Day 17, Part II: Not Gay, Not Dying of Cancer

After my appointment at Beth Israel Medical Center, my day continues with two more reveals.

Damn the torpedoes, etc, etc.

The thing is, as happy as I am about my appointment at Beth Israel, I’m still nervous. Really nervous. And this time it’s mostly my own doing.

I dropped an email to a former coworker, and to be honest, I’m not sure how he will take the news. I mean, he’s a really good guy. But he’s a guy’s guy. And we hung out together as guys.

To complicate the problem, I phrased the email asking to have lunch rather awkwardly, leaving him to believe I had dire news to share with him. Like I’m dying of cancer news.

And don’t just take my word for it. Enjoy my masterfully subtle email:

Long time no talk. I was wondering if you have some time next week to get together. I have a few things I’d like to fill you in on before things go public, so to speak.

Yeah, I’m an idiot. A cute idiot, but an idiot nonetheless.

We connect for lunch and I can see the look of concern on his face.

Are you okay? I’m here for you, man.

If I weren’t so nervous, this would be a pretty funny episode of Three’s Company.

So on the way to the restaurant I assure him. Not gay. Not dying of cancer. You can cross those two off your list. Though I do admit to working on a really crazy cover story to mess with his mind. “Yeah, I’m starting a porn site and I want you to be the star.” Something that would elicit Billy Bob Thornton’s classic line from Bad Santa, “Are you fucking with me?”

We settle in at a Chinese restaurant and I start my spiel. Deep breath aaaaand… transgendered.

He is immediately and unabashedly happy for me. He tells me about a trans friend with whom he is helping to create a vast photography project. He is crazy supportive. And not in the let’s-talk-about-fantasy-football way I have come to expect from guys.

I know I sound like a broken record, but I am blessed with an extraordinary collection of friends. I never thought I would receive so much support. In a way, I feel guilty for doubting them.

Amusingly, the guy sitting behind him is trying to eavesdrop on the conversation. Not sure if I can blame him as it is probably the juiciest conversation in the whole restaurant. I am tempted to ask him if he needs me to repeat anything but I let it go. This is a day for being positive, not jaded. That can come next month.

We part with a hug, an honest-to-god hug, and I head back to work in a great mood. But I still have one more coming out tonight, with a young woman I used to work with. A wonderfully sweet girl.

We meet for drinks and after some idle chitchat, I launch into my standard pitch. Moving to New York, yada, yada. Stuttering, blah, blah, blah. Aaaaand… transgendered.

She is fascinated by my story and by my journey and we have the most delightful evening talking about being transgendered, being a girl, shaving legs, the effects of hormones and nicknames for breasts.

Yup, I go there. I mean, guys always have the raunchiest words for breasts. Melons, knockers, hooters… hell, they don’t even need to be real words. Gozongas, yabbos, hoohas. But I’m intrigued to discover what words women use when guys aren’t around. And I get two delightful examples.

The Girls. And the Twins.

I must admit that I don’t exactly have women’s breasts at the moment, but if and when I do, at least I’ll know what to call them.