Becky continues her narrative of her life, constantly weighing the cost of being who she is.

I'm back in my office fighting tears. I want to know who the complainer is but know it's best I do not. If I knew I would run to her, tell her I too know fear, or at least I did. I was able to escape mine, suppressed it for decades while I receiving daily doses of testosterone against my will, becoming a man. Except I feel fear again now sometimes when I walk alone in the dark from Metro to my car. I no longer feel I could defend myself against an attack.

I'm not done with my work but It's time to leave. I change out of my pumps and into my walking shoes for the five block walk to Metro. Many female commuters do the same. It's late afternoon and it will be chilly so I put on my coat and button it. I leave the building and feel a rush of freedom. I'm out on the street where no one knows who I am or who I used to be. I am a happy confident woman like hundreds of others. I wait for my train on the platform deep below the street. It's crowded with rush hour commuters. I love riding Metro, being part of the commuter class sharing a common purpose. I join the throng pushing onto a waiting car. There are no open seats. A well dressed man gives me his, smiling, calling me 'Miss'. He looks connected, important. I want to talk to him but I know the risk. I sit, carefully keeping my knees together with my purse on my lap. I subtly watch people watching me. The man who gave up his seat is married sporting a large chunk of gold on his left ring finger. Lucky woman. I tell myself I could endure being with a man like that if it would make me a complete woman.

I think about dinner. It's my turn to cook and I have a chicken and pasta casserole in the fridge that needs popped in the oven for an hour at 350 degrees. I live with a widow and her two sons. I rent the second bedroom upstairs while the sons live in the finished basement. I like Carol, the widow, the mother, the first woman who knew nothing of my past to accept me. She is ten years older than I but we have become close in the fourteen months I've lived in the bedroom across from her's. Carol's sons are respectful and courteous; friendly to me but cautious.

I'm home, fixing a salad to go with the casserole. Gary, the oldest son, married but separated, comes in from work. He is a deputy sheriff, big and strong in his uniform, badge, holster and gun. I've lived in the same house with him for over a year and he is kind, gentle and sweet; more of a teddy bear than an intimidating officer of the law. He grabs a beer from the fridge, pops the top and sits at the table talking. I listen, still wearing the Jones suit skirt and jacket but wearing an apron. To a casual observer we would be a typical man and woman in a typical kitchen talking about their typical day, except he's doing the talking and I'm doing the listening. I like this. I want to call him 'honey'.

Gary is telling me about an arrest he made today. They received a complaint about a young girl, fifteen or sixteen, soliciting near a shopping mall just outside of DC. They staked out the corner and when they observed the girl posing provocatively, they sent an undercover deputy. When she offered herself to the undercover officer for a few dollars, they swooped in and arrested her, except it was not a girl but a boy, short skirt, halter top with padding, heels, wig. Gary emphasizes 'he' was only fifteen. I hear Gary stress the gender pronoun.

I wonder if he's telling me this because of who I am. He's never asked anything about my past before, or what it is like being me, or why I would want to give up all that being a man brought me. I just assumed he didn't want to know, feared the answers. Frankly, I'm just as glad when people who know my past don't ask. I don't want to tell.

I tell Gary how risky the behavior is and tragic too. I add my prayer that they don't put this boy/girl in juvie with boys. I tell him I could not relate; that when I was fifteen I wasn't trying to be a girl, couldn't imagine being out in public in a skirt, and most definately wasn't considering soliciting men for sex. I laugh nervously and don't want our talk to shift to me and my teen years. Now there is welcomed silence, an aroma of nervous tension.

I'm in my room after I've cleaned up the kitchen. I take my skirt and jacket off and hang them up neatly. The new pair of panyhose survived but would have to be washed. I'm happy to get my bra off. I am thrilled that I need to wear one but after fifteen hours, it is wonderful to be free . I slip on a nightgown, plain, cotton, high neck, comfortable. I remove my makeup, brush my teeth and my hair. In nine hours I will repaint my face. I devote considerable time to maintenance, day-in and day-out routines for appearance and vanity. I hate it but, of course, love it.

I hear Carol come up stairs and go into her room, the master bedroom across the hall from mine. I like this arrangement; the women are upstairs and the men, the 'boys', are in the basement.

As expected there is a knock. Carol and I are close; we talk. I know she is lonely too, as am I; lonely not for a man, but for friendship, girl talk. Her husband died suddenly five years ago. Often she is in my room sitting on the bed sharing stories, sometimes personal, telling me things she would only tell a girl friend she trusted. I share too. She is one of the very few I've opened up to about the years of pain and self-loathing leading to transition.

Carol comes in. She is ready for bed too, wearing a nightgown much like mine, cotton, plain. We nearly match and she laughs at how alike we are with a similar fine boned builds, nearly identical hair styles except her's is red. The exceptions; I'm five inches taller than she is and she is somewhat broader in the hips than I. She even lent me a top or two, and one of my bras inadvertantly found it's way into Carol's dresser, presumably through our shared laundry experience, before discovery and return. We are the same bust size.

Carol asks about my day. She knew I hoped to be released from the restroom restriction. I tell her the details of the meeting. I am crying and she stands and hugs me. I feel her warmth, her softness, her compassion. She tells me how proud she is of me and lectures me how important it is for me to stay strong, not just for myself but for all those girls like me who can't fight. She speculates that maybe someday it won't be a big deal. She mixes a metaphor saying if it looks like a duck, it should be allowed in the hen house. Carol is funny and makes me laugh, but I can't see that future.

She takes my hand and pulls me toward the hall and into her room. She is saying she has something she wants to show me. She asks me to sit on her bed. She's reaching for a box in the top of her closet. She puts the box in front of me and tells me to open it. The box is from Saks. I lift off the top and pull the tissue to the side. I look at Carol who is smiling, watching my reaction.

I gush. I exclaim how beautiful it is, a mint green peignoir set, exquisite silk and nylon with floral cream satin applique. It is neatly folded. I feel there is a story Carol wants to tell. I look at her. There are tears forming. I tell her how beautiful it is. I touch it, let my fingers float over the material, over the raised satiny threads of the applique as if I was reading braille.

I try to ask but cannot find the right words. She begins a story, a love story. I know she was married to Carl for thirty five years when he died while on a business trip. I know how strong their love was. She has told me, showing me pictures of their life together. I see how she keeps his dresser just as he had left it, his slippers still next to his side of the bed.

Now the tears fall as she explains what is in the box was a gift from Carl just days before he died. She is looking into my eyes. I hear her sadness as she says they had planned to go away to celebrate their anniversary just as soon as he got back from the trip. He didn't get back, she says, they didn't go on the vacation and she never wore the peignoir set, never took it out of the box.

We are both crying now and hugging again. I love her, and feel her pain as I know she feels mine. I start to put the lid back on the box but she stops me asking if I didn't want to pick it up, examine it. I hesitate but she insists. I lift the robe and gown together. I have not touched anything like it, wonderfully made, elegant, divine. I separate the robe from gown examining the detail. I am enthralled.

I start to fold it but she stops me. I hear her tell me to try it on. I immediately resist. I can't. It's almost sacred, laying dormant all these years since Carl died, a metaphor for Carol's grief. I just can't. She insists. I know I must give in, or risk insult.

I stand and hesitate. Carol senses I am uneasy disrobing in front of her. She sits at her vanity with her back to me as I lift the nightgown I'm wearing over my head and drop it on the bed. But there are mirrors and she sees me, all of me from different angles. I see her seeing me. I blush even though I have been in this state with women before, topless in the locker room at the pool where I do laps twice a week. I reach for the virgin gown when Carol turns and watches. I'm well confined as always with panties over thong, so there is nothing revealing below.

I pause holding the gown close to me and let her watch. She is enjoying this moment and I can't deny her. She is speaking, using my name, telling me I am beautiful, a beautiful woman. I lift the gown over my head and let it fall over me. I am transformed, covered in joy, overwhelmed with affirmation. The gown gently hugs me falling to my ankles. The bodice cups each breast tenderly, accenting their modest size and coyly giving my nipples a gauzy prominence. I'm enveloped by the gown's sensuality, and enjoy the spiritual arousal it brings, along with a tiny physical one.

Carol asks me to turn around and I do trying to twirl like a schoolgirl and almost falling. We laugh and she hugs me. Carol now holds the matching robe. I slip my arms in and feel it loosely covering me modeling the gown, but barely hiding anything. I twirl again for Carol feeling the material swirl around me, and then settling back in place. We laugh, and talk, and cry. I tell her how fun this is, how much it means to have her in my life, and how honored I am that she shared the peignoir set with me and let me try in on.

I hear her words but say nothing. She is telling me she wants me to have it. I'm speechless. No, I tell her. It wouldn't be right. She disagrees. Through tears Carol tells me she has thought this through; she would never be able to bring herself to wear it, ever, without Carl. She laughs saying she thought about asking to be buried in it so he could see it when they meet again. She adds Carl would have liked me and would want me to have it. I'm filled with emotion. I thank her profusely as she pushes me out of her room reminding me that we both have to work in the morning.

In my room I take the robe off and lay it at the foot of the bed. Under the covers I feel nothing but joy. I drift off to sleep peacefully not once thinking about Frank, or the restroom restrictions I will again endure at work tomorrow.

I'm awake and it's early. I need to be at work so I can meet Janice in Alexandria after work. I'm on my way down the stairs and almost to the kitchen to start coffee. I turn the corner in the dark and am nearly knocked off my feet. It's Gary. I didn't hear him and he didn't hear me. I'm falling but am stopped. Gary's right arm cradles me and breaks my fall. His left hand inadvertently lands on my right breast, a necessary, and not unwelcome, action. It was that or we both would be on the floor. He’s holding my breast through the exquisite gown his father bought for his mother. Instantly I wonder if he’s seen it before, knows the story. Would he approve me wearing it, owning it?

Gary is wearing only boxers and a tee shirt. He pulls me back to my feet and we are briefly holding each other, man and woman. An instant passes where I could yield, his strength nearly irresistible. He apologizes. I do too. I can't see his face but I feel warm. I'm blushing. I hug myself trying to hide the breasts he can't see in the dark. He turns and retreats to the basement. I quickly start the coffee and also retreat.

I'm in the shower washing my hair, shaving my legs, thinking of Janice and trying not to think of Gary, and how effortlessly he saved me from falling while I was wearing next to nothing. I towel dry my hair and am just fastening my bra when there is a knock on the door. Thinking it is Carol I open it only to see Gary with a cup of coffee. I should ask him to wait while I don a robe but don't. Instead I open the door wider, enough for him to hand me the cup, enough for him to see nearly all. He's surprised and nervous, but his eyes smile and dart from place to place. Has he not seen a woman in her bra and panties before? I feel naughty and empowered, but reason he deserved a reward for saving me and for bringing me coffee. I deny there is any more than that to my impulse. I thank him and close the door.

I have remorse for what I just did. I ignore the excitement it brings, the hint of arousal, and repeat my vows of chastity until after surgery, and proclaim again to myself in the mirror that I am attracted to women, not men.

Doubts 3 - Follow Becky's intimate thoughts as she navigates her day.

Reluctantly I push the memory of Gary ogling me in just my bra and panties out of my mind. I have to get ready for work. I love getting dressed each day, stepping into a dress or skirt and doing my make up, transforming myself into the person, the mature woman, I feel I am. I enjoy it so much; doing each day now what for so many years of my life I could only do a few times a year, and then only through careful deception and planning, nervously hiding behind locked doors. Today, like every day for the past year, I will be seen, observed, and judged, hopefully with approval. I wonder if women who grew up with skirts and long hair and spent their teen years with an opposite experience than I, love their morning routine as much as I do.

I'm trying to decide what to wear. After the meeting yesterday where I was 'reprimanded' for using a public women's room, allegedly, I need to make a statement. I want something that will be unambiguously feminine, perhaps even a little bit sexy, but professional. I'm sure the news that there was a complaint, it will be called a 'threat', that a female sanctuary was compromised, will be common gossip by the time I walk the halls today. I also have to think about pleasing Janice.

Janice is the woman I think I'm falling in love with. I call her Ja Nice. We've been seeing each other for eight months. She's not my girlfriend and we are not dating, but spend four of five evenings together a month. Tonight she has asked me to spend the night after she takes me to dinner so I've packed an overnight bag with all the necessities, makeup and clothes for tomorrow, as well as my favorite sexy nightgown, not the one Carol gave me last night; that one I'm saving for a very special time.

If I were a man I would not be attracted to Janice, but living as I do now, and the hormones I consume, I am infatuated with her. She is lesbian, of course, not a dyke but somewhere between full butch and lipstick. She has light brown hair, short but salon styled, wears very little makeup and only when necessary, and sports no jewelry except pedestrian earrings. I've never seen her in a skirt or dress; she doesn't own either. She doesn't like any clothing that fits tight especially underwear. She really doesn't wear panties, just cotton briefs and her bras are fundamentally plain. Except for her smallish breasts, from the waist up she looks like a 13 year old boy.

Janice is a therapist with a private practice that almost exclusively soothes the tender psyches of gay and lesbian clients emotionally wounded by friends, strangers, clergy, politicians, family, coworkers, and/or lovers. Seeking to expand her base to the trans community she came to the group support meeting I regularly attend about a year ago. She knew and understood sexual orientation but was fascinated with the concept of gender orientation. I became the object of her fascination and, after an evening in her office explaining what drove me to transition, she told me she was deeply attracted to me. She took the initiative and kissed me, and I passively loved it. Soon I was receiving weekly therapy sessions in her office on her couch, more physical than psycho.

I decide to wear a classic front buttoning chiffon pussy bow pink blouse (yes, that is what it is called) with a deep plunging tie, and pair it with a full mid-calf skirt in a pretty floral print. I will add my black patent pumps and then make it office appropriate with a one button business coat in black. Underneath I'm wearing a pretty bra and pantie set that shows a little cleavage nicely through the blouse.

Janice likes it when I'm all girly, sometimes making me feel like a teen, a virgin one. I think she is enamored with the whole trans thing, that I have so convincingly reversed my former life while still retaining the one thing lesbians usually spurn. Like so many others, she praises me for my courage. This isn't courage; it's survival. She also has a thing for lingerie, at least when it is on me, not her, so she will love the bra and pantie set. There seems to be a gender dynamic to our relationship, a confusing male/female lesbian/straight dynamic. I sometimes think I'm more confused than anyone.

It's mid-morning at work and I'm on the phone with the fourth call. Fridays often bring more calls for some reason. I'm talking to an applicant, we are now supposed to call them customers, who is upset about the long delay with his application. Everyone who calls is upset. I listen carefully, patiently. He calls me 'Miss' and is courteous in spite of his frustration. I'm sure the conversation would be different if he thought I was a man, or used to be. I assure him that I will make certain that a decision will be made within days and end the call.

I share a secretary with the Division Chief and she buzzes me. Bernice, the secretary, is telling me Frank is on line two. I hesitate. I just can't take another meeting where I am marginalized and pushed aside for who I am. I'm tired of being a former man, always viewed through the prism of what is between my legs. I tell Bernice I'll take the call; I have no choice. Frank is the Group Director.

When I pick up I hear Frank's familiar voice ask me how I am. We exchange pleasantries and he asks about our work, the dreaded backlog. I relax. He's not summoning me to his office and he doesn't mention yesterday. Instead, he asks if I am free for lunch. I have nightmarish visions of acompaning him to the cafeteria, walking past the restroom, where I allegedly violated rules, under the gaze of dozens of coworkers. Instead he suggests we meet at a cafe on Pennsylvania Avenue. I demure saying how much work I have. He insists saying he owes me an explanation as well as lunch. It's an offer a girl can't refuse.

I'm walking towards Pennsylvania Avenue trying to suppress my excitement. I know Frank so well, worked directly for him for several years. He is brash, confident, cocky and popular. Frank gets things done, motivates staff through a delicate balance of praise and criticism. He commands respect and love from everyone, especially women, many who have made themselves available to him for after-hours consultations.

Frank has a table waiting and motions to me when I enter the cafe. He stands while I take off my coat and holds my chair while I sit. He is so well dressed, worsted wool gray suit, light blue shirt and a perfect striped tie. I could never wear a suit and tie and look that good in my past life. He sits and hands me a menu. There is tension and I sense that the brash, confident man is uneasy. He breaks the initial silence by telling me how nice I look. I clearly have his attention and return the compliment.

Now he looks serious. He has an agenda as I guessed. Frank apologizes for the meeting yesterday. He's telling me that it just wasn't right in every way. I want to say it is okay but hold back. It isn't okay. Frank acknowledges I shouldn't have been blindsided, and I shouldn't have been reprimanded, and I shouldn't have been accused with such little factual evidence. He adds that my request to be free to use any women's room should have been considered, and decided on the merits. He looks me in the eye and swears that if it was up to him it would have been approved. It's little consolation but I believe him. He smiles and winks telling me based on appearances my picture should replace the restroom symbol for the ladies' room. He’s so smooth it is intoxicating. I smile and blush.

Frank goes on attempting to convince me how hard he fought for me but, alas, was overruled at every turn. He ends by wishing he could make it up to me, and I coyly tell him I wish he could too. I absolve him of any blame and we order, a salad for me and a sandwich for him.

The silence returns until he looks at me with the most enticing grin. I've known Frank for twenty years and never had a personal conversation with him like this, ever. I was never a member of his 'boys' club. This is different, an intimate, across the table, man to woman personal conversation. It's wonderfully frightening, nearly sensual.

Frank is checking me out, probably wondering what is real, perhaps searching for the man he once knew. His eyes dart across my face then up and down. He tells me for the second time how good I look. He's not exactly flirting but making a statement, like he's surprised. I've heard it before. People are always surprised that I look so "natural". Frank is, I think, trying to compliment me and I appreciate it. As our food arrives Frank tells me that I am one of the best dressed women in the building, and adds that he loves the blouse I am wearing. The waitress rolls her eyes. Frank is being his usual sexist self. I don't know how to react; I've not sat across from a man before in a little intimate cafe with the conversation bordering on how I'm dressed. It makes me uncomfortable.

I have no choice but to thank him and blush. I think I know what is coming next and I am right. Between bites, Frank tells me that if he didn't know he wouldn't think twice, never using the words but clearly meaning if he didn't know my past as a man, he wouldn't question my being a woman. It's a back-handed compliment. Eureka, I pass. By his reasoning, so I'm not real, not like the young women he is known to chase. Adding insult to injury he says that I am so convincing.

I stay silent. It's too convoluted for me to address in the moment but it doesn't matter. He treads into my privacy and presses me about my past. When did I know; was I bullied in school; when did I start dressing up and going out; why did I have to take such a drastic step?

I want to scream and run. I'm so tired of having to explain my past, explain the path that led me to transition, but running is not an option. Frank is the Group Director and holds my professional fate in his hands. I must answer, but decide to be anodyne, giving him the short version that spares him images of losing precious male assets. I explain that I've always known but couldn't understand; understanding was a decades long process; no I wasn't bullied, much; yes, I indulged in various levels of dressing up, as he calls it, my entire life, and that gradually over time I came to think of myself as female, and then acting on it, including secretly piercing my ears, and taking hormones. I become emotional telling the story as I usually do, fighting back tears.

I purposely leave out details like the rape and molestation, and the man who lured me to a hotel room, after I began hormones but before I transitioned, with an opportunity to "dress up" with a rather lavish gift of lingerie, but expecting what I consider gay sex. I dare not express to this alpha male how badly I want surgery. Friends tell me sexual identity is between your legs; gender identity between your ears. I disagree. For me there must be congruity. I try to end the discussion about my past and bring it back to the present. I tease him asking if he likes the way I "dressed up" today.

He smiles his approval but I discount the spark that I clearly felt between us. Frank still has questions, surrendering to his prurient curiosity. I'm not surprised that he asks about my sexual orientation. Everyone wants to know about that. He's trying to be delicate, diplomatic, framing his question as an assumption referring to a generic transsexual. His theory; a heterosexual man who becomes a woman, has the surgery, would probably then want to be with a man because why have such drastic surgery if you don't intend on using "it" as intended? Typical.

Before he finishes his supposition I suppress laughter, remain stoic, straight faced. I can't resist such an unbelievable opportunity, even if Frank is the Group Director. I take a breath before I answer, look into his sexy blue eyes as passionately as I can, and tell him that yes, I can't wait to have that experience. I drag it out, feign excitement. He’s buying my charade. I say I don't want to be crass, or too forward, but, I wonder, perhaps he might consider taking me for a test drive after I get the green light post op. I let that hang, enjoying the speechless expression on his face, until I smile and laugh. It is the first time in my long history of interacting with Frank that I saw hesitation, fear and doubt. I'm delighted.

I don’t regret spoofing Frank. He had it coming. I then explain matter of factly the way it really works; in his hypothetical scenario I explain, sexual orientation does not change and the new woman essentially becomes a lesbian. He nods but still looks confused.

I excuse myself to use the women's room, a public one, one that accepts me without fear. Frank doesn't object, of course. When I return Frank is nowhere to be seen. He has paid the check and, perhaps wounded, is limping back to work by himself.

Doubts 4 - Becky's Friday night with Janice does not go as planned.

Janice is waiting for me at La Madeline's. I'm late. I spent too much time at lunch with Frank and had to stay longer at work than I planned. She hates it when I'm late but she seems delighted to see me. We hug, not like a man and woman or lovers, but like two mature female friends would. Janice doesn't like any public show of affection. I understand; as a card carrying life long lesbian she has lived with marginalization, fear and hate. She has told me she doesn't need to prove anything, doesn't have a political agenda.

We go through the line getting our food, chatting like girls, giggling. No one notices us. We find a table near the back. We have some privacy. Janice is wearing a shirt and sweater with loose fitting slacks and her lace up shoes. She is so cute with her Tinker Bell haircut and soft blue eyes, no make-up except a soft pink lip gloss. She reminds me of my best friend in high school. Except for the barely noticible outline of breasts under the sweater they would look nearly identical. Janice is as boyish now as he was then.

When we are settled Janice tells me how nice I look. She loves what I am wearing; she whispers she likes the bra I'm wearing, the one designed to be seen through the fabric of the blouse. I try to be discreet but can't keep from blushing. I know Janice and what turns her on. Later she will enjoy touching through the blouse, then unbuttoning and unhooking and playing with the girls. I do like how she looks and what she is wearing but don't say that. Instead I tell her I dressed this way just for her and that her attraction to me, and my assets, confirms who I am.

Janice and I understand each other. At least I think we do. She knows my insecurities and I think I know her's. The problem is that I am in a relationship with a therapist and sometimes it feels like one long continuing therapy session. I talk, she listens. I never hear her emotions, her insecurities. Somehow I begin to tell her about the last two days of my life. I've told her so much, given over to her things I have withheld from my other therapist, the one I am paying. They have both heard details about how I was raped, the molestation, countless situations with men I didn't seek out or want, the demand for oral sex from my brother. I've only told therapist Janice of my plan to perform surgery on myself, my plan to remove the two testosterone pumps I no longer can live with, even though their function has been severely curtailed by female hormones I gladly consume. I've researched it; know exactly what to do. She wants me to find a doctor who will do it for me.

Without crying I tell Janice about the Thursday meeting and how I feel I will be forever assigned to a gender neutral restroom at work. Then I tell her about the incident with Gary, the son of the woman I rent from. Janice laughs hysterically when I paint the image of his grabbing my right breast as he saves me from falling. I tease her that he saw me in my bra and panties and that she needs to be nice to me if she wants a peek too. Janice tells me how funny I am.

Of course she must ask how I felt when he held me for that instant, and if I wasn't being a little coquettish and brazen opening the door so he could check me out? Was there some subliminal female to male attraction for me, she prods therapeutically? It's a dangerous subject and she knows it. I've discussed at length about how averse I am to the male anatomy. She knows how sensitive I am about being perceived as a gay male, an impersonator, or more frightening, an impostor. I've been through this so many times with her and my real therapist so I resent that she is going down this road again. I tell her that I am definitely not attracted to men, period, but a little male attention, a look or flirt, a door held open, reinforces everything I have felt about my gender my whole life. It's natural, I claim, for me to want some of that. It doesn't mean I want sex with a man.

Janice has challenged me before about any connection between past sexual abuse, my current presentation, and my staunch anti-male attitude. She's not the only one. I’ve questioned it myself. The question is: was I sexually abused because I was an thin girlish effeminate boy, teen, young man? Or did I slip into cross-dressing and subsequently full gender insanity as a defense mechanism, rejecting my own maleness while developing a deep phallic phobia?

This isn't all just about me. Janice has her own issues about men. She claims she has never been with a man. I believe her, but she is just a little too enamored with my unique anatomy. To my casternation she enjoys what I have between my legs and I sometime wonder if she may be slightly disappointed it never approaches the size and firmness of the dildo she occasionally asks me to wield Sure she has never hinted that our intimacy is anything but lesbian sex, never pushed for coitus and respected my absolute resolve never to be the penetrator again. This conversation is different. It isn't about what she and I do in bed; it's about the natural arousal someone, of either gender, might feel from the closeness of the opposite sex.

I try and change the subject but mistakenly ask her if she ever felt the desire for male attention, not sex, but just the natural attention a man might innocently advance toward a woman. Now she perks up. It's almost like she hoped we would talk about the energy between men and women. Actually she has, she tells me. She doesn't say it but hints that because of me, and her first ever phallic experience, she has become slightly curious about men. The way she says it is we should both at least experience sex with a man at some point. She is so matter of fact, blasé actually, almost as if sex with a man could be as casual as trying caviar for the first time. You wouldn't want to pass up an opportunity. It doesn't work that way with me. I don't have good memories of men and sex. She is quick to point out that she doesn't question my orientation, nor her own either, but then asks if at least I have not fantasized about it after surgery, finding someone like Frank to take it for a 'test drive'.

I laugh. She has put me on the spot. I don't want to have this conversation; the timing isn't right. Bad things can happen and I know what they are. My emotional health just won't allow me to perform acts that are universally seen as gay male. I look her in the eye and tell her what she wants to hear even though I doubt it. I tell her that yes, after I heal and recover, physically and emotionally I do want to experience it but I know I sound unconvincing.

Then I make my second mistake. I resort to my go to defense mechanism, humor. I suggest that perhaps we should enlist some guy and have a shared experience, lose our virginity together at the same time with the same man, but foolishly add unless she can't wait until I exchange my ‘outy’ for an ‘iny’.

What she says next causes me to go ballistic. Janice tells me she is meeting a man on Monday, at the National Gallery. She placed an ad in the personals, 'women seeking men', got a response and has had a two-week phone relationship. She explains he is her age, divorced, an attorney for the FCC and does not want a serious relationship, just a date and perhaps more. I think it is the 'more' that bothers me the most.
I am shocked. She is serious. I have so many questions but I can't ask. I have no standing to be upset with her. We have made no pledge to be faithful, nor have we vowed love. There is nothing keeping either one of us from having other relationships. The thing is though she has a history of serial relationships, affairs really, and I do not. Regardless, I feel betrayed and I am hurt.

Janice, the card-carrying ultra-dykish lesbian, therapist to the lesbian community, the woman who relishes my femininity is going to explore intimacy with a non-cross dressing man, supposedly one with a fully functioning eager penis, complete with hairy legs and chest. I'm speechless so she continues to explain. She tells me she respects that I can't or won't give the fulfilling experience she desires so she thought it would be better for her to find it herself. Her final insult is that she claims it will have no impact on how much she cares for me. She doesn't consider how it will impact me.

I manage to hide my anger. Janice doesn't know men like I do. She has no idea what rape is like. She has never had a man ply her with beer and violently push inside her, doing damage that never heals. Her brother never forced her to perform fellatio, coerced actually. My anger is, however, much deeper than the sexual abuse I endured as a teen. I'm angry at my situation, at who I am. I don't want to be transgender, hate the label. I hate that I was born a boy, lived as a man and now cannot lead any semblance of a life without that past dangling over me. And I definitly don't want to be a woman with a penis. I doubt Janice understands how deep the pain is.

I have to run, or explode. I say nothing but stand, pick up my purse and coat, and walk away. Janice is now the shocked one. She calls after me, comes after me leaving our half finished food and her coat. She catches me at the door, begs me to come back, employs her therapist skills. Don't be rash, she advises. Let's talk about how I feel, she suggests. Take a breath, she recommends. I look at her and wonder who she is, why is she in my life. I silently question her professional ethics. I really want to relent, want to hold her, want to be in bed next to her tonight. But I can't. I'm not in a good place and must leave. I make it to my car without looking back and she does not come after me.

I'm crying so hard I can barely drive. The parkway is blurry through the tears but I'm able to make out the road construction signs, the ones cautioning drivers to slow down. I see the new concrete column ahead and instead of slowing I consider the benefits of going no further. What's the use? Surgery is as elusive as ever, I'm a freak at work, my family has rejected me and now Janice wants to try a man, just for fun.

This has been a mistake; life gave me enough benefits that I should have just accepted it, continued my life as a man, father, husband. Transitioning just upended so many lives, and with the concrete just before me now, I ask what have I gained and if it is worth it? A slight turn of the wheel is all I need to do. It would be an accident, no questions. Janice would know, of course, but would she really be upset. Everyone else would benefit; life insurance payouts and relief from dealing with someone like me in their life. My last thought, at the point I must decide, is the fear of surviving, of not dying but being maimed and disfigured, paralyzed, forever a burden, forced against my will to live as an invalid male. The car slows and the wheel follows the road. The concrete column is in the rear vision mirror

I arrive at the house where I live, still shaken. I don't want to be here, or anywhere really. I'm relieved that the house is dark. Maybe they are all out, Ruth and her two sons. I don't want to talk to anyone, don't need human interaction.

I unlock the front door and see the flicker of the TV in the darkened family room in the rear of the house. I know Ruth is out for the evening so it must be Gary or his brother, perhaps both. I don't say anything but start upstairs when Gary calls to me. He thinks I'm his mother coming home early. Before I answer he flips on a light and is standing at the foot of the stairs just below me, looking up. He says he's surprised it's me and that he thought I wouldn't be home tonight. I don't want to explain and am on the verge of tears again. He knows something isn't right and does not press the issue. Instead he tells me he has rented a couple of movies and asks if I would like to join him. He smiles and suggests he would let me choose the movie.

I start to decline looking down into the eyes of the man I intimately and accidentally started my day with. He's looking up at me through the rails of the bannister inches away from the hem of my skirt. He coaxes me saying he will pop some corn and he'll let me have the recliner. His eyes smile. He's lonely; I'm on the verge of a depression. The image of me standing in just my bra and panties just hours before and how powerful I felt then flashes in my head. It’s an immediate anti-depressant. Why not, I tell him, but first I must get out of these clothes. He looks delighted as I race upstairs to change.

I have no desire for anything other than some diversion from aloneness, darkness and depression. Gary is nice but he is a man, a safe one. He's married but separated, living with his mother and brother in the house where I rent a room. There is nothing for me to fear.

I quickly undress and am happy to get out of bra and pantyhose. I pull a nightgown over my head and let it fall, not the one Gary's mother gave me but the pretty one I was going to wear in bed with Janice. It feels so wonderful and free with just panties underneath. I brush my hair and touch up my lipstick. With my terricloth robe around me, I step into my slippers and head toward the smell of popcorn.

Gary is in the kitchen finishing with the popcorn. He tells me to go sit in the recliner and get comfy, and points out the two movies he has rented. He claims he knows which one I'll pick. Gary carries a gun for a living so I'm surprised one of the movies is a romantic comedy. He didn't know I would be home tonight and could not have guessed we would be watching a movie together, alone in the house. Perhaps there is a soft side to this man's man. The other movie is a Denzel Washington testosterone laden, fist fighting, gun firing, death defying, weak woman rescuing, action packed thriller.

As he serves me a bowl of buttery popcorn and a drink, a soft one. I tell him he wins but offer to watch the movie I know he really wants to see. He pops the romantic comedy in the VCR and the movie starts. Fifteen minutes into the film and I think I would rather be watching Denzel. In the romantic comedy the protagonist, an innocent young woman with perfect makeup, even before she is awake in the morning, and with the most elegant wardrobe, thinks her fiancé is interested in another woman. He, the fiancé, reminds me of Janice and I find myself unable to hold back tears. He pauses the VCR and reaches over to console me. He touches my arm and I turn toward him. I'm aware my robe has fallen open slightly and know he can see my nightgown, see the lacy material cupping my breast. He's going to think I am teasing him, coming on to him. I pull my robe back around me trying to regain modesty. He asks if I want to watch the other film but I tell him that I'm just a little fragile and will be fine in a few.

I'm not expecting any understanding or comfort from someone like Gary; Catholic, gun enthusiast, homophobic, telling me once he had no problem with 'gays' as long as they kept it to themselves. I have no idea how he reconciles those views with the person sitting next to him in panties and a nightgown who shares the same xy genetic configuration. The words he now softly speaks in his deep voice cannot be from the man I thought he was. He tells me he admires me, what I have done and how I have carried myself. He says he can't begin to imagine what I have been through, smiling slightly as he adds he also can't relate to what I am planning to go through, a veiled reference to radical surgery. I'm touched. Then he adds that I am attractive and dress so well. It's the first time in days anyone has been kind, sympathetic, genuine, not to mention flattering. I take his hand, our chairs are close enough for that. He squeezes my hand and it is a sweet, endearing moment when we look at each other. I feel something that I want to avoid, must avoid. I want him to hold me. I need his strength, his protection, his comfort. In this instant I understand that unique dynamic between a man and a woman, the temptation, perhaps need, to give yourself over, to trust, to release yourself from iniabitions, to purge past pain and exchange it with warmth and love. I've never felt this before.

There is a tortuous long moment, holding hands, looking at each other, seeing more than before. His hand is so large, strong, meaty; mine soft, thin, nearly delicate, with long nails and bright red polish. Together they are clearly the hands of a man and woman. He has a round gentle face, heavy five o’clock stubble, and warm smiling amber eyes. He squeezes my hand again, sending a signal of warmth and acceptance if not on some level love. If we were close enough I'm sure there would be a kiss and for the first time in my life I would welcome a kiss from a man. I'm feeling wonderfully vulnerable and weak.

I'm also terrified at the same time. I didn't grow up with girl-like fantasies dreaming of becoming wife and mother after some prince swept me off my feet. Romance in my formative years rarely emerged and it never cast me as the weak vulnerable female. I grew up resisting my girl dreams, fighting them. Even if there ever could be a relationship for me with a man, I could never be a wife. I wasn't trained for it. That and I still had an incurable phallic phobia

The moment is broken with the sound of the front door. It's Carol coming home. Gary quickly releases his grip, hits the play button to resume the movie. Reality floods the room and envelops us. My robe is pulled tighter around me as Carol enters and sits on the couch. Gary and I greet her nonchalantly. She suspects nothing. Why would she?