Womanized

by Nikki Crescent

  The host had a big grin, suggesting the worst.

  “Well, Cassidy says otherwise,” the host said as the lights turned towards Cassidy. The host walked over and held out his microphone towards my date. “Cassidy, tell us about what happened last night after you slipped away from our camera team.”

  “Well,” she said with pink cheeks. “Orrin and I had a little bit of fun. I wouldn’t say that nothing happened—he woke up in my bed this morning, after all.”

  The host faked a gasp as he turned towards the camera. “We’ll let the audience believe what they want based on the evidence. But I think the question on Orrin’s mind is: did he spend the night with a biological woman or with someone who might be a little bit newer to the whole being a woman thing. Let’s find out—after this short break.”

  I looked over at Cassidy, feeling pissed off that she would tell the host that more than nothing happened. If the producers decided to lie and tell the world that she was really a dude—now I would feel especially humiliated, even though I wouldn’t believe it. Or would I believe it? It wouldn’t certainly linger in my head for the next few months—or maybe even for the rest of my life. I looked down at my feet and took a deep breath. I kept telling myself that I had to be strong, so the humiliation wouldn’t defeat me completely. I could joke about this later. I could make this whole thing into a bit. There was so much comedy gold here, and it would be perfect because most of it was at my expense, and not at Cassidy’s expense or the expense of the transgender community. I didn’t mind people laughing at me—as long as they weren’t hating my guts. I could take the big reveal humbly. Maybe I could even give Cassidy another kiss after they lied and told me that she was a boy. The audience at home would love it and maybe they wouldn’t think that I was so bad after all.

  “And we’re back!” the host called out. “Now, we’re going to find out if Cassidy is biologically female, or if she has one of those pesky X chromosomes. Cassidy, please tell Orrin and our audience a little bit about yourself.”

  She smiled. She looked at me and then she looked back at the host. “I was born a girl,” she said. Then a series of pictures appeared on the screen, showing Cassidy as a young girl, wearing pink, with long blonde hair halfway down her back. The biggest wave of relief washed over me. Maybe this show wouldn’t be so humiliating. Maybe I could prove to the world that I was right—that I could tell the difference between a real woman and a fake. Maybe I would be vindicated instead of humiliated—and then I could still squeeze a little bit of an apology in to save my career. It was perfect.

  I just had to pick one more female out of five options. How hard could that be?

  CHAPTER VII

  I had twenty-four hours before I had to make my second date selection. The camera team spent the day following me around while the host asked me questions like, “Do you feel vindicated?” and, “If Cassidy had been a transgender, how would you be feeling different right now?”

  And once again, I found myself with the opportunity to lie, to satisfy my critics so they would finally get off of my back. But I just couldn’t lie. The truth was: I did feel vindicated and I would have felt much different had that host told me that Cassidy had a cock between her legs. “What can I say?” I said. “I was right. My tweet still wasn’t meant to be taken seriously, but maybe there’s a little bit of truth in every joke.”

  His eyes widened as if he was shocked by my answer. But what was I supposed to say? Was I just supposed to pretend like Cassidy was my dream girl, regardless of what she was when she was younger? Men can look like women, they can dress like women, they can do their hair and makeup like women, they can learn to do the voice, and they can even take the hormones so they have some of the proper body parts—but no man will ever be a fully, convincing woman. There’s so much more to being a woman than just looks. Part of being a woman—just like with being a man—is having the complete female experience, which includes knowing what it’s like to be a little girl and knowing what it’s like to have a period once per month. I explained this to the show’s host, and then he asked me, “What about the women who had unusual childhoods? What about the women who can’t have periods because of birth defects?”

  And I rolled my eyes. These people are always jumping to those super rare exceptions to prove their points. Of course a woman who can’t have a period because of a birth anomaly is still a woman. Of course a woman who spent her whole childhood with some weird genderless cult is still a woman, even though she didn’t have the ‘little girl experience’. Of course there are exceptions—for biological women.

  “So wait—are you now saying that you don’t believe transgender women should be called women?” the host asked me. And I had to think about it. Was that what I was saying? Was that how I felt? Should I just lie and say, ‘Of course that’s not how I feel!’ or should I stick with my gut and tell the truth? What would happen to my career?

  “I think people should be free to do whatever they want to do. I don’t care if a guy wants to dress up and act like a woman—that’s his own business. Can’t that just be enough for you people?” I said. “Why do I need to force myself to believe something I don’t believe? It’s not like I’m telling people to go out and beat trannies up. It’s not like I’m making fun of them or trying to take away their rights.”

  “But you did make fun of them—with your tweet.”

  My stomach turned and I groaned. I was so sick of hearing about that tweet. “I deleted that tweet right after I posted it! Let it die already! I only had ten thousand followers on Twitter anyway—so what fucking difference does it make?”

  The host was suddenly silent. Both cameras were close to my face, documenting my sudden snap. But how could I not snap? For weeks, people had been calling me horrible names and accusing me of harbouring horrible beliefs. One guy online even claimed that I was a member of a Neo-Nazi organization—just because of a single tweet, which wasn’t even all that derogatory. Surely I was facing exponentially more hate than any tranny on the planet. While we were filming that day, someone even threw a half-full bottle of Cola at me. I’d walked by many, many trannies on the street and I’d never seen anyone throw garbage at them before.

  “I’m going home,” I said. I turned around and started towards my apartment. I was sick of mindlessly walking around the city so the crew could get their precious shots.

  “But we still need a shot of you ordering lunch!” the host said.

  “You can get a shot of me making my own lunch in my apartment,” I said. The crew rushed to catch up to me.

  “Orrin—wait up! Who’s your celebrity crush?”

  “What? Why?” I asked.

  “Just answer the question,” the host said.

  “I don’t know—Kate Upton, I guess.”

  “If you found out that Kate Upton was biologically male—would you still find yourself attracted to her?”

  I sighed. These questions were getting more and more stupid by the minute. “Would she still look and sound and act exactly the way Kate Upton looks and sounds and acts now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then sure—why not? She’s sexy and feminine. But before you get that victorious smile on your face, realize that no man on this planet looks anything like Kate Upton. No man can look like Gigi Hadid or Emily Ratajkowski. Trannies are trannies—they look like trannies, they sound like trannies, and they probably even smell like trannies for all I know. I don’t know what else you want me to say.”

  “So you know who the final girl is in the studio line-up?” the host asked.

  My stomach turned again. I had no idea who the other girl was in the line-up. I had a couple of guesses, but they all looked like girls—and I was still convinced that they were all girls. I looked at them all closely and I heard all of their voices. They just couldn’t be men. “Sure,” I said. “And once I pick her, you guys will give me my money and finally leave me alone—right?”

  “That’s right,” said the host.

&nbs
p; And I couldn’t wait until I had my chance to prove to the whole world that I was right.

  CHAPTER VIII

  I had two options: Susie and Tiagra. They were both short and thin. They both had undeniably feminine voices. They both had wide hips and narrow shoulders. I was still convinced that the other girls were real girls as well—and I still had a feeling that the show was trying to trick me, by having a manlier-looking woman in that line-up next to the most feminine man they could find—assuming any of them were really men.

  So it really was a gamble when I picked Susie. I was going with my gut, picking the prettiest girl in the line-up. She was exactly my type with her long blonde hair and her mousey features. If the production told me that she was a man, I wouldn’t have believed them. I would have demanded proof. And if they gave it to me—well then maybe I would admit that they were right. But I wasn’t worried because Susie was gorgeous.

  The host once again smirked after I made my selection. I figured he was just trying to make me nervous. Maybe he wanted me to make a last second reselection, so that the show could get that gotcha moment they’d been after all along. But I went with my gut the first time, with Cassidy, so I was going with my gut again.

  The crew already had our date planned out, but I did not intend to follow their plan. I’d stayed up for hours the night before, reading through that contract that I signed. There was nothing in it that said that I had to do what they told me to do. It only said that I had to let them into my apartment and that I had to let them film me. As long as I showed up on time for the studio sessions, I could do what I wanted, and all they could do was follow me around.

  And they didn’t realize that I read that contract until I met up with Susie near Central Park. I was supposed to tell her that we were going to the museum, but instead, I said, “We’re going to a bar for a few drinks.”

  “We are?” she said.

  “No you’re not,” the clipboard producer said.

  “Yeah, we are. There’s a great little bar with cheap drinks just around the corner from here. C’mon.” I started walking. Susie looked at the producer and then she looked back at me. She wouldn’t move, until the producer said, “Go with him, I guess.”

  “I’m not really much of a drinker,” she said awkwardly after she caught up with me.

  “Oh, c’mon. It’ll be fun. Who needs to go walk around some stupid museum? Do you even like museums?”

  “Um,” she said. “I don’t really know. I never go to museums.”

  “So what do you normally do with your free time?”

  She was slow to respond. “I’m trying to become a model,” she said. It was the perfect response. There was no way a transgender man would want to be a model. Women want to be models—it’s a classic feminine pursuit. Though maybe there are a few deluded traps in the world… Maybe Susie was one of them.

  I made a point of ordering a drink for her. “I can order my own drink,” she said, giving me a little scowl.

  “Women love it when men order drinks for them,” I said with a grin. I’d already been called a sexist a dozen times over the past few weeks, so I no longer cared if one more person thought that I had some sort of gender preference. I still couldn’t figure out what transgenders had to do with sexism. I couldn’t help but wonder if there weren’t some transgenders who were transitioning just so they could get in on some of that sweet victim status.

  Susie sipped her strong drink slowly. I wanted to loosen her up, hoping that she would admit that she was being paid by the production. I wanted her to tell me personally: was the production telling her to lie about what was between her legs? She was sipping her drink too slowly, so I ordered a couple of shots. She hesitated before pounding it back. I watched as her pupils dilated as the alcohol entered her body quickly. “How are you feeling?” I asked.

  “Are we just going to sit in this bar all afternoon?”

  “Just finish your drink, and then we’ll go do something else.” I waved down the waitress and ordered another couple of shots.

  Then the producer walked up to me and tapped me on the shoulder. “If the two of you are drunk—that’s not great for TV. Maybe just cut it out with the drinking. If you don’t want to go to the museum, that’s fine. You can maybe walk around Central Park with her.”

  I was so sick of walking around Central Park. I rolled my eyes. “I have a better idea.”

  And I really did have a better idea. While I was in the bathroom, and the cameras weren’t on me, I made some arrangements over the phone. “I’ll be outside in five minutes,” I was told. So I settled our tab and then I took Susie outside, just as the horse and carriage pulled up. I helped her up onto the carriage while the camera team was still scrambling to get their equipment out from that little bar. “Start driving!” I said to the driver.

  “Where am I going?” he asked.

  “Just anywhere,” I said.

  “Wait!” The producer called out. But her was too late. We were already moving. Susie gripped my hand tightly as we jolted forward. She let a little scream slip, and then she laughed. She had a tight grip, despite her small, fragile hands.

  “We’re going to get in trouble,” she said, looking into my eyes.

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re supposed to let them film us,” she said. “That’s the whole point.”

  “They’ve been filming me for days. I’m sick of it.”

  “Then why did you sign up for the show?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. I guess because I wanted to prove to the world that I’m not a monster. But what I’m learning is, it doesn’t matter what I do or say—everyone just thinks that I’m a monster.”

  She looked away, towards the city lights. She wasn’t holding my hand anymore.

  “What? Do you think that I’m a monster, too?” I asked.

  “I think you’re fine,” she said. “You seem like a nice guy.”

  “But…”

  “But what?” she said.

  “You sounded like you were about to say ‘but’.”

  She looked at me with a warm smile, but her eyes looked like she’d been hurt. “Your tweet was just kind of mean.”

  “Oh God, not that tweet again,” I said. “I deleted it. It’s gone. I deleted it hours after posting it.”

  “Okay,” she said with her soft smile.

  “What difference does it even make to you? Surely as a woman, you feel the same way. Isn’t it kind of rude of people to think that men can be just as pretty and feminine as you—even though they didn’t go through the same things you went through?”

  She stared into my eyes. Then, she reached a hand into her dress armhole. She clicked off the transmitter that was hooked to her bra strap. Then she motioned for me to do the same. I reached into my jacket’s inside pocket and flicked off my transmitter. “What is it?” I asked.

  “Orrin—I’m a transgender,” she said. “You picked a transgender. You lost the gamble. I’m sorry. But you can’t tell anyone that I told you, or they won’t pay me either.”

  “Wait—what?” I said. I bit down on my tongue as beads of cold sweat started to tickle the back of my neck. I looked into her eyes and then I remembered that she was likely an actress. She was probably just fooling with me. Maybe she didn’t actually click off her transmitter. Maybe she was just setting me up for an embarrassing moment—the way Cassidy tried to set me up for an embarrassing moment. “Look—I know you’re lying,” I said. “Just don’t bother. I know this date is fake and I know the show is fake. I just want my old life back—that’s the only reason I’m enduring this shit.”

  “I’m really a transgender, Orrin. You’re going to find out tomorrow.”

  “How am I going to find out? They’re going to tell me? Like they told me Cassidy was really a woman? It’s not like they pulled down her panties and showed the world her pussy. I’m not going to believe anything they say.”

  “Would you believe me if I showed you?” she said. “And would it ev
en make any difference?”

  “This isn’t funny,” I said. My heart was aflutter in my chest. I took a deep breath and tried to centre myself. I was feeling angry and frustrated and betrayed. They were never going to give me that money. It didn’t matter who I picked. They were going to tell me that my first pick was a woman and that my second pick was a man—it was that simple. It was just their format and I was a victim of it. At least I could still squeeze in a forced apology. I could still salvage my career.

  And if I was going to lose anyway, then there was no point in continuing the date. “Hey driver, my apartment is just around this corner. Mind pulling over?” I said. Susie was looking at me with a disappointed look. “What?” I said.

  “I don’t know. It’s just—all of the girls were making fun of you in the green room the other day. And for some reason I defended you. I guess I just thought that you weren’t the guy they were making you out to be. But maybe I was wrong.”

  “Am I just supposed to smile when people lie to me? Would that make me the good guy you want me to be?” I asked.

  “I don’t know what I wanted,” she said.

  The carriage came to a stop, but I didn’t get off right away. I looked over at Susie and bit down on my tongue. “Fine,” I said. “Show me. Prove to me that I’m wrong.”

  She just sat still—probably feeling stupid as I called her out on her bluff.

  “That’s what I thought,” I said. I hopped off the carriage and then started towards my apartment building’s front door. Then I noticed that she was running up beside me.

  “What?” I said.

  “You want me to prove it—I’m going to prove it,” she said. “But I’m not going to do it in public—that would be illegal.” She smiled and then waited for me to unlock the door. Now my heart was really pounding. Why was she coming up to my apartment? Did she really have a cock to show me? Did I really pick a transgender out of that line-up?

  CHAPTER IX