One might argue that human sacrifice was also popular way back when. But I think we can agree that some parties are better than others.
The situation for transgendered people, gays and lesbians, took a turn for the worse when monotheistic religions appeared on the scene and started shoving everybody around.
"The woman shall not wear that which pertaineth unto a man, neither shall a man put on a woman's garment: for all that do so are abomination unto the LORD thy God." (Deuteronomy 22:5)
I think the above quote was probably more cultural, according to the times, but only God knows. Maybe when Moses was wondering around out there in the desert, he saw one of his minions prance by in a pink robe with matching head dress, and then blew a gasket, yelling: "Allright wiseguy, rule number 22--NO MEN IN DRESSES!" What kind of organization do you think I'm running here? We're not like those Amorites down the street!
Emotionally, I was still drained from moving back to New York, Dec 1999. I hated being home and I harbored resentment towards Melissa and even my mom for what I thought was unfair pressure to make me move back. It was a difficult move for me because I had been living in Los Angeles for 14 years. L.A. had become my cultural mecca, a place where I had come to find myself, or re-invent myself. I can't, in all honesty though, blame anyone for coercing me move; in the end, it was my decision.
I've always had a tough time with change. I get confused if they move the diary products at the market, from one side of the store to the other. So you could imagine how I felt when, after basking in the sunshine for 14 years, I experienced my first winter in New York: it was awful!
However, I'm also the kind of person who takes root. By Spring, 2001, I was starting to enjoy being home. It was nice to be closer to my parents, where I could see them once a month, instead of every 2 years, where I would have to say goodbye, again, wondering if they would be around next time...next time. A few more grey hairs; a few more wrinkles.
And for the day to day basics of living in upstate NY, It was comforting to look in my rear view mirror on the freeway, and see only a handful of motorists; all of us actually driving the speed limit--and that was rush hour.
We lived out in the country side in a quiet little hide-a-way named Amsterdam NY. Melissa had purchased it from her mother. At first the sounds of the deer walking around the house in the middle of the night drove me crazy. But after awhile, I came to appreciate not only the beauty of those little footsteps, but also the peace that pierced the day, and the snow plow guy who used to drive by after a snowfall, and wave. In some way, I finally had found home.
And the first spring. Overnight, the upstate New York country side seems to blossom, from a gray, overcast barren landscape, to a lush beautiful garden, alive in a multitude of colors. And space. There was so much room in between houses, that you could have a football game, and not disturb the neighbors.
But we had to be back in L.A. soon because Melissa had to be enrolled at Cal State Northridge to get a jump on the upcoming semester. And since I was holding up the show, drowning in my usual sea of indecision, she got the ball rolling.
I hated leaving my parents-again. I had spent most of my adult life away from home, and the thought of leaving them again was unbearable. My heart was burdened with such sadness; how could I leave them again. My parents, on the surface were accommodating, but I know it broke my mother's heart. But she supported me, as she always has. How I miss my her.
When we arrived back in California, I complained quite a bit; mostly about returning to L.A. Poor Melissa, it's a miracle she didn't shoot me--or at least, punch me in the face. She went through a lot for the trip to Los Angeles; making all the preparations for the move back to California, right down to finding hotels that were pet friendly (we were carting her cats along)
Fast forwarding a few years, and a couple of crappy security guard jobs later, it's now late 2003. I was working for an Advertising agency in Santa Monica. Melissa was preparing for Boston, where she was accepted at Tufts University, College of Dentistry. But I wasn't going with her because I had decided to say in Los Angeles.
So, while we were sharing a 2-bedroom apartment, we were also sharing the pain of impending loss and separation. I would have done almost anything to stop it. There were some nights, where laying beside her in bed, knowing she would soon be gone, I would whisper in her ear, "I love you, I love you, please don't go." Sometimes, she would here me, and in between sleep and consciousness, utter in sweet honesty, "I love you too."
I was afraid, knowing the reality was soon approaching that this person, this sweet and beautiful women laying next to me will be gone. There were to be many nights in the future, when reaching over to touch her, to smell her hair and caress her arm, I would feel only an empty space.
I considered getting down on my knees and begging, "Please don't go." But manipulation, even from the heart, is still unfair. Carla was starting to show herself; it seemed unfair to apply pressure with tears. Maybe, what I was asking was just too much; for her to accept me as I am. She came into the relationship with a man, but got stuck with a hybrid.
On top of that, she had to deal with not only preparing another cross-country move, but also, to acclimate herself to a new city, and immerse herself in a challenging academic regimen. Her boyfriend morphing into a chick was probably the last thing she wanted to deal with, or think about.
Saying goodbye to someone you love is never easy. So full of sadness. One memory that stands out most was our last day together. After saying goodbye I walked away to my car. I must have forgotten something because I had to return to where Melissa and her father (he had come out from New York to help her move) were standing on the steps of our now empty apartment.
When she saw me approaching, she started to cry again. My memory fails me in recalling exactly what she said. Something like, "When I saw you walking towards me, it was like seeing you all over again for the first time. Like you were just returning home from work, and this never happened." It still moves me to tears when I think about it. Goodbye.
I think my fascination with dressing like a women started around the age of 12 or 13;1972-73 respectively. I never thought of myself as "a cross-dresser" or gave any consideration to the terms "transgender, transsexual or inter-sexed". I'm sure my 12 year-old brain could not have wrapped itself around such heavy concepts.
And It wasn't like I could approach my parents with any questions like, "Hey, pop, how come I get such a big charge wearing mom's girdle?" He probably would have dragged me down to the cellar for a haircut; that was is way of dealing with me and my brothers whenever we were being wise guys; that and "the belt" (ouch!)
And I didn't have any trans-role models. The only men I saw dressing like women in the early 70's were mostly rock stars like David Bowie, T-Rex and Alice Cooper. But that wasn't so much transgender as it was "glam rock." Big difference. David Bowie wasn't on estrogen, progesterone, androgen blockers like spironolactone, or getting breast implants.
(Note for the reader: Spironolactone hinders the production of testosterone in a males. It's generally part of the regimen for male-to-female transsexuals. The estrogen is for producing secondary sex characteristics like breasts, increasing and redistributing body fat, reducing muscle, giving softer skin, etc.)
In the mid-70's, I certainly couldn't have thought about talking to my friends about it. In the mostly blue-collar, Irish and Italian town I grew up in, such questions might have warranted an ass kicking.
On my personal mannerisms, I've always received some kidding about my walk, my voice, the manner in which I held my hands, crossed my legs, or even held my books. I wasn't bullied mind you and could always handle myself in a fight. It was mostly just occasional teasing that made me think, "Why did he say that?"
I think one reason for even my own perceived feelings of femininity, is that, up until the age of 22, I was always around guys, in large groups. From childhood up through the military. And amongst this breed, any guy who is a little more sensitive, cries easier, or shows any sign of compassion, maturity or civility can at times be considered "gay" or "girlie."
Sometimes if a guy just wanted to do homework, get good grades, or be nice to his parents, that could get him labeled "fag." Boys will be boys. LOL! It's along the lines of the kid who wanted to practice piano instead of play football: "what a homo" his pal might say. I say that last part with humor. It is sort of funny, and I love the work "homo."
Whereas when I started hanging around females, after the military, being that they are generally smaller than me and naturally attracted to men, they were more inclined to see my masculine traits, albeit sometimes a little to nice or sensitive. Which some girls even like. I did have one girlfriend who thought I was I was gay, but that's another story.
In the military. I was again only in the company of men. And this was not army personal or the army band. I was an Armored Cav scout, part of a Combat Support Company, attached to the 3rd Infantry Division. All combat arms: Tankers, Artillery, Mortar platoons, Infantry, Air Defense. Very testosterone laden jobs.I think again, my sensitivity and smaller stature, might have made me appear more "feminine" than the average GI. Every now and then, a fellow soldier would make a comment like, "Hey Carl, from the waist down you look good enough to cozy up with (he used a 4 letter word) Or, "You walk like a girl." (they usually used the "B" word, but I like "girl" better)
One guy, a Vietnam vet we called Sergeant Rock actually made a move on me. It happened one night when I was practicing guitar in the cellar of our building at Conn Barracks in Schienfurt Germany.
Before allied forces took over at the end of WWII, Conn Barracks was used by Hitler's Luftwaffe for training pilots. The downstairs, or cellar of the barracks was an impenatrible tomb and virtually sound proof. I used it to practice singing and playing guitar whenever I had the chance.
So there I am, singing Hotel California, when along comes a drunk Sergeant Rock. He mumbles a few words and then all of a sudden, I feel a hand slipping down the back of my pants. I just pushed his hand away and smiled uncomfortably, pretending that nothing happened. It worked. He mumbled incoherently and then staggered away.
Evidently, I have a look that has always attracted not only women, but men as well. Or at least some guys; the gays ones. It's funny, I've always noticed, that when I wear my hair short, more men, not less, hit on me. Maybe that's a testament to my appearance; they say gay guys always go for good looking men. Okay, I'm bragging.
But in 2004 I had internet access. One day I typed in the word transsexual and up popped web sites containing information about people who suffered from a condition called gender dysphoria, which made them feel like women trapped in men's bodies.
These feelings were so strong they suffered moments of intense conflict and depression. The only treatment, recommended by the doctors whose care they were under, was to put them on female hormones, and/or, get sexual reassignment surgery, or facial feminization surgery; sometimes all three.
I also learned about people like myself, cross-dressers who, for a myriad of reasons, liked to dress like women, but do not take hormones or want sex reassignment surgery. Many do not even wish to "come out" for that matter. They are content with keeping it private, with the exception of maybe going out to a gay/transgendered night club.
While Melissa was busy making plans to move, I decided I should seek therapy. My original intentions were to help me deal with my relationship, and to figure out the best course of action. This experience with therapy was unlike any previous ones because it marked the first time I told anyone about my cross-dressing, or my sometimes, overwhelming feelings of femininity.
Because of this new development, my therapist suggested that I stay in Los Angeles. This would give us time to work together. She also thought this would give Melissa space (from me) to deal with the difficulty of moving to a new city, finding an apartment, and starting school.
I left the office that day with a sense of freedom and happiness I had never known it felt...foreign.
I don't think Melissa really liked the cross-dressing (as I said earlier, I suspect most genetic women don't). She didn't show any animosity towards me. I think she was mostly baffled by it. I believe one time she said, in frustration, "Gay I can understand, but this...this...what is this, with the dresses and the heels and the makeup and...and..."
I think I officially told Melissa about my peculiar condition over one tequila drenched evening. For some reason, probably because of the stress we were both feeling, and maybe to get to the heart of the matter (nothing brings out the truth like booze) she suggested doing Tequila shots. Well, one shot led to two, two to four, then five, then.....
The more inebriated I became, I got this whacky idea that my beloved would just love to see Carla in all her splendor. Keep in mind, dear reader, that I was still new to the ways of makeup and fashion and possessed a very limited wardrobe. I recall putting on tan nylons, some kind of pink bustier, and black heels. With the hands of a drunken sailor, I applied a coat of makeup that probably made me look like Herman Munster. I made my way back out to the kitchen table and sat down.
I must have scared the hell out of her. It was probably a good thing that she had been drinking. This no doubt helped her deal with the site of her boyfriend decked out like a Hollywood hooker. I not only told her about how I love to dress up as a girl and have been doing it since a lad, but also sheepishly admitted to once having fantasy where I was having sex with one of my male friends.
She began to cry. I felt terrible. In typical guy fashion I attempted damage control by hugging her and retracting my previous statement. But she shewed me away, saying something like, "No, no, this is my moment, let me have my moment, I have to take this all in." She ceased sobbing, and, if memory serves me correctly, started laughing.
It was a truly weird moment; the kind of moment two people can only have when their blood is drenched with alcohol, and they're trying to assimilate such a surreal situation. It's not everyday that a fella tells his gal, "I love wearing dresses!" and puts one on to prove it.
I must confess here, ashamedly, that even after all this drinking, crying, laughing and emotional upheaval, I still had the capacity to think about sex. "Jesus," I said to myself, "I'm disgusting!" (or just a guy)
But Melissa, true to the female's lack of ability to handle alcohol, became sick. I helped her to the bathroom and pulled her hair back while she lessened the load, so to speak. I then helped her to bed. I lay beside her most of the night, monitoring her breathing, making sure she didn't get any worse.
I slept a little but awoke every now and then to check on her. I was still in my "get-up" and still wondering, "Hmmm, maybe she'll want to have sex." For Pete's sake, I was like some character out of a college comedy; a first year freshman watching his lost opportunity, passed out in the bed. Again, that's a guy for you, right?
(I apologize to any men reading this who feel I am stereo-typing the average male.)
Over the years, I've always seen myself as feminine as much as I have masculine. The two traits have vied for my attention since I can remember. Even before I actually started wearing women's clothing, I used to stand in front of the mirror and let my imagination wander; imagining what it would be like to be female. I'd look at pictures of models in my Mother's Cosmo (Cosmopolitan magazine), making attempts to pose as they did or to make my hair look like theirs.
I should say that one thing that sets crossdressors apart from Transsexuals is that we still like being men (mostly) And it's difficult to do away with 44 years of male conditioning. All part of being raised a boy I guess. There are times when the many male experiences and memories clash with my feminine persona; it makes me dizzy.
Yes, I love the definition my musculature. I'm not so sure I want to deconstruct it with estrogen. And I still like my male libido; my sexual functionality. (At least what's left of it after 48 years). I mention this to maybe help illustrate what are considered core differences between cross-dressers, like myself, and from biologically born males who suffer from gender dysphoria; who feel "trapped" in the wrong body.
These people are considered transsexuals and absolutely dislike any masculine aspects of themselves. Under a doctors care, they attempt to put this internal unrest to ease by taking female hormones, and maybe even getting SRS (Sex Reassignment Surgery).
You may be wondering then, if I'm not a true transsexual, why would I have even considered hormones and surgery. I think It has something to do with loneliness and of wanting love and intimacy. When I came out back in 2004 (it's now 2008), I was not thinking about the effects my cross-dressing would have on future dating options. My girl was leaving, my mom died 4 months later, and I was struggling with gender identity.
Over the past four years, however, I've come to realize that I no longer have the same dating options I used to have, before Carla. I still like women and would certainly date them. But straight women really don't go for people like me, at least not in public. (Same for the men, which is next.)
So I thought, "Hmmm, what's that leave me with?
Well, there are men. Now, I was never gay in the traditional sense, having been mostly straight since I can remember. But I think that some people have it within them to be attracted to the opposite sex. And everyone wants love and intimacy; or at least the illusion of it; the more Carla raised her pretty head, this curiosity grew.
I had my first experience with a man at a local trans/gay club. He asked me to dance, and I said yes.
I hesitated, then stuttered, "Ahhhh, errrr, well, okay, sure, why not."
As men go, he was attractive. About 6 foot, 180 lbs or so, well dressed; a grey shirt, if I remember correctly, buttoned in the front and black slacks and black shoes. That was nice; he dressed well. I remember later thinking, "I did pretty good for myself."
I was a little awkward at first but slowly, he started to lean into me. After awhile we were dancing close, swaying; his hands on my hips and mine up under his arms, with my palms pressed against his upper back. I really started to feel...different. Like, wow, this feels...good!.
After awhile he asks, "Ever kiss a man."
I said, "Nope."
"Like to try it?" he replied.
In a drawn out reply I said, "Hmmmmmm, well, okay!"
At first, his mustache tickled. I drew my head back, scrunching my nose.
"My goodness", I laughed, "that tickles."
I tried it again, and then again. I liked it. He was a good kisser; tender, not trying to swallow my face, (like some guys would later do). After dancing, we returned to my table and talked. I learned that he was once in the military, was divorced and had a 22 year-old son. Our shared experience of being in the military gave us something in common right away. I found myself bonding with him and enjoying his company. We eventually ended up outside in the parking lot, kissing for about 20 minutes.
It was incredible. There was something exciting and passionate about being caught up in the embrace of someone bigger and stronger then myself. I felt so delicate. So...feminine.
Afterward, driving home I remember thinking, "What was that all about, I'm not gay!" Not that there is anything wrong with it, but, but... it's just not me...or is it?"
One thing was for sure, Pandora's box was opened. My hero and I talked by phone, on and off, for a few weeks. I told him how I was afraid and hesitant to move into this unchartered territory. He understood and was patient; said he he would love a "girl" like me; that I'm what he's looking for.
He explained how he preferred a cross-dressed women who is "still a guy" in the physical sense (more on that in a minute). He also liked that my hair was real (long at the time), that I was smaller than him, that I was sweet and modest (his words) and not trashy. I was beginning to feel so accepted and loved, so validated, so...appreciated.
I figured that if women were not an option for me anymore, maybe this isn't so bad. Maybe, I can love a man. How cool that he loves me for me. Maybe this is the best I can do, and it's not that bad. He said he was divorced: I hoped it was true. But I never found out.
No sooner then I let my guard down, and agree to date him, he pulled away. It became clear he had no intention being public with me. Which, due to my innocence and newness to the world of "trannies and the men who love them" scene, was what I naturally expected. How naive of me, I thought.
When I did run into him again, at the club I met him at. He ignored the fact that he never returned any of my emails. Brushed over it by mentioning he was worried his son--his "22 year old-son"-- would find out about his bisexuality. I'm sure I could add co-workers, football buddies, his accountant, brothers and sisters, parents, wife (or x-wife) as well.
I mentioned this to one of my female coworkers and she responded: "Well, there is an authentic female experience for you, you just got dumped by a guy...welcome to the club! We both had a good laugh. However, inside, I felt hurt and rejected. It's not so much "being dumped" as it is someone not being honest with me.
And I don't mind it being just about sex; I like sex too. But before I get to that point with someone, I would like to get to know them; see if there is any chemistry between us, do I like the kind of person they are, how do they treat others, what is their history, have they been tested. I like to think I'm being reasonable. That's why I need them to at least show up for the date, whether at a club, a coffee shop or a restaurant.
She said, "My son wanted me to tell you that he thinks you are very beautiful." Offering my broadest smile, I said, "Thank you, that's so sweet of him to say." As they walked away I thought to myself, "I hope he always feels that way."