I think the incongruities between Ellen's depiction of the sexes in her writings comes down to two factors:
1. She can't write worth a damn; and what she actually does with that book is attempt to rewrite her past in a way that a severely mentally ill person craving an escape from guilt believes will sufficiently justify their suffering at present. Pageboy demonstrates that Elliott Page was willed into existence to author politically expedient Ellen Page fanfiction.
Ellen recognized that she was the author of her own misery - but wouldn't accept responsibility for the lifelong extent to which she spread her own misery around onto others. So she coped by authoring Elliott to absolve herself of her sins. That Conrad Veidt quality of "trans joy" we always see her wearing is the obvious consequence of a dysfunctional woman projecting nothing more than an illusory image of her idealized self onto her life and expecting the facade to somehow function better than she can.
The rubber hits the road immediately; because Elliott can't possibly pick up the slack for Ellen having given up on herself, for the simple reason that "he" isn't real. This is the kind of bullshit you see when a person is wealthy enough to disassociate from personal accountability to an absurd extent. The fundamental, inescapable problem is that Ellen remains the homunculus recklessly torturing that body from behind its eyes. I Have No Dick; and I Must Smile.
2. The simple reason there is more attention to detail paid to the perceived personalities, motives, stylings, and posturings of the men Ellen writes about is because she yearns to take on their identities for the sake of escaping the pain of womanhood. The women she writes about tend to be reduced to and invoked as either sex objects existing for her gratification, or oppressors of exceptional, genderspecial individuals such as herself: i.e. How can Ellen possibly be a woman, if other women are telling her she's a woman? Checkmate, womenses!
However: Despite the extra attention Ellen pays to the men she wishes to be, what she's preoccupied with is entirely superficial; because her priority is to note only what she believes she can plausibly recreate for herself when skinwalking these men. So, while she devotes more time to illustrating the pedestal she places these men on, we ultimately learn no more about them than the woman Ellen writes about. The details are constrained to the superficialities someone of Ellen's warped disposition considers to be crucial details, based entirely upon what she felt her preferred disguise lacked at the time. The woman's a fucking hermit crab preoccupied with finding something to wear which will cause the world to no longer perceive her as a hermit crab, even though she will never stop exhibiting hermit crab behavior, regardless of each new visage she crowns herself with.
And though she goes out of her way to depict herself lusting for women, her passions seem to actually lay in autoandrophilia - She invokes women purely as a pretense to repeatedly reference the effect they have on her "dick" that doesn't exist.
In fact, the entire book is nothing more than the ramblings of a failed woman trying to write her own dick into existence by acting perverted. Convincing us she's gay/straight/whatever is little more than lazy window dressing in this exercise. It's all about pretending she has a dick, has always had a dick, and advertising that she intends to put that dick to work.
On a different note: Does anyone else wonder what bearing her commitment to being a "boy" (as opposed to a man) has on her pubic hair situation? She seems to paradoxically fetishize showing off her hairy armpits and shaved chest. And that's without getting into whatever rat's nest of an ass crack she's been rocking. Are dingleberries gender-affirming?
