Trans-Sister Radio (2000) (43 page)

Now, however, almost half a year post-op, I was clearly continuing to metamorphose. The thoughts and images I would find arousing grew, well, more diverse.

Some days I'd wonder if there was more to hormones than I realized, and it was the chemicals I was swallowing that were suddenly making me find different stimuli so interesting. I realized, for instance, that while I still thought women were beautiful, my daydreams were becoming increasingly peopled with the male of the species. I pondered on more than one occasion what it would be like now to be kissed by a fellow with a hint of stubble on his cheeks, to be held by a man whose arms were stronger than mine. One Sunday afternoon I grew way too interested in those TV commercials for home fitness machines, the ones that showed men whose stomachs were rippled with muscles, and whose arms had mountains and valleys shaped by thew, flesh, and brawn.

I even began to fantasize about sex with men, and to imagine a penis inside me. For a woman--and, before that, a man--whose sexual reveries would have made much of the world just a tad uncomfortable, it was downright disturbing to have desires for such basic meat-and-potatoes sex. Intercourse in the missionary position?
Moi? Oh, please! At least hoist my ankles in your hands, you big brute, and take me off the bed!

The whole idea that a penis might offer sexual gratification sometimes gave me the giggles, and I'd find myself more than a little bemused when the image of Dana Stevens having Doris Day sex would pop into my head.

Oh, but pop into my head it did. Increasingly often.

And while I could objectify the male torso and the male arm, while the very notion of an erect penis could interest me, in the end it wasn't anonymous male body parts that were turning me on, I decided. If I was going to have a casual dalliance with someone who mattered to me solely as a sexual partner, I still think I would have wound up with a woman. It's what I knew, it's what I loved.

No, it was, in the end, a single man who was inadvertently leading me astray. It was a fellow I saw more and more often in April and May, and who I knew was as bewildered by me as I was by him. After all, we were introduced when I was still living my life as a male, which meant we were more likely to repulse each other than find each other attractive.

Yet attracted to each other we were. We were. It was undeniable. We both knew something was happening: We could feel our dinners together were growing charged, we could sense the way the coffee we would share some afternoons was oddly electrifying. He had never seen my apartment and I had never seen the inside of his home.

But I was quite sure it was only a matter of time.

It was just before the Fourth of July weekend when Carly called me from Washington. I was painting my toenails when the phone rang, and I was savoring something genetic women take for granted: My breasts and my thighs would press together when I curled a knee and dabbed polish upon the tiny stamps at the ends of my toes.

I hadn't spoken to her since we had a drink together in late May, and it was an absolute joy to hear her voice. She sounded very happy--and very professional.

But then we finished with what I realized was small talk, and she got around to why she was calling. At first I thought she was trying to warn me, but then I understood she was actually exploring my interest in the idea: She was gauging my willingness. How public was I feeling? Would I talk to another reporter? Would it help if she came along?

I wondered if her father knew she was calling, and I realized he couldn't. He didn't. He would have told me if he had any idea what the folks at NPR were thinking.

But it was possible her mother was aware of what was going on. In fact, it was likely: I could imagine Carly calling me before her dad, but--given her mother's and my history together--not her mom. Her mom had to know.

"What does your mom think about all this?" I asked her.

"She knows she's welcome to talk about it, but she doesn't have to. I made that really clear. I told her they might not even do anything with the story."

"I don't see how they could if she didn't talk to them," I said.

"Uh-huh," she agreed.

What was it in the two grunts that comprised her response? Was it evasiveness? No, I don't think so. Carly is not an evasive young woman. What you see is what you get.

Rather, it was the calmness in the acknowledgment. The aplomb. I understood then that she knew more than I did. A lot more. And so--though I do it rarely and am therefore not particularly good at it--I listened and allowed myself to be led. She knew what she wanted, and she knew what the real story was.

Suddenly, I realized, I was just along for the ride.

NATIONAL PUBLIC RADIO TRANSCRIPT

All Things Considered

Friday, September 28

WILL BANKS:
Hey, I was wrong before. I'm smarter now. Simple.

Chapter 39.

will

WHEN I WAS ALONE, I WOULD FIND MYSELF TAKING deep cleansing breaths. I would take them when I would fall asleep and when I would wake, and I would take them when I would climb into my car.

I stayed away from the edge of the airport runway as if it were a crack house and I were a recovering junkie. But the planes would come in low near the station, and I would wander outside in the warm spring air with a cup of coffee, and I would watch them circle and approach and descend.

I thought of my daughter in Bennington, and my ex-wives in Brandon and Bartlett, and the fact that both of my parents were dead. I found myself wishing that my brother and his family hadn't moved to California. I wished, at the very least, that they lived in New England.

One day my assistant wandered outside, and she asked me what I was doing. A pair of National Guard F-16s had flown by a moment before, and before that a United 737 bound for Chicago.

"I'm watching airplanes," I said.

"Why?"

"I think I've lived in Vermont too long," I answered, which may have been a more honest response than she wanted.

For a good part of March and April, I viewed myself as a predator. I slept with a woman I met at a public radio conference in Seattle--an executive from another station whose husband had recently died--and I slept with the woman who was the CFO of one of our largest underwriters. It was reckless and stupid. But we fucked in a hotel room chair overlooking Lake Champlain, and every single moment was as good as the sunset we watched.

I slept with two different members of the Vermont Symphony Orchestra on consecutive nights, when the VSO was in Burlington for a pair of concerts. Both women were younger than me, and they both wore white shirts with pearl buttons. I loved to undress them.

In the space of a couple of weeks, I had more than doubled the number of women with whom I had slept in my life.

I wasn't sure whether I was proud of myself or I hated myself.

I tried to stop having coffee with Dana, but I couldn't. Sometimes we had dinner together. She'd call and we'd talk--I was never impolite--and before I knew it, we had firmed up a place and a time to (and I loathe this word, really I do) chat.

Always when we would part I would vow that I would never see her again. Never. I was through. And then I would try and seduce an attractive woman who was--and the word's letters would form in my head one by one--real.

For three weeks in May I dated a woman named Beth, a public-relations manager for a hospital in central Vermont. We had sex on our first date and on every date thereafter, and I stopped trying to seduce every new woman I met. Beth was intelligent and thoughtful and giving in every imaginable way. She was more beautiful naked than with her clothes on.

Still ... I feared I was losing.

When we made love for what I knew would be the very last time, I turned on a light in a corner of her bedroom, and--much to her surprise and increasing discomfort--I just stared and I stared at her body. When I went down on her, I never once shut my eyes: I wanted to know forever what her vagina looked like, I wanted to see her tummy in repose. I wanted to have a picture in my mind of her clitoris when she was aroused, and of the way the pink drapes around it would glisten with moisture.

Sex therapists and psychiatrists say men are more visual than women.

I wanted images I could take to my grave.

Does that mean I knew what I was doing? Or, to be precise, does that mean I knew what a small corner of my brain was thinking? Anticipating? Planning?

Perhaps. But it may also mean I was merely desperate. Afraid.

Perhaps I was simply trying to convince myself that nothing in the world could compete with the real thing.

Dana suggested that I read
Little Women
because she said she was feeling a little bit like Laurie.

"You know, Laurie?" she explained when she made the request, because I must have looked puzzled. "The lad who lives next door to the March girls?"

"No, I don't know," I confessed. "I never read
Little Women."
She pretended to be incredulous; she pretended to be appalled by my unfamiliarity with what she considered a seminal work in the transgender canon. But, the fact is, I knew the basics and I understood what she meant. I knew that in Alcott's story Laurie spent years wooing the tomboy Jo March, and then, after she finally rebuffed him, he simply moved on to her kid sister Amy and married her. He believed that he was destined to become a part of the March clan, and it was the last name that mattered more than the first.

In Dana's eyes, the parallels were obvious.

"Allie's not a tomboy," I said.

"You're a philistine," she told me. "And a literalist."

I did not kiss her then, but I found myself gazing at her mouth as she spoke, at the lipstick that looked like burgundy wine. My sense is that had we not been in a coffee bar north of Burlington, had it not been three-thirty in the afternoon, I would have kissed her at that moment. I would have leaned as far as I could across the wrought-iron table, and I would have pressed my lips against hers.

I have no doubt that people were talking. I have no doubt that people like Rebecca Barnard, one of Dana's peers on the faculty and my station's right-wing radio pundit, were murmuring that Will Banks had lost his mind. Or, at the very least, that he was intent in some way on the destruction of his career and his life.

First it was Allison, his ex-wife. And now it's him. There must be something awful in the drinking water in Bartlett
.

But throughout April and May, Dana and I were merely having coffee or dinner together. That's all that was happening. We went to one movie together.

And always, at the end of the night or the end of the day, we went our separate ways. Often when I would see Dana in the afternoon, in the evening I would go out on a date--a real one. Never did Dana come back with me to Bartlett.

Together, we talked often about Allie. There was my Allie and there was her Allison, and we compared notes about what we loved in the woman and why we would always worry about her.

Together, we talked about her career and mine. We talked about Carly, and we talked about Dana's family in Florida. We talked about teaching and radio.

We did not, I realized, talk about my divorce, and I wondered if there was nothing there I needed to discuss. Briefly that concerned me, and I worried that I had grown cold. She reassured me I hadn't.

At some point I confessed that I needed desperately to get out of Vermont, and I was planning to extend feelers that summer throughout the NPR station network. She understood there would be advantages for her to leave Burlington, too, not the least of which would be the chance to begin her life as an anonymous woman, versus Dana Stevens, the local teacher-transsexual. But she wasn't sure that she ever would. She had tenure where she was. Now that she had her sex change, would she ever get tenure anyplace else? She wasn't sure.

Did we flirt? I don't believe so. But one's mind can't help but wander to sex around a transsexual, if only because you know the person beside you has had a sex change. Your mind will, of its own volition, wonder about the penis or the vagina that once was there and now is gone, and the penis or the vagina that has replaced it.

Even now I wonder if that's the real reason why transsexuals make the rest of us so uncomfortable. Though many are wholly indifferent to sex, they think more about genitalia than everybody else, and they are considerably more comfortable with that reality.

Nevertheless, I am quite sure that only a small percentage of my attraction to Dana was lust. Like a holograph image that mutates with the flick of your wrist, in an instant the beautiful woman before me could become a man with a ponytail--a man I hadn't much liked. All it would take was a tiny movement: Her fingers on her chin. A deep inhalation. An adamant nod.