Gender Identity Disorder
“I’m heterosexual and proud of it. Do you need a reference from my husband?”
Such was my response to a drop-dead-gorgeous male transvestite who sidled up to me once, at one of the unusual affairs my husband and I were accustomed to attending at the time, and wanted to know if I had been born male.
Oh, there were a couple like me, she said, and even if I were a lesbian, it would be so wonderful to have someone like me, a “professional” woman, for a friend.
Oh, there were a few like me, she said, who did not care as much as they ought about appearance, and she wanted desperately to have an opportunity to make me up a bit, and maybe even lend me some clothes.
I declined, as politely as I could. I actually gave her a card, told her we could have lunch, if she wanted. She (I had learned to call people by their publically identified sex) told me she had run out of cards. I told her to just call, and I would be available for lunch, and I was certainly open for friendship.