The Visitor: Monica's Diary, Friday July 7 free porn video

Monica's Diary: Friday, July 7 After clearing our visits to Amarillo with Nathan last night, we packed our lunches and laid out our clothes. He did point out the need for more prayer on this matter, since we were now placing Timothy into the hands of what he called the "system." I must confess that at first, I did not understand what he meant. "It's not like we're taking Timothy to a physician to diagnose the meaning of physical symptoms," Nathan said as we were getting ready for bed. "He has diagnosed himself, and the governmental, psychological, and medical establishments have come together to create something of a system designed to turn this young man into their approximation of a girl." "But surely not every person who thinks he's transgender goes all the way through the system," I said. "They must weed out people who have other problems. I mean a cold and hay fever present many of the same symptoms, but they aren't the same thing. There must be some tests or examinations they can run to determine what makes a person want to make such a drastic change in their lives." "I've not had a lot of time to read up on it," Nathan replied. "Pastor Chupco has looked into it though. According to what he has read, the principal factor in determining gender dysphoria is the feeling of the patient. If he says he feels like a woman trapped in a man's body, or vice versa, that's it. The diagnosis is made and onto the assembly line the patient goes. From then on, it's only a matter of money and time." So, we prayed, both of us, into the night. We didn't pray so much that the Lord would prevent Timothy from altering his body and then plunging deeper into sin as we did that God would open his eyes to reality; that God would call him out of darkness into His marvelous light; that He would move him from the power of darkness into the kingdom of His beloved Son; that He would breathe into Timothy the breath of life and regenerate his soul. After breakfast--Timothy had dry cereal but refused any milk--we took off for Amarillo around 8:30. "You seem to be in good spirits this morning," I said to Timothy. This drive was definitely not a replay of our trip from the hospital to the Street's home on the 4th. There was no tension. Most of the kids were already dozing. Timothy was wide awake and actually smiling. "I'm on my way," Timothy said. "I can't believe I'm really on my way." "What are you on your way to?" Hannah asked. "You know," he answered. "I know you want to be a girl," she continued. "I just don't see how you're going to get there from here." Timothy looked at her for a while but didn't say anything. I had the feeling he thought maybe she was being sarcastic. Evidently, he decided she wasn't. "First, they'll be some counseling, to make sure my head is screwed on straight, probably some testing..." "Like arithmetic and spelling?" Mark had awakened from his doze. "No, silly, to measure how much I already think like a girl." At this point I noticed that Timothy was fluttering his hands while speaking. The gestures reminded me of the conversation I'd had with his father and how he had described seeing the way Timothy behaved when he had not known he was being observed by his dad. He certainly had not behaved this way when in Nathan's presence, or when around any men of our congregation for that matter. I wondered if these mannerisms were going to increase as time went on. "And then?" Hannah asked. "With any luck, puberty blockers I hope, I hope, I hope," Timothy said, patting his hands together. "Puberty blockers?" Hannah asked. "Isn't it too late for that? I mean your voice and..." "Don't be mean, Hannah!" Timothy reached out and swatted her on the arm. "The blockers can bring all that to a halt, and later I'll go on hormone replacement therapy. Female hormones will reverse everything, and I'll look just like you." "And then surgery?" Hannah asked softly. "If I want." "If?" "Yeah if. It used to be that to be a transgender woman, you had to have all kinds of surgeries. Now you don't have to. You can have as much or as little done as you want and still be a woman." "A transgender woman." "Same thing." "I don't understand. You don't want children?" "What do you mean? "Won't female hormones make you sterile?" "I can always adopt." "You don't want a baby of your very own?" "Sure I do," Timothy said dismissively, "just not like that, not like your father. It wouldn't be the same thing." "Yes it would. My daddy loves me every bit as much as my mom does and always has." "Well sure he does; you're a girl. That's the way dads are with their daughters. With boys it's different. Dads have to make them mean and tough. When the time comes, I'm sure I'll adopt a little girl too." "Skyla, no!" Hannah said, her voice quavering. "Of course Daddy loved me and my sisters, but I was seven or eight years old when Josiah was born. I remember how he held him and cuddled him and kissed him. He would sing to him. Sometimes when Josiah was sick, Daddy would kneel by his crib and pray over him. And he wept. Skyla, my daddy wept over that little baby boy. I saw him, and I prayed then that I would be able to love my children as much as my daddy loved us." I glanced up into the rear-view mirror, found Hannah, and saw tears running down her face. I looked over at Timothy. He was visibly shocked. He slowly turned his head back to facing the direction in which we were going. "My babies are Nathan's babies too, Skyla," I said softly. He didn't look at me. In fact, he looked away, out the window at his side, into the scrub forest through which we were passing. All I heard was a mumble, slightly above a whisper. "Lucky them." The therapist's office, when we found it on South Austin Street, was not quite what I had expected. I thought it would be in a medical park near a hospital surrounded by manicured lawns and well-tended shade trees. It turned out to be a smallish, squarish brick building dating well back into the last century. It was across the tracks from a residential area in a mixed neighborhood containing small dwellings, a pawn shop, a liquor store, and a couple of auto repair places. "Are we sure this is it?" Hannah asked as we pulled into the cracked driveway and stared at what looked like a warehouse next door. "It kind of has to be," I replied. "We've run out of Austin unless we can find some way across that valley that contains the railroad tracks." We parked and got out. A little sign on the wall announced the address and another identified the person we were scheduled to see: Kylie Wortman M.A., LPC, LBSW. We went into a brightly lit reception area, its multicolored interior contrasting pleasantly with what we had seen outside. A relaxed, older woman looked up from her computer screen and smiled. "Well, if it isn't the Von Trapp Family Singers! What a treat." I couldn't help smiling back. "Actually, we're the Henson's. We have an appointment with Dr. Wortman at 10 o'clock for Skyla," I said gesturing to Timothy. The receptionist smiled at Timothy, stared for just a second, and clicked some computer keys. She looked at the screen and then up at Timothy. "Given name Timothy Wesley Harp, age 15?" He instantly tensed and looked down. "Yes." "Nothing to be ashamed of; we've all got to start somewhere." She then picked up her phone and said; "your ten o'clock is here." The office we filed into was much larger than I would have expected for the little building that contained it. Not only that, it was arranged in such a way that sitting in a row as we did on the long couch facing Dr. Wortman's desk, we could see into other rooms that connected to it. One contained a rather large sandbox, which immediately grabbed the boys' attention. Another contained an easel, what looked like a drafting table, and lots of pens, pencils, and paints of all colors. There was another room with stuffed animals, and finally what looked like a sun room, or enclosed patio. "You must be the Amish family I've heard so much about," she said with a very warm and welcoming smile. "This must be quite an experience for you all to be going through." I could see Timothy glance at me sideways with almost a scowl. Once again, I could only smile. "No, doctor, we aren't Amish, we just live out in the boonies, which is where we stumbled onto Skyla one day last month. We took our new friend in and notified the authorities. When no one could find a suitable place for Skyla, we decided to make a place for our friend in our own home." "Yes, I've read all the reports, and by the way, I'm not a doctor yet, so just call me Kylie." Her long, straight brown hair, round face, and short stature combined with an infectious grin was the definition of pleasingly plump. She looked down at those reports as though searching for something. When she found it, she looked up and over at my youngest. "Josiah, how do you like having a new sister in the family?" "Oh, Stinky's just fine," Josiah said. "I threw a firecracker at him at the picnic. He caught it with one hand and threw it completely away before it went off." He sounded very impressed. "You don't think of Skyla as a she?" A pen had appeared out of nowhere, and Kylie made a small notation on one of the pages before her. "She? Skyla? Oh, yeah, sorry; I meant she." "And you called her, Stinky?" "Skyla had gone without a change of clothes and any freshening up for several days before our first meeting," I explained. Kylie smiled. "Do you ever throw firecrackers at your other sisters?" "No." "Why not?" "They don't care about stuff like that, you know, fun stuff." "So why did you throw a firecracker at Skyla?" "Skyla looked sad. Skyla always looks sad. I thought it would cheer him up. Her up." "And did it?" "It did for second," Josiah said with a grin. "Skyla screamed at me and started to chase me." "Really?" "Yeah, but then she stopped and sat down with mom and got sad again." For a few seconds there was no sound but that of Kylie's pen scribbling furiously. She paused, looked down and then up again at Mark. "Stink's okay," Mark stated. "Doesn't try to boss us around like Hannah or rat us out to Dad like Liz and Sarah." "Do you talk to her much?" "Sure." "What do you talk about?" "Stuff." "What kind of stuff?" "You know, stuff." "Do you talk to Elizabeth and Sarah about stuff?" "Why would I?" "Why wouldn't you?" "They're not interested in stuff." "What are they interested in?" "You know." "No, really, tell me." Mark rolled his eyes and gave out with a big sigh. "Pretty this, precious that. Oh, a bug, a bug!" His voice had assumed shrieking falsetto. "And Skyla doesn't talk like that?" "No!" Mark sounded almost offended. Again, we were treated to a few seconds of scribbling before Kylie turned to Sarah. "Skyla's fun!" Sarah volunteered. "Oh? How so?" "We get to go shopping for her, match her clothes for her, fix her hair, do her nails. We even scrub her neck and show her how to care for her teeth." "Sounds like more fun than a doll," Kylie commented. "Oh, she is! And we get to put the perfume and lotion on her that Liv gave her. She doesn't know anything, and we have to help her with everything. It's like when Josiah was little bitty all over again, except she's big." "She really is," Elizabeth volunteered. When Kylie turned to her, Elizabeth covered her mouth with one hand. "Is it my turn? Can I talk?" "Go right ahead," Kylie replied. "It's just like when I was little. I didn't know anything. Mama would tell me stuff to do, and then Hannah would explain." "I see," Kylie said, scribbling again. "You actually see Skyla as a little sister, even though she's older than all of you?" "Well, not so much a little sister as a baby sister. Skyla doesn't know anything about anything. She's like I was when I was, I don't know, two or three." "And you didn't mind having an older sister tell you what to do?" At this point I chuckled. Kylie glanced my way expectantly. "I don't remember how old Elizabeth was exactly, but she was certainly talking," I said. "I had told her that the trash needed to be gathered up and taken to the burn barrel and probably burned. Hannah took her by the hand and helped her gather everything up, marched her outside, and showed her how to burn the trash. At each step in the process I could hear Elizabeth saying; 'yes, Hannah; of course, Hannah; is there anything else, Hannah'. It was so cute." "And is that the way it is with you and Skyla?" Kylie asked, turning back to Elizabeth. "Well," she paused for a while. "No, not really. Maybe it's because I'm so little and Skyla's so big, but she acts more like Mark and Josiah." "How so?" "They're always looking for some kind of short-cut or a way to get out of work altogether. They always seem like they're in a hurry and don't have time to listen and learn how things are supposed to be done." "And Skyla's like that?" "Sort of, but I love her just as much as Josiah and Mark," Elizabeth hastened to explain. "I'm sure you do," Kylie said, smiling and scribbling. When she was finished, she looked up. "And you must be Hannah." "Yes, ma'am." "You're the oldest, right?" "Yes, ma'am." "Always been the big sister." "Yes, ma'am." "So how does it feel to suddenly have a big sister?" Hannah appeared to be taken by surprise. She looked confused. She looked to me and then down at the floor. Finally, she looked up and met Kylie's gaze. "Actually, Mrs. Wortman, I don't feel like I have a big sister." "Oh?" "I know what it feels like to have little sisters and little brothers. Skyla doesn't feel like either." "What does it feel like to have Skyla in your family?" Hannah looked down at her hands folded in her lap. She closed her eyes for a second or two as though thinking about what she would say next. "A few years ago--I think it was late autumn--a cat wandered up to our house. He had some kind of collar on, so he must have belonged to someone at some point. I don't know if he'd run away or had been abandoned. That kind of thing happens a lot out where we live. A pet gets too big or too mean or becomes too much of a bother to take care of anymore, so people simply let them out in the middle of nowhere and drive off. They usually die of exposure, or the coyotes get them; I guess both in the end. This one was different. Something had gotten to him already, but he had survived. He was torn and bleeding and dragging one leg, but he had gotten away and survived. Sarah saw him first and started crying." Here Hannah turned to Sarah. "I remember," Sarah said. "It was whimpering and bleeding. Daddy wanted to kill it." "Your father wanted to put the poor thing out of its misery," I interjected. "He thought--we both did--that it would die anyway." "But all three of us ganged up on Mama and Daddy and cried until they agreed to let us tend poor Tommy," Hannah continued. "Tommy?" Kylie asked. "Daddy said it was a Tom cat, so we called him Tommy. We got the bleeding stopped, fed him, and nursed and petted him all winter long. He got so he could use his leg again and would bring us field mice and an occasional bird. When spring came to stay, he left us. We never knew where he went or why. He just took off into the scrub and never ever came back." "And that's how you feel about Skyla?" Kylie asked. Hannah nodded. Kylie stared at her, and I just knew she had a question or questions to ask, but she didn't. She looked down at her paper, made a very short mark of some kind, and looked up again. "Taking everything into consideration, what you have said is probably apt." After a moment or two she continued. "Mrs. Henson, your children have remained remarkably tranquil and attentive, but I've learned over the years not to press my luck when it comes to young people. What do you say we let them go and just chat between the two of us for a while?" "Certainly," I said. "Alright then," Kylie said, clapping her hands. "We have sandboxes; we have drawing and painting materials; we even have a room full of stuffed toys." While the children were buzzing with enthusiasm, she turned to Timothy. "I know how difficult it must be to have to sit and listen to yourself being talked about. Why don't you go into the sunroom and think about what you've just heard. When I'm finished with Mrs. Henson, I'll join you, and we can talk privately." The boys immediately made for the sandbox. Hannah headed into the art room. Elizabeth and Sarah explored Kylie's collection of stuffed toys. Without a word or a glance at anyone, Timothy walked straight into the sun room and sat down on one of the benches. I saw him bury his head in his hands. Kylie closed each of the doors and then sat down to face me. "You are one lucky woman, Mrs. Henson; you know that don't you? I mean I don't recall ever seeing children in this office as well behaved or as well-spoken as these have been." "My husband and I have been blessed of the Lord," I replied. "Yes, no doubt," she murmured, looking down at her papers again and making yet another notation. "Do you think they were being honest?" "As honest as children can be," I said, "though Hannah was being evasive." "Yes, I thought that too," she said eagerly. "Why, do you suppose?" "Well, I don't think she wanted to offend you, for one." "Offend me?" "Hannah is her parents' daughter in every sense of the word. She has imbibed all of our teaching. She has internalized her religion." "She's only 13; how can you be so sure?" "Before she came to know the Lord, she was much as Sarah or even Mark and Josiah. She was obedient because she had no choice. Her personality was simply overpowered by ours. Now she has a choice, a strong will, and a very real temper. She has chosen to exercise that will to restrain her temper." "Coming to know the Lord," Kylie repeated, scribbling furiously, "is that a ritual of your church?" "No, no ritual. The words are to be taken literally." I was greeted with a blank stare. "Rather than acknowledging a higher power or granting the possibility that such a concept as God may exist, Hannah has met Him and is in an ongoing relationship with Him." "She's had some kind of religious experience?" "If you can call reading a book, a religious experience, then yes." "What book?" "Martin Luther's Address to the German Nobility on the Doctrine of Justification by Faith." "Wow. I knew he was a famous civil rights leader. I didn't know he wrote theology too." "He didn't. The man you're thinking of was named after the leader of the Protestant Reformation that began over 500 years ago." "Oh, yes, of course. You must admit, however, that it is odd that something written 500 years ago could or even should affect a girl of today." "Copernicus and Galileo lived about the same time as Luther, and you as a modern woman gladly embrace their theories." She smiled and nodded. "Besides," I continued, "if we're going to pick nits, what Hannah read in Luther was his exposition of Paul in the New Testament who quoted many, many writers from the Old Testament, both of which predate Luther by millennia." "All that to say, Hannah is religious and takes her religion seriously," Kylie suggested. "All that to say that her conscience is held captive by the word of God." "Okay," she said, apparently writing those very words down. "How is that supposed to offend me?" "She probably felt that as a secular person, you would have no patience with things of the Lord." "We're trained to be objective, Mrs. Henson, to meet each person where they are. Anyway, you said she didn't want to offend me 'for one'; was there another reason she was being evasive?" "I think she didn't want to hurt Skyla's feelings." "You're saying she has problems with Skyla being transgender?" "Yes, she does, but so do all of us. The difference between Hannah and her siblings is that unlike them, she doesn't see Skyla as a fun curiosity or as some kind of living toy to be played with. She sees Skyla as a young man, made so by the very will of God on the verge of what amounts to suicide, and it breaks her heart. She has wept over Skyla and before Skyla and cried out to God in an effort to keep this from happening." Kylie scribbled the entire time I was speaking. When she stopped, she studied her papers for some time. "You're saying that all of you have a problem with Skyla being transgender?" "Yes." "So why did you agree to take her in and facilitate her transition?" "No one else would," I replied. "We found Skyla close to death on the banks of the Canadian River, brought her to our home, revived her, fed her, notified her parents, and turned her over to the authorities. They jailed Skyla, watched Skyla get beaten from pillar to post, hospitalized Skyla, and never told Skyla's parents. And still nobody in the state of Texas would take this child in. After a great deal of personal and corporate prayer with our church we felt led of the Lord to show the love of Christ to this individual. Skyla has a private room. Skyla dresses in girls' clothing. We are following all of the FPS guidelines regarding Skyla's treatment. Yes, we have problems with Skyla being transgender, but so far we are treating her better than the rest of the world has." "You make valid points, Mrs. Henson," Kylie said hurriedly. "Please don't think I am attacking or accusing you of anything. It's just that in all my years working with the transgendered, I have never encountered anyone like you or your family willing to do what you and your family are doing." "I understand, but you must understand as well that my husband and I are terrified that Skyla is not only rushing but being rushed into something without thinking it through." "You have concerns that you feel should be taken into account?" "Yes, I do." "For example?" "Well, you heard the children. Skyla relates to the boys, and they to Skyla, far better than Skyla relates to the girls." "But until now Skyla has through no choice of her own been forced, as it were, into the company of boys. It's only natural that she be socialized in that direction." "What about the fact that Skyla has no desire to do what the girls in our family do?" "You mean housework?" "Yes." "Gender stereotype; women are no longer required to be bound by those roles and rules." "But he's male!" I blazed. "Skyla is physically male." "And miserable because of it," Kylie answered. "But surely this can't be the only treatment?" "Perhaps not, but it's the treatment Skyla wants." "But Skyla's a minor. How can someone that young make that kind of decision?" "Didn't you just tell me that your daughter has already made a decision that will change her for the rest of her life? And she is not as old as Skyla is now. She did it I suppose to avoid hell in the hereafter. Skyla is doing this to avoid hell on earth right now." "Do you honestly believe that what Skyla intends to do will actually make her life better than it would have been as Timothy?" "My beliefs, and yours, or those of Skyla's parents have no bearing on the matter." "How can they not?" I protested. "Mrs. Henson, the war is over." "What war?" "The culture war, and your side lost. All that matters now is the autonomy of the individual. No one's conscience can be bound by anything now." "I see," I said. With that she excused herself to go and visit with Timothy. It was 11 o'clock. At noon we all got in the Suburban, ate a quick sandwich, and then headed off for Timothy's next appointment. It turned out to be less than a mile away, not five minutes. But if anything, it was in an even less medical looking neighborhood than Kylie's office had been. Dr. Macafee apparently shared an adobe colored building with an AIDS support organization. Next door was a store-front church in a similarly toned building. Across the street were a laundry and a bar. Looking down the street from the parking lot we could see two more bars and a bail bondsman's office. We went into the AIDS entrance first. It was the only sign we could see that matched the address. We were immediately told that the person we were seeking had a separate entrance on the west side of the building. Sure enough, we found a bright red door with Roberta Macafee LPC hand- lettered on the glass and a huge 1506 in a mosaic of multicolored tiles on the wall above the door. The reception area seemed tiny, but that was perhaps because it was crammed with a couple of chairs, a sofa, and a pair of lamp stands. There were racks full of books and wall shelves cluttered with smaller books, candles, vases, busts, and all manner of positive, upbeat slogans. One in particular caught Timothy's eye. It read: "Your Path is Beautiful and crooked and just as it should be." I noticed him smiling again. There was no receptionist, but almost immediately a door to what I correctly assumed was the actual office opened. "Thought I heard a herd out here," a confident voice boomed out. It came from an athletic looking woman with chestnut curly hair and glasses. "You must be the Henson's, and you must be Skyla." "That's us," I replied, extending my hand. "Dr. Macafee, I presume." "It's Roberta, but you can call me Bobbye. Everybody does." She took my hand and then ushered all of us into a much larger, far less cluttered, indeed an almost plush, room compared to the first space we had seen. The wood floor was beautiful, as was the giant throw rug in the middle of it, the generous sofas and chairs surrounding it, and the decorative tree stumps strategically placed as footstools, all done to a Southwestern motif. The children were instantly mesmerized by the computer on a table in one corner. On the screen was playing a clip of a fire burning in a fireplace. Though it was July, the image looked very comforting, especially in a room as well air-conditioned as this one was, especially to people as unaccustomed to air-conditioning as we were. In the opposite corner, built into it actually, was Bobbye's desk on which was a laptop and on either side of which were a couple of file cabinets. If she were working on her computer, she would have her back to us. As it was, she took her desk chair and spun it around to face us. I was sitting in the chair with my back to the "fireplace". The girls were on the sofa to my right and the boys on the sofa to my left. "So, Skyla," Bobbye said, looking to my left. "I understand you are going to be 'living it out' with our support group on Saturdays." "Saturdays?" I asked. "I thought it was Wednesday nights. We're in the city on Wednesday nights." "Oh, it used to be Wednesday nights, last summer, but when school started, we decided to change it to the 3rd Saturday of the month. It made it easier for everyone to get here; no conflicts with school or homework or sports." "Oh, okay," I said. "Have you had a chance to get out much? I mean as Skyla?" Bobbye asked. "Just with them," Timothy said, nodding my direction. "Skyla has only been a declared transgender for a few weeks now and has only been living as such since Tuesday," I explained. "So, not dating yet? Don't have a lover?" I glanced quickly at Skyla, who immediately reddened and looked down at the floor. I heard Hannah gasp as I looked back toward Bobbye. She was smiling pleasantly. "You're such a beautiful girl, a regular wild flower. When our crew gets ahold of you, they'll want to make you over from top to bottom. When they're finished, you'll leave a trail of broken hearts wherever you go." Before any of us could say anything, we heard the outer door open and several footsteps on the squeaky boards in the reception room. "Well, speak of the devil, and he appears," Bobbye said with a big grin. She jumped up and crossed the room, opening her office door to admit the new arrivals. I knew that we were coming here to meet some people like Timothy but having never seen anyone in real life like Timothy but Timothy, I really did not know what to expect. There were four. The first was a very sturdy looking man in his late thirties, early forties about my height. My first thought, involuntary though it was, was poor man will never make it; he's too muscular and too old to change. The second was another man, somewhat taller, somewhat younger, very trim. His movements were graceful, almost catlike. His hair was as carefully manicured as his nails, which had some kind of clear polish on them. He reminded me of a hair dresser I'd seen in a beauty salon when I was in college. The third was a young girl in her late teens, early twenties at the oldest. Her complexion was flawless and not a hair was out of place. She looked ready for a prom portrait or a yearbook picture. She was wearing an outfit that matched her nails and wearing it so well that it must have filled Timothy with envy. I say that because as I followed them into the room I caught sight of Timothy staring with open-mouthed admiration. The fourth was a man in a dress. As soon as he came in, Mark and Josiah began punching each other and smirking. Sarah and Elizabeth simply turned and looked at each other. Hannah looked down into her lap. He was taller than the rest. His broad shoulders and biceps strained his too small blouse. He was wearing makeup, lots of makeup, which made you look at and away from him almost reflexively. It was obvious he needed a shave. He seemed to be the oldest of the four. His movements seemed at once exaggerated and awkward. "Elizabeth, Sarah, why don't you and Mark and Josiah wait for us in the other room." My first thought had been to have them wait in the car, but the neighborhood seemed sketchy, and I didn't want them out of earshot. "Nothing to be afraid of, mama, we're not after your kids," the first man said. He sounded like he was ready to be angry. "Oh, no," I lied. "We've already filled up all the space, and you're here to meet Skyla. This way we'll have room enough for everyone." Hannah moved from her sofa to the other side of Timothy, and I moved from my chair to the other side of Hannah. When the children were out of the room, the four took their places on the sofa and the chair. "Well I suppose introductions are in order," Bobbye said as soon as she had resumed her seat facing us. "Everyone, this is Skyla, our newest little sister. This is her temporary foster care, Mrs. Henson, and you are?" "I'm Hannah." She said this to Bobbye and then turned to greet the four with her eyes and a tentative smile. "Rod," the first man said. His voice was deep and just a bit more forceful than it needed to be. "Gerald Patrick Edwards," the second man said. "All my friends call me Pat, and I do so hope we can be friends because..." At this point he was on his feet handing out business cards to me and then to Hannah. "You dears need my help every bit as much as poor Skyla here." Timothy immediately clutched at his hair. "Thank you," I replied, glancing at his card. He was a hair dresser. "We don't get into town often and we don't have much in the way of disposable income." "Pity," he replied. After he had taken his seat again, the man in the dress stood up. "I am Mary Lou Merriweather," he said in a faux southern accent comprised of equal parts falsetto and baritone, "lately of Greenbriar, Mississippi, presently in your fair city for a change of air and the assistance of my new-found friends. I look so forward to guiding this child in the ways of culture and femininity." With that he clutched a handkerchief to his chest, grasped his skirt and did his best to curtesy. "Indeed, an honor," I replied. Our attention then turned to the young lady in the chair between the two sofas. She was facing Bobbye and had appeared to pay little if any attention to what was going on around her. As soon as M. Merriweather sat down, she gave the slightest nod to Bobbye. "And last, but far from least, is our lovely and enchanting Bailey," Bobbye said, gesturing like a presenter on stage. As if on cue, Bailey crossed her legs, swiveled around, and placed her hand affectionately on Timothy's arm. "I am so glad to finally get to meet you. Everyone has told me that you are just the sweetest thing. I do hope we can become very, very close. I have so much I want to share with you. Please tell me you feel the same way." Her voice was youthful, which reinforced the impression that though made up to look adult, she was still very much a teen. Timothy was overwhelmed by Bailey's affectionate attention. His face reddened all the way to his ears. He appeared to be struck dumb; his mouth moved but no sound came out. And his eyes took on the glassy look of someone that has just been thrown from a horse. The three on the sofa were smiling and chuckling as though they had seen this reaction before and were actually expecting it. My immediate thought was: Oh good! At least he is still attracted to girls. That's a start, isn't it? Bobbye joined in the laughter with a guffaw of her own. We all looked at her. "Our Bailey has this effect on everyone," she said. "Don't you think she's beautiful, Skyla?" When he nodded wordlessly, she dropped the bomb. "Bailey was about your age when she first came to us and probably didn't look as good as you do now, right Bailey?" Bailey reached out and took Timothy's hands in her own and leaned closer, looking intently into his eyes. "Oh, I was a real dog next to this one. Girl, in the right hands you are going to turn out fabulous." "What?" I was shocked. "You?" I turned my attention to Bobbye. "She's a; I mean used to be..." "Bailey is a woman," Bobbye said calmly. "Always has been, always will be, a real woman. She came packaged in a male body much like Skyla here, but that obstacle has been overcome. Skyla can overcome it too." I turned back to Bailey but could not help noticing both Timothy and Hannah. His face was absolutely aglow with excitement. Hers was streaked with tears. "Mama, may I?" She nodded toward the door. "Certainly," I replied, and she got up and left, wiping her eyes. "Is there a problem?" Bobbye asked. "This is all such a shock," I responded. "We live out in the country and have never, ever seen even one person like Bailey. I never imagined that a surgical procedure could be so completely transforming." It was Bailey's turn to laugh. "It wasn't a surgical procedure, mama; it's been about a dozen so far." I must have looked surprised, because Bailey went on. "I've been under the knife half a dozen times for my head alone. Brow ridges, nose job, chin implant, cheek bones reshaped, face lift, scalp implants, and that's just this," Bailey framed her head in her hands. "They shaved my trachea twice. They gave me these." Bailey cupped her breasts and lifted them for all to see. "Then they did my hips and also a tummy tuck. How many is that?" "Eleven I think." "Oh yeah, they pinned my ears. I used to look like Prince Charles." "And now you look like Lady Di," Pat interjected. "Thanks to you," Bailey answered. She immediately turned back to me. "Pat is a miracle worker, does all my hair and hair color, manicures, pedicures, facials. You name it, he can do it and do it better than anyone in town." "You had all that done right here in Amarillo?" I asked. "Are you kidding? I suppose they could sort of do most things like that here, but for people like me and Skyla, Plano is the place to go." "Plano?" "Just outside of Dallas." "Did you have the sex change operation there too?" I asked. "It's called gender confirmation surgery," Rod corrected in a stentorian tone. "The operation merely confirms your actual gender; it doesn't really change anything," Bailey explained. "And no, I have not had that done." "Really?" I even sounded surprised to myself. "I thought that was the main thing." "I'm sure it is for some people, but I don't feel any compulsion to have that done. I'm as much a woman as any without it. Besides," and here Bailey gave a knowing smile, "I need those bits to finance the rest of me." "I don't understand?" And I didn't. At that moment I was thinking that somehow Bailey was working at a job as a man, but I couldn't see how or why she would or could do such a thing. "My dear," M. Merriweather attempted to drawl while patting his chest with a hankie. "Our Bailey is what they call a sex worker." "Sex worker?" I repeated. "Sex with...?" "Men of course!" Pat stormed. "Honestly, you said you lived out of town, you didn't tell us it was on the moon. What's the matter with you?" "I'm sorry," I said. "This is all so new to me. As I said, Skyla was the first transgender person I'd ever met, and today I meet two more. It's a lot to take in all at once." "Three more," Rod boomed. "Excuse me," I said. "You've met three more transgendered persons today. I am a transgender man." "You used to be..." I began. "No! I was never what you are. I have always been what I am. All of my surgeries merely confirmed that fact." From that point on, the session was a blur of voices. On the one hand, each of them repeatedly told Timothy how beautiful he already was and how gorgeous he was going to be. For his part Timothy seemed to be a fountain of questions on how to look, act, and talk like a girl. He became much more animated than I had ever seen him. What I found singularly curious was the way Rod participated. This one, who had seemed so hard and cold at the beginning of our meeting, was as warm and open as any of them when it came to giving makeup tips and beauty advice. It went on that way until well after 1:00 pm, when Bobbye brought it to a close with an announcement that she had to get ready for her next appointment. "And remember," she continued, "this month's Living-It-Out meeting is next Saturday; not tomorrow, but the one following. Spread the word that we have a brand-new beauty, and everyone will want to meet her, so be here at six o'clock sharp." They all hugged Timothy after that--some even kissed him--and made their way out. As we were leaving, Bobbye said one final thing to me. "As you can see, Mrs. Henson, there's a whole new world out there for Skyla, if she has the courage to win it." I unlocked the Suburban and watched everyone scramble for a place. "I'm sure you're right, Bobbye," I replied, "about Skyla winning the whole world, but do you ever wonder if it is worth it?" "Oh, don't worry about the cost. The government has all kinds of programs; they'll pay for most of it." I nodded and smiled and got in the car. I couldn't help thinking though: Not in the end they won't. Timothy will have to pay for it all, and he's broke.