In One Person (13 page)

She’d dropped out of college, because her college years coincided with what she called her “sexual-identity crisis,” and she had little confidence in herself intellectually. This was crazy, because she read all the time—she was very smart—but there are those years when we’re supposed to feed and grow our minds, and Donna felt that she’d lost those years to her difficult decision to live as a woman.

Especially when we were in Germany, where I could speak the language, Donna was at her happiest—that is, when we were together on those German-language translation trips, not only in Germany but also in Austria and German-speaking Switzerland. Donna loved Zurich; I know it struck her, as Zurich does everyone, as a very well-to-do city. She loved Vienna, too—from my student days in Vienna, I still knew my way around (a little). Most of all, Donna was delighted with Hamburg—to her, I think, Hamburg was the most elegant-seeming German city.

In Hamburg, my German publishers always put me up at the Vier Jahreszeiten; it was such an elegant hotel, I think it gave Donna most of her delight with Hamburg. But then there was that awful evening, after which Donna could never be happy in Hamburg—or, perhaps, with me—again.

It began innocently enough. A journalist who’d interviewed me invited us to a nightclub on the Reeperbahn; I didn’t know the Reeperbahn, or what kind of club it was, but this journalist (and his wife, or girlfriend) invited Donna and me to go out with them and see a show. Klaus (with a
K
) and Claudia (with a
C
) were their names; we took a taxi together to the club.

I should have known what kind of place it was when I saw those skinny boys at the bar on our way in. A
Transvestiten-Cabaret
—a transvestite show. (I’m guessing the skinny boys at the bar were the performers’ boyfriends, because it wasn’t a pickup place, and, the boys at the bar excepted, there wasn’t a visible gay presence.)

It was a show for sex tourists—guys in drag, entertaining straight couples. The all-male groups were young men there for the laughs; the all-women groups were there to see the penises. The performers were comedians; they were very aware of themselves as men. They were not half as passable as my dear Donna; they were the old-fashioned transvestites who weren’t really trying to pass as female. They were meticulously made up, and elaborately costumed; they were very good-looking, but they were good-looking men dressed as women. In their dresses and wigs, they were very feminine-looking men, but they weren’t fooling anybody—they weren’t even trying to.

Klaus and Claudia clearly had no idea that Donna was one of them (though she was much more convincing, and infinitely more committed).

“I didn’t know,” I told Donna. “I really didn’t. I’m sorry.”

Donna couldn’t speak. It had not occurred to her—this was the seventies—that one of the more sophisticated and accepting things about Europe, when it came to difficult decisions regarding sexual identity, was that the Europeans were so used to sexual differences that they had already begun to make fun of them.

That the performers were making fun of themselves must have been terribly painful for Donna, who’d had to work so hard to take herself seriously as a woman.

There was one skit with a very tall tranny driving a make-believe car, while her date—a frightened-looking, smaller man—is attempting to go down on her. What frightens the small man is how big the tranny’s cock is, and how his inexpert attentions to this monster cock are interfering with the tranny’s driving.

Of course Donna couldn’t understand the German; the tranny was talking nonstop, offering breathless criticism of what a bad blow job she was getting. Well, I had to laugh, and I don’t think Donna ever forgave me.

Klaus and Claudia clearly thought I had a typical American girlfriend; they thought Donna was not enjoying the show because she was a sexually uptight prude. There was no way to explain anything to them—not there.

When we left, Donna was so distraught that she jumped when one of the waitresses spoke to her. The waitress was a tall transvestite; she could have passed for one of the performers. She said to Donna (in German), “You are looking really fine.” It was a compliment, but I knew that the tranny knew Donna was a transsexual. (Almost no one could tell, not at that time. Donna didn’t advertise it; her entire effort went into being a woman, not getting away as one.)

“What did she say?” Donna kept asking me, as we left the club. In the seventies, the Reeperbahn wasn’t the tourist trap that it is today; there were the sex tourists, of course, but the street itself was seedier then—the way Times Square used to be seedier, too, and not so overrun with gawkers.

“She was complimenting you—she thought you looked ‘really fine.’ She meant you were beautiful,” I told Donna.

“She meant ‘for a man,’ right—isn’t that what she
meant
?” Donna asked me. She was crying. Klaus and Claudia still didn’t get it. “I’m not some two-bit cross-dresser!” Donna cried.

“We’re sorry if this was a bad idea,” Klaus said rather stiffly. “It’s meant to be
funny
—it’s not intended to be
offensive
.” I just kept shaking my head; there was no way to save the night, I knew.

“Look, pal—I’ve got a bigger dick than the tranny driving that nonexistent car!” Donna said to Klaus. “You want to
see
it?” Donna asked Claudia.

“Don’t,” I said to her—I knew Donna was no prude. Far from it!

“Tell them,” she told me.

Naturally, I had already written a couple of novels about sexual differences—about challenging and, at times, confusing sexual identities. Klaus
had read my novels; he’d
interviewed
me, for Christ’s sake—he and his wife (or girlfriend) should have known that my girlfriend wasn’t a prude.

“Donna definitely has a bigger dick than the tranny driving the make-believe car,” I said to Klaus and Claudia. “Please don’t ask her to show it to you—not here.”

“Not
here
?” Donna screamed.

I truly don’t know why I said that; the stream of traffic, both cars and pedestrians, along the Reeperbahn must have made me anxious about Donna whipping out her penis
there
. I certainly didn’t mean—as I told Donna repeatedly, back at our hotel—that Donna would (or should) show them her penis at another time, or in another place! It just came out that way.

“I’m not an
amateur
cross-dresser,” Donna was sobbing. “I’m not, I’m
not
—”

“Of course you’re not,” I was telling her, when I saw Klaus and Claudia slipping away. Donna had put her hands on my shoulders; she was shaking me, and I suppose that Klaus and Claudia got a good look at Donna’s big hands. (She
did
have a bigger dick than the tranny gagging the guy who was giving her a bad blow job in that make-believe car.)

That night, back at the Vier Jahreszeiten, Donna was still crying when she washed her face before going to bed. We left the light on in the walk-in closet, with the closet door ajar; it served as a night-light, a way to find the bathroom in the dark. I lay awake looking at Donna, who was asleep. In the half-light, and with no makeup on, Donna’s face bore a hint of something masculine. Maybe it was because she wasn’t trying to be a woman when she slept; perhaps it was something in the contours of her jaw and cheekbones—something chiseled.

That night, looking at Donna asleep, I was reminded of Mrs. Kittredge; there’d been something masculine in her attractiveness, too—something of Kittredge himself about her, something all-male. But if a woman is aggressive, she can
look
male—even in her sleep.

I fell asleep, and when I woke up, the door to the walk-in closet was closed—I knew we’d left it ajar. Donna was not in bed beside me; in the light that was coming from the walk-in closet, from under the door, I could see the shadows of her moving feet.

She was naked, looking at herself in the full-length mirror in the walk-in closet. I knew this routine.

“Your breasts are perfect,” I told her.

“Most men like them bigger,” Donna said. “You’re not like most men I know, Billy. You even like
actual
women, for Christ’s sake.”

“Don’t hurt your beautiful breasts—please don’t do anything to them,” I told her.

“What’s it matter that I have a big dick? You’re strictly a top, Billy—that won’t ever change, right?” she asked me.

“I
love
your big dick,” I said.

Donna shrugged; her small breasts were the target. “You know the difference between an
amateur
cross-dresser and someone like me?” Donna asked.

I knew the answer—it was always her answer. “Yes, I know—you’re committed to changing your body.”

“I’m not an amateur,” Donna repeated.

“I know—just don’t change your breasts. They’re perfect,” I told her, and went back to bed.

“You know what’s the matter with you, Billy?” Donna asked me. I was already in bed, with my back turned to the light coming from under the door of the walk-in closet. I knew her answer to this question, too, but I didn’t say anything. “You’re not like anyone else, Billy—that’s what’s the matter with you,” Donna said.

A
S FOR CROSS-DRESSING
, D
ONNA
could never interest me in trying on her clothes. She would talk, from time to time, about the seemingly remote possibility of surgery—not just the breast implants, which were tempting to many transsexuals, but the bigger deal, the sex-change surgery. Technically speaking, Donna—and every other transsexual who ever attracted me—was what they call a “pre-op.” (I know only a few post-op transsexuals. The ones I know are very courageous. It’s daunting to be around them; they know themselves so well. Imagine knowing yourself
that
well! Imagine being that sure about who you are.)

Donna would say, “I suppose you were never curious—I mean, to be like me.”

“That’s right,” I told her, truthfully.

“I suppose, all your life, you’ve wanted to keep your penis—you probably really
like
it,” she said.

“I like yours, too,” I told her—also truthfully.

“I know you do,” she said, sighing. “I just don’t always like it so much myself. But I always like
yours,
” Donna quickly added.

Poor Tom would have found Donna too “complicated,” I think, but I thought she was very brave.

I found it intimidating that Donna was so certain about who she was, but that was also one of the things I loved about her—that and the cute, rightward inclination of her penis, which reminded me of you-know-who.

As it would turn out, my only exposure to Kittredge’s penis was what I managed to glimpse of him—always furtively—in the showers at the Favorite River gym.

I had much more exposure to Donna’s penis. I saw as much of her as I wanted, though—in the beginning—I had such an insatiable hunger for her (and for other transsexuals, albeit only the ones who were like her) that I couldn’t imagine ever seeing or having
enough
of Donna. In the end, I didn’t move on because I was tired of her, or because she ever doubted or had second thoughts about who she was. In the end, it was
me
she doubted. It was
Donna
who moved on, and her distrust of me made me doubt myself.

When I stopped seeing Donna (more accurately, when she stopped seeing me), I became more cautious with transsexuals—not because I no longer desired them, and I still find them extraordinarily brave, but because transsexuals (Donna, especially) forced me to acknowledge the most confusing aspects of my bisexuality every fucking day! Donna was exhausting.

“I usually like straight guys,” she would constantly remind me. “I also like other transsexuals—not just the ones like me, you know.”

“I know, Donna,” I would assure her.

“And I can deal with straight guys who also like women—after all, I’m trying to live my life, all the time, as a woman. I’m just a woman with a penis!” she would say, her voice rising.

“I know, I know,” I would tell her.

“But you also like other guys—
just
guys—
and
you like women, Billy.”

“Yes, I do—
some
women,” I would admit to her. “And cute guys—not
all
cute guys,” I would remind her.

“Yeah, well—fuck what
all
means, Billy,” Donna would say. “What gets to me is that I don’t know what you like about me, and what it is about me that you
don’t
like.”

“There’s nothing about you I
don’t
like, Donna. I like
all
of you,” I promised her.

“Yeah, well—if you’re going to leave me for a woman, like a straight guy one day would, I get it. Or if you’re going to go back to guys, like a gay guy one day would—well, I get that, too,” Donna said. “But the thing about you, Billy—and I don’t get this
at all
—is that I don’t know who or what you’re going to leave me for.”