Chapter 4

He awoke to find himself alone in Tiffany’s bed. She stepped in wearing black bra and briefs and a pair of sheer black stockings. “Good morning,” he said. “Have time for breakfast?”

“Sorry, but I’m not really a breakfast person, and I’m running late. I have six texts from Jan already about our strategy now that she won the primary. She thinks this fall can be a bellwether for the next Presidential election.”

“That’s two years from now. A lot can happen in two years.”

“Maybe so. Our focus is on this year.”

He scanned her figure as she took a black half slip from a drawer. “Stockings instead of panty-hose,” he remarked.

“Panty-hose isn’t practical for a T-girl,” she replied.

“I suppose not. I like how your legs look in stockings.”

She stepped into her slip and then a charcoal pin-striped skirt. She next donned a light blue blouse and a pair of black pumps.

Dale swung his feet to the floor and approached her. They embraced and kissed. “Have a good day,” he said.

“Yes, and you, too. I’m still glowing from last night.”

“Love-making sure can fix your attitude,” he remarked.

“I’ll say. I wonder if they’ll notice at the office.”

“I’ll make dinner. Any requests?”

“Surprise me.” They kissed again. Tiffany picked up her bag and keys. “Lock up behind me?”

“Sure.”

He watched her head out the front door. Through a window he saw her car head toward town. Dale bolted the door, picked up his clothes and headed down the stairs to shower and get dressed.

He poached an egg and toasted an English muffin for breakfast and then headed to his home office to write up results and recommendations for his client’s network. By the time he sent the report to his relationship manager he realized he had worked through the day, even missing lunch. He glanced at the time display on his computer. Tiff will be home soon ... better start dinner.

Rummaging through his freezer he found a package of Italian sausages and a bag of mixed vegetables. Dale separated two sausages from the rest and put them in a saucepan to parboil. In his pantry he found a box of penne pasta and a jar of marinara sauce that was a few days past its sell-by date, but still viable he figured. He weighed out two portions and dumped the pasta into a stock pot of boiling water.

He saw Tiffany’s car pull into the drive. She stepped into the kitchen as he was sauteing the sausages he had cut into slices. They embraced and kissed.

“How was your day?” she asked.

“I spent the whole day writing a report. How was yours?”

“Hectic. We had newsies from all over the state looking for sound bites on Jan’s win yesterday. I had to organize an impromptu press conference on the City Hall front steps.” She picked up a remote control and turned on a small television in the kitchen. “I’ll turn to the news -- you might get a chance to see me on TV. How long for dinner?”

Dale dumped the sausage chunks into the drained pasta. “As soon as the vegetables are microwaved.”

“I’ll go change.”

She returned wearing a light green A-line dress with short puffy sleeves as Dale was spooning portions onto plates. He glanced at her. “Is that new?”

“Yeah ... I went shopping on my lunch break before the primary. Do you like it?”

“You look cute in it. It looks good with your skin.”

“I thought so.”

“Oh, look! It’s Jan’s press conference.”

Dale watched the screen. A tall woman with gray hair stood behind a podium covered with microphones. Tiffany stood to her left and a step behind her as she fielded questions about the primary results and her campaign strategy. The picture switched back to the news desk. “You can see Jan Maarten’s full press conference on our web site,” one of the anchors announced.

“You live in the public eye,” Dale remarked as he poured two glasses of red wine from a bottle he had opened earlier and re-sealed with a vacuum cork.

“I love my job,” she replied. “I love Jan and I am so excited about this election.”

“I’m excited about kicking that sleazebag Chris Strider out of the Governor’s Mansion and to the curb.”

Tiffany took a bite from her dinner. “This is very good ... sausage is spicy and I like that.”

“I just threw it together with what we have on hand. If I’m going to be making dinners again I need to do some planning.”

“Dale -- if I’m moving in down here, can I have a key to the front door? It’s a lot more convenient than going upstairs to the apartment and downstairs to the house.”

“Of course. I’ll get one made this weekend.”

“When can I start bringing my stuff down here?” Dale gazed at the ceiling and sighed. “Is there a problem? I thought you said you wanted me here ... or was that just the sex talking?”

“I do want you living with me.”

“I’m relieved. For a moment I was afraid you were having second thoughts.”

“The problem is ... the master bedroom looks like it did the day Brenda passed -- except maybe with four years’ worth of additional dust. The closet and dresser are full of her clothes. The bathroom vanity is full of her stuff. It all needs to be sorted through, stuff tossed or sent to Goodwill. I never had the gumption to do it.”

She nodded. “I understand.”

“You’re giving me a reason to clean the place out ... make a fresh start. Brenda implored me to find another partner.”

“Here I am. I’ll help, Dale. Maybe we can work on that this weekend.”

“This weekend I was planning to do some work in the shop ... You’re right. This is more important. I’ll get some storage tubs and we can start sorting through the closet.”

“You’ll stay with me upstairs tonight ... won’t you?”

“Of course,” he replied.

“Will you tell me about the T-girl you dated in college?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Just curious.”

“All right but you need to tell me the mystery of the missing ‘nads.”

“Okay, but you’re touching on a very unhappy period in my life.” She drew in a deep breath. “My dad wanted a son -- someone to shoot hoops with, take to games ... You know, do dad-boy stuff. All I wanted to do was wear dresses, play with dolls ... girl stuff. At first, he figured I’d out-grow it. I never did. It all came to a head the summer before I went into sixth grade. I wanted to wear dresses to school. My mom was sympathetic but my dad put his foot down. I was desperate. I found a bottle of aspirin with about twenty pills in it. I swallowed them all and then went to my folks and told them what I did.”

“You tried to commit suicide?”

“It was more for dramatic effect. I didn’t think I’d die, just get sick. They panicked and rushed me to the Emergency Room. There they sedated me and pumped my stomach. I spent the night there and saw a psychologist. It took a while for me to trust her, but I ended up telling her I only felt right in girl’s clothes. She diagnosed me with gender dysphoria.”

“You were getting help,” Dale remarked.

“Yes. My dad didn’t want to believe it. Like I said, my mom was sympathetic. The doctor described how they dealt with gender dysphoria in someone my age -- they would administer puberty blockers until I was older to see if it was something I’d out-grow. She explained the treatment was reversible, and they could stop it at any point, and I’d develop normally. But if I was determined to transition, they would start me on estrogen therapy. My father relented and agreed to it.”

“He was holding out hope you would grow out of it.”

“Exactly. Then we learned the cost. The drug they used -- still use today -- is one approved for treating men with prostate cancer. It wasn’t approved for gender dysphoria, wasn’t covered by insurance and cost thousands a year.”

“Ouch! I don’t see why that treatment shouldn’t be available to someone like you.”

“Me, neither. We weren’t poor but we weren’t affluent either. My folks were blue-collar. Dad was a plumber and gas-fitter and my mom was a lab technician at a local hospital. They’re both retired, now. There was no way we could afford it. My dad was relieved, my mom disappointed but I was devastated. Living as a boy was intolerable to me. Living as a man would make me suicidal. I didn’t want to grow a beard or have my voice change ... have skinny hairy legs. I told my mom that I would kill myself, that the aspirin was just for drama but next time would be for real.”

Dale saw that Tiffany’s eyes were brimming. “Don’t go any further if it’s too painful,” he said.

She grabbed a facial tissue. “It’s okay. I’ve had this bottled up for nearly twenty years. Getting it out in the open feels good.” She daubed her eyes. “At my mom’s hospital was a young doctor -- a surgeon doing her residency. She and Mom were friendly and Mom told her about our situation.”

“I think I know where this is headed,” Dale remarked.

“This doctor was sympathetic. Her best friend in pre-med was a trans girl. She suggested an alternative to the expensive drugs. One just as effective but not reversible. A dual orchiectomy.”

“Castration,” Dale replied. “In someone your age wasn’t that borderline unethical?”

“No, it’s not. It’s outright unethical ... maybe illegal even. I was in bed, crying myself to sleep when Mom described it to Dad. He was dead-set against it. They had the worst argument I ever heard. Finally I heard her say, ‘You are not having a son. You can have a daughter or you can have a dead body but you’re not having a son. That’s a fact.’”

“Your mom stuck up for you.”

“Mom knew the stakes. Dad came into my room and we had a heart-to-heart talk. He actually listened and finally understood.” She daubed tears from her cheeks. “It was then I understood how much he loved me. He agreed to the procedure. He gave up his desire for a son in order for me to be happy.”

“In order for you to live,” Dale replied. “That was an act of love.”

“Mom arranged for the procedure. Her surgeon friend was taking a huge risk, but was committed to it from her experience with her trans friend. We did it after hours. They found an exam room in the outpatient area that would be vacant. The doctor and my mom explained what they were going to do and said if I wanted to back out, that would be okay. I was determined and said I wanted to go through with it.”

“Were you scared?”

“I was terrified but ready. They told me I’d be asleep during the procedure. The doctor had everything she needed, including a tracheal tube and breathing bag in case they needed to ventilate me. There was an I.V. bag set up. Mom also was a phlebotomist who knew how to insert a catheter into a vein. I undressed and put on a hospital gown. They had me lay on the exam table and they hooked me up to a monitor -- put electrodes on my chest and a thing on my finger. Then they had me put my feet in stirrups. Mom started the I.V. in a vein in my left arm. The doctor had a vial of something cloudy...”

“Propofol?” Dale suggested.

“Could be. They said it would put me to sleep. She injected some into the I.V. and I felt it in my vein. The next thing I remember was them calling my name ... Tyrone ... Tyrone, wake up.”

“That was your birth name?”

“Yes -- I was named after my grandfather.”

“On your dad’s side.”

“Right. My maternal grandfather was named Padraig O’Flynn. Mom had brought one of my skirts to wear home -- she thought it would be more comfortable than the jeans I had worn. She said I’d be sore for a few days, and I was. But, I felt so much better about myself afterwards.”

“How much did that cost compared to the puberty blocking drugs?” he asked.

“Nothing. The doctor did it as a favor to my mom. She wrote up a fictitious report about me presenting with two ruptured testicles from a sports injury, requiring their surgical removal. That weekend we went shopping for girl’s school clothes. My folks wanted to know what name I wanted to use. I had had an imaginary friend I called Tiffany -- because that’s who I always thought I should be -- and that’s the name I wanted.”