In One Person

Donna’s face bore a hint of something masculine. Maybe it was because she wasn’t trying to be a woman when she slept; perhaps it was something in the contours of her jaw and cheekbones—something chiseled.
    That night, looking at Donna asleep, I was reminded of Mrs. Kittredge; there’d been something masculine in her attractiveness, too—something of Kittredge himself about her, something all-male. But if a woman is aggressive, she can
look
male—even in her sleep.
    I fell asleep, and when I woke up, the door to the walk-in closet was closed—I knew we’d left it ajar. Donna was not in bed beside me; in the light that was coming from the walk-in closet, from under the door, I could see the shadows of her moving feet.
    She was naked, looking at herself in the full-length mirror in the walk-in closet. I knew this routine.
    “Your breasts are perfect,” I told her.
    “Most men like them bigger,” Donna said. “You’re not like most men I know, Billy. You even like
actual
women, for Christ’s sake.”
    “Don’t hurt your beautiful breasts—please don’t do anything to them,” I told her.
    “What’s it matter that I have a big dick? You’re strictly a top, Billy—that won’t ever change, right?” she asked me.
    “I
love
your big dick,” I said.
    Donna shrugged; her small breasts were the target. “You know the difference between an
amateur
cross-dresser and someone like me?” Donna asked.
    I knew the answer—it was always her answer. “Yes, I know—you’re committed to changing your body.”
    “I’m not an amateur,” Donna repeated.
    “I know—just don’t change your breasts. They’re perfect,” I told her, and went back to bed.
    “You know what’s the matter with you, Billy?” Donna asked me. I was already in bed, with my back turned to the light coming from under the door of the walk-in closet. I knew her answer to this question, too, but I didn’t say anything. “You’re not like anyone else, Billy—that’s what’s the matter with you,” Donna said.
    A S FOR CROSS-DRESSING , D ONNA could never interest me in trying on her clothes. She would talk, from time to time, about the seemingly remote possibility of surgery—not just the breast implants, which were tempting to many transsexuals, but the bigger deal, the sex-change surgery. Technically speaking, Donna—and every other transsexual who ever attracted me—was what they call a “pre-op.” (I know only a few post-op transsexuals. The ones I know are very courageous. It’s daunting to be around them; they know themselves so well. Imagine knowing yourself
that
well! Imagine being that sure about who you are.)
    Donna would say, “I suppose you were never curious—I mean, to be like me.”
    “That’s right,” I told her, truthfully.
    “I suppose, all your life, you’ve wanted to keep your penis—you probably really
like
it,” she said.
    “I like yours, too,” I told her—also truthfully.
    “I know you do,” she said, sighing. “I just don’t always like it so much myself. But I always like
yours
,” Donna quickly added.
    Poor Tom would have found Donna too “complicated,” I think, but I thought she was very brave.
    I found it intimidating that Donna was so certain about who she was, but that was also one of the things I loved about her—that and the cute, rightward inclination of her penis, which reminded me of you-know-who.
    As it would turn out, my only exposure to Kittredge’s penis was what I managed to glimpse of him—always furtively—in the showers at the Favorite River gym.
    I had much more exposure to Donna’s penis. I saw as much of her as I wanted, though—in the beginning—I had such an insatiable hunger for her (and for other transsexuals, albeit only the ones who were like her) that I couldn’t imagine ever seeing or having
enough
of Donna. In the end, I didn’t move on because I was tired of her, or because she ever doubted or had second thoughts about who she was. In the end, it was
me
she doubted. It was
Donna
who moved on, and her distrust of me made me doubt myself.
    When I stopped seeing Donna (more accurately, when she stopped seeing me), I became more cautious with transsexuals—not because I no longer desired them, and I still find them extraordinarily brave, but because transsexuals (Donna, especially) forced me to acknowledge the most confusing aspects of my bisexuality every fucking day! Donna was exhausting.
    “I usually like straight guys,” she would