“The hot one with long dark hair? Ah, yeah. I remember her.”
“I gave her your cell number.”
“WHAT?”
“She’s going to call you.”
“Are you insane?” This girl was completely out of my league, and I was in no condition to go out on a date with anyone—let alone her.
“She thought you were cute and asked my nurse what you were seeing me for. When she found out you were one of my gender patients, she couldn’t believe it. She asked me how long you were in town. I told her you were here by yourself for a few more days and suggested she call you and take you out one night.”
“Doc!”
“What? It doesn’t have to be romantic. It’ll be nice to have a friend in Nashville when you come back next time.”
“This is my last surgery.”
“No, I couldn’t do a few things, so you have to come back. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.”
“I’m going to kill you.”
“Okay, bye, hee hee.”
Two nights later, I waited nervously in the hotel lobby, peering out the glass doors, occasionally setting off the sensor and making them slide open. Judging from the sudden bursts of cold air, I’d guessed it was somewhere between forty and forty-five degrees outside. Downright balmy for a New Englander like myself.
I didn’t really know what I was looking for. I had no idea what kind of car she’d be driving. I wasn’t even sure I’d recognize her. I mean, it’d been six months since she zapped my cheek with the laser. I did remember her having beautiful brown, almond-shaped eyes and long dark hair. She was probably my height, but she’d been wearing high heels—the kind with the strap that went around the ankle. I remember thinking they were a bit racy for the office and the white lab coat that covered up whatever else she had on. I wondered what she’d be wearing tonight and what she’d think of my outfit: the same roomy Levi’s and charcoal-gray zip-front sweatshirt I’d packed for every surgery. I didn’t bring any nice clothes, as I wasn’t expecting to leave the hotel, never mind go on any dates while I was here. And was this even a date? Or just a pity party arranged by Doc?
I saw someone I suspected might be her get out of a Jeep Grand Cherokee and head toward the entrance. I took a step forward to get a better look and again accidentally activated the automatic doors. They slid open and she smiled.
“Chris?”
“Karen Marie,” I said, smiling back. She was shorter than me without her heels on and she looked even tinier under her puffy winter coat, hat, and scarf.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d remember me,” she said.
“How could I forget?” I said back. “You lasered my face.”
She laughed.
She opened the passenger door for me, stood patiently while I gingerly negotiated my way into the front seat, then closed the door behind me. This gender-role reversal made me feel completely emasculated, but it didn’t seem to faze her. She started up the engine and turned right onto West End Avenue. We were going to see the movie Sideways, which had gotten great reviews. Normally I had no trouble striking up conversation; I could talk to a brick wall. But I was nervous and in no mood to go out with somebody new. I struggled for an opener.
“I Fandangoed,” I said.
“You what?”
“Fandangoed—you know, ordered the tickets in advance online?”
“Oh, I’ve never done that.”
“Me neither. I guess we’ll see if it works.”
That pretty much summed up my clever banter from the evening. I was relieved when the movie finally started so I wouldn’t have to stress over making more small talk. We just weren’t clicking. I’d make a joke, and she wouldn’t get it. She’d say something, and I’d misunderstand what she meant. It was nice to be out for a few hours and I thought she was very sweet, but I was happy to get back to my hotel room.
The next afternoon I got a call from Doc.
“What is your favorite food?” he asked quickly.
“Who is this?” I joked.
“I’m here with Karen Marie. She’s going to take you out for dinner tonight. She was thinking sushi, but I told her you only eat burgers and pizza.”
“Well, I like burgers and pizza but I also eat other things.”
“Sushi?”
“No, not sushi.”
“He says pizza!” Doc yelled over his shoulder.
“I didn’t say that. Can you please not—”
“I’ll put her on.”
“What? No, don’t—”
“Hi, Chris. I hear you’re tired of hotel food. I’ll take you out for pizza tonight. I know a good place.”
“Okay. You really don’t have to.”
“No, I want to. Is seven okay?”
“Let me check my schedule. Yup.”
“Ha, okay, I’ll pick you up out front.”
••
The pizza place, appropriately named Christopher’s (I bought a t-shirt), was right up my alley: a local dive that served up old-school pies and great music. It reminded me of one of my favorite pizza joints back home. We sat down across from each other in an uncomfortable wooden booth and Karen Marie immediately began removing her hat, scarf, and puffy coat. I noticed this time she was also wearing gloves. I asked her if she was wearing long underwear too.
“Nooooo,” she said making a face at me. She was starting to get my sense of humor. She eyeballed me, accessory-less in my unzipped fall jacket. “Aren’t you cold?”
“Have you ever been to New England in January?”
She told me she’d never been to New England but that she’d be going to New York for a conference in the spring. Then asked how far away it was from Boston.
Hmmm . . . interesting.
When the waiter came to take our order, Karen Marie informed me that Doc said I was allowed only one beer because I was on antibiotics. To make the most of this restriction, I asked the waiter if they had tall boys. Karen Marie laughed. The waiter didn’t. I ordered a Miller Lite, as did she, and we talked nonstop until the pizza arrived. Conversation flowed so much easier this time. Maybe because we were face to face. The night before we sat side by side the whole time—in the car and at the movies, which made for awkward back and forth. But sitting across from each other, looking into each other’s eyes, we seamlessly jumped from one topic to the next: family, friends, football (the Patriots were about to go all the way), what to do in Nashville and Boston for fun, where we’d been on vacation . . . you name it.
At one point after the pizza had arrived there was a lull and Karen Marie blurted out, “So, how’s your sausage?”
I smirked.
She turned beet red and quickly followed up with “Pizza, your sausage pizza!”
She said if I wanted another beer she wouldn’t tell.
The next evening Doc came by to check on me and get the details. I told him we had fun and I thought she was sweet but I didn’t see where this was going, seeing we lived so far apart. He reiterated that it was still nice to have a friend in Nashville and then outlined what needed to be done in my next procedure.
“Then will I be done?” I asked him.
“Yes, if all goes well.”
On my last night, Karen Marie and I were going to have dinner at the P. F. Chang’s that had opened up near my hotel. Unfortunately two of my suture lines had also opened up, and Doc had to come over to do some emergency stitching. He told me I wouldn’t be going anywhere. I called Karen Marie to break our date and let her know it was only because I was literally coming apart at the seams. The disappointment in her voice was surprising. And encouraging.
“Can I take a rain check?” I asked. “I have to come back for another procedure this spring.”
“When?”
“Ah, I don’t know yet. But I do know when I’m not coming.”
She paused. “When?”
“When you’re in New York.”
••
I fell hard for Karen Marie. I knew she had just gotte
n out of a serious relationship and that there was a chance that I was just a “rebound,” but she was like a drug, and I was addicted. When I wasn’t making trips to Nashville and she wasn’t in Boston or New York, we were on the phone for hours at a time. I loved the sound of her voice. She could tell me I was the biggest asshole in the world and her Southern drawl would make it sound sweet. I found the way she said, “I’m in the bed” instead of “I’m in bed” endearing.
And speaking of in the bed . . . five years and thirteen surgeries since Lucy, I had grown comfortable with my lower body. So when Karen Marie suggested we jump in the shower together, this time I didn’t wear swim trunks.
When I finally got the green light from Doc that it was safe to try out my new implant, we planned a special weekend together. I was told all I had to do was squeeze the small pump located inside my newly formed scrotum three or four times and I would be standing at attention and ready for action.
Right.
Best-laid, or rather not-laid plans.
I learned something new about being a man: how it feels when you can’t get it up.
This was even more upsetting for me because I had gone through almost three years of pain and suffering to get to this very moment and it was supposed to be foolproof. The good news was I had some sensation down there and was able to have an orgasm despite Mr. Limpy.
I called Doc the next day and told him what happened. He subjected me to a battery of humiliating questions and then asked me to pump up the implant and email him a photo.
“Do they have windsocks in Greece?” I asked him. “Picture one on a day with no breeze.”
By the time I went back to Nashville and got the implant issue “straightened out,” it was too late. I flew back up north, knowing my roller-coaster relationship with Karen Marie was headed south. One day we were talking about marriage and her moving to Boston. The next day she would shut me out or pick a fight. When we saw each other again I knew nothing physical was going to happen; I could tell she didn’t feel the same way about me anymore and worried that I really was just a rebound. I was right. The break-up call came the following week while I was in LA on a shoot. She said it was the timing: She wasn’t ready for a serious relationship and all the travel that came with a long-distance one. She needed space. I, of course, took that to mean I still had a chance. That someday we’d get back together.
My hope was renewed months later when I received a large envelope from her in the mail. Inside was a glossy twelve-month photo calendar featuring the Nashville Bikini Team, a group I didn’t know existed. I opened it up to March, where the yellow Post-It had directed me, and there she was, posed provocatively in a white string bikini. She signed it “Missing you in Nashville.” That had to mean something, right? I called to thank her and told her she looked amazing. She told me she was coming to Boston for a conference in a few weeks and asked if I wanted a visitor. I said absolutely. I thought we were finally getting back together.
I was wrong.
I’d go back to Nashville for a few more procedures and we’d merely exchange pleasantries. Later I’d find out she was dating a member of the Tennessee Titans. My buddies would ask me which player. I’d tell them the kicker. They’d tell me that didn’t count.
Sometimes guys do know just what to say.
It took me a long time to get over Karen Marie. I eventually came to realize we weren’t right for each other, but at the time I was blinded by love and the desire to have what both my sisters and all of my closest friends already had: a soul mate.
I was also blinded by something else: the belief that things happen for a reason. I always wondered why God made me transgender. Out of all the people in the world, why me? I’m a good person. Why would he put me through such emotional agony? Lead me down a path so full of pain and suffering? The reason I came up with was that path led me to Karen Marie. I would’ve never met her had it not been for the surgery and this one-of-a-kind doctor in Nashville, of all places. I believed we were destined to be together, and that belief made everything make sense and justified all the hell I went through: She was the prize. Looking back, it was easier for me to hold on to her than let go of my entire belief system.
I still believe things happen for a reason, but I also believe reason can be a moving target, especially when it comes to love.
THE DATING GAME
2007–2009
As I handed her the small turquoise box, I couldn’t help but commend myself on what a brilliant gift idea this was. The Elsa Peretti design inspired by the very places in Spain we’d just been. She untied the perfectly knotted white satin bow, removed the sterling silver necklace, and held it out in front of her face, quickly giving it the once-over.
“Reason for return?” she asked.
“She treats me like crap and doesn’t deserve it.”
Yes, I should’ve known dating my trainer would not end well. I had seen all the red flags but chose to ignore them. It was summer, she was hot, and I was dying to try out my new penis. Once again, I never got the chance. But I did learn two things: Never think with your dick, and don’t buy birthday gifts for new girlfriends way in advance.
With our break-up now official and zero prospects on the horizon, I did what lots of single people in their late thirties do: Open a Match.com account. Or more specifically, I reopened the account I already had. Yes, I’d been on Match before. Perhaps you went out with me—Adguy111? At first I had been hesitant about the whole online dating thing, because I was worried about dating girls who didn’t know my gender history. At what point do you spring that on somebody? In the end, it was irrelevant because unlike my two good friends who both found their husbands on Match, all I ended up with was a string of bad dates and a dent in my bank account. At least the stories proved to be entertaining. Client meetings often began with requests to hear about my latest blind-date debacle.
Since then, I’d learned from my mistakes and figured out how to read between the lines when evaluating member profiles. It’s easy when you know the one rule of thumb: People lie. It’s not malicious or anything. Everyone just wants to put their best foot forward. They think: If they just meet me, they’ll see how awesome I am and won’t care that I lied about my age, posted photos of myself that are totally outdated, or checked the “on occasion” box when I’m really a full-blown chain-smoker.
I didn’t lie. I didn’t include anything about my gender history because that’s what it was: history. Something I would share with a woman when the time was right—certainly not before the first date. I was a man. A witty, successful, reasonably good-looking man who, after a few weeks, was still not getting any hits. When I complained about this to my sisters, they pulled up my profile for inspection.
“Shtine, you put yourself down as 5' 4"?” Wendy accused.
“I am,” I said defensively, “with shoes on.”
“You can’t put that. Say you’re 5' 8".”
“What? I’m not gonna lie.”
“You have to or girls will keep ruling out your profile.”
“And what do I do when I show up for the date? Stand on a chair the whole time?”
“Well, you’re only gonna go out with girls shorter than you anyway, so they won’t really know how tall you are.”
I turned to my other sister. “Jill?”
“I agree with you, Shtine. You can’t say you’re 5' 8". Say you’re 5' 6"—that’s more believable.”
“What? Come on, it’s not like I’m 5' 2".”
“But they think you are,” Wendy clarified.
“What?”
I was exhausting my older sister’s patience. She took a deep breath and spoke slowly as though I were a child. “Shtine, girls always assume guys lie about their height by two inches. So if you put down 5' 4", they’ll think you’re really 5' 2". Get it?”
Again I looked to Jill. She nodded. “It’s true, so actually if you don’t want to lie, then definitely say 5' 6", because then they’ll think you’re 5' 4", which you
are.”
My brain was now hurting. Not sure what to believe, I decided to just leave my profile the way it was. Until the following evening when I was home watching TV. I was having my way with the remote when I landed on one of those CSI shows. I’d never actually watched one before, but for whatever reason I decided to let the episode play out. The murder suspect had left his wallet behind at the crime scene and the cop was studying the driver’s license found inside. The dialogue went something like this:
Male Cop: Well, at least we can put out a visual description: black hair, blue eyes, 5' 10".
Female Cop: You mean 5' 8".
Male Cop: Ah, no it says 5' 10" right here on his license.
Female Cop: Everybody knows guys add two inches to their height. Trust me, he’s 5' 8".
My jaw hit the floor. I grabbed my laptop and immediately changed the height on my profile to 5' 6". Sure enough, the hits started coming.
That’s how I ended up with “Gabby414” on a lunch date, which quickly devolved into small talk of the we-have-no-chemistry-so-let’s-just-get-through-this variety.
“So, you’re in advertising,” Gabby said. “Have you done any commercials I would’ve seen?”
“Did you ever see the McDonald’s spot with the YouTube footage of two guys rapping about McNuggets?”6
“I don’t think so.”
“I’m into nuggets, y’all?”
Blank stare.
“McNuggets McNuggets rock?”
“I didn’t see it.”
“Okay, um . . .”
“What agency do you work for?”
“Arnold.”
“Oh, I have a friend who used to work at Arnold—a long time ago though.”
“I’ve been there fifteen years,” I said. “What’s her name? Maybe I know her.”
I didn’t.
“Well”—she leaned in—“you must’ve been there during the big scandal with the CEO. My friend told me all about it.”
Hmmm . . . I didn’t recall my father being in the middle of any scandals.
“What scandal?”
BALLS Page 21