~o~O~o~

CHAPTER ONE

“Pour mon âme, quel design!”
– Donizetti, La Fille du Régiment, Pour mon âme, quel design! (Aria)

New York, December 31

My brother Iain was not looking happy. I couldn’t actually remember the last time I had seen him look happy, so that wasn’t unusual. It was strange to see him neither angry or mulish, though, and while that change was largely welcome his sudden lack of fire was worrisome as well.

We were standing uncomfortably close together; his room at the Otterburg Clinic – an in-patient rehab facility in the Bronx – was not spacious. Normally Iain loomed over me; he was four inches taller, he had the substantially heavier Savin build (Fi and I favored the Ross side of the family), and considerably more muscle mass. We had both lost weight, but Iain seemed to have somehow shrunk, become less than himself.

“You okay?” I asked him quietly.

“It’ll do.” He sounded resigned.

“Anything you need?”

He shook his head.

It was time for me to go, but I felt like I still hadn’t reached him. “Iain . . . Can you tell me what’s wrong? What happened?”

He sighed. “Drugs, Spam. If you don’t know, you don’t know. That’s why I agreed to come here. I’m not getting high anymore. I’m just keeping myself from falling through the floor.”

I wanted to give him a hug, but I knew better. Iain would never accept comfort from his little brother. I couldn’t do much more than say, “I’m so glad you were willing to give this a try.”

He shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “Thanks. For . . . setting this up. And everything.”

I got ready to leave, but he stopped me. “Fi said she gave the folks an ultimatum about bringing me back in the fold. Tell me you didn’t do that, too. I don’t want their money, or their piety, or their hypocrisy. But that’s my fight, not yours. Understand?”

I was happy to see some signs of life back in him, even if it felt like he was only really alive when he was angry about something. I gave it two second’s thought and decided it was time. “I’ve got my own issues with the ‘rents, Iain, so I’m not just walking away from them over you.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Spam,” he said. “You were always the peacemaker. Drove me nuts, too.”

I looked at him, exasperated. “Yeah, I’d probably still be trying to get you all to be singing Kumbaya if it were an option, but it’s not. Dad and Mom would never accept that one of their children was trans.”

He did a double take. “You?!” He sounded both incredulous and amused.

I nodded.

He just started laughing, and it wasn’t a nice laugh. “Dude, when you try that joke, it’s gotta be plausible. Dad had no trouble imagining that I’d sleep with a guy. But you? Trans? Keep it real, Spammy.”

I could feel my face turning red. Through clenched teeth, I said, “Being trans has nothing to do with whether you can look the part convincingly, you idiot!”

He just laughed harder. “Who said anything about looks? You probably could pass, with your small hands and all that hair.”

“Then what makes you so God-damned certain I’m not trans?”

He stopped laughing, and looked completely serious. It wasn’t an improvement. “Spam, in that sheltered, normie bubble you live in, you don’t even know transwomen. I do. And I’ll tell you this, little brother. It takes more guts to be trans than you’ll ever have!”

There were a million things I wanted to say, but I suddenly realized that I didn’t have the energy. I was past caring what he thought of me. “Sixty days, big brother. Try not to fuck it up.”

I turned and walked out, the sound of his derisive laughter following me down the linoleum-floored hallway.

~o~O~o~

College Park, Maryland, December 31, eight hours later

I was finally home in my cozy garage apartment. I closed the door behind me, dropped my bags, and just stood for a moment, taking in the familiarity of it – the safety and security.

I had only been gone eleven days, but I had been on quite the roller-coaster, dealing with one challenge after another. Meeting my brother-in-law to be. Handling my sister’s grief over her alienation from our parents. Getting assaulted at a Christmas Party. Cleaning up the legal mess from the assault. Dealing with my brother’s arrest. Having an old friend find out I was trans and turn his back.

There had been many, many high points too. Christmas with Fi and Henry. My madcap New York adventure with the incredible Nicole. Making my first argument in court. But on the whole, I thought, what I need right now is some peace and quiet. Time to sit still, to process, to put the pieces of my life back into some sort of recognizable order.

It was New Year’s Eve; there would be parties and dancing, toasting in the New Year. I was content to be right where I was.

But not as I was. Because I had to deal with New York officialdom, I had been dressed and acting as Cameron Savin for the past five days, with the time spent with Nicole as my sole escape. Tomorrow was a holiday, and I could put away all of that for a day and two nights. What a blessing!

All of the Cameron clothes I had taken with me would need to be washed or dry cleaned; I had only brought enough male attire for two days, thinking I would just need it for New Haven. I had stretched everything out to last longer, and it showed. So rather than carefully hanging it all, I dropped it on the back of the couch for later bagging. Socks, underwear and shirts into the hamper.

I went naked into the bathroom and did not emerge for forty-five minutes, by which time I was washed, shaved, shampooed, conditioned, and properly padded. I could be Cami once again.

I could be me.

I slipped into the only nightie I had not taken with me on my travels – a pale blush charmeuse nightgown Liz had given me in Philadelphia. It felt wonderful to the touch and silky on my freshly-showered body. I stepped into a clean pair of panties, pulled them into place, made myself a cup of tea and sat in my comfortable chair, legs tucked up, a fleece throw wrapped around my shoulders.

On a whim, I ran a search on my streaming service and found a performance of Tosca. I hit play and closed my eyes, letting my mind wander.

I hadn’t even been dating Liz a year ago. We were working together on her employer’s case, but everything was still very professional. I imagined what it would be like, if I could go back in time twelve months and talk to my only slightly younger self. To tell that assured young man what was in store for him. Would he have been able to handle it?

He might guess the cost of the incredible transformation I had undergone this past year – the loss of friendships, the rejection by parents.

But could he possibly understand or appreciate what I had gained? The experiences that I had shared with Liz? The amazing closeness of my new relationship with Fiona? My friendships – Al and Javi, Sarah, Nicole – that would never have occurred in the ordered, regulated world Cameron Savin had occupied?

Not a chance.

Cameron had been insufficient for the world that had opened before me over the past year. As Cami, I had managed. Hopefully, I would continue to. The one thing I was sure of, as I sat and drank my tea and listened with dawning interest to the world of opera, was that 2020 would be filled with even more challenges.

Ready or not, here they come.

~o~O~o~

CHAPTER TWO
“risplenda un di seren”
– Verdi, Les vêpres siciliennes, Merce dilette amiche (Aria)

College Park Maryland, New Year’s Day

I was still having terror dreams. I had only had one night – the night of my frolic with Nicole – that I had managed an uninterrupted night’s sleep. When I woke up at 4:30, I decided it was close enough to my usual wake-up time that I should just get on with it.

If they continued, I was going to have to talk to someone about these dreams, residue from the assault a week ago. I would normally wait; I optimistically hoped that they would start to fade given some time. But I was scheduled to see a psychiatrist on Saturday morning anyway.

Per Sarah’s and Fiona’s suggestions, I had gotten in touch with specialists in transgender health to assist me in transitioning to my new life as a woman. Fi’s contacts had gotten me straight through to a clinical psychiatrist who would be be able to coordinate and oversee fairly comprehensive care. I thought I might as well raise the dreams then, too.

A new year should begin with good habits. My resolution to be better about sleep had not survived a day, but there was still a chance for my exercise-related resolution. So I got out of bed, changed into yoga pants and a sports bra, had a big glass of water and got busy.

Ten minutes of stretches. Twenty-five minutes of intense aerobic cheerleading routines. Ten more minutes of stretches. I pushed myself hard and by the end of the session I was hot, sweaty, and seriously virtuous. Back to the shower!

By 7:00 am, I was doing laundry, and had a lot to do. I was wearing a simple dress with capped sleeves and a pretty bra and panty set; my hair was set in the over-the-shoulder loose braid I had adopted for daily wear, and I was wearing light makeup and a dash of perfume.

This despite the fact that I was not, not, not going to leave the apartment today. I was going to do laundry, and listen to music, and do some reading. And make some calls. But I was staying home, even if that meant that I would be eating something from the freezer.

Which it did.

No, I was nicely dressed because I like dressing nicely. I feel better, more connected. Like the song says, I enjoy being a girl. Sometimes it’s no more complicated than that.

By noon my laundry was mostly done and I had caught up on both news and opinions concerning the world and the nation. The House of Representatives would be sending articles of impeachment to the Senate at some point in the next two weeks, and there was a great deal of discussion about that. The facts were mostly all known, though, so most of the chatter was just rehashing the same things people had been writing for weeks.

I had some work that I could do in advance of tomorrow. I had worked out of Curt’s apartment on Monday and Tuesday when I wasn’t dealing with Iain’s issues, but inflow had kept up with the outflow. Still, I was in pretty good shape. I decided to wait on that and make some calls first.

My first call was to Fiona. She tended to use Skype from her home computer, so I tried that first.

I got a pick-up after four rings, but it was Henry whose image showed up on my screen. “Hey Cami! A very happy New Year! How are you?” Henry, who would be a charming prince if America had royalty and if New England had charm, was looking very cheerful.

“I’m doing great, Henry. How about the two of you?”

He said, “We’re good. Things settled down very quickly after Christmas, given the way you managed things concerning Jonathan. Fi . . . well, she took a while to calm down, but she’s mostly there.”

He gave my image a close look. “You look dazzling as always, Cami, but if I may presume on our almost in-law status, you also look tired. Are you sure everything’s okay?”

Like I say, “charming.” Also, he cooks. Really, really well.

I sighed. “There’s been trouble with Iain. I dealt with it, but I need to bring Fi up to speed.”

“Oh! I’d get her right away, but she got called into work. Is it an emergency?”

I was surprised. Fiona’s a doctor and works at MassGeneral, but she’s in the infectious disease division, not the ER. “On New Year’s Day?” I queried.

“Yeah. They’ve got information on an outbreak of something in China that they called her in for; I gather it’s an ‘all hands’ kind of thing.”

“Seems pretty far afield for an emergency.”

“I hear ya,” Henry replied, “but it’s not all that unusual. Fi’s always telling me that in her line of work, it really is a ‘small world after all.’”

“Well, my call’s not urgent. Like I said, I think I’ve got things under control. But if you could ask her to give me a jingle when she gets in, I’d appreciate it.”

My next call was to Liz. She’s an iOS kind of person, so I shot her a text and asked if she had time to do a FaceTime so I could wish her a happy New Year. Rather than responding, she just used FT to video call me.

I had clearly caught her at the end of an exercise session of her own; her skin was gleaming, her face and chest were flushed, her sweat-dampened hair was in a headband and she was wearing a tightfitting rayon top. All of which is to say, she looked healthy, happy, and generally wonderful.

“Happy New Year, Cami!” She was still breathing hard but grinning like the joyful predator she is. “Don’t you look cool and pampered!”

I laughed. “Way ahead of you, sleepyhead. I finished my exercise six hours ago.”

She shook her head in disgust. “Only one type of exercise I’d even consider at that hour of the morning.” She stopped. “I don’t suppose . . . .”

I laughed and told her not to be silly.

We caught up. I told her about Christmas, but decided for some reason not to tell her about the assault. Maybe I had gotten that out of my system talking to Nicole. However, I did tell her about meeting Nicole and about our wild adventure in New York, which made her laugh hard.

“I can just see you dancing on table tops, mooning the Met . . . . Oh, my God! But seriously, Cami . . . Opera?”

I told her about what had happened with Iain. And about our last encounter.

“Are you shitting me?” she said. “He thinks you don’t have the guts? Does he know you at all?”

I shook my head. “Not really. He left home right after high school and disappeared into the New York art scene; I was, what? Fourteen, maybe fifteen when he left? I’ve . . . .”

I paused, trying to find the right words. “Even before this last year, I had changed a lot. Grew up a lot. I pretty much remade myself in Law School because I didn’t like the person I had always been. But Iain and I never saw each other often enough, or for long enough, for him to get any of that. In his mind, I’m still the snotty younger brother he was happy to leave behind.”

“You know, Cami, I try . . . I really do. But I will never understand your family. How did you turn out so good?”

I asked her about her own Christmas, and she was glowing. Lots of family, all of them getting along. Dinner with her best friends from work on Friday.

She said, “I did what you suggested. I let them know that you were coming out as transgendered, though not yet at work. And I asked them about getting together on MLK weekend.”

“And?” I asked, thinking about Curt.

“I told you, I know these guys. They were all completely okay with it. Janet was a bit startled, I think, but she just wanted to see pictures. Then Tish did, then the guys did too. They couldn’t believe it, but they’re all really eager to see you.”

“Liiiiiz!” I drew her name out like a threat. “Which pictures?”

She grinned at me evilly, but very quickly said, “The G-Rated ones. Only those. You know you can trust me.”

I did, and said so. And every time someone who knew me as Cam was willing to accept me as Cami, I felt a surge of . . . what? Relief, of course, but more than that. Rightness? Joy? Something special, anyway.

I asked about her weekend.

She hesitated and gave me a sideways look.

“Derek?”

She nodded, still looking uncertain. This was dangerous ground for us.

I thought to myself, Cami girl, it’s past time. Do the right thing.

So I looked straight at the camera and gently said, “Liz. It’s okay. I’m okay. Really. And I want, want, want you to be happy. Derek is making you happy. Or at least,” I said with a sly look, “satisfied.”

That got a smile.

I continued, “So let me put down a marker. We’re girlfriends now, alright? And you don’t hold back on your girlfriends. Dish!!!”

It still hurt, some. Maybe more than some; my attraction to Liz was powerful.

But we hadn’t been a “couple” since last August, and our decision to continue a form of sex play had been contingent on neither of us getting involved in a serious relationship. Although that hadn’t been the triggering event, it was clear to me at Thanksgiving that our intimate relationship would need to come to an end, for both of our sakes.

For myself, I had gradually awakened to the realization that, while I was more comfortable in a supporting role in sex, I didn’t want to be a passive participant. I might want Fred Astair as my dance partner, but I wanted to be Ginger Rogers, not the hat rack.

For Liz, though, our sex play had been potentially more destructive. She recreated, in exaggerated form, the warped power dynamic that had brought her so much pain during her ten-year marriage, just with her in the role of her dominant ex-husband and me in the position of the perfectly submissive plaything. She could never break free of the trauma of her failed marriage while reenacting it.

She needed to move on. Because we were so emotionally close, she knew I still had romantic feelings for her and wanted to shield me from the pain of watching her do it. But that would only serve, over time, to create a wider gulf between us.

I had to convince her that I was alright – indeed, that I was cheering for her. Fake it ’til you make it, Cami. And I would.

She was quiet for almost a full minute, staring at my image on her screen, as if she could see into my heart. Maybe she could; Cami would never even have been born but for Liz. She had a very direct gaze, her stunning green eyes almost unblinking.

I stared back projecting calm, sincerity, and honest curiosity. When I need it to, my face shows exactly what I choose to show. I may not be Cameron anymore, but I still know his tricks.

I won, I guess.

She finally said, “Okay, girl, I’ll dish. But only ’cuz you made me.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” I said contritely, an echo of Candi in my voice.

She stuck out her tongue. “Derek and I had a great time Saturday afternoon. He, umm, had a couple of new ideas, you know?”

One of the things Liz really liked about Derek was that he was eager to try new things in bed. Like me, Liz had a fairly conventional background and had, throughout her marriage and her sexual experiences both before and after it, a fairly conventional sex life. We had disrupted that pattern, and she discovered that she liked exploration. She just liked doing it with a guy. A real guy.

I smiled. “What new? Hanging from the chandeliers?”

Her smile had a distracted quality. “No. Well, but . . . .” And then she got quiet and, if anything, even more tentative than she had been before. “The important thing is, he spent the night.”

“And . . . . ?”

“Cami, all of those one-night stands I’ve had, I’ve never had them here. When Derek became a – ah – repeat player, I had him over here a couple of times. But, we would have sex, it would be great, we might do it again, then out he goes. Or, we would meet somewhere else. We would have sex. And off we’d both go.”

“Cameron slept over.” I made it a simple observation.

“I know, but that was different. Or, I hoped it would be.” She gave me a sad-sweet smile. “I was trying for something real, something long-term. Like – well, better than – what I’d had when I was married.”

I’d known that, of course, but hearing her say it still made my throat tighten. So I just nodded, as if to say, “Go on.”

“So, waking up and finding Derek in my bed, I realized . . . . maybe this is something real, too. Maybe we aren’t just playing around. Maybe I need to take this seriously.”

I leaned forward and used a tone I had never used with her before. “Liz, honey . . . . can you tell me why that’s a bad thing?”

She was startled; throughout our relationship – our multiple relationships, as I traveled the twisting road from Cam to Candi to Cami – Liz had always been in the driver’s seat, the dominant partner. But she needed something else right now, and just maybe my last incarnation could give it to her.

She nodded as if in recognition, and whispered, “Because I’m scared.”

Liz had somehow emerged from the breakdown of her marriage a strong, exceptionally good-looking woman who was always perfectly put together. Confident, competent, and unapologetically strong-willed, she knows her own mind and likes it. That Liz would be scared was hard enough to imagine; that she would admit it to me, six years her junior and a novice at the whole being a girl thing, told me that this was really serious.

But I had seen Liz weep over her marriage, three years after she had ended it. In fact, I’d kind of been the precipitating cause of her weeping over it, which might be why she was opening up to me and not to one of her other, older and more experienced, friends. She carried a lot of baggage, and a lot of scars, from ten years of trying to be the perfect little wifey that she thought she was supposed to be.

If Derek was getting close – especially if it happened without Liz having meticulously planned for it in detail and in advance, leaving herself prepared fall-back positions and clear and unobstructed lines of retreat – I could definitely see that it might cause her to freak out.

“It’s Jack, isn’t it?” I asked quietly.

She nodded once, looking miserable, then shook her head almost angrily. “It’s Jack, but it’s more me than Jack. We tried so hard. And it wasn’t enough. I know we had something. We were so certain on our wedding day. And it all just trickled away, until one day I woke up and found I was sharing a bed with a complete stranger. But he hadn’t changed. Jack was always the same guy.

“It was me. I changed. God, I can’t go through that again!”

I wished so badly that I could just hold her, and found myself thinking, irrelevantly, that Cami’s first instinct when someone was in pain was to rely on touch, where Cam’s never had been. That tool was unavailable in this circumstance. Dammit.

I also knew that Liz hated to cry and was trying very hard not to. I flashed back to how Nicole had managed me in a similar state, just a couple days before. I put all of my love, all of my compassion and concern, into my eyes, the set of my mouth, the entire expression of my face.

But I kept my voice light, conversational, just touching the outer boundary of levity. “Liz, have you considered the possibility that you didn’t have any idea who you really were at eighteen? Or, the likelihood that, at thirty-three, you’ve overcome that handicap? Most people do, you know.”

The cat-green eyes blinked, then narrowed. A ghost of a smile – the one that says, “I know what your game is, girl!” – danced around her lips. But her anguished look eased and she took a long breath. “Yes, I have actually considered those things, oh Great Swami!”

“And . . . you’re right, obviously. I know it up here,” she tapped her head. “It’s my gut that gives me trouble. I had a pretty visceral reaction when I woke up Sunday morning, I can tell you. And enough of my freak-out bled through that I felt I had to offer to join him for dinner to make up for it.” Her voice sounded much more normal.

I kept my tone easy, unthreatening. “Was it a good dinner? Did you feel like you had a connection, even outside the bedroom?”

The question surprised her and she had to think about it. “It was a nice dinner,” she concluded after a moment. “Really nice. We had a good time. He’s actually pretty funny, in an easygoing way . . . . as you know, my own sense of humor tends to have a bit of a bite. But yeah, I’d say we connected.”

“Okay, Liz,” I said. “Why don’t you just take it a step at a time? You don’t need to decide if it’s serious, or if he’s Mr. Right. You just need to see whether there are other parts of your lives where you seem to fit. You kind of came into this relationship backward, starting with the sex. So you know the engine works, you just don’t know much about the rest of the car.”

She looked thoughtful.

I smiled. “I know it’s hard to believe after the two of you spent a couple of months trying out half the beds in Pittsburgh, but you kind of just had your first date with the guy. Try a few more.”

This time she laughed easily. “God, I love you, Cami!” Then she sobered and said, quietly and sincerely, “Thank you.”

We ended our call a bit later, after chatting idly about this and that and making plans for MLK weekend. I had to sit for a few minutes afterward and recover. And tell myself I was doing the right thing.

I worked for a couple hours, expecting to hear from Fi. Along about 4:00 I wrapped up and logged my time. I decided I needed to do something completely frivolous and hunted down a movie based on a line Sarah had deliberately misquoted the last time I’d seen her.

I had never seen The Princess Bride, but I discovered that some of the lines were so iconic they had filtered into the broader culture. I spent a wonderful couple of hours in the company of Westley and Buttercup, Inigo Montoya and Miracle Max, and ended up feeling “mostly” better.

I was cooking a stir-fry from chicken and vegetables I had pulled from the freezer when I got a text from Fi. “Heard you need to talk. I’ll be home by 7:30. That okay?”

I confirmed.

I punched up her Skype account at the scheduled time, a cup of tea at my side. Fi looked a bit distracted, but otherwise good.

“Hey kid,” she said, “Happy New Year!”

I smiled warmly. “To you too, Fi. Miss you guys!”

She got right to business. “So . . . trouble with Iain?”

I explained.

Her reaction was fairly clinical. “I agree he’s never been physically violent before, far as I know. But the temper’s always been there — I should know, since I have it too.” She flashed a smile, but it disappeared quickly. ''Of course, depending on what he’s gotten into, drugs can wear away your inhibitions.”

She sighed. “Iain and I were never close. Not like you and I were when you were little and I was looking after you. He was always so . . . .” she searched for the right word and couldn’t find it.

I decided to be helpful. “Angry? Oppositional? Surly?”

My litany made her laugh. “Yeah, all that. And moody, and dramatic . . . . I never figured him out. Mom and Dad never figured him out. No wonder they buried themselves in church; it was cheaper than booze.”

But he had also, always, been the big, strong brother, the natural athlete, the guy who could and would go toe-to-toe with Dad.

As a child, I had learned to navigate the dangerous waters that divided my parents and my brother, and occasionally found words to calm the tempests between them.

Useful skills, though they had earned me Iain’s contempt. Useful for an attorney, and, I was finding, useful for a woman, too. Maybe even natural for a woman.

“So it sounds like you managed to bail him out of jail, sweet-talk the DA, buy off his roommates and get him into a rehab facility. For which, I’m sure, you received no thanks at all from Iain.” Fi gave me a look. “But I’m grateful, even if he isn’t. I don’t know how long it would have taken me to get all of that worked out, or even if I could. At least, let me pay for it.”

She saw my gathering protest and stopped me. “Don’t be silly, Cami. You know what my situation is here. I’m not hurting for money, and that would be true even if I wasn’t engaged to Croesus.”

“Fi, this isn’t Hutchinson family business, it’s Savin family business. Besides, you and Henry haven’t even set a date.”

She smiled smugly. “Ummm . . . well, about that . . . .”

All thoughts of money and idiot brothers momentarily vanished and I practically squealed, “You DID?!!!”

She nodded happily.

“I am so happy for you! You are perfect for each other!”

She smiled at me fondly. “January 16, 2021, little sister. Got anything on your calendar?”

I teased, “I think I can free up the date. But you’ll owe me.”

She replied, grinning wickedly, “Oh, I’ll repay you, ’cuz I get to choose your Maid of Honor dress!”

I laughed so hard my eyes watered, but when I got myself under control I said, very firmly, “Fi, you told me that Cassie Johnson was going to be your Matron of Honor. She should be.”

She looked exasperated. “She was, but that’s before I even knew I had a little sister.” She paused and added softly, “who I happen to love very much.”

That made me tear up. “Thank you. It means so much to me that you would offer. I can’t tell you how much. But Cassie’s been there for you all through med school, through thick and thin. You were her Maid of Honor, and she should be yours. . . . I’d really like to be a bridesmaid though, if you’ll have me.”

She glowered. “Where did all of this stubborn come from?”

I looked innocent.

“All right,” she conceded. “You win. But only if you let me pay for Iain’s nonsense.”

That set off another round of arguments, wherein I was beaten back from my starting position of “You don’t have to pay anything” to “Fifty-fifty, and no more arguments,” to my covering the cost of restitution to the roommates and Fi covering the far costlier rehab. I was also out the bail money, but I would get that back after Iain completed rehab and the charges were dropped.

In the end, she had persuaded me by pointing out that our parents had helped her with the cost of med school and she’d been paying down her loans longer, while I had to cover law school myself and my outstanding debt was higher.

“Besides,” she said, “you are going to have some new expenses yourself. I don’t know what your insurance situation is, but it’s a fair bet that at least some of the gender affirmation treatment you will want isn’t going to be covered.”

That, I expected, was only too true. I conceded – I hope with good grace.

As I got myself ready for an early bed an hour or so later, I decided it had been a very good day. I had needed to just recharge my batteries a little. I smiled sleepily and thought I should do it more often.

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER THREE
“Hör ich nur diese Weise”
– Wagner, Tristan und Isolde, Liebestod (Aria)

Baltimore, Maryland, January 4

“Cameron Savin? Please come this way.” The receptionist led me out of the waiting room, which looked like every waiting room in every medical services building in every city I had ever lived in. We walked down a carpeted hallway – at least they had avoided the institutional white linoleum – and stopped at a door that bore the name plaque “Kiara Chun, M.D.”

Fiona had talked to colleagues and gotten several recommendations for me, and I had researched each of them, read their biographies and reviews on sites that aggregate them.

I had chosen Dr. Chun mostly because her life story spoke to me: raised in Thailand, educated in the United States, she was the daughter of a Hindu woman and a Korean man – neither society being known for being especially tolerant of mixed-race children. If anyone could understand this new and strange world I was in, it would be the woman who survived such an amazing journey.
I had positively agonized about what to wear for this appointment. It was unseasonably warm and foggy, so I didn’t need to dress for winter. Should I wear a dress? Would that be too obvious? Skirt and blouse? Jacket? How should I do my hair?

Ugggh!!! I wanted to look confident in my femininity, but confidence eschews exaggeration. I wanted to be taken seriously. I wanted to be relatable. Above all, I wanted to be believed.

I wanted too damned many things!

In the end, I went with a simple sky-blue A-Line dress with a U-neck coupled with a navy-blue jacket I had just purchased. The combination would be suitable to wear at work. Someday. I wore nude pantyhose and my black pumps, kept the makeup morning light and discrete, and stuck with my tried-and-true over-the shoulder loose braid.

Hopefully, the package would say, “I’m a professional woman who has a medical issue to raise with her doctor,” rather than, “I’m a guy who desperately wants to be accepted as a woman.”

Damn, I thought. This is going to be hard.

The receptionist knocked on Dr. Chun’s door and opened it. A woman got up from behind the desk to walk to the door and greeted me with a warm smile.

She was petite – scarcely surprising given her heritage. Her features seemed very Korean, but her skin was darker, with reddish undertones. It was an unusual combination. I would never have been able to guess her age, but as it happened, I didn’t need to. I had found in my search that she was thirty-seven. A decade older than me.

“Please come in,” she said in a pleasant contralto. I crossed the threshold . . . a big step . . . and the receptionist closed the door behind me.

Rather than shaking my hand, she took me by the elbow and guided me to a pair of arm-chairs.

No couches, thank God.

“I’m Dr. Chun. Please have a seat.”

“I’m Cameron Savin, but informally I’m using Cami.”

“Would you like me to call you Cami?”

I was actually conflicted. Cami is a bit informal, while Cameron can be a girl’s name as well as a boy’s, it’s just less common. Still, I’d put the name out there, so I had better use it. “That would be fine.”

“Okay, Cami. You made an appointment to see me about Gender Affirmation Services. But why don’t you start by telling me in your own words why you’re here and what you are looking to accomplish.”

This is it.

“I’ve come to realize that I am a woman. Here,” I said, touching my chest, “where it counts. Although I’m currently dressing as a male for work, that’s temporary, and the rest of the time I am dressing and interacting with others as a woman. What I want . . . .”

I paused, trying to remember how Sarah had put it. “What I want is to look in the mirror and see the woman that I know myself to be. I don’t want to wear padding, I want to be padded. I want to hear my voice and know that it’s a woman talking. I want people who interact with me to simply think of me as a woman, not a trans woman.

“I don’t know what I will need to do, to make all of that a reality. Whether I need hormone therapy, or surgery, or what. But that’s the goal.”

This was Dr. Chun’s specialty; she had heard lots of wishes, hopes and dreams, so she didn’t look surprised at anything I had said.

“We can absolutely help you with all of that. We have relationships with otolaryngologists for voice therapy. With endocrinologists for hormone therapy and dermatologists for hair removal. Finally, we have relationships with surgeons who perform cosmetic surgery, breast augmentation surgery, and vaginoplasties if you decide to go that route, though there are some constraints that mostly relate to what can happen when, and in what sequence.”

She paused, making sure I was following her, then added, “But you don’t need to make any of those decisions today. Instead, I’d like to engage in a process that will help you decide which, if any, of those services makes sense for you.”

“If any?” I asked, a bit surprised.

“That’s right. You must know that you already present well as a woman – and I’d like to talk to you more about that later. If your primary goal was simply to be able to pass as a woman when dressed, you’re already well on your way. Which is not to say you can’t make refinements. If that doesn’t meet your goals, you can decide to use additional services. But every part of it, each step, is your decision. Okay?”

“Perfect.”

Next up was my life story, or at least those elements that had a bearing on my feelings about gender and gender identity. It wasn’t easy for me to open up about any of it. It was – is – deeply personal, and much of it is as embarrassing as hell.

But Dr. Chun is really, really good at her job. By asking questions in an easy, nonjudgmental and routine way, she got me to discuss difficult subjects like dressing up in party dresses when I was young, or learning to masturbate while wearing my sister’s outgrown swimsuit. She made me realize that these are background questions she commonly asks clients seeking gender affirmation care, and my responses weren’t necessarily out of the norm for that population.

Some of her questions kind of surprised me. Like, “How do you feel about having a penis?”

“It’s an appendage. I don’t love or hate it, but that’s like saying I don’t love or hate my big toe. Why would I?”

“Some transwomen report feelings of disgust concerning their penis; it’s not unusual. But we’re just trying to get the lay of the land here.”

“Well . . . I guess my penis is small relative to other adult males. So, I suppose that means it might not be optimally designed for one of its two functions. For my own purposes, it also gets in the way when I’m wearing clothes designed for women, and that can be annoying. But it doesn’t bother me. I really don’t give it much thought.”

She wanted to know about my experience of puberty. I said there wasn’t much to tell, since not that much happened. My voice dropped, but not that much. Shoulders, feet, penis, all got bigger . . . but not by much. Minimal face and body hair growth. No issues with acne. I do recall thinking for a period that I kind of smelled bad. But on the whole, it had been a non-event.

“How did that make you feel? Were you . . . disappointed? Relieved? Did you experience feelings of inadequacy?”

I had to really think about those questions. “I suppose I was disappointed. My older brother ended up tall – about 6’2” – as well as strong and athletic. I guess maybe I assumed I would look like him, and when puberty sort of passed me by I realized I’d always be the runt.”

She asked me if I had been dressing since high school, and I shook my head.

“No; that was a pretty brief thing, really wrapped up with exploring masturbation – though I didn’t even know that’s what it was called at the time, if you can believe it.”

"When did you start dressing again, and why?”

And that, of course, was where the rubber met the road. Explaining my relationship with Liz was hard. But it had to be done. I decided I would try to be as clinical, as detached and impersonal, as possible.

“A woman I was dating broke up with me because I wasn’t satisfying her sexually. I was very invested in the relationship and pushed to continue it in some form. We discovered that we were both erotically stimulated by sex play that involved her in a variety of dominant roles and me in submissive ones.

“The primary tool she employed was to feminize me, at first by giving me specific things to wear. But later, she had me select, purchase, and model outfits for specific hypothetical occasions, like a dinner with friends or a beach party. To do it well, I had to really try to think about how I presented myself, in ways that women do and guys just don’t.

“And . . . I loved it. I had an increasing sense that the ‘real me’ was actually expressed when I was thinking, acting and dressing as a woman. I realized that it wasn’t a game for me, and that I’m transgendered. That’s when Liz and I ended our role-playing. With the temporary exception of work, I’ve been living as a woman since then.”

I expected at least a look of surprise – the story sounded crazy even to me, and I had lived it. I expect my face was flaming.

But she looked unperturbed, just taking a few notes. as she had throughout. “Can you give me a timeline on these events? How long ago did all of this happen?”

“The first time she had me wear panties was, I think, August of last year. We continued our sex play through Thanksgiving, which is when I concluded for certain that I’m transgendered, though I probably began to suspect it in early October.”

That, oddly enough, was the first thing to surprise her. The delicate brow over her right eye might have inched upward half an inch. “Then this must all be very new to you. A great deal to handle all at once. Yet, I get the sense that you are deeply certain. Can you tell me about that?”

Her voice was warm and understanding, but she touched one of the fears I agonized about when I made my appointment: that she might think, because of how quickly this change had come over me, that it was a passing idea, almost like a fad or something. I had already given my answer a lot of thought.

“I know I haven’t always felt I should have been a girl,” I said, probably a bit defensively. “And I know a lot of trans girls and women have had that experience. But every step I’ve taken on this journey, I’ve just been overwhelmed by a sense of rightness. That I’ve suddenly discovered what I was meant to be.”

Searching for an analogy, I said, “It’s like that movie scene when Dorothy lands in Oz and discovers what color looks like. She wouldn’t have ever noticed that her world was colorless before, because all she ever knew was black and white.”

She cocked her head. “But Dorothy spends the rest of the movie trying to get back to her black and white world. You don’t think that might happen to you. Why not?”

It was interesting that she hadn’t asked whether I thought it might.

Reassuring, too. “Dorothy was a child, and she missed her home. Her Aunty Em. I left home when I was twenty-one, and I don’t think I’ll even return for a visit now. It’s certainly not home anymore. And I’ll be honest: I’ve always thought Dorothy was an idiot for going back.”

She cocked an eyebrow in question.

“Have you been to Kansas?”

Dr. Chun, I discovered, had a very musical laugh. Nicole would love it.

“Seriously, though,” I said, “I can’t imagine accepting a black-and white existence after discovering color is an alternative, or a world without sound when you were given the gift of hearing. It’s like that for me.

“When I dress as Cami, interact with people as Cami, I feel like I have access to a whole range of experiences that were closed to me. And most important, my relationships with people – men and women – are just so much deeper, more meaningful, more fulfilling. I feel like I’m completely alive for the first time. I’ll never go back.”

She asked me to expand on that, and I talked about the relationships I had formed, or had renewed. With Liz, but also with Al and Javi, with Sarah.

I talked about my connecting with Nicole on the train, and how that never would have happened to Cam. I talked about our dinner and our midnight adventure, singing and dancing our way through New York.

She wanted to know who else I had told, and who I hadn’t and why.

I told her those stories too – about my parents, and Fi, and Curt. I told her about Iain’s reaction.

“So you will prove him wrong?” she asked.

“I suppose so, but that’s just a byproduct. I don’t have anything to prove to Iain.”

We discussed the things that I had done to try to present myself more credibly as a woman, from the obvious – my prosthetic breasts and my padded panty gaff – to the purely cosmetic (hair, nails, makeup) to my careful observation and study of how women communicate with both men and other women, including both verbal and non-verbal forms. I also mentioned getting detailed feedback from Liz through the initial part of my transition.

We discussed issues concerning sexual orientation, and I explained that, as Cami, I had found myself to be sexually attracted to men, although I was still attracted to at least one woman. She asked whether I had any romantic or sexual encounters with men. I explained about my kiss with Steve.

And then I stopped.

She waited.

I took a deep breath. “There is another event, and I was meaning to talk to you about it as well, for other reasons. I was assaulted at a Christmas Party by a man who had discovered that I was trans, and who wanted me to” – here I thought of Cornelius’ dry prose – “perform fellatio on him. Which I didn’t.”

She put her pen down and asked me whether I had reported the assault to the police.

“No,” I responded. “He was related to my sister’s fiancé, so I felt compelled to come up with a resolution that didn’t involve criminal charges and prison. It’s hard to explain, but he was a threat to my sister – to the family that she is going to be joining. And, I wake up at night, almost every night, having terror dreams about danger to Fiona.”

“Not danger to you?”

I shook my head. “No. From the moment the attack started, I was just overwhelmed by fear for Fiona. I’d say it was irrational, but it wasn’t – the danger to Fi was real. But, it’s certainly irrational to still be afraid. It’s like feeling aftershocks from an earthquake.”

She took some more notes, asked some more questions. At the end of our session, she said, “I think we’ve made a good start today. I’m really amazed at the progress you’ve made already in presenting as a woman. You have had many teachers, but you must also be a very good – and very motivated – student.

“There are a couple things I would like to suggest as next steps. I have some materials I want you to review that describe treatment options. What they might accomplish, what their benefits and limitations are. When we have our next session I’d like to discuss some of them with you in more detail.
“I also think it would be helpful to get some bloodwork, to get a baseline of your existing hormone balance. Finally, I’m going to give you a prescription for your terror dreams. But, I don’t want you to start taking it until you get the blood drawn for the lab work.”

That all made sense to me, so we set it up.

I left the office feeling emotionally drained by the two-hour session, but very hopeful. I was starting to take real steps toward my future, and I felt very good about that.

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER FOUR
“mi vagan nello spirto”
– Puccini, Manon Lescaut, Donna non vidi mai (Aria)

Baltimore, Maryland, January 4, immediately following

It was only late morning, and I needed some quiet time to think. Normally I get that at home, but I decided to take advantage of the weather and have a look around the Inner Harbor.

I saw that there was a walking tour that might take an hour or so. I was sorry that it did not include the famous Fort McHenry (“O Say, Can You See?”), but otherwise it sounded perfect.

So I strolled along, seeing the sights. A Civil War era sloop; a WWII era submarine. The morning fog had lifted and the waves sparkled in the harbor.

My mind, turned inward, still took it in and spun it back to me – the story of a city, once a front-line in defense of an infant nation, once one of the young country’s most important ports and commercial centers, now remaking itself. Sometimes growing, sometimes shrinking. Always adapting, evolving. So much history here, in such a small space of time.

The cries of seagulls took me back to the quiet of my own room, listening to recorded sounds of the seashore . . . the smell of chamomile . . . the finality of a text. “I’m sorry Cami, I can’t go there . . . .” A lot of history there, too, in a small space of time.

My history.

Was my desire to express myself as a woman simply a result of external stimuli? A desire to please Liz, in some way to keep her, that just got out of hand? I forced myself to consider the question objectively, as Dr. Chun must have been doing during our interview.

It didn’t ring true to me. Almost as soon as I began the process of self-feminization, the sex play with Liz had become a secondary thing. Wonderful in its own way, and . . . well. The sex had been mind-blowing for me. But still, secondary. As I had told Dr. Chun, each step I had taken had felt more right, more liberating.

The harder question, the one I had avoided thinking about, and that Dr. Chun hadn’t asked, was whether I desired to become a woman because I was simply inadequate as a man.

I was standing on the harbor walk, gazing at the majestic masts and spars of the Constellation, but my brain was no longer processing external stimuli. Was I a failure as a man?

I thought about my physical make up, reversing the objective scrutiny I had given myself when Liz first challenged me to think of my body as female.

I was neither tall nor short; my face was neither strong nor pretty; I had no feature that stood out as being particularly masculine or feminine, save maybe my hands (which, as Iain had remarked, were on the small side – at least the palms; my fingers were longer and tapered). I had body hair (when I didn’t shave), but not much of it.

It had been relatively easy to make myself look like a woman, though women have more tools at their disposal than men. Could I have made myself look more like a man? Would I have wanted to?

“Excuse me, love. Are you okay? You’re looking a bit lost.”

I turned at the sound of a kind voice, saw an older woman standing a couple of feet from me. Pleasant face. Silver hair. Like me, enjoying the unusually warm weather. Unlike me, I thought, she probably isn’t questioning the foundation of her existence.

I smiled warmly. “I’ve just got a lot to think about, that’s all. But it was kind of you to stop. Thank you.”

She returned the smile and gave my arm a pat. “I’ll let you get back to your thinking then. Take care.”

As I watched her walk away I thought how, as Cam, I would never have walked up to a young woman, lost in thought on a Baltimore dockside, and asked her if she was okay. I would have been concerned that I would be perceived as a threat, simply because of my maleness. And, there is an excellent chance that the young woman would at very least have seen such an approach as an unwelcome imposition or a pick-up attempt.

Cam would have held back. Stayed back. Not engaged. But I didn’t want to live like that, and Cami wouldn’t need to.

I hadn’t been a failure as a man. I did okay at it. You don’t have to look like Chris Hemsworth to be a man. But in our society, males do have to think, act, communicate, and relate in ways that I find deeply unsatisfying.

A man is expected to be strong, but in a forceful, dominant way that has no appeal to me. I’m not weak, but my strength simply flows in ways that are not recognized as masculine. I’m a shield, a bulwark, a home port. I have no will to dominate, no desire to control. No urge for aggression.

I can act hard and tough, and when necessary I had done so. But for me it’s an act. Like an introvert who can be the life of a party, I know how to do it. It just drains me. Being a loving and supportive sister, being a caring and compassionate friend . . . these things are the fullest, truest, most life-affirming expressions of my deepest self.

If there’s a secret to men’s relationships I had never gotten the memo, and in that sense maybe I had simply failed as a man. But I didn’t think it was all on me. There are limits to how far men want to open themselves up, and be open to others. At least in my society, in the Year of Our Lord 2020.

I had male friends, especially in law school. Like Curt. We had been close – or what I had thought of as close. But I could never, ever, have had as meaningful a conversation with Curt as I had had with Nicole, whom I had only known for a few hours.

And I wanted that. I wanted all of it.

And I love all the rest, too, though I realized now it was less important to me. I love the pure sensuality of womanhood. The feel of silk against my smooth skin; the moist touch of creamy gloss on my lips; the movement of air against bare legs. The smell of flowers, of perfume. The quiet swish that nylons make when I’m walking in a skirt . . . I revel in it.

Maybe I have gender dysphoria, maybe I don’t. I suppose Dr. Chun will tell me her view about that when the time comes. But I wasn’t running from a life I couldn’t endure. I was running toward one that I could see unfolding before me, as beautiful as a morning glory that opens to greet the dawn.

When it comes to being a woman, I have gender euphoria. That is the pole star that was guiding my steps.

I finally stopped looking blindly at the old sloop and really saw her. She had been designed as a weapon of war, but for those who sailed her she had been hope in the storm, a place of companionship and shared endeavor, a shield against those who would harm them. And in the end, she had brought them safely home. Ships really are women, I thought.

And so am I.

To be continued . . . .

IMPORTANT AUTHOR'S NOTE: Dr. Chun is a fictional character, and the description of her session with Cami is not necessarily indicative of what would happen at such a session at any particular institution and for any individual patient. As they say in car commercials, actual mileage may vary. What they mean is, it always does. -- Emma T.