocker. ‘I am a woman with a penis’, he writes. Can we take a second to marvel at the sheer delirium of a statement like that? A hundred years ago if you said ‘I’m a woman with a penis’, you’d have been quietly shuffled off to Bedlam. Now you get an advance from Hachette and a birthday card from the vice-president of the United States.
Mulvaney’s book shines an unwitting light on the sexism behind the trans ideology. Some of it feels grossly misogynist. ‘Do you want a pussy?’, one of Mulvaney’s trans mates asks him, as if women’s bodies are commodities to be acquired. Mulvaney considers ‘getting a vagina’, if only to ‘shut… the haters up’. He writes about his ‘chicken cutlet titties’, which is when he puts pads that look like slabs of chicken meat in a bra to mimic a woman’s breasts. ‘Out with the chest hair, in with the tits’, he says of his transition to ‘womanhood’ at one stage. Plucked, lasered and estrogen-filled, he ‘was done’, he writes, and ‘ready to debut my dolphin body’. Dude.
He gets FFS, the most fitting acronym ever: ‘facial feminisation surgery’. His doc offers to ‘shave the brow bone off, lift the eyebrows, take down the hairline a few inches, do a rhinoplasty to bring down the width of the nose, lift the lip… shave the jaw and shave the trachea off’. I’m sorry, but the idea that you can carve a ‘woman’ out of a man is fundamentally misogynistic. Women are not men with softer jaws, or castrated men, or men who experience ‘yummy womanly moments’, as Mulvaney writes, whatever the fuck that means. They’re women. Mulvaney’s shaved brow no more makes him a woman than Rachel Dolezal’s fake tan makes her black.
Mulvaney’s vision of ‘womanhood’ swirls with stereotypes. Women urinate daintily, wear pink and cry. He describes arriving home one day, stressed, and pulling on a bathrobe to mope around the house – his ‘sad girl’ vibe. He wears his ‘pinkest’ gown when visiting his trans-sceptical mum to show her how ‘feminine’ he has become. He reprimands problematic women. Especially TERFs. He calls them ‘catty women’. Bro, it’s 2025 – we don’t say ‘catty’ any more. These ‘haters’ are intent on whipping up ‘WORLD WAR SHE’, he says. Which is sad because ‘I’m the kind of gal who lies awake at night when I suspect one person dislikes me, let alone thousands’. Yeah, pipe down, ladies – the man who thinks he’s a gal wants a good night’s sleep.
Feminists the world over went nuts when Donald Trump called Hillary Clinton a ‘nasty woman’ in 2016. And yet we’re meant to shrug off Mr Mulvaney calling women ‘catty’, which according to my dictionary means cruel, vicious and, erm, nasty? It’s further proof for my theory that if a bloke wants to have a pop at women these days, all he has to do is pull on a dress – the pinker, the better – and, boom, the floor is his.
Mulvaney writes about the tampon controversy – the time he posted on Instagram about buying a bunch of tampons in the event of encountering a lady in the loo who needed one. He can’t believe that this lovely attempt to be a ‘helpful gal pal’ caused such a stink online. One catty woman told him: ‘This is gross.’ Another described his tampon altruism as a ‘crock of shit’. He’s bemused. Yes, why wouldn’t a menstruating woman be happy to see an overwrought theatre fella lurking in her loo and handing out sanitary products? It’s a mystery.
He saves much of his ire for his mum. To me, she’s the heroine of this sad tale. She doesn’t believe men can become women. She berates Dylan for going on about ‘trans children’. ‘Kids becoming trans… it’s just not right’, she says. Preach, mum. ‘Parents and doctors are pushing surgeries and pills on these poor kids, and most of them change their minds’, she says. Where’s the lie? And yet Mulvaney flips. ‘You aren’t my mum any more’, he says to her at one point. We all learn, eventually, that mum knows best, but for Mulvaney it’s going to be too late. He’ll already have lost his Adam’s apple, his brow and his ability to get a boner (really) when he realises his mother was a font of wisdom.
He makes fun of his mum’s Christian church, which he describes as ‘one of those rock-band-type modern churches’ with a ‘pastor in cowboy boots’. And yet elsewhere he writes about being visited by ‘the Angel of Transness… tapping on my shoulder, telling me that I’m a woman’. And about his friend who says ‘I got my balls chopped off’ in a surgical ‘Cassie’ (castration). Imagine mocking evangelical Christians when you’ve thrown your lot in with a bollock-chopping cult in which angels whisper ‘You’re a lady’ in the ears of deluded men. Give me a cowboy priest over that bullshit any day of the week.
Mulvaney’s book feels curiously out of time. His fantasy of ‘girlhood’ might have been indulged in the Biden era. (He writes about meeting Biden and staring into ‘his gorgeous baby blue eyes’. LOL.) But we’re in the era of Trump 2.0 now, which, for all its faults, has taken a cudgel to wokeness, including the trans cult. Who aside from true believers is going to nod along to this batty tome in which a man describes aiming his piss at the sides of the toilet so that the women in the neighbouring cubicles will think he’s a woman too? Surely most people will just say, ‘Mate, that’s creepy’.
There’s a telling section on ‘Beergate’, when there was a massive blowback against Budweiser’s deployment of Mulvaney to advertise its booze. Mulvaney got a lot of shit. So did Bud. He says he became paranoid. He found himself wondering if he might be surrounded by people who don’t see him as a woman. ‘Could my mailman be a Judas?’, he wonders. ‘Was my smiling Trader Joe’s cashier one of the haters in my comments?’, he asks himself. A privileged young man wondering if various working-class people might be Judas-like ‘transphobes’ – what a brilliant metaphor for the woke derangement and the bourgeois suspicion of ordinary people that lies at its rotten heart.
We live in a new world now, Dylan. The common sense of mailmen, cashiers and people like your mum has returned to the fore. We’re not phobic or hateful or catty. We’re just sick of seeing women’s dignity and privacy being pummelled by a cult that falsely calls itself a civil-rights movement.
Brendan O’Neill is spiked’s chief political writer and host of the spiked podcast, The Brendan O’Neill Show. Subscribe to the podcast here. His new book – After the Pogrom: 7 October, Israel and the Crisis of Civilisation – is available to order on Amazon UK and Amazon US now. And find Brendan on Instagram: @burntoakboy
