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I've been blessed with a body most women (and some men) would go into surgery to get: soft, high-breasted, firm, willowy, voluptuous. My face is worth its weight in gold cards. But my face has been a curse, my body a prison.
I'm not a real woman is why. I only look like one, and cry like one and bleed like one and drive like one, read Vogue like one, and collect alimony like one. But beneath my Fendi furs, above my Maud Frizons, and beyond my chromosomal structure, hormonal makeup, and social conditioning, deep, deep in my heart, I am a man. I'm a strange man, the kind people joke about at slick suburban parties—the kind who likes to dress up in women's clothes and seduce beautiful young men, the kind who slings around like a drunken sable, but a man nonetheless.
When I left home at seventeen, I instinctively sought out gay men as lovers, but they never accepted me as one of their own. Nothing personal. My woman's body simply reminded them of their mothers'. I could empathize. It reminded me of my mother's. How I longed to get rid of it and be a transvestite instead of what I was—a pulchridrudinous girl!
It was no better with women. Oh, they liked me all right. Unlike their boyfriends, I shared many of their concerns. But when I'd try to have sex with one, instead of taking pride in making a gay guy "go straight," she'd mistake me for a lesbian and wrinkle her nose in disgust.
The real heartbreak was with young guys. Whenever I'd grab some Adonis in a passionate embrace, instead of seeing me as a masterful older man in skirts, he would be reminded of his mommy, and he'd start screaming.
At last, desperate for love, I tied the knot with a bond broker, a "regular guy." It didn't work out. Maybe he sensed I was a man inside, or maybe my outside reminded him of his em-oh-tee-aich-ee-are. All I know is he tired of hearing me say, "Don't worry, it happens to lots of men your age." He let me down easy.
And then—hope! Just as I was about to blow my divorce settlement on a trip to Sweden, I met a preoperative transsexual lesbian—my perfect opposite! It seemed like a match made in heaven, only in bed it was hell. You see, he wanted to have my body—and I wanted to have his. We saw envy devour our perfect love.
It was at our breaking-up party that I finally found my dream mate—a closet case! He fell for the queer hidden deep within me and I went for the Oedipally unresolved nancy-boy hidden deep within him. This man and I share a love so exquisite, I'm not about to tell him we're not a "normal" heterosexual couple. Let him dream. The way I see it, if she is lucky enough to find true love in this complex modern world, the least a guy can do for a guy is to "look the other way!"
So my story ends happy. True, I'm still trapped in the body of a beautiful woman, but entre nous, darling, the pervert in me is beginning to love it to death!