Weekend in Transitania

As I drove down US Route 69 I could not help noticing the periodic signs that said "I 'heart' 69." Transitania advertised a wonderful weekend of relaxation and entertainment for a bargain price. I bit. It was almost as though their advertisement said "Bite Me." Anyhow, it was exciting. I felt rather sure, well almost sure, fairly okay, that I am a straight ordinary heterosexual male. But I had to admit that I was attracted to the more colorful character traits of a tranny, they, them, whatever. I wasn't planning on any wild or bizarre sex, but then again, "The best plans laid" as they say.

Just after crossing the town line I stopped at a fast food restaurant, Fanny's Fabulous Franks. It had been pre-announced by a somewhat home-made sign that said, "Exotic Hotdogs Ahead." I had heard from my gay cousin, Rodney, that the locals called the restaurant "Frank's Fabulous Fanny." A good laugh. I think. Not sure. Before buying a Fabulous Frank with French Kiss Fries, I stepped into the "Them" room for some serious relief. Was I glad to see a urinal. So old fashioned. No bidet. While I had my business in hand, an adult teen with orange hair and sparkling sneakers walked in and asked me immediately "Do you mind sharing your pissoire with a transexual person?"

I paused, unfortunately, because I was uncertain as to which direction the transformation had gone. I blurted slowly, "Well, I think so. I don't see why not. Do you stand?"

"Not yet."

"Oh."

Them said, "I have what we might call a large clitoris or a teeny weeny."

"I see."

Then I said, "Oh fine. I don't mind at all. The world belongs to everyone. I have what would be called a traditional moderate pepperoni with the wrinkly bag of marbles."

And, "I hope that doesn't make you uncomfortable."

"Nothing makes me uncomfortable, Honey."

I washed my hands very quickly and ran out without drying them, as I passed by the electric dryer that had the hand-written sign over it "Blow Job."

I was beginning to get some concerned thoughts about the weekend ahead.

I bought two Fabulous Franks and a pink and lime box of French Kiss Fries and scarfed them in my car. I recall that I kept looking around wondering if anyone was watching me eating a Fanny's Frank. I coughed and let out a nervous whine with the thought that my brunch was transexual. Fanny's had the expected sign of a neighborly business – "We Serve Everyone."

I was momentarily proud to be included in the group called "Everyone."

Safety first.

Then the Quick Change Hotel. When I signed in, I noted a sign on the counter that said "Room Service includes food, drink, and transcendental massage."

Silently, I asked myself if I wanted a them rubbing my body. I fought the urge to jump back in my car and drive away from the land of unkown gender, or miscellaneous gender, but I went on to the next step which was to go upstairs to the second floor with the rooms such as the one I rented, called the "Sweet Suites." I had asked what the "Sweet" meant and the greeter said, "They were designed by Sidney Sweet."

Gotcha.

I walked up the stairs because I did not want another interview in the elevator.

As I walked down the hall I crossed paths with a man with a strong, angular face, very large cowboy boots, a string tie and breasts as large as Connecticut Field Pumpkins.

I almost said "Hello Sir," but that impulse got stuck in my brain and swam around inside my skull like a goldfish and fell out of my ears. I normally like breasts, but the pair of meganips I had just seen were poorly placed. I entered my room and was glad to be alone. I flopped on the bed and asked myself "Why am I doing this?" Will I understand myself better? Was I hoping to connect with a beautiful woman who used to be a man? Why would I do that? To explore my own sexuality? Or maybe to not explore my sexuality. Maybe I was after something more subtle than "them." Maybe I was hoping to transform from the kind of man I was to another kind of man.

Anyway, I chose a kind of Eight Grade nerd shirt for my appearance at the happy hour, which them formally re-named the "Cheerful LGBTQ Hour." Clearly the department of public information was a bit heavy footed around here, but it made sense because if you are going to take over a town, make it yours. I was in Tranny Land and I might as well do as the Romans did, to a point. Just wanted to open my mind, not my zipper. Two guys at the bar stared at me like I was naked. A rather attractive, wholesome looking woman with candy-cane white and red hair approached me with a smile and said, "I think you are in the wrong place."

I smiled back.

"I often think that I am in the wrong place. But no, I came here on purpose. Trying to understand something about my past, or the universe. Do you live here?"

"Yes I do, nearly two years. Do you want some company? No charge."

"Oh yeah. That would be great. I don't know the etiquette here. Is there a code of etiquette.?"

This young lady was very good looking. Not a brick shithouse, but maybe like a two-seater in Romanesque.

"I'm John, John M…."

"Save the last names for later, if necessary. I'm Florence. My parents were both sadists when I was born. I don't like 'Flo.' Makes me feel like a period. My friends call me Andy because my middle name is Andrea. Most residents take a name that is both male and female: Sam, Max, Phil, Georgie, Bobby and whatever."

"Can we find a place to sit. I'm a little hungry. How about you."

"The food is good here, and the entertainment is free."

We pushed and fumbled and excused and maneuvered toward two empty chairs at a table already half-claimed by two unknowns eating house salads.

"Hi. Mind if we sit here?"

One of the unknowns responded, the one with small clocks for earrings, "Please make yourself comfortable. Normal people are also welcome."

I felt my eyes open wide at being labelled as "normal," unsure as to whether that was a compliment or an accusation.

We sat. She got prettier every minute.

A waitress came to the table dressed like Snow White but flat-chested with long black hair peppered with red cloth roses.

When she, he, it asked "Would you like to order drinks?" It was in a voice that was a cross between Louis Armstrong and Darth Vader. My head spun and I started to say "What the hell!" But I stopped at the "What…" which I was practically screaming and abruptly changed tone to recover what little composure I could reach: "… have you got?"

"Just about everything that is legal, and some other stuff. How much do you want to spend?"

I said "I'll have a ginger ale."

"What are you in fifth grade?" Andy asked.

"I don't drink alcohol. It makes me sick. Like a sinus infection and headache. Kind of like a flu virus. Just hangover immediately with no pleasant introduction."

"Dewars on the rocks," Andy said.

We interrupted our conversation with a polite pause.

Andy looked around, then at me, and smiled.

"What is your story here? Why do you live here? You're a straight female."

"Yes I am. I'm studying the town, the people. There are some very nice people here, and some nasties. Just like anywhere else. But there is a subtle difference. The question at the heart of my search is why do trans-gender people – and other LGBQ's -- need a town of their own. My initial response is that it seems natural to me, just like African Americans create their own separate communities in an effort to live normally, among their own group, without having to feel like their existence offends their neighbors."

The bustling crowd. The colorful clothes. LGBTs and Qs dancing in a manner that looked like each one was dancing alone, then with a partner, then alone again. What was that about?

"Any conclusions yet? Is this for an academic thesis?"

"No," she said. "Just for my own curiosity and maybe a piece of journalism. I've had a few short public interest stories accepted by the Fairfield Times."

"Most of the people I have seen here appear to feel free, unencumbered by righteous disapproval or moral judgment," I said.

"Yeah. That's what you see on the surface, but we have our daily joys and daily tragedies. No one has lived here long enough to know if they will reach old age."

"Well," I said, "I'm glad I met you. You are giving me a more objective view of what it is like to live in Trannyland."

She handed me a card. Momentarily I wondered if she fooled me and she was a real estate agent.

She said, "Just want you to know you can call me if you want to go for a walk, have lunch, or anything else that people do in the normal world."

"Thank you. You mean if I am visiting Trannyland?"

"Or not. Any time."

"Thank you." I felt like I was thanking her for being polite, or forward.

At that moment, a blond, curly-haired Adonis appeared at our table.

"Hi Andy. Is he bi?"

I said, "You just got here."

"No. I didn't say 'bye.' I meant 'bi.' What is your designation, or configuration, or aspiration?"

"I'm as straight as spaghetti … before it's cooked."

"That's cool," He said. "I can give you guys a tour of the new theatre if you like. They're getting ready for a show."

"A show?" I asked, thinking everything is a performance in this town.

"Yep. They're rehearsing for Death of a Salesman with LGBTQ characters. They're calling it Transitional Theatre. A little ambitious I think, but interesting."

"C'mon John." He took my arm, and he knew my name.

"You go, John," Andy said, "I need the all-star restroom. I'll catch up with you in a few minutes."

"OK." A new Tranny friend for my enlightenment.

They's name was Conway, changed from Connie. Conway showed powerful enthusiasm for the theatre, though he was not playing in the current work. He gave me a real back-stage showing. Actors bustling about while a scene was being rehearsed with a director shouting the nuance they wanted.

We came to a quiet corner. He lead us there. We sat down and he asked, "What brings you here? Are you just a tourist at a freak show? You seem to me to be exceptionally normal. Why would a normal hetero want to come here?"

I hesitated. Stared past him into the cosmos.

"I'm curious. But with kind of a scientific curiosity. I'm trying to learn and be a good neighbor. I have a transgender neighbor back home."

"Is that so? Are you friends?"

"Yes. Well, were friends before, not so much after. We were great friends when he was a guy, but not after he changed to a woman. Or thought he changed to a woman."

"Were you sexually attracted to him, or her, before or after."

"Neither."

A tan gorilla about six feet four appeared at our table wearing a teen bra over nine-year-old tootsies and lavender panties with a pouch that looked like a mango. "They" had a dainty voice.

"Would you like to order? You are supposed to spend at least five dollars per person in order to sit and enjoy our unparalleled ambiance. The best deal to make the cut is the Johnnie Ray nachos – melted American cheese with jalapeno tear drops – six ninety-nine."

"OK, I said, "Sounds good."

"That would be two?"

"Yes," said Conway. "Mine light on the tears."

Conway returned to our conversation: "So, it was not a sexual attraction, but some kind of a friendship. Buddies, whatever, kind of. Tell me about him, then her."

I paused, assembled my thoughts and feelings in some kind of flour sack to hold them all together.

"We met at a church. He sat alone. A handsome male, a bit rugged, dressed for the street more than for church, but normal looking. Like a good church member, I said hello and struck up a conversation. We were comfortable with each other. Quickly learned that we both loved the outdoors, hiking, and protecting the environment by not being a destructive, selfish consumer."

"So," Conway asked, with serious interest in his eyes, "where did it go from there?"

"His name was Phil. Later her name was Phyllis. He had a German Shepherd named 'Tooth.' Tooth looked like a guardian, but was gentle. Phil lived in a small trailer on the edge of the forest. He showed me how things worked, how in spite of the small space he had a sink, a bathroom, a stove, a heater, a bed, everything one is likely to have in a home, but small. He kept saying that what he had was 'big enough' or 'enough' and not harmful. … We went hiking together. He was into Native American rituals and seemed knowledgeable. I always remember the day when we sat on a ledge with a cave-like black ledge behind us and he built a small fire and lit a sage smudge he had made. He recited a prayer. Something about us. I don't remember the exact words, but the content was like a poem, expressed a form of love that was warm friendship and a request for blessings from the Great Spirit."

"This sounds like a very close friendship. Charged with emotion. Many men would be embarrassed. But many men acknowledge the 'male bond' although it usually is accepted only in a context of masculine pastimes, such as fishing, hunting, sports, -- or war."

"I liked Phil a lot. I enjoyed his company, even while I was married. When I was with him I felt like I was a boy again. Like the boyhood friendships that can be remembered but not duplicated when men are adults and have to, have to … I don't know have to … change."

"So what happened?" Conway asked. "Did this rather convincing, and I might say 'charming' male change into a woman? Really?"

"That's the thing," I said. "I never felt it was 'really' and I could not accept his belief that he was really a she and that he was a woman. We got into conflict over it. He was gone somewhere but would visit us occasionally – me and my wife – telling us how he was in the process of becoming a woman and had plans to move to Springfield Mass and join a band. He/she played the guitar – quite well. And I just couldn't accept it. I always thought he had the angular face of a classic macho male, something like the stereotype of a Native American chief, and he had bony legs. I struggled with my feelings that he actually looked funny to me, very masculine in female dress – a tight skirt and makeup. The whole schtick."

"One time he was sitting in our living room in his female garb and I called to my wife about something and referred to 'Phyllis' as he, or him and it was over. He got upset and stormed out saying that I had not accepted him/her for who she was and I knew I had lost the friendship. Phil was gone, and I no longer had a hiking friend named Phil."

Conway paused to think, but only briefly.

"So, I think I understand. His/her gain was your loss. He thought he was discovering his true self and becoming the real Phil, who was really Phyllis, a woman. This was essential to him, to her, to be who she really was. And even though you had been friends before, when he was a man, she required that you accept her as a female, or the friendship had to be over. She needed to be around others who accepted her new self."

"Yes, I get it," I said. "But I couldn't do it. I just couldn't do it. And, I think, I think maybe I feel guilty, or stupid, or cold in some way that I could not adjust to his change to a her. I just ponder, I ask, what does it mean that I could not adjust to his change to a her? I don't have anything against women."

I could see that Conway was taking this very seriously.

"Look," he said. "Don't beat yourself up too much. It sounds like you tried your best. And in your own way you did confront the reality that Phil had changed to Phyllis. You wanted a male friend Phil, not an awkward – you felt she was awkward – female friend Phyllis. This happens. This is the issue that fascinates Andy: how does anyone accept a friend changing from male to female, or from female to male? In theory, we should understand that each of us wants to be accepted for who we are. But the change in gender is a deal-breaker for a lot of people. You are not the only one who has felt that if you are no longer a man, then my friend is gone. He doesn't exist any more."

I continued my story: "I learned later that he was living in Springfield in some kind of LGBTQ neighborhood, doing some music gigs, and spreading a gospel of universal love and stewardship. To me, he… she, was a great success, a success at being a good human being. … I learned later that she died. I had thought about trying again, to accept her as a woman, a woman friend, but it was too late."

"I have been, and still am, on the other side of this … this thing," Conway said. "This thing about sex, gender, being who you are. Don't accept sole responsibility for it. There are both sides. We who have changed gender complain about not being accepted, but we also do our own share of not accepting. Life is complicated. We are all trying to survive."

I stopped talking, as did he. I felt like maybe there were tears in my eyes, not just on my nachos. But no tears dripped down my face. They dripped inside. My friend was gone, twice.

Well, that special weekend is now over. It's Monday morning and I do not have a headache but my mind is full of wonder. I believe I did improve my relationship with them, at least a little. Maybe more than a little. But just as important, I feel like I have improved my relationship with myself. Not so worried about what might be wrong with me. Maybe some kind of genetic code missing. Or some troublesome gene added. A good friend set me straight when she said, "You are normal, but you are not average." I'm feeling pretty clear that I will accept myself as I am from now on. I think. Probably.

-End-