“The pink kind?” I didn’t know there was any other brand of pussy besides pink.
Dylan reached under his bed and pulled out a stack of Hustler magazines.
“Oh my God, you really are the horniest guy in the world,” I said.
“Just look,” he said, and started flipping through one of them. “See, there’s different types of pussies. At first they all look the same, but when you open them up, they’re all different.”
That’s the nice thing about Hustler: those girls open wide so you can really see what’s going on. It was a real life lesson. I jerked Dylan off while we looked through the magazines and picked out our favorite pussies.
A week or so later I saw Dr. Steve for dinner and asked if he would do my sex change. He said he couldn’t, he didn’t do that kind of surgery, but he’d happily fix my nose for me. I figured it was a good start.
I went to his office really early in the morning, before any other patients arrived. He did my nose job for free (nothing is free). It made a huge difference. There was nothing wrong with it really, but he made it a little narrower. For about a week my face was swollen and I had black eyes. I pretended I had the flu and locked myself in my room until it calmed down. When I reintroduced myself to the world, my eyes and lips stood out more. I was so happy with the whole thing. It made me look a little like Gidget, and I started wearing a ponytail with little bangs, just to go along with that look.
It was my first plastic surgery and it was a resounding success.
Tina was dating this really dorky preppy guy, and she promised him she’d find a friend to go on a double date with.
“He’s got money,” she told me. “He has his own car and everything.”
I agreed to go, on one condition: she had to tell my date about my situation beforehand. She promised she would.
In preparation, I wanted to bleach my hair. It was starting to get really long, past my shoulders for the first time in my life, and I wanted to make sure it was perfect. I’d been taking care of it myself—I’d learned a few tricks in school and had been putting highlights in and fixing my roots—but it was time for a major overhaul.
The color I wanted to get to was basically a white blonde, so I figured I’d leave the bleach on a little longer than I usually would. It burned pretty bad, but I was used to it, and I thought about what Louise Sr. would have told me, about the price of beauty.
Unfortunately, Louise had never told me what happens when you leave bleach on your head for two hours. All my hair broke off. I was devastated. Mom was the only one I’d let see me, but she couldn’t handle my crying; she started freaking out, asking who had hit me, or if someone had tried to touch my private parts. It was worse than all that. I had ruined my own hair.
I went to see Louise Jr., and she fixed it the best she could. She trimmed it down and layered it a bit, but my hair was short . . . boyish short.
“It’s not boyish short,” Louise said. “It’s Twiggy short. Just tell everyone you’re going mod!”
There was nothing I could do about it, the damage was done, so I did my best to move on from my pain and accept my hair for what it was. I still looked cute, and Louise did style it very well.
I tried to get out of my double date with Tina, but she insisted I go.
“He’s a bit of a dork anyway, so who cares what you look like?” she said.
I did. I cared. I always care. But I gave in, and we showed up together for our date.
AMANDA’S
BEAUTY TIPS
Think of the sun as Kryptonite. Bring a camisole with you everywhere you go. And wear SPF every day, no matter how little you’ll be outside.
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Exfoliate. I repeat: exfoliate. Whether you use retinol, glycolic acid, manual exfoliation, or all of the above (like me).
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If you’re having sex, wear just lip liner and a Kat Von D lip stain, then blot. It looks great and doesn’t make a mess.
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More skin, more makeup, more powder, more perfume.
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When in doubt, keep blending.
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Suzanne Somers once told me, “Work with what you got.” Good advice, I think.
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Your skin needs a rest from makeup. Don’t wear it all the time, like when you do yoga.
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If you’re not constantly touching up your makeup, then you’re not looking your best.
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At my funeral, someone had better touch up my lips and foundation before they close the casket. (That’s not a tip. It’s a formal request.)
“I like your hair. You look like Mia Farrow in Rosemary’s Baby. That’s my favorite movie.”
That’s the first thing my date said to me. His name was Michael. He was the complete opposite of Dylan in every single way.
Michael was ten years older than me, and dressed all in black with white socks. His skin was blotchy and red, his nose bulbous and riddled with rosacea. He sat hunched over and took a while to stand up, the result of a car accident he’d had as a teenager. He owned a bookstore that his grandmother had left him when she died, and he talked about books most the night. Basically, he was a total nerd.
I wasn’t physically attracted to him, but there was something different about Michael that made me want to get to know him. He seemed sad and vulnerable, and I was used to hanging out with loud, aggressive men. Total lost-puppy syndrome.
There was an undeniable chemistry between us. We held hands for most of the night; his were clammy and sweaty, like he was nervous about something. It was endearing. We made plans to go on a second date that weekend.
I broke things off with Dylan that night. He seemed sad but wasn’t too upset. There was probably some girl sucking him off while I was on the phone with him anyway.
Mom overheard the breakup and asked if I was okay. “He was such a good-looking guy,” she said. “Why on earth would you break up with him?”
I told her about Michael, who I thought was a much more serious prospect for a boyfriend. He’d paid for dinner for all of us, and dropped me off in a very nice car. Dylan was a boy, but Michael seemed like a man.
The phone rang; it was Tina. “So what did you think?” she asked.
“I think he seemed very nice.”
“Listen, Amanda, I know I said I’d tell him about your situation, but I didn’t think you’d like him anyway, so I didn’t say anything. He doesn’t know about you.”
“Oh. Okay.” I was pissed but I’ve never been very good at expressing that. I hung up and continued to talk about my date with Mom as if nothing was wrong.
I’d have to tell Michael the whole story and hope he was understanding.
Our second date came and went without me telling him anything. It just never seemed like a good time to bring it up.
On our third date, Michael introduced me to his parents, whom he lived with. His father, Thomas, was an accountant, and his mother, Audrey, a housewife. They were much older; they had Michael in their late thirties. I was wearing shorts and when I went to the bathroom Michael’s father told him I had really nice legs. Michael told me this later and I thought it was pretty funny that such an old man could think like that. Even still, Thomas and Audrey were normal, nice people who welcomed me into their home warmly. They loved Michael and seemed to be a very close, nurturing family. I felt awful keeping my big secret from them when they were being so nice to me.
We continued to date for several months—movies, dinner, making out in his car or in his bedroom. His parents let him do whatever he wanted.
My secret never came up. I stopped talking to Tina completely; I was so angry that she had put me in this position, even though I knew I was just as much to blame. I could have just told him on our second date and dealt with the consequences, either way. But now, so much time had gone by. What a mess.
For a long time Michael didn’t put pressure on me to have sex. He loved blow jobs, and I happily blew him at leas
t three times a day, which kept him happy. His dick was only a little bigger than average but still, my jaw hurts thinking about it. I told him I was a virgin to keep him from bothering me for anything else, and I’d wear really tight jeans and tuck my penis the way Bambi had taught me.
Fooling around started becoming more and more difficult, though, figuring out ways to keep my panties on. Michael wanted to see me completely naked and couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t let him.
My heart started beating out of control whenever we were alone. My entire body would shake with nerves, like a bass machine was pumping under my skin all the time. I’d lie and tell him I was quivering with excitement because I liked him so much. The good girl excuse could last only for so long.
We were alone in his house one night, making out, and Michael started pressuring me pretty hard to see me naked. It was odd that I’d blow him so much but refused to undress. “You’ll still be a virgin. I won’t even touch it, I just want to see it,” he said.
The time had come. I couldn’t keep lying. I got off the bed and put my shirt back on, crying and shaking. I can’t imagine what he was thinking.
“I have to tell you something,” I said.
“Okay. You can tell me anything.”
“I have a problem,” I told him. “I was born a boy. I don’t like being a boy and I’m taking hormones and want to have a sex change, but right now I have a penis.”
At first Michael didn’t say anything. Part of me thought that maybe he had always known, that I had only confirmed his suspicions. Maybe this wasn’t that big a deal. Then he exploded. He picked up his nightstand and threw it against the wall, sending books and prescription bottles flying through the air. He came toward me, thrusting his finger in my face, accusing me of deceiving him, of being a liar. I tried to explain myself, but I was so upset I could barely put words together, and besides, I knew I was wrong. I told him I was afraid he wouldn’t understand.
That didn’t make him any less angry. He punched a hole in the wall right next to my head, cutting open his knuckles. I braced myself. This is it, I thought. He’s going to kill me. He could do whatever he wanted with me, and in the morning when they found my beaten body, everyone would agree it was my own fault.
Michael grabbed me by my hair, dragged me to the front door of his house, and threw me out. He said, “If I ever see your faggot ass again, I’ll kill you.”
I hitched a ride home from an old man who was listening to an AM radio preacher going on about the actions we take and the consequences they lead to. I could barely see I was crying so hard, so he turned it up louder. A fucking radio was calling me out on my shit, as if I didn’t feel bad enough already. When he dropped me off, he said, “Whatever has you so upset, remember you can always turn to God.”
Mom was asleep. I went into her bathroom, picked up the first bottle of pills I saw, and swallowed them all. Then I sat in the kitchen and waited to die. I remember thinking about the movie Imitation of Life, and that poor black girl who had been passing as white. Things didn’t end so well for her. This isn’t a new story, I thought. You’re just another girl with a secret.
My ears started ringing horribly. I felt like a siren had gone off right next to my head. Mom heard me crying and ran down the stairs. She rushed me to the hospital, where they pumped my stomach.
They kept me in the hospital for a couple of days after my “suicide attempt.”
The pills I’d taken were aspirin. I thought they were Mom’s antipsychotics, or maybe sleeping pills.
My psychiatrist came to see me. “Being self-destructive and suicidal are symptoms of your unhappiness with your body,” he said. “This is further proof that you need to have gender reassignment surgery.”
I had been taking hormones for a little more than a year, and I knew I needed the sex change operation if I was going to have any chance at a normal life.
There were two things standing in my way: I needed money for the surgery and I needed my parents’ consent, since I was only sixteen. Mom sat with me in the hospital and I begged her to give permission, but she refused. “Wait until you’re twenty-one,” she said. “What if you regret it? You’ll never be able to go back. It will be permanent.”
I was so angry with her, I yelled and screamed until she left the room. Why would she deny me the one thing in the world I needed? There wasn’t a question in my mind that this was the right thing to do. How could she not see that?
My situation felt hopeless, and now I didn’t even have Michael, whom I had genuinely come to love. I lay in the hospital bed, feeling empty and lost. It was hopeless.
Then, Michael’s father walked in the door.
Michael had told Thomas everything.
Instead of freaking out, Thomas was sympathetic. “I can’t imagine what you must be going through,” he said, “but I promise to do whatever I can to help.” With my permission, he talked to my psychiatrist in order to better understand what was involved.
After I was released from the hospital, Thomas sat Michael and me down together.
Michael wouldn’t look at me. His face was even redder than usual, and his eyes were puffy, as though he hadn’t slept.
“I know things are a mess right now,” Thomas said. “But as far as I can tell, there’s only one thing standing in the way of you two being happy.”
“Yeah, she’s a man,” Michael said.
“No, she’s not,” his father told him. “She has a problem that can be corrected surgically. You can’t turn your back on people you love. Amanda needs our help.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Michael,” Thomas said, “I’ve been putting money aside for some time now to buy you a new car for your birthday. If you prefer, we can use that money to pay for Amanda’s sex change operation.”
I couldn’t have heard correctly. There was no way.
“It’s up to Michael. Decide what you want to do,” Thomas said.
Michael looked at me, finally. I looked him in the eye and started to cry.
“Fine,” he said. “Let’s do it.” I screamed with excitement. It was almost too much to process. I jumped up and hugged Thomas, thanking him repeatedly. Michael stood up and I walked over to him. He hugged me too, and we kissed.
“This is the happiest day of my life,” I said. “I’m sure that new car smell doesn’t hold a candle to a new vagina smell.” They both laughed.
“We’re family,” Thomas said. “Family sticks together, no matter what.”
Money was only half the problem. I’d still need to convince Mom to give her permission.
Thomas wanted to talk to her face to face. “Any reasonable person can understand,” he said. Mom didn’t want to unlatch the front door for him, but I convinced her to let him inside so we could really talk.
She was wearing her bathrobe and furiously cleaning an already clean pan while Thomas tried to explain what was going on. Every time Thomas asked her a question, Mom banged the pan against the countertop as hard as she could, then tried to change the subject. Thomas told her he thought I should have the surgery and that he would pay for it. All Mom had to do was sign the papers giving her permission.
She wasn’t having any of it. She accused Thomas of kidnapping me, brainwashing me, and trying to kill her.
“Mom, you haven’t been taking your medicine, have you?” I asked. She didn’t respond. She told Thomas to leave or she’d call the cops, and locked herself in her bedroom.
“Is she always like this?” Thomas asked.
“Only when she doesn’t take her pills.”
Thomas left. I was furious. After all the times I’d stood up for Mom, she couldn’t be there for me when I needed her most?
I didn’t see Thomas or Michael for a couple of days. The next time I did, Thomas had come up with an idea to get around Mom: he would legally adopt me, so he could give the permission himself.
At first I wasn’t sure. Mom’s mental health obviously made her a less than ideal caretaker, but
was this too extreme?
I called Dad. He hadn’t been around in some time, but I didn’t think it would be hard to get his permission. A woman answered his phone. “Who is this?” she asked.
“Amanda. I’m calling for my Dad, Herman.”
Dad picked up. “You can’t call my house anymore,” he said. “I have a new family. If you need to talk, I’ll give you my work number.”
“Don’t bother,” I said. “If you’re embarrassed by me, then I don’t need you in my life.”
I hung up the phone. Guess he wouldn’t care if another man wanted to be my father legally. With everything else going on I tried not to think about it too much, but when I went to bed that night I stayed up thinking about how my own father couldn’t support me.
Because of Mom’s mental situation, the adoption process was surprisingly easy. All I had to do was sign a paper and my legal guardianship was handed over to Thomas and Audrey. Mom wasn’t too upset about it; I don’t think she understood what had happened. Her mind was hopelessly focused elsewhere.
After that was taken care of, things moved quickly. Thomas took me to see a well-known doctor on Park Avenue in Manhattan who performed sex changes. This wasn’t some backroom operation; this was the real deal. The waiting room was ultra-luxurious, and completely packed. At the reception desk was a hulking black man; he looked and acted like a bouncer. I gave him my name and Thomas and I found two seats together.
The reception office was sort of like the high-end version of what I’d seen at the tranny bar. Some of the girls were by themselves and some were there with an older man, like me. All of them had already been done, and they looked flawless and larger-than-life . . . Thomas was 5'9" and was one of the shortest in the room, besides me.
“YOU CAN’T CALL MY HOUSE ANYMORE,” HE SAID. “I HAVE A NEW FAMILY. IF YOU NEED TO TALK, I’LL GIVE YOU MY WORK NUMBER.”
Doll Parts Page 6