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I am a heterosexual woman going to bed with a man for the first time.
My anatomy notwithstanding, I have always been female.
I am trying hard not to shake as he undoes the buttons of my blouse, then the clasp of my slacks.
(It’s hard to explain how this works, but when you’re a woman with a penis and raging gender dysphoria, sex is complicated.)This, the second first time, was different.
The man from the restaurant was attractive, very charming, well-spoken, maybe 20 years older than I.
I didn’t cross-dress in an overt fashion, but wearing women’s slacks and blouse, with auburn hair down my back, the way I held myself, all conveyed a clear impression. My father, fed-up with my continued insistence on presenting myself as female and his inability to remake “his son” in his own image, had ejected me from his home.
The sad truth was that by this time the ravages of an incongruent puberty were taking hold, my voice was dropping, and a close look told men what they were getting. I had rapidly exhausted the hospitality of friends, and I was now overnighting in warehouses, prettying myself in public washrooms, and plying strangers for meals.
There were of course expectations, which were challenging to manage at best, dangerous at worst.