warned: Maybe I'm just calling you to get your hopes up so I can dash them--the way you dashed mine."
"That wasn't my intention. I just wanted--"
"You just wanted a lot of things. You wanted someone to hold your hand through the next four or five months. You wanted someone to be your guide when you started to dress up. You wanted someone to teach you to be a woman. We both know that."
"No, that's not it," I insisted. "I fell in love. That's all. I fell in love."
"I believe you. But let's be honest: You fell in love with me because you needed to fall in love. I don't know who your friends are, but I haven't met any. And everything you've told me about your family suggests they're not going to be particularly supportive. So you needed someone. And, if only because I was there, you chose me."
"It didn't work like that."
"Maybe you didn't plan it like that--"
"Trust me, no one ever plans it like that. No one plans to fall in love, period--at least the way I've fallen for you."
"Perhaps not. Still ..."
"If you really believe that, then what is it you need from me? Tell me. What did you need in July? What do you need right now?"
She was silent for a long moment at the other end of the line. "I don't need anything," she said finally. "I only want to see you."
We saw each other four times in late September and early October. I was dressed as a man on each occasion, though I was spending more and more time dressed as a woman. And when I showed up at a meeting of the Green Mountain Gender Benders for the first time in months, I appeared in a button-front skirt and suede zipper boots. Some members of the group were a little cold to me, since I hadn't shown up in so long, but they were still proud of me for finally coming out.
In hindsight, I wore way too much makeup that night, but most girls go overboard when they first start experimenting with lipstick and mascara. (Of course, most girls get to make their cosmetic explorations when they're teenagers, not when they're flirting with middle age.)
I had a sense that that meeting would be the last one I would ever attend: My surgery was barely a season away, and already I was viewing myself less as a transsexual and more as a woman. My chest was starting to bud, thanks to the hormones, and the hair on my head seemed thicker and more lustrous. I felt the muscles in my arms and my legs starting to melt, I felt my skin beginning to grow young. Truly: young. I could see it in the mirror.
And, best of all, Allison had called. The support group met on Thursday nights, and Allison had phoned me that Monday. We had dinner together on Friday, the night after I'd donned boots and a skirt for the Benders.
For Allison, of course, I wore blue jeans and penny loafers. The evening when I would spend literally hours throwing clothing onto my bed, and then--when I had finally found something that didn't make me look like a construction worker in drag--applying and reap-plying makeup, was still a few weeks away.
"As far as I can tell," I told Allison Friday night, "transsexuals either go into a deep denial and overcompensate like crazy, or they just give up and start planning for surgery."
"Women transsexuals, too?"
"You mean boys born in a female body? I can't speak for them, but it's probably true. Still, I can only speak for girls like me."
I'd chosen an Italian restaurant near the office parks that ringed Burlington's southeastern suburbs--the sort of place that depended upon a business lunch clientele and was virtually deserted for dinner. This way we could be assured of some privacy. Moreover, because the restaurant was far from my downtown apartment, the turf would be vaguely neutral, which seemed to make sense. I didn't want Allison to have any fear that I harbored some delusion that we'd go back to my apartment and make love.
"What do you mean they overcompensate? They try and be super macho?"
I nodded. "We're talking construction worker macho. I know one girl who was a Navy
"That wasn't my intention. I just wanted--"
"You just wanted a lot of things. You wanted someone to hold your hand through the next four or five months. You wanted someone to be your guide when you started to dress up. You wanted someone to teach you to be a woman. We both know that."
"No, that's not it," I insisted. "I fell in love. That's all. I fell in love."
"I believe you. But let's be honest: You fell in love with me because you needed to fall in love. I don't know who your friends are, but I haven't met any. And everything you've told me about your family suggests they're not going to be particularly supportive. So you needed someone. And, if only because I was there, you chose me."
"It didn't work like that."
"Maybe you didn't plan it like that--"
"Trust me, no one ever plans it like that. No one plans to fall in love, period--at least the way I've fallen for you."
"Perhaps not. Still ..."
"If you really believe that, then what is it you need from me? Tell me. What did you need in July? What do you need right now?"
She was silent for a long moment at the other end of the line. "I don't need anything," she said finally. "I only want to see you."
We saw each other four times in late September and early October. I was dressed as a man on each occasion, though I was spending more and more time dressed as a woman. And when I showed up at a meeting of the Green Mountain Gender Benders for the first time in months, I appeared in a button-front skirt and suede zipper boots. Some members of the group were a little cold to me, since I hadn't shown up in so long, but they were still proud of me for finally coming out.
In hindsight, I wore way too much makeup that night, but most girls go overboard when they first start experimenting with lipstick and mascara. (Of course, most girls get to make their cosmetic explorations when they're teenagers, not when they're flirting with middle age.)
I had a sense that that meeting would be the last one I would ever attend: My surgery was barely a season away, and already I was viewing myself less as a transsexual and more as a woman. My chest was starting to bud, thanks to the hormones, and the hair on my head seemed thicker and more lustrous. I felt the muscles in my arms and my legs starting to melt, I felt my skin beginning to grow young. Truly: young. I could see it in the mirror.
And, best of all, Allison had called. The support group met on Thursday nights, and Allison had phoned me that Monday. We had dinner together on Friday, the night after I'd donned boots and a skirt for the Benders.
For Allison, of course, I wore blue jeans and penny loafers. The evening when I would spend literally hours throwing clothing onto my bed, and then--when I had finally found something that didn't make me look like a construction worker in drag--applying and reap-plying makeup, was still a few weeks away.
"As far as I can tell," I told Allison Friday night, "transsexuals either go into a deep denial and overcompensate like crazy, or they just give up and start planning for surgery."
"Women transsexuals, too?"
"You mean boys born in a female body? I can't speak for them, but it's probably true. Still, I can only speak for girls like me."
I'd chosen an Italian restaurant near the office parks that ringed Burlington's southeastern suburbs--the sort of place that depended upon a business lunch clientele and was virtually deserted for dinner. This way we could be assured of some privacy. Moreover, because the restaurant was far from my downtown apartment, the turf would be vaguely neutral, which seemed to make sense. I didn't want Allison to have any fear that I harbored some delusion that we'd go back to my apartment and make love.
"What do you mean they overcompensate? They try and be super macho?"
I nodded. "We're talking construction worker macho. I know one girl who was a Navy
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