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An Unfinished Symphony Part III Chapter VII Back to the Future By lunchtime Monday, it was as if the previous week had never existed. We were back on the work treadmill, beginning with our standard Monday morning staff meeting. We caught up on old business, made sure everyone was keeping up with their assignments, solved problems and discussed approaches to a new account we were pursuing. During the day on Monday, it never even entered my consciousness that my toe nails were painted. I only realized it that night, when I took off my socks. I must admit that I delightedly wiggled my toes at myself, but that's as far as it went. And the rest of the week just flew by the same way, even though I was mostly at home. Because Rebecca had been so generous with me last weekend, I made sure I was in total guy mode when she arrived home each evening. And it paid off. She was relaxed, warm, and very attentive and joyful in bed. I didn't expect to see Phillip for at least two weeks because he told me he was off on a west coast swing, and typically only spent a week or ten days in New York each month in any case. Often he would be away for six weeks at a time. And indeed he was gone for two weeks. But when he came back he wanted to see Sara again, and Rebecca graciously consented, telling me that as long as Michael was so attentive to her, she thought it would be okay if Sara went out to play with Phillip now and again. I was thrilled! This was a great deal! It took no effort at all - in fact it was a joy - to be attentive to the woman I loved, and I was thrilled to be able to go out with Phillip because I got to be as feminine as my heart desired. Rebecca even helped me with things like accessories and matching my makeup to my outfit. She said her purse and jewelry collections were always open to me. I was really touched by her generosity, but didn't really want to use her stuff. Veronica and I became great friends because each time Phillip came to town, I needed a make over. I was going from boy to girl and back to boy and back to girl again on a fairly regular, though not terribly frequent basis. And true to my word, I let my nails grow, and then, my hair as well. Veronica insisted that I get my ears pierced, and Rebecca finally went along, "as long as it's only one hole in each ear." I was in tranny heaven, with both a loving and accepting wife and a boyfriend who took me on dates, but demanded no sex, though he was very playfully affectionate. Out of Rebecca's sight, we were like teenagers overcome by their first infatuation, and I'm sure many people who saw us together assumed that we were lovers. Phillip often copped a grope of my ass, which, after I began to relax at his touch, I really sorta liked, and it was a constant (though very enjoyable) battle to keep his hands off my faux breasts, something that seemed important to do for propriety's sake, but that at the same time felt silly. I mean, they weren't real and I couldn't feel anything in any case. Still this often led to a good deal of semi- public twisting and squirming and swatting and pushing whenever Phillip felt like teasing me, which seemed to happen whenever he thought no one could see. And as I half-heartedly, though insistently, tried to divert him there was something about seeing my manicured hand on his chest or his arm that really made me feel really special, in an attractive, sexy, vulnerable way. I came to realize that this was one way Phillip and I could safely express affection for each other, and I enjoyed it. And though I probably would have denied it at the time, it turned me on. But as much fun as they were, I always believed Phillip's little games had something of an ulterior motive to them. I assumed he was angling to eventually get me into his bed. That's because I learned that when he got really adventurous with my breasts, I could make him stop if I just cuddled up to him or let him caress my hair or nuzzle my neck, or better yet, if I did that to him. So we slowly became chastely intimate. I let him hold my hand, or I took his arm in my hands, or cuddled under his massive shoulder. After a few months, touching was no longer a big deal between us, and I savored being sheltered by his gigantic presence. This all led to me become quite comfortable as a woman and as I relaxed, I began to explore various ways to present myself, looking for the real Sara somewhere within me. I started off timid and demure, and my hair and clothing were conservative and constructed. But that wasn't really me, and I moved through phases when I tried to be elegantly sexy, softly romantic, an artistic gypsy, and on rare occasions, even provocative, in very short, clingy, backless dresses and high, high heels. The few times I tried that particular persona Phillip and I went out to guy places, where I could be shown off as a trophy date, but where we weren't likely to meet people we knew. I found it both thrilling and frightening, and Phillip really seemed to have great fun showing me off, but that wasn't me either. I started to feel like I would never find the real me. And then one day, as I watched Rebecca get ready to go with me for a long-planned 6th anniversary evening of dining and dancing, it hit me. I could be any of those kinds of women, any time I wanted. She had come home very distracted, and in a hurry because we were late. Her movements were tight and hassled-looking. She was dressed in her usual business suit, some pedestrian brown pumps with blocky heels, her hair up in a tight French roll, and wearing very light makeup, as she typically did during the day. Then, after a quick bath, she seemed much more relaxed. She slipped on a most delightful set of lingerie and then sat at her makeup table. She unpinned her hair and let it down, before using hot rollers to give it some bounce and lovely little curls at the ends. She darkened her makeup, and slipped into the most romantic dress made of several layers of transparent chiffon over a rayon lining. When she was done, she stood up and gave me a twirl, a huge smile lighting up her face. "Come Michael," she said, slipping her arm through mine as I looked on beaming, "I'm ready for a romantic evening with my favorite husband." In less than an hour, she had gone from being a rather well dressed and attractive, though intense and harried, business professional to a relaxed, vibrant curvy babe, but she was still Rebecca. It was then that it hit me. I couldn't pick a persona by what I was wearing, and my clothes certainly weren't going to be able to define who I was. I would be who I was, I didn't have any choice about that. On occasion, I could be whoever I wanted to be, or whoever the situation suggested I be, and then switch back again or to something else altogether, no matter what I wore. There had to be a me there to begin with, and that me could be dressed up any way I wanted. Although I understood that I still hadn't found my authentic Sara, it was then that I learned that I could play at, and dress like, whoever I felt like being. The clothes didn't define me. This realization made me quietly buoyant. It freed me from the transvestite prison of being my clothes, and opened more attractive options for defining my personality. This night for example, I was dressed as Michael, wearing a softly constructed black suit, dark charcoal silk tee shirt, and soft, black dress loafers, very urban hip, but clearly a guy. Earlier in the day, however, I had been wearing a pale pink, short pleated skirt, a figure hugging purple tank top, with a white cotton gauze shirt over it. I had spent four hours working on a series of design problems without ever once thinking about what I was wearing, except to pull my skirt under me when I sat down. And the me inside these two different sets of clothing hadn't changed, although the way I moved and talked and held myself certainly had. By the way, we had the most wonderful evening, both of us basking in the glow of each other's love. We truly felt like the soul mates we were even though we sometimes lost that feeling in our hectic sprint through life. After that, I paid much more attention to the things I did and said. They, I realized defined me far better than anything I was wearing. Sure, I was still hyper-aware of my clothing, but I discovered that Sara was a woman very much like Michael was a man. I liked being nice to people. I was attentive to and empathetic with their emotional needs, even if that only meant a nice smile or a gentle touch in return for a small courtesy. I wanted people to like me, and was willing to go the extra yard to make myself likable. And I wasn't at all eager for confrontations, which, of course, is why Rebecca did all our negotiating, and tended to be the dominant one in our relationship. I was somewhat shy and far more comfortable when I was dressed more modestly than when I was at all provocative. And as I learned to be myself, the whole experience of being womanly took on a different dimension for me. My nurturing impulses blossomed. So instead of being somewhat embarrassed that I was the "neat one" in our family, and cleaning up guiltily (how bizarre is that?) or resentfully (which is, of course, far more typical), I began to see my nesting instincts as an expression of my femininity and let them have full reign, which allowed me to enjoy them far more than I ever had. Now, when I was straightening up the house, or arranging some flowers, or cooking a dinner, I didn't have to dress like a woman (although I still loved to and often did), because I was doing something that felt like an authentic expression of my femininity, which was a far more meaningful and enriching then just dressing up. I started to imagine myself as Rebecca's housewife, and reveled in my ability to make her life easier, to comfort her when she was angry or depressed or upset, and to take care of the little things, like buying gifts for her to give to our employees so that she didn't have to worry about "little stuff" like that. She was my queen and our home was her castle. I knew this was a rather old-fashioned view of what a wife was supposed to be, but as I slipped further into the role of helpmate, I could see her confidence, optimism and energy flourish. It made my heart feel so full! Then, if I happened to be wearing one of my now favored longer skirts - perhaps an ankle-length pleated crinkle skirt in gauzy cotton paired with a spaghetti strap cami or wrap front halter, it was icing on the cake, rather than the whole cake, which, really, is what it used to be. And unexpectedly, my work started to change. My designs lost some of the assertive edginess that had been one of my trademarks, and became much more liquid and sensual, exploring curves and interconnections in new ways, while being more peaceful. This turned off some or our potential clients, and some of our existing ones who left us, but it attracted others, and over the course of a year or so, we found ourselves with a rather large portfolio of women-run businesses, or at least of businesses that had women making decisions about marketing. Rebecca and some of our staff were uneasy for a while because our style had changed, and they didn't know what we were selling. But after a rough period that lasted a few months, things got evened out and everyone was content again, knowing who we were. I was also getting increasing numbers of strange looks and responses from people. I know now, and should have known then, but I was in denial, that those looks were due to my increasing femininity, and to the increasing invasion of my male life with feminine gestures, expressions, and mannerisms. In my heart, I must have understood that people now perceived me strangely, but I also remembering thinking, 'What's his problem,' ignoring the obvious. The staff at work didn't seem at all concerned, and if anything, my relationships with them, or at least most of them, seemed to get better. And for that year, the whole thing seemed to be working. Things with Rebecca seemed fine, sometimes even really great, our business was prospering, and Sara had great adventures with Phillip. When he took me to the ballet at Lincoln Center, I got to wear a long velvet gown for the first time. And when we went to a Knicks game, sitting only three rows from the court, I wore my leathers, and drew the attention of not just the fans, but a couple of the players as well. I went to a couple of fancy parties in flirty cocktail dresses, and a few times, just had quiet dinners out with Phillip, who was always gracious, attentive, and protective. The problem was I came home from nearly every excursion exhilarated. This apparently happened even when I sometimes came home the next day, after staying in the spare bedroom at Phillip's corporate apartment on Seventh Ave and Central Park South. And each time, though I didn't see it, Rebecca would become a little more distressed. Everyone could see me changing but me, and I was having so much fun I was blind. Phillip was becoming an increasingly important part of my life, and while I was having great fun going out with him in what seemed like a big game, I was also growing emotionally closer to him, peppering my conversations with "Phillip this" and "Phillip that." Not surprisingly, Rebecca could tell what was happening and became increasingly anxious and threatened by the whole scene. I did question her about how she felt rather frequently; I could sense when she was upset, impatient, or distant, but she always dismissed my concerns airily, saying that she had no problem with two guys being good buddies, even if it was in a rather strange way. Sadly, I believed her. I was having too much fun to want it to end, so I never probed below the surface, even when Rebecca would become withdrawn or short with me for no apparent reason. After awhile, we were both lying to each other and keeping the best face on our marriage and working relationship even as strains started to grow. Rebecca eventually told me that each time I came home from one of my "dates," she used the word bitterly, I behaved just like a teenage girl who had a crush on some new boy and couldn't wait to tell her sister, all about it. "I thought I was watching you fall in love," she told me. "And I was heartbroken. I didn't know what to do. How could I compete with a man?" I, of course, was clueless, perhaps willfully so, about her feelings, just as I had been clueless about my increasingly femme image. Even though I had never been what anyone would call macho (I was much too "artistic" for that) I was gradually becoming more and more feminine with my longer (although publicly unpolished) nails, long, smooth, shiny hair, and carefully trimmed eyebrows. Now, looking back, I have no doubt that feminine gestures, phrases, and movements often had become second nature to me, and most of the world probably thought I was gay. This must have been terribly embarrassing for Rebecca, though she didn't let on to me for the longest time. In the end, it was our contract with Matti that blew everything wide open. I had already agreed, initially at Rebecca's urging, but later because it was what I wanted to do, to meet with Matti only when dressed as a woman. But we always met with her away from the office, often at her restaurant. We all got along great, and she seemed to especially like me. It was if we had some special affinity for each other. We had an easy, teasing, relationship, and I somehow seemed to understand just what she was looking for in a marketing approach. Although her contract wasn't very big, we all felt our approach was really exciting, and Rebecca and I were terrifically proud of it. But that wouldn't have changed anything, if it hadn't really been as good as we thought it was. A few months after we rolled it out, an east coast trade journal noted it briefly, but admiringly, in a sidebar to a bigger article on small advertising firms. We, of course were delighted because it was free publicity, and it did indeed lead to an uptick in business. What we didn't foresee at first, but which became all too apparent later on, was that this increased publicity would lead to increased scrutiny as well. A month or so after that story appeared, we got a call from a much larger, national business magazine that was doing a story on restaurant marketing. They had decided that our approach for Matti was on the cutting edge of a new trend, and they wanted to interview us. Despite the new business that might bring, we said no, this time understanding the risks. But the reporter was insistent and eventually agreed to meet with us and our staff one day when, at the very last minute, I turned out to be "unexpectedly out of town." The reporter was really interested in what we were doing and how we worked, and Rebecca thought the interview had gone really well until the story actually appeared two months later, just after Labor Day. Actually, the story was really very complimentary and we would have been basking in its praise, except for one little detail. It also included a picture of Sara. Although she swore up and down that she had nothing to do with it, I was sure Matti had set me up because the picture was of the two of us, sitting at one of the little cocktail tables in her bar. We had hit it off so well while working together that we started to get together socially. It wasn't a big deal: we'd have lunch or shop for an hour or two. She always had wonderful ideas about what would look good on me. Sometimes, when I wasn't too busy and the restaurant was quiet, as on the day of the picture, we'd have tea. The junior staff, trying to show off for their boss, made us delightful little snacks, and we sampled all kinds of exotic teas. I had no way to know for sure if it was her; one of the staff who knew I was coming might have set it up. Still, I didn't see her for a very long time after that. The picture was, in fact, quite flattering. I was wearing a tight, long sleeved tee shirt, and a colorfully printed silk robe-like jacket over it. My hair was in a high pony tail, tied with a ribbon that picked up the background salmon color of the jacket, and I had arranged carefully curled tendrils around my face (I had no idea how to make them - they took me forever!). I had on dark eye make and very red lipstick. The picture was taken from behind Matti, and I was gesturing animatedly about something, a big smile on my face. The major saving grace was that they didn't use my first name, describing me only as M. S. Cohen, co-owner and artistic director of Mind Games. Whether I wanted to be or not, I was now out. Over the next couple of months, as word got around, the shit really hit the fan. Rebecca was nearly frantic, the staff was in turmoil, our neighbors were aghast, our families freaked, and I was appalled. I spent hours and hours talking with people to explain, as best I could, who I was and what was going on. But to do this, I had to first figure out what to say. Rebecca pushed the subject the very night the article was published. She came home early and found me sitting in the sunroom, dressed in shorts and a tee shirt, my hair in a low pony tail. I had been trying to figure out what to do, and in fact had spent some time cursing my bad luck, feeling sorry for myself and crying. My eyes were red. "What's your problem?" she asked sarcastically as soon as I looked up. "Fuck you," I hissed back. "If you're here to fight, I'll just lea... - No! Wait! I didn't mean that. I'm really sorry for what's happened. I feel bad for myself, but I'm mortified about how it's going to affect you and everyone we know." Then I looked down, my shame preventing me from looking her in the eye. I could see her legs shift, and she came over to the sofa and sat down next to me. "Oh honey, what are you gonna do? What are we gonna do?" "I don't know Rebecca. I really don't. But I think I have to decide whether this is just some crossdressing game I've been playing, and then reign it in, or whether I really am transsexual, and just go full time to see what that means." "I...." and I looked up at her helplessly, holding my hands out in a gesture of futility. That's just what I'd been trying to understand all afternoon, but by now, I couldn't figure out what was in my heart and what was in my head, whether it was riskier to do nothing or to go full time. Whether I should tell people dressing is just something I enjoy doing, or that I think I'm a woman. Rebecca, bless her heart, leaned over and gave me a hug. "Let's talk," she said softly. "Maybe together we can work it out." We talked for hours, and that's when I learned about all of her fears, and her anger and her frustration. She understood she had some responsibility for what had happened, especially by introducing Sara to Matti, but was adamant that I was responsible for everything I had done: the way I had enthusiastically gone out with Phillip every chance I got, the way I had pursued increasing femininity, and that I seemed unable to restrain my feminine impulses, giving little thought to the implications of what I was doing. At first, I listened impassively, then resentfully, and finally with increasing hostility. *How dare she accuse me like that?* I thought to myself. *This never would have happened if she hadn't pushed me into it.* But as we talked, things became clearer to me. Just because she had set me up with one date with Phillip, didn't mean I had to go out with him over and over again. Just because she had become lenient with my dressing at home didn't mean I had to push the envelope every chance I got. And it certainly didn't mean that I had to be blind to the effect it was having on her and everyone else around me. I was becoming wracked with guilt. "I'll quit," I finally said. "I just can't do this to you any more." "No you won't," she replied, evenly. "You won't be able to. Not only that, I won't let you. It would be stupid." "What are you talking about?" I responded, trying to sound offended. "Don't you think I love you enough to stop doing this?" She cocked her head in that way of hers and looked at me sadly. Then taking a deep breath and straightening up, she said, "What I think Michael, is that you are really Sara. And that if we force that little bird back into the cage she just escaped from, not only will she die, but she'll take Michael with her." By the time she had finished, she was crying. Still, she went on, "And I can't bear the thought of doing that." Of course, everything I knew about trannies told me that I would never stop entirely. I could purge and suppress it for a while, but it would inevitably come back. In the meantime I would be miserable, especially after all my recent freedom. Apparently Rebecca understood that as well. And looking into her eyes in that moment, I understood that what I wanted to do more than anything in the world was live full-time as a woman to see if I was in fact transsexual. Could I do it day after day, in every activity, in front of all people? But before I could say that, Rebecca started talking again. "Michael - Sara - I don't know who you are any more, and I can't go on like this. I need to know one way or another. Are you a guy who likes to dress like a girl or are you a girl? Do you even know?" All I could do was shake my head sadly. "Then I think our path is clear," she went on, obviously having made up her mind. "You have to become Sara full time. If you do that and discover that you're really Michael, then maybe we can continue our marriage. If you discover that you're really Sara, however, I'd rather know that sooner rather than later." Her eyes were filled with tears, and she had a pleading look on her face. My lips quivered, but no words came out. l felt stupid, culpable, guilty, and worthless all at once. But Rebecca wasn't waiting for me to reply, she was only trying to get control of herself so she could continue. After a deep breath, she went on. "I don't want to lose you, but I can't stand the way things are." She hesitated for a few moments, and then went on, "And besides your hand has been forced. It's just impossible to continue on the way the way you have." "I know," I mumbled dumbly, trying to imagine what I would say to my parents. All of a sudden my life didn't seem like such a big adventure any more; it had turned into a bad dream. That night, as we got ready for bed, Rebecca placed a sweet spaghetti strap, knee length nightie on our bed. "Wear this," she said, when I had come out of the bathroom. "And then cuddle up with me in bed. I need to feel you near me." So I did and we did. But cuddle is all we did. We didn't have sex. Rebecca pointed out, gently but firmly that she wasn't a lesbian, and if I was a girl, well, we could be intimate, but it was hard for her to imagine how that would lead to sex. I don't know whether Rebecca intended it, or was even aware of it, but I saw another message embedded in what she said. If I became Sara our marriage would be over. *** Chapter VIII Sara's New World The next day, I called my parents, and made arrangements to drive into Manhattan to visit them. My father was a senior partner in a small investment banking firm, and they lived in a really nice, but not terribly large apartment on the upper west side, which they had moved into once they had gotten me and my two sisters off to college. My mom was delighted to hear from me and wanted to go out to dinner, but I insisted that we meet first at their apartment and then decide what to do. It was obvious word hadn't reached them yet. I didn't know whether that was good or bad. I drove into the city early and spent most of the day shopping and trying to figure out what I was going to tell them. No matter what I imagined, it turned out bad. My dad especially worried me. As I made my way, I was able to pick up a few copies of the magazine that now held my picture. By the time I got to the apartment, I was dressed androgynously in a pair of tan women's slacks and a pale blue polo shirt, with my fake crocodile women's loafers on my feet, and my hair pulled back neatly, but no makeup. Underneath, I had on panties but no bra. My parents met me at the door and I gave them a quick hello. They told me how pleased they were that I had decided to just drop by as we walked from the small foyer into the living room. It was impossible not to stop as you entered that room. It wasn't overly large, but the far wall was nearly all windows, and even with gauze curtains over them for privacy it was filled with light. A baby grand piano, which I had considered as an instrument of torture when I was growing up and failing at piano lessons, sat to the right of the entrance way. A brightly colored couch, like something out of the summer catalogue from Pottery Barn, only way more expensive, dominated the wall just past the piano. Several comfortable chairs and small tables faced the couch on the other wall. But none of that really characterized the room. What did was on the walls. Nearly every square foot of wall space above the furniture was covered with art. Most of it came from one of two places: paintings from Cape Cod and pottery from the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina, which is something you don't see much of in New York City. My parents, who liked to vacation in both places, were, as it turned out, very astute collectors. Paintings that had cost a couple of hundred bucks when they were purchased on Cape Cod 30 years ago were now worth tens of thousands. Pottery purchased for a song from young potters in the Blue Ridge Mountain artist colony at Penland was now on display at many museums and was also very valuable. The entire apartment was filled with their collection, and as always, I was mildly startled when I saw it again. No wonder I had become an artist. But I couldn't linger, as I loved to do, because I had business to attend to. I handed them the article and told them to read it while I "went to change." They were perplexed, but just shrugged and nodded. When I came from the guest room 15 minutes later, my hair was loose and fluffy because I had back-combed it to give it some volume. I had on full, though light makeup, with a pale blush and lipstick. A pair of brand new A cup forms (I didn't want to scare them) were in a bra I had just bought to hold them, and I was wearing a soft, jade green silk camp shirt that draped fluidly. Two gold bracelets adorned my right wrist, a small watch was on my left, and I sported dangly, multicolored glass earrings and a matching pendant. Their color was perfect with the blouse. A pair of casual dark green pumps with a two inch stacked heel completed my outfit. I felt really pulled together. And scared to death. "What's going on here?" my dad asked the moment he saw me. There was no trace of pleasantness in his voice. "Honey?" my mom said plaintively at the same time. "Did you see the article?" I asked, in my normal voice. They both nodded studying me carefully, and with some alarm, as I stood before them. "Well," I said, switching to my girly voice, "this," and I held my hands out and did a twist from one side to the other, "this is going to be me for the foreseeable future." "I told you he was gay," my father said to my mother. "Honey?" my mother asked plaintively. "What's going on?" "Anyone besides me want a drink?" I asked, turning to head to the small bar on the other side of the room, so they could see how I walked. I heard a strangled noise come from my father, so I turned and gave him an expectant smile. "Yes!" he blurted out. "Make me a martini - in one of the big glasses." "Arthur!" My mother said, aghast. "You know what Dr. Bernstein said." "Diane," my father responded tartly, "If Dr. Bernstein was here she'd want one too." My mother just said, "Hmmphh." And a moment later, "I'll have one too." After I handed them their drinks and perched primly on one of the chairs, my father said, "So, Michael," he emphasized the Michael quite emphatically. "What's going on?" "Will you listen?" I asked. "And let me finish before you start to respond?" They both nodded. So as I daintily rearranged myself on my chair, they watched stiffly from the couch, which was not that easy to do because it was a big, soft couch that just swallowed you up if you sat back on it. When I had settled myself I told them my story - how I had always thought that I might be a girl, how I had always cross-dressed and how Rebecca knew and accepted it, although she wasn't thrilled about it. I didn't tell them about Phillip, although I spent a lot of time explaining that I wasn't gay. "See, I told you," my mom said smugly to my dad, as if it was all somehow okay as long as I wasn't gay. I went to great lengths to explain that the picture wasn't my idea, but had been taken without my knowledge or permission. I apologized for surprising them and for any hurt this was going to cause. "Okay, I've heard you out, my dad said when I stopped. Now you hear me out." I had to admit, he had been a very good listener, something he rarely was. I nodded "Are you out of your fucking mind?" he exploded, jumping up and stalking towards me. "Is this some kind of a sick joke?" he went on gesticulating wildly. "You can't just go around changing your sex whenever you feel like it. You're not my daughter; you're my son. I don't want to see you like this." And with that he turned away from me, pacing to the piano. Resting his hand on it, he turned back. "I'm no fool; I've read about this stuff. And I'm not na?ve. I live in Manhattan for Christ's sake. But I will not permit it in my family!" And with that, he spun around and stalked out of the room. I just sat there a little stunned by his vehemence, though not by his attitude. But my mother didn't seem terribly concerned, so I had some hope for her being more accepting. "Oh don't worry about him," she said," waving her hand in the direction he had gone. "He adores you. Sometimes he couldn't relate to your sisters at all, but you were always his son and that always made him so proud. He just needs some time." "Mom?" I asked, although I didn't really know what I was asking. "Look," she said, patting the seat next to her so I would move over there. "We always thought something was going on. You were always a little effeminate, you loved art, I don't know. You just weren't terribly manly." "That's for sure," I replied disgustedly. Even though I was good at sports, and dated lots of girls, everyone always looked at me questioningly. "Yeah," she went on. "Even after you married Rebecca, we still wondered." "But she's Jewish," I said teasing. "You always said you wanted me to marry a Jewish girl." She looked at me as if I she had just discovered I had small pox. I guessed this wasn't the best time for joking. "Don't worry," she finally said, "You'll figure it out. Once you see how lousy it is to be a woman, you'll be happy to go back to being Michael again, and we can forget all about this." She gave me one of those indulgent-mother smiles and along with a hopeful but vacuous TV anchor nod, as if I this conversation wasn't about anything more important than that I was changing my hair color. But after a brief, pregnant pause, she rolled out the heavy artillery. "We're still waiting for grandchildren, you know." With that, she tuned me out entirely, which is what she did whenever confronted with a difficult emotional situation. "Michael," she said, putting her hand on mine, and then pulling it back suddenly, as if she had put it on a spider. "I just assumed we'd go out for dinner, so I don't have a thing to eat. And I don't think your father wants to be seen with you the way you are." Then she paused, which meant it was my turn to say something. It only took me a moment to figure out what she meant. I'd had years of training in reading her indirection. "Okay mom. I guess you're right. I should be going." She nodded thankfully, and after quickly collecting my things, I fled. I really didn't want to drive back to Connecticut right then, so on a whim, I dialed the number of Phillip's apartment. But there was only the answering machine. I smiled briefly to hear his voice, but didn't leave a message. Instead, I headed out of the city, disconsolate, but not totally defeated. At least my parents hadn't actually thrown me out of their apartment, or told me they never wanted to see me again. *** "So I guess that didn't go so well, did it?" Rebecca said when I got home way earlier than either of us had anticipated. "What do you mean?" I asked playing for time to see what she was getting at. I assumed she said that because I was home so early. "Your mom called," she responded flatly. "And Leah." Leah, was my older sister, a married corporate attorney, who, at 37, still didn't have children, much to my parents oft-expressed dismay. "I'm sorry," I said, brushing my hair off my face with a finger as my shoulders slumped. I could see that there was going to be a lot of collateral damage to my being outed, and that Rebecca was going to bear the brunt of it. A bolt of white hot guilt shot through me, not just because of the pain it would cause her, but because I now clearly understood that even if I had been sure that I would be outed, I wouldn't have changed anything I had done. I had been just like a smoker, who intellectually understands that she might get lung cancer some day, but who manages to emotionally quarantine that horrid outcome in some kind of neuronal prison that keeps it from her awareness. "You better be." she came back at me. "They're both ready to blame me for what's happened, either because I caused it, I didn't stop it. You know what you mother said?" I shook my head, afraid to guess. "What kind of a wife lets her husband turn himself into a woman? Couldn't you satisfy him? If you had given him children this wouldn't have happened." And she started to sob, something she must have been doing a lot of judging by the size of the pile of crumpled tissues next to her on the couch. "I'll set them straight," I said a little hotly. I was furious that they would blame Rebecca. "You'll set them straight?" she replied angrily, looking up into my eyes with more questions than I could answer. "Who the hell is going to set you straight? Or me for that matter?" I sure as hell don't know what happened." "Rebecca?" I pleaded. "What can I do? I didn't plan this. I didn't want it to happen?" "No, you didn't plan anything did you? And you sure as hell didn't think about what might happen as you were out there having a grand old time playing party girl!" She spat her words out at me. "You're a fool. A selfish fool. And I'm an idiot for letting you go as far as I did." She paused for a second and looked down, her curls hiding her face. When she looked up, skewering me with her eyes, she added, "And you were irresponsible for letting me do it." She glared at me, tears running from her red-rimmed eyes. And before I could say anything, she added ruefully, "But you do look cute in that blouse. Does your mother appreciate what a great sense of style you have?" And she started to cry again. Then, as I moved to her side and sat down next to her on the couch, she said, "Michael, what are we going to do?" "I don't know, hon. I don't know. But I do know I'm going to protect you. This is my mess. There's no reason for you to have to clean it up." But I couldn't protect her. As the weeks went on, and the world began increasingly to encounter me as Sara, who, like a character in a Twilight Zone episode, was forced to live a life she had always dreamed of, only to see it turn into a nightmare, everyone Rebecca ran into asked her what was going on. At first, it was only business associates who had seen or heard about the article, but after a while, as the word spread, and more and more people saw me, and we started spreading the word ourselves, wherever she went, the dry cleaner, the supermarket, to business meetings, in her gynecologist's waiting room, wherever, people asked about me. Although we had decided to tell everyone some version of, "He always thought he was a woman and now is the time to find out for sure, and yes I support her," it was hard for her. I had some idea of just how hard because I was fielding the same questions. But because she was feeling so guilty and defensive about her role, which I absolutely forbade her from revealing, she was not only assaulted with all kinds of painful inquiries, but was reading all kinds of hidden messages into what people were saying. Rebecca heard them implying that the reason I had changed genders just had to be due to some kind of lack of nurturing, failure, or actual manipulation on her part. I mean, a real woman makes her man feel virile and manly, doesn't she? What, then, had she done to me to make me feel all girly instead? When her morale was at its lowest, she interpreted this to mean that she was a castrating bitch who drove me to it, though how was never clear. And just to be sure all bases were covered, there were the kind folks who had to ask if my nascent femininity didn't it threaten hers, which, actually, it did. That's why she didn't want me wearing breast forms at home. And, of course, many wondered what kind of man was I to begin with? I must have been a total sissy when she married me, and certainly a flaming faggot, and, needless to say, completely perverted in ways normal people couldn't even comprehend. Frankly, gay would have been a step up from what some people thought of me. At least if I had come out "only" as a garden variety gay man, I would still be a man. So, even though lots of people were kind and accepting, it seemed to me that most people were either threatened by me or angry with me. To men, I seemed to represent the fragility of their own masculinity. And to women, who knows? I seem to have crossed some forbidden divide where men were not supposed to go. Or maybe, I liked to imagine, it was just because I made an attractive woman, rather more attractive than most of them, and they were just jealous. At least, that's what I liked to imagine. Of course, not everyone thought it was Rebecca's fault, some people, both men and women, assumed she was a victim. Wasn't she outraged that I had hidden this from her for so long? Wasn't lying about my sexuality as bad as having an affair? Why, these people wanted to know, did she continue to stay with me? How could she possibly put up with it, my betrayal was not only obvious, but shameful as well. Telling them that they were wrong about all of that seemed to do little to change their minds. But in the end, even the interactions with people who understood or who were supportive, and they were by far the largest group, took a toll. It is of course better to have someone tell you that you are brave "to go through something like this," but that carries its own costs, especially when people then started to share their problems, as if by having a transsexual husband, Rebecca had suddenly acquired some unique insights into the world. So, over a period of about two months, I watched helplessly as my lovely, brilliant, tough-minded wife first became stressed out, then started to lose her self-confidence, and, finally, her joy de vivre, which by the end seemed to be fading visibly on a daily basis. It was like watching Tinkerbell die in Peter Pan, her light slowly fading. Only this time, simply clapping wouldn't bring her back. Things were bad enough for me, with all the snickers and stares and disbelieving questions, but eventually, more than anything else, I just couldn't bear the thought that I was literally destroying the one great love of my life. *** Coming out to my parents was only the first of many explanations I was to give over the following months. I had to call Leah the morning after visiting my parents to confirm that my mother had indeed gotten it right and to castigate her for being unkind to Rebecca. Leah and I hadn't been terribly close as kids. First, she had to baby sit for me, which cramped her style, but what it really came down to was she just didn't want her creepy little brother hanging around. But after we became adults, we discovered a real fondness for each other, and a new way to relate that had nothing to do with who we had been as kids. By now, we were comfortable enough to tease each other about who would produce the first grandchildren, thereby getting the pressure off the other. "So," she started off, right after I said hello, "does this mean the burden of grandchildren is solely mine now?" That little joke was the highlight of our conversation. By the time we were done, it was clear that she was no more accepting of me than my dad, and while she wasn't as explosively angry, she was far more cutting and dismissive of my "choice." My younger sister, Courtney, who, through no effort on my part had always adored me, and who I, of course, had always taken for granted, was much more accepting, although she wasn't quite sure the whole thing was for real. "This is a joke, right?" she started off, calling between surgeries. In the end, I had to promise to visit and hang out with her as Sara before she would pass judgment. But she was in Chicago, working about a thousand hours a week as a third year surgical resident, so that wasn't likely to happen any time soon. But she had decided to go into plastic and reconstructive surgery and volunteered to do my face, if it came to that. "How about my breasts?" I asked, only half joking. There was a kind of strangled noise from the phone, and then a moment of silence. "Ahhh..., I don't think so," she finally said. That would be too weird. And besides you should get a real expert." At least she was taking me seriously. The people at work were as easy going as Courtney. Of course, they had seen me gradually change over many months, so they knew something was up. Two actually praised me in private for my courage. Of course, I was their boss. Still, no one quit. Our clients, not surprisingly, were a different matter. We lost a few right away, and Rebecca was furious with me. "You see," she shouted one day a week after my coming out, when two had called up to say they were looking for 'other creative avenues.' "You see what you've done?" Despite the loss, the magazine article really did help us, and we started to get more inquiries than ever before. Many of those who called expected to work with Sara, and only a very few changed their minds when I told them who Sara really was. And there was a second, smaller group of inquiries from companies that called because they knew just who Sara used to be. So even though we were losing some clients, we actually gained more than we lost, and in the end, we were terribly busy trying to keep up with the work. This was to be my greatest blessing. Work became a refuge, a place where I could experience camaraderie, work hard next to people who took me at face value, and eat up most of the day. Still, it took months, well after new year's actually, before we hit an even keel again and could turn those inquiries into paying clients. Over the short run, we were worried that we wouldn't have enough work to keep ourselves up and running. In the meantime, it took me two weeks before I listened to the advice I got in my support group and wrote out my explanation in the form of a letter and mailed it to literally everyone I knew. At first, I wasn't sure I was ready to do that, but it only took Rebecca about 15 minutes to convince me that I had to do it, and to add a whole bunch of other names, those of her friends and family, to the mailing list. It must have taken me about four hours to write what turned out to be a one page letter. Walking into the post office with two large shopping bags full of letters almost did me in. Having done that, however, people knew what to expect when they saw me or Rebecca. I still got all kinds of different responses, from support to hostility (the hostility came especially from some of my male neighbors), and I still had to explain why I did it almost every time I saw someone for the first time as Sara, but it did allow me to avoid that initial embarrassing moment when someone would look at me, trying to figure out how they knew me, and then become totally stunned when they did. For Rebecca, it compressed the time it took for the whole thing, but it also lowered the emotional tone of her interactions with people. Still, our lives were incredibly stressful. Like our personal and work lives, our social lives were in disarray. Some long-time friends shunned me, something I had seen once before when one of the couples we were friends with split up because the guy simply walked out. Others, close and not so close, came calling out of curiosity, the way people gather round to look at a bad car wreck. What worried me the most, however, was that I could feel Rebecca slipping away. We spent a lot of time talking, trying to figure out what we should do and what kind of relationship we could have. By turns, we embraced the deep yearning we both had for each other, and then vented pent up anger and resentment at the way things were going. Given the way the situation had developed, we each had plenty of ammunition to use against the other. We still usually ate and slept together, and I tried to make sure Sara was never very femme when we were at home. But there were times we were so angry with each other that I would get really femmed up just to piss her off! On those nights, I slept in the guest bedroom, not that I actually did very much sleeping, using the time instead to beat myself up for ruining our lives. So it wasn't surprising that over time, Rebecca grew increasingly short and impatient with me. She didn't want to discuss clothes or makeup, and stopped sharing the little observations and interactions that make living with another person rewarding. It wasn't just that she no longer sought my advice about her own outfits; she didn't touch me any more either. Our relationship became cold and barren; our home, which had always been our refuge, became a source of pain instead. I had put a huge amount of stress on both of us, and Rebecca was resentful as hell. Who could blame her? But I also knew that she knew that she had to bear some responsibility for what had happened. So instead of being able to vent her anger entirely at me (and she did plenty of that), and be the victim some of her friends and colleagues urged her to be, she was furious with herself as well. And so one night, five months after I came out, as she paced around the living room, ranting and raving, I made a decision. "Would you like me to leave?" I asked quietly. "NO!" She shouted back, twirling around to face me. "What kind of stupid idea is that? What would it accomplish?" She glared at me for what seemed like forever, and then broke down in tears, kneeling by the side of my chair. As she cried into my lap I stroked her hair. Finally, she looked up into my face. "Yes," she said tearfully. "I need a break. If we stay together like this, I don't know what I might do." "I understand," I said quietly. And I think I did. I was like a splinter that had caused an infection. If you don't remove the splinter, the infection never heals, and might even lead to blood poisoning. Leaving, I thought, was the best chance to save my relationship with Rebecca. "Would you like me to leave tonight, or can you give me a couple of days to set something up?" "I don't want you to leave," she cried, as if I had proposed ripping her arm off. "I want you to live in my house and sleep in my bed." That night I did, and I think we both felt wonderful holding each other. But it was the way you might hold someone who was going off to war, fearing in your heart, but not being able to admit it consciously, that once you let go, something horrible was going to happen. I slept fitfully, and each time I woke up, I grabbed hold of Rebecca, fearing it might be the last time I would touch her. The next morning, I got up early, and got ready for the day. I put on makeup, blew out my hair, which was now well below my shoulders and was in real need of a trim, and dressed in a long sleeve purple top and long white cotton skirt. Then I made breakfast. When Rebecca finally made her way to the kitchen, she was really grateful, and we sat together to eat. We kept looking into each other's eyes, as if we would find something there other than the reality that we both knew. Although both our hearts ached, we couldn't find anything to say. But before she left for the office, Rebecca did the most amazing thing. She asked me to sit on the couch, and then knelt down in front of me, scaring me to death. I sure she was going to tell me to never come back. Instead, she held out her hand to me palm up, saying, "Remember this?" It was the ankle bracelet inscribed, "Becca and Sara," that she had bought for me the day of our last giddy date before I first went out with Phillip. "Wear it for me please?" she asked, her voice choked. It was if a bolt of lightning had been shot through my heart. My brain froze, my eyes teared up, and I my throat closed tight. Even if I could have spoken, there wasn't an articulate thought in my brain. All I could do was nod at her dumbly. So she took my right ankle in her hand and gently did up the clasp on the slender gold chain. Then she rotated it so the thin gold plate holding the inscription rested on the outside of my ankle. "There," she managed to splutter out through her own tears. "Now everyone will see it and know." I was crying for all I was worth, as I put my foot on the floor, fell to my own knees on the soft carpet grabbed onto her for all I was worth. We sat there hugging each other for many minutes, before she cleared her throat and started to disengage from me. "Now we have to redo our makeup," she said, almost sounding as if she was teasing, but still too choked up to pull it off. But I understood what she meant, and we both managed to get up, still blubbering, but no longer uncontrollably. Forty minutes later, we couldn't even get a word out as she gave me a warm hug and lingering kiss. Neither one of us had the heart to mention that I might not be there when she got back. After cleaning up, I called Phillip on his cell. I knew he would help me. A couple of weeks after I was outed, on the day that turned out to be the second anniversary of our first date (he remembered, not me), we went to dinner. It wasn't a big deal, just a quiet meal in a small Italian restaurant that was short on ambiance - straw covered Chianti bottles on tables covered with vinyl table clothes printed with images of olives - but with a brilliant chef who could barely speak English, but who was well known among lovers of Italian food. After we had finished eating, while we were sitting there fiddling with perfect cannoli and sipping cappuchinos, he told me he couldn't see me any more. "Sara," he said, "his eyes looking so sad I first thought he was going to tell me he had fatal cancer, "I need to stop taking you out. Being seen with a famous transsexual wouldn't be good for my reputation. It could ruin my business." I just ducked my head, crushed my cannoli with my fork, and nodded sadly. I was furious, but didn't want to make a scene in the restaurant. Instead, I waited until we were in his car. Then, as soon as he had settled into the driver's seat buckled his seat belt and started the car, I really unloaded on him. I turned to face him, my own seat belt trying to haul me back to my side of the car, and shouted, "You selfish son of a bitch. It was okay for me to take the risk of going out with you as Sara to protect your precious reputation as Mr. Macho, but as soon as there's any risk to you, you drop me? What kind of wuss are you?" For a moment his mouth just opened and closed as he tried to find words. It was clear he wasn't expecting that. "Sara?" he half pleaded. "This is my livelihood we're talking about. I thought we both understood while we were going out that it was just a game. I mean, anyone else who had been out with me as often as you, would have been in my bed many times, but I never pushed that on you." "What did you say?" I screamed into the nearly soundproof environment of his new 750i. Now I was really seething. Startled at my own anger, I lowered my voice, but let the intensity stay. "Is that what you expect? A quid pro quo? Well, you got it buster! You got the safe date you wanted, one you could relate to, and who wouldn't be running any scams on you. Surely you didn't forget about that? And look at what it's cost me! I'm trapped in this now and have been publicly humiliated!" "Sara, Sara, okay already," he said raising his hands defensively. "That was stupid of me. I didn't mean it. Really. I was feeling defensive. Forgive me, please?" And he looked at me with such a pained, apologetic expression, that my heart went out to him. "Oh, alright," I said, "I'll forget about that last crack, but it still doesn't excuse you from dropping me just because I might tarnish your precious reputation. That's just chicken shit. And besides, lots of people already know you've been out with me. Some have even seen us more than once. All you need to tell them is that you knew I was TS, but that you thought I made one gorgeous babe. I bet they see you as courageous, rather than anything else. Probably make you seem even more macho. "Who," I asked sarcastically, "but someone who is really sure of his masculinity would risk going out with a trannie?" "I don't know," he replied dubiously. "Let me think about it, okay?" "Well you better think about this while you're at it. What kind of a person drops a friend because she all of a sudden becomes a little inconvenient? Someone who would do that is no friend at all. He's a user, a manipulator." I could see by his expression that he was deeply wounded by that charge, so, despite the fact that I was hyperventilating and on a total adrenalin rush that was shouting at me to close in for the kill, I managed to keep control of my breathing and my mouth. I settled back into my seat and straightened my skirt and coat. Then I just sat there silently. After a few moments he said, in a whisper so quiet that was almost lost in the barely audible whoosh of the car's heater, "I don't manipulate people." I tried to restrain myself, but I was still furious, though more under control than a few moments ago. So matching his quiet tone, I replied, "It's one thing to talk the talk, it's another to walk the walk. When you figure out which you plan to do, please be so kind as to let me know." My anger was still so hot I couldn't keep the sarcasm out of my voice, though I cringed hearing myself. I felt defeated. There was only one thing that could be done at this point. So I said, "But in the meantime, just take me home." I tried to settle myself in the slippery leather seat, sure that I had just severed our relationship. In the darkness of the exquisitely appointed car cabin, the smell of new leather filling my nostrils even through my sniffles, tears began to wind their way down my cheeks. I didn't try to stop them or wipe them away. The restaurant was only about 20 minutes from our house, so he slipped the car into gear and headed off. The winding two lane roads of Connecticut, which require a lot of attention in most cars, slip by silently and easily in a big BMW. But the tension between Phillip and me seemed impenetrable. Now, the car wasn't just quiet, it was oppressively silent. It reminded me of when I was a child and desperately wanted to say something to my father while we were at Shabbat services, but because it was during the silent meditation that proceeded the Torah reading, I had to hold my tongue, not really knowing why, but knowing I that had to because the silence all around me was so powerful. After about ten minutes, panic started to overtake me. What would I do if I lost Phillip as well as Rebecca? The silence was too much; I couldn't take it any more, "Philip," I said, my voice first catching in my throat, and then finding a way to come out gently, "I'm doing something really hard. I need all the friends I can get. I thought we were friends. I don't really have anyone else. I need you." He glanced over at me and nodded, but I had no idea what he was thinking. My heart was becoming leaden. By the time we pulled into my driveway, I had just about given up hope that he would ever speak to me again. I tried to imagine how he would end it: would he be straight- forward, or would he tell me he would call, only to disappear forever. *Why?* I cried in my mind, *had I ever been so foolish as to attack him like that. Now he hates me.* As the car came to a smooth halt, and the sound of the gravel crunching under its wide tires disappeared into the trees by the driveway, he finally said something. Turning to me, the left side of his face illuminated by the security light over the garage, he put one hand on the back of my seat and the other on my thigh. That startled me. It felt huge and hot. But before I could even begin to consider what it meant or how to respond, he said, "Sara. I am your friend, and I won't abandon you. We'll go out and play racquetball and do the other stuff just as before. And if anyone ever tries to knock you down again, physically, like that first time we played, or metaphorically anywhere else, they'll have to answer to me. Okay?" "Ok..kay," I replied, stuttering over the word as my throat tightened up and tears started to from in my eyes yet again. I had prayed for this, but was afraid to really hope for it. I put my left hand over his on my thigh, and sort of spluttered through the tears that were now fully formed, "Phillip, you are the sweetest man. I don't know what I did to deserve you." "And you Sara Cohen are a terrific, talented woman. I'm only sorry you have to go through this." What could I do? I sat there for a long moment, savoring the feel of his hand on my leg his words in my mind, and then reached up, put my right hand on his cheek, pulled him closer to me, and gave him a warm kiss on the lips. It just felt like the right thing to do, and it felt right doing it. "Thank you," he said, graciously pulling away from the kiss before it could develop into anything more than a thank you. "I mean what I say. You can count on me. I was a fool to have said what I did. I'll always regret it." "Thank you," I responded, before leaning back to him and giving him another short kiss. I thought I knew what kind of man you are, now I'm sure. Please call me every so often, okay?" "Sure babe, he responded, dropping into a rather bad, though recognizable, Humphrey Bogart imitation. "If you need anything just, whistle. You do know how to whistle don't you? You just put your lips together and blow." "Hey," I responded huffily. That's supposed to be my line. It was Becall who used it in, 'To Have and Have Not,' not Bogart." "Sorry dear," he teased back, "I got to it first." And turning back towards the steering wheel, he went on. "I gotta go. You take care, okay?" "It'll be easier now," I replied, serious again. And then I reached for the handle and got out of the car. A moment after I got into the house, feeling quite heartened, but emotionally drained, Rebecca called out, "That was quite cozy. Are you two becoming a hot item now that you're done with me?" "Rebecca, what are you talking about?" I responded as I walked towards the kitchen. She was standing by the sink, which had a real nice view of the front yard and driveway. "That looked like a pretty hot make out session to me," she replied hotly, turning on me as she did. "It was two little kisses, that's all," I said angrily. "And what were you doing spying on me?" "Two little kisses my ass," she shot back. "And I wasn't spying on you. I was just coming into the kitchen to get a drink when Phil's car pulled in. After a while, when you didn't come in, I looked to see if it really was you. And sure enough, it was. With him draped all over you and you leaning in to kiss him." "Oh shit That's not what happened." I responded despondently. "Can I please explain?" "Explain what?" she asked angrily. "You think you can convince me that I didn't see it?" "No," I said evenly, trying to control my voice so this stupid argument wouldn't escalate. "But I can tell you exactly what did happen, and then maybe you'll have a slightly different take on it." Her face remained hard. "Please?" I pleaded. "Alright," she said, with a little less edge on her voice. Then she turned and headed for the porch, saying, "Bring me a glass of wine. This oughta be good." A half hour later, she was in tears, appalled at her behavior and the way she had jumped to conclusions. I sat next to her, one arm over her shoulder, and the other holding her hand. "But it still makes me really uptight to see you kissing a man," she mumbled. "It just seemed like the right thing to do at the time," I replied quietly. "It wasn't sexual. It never will be. I'm not gay and I never will be." She just nodded, looking defeated. "C'mon," I said, "Lets go to bed. This has been a hard day." "Every day's a hard day," she said sadly, turning to look at me to see if I was still mad at her, and giving me a small smile when she saw only concern on my face. I helped her up and we went upstairs hand in hand, she in her jeans and sweatshirt and me in my heels, flirty s