hormones

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“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.

RuPaul

RuPaul

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.

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