“Because it wasn’t a delusion. She wanted it desperately, but I never felt she for a moment believed it possible. Other than that, she was one of the most psychologically sound candidates for gender reassignment I’ve ever counseled.”
Gary slid along the wall, idly stopping to tinker with the fronds of a fern. To straighten a de Kooning print, level to begin with. Gradually easing back to the chair.
“She had this dream of perfection. Once she was healed from the surgery, everything was going to be perfect. Kept saying, ‘We’ll be wonderful, everything’ll be perfect, as soon as I get my pussy everything’ll be perfect.’”
“That’s another thing, Gary. People like Lana often have an unattainable ideal of perfection. Just as an anorexic always sees herself as too heavy. Some transsexuals are never satisfied with the results, particularly with the male-to-female procedure. They can go through years of cosmetic operations trying to reach a pinnacle of femininity. That hope can be all that keeps them going.”
“What happens if the hope runs out?”
Thatcher flexed her fingers, rested composed hands atop her desk. “Sometimes they kill themselves then .” An uneasy pause. “Lana’s emotions wouldn’t necessarily have stabilized after the vaginoplasty. For her, perfection might’ve been one more operation away. Or another. Or the next. Your continued presence in her life would not have been her salvation … because it had no bearing on her self-image.”
Gary ran his hands through his hair until it stuck out in mad winglets. Maybe he could shave it off, buzz it to stubble, the rudely bared head a sign of penance. He was finding absolution tough to come by here. This was like a hydra. Hack off the head of one source of guilt and another two sprouted to take its place.
Dr. Thatcher shifted in her chair, seeming to sense his reluctant self-forgiveness. “Why don’t we go back, focus on the beginning of your relationship and see what it was founded on. You say you made no promises of permanence. How did you meet her?”
“I would’ve thought she’d told you that.”
“She did. I’m interested in seeing how you perceive it.”
Gary settled back, absently scratching at his chest, stomach. Itchy under his shirt. Maybe a rash, guilt surfacing as physical symptoms. His nipples ached. There, Dr. Thatcher, how’s that for traditional Freudian symbolism?
“I met her in a bar near the French Quarter, four months ago. A straight bar, not one of the places where the gay-bi-TV types usually hang out.” He wet his lips, felt drymouth coming on. “Hell, how does anybody meet in a bar? We made eye contact, started talking. I thought she was gorgeous. Sure, there was something different about her, something exotic, but I never would’ve guessed. Later I found out she’d been on estrogen for over a year, had her breasts and the smooth skin. Her voice seemed natural enough. She’d been living totally inside her female identity all that time. Already gotten rid of facial and body hair. How could I have known?”
Dr. Thatcher nodded. “She was extremely convincing.”
“We danced, and started fooling around. Pretty soon we went out back, into this alley doorway, and she … she performed oral sex on me.”
For no more reaction than Thatcher showed, he may as well have been describing a trick knee. “And did you initiate any reciprocal sexual contact?”
“I tried to. She said it was her period. We went our separate ways that night. But I went back the next night, same place, hoping she’d be there. And she was.” Gary smiled, bittersweet. “We got drunk, and she went back to my hotel with me. The sex was the same, though, she said it was still her period.”
“When did you find out the truth?”
“The next morning. We were taking a shower. See, she had this trick. She’d push each testicle up into her pelvic cavity, then stretch her cock back between her legs and sort of keep it wedged
Gary slid along the wall, idly stopping to tinker with the fronds of a fern. To straighten a de Kooning print, level to begin with. Gradually easing back to the chair.
“She had this dream of perfection. Once she was healed from the surgery, everything was going to be perfect. Kept saying, ‘We’ll be wonderful, everything’ll be perfect, as soon as I get my pussy everything’ll be perfect.’”
“That’s another thing, Gary. People like Lana often have an unattainable ideal of perfection. Just as an anorexic always sees herself as too heavy. Some transsexuals are never satisfied with the results, particularly with the male-to-female procedure. They can go through years of cosmetic operations trying to reach a pinnacle of femininity. That hope can be all that keeps them going.”
“What happens if the hope runs out?”
Thatcher flexed her fingers, rested composed hands atop her desk. “Sometimes they kill themselves then .” An uneasy pause. “Lana’s emotions wouldn’t necessarily have stabilized after the vaginoplasty. For her, perfection might’ve been one more operation away. Or another. Or the next. Your continued presence in her life would not have been her salvation … because it had no bearing on her self-image.”
Gary ran his hands through his hair until it stuck out in mad winglets. Maybe he could shave it off, buzz it to stubble, the rudely bared head a sign of penance. He was finding absolution tough to come by here. This was like a hydra. Hack off the head of one source of guilt and another two sprouted to take its place.
Dr. Thatcher shifted in her chair, seeming to sense his reluctant self-forgiveness. “Why don’t we go back, focus on the beginning of your relationship and see what it was founded on. You say you made no promises of permanence. How did you meet her?”
“I would’ve thought she’d told you that.”
“She did. I’m interested in seeing how you perceive it.”
Gary settled back, absently scratching at his chest, stomach. Itchy under his shirt. Maybe a rash, guilt surfacing as physical symptoms. His nipples ached. There, Dr. Thatcher, how’s that for traditional Freudian symbolism?
“I met her in a bar near the French Quarter, four months ago. A straight bar, not one of the places where the gay-bi-TV types usually hang out.” He wet his lips, felt drymouth coming on. “Hell, how does anybody meet in a bar? We made eye contact, started talking. I thought she was gorgeous. Sure, there was something different about her, something exotic, but I never would’ve guessed. Later I found out she’d been on estrogen for over a year, had her breasts and the smooth skin. Her voice seemed natural enough. She’d been living totally inside her female identity all that time. Already gotten rid of facial and body hair. How could I have known?”
Dr. Thatcher nodded. “She was extremely convincing.”
“We danced, and started fooling around. Pretty soon we went out back, into this alley doorway, and she … she performed oral sex on me.”
For no more reaction than Thatcher showed, he may as well have been describing a trick knee. “And did you initiate any reciprocal sexual contact?”
“I tried to. She said it was her period. We went our separate ways that night. But I went back the next night, same place, hoping she’d be there. And she was.” Gary smiled, bittersweet. “We got drunk, and she went back to my hotel with me. The sex was the same, though, she said it was still her period.”
“When did you find out the truth?”
“The next morning. We were taking a shower. See, she had this trick. She’d push each testicle up into her pelvic cavity, then stretch her cock back between her legs and sort of keep it wedged
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