Last night
Last night, I drove an hour from my home, where I live with my wife and children. I walked into a tiny apartment in city that is not mine, and then I drank, too much, but not as much as other times. And then I put on makeup, women’s clothes and rode my bicycle to an underground bar about a mile away in a high crime part of the city. I locked my bike up on the railing of a shuttered restaurant, then fished out my high heels and walked a half block to a basement storefront with blacked out windows. I rang the buzzer.
“No, she’s been here before,” I heard the bartender tell one of the guys working at the door. I found my way to the bar and drank a beer and looked in the mirror behind the bar. There I was. Still me. Not sure of what or who was staring back at me. But they all called me “her” and “she” and that is why I showed up. That is what I needed.
I’m in my late forties. I’m he to most of the rest of the world. One year ago, I’d started taking low dose estrogen and testosterone blockers. I grew my hair out. I had six laser hair removal treatments on my face. I don’t know that these were conscious decisions, they were just small to big steps I took along they way. I wear baggy clothes. Nobody says anything, but I can tell people are starting to wonder. But it’s springtime now, and soon the temps will be well into the 90s where I live. And I’m nervous. I won’t be able to hide the changes my body is undergoing in tee shirts and certainly, the beach and pool are out of the question now.
I don’t fit in in either of the worlds I occupy. I don’t exist fully in either one. In my suburban dad existence, where I have coached youth sports and have a job in a “macho” industry, I find myself on the sidelines of youth sporting events with dads as they talk about things I don’t care about and never have, like Ohio State football or some shit like that. I’ve always gravitated to the moms. I feel more at home with them.
In my other, more private trans existence, I have operated for years in dark places and spaces, engaging in risky sexual encounters in hotels and motels with probably some of the same closeted married men I share such an uneasy existence with in my other life. When I started dressing up doing this, I’d have some risky encounter and it was like this high that carried me through for the next few weeks. Like any drug, the highs got lower and didn’t last long. Eventually, even before it was over I was planning a new encounter.
I couldn’t keep it up, so to speak, and I went into therapy and talked to my doctor and one thing led to another, and all of the sudden, I’m on estrogen and now look in the mirror, and my body is changing. I like it. It’s not a matter of like, though. That’s not why I do it. I don’t think I could survive without it. But I’m not sure I can survive this way, either, and I’m nervous about what lies ahead. All I know is I can’t keep this up. I can’t keep living two lives. The wall between them must come down, or at least start to crumble. I just hope it doesn’t bury me in the process. I’m very scared.
