by Renee James
He knows he will lose control if he doesn’t stop, so he blocks her out and focuses on the Spaniel and his pathetic bitch. Only a master can do that, he thinks.
***
IF THE POPE HIMSELF had just invited me over for Mass, I couldn’t be more stunned. Cecelia’s revelation comes out of nowhere, a shock that robs me of the power of speech. Without looking at the man again, I have called up his face in my memory. I’m good at this. It comes with doing hair. You think about the face and how different hairstyles would complement it.
Part of me is dubious. Cecelia identified him with great relish, not with horror, which would have seemed more appropriate. It makes me wonder if this is just gossip. Part of me is thinking that this face is vaguely familiar, like someone I might have met somewhere.
“How can you be so certain?” I ask.
“They were an item,” says Cecelia. “Not a public item. Not opening night at the theater. Very clandestine. I actually forgot about it until our conversation the other day, about Mandy having a beau, getting off the streets. I only saw them together once, really drunk, in the Paradise Club. They were sitting at the bar and she started turning him on, right there in front of God and everyone. They went into the alley. He never came back in but she did, and she told me she was in love. True love. After that she got a job in the Loop, got a nice apartment, got her sex-change surgery, and told everyone she had a lover. No more tricking, she said. I didn’t believe it, but I never saw her with another man."
Cecelia sips her wine.
“His name is John Strand, as in Strand, Benson and Hayes. Big downtown law firm. They handle a lot of city and state business. Strand is connected to everyone and everything. Major contributor to both political parties. A-list invitee to big events. First-name basis with the mayor and governor, the power people in the city council and the state assembly.”
“Quite a catch for Mandy,” I say. I’m somewhat impressed by the money and power, but I’m mostly caught up in how good-looking he is.
“Not really,” says Cecelia. “He’s a big shot. He could never be seen in public with a transwoman. Not among the hoi polloi anyway. That night in the club was a mistake. As far as I know, he never went out in public with her again. He helped her get a place, set her up. Stopped in when he needed something. I heard he brought friends sometimes, but I don’t know about that. Either way, it wasn’t going anywhere.”
“So what happened?” I ask.
Cecelia shrugs. “Who knows? No one saw it. Maybe she pushed him for a commitment, or threatened to out him if she didn’t get what she wanted. Or maybe they just had an argument and once he hit her he couldn’t stop.” She shrugs again as if to say “it happens.”
It does.
“But how can you be sure it was him?” I ask. “It could have been some other john, or maybe just someone who made her on the street and followed her home.”
“Maybe,” Cecelia says with a nod. “But not likely. You were right before. I checked with some younger girls she partied with, and they said what you said. Mandy hadn’t been hooking, she wasn’t seeing anyone else. Mr. Wonderful bankrolled her rent and groceries, bought her nice clothes, you name it. She was working at a day job. She did a little clubbing, but just with girlfriends. Plus, our Mr. Strand likes to beat up women.” Cecelia draws this out a little for dramatic effect.
“How do you know this?”
“Bobbi, I just know. I can tell you for sure that he is a mean bastard. And I know there have been complaints over the years. Nothing on the record. Kind of like this investigation, eh?”
We talk awhile longer, going over the same points. I’m not convinced, but keep my doubts to myself.
After Cecelia pays the tab and we rise to go, she delivers her biggest surprise. “Oh, by the way, I’d like to introduce you to Mr. Strand on our way out.” she says lightly.
She reads the shock in my face and smiles sweetly. “I guess I forgot to mention, John and I were business associates back in the day. I think you’ll enjoy this.” She slides her arm through mine and guides me to the bar.
“John Strand!” she exclaims. “I just couldn’t pass by without saying hello to one of my oldest and dearest colleagues!” She turns to the couple with Strand and explains, “John and I worked together years ago. He’s a wonderful attorney.”
Strand is momentarily taken aback when we approach, but you can only see it in his eyes. The man has a lot of poise.
“How have you been?” he says with great familiarity and warmth. “Please forgive me, but I’ve forgotten your name.”
Cecelia extends her hand in greeting. “Oh come on, John, no need for apologies. It’s Cecelia Swenson.” She actually enjoys his fleeting embarrassment. “But you knew me as Robert.” A wave of recognition comes over Strand's face and he smiles. It’s a politician’s smile. Automatic. Not friendly, but not unfriendly either.
Cecelia shakes hands with the man and woman, again introducing herself. Even without Cecelia’s reference to her former male identity, they would have made her as trans. Cecelia looks like a tall older woman with somewhat puffy features, but her voice gives her away. Cecelia sees the recognition on their faces, and seems to enjoy it.
“You have to understand that I was a different person when John and I worked together. I’m sure he’ll tell you about it." She turns back to Strand. “I just wanted to say hi and introduce you to my good friend Bobbi.”
On cue, he extends a hand. I swallow and extend my own hand, bejeweled with several rings and a large bracelet. I feel like I am exposing myself.
“Hi, Bobbi,” he says. His eyes are focused hard on me and he's smiling. He embraces our handshake with his left hand, which is warm and intimate. I’m flushing like a school girl, and finding it hard to believe this gracious man is the brute Cecelia described.
“Hello, John,” I respond. “Nice to meet you.” I try to sound feminine but I’m not even close. He takes it in stride and introduces me to his friends, somebody and somebody Wilson. I can feel him looking at me while the introductions are going on.
Cecelia catches this too. And, being Cecelia, decides to have fun with it.
“Bobbi is the hottest hairdresser in the city,” Cecelia tells Strand. “She does men’s hair, too. You should try her some time.”
I blush so hard I can feel the heat on my face. Strand smiles. “Sounds like a good idea. Bobbi, do you have a card?”
I fumble in my purse like a ten-year-old girl playing dress up. Finally I find one and hand it over. Strand’s fingers brush against mine as he takes it. Mrs. Wilson asks for a card, too. I fumble less this time, and get a smile from her as I deliver it. I force myself to speak. “It would be a treat to do either or both of you.” My voice is too soft. I really need to be more confident. Or at least sound that way.
Cecelia’s last words to me as we part are a warning. “I’m a little worried about how interesting Strand found you,” she says. “Don’t be fooled by his good looks and public demeanor. I’ve known him for a long time. He is a dangerous, despicable man and if he feels like hurting you, he’ll do it. Keep your distance.”
Cecelia is noticeably tense when she says this. Another first. There is something in this world that actually intimidates Cecelia. Who would have guessed?
***
THE BAR AT ERNIE'S IS PACKED with Rush Street revelers, an intimidating army of straight people. One of them is a hetero male, my first date as a transwoman. The rest will be gawking strangers as soon as I open the door and cross the threshold.
I'm already wishing I hadn't made this date. It's not a romantic meeting. The guy is a client I've had for a few months, a nice guy who wanted to talk about something. He picked the place, a straight bar on Rush Street, well outside my safety zone.
Well, I'm committed now. I take a deep breath and enter. Ray greets me at the door. I am relieved. The thought of working my way through the milling crowd is scary. It’s one thing to be made as a transwoman; it’s another to be nose-to-nos
e with someone when it happens.
Ray hugs me. It’s a greeting hug, but nice. I hug back. He takes my hand and leads me back to the lounge area. We slither between groups of people. One merrily inebriated middle-aged man feels my body brush against his as I try to squirm by. He smiles and feels me up. “Very nice!” he says. I should be furious, but I’m caught up in the fact he didn’t make me. He was being inappropriate, but I’m thrilled he thought he was being inappropriate with a woman. I just can’t get angry about it. Besides, that’s the first time I’ve been felt up, and to be honest, I liked it.
Ray finds an empty table and we sit down. Magically, a waitress appears to take our order. “So!” says Ray, looking at me after the waitress is gone. “You look lovely tonight, Bobbi. Is it okay for me to say that?”
I smile. “Of course. And don’t stop now. You’re lying, but it’s for a good cause.”
“I’m not lying,” he answers. “You look great. How are you?”
As we go through the usual conversation-starting ritual, I take in Ray from a new perspective. In the salon, my interactions with clients are almost all through a mirror. It’s very different actually looking at someone face-to-face.
Ray is a big, nice-looking guy in a cuddly way. Scandinavian features, light complexion, dark blond hair. Nice smile. White teeth. I notice a little redness between his eyebrows. He’s been tweezing. I make a note to offer him an eyebrow wax next time he comes in for a haircut.
“How is your transition going?” he asks. I shared some of my experiences with him during his last appointment. He seemed interested, in a polite, appropriate way.
I fidget. “As well as can be expected, I guess. Most of the hairdressers in the salon are still trying to deal with it. They don’t like it but they aren’t giving me a hard time. They just leave me alone. My clients? I don’t know. Some seem to accept it, but my bookings are down quite a bit, so we’ll see.”
“Ahhh!” Ray gestures with one hand, as if wiping away what I said. “You’ll do fine. Before you know it, people will be lined up to have you do their hair. But I’m surprised about the other stylists. I thought hairdressers were the most accepting people in the world.”
“Some are. We’re really open to gays for obvious reasons. But transitioning is different. The salon world is all about looks and appearances. And a lot of T-girls don’t look right. I certainly don’t.”
Ray debates the point. I wish I had the feeling he was being gratuitous. I wouldn’t mind a friendly drink with some harmless ego stroking. But I’m afraid Ray is going to say he has the hots for me. I’m definitely not ready for that. Even if he were the man of my fantasies, which he is not.
It passes. The wine comes. I ask Ray what’s going on in his life. Marilee says that question is an invitation to someone to unburden themselves. “Don’t ask it unless you’re prepared to do a lot of listening,” she advises.
Ray starts with what I know—he had a brief marriage, shotgun type, about ten years ago. He’s always paid child support, but had limited contact with the mom and his son. Mom wanted him to stay, took it personally when he didn’t. Too many ugly scenes that couldn’t be good for the boy, so he just showed up for birthdays, Christmas, Saturdays once a month. It’s been obvious for years that the boy is gay, Ray says, finally getting into it. The boy is effeminate, gets bullied, does poorly in school.
“When you told me your story, it got me to thinking about Jon,” Ray explains. “It fits. Gail says he has always liked to play dress up in her clothes. The one time I took him out to buy clothes he told me he didn’t like boy’s clothes. Very matter of fact about it. And when I can get him to talk at all about school and stuff, he talks about the girls in his class or in his neighborhood. But it’s not like a boy would talk about girls. He talks about what they wear, what they look best in. He tells me about one girl who got pink highlights in her hair and he says it like he’s jealous.”
I give him a campy smile and exaggerated hand gesture. “He sounds like my kind of boy.”
“I think my son is a transsexual, Bobbi,” Ray says, smiling at my humor, but earnest. “So, what do I do?”
What indeed? I didn't see this coming. All I really know about transsexuality is what it's like to be me, and even that's a little vague at times.
“Are you asking me for parenting advice?” I ask, finally.
“I’m hoping you know something about it. Gail actually asked me to give her some advice. I’m trying.”
I marvel silently at what an awful choice I am for parenting advice. Not only am I not one, I don't even have good parental role models to draw on.
“I'm looking for information. Advice. Contacts.” he says. “I picked up a little information on the Internet, but you don't know if your source is a lunatic or what on the Internet. I want to talk with a real person, someone I trust. I mean, we don’t know anything about this. Do kids ever grow out of it?”
As I respond I'm overwhelmed by how little certainty there is about anything in this nook of the human race. “Ray, lots of kids cross-dress as children. Most of them move on to other things. It’s just one of many life experiments that kids do as they grow up. But for some kids, it’s not something you outgrow. Some of us hide it so our parents don’t get hysterical and we don’t have to deal with neighborhood bullies, but it’s still there when we turn ten and twenty and fifty-five. If you’re one of us, you don’t outgrow it. Some keep it hidden all their lives. They make a life in the body they were born with. But some of us do something about it."
Ray is staring at me like I'm delivering the Sermon from the Mount. I wish he'd be a little less reverent. The facts about transsexuality are squishy, and I'm not any kind of authority.
“Your son might be trans, based on what you say. You definitely shouldn’t take my word for it. In fact, I’ll give you the name of a psychologist to contact. There are only a few in Chicago who have any notion at all of what transgenderism is, let alone how to deal with it.”
I jot down Marilee’s name and number. Then I tell him about an article I read a few months ago. The parents of a transsexual child, born male but identifying from her earliest days as female, decided to raise her as a girl. It worked well in early childhood. She looked and talked and acted like a girl, got along well with the others, did well in school, enjoyed her life. But things got complicated when she approached puberty. The parents realized their daughter would be traumatized by male puberty and by the alienation it would cause her from her friends and classmates and neighbors.
They consulted with physicians and psychologists and finally opted to use testosterone blockers to postpone her puberty until she was old enough to make a gender decision.
“Ray,” I say, “I have no idea if that’s a workable solution. It happened in Europe. I’m not sure it’s even legal here, and I have no idea what side effects it might have. But I think that story gives you an idea of how profound this is going to get.”
Not that Ray needed convincing.
We spend another twenty minutes on the easy stuff. Love your child without condition. Most transsexuals are disowned or icily distanced by their families as soon as they come out. It adds to depression, failure in other life struggles, suicide, drugs. This is not a glamorous life choice, especially when your own family reviles you.
Ray is visibly relieved as we say goodbye. He has a course to pursue. It’s better than just treading water in the middle of the ocean. I remember when I read that article I wondered what it would have been like for me if I had been raised as a girl, by supportive parents. If I had never been a boy. If I had never teased a girl, never had body hair or erections. Physically, it is an attractive thought. I would never have become so big and so muscular; a near lifetime of hormones would have feminized my skin and my features, too.
On the other hand, this person that I am would never have existed.
Funny, really. As much as I fantasize about being a normal looking woman and passing for one, the thought that I might have
grown up just that way and avoided being who I am today is not attractive. It is chilling, in fact.
Still, if I had a trans child, I would want to do for her or him what those parents did for their child.
Outside, when my cab comes, I turn to shake Ray’s hand. He hugs me and kisses me on the cheek. I drive off into the night wondering if my coming out is going to lead to more of these kinds of sessions.
***
She tugs open his pants and sets to work on him. He watches, fascinated by her blend of girly and boyish features. Nimble fingers, full lips, large soft breasts. Masculine nose. Male-sized feet and hands. She is hungry. She’s been eager to go down on him all night. He could feel it. And it turned him on. He teased her for a while, letting the urge build. Clever repartee, little jokes here and there, compliments. It was driving her crazy.
Her mouth is fantastic. Better than the last one, really. Too good. He can feel himself on the verge. He stops her. He puts his hands on her face and gently lifts until she is looking at him. He motions to the couch. He hands her the condom and they strip. He smiles. She still has a tiny penis and testicles. She rolls the condom on him, applies the gel, enjoying it. He turns her over. He smiles again. She moans and talks to him but he ignores her. He is living in his mind now, reliving real and imagined couplings from his life, from movies. She is the briefest blip in the succession. As he nears climax, that big tranny hairdresser takes center stage. So butch, but so femme. He imagines her in lewd, animalistic ways. It arouses him to a fever pitch. She is chanting to him, urging him, praising his manhood, asking for more, more, more. She worships him. He tries to recall her name for a moment then submits to a wild orgasm that makes him blind and breathless.
When it’s over he can barely mask his contempt for the silly boy-bitch at his side. She thinks she has given him the ride of his life. Stupid freak. But she did get him started, she got him turned on initially. He controls his contempt. He’ll get her number because he knows the beast will be back, the dark force inside him that craves violence and pain. This one can feed the beast. And if the beast consumes her some night, no one will care.