In the space of silence, my emotions stabilized and my sanity crept back. But still I kept my hand over my eyes. I couldn’t look at him.
“Mack,” I finally said, wearily, “People don’t miraculously change their body like that. It just doesn’t work that way. It’s physically impossible.”
He didn’t answer, and I went on. “I don’t know why you think that – “
“It happened.”
“Mack, – “
“It happened. I know it seems impossible. But what can I say? I wanted to be a man. I wanted to be a man, and I became a man.”
“It couldn’t have happened.”
“It did happen.”
“You’re suffering from some kind of delusion. You’re mentally ill.”
“No I’m not.”
I sighed heavily, and finally took my hand from my eyes, and raised my head. Mack was staring at me stubbornly, his brows lowered, but his face open and alarmingly straightforward. “C’mon, Mack. What’s really going on?”
“I’m not crazy. I’m not the least bit crazy. And you said you wanted to know. So I told you. I told you the truth. You’re just going to have to believe me.”
“Did you have a sex change operation?”
“No, I didn’t have a sex change operation. It happened on its own.”
“Wishing couldn’t make something like that happen.”
“Wishing and a lot of sperm could.”
I stared.
“Blow jobs. I gave blow jobs. A million of them. And I concentrated on their penises, and their balls, and when I swallowed the sperm, I made the wish. I wanted to have what was in my mouth. I concentrated on it. It was my mantra, I did it over and over and over. And after a while, after enough semen, it started to come true.”
“Aw, give me a break, Mack. If swallowing semen turned women into men, every prostitute in the world would be a male.”
Mack shook his head. “No, they wouldn’t. I don’t think prostitutes really want to be man. They don’t wish for it. That’s not what they’re concentrating on when they blow a guy. They’re thinking about the money, or where they’re going to get their next hit of heroin. About how mad their pimp is going to be if they don’t turn enough tricks today. Or ‘why doesn’t he hurry up and come, my jaw’s getting tired.'” His face got sad. “That’s not what I thought about. All I could think about was how much I wanted what was in my mouth. And visualizing it happening to me. Visualizing how great it would be when I was getting the blowjob instead of on my knees giving it. When I had the power. When I was in charge.”
And that’s when I wanted to slap him. I wanted to lift my hand from the seat and slap his face as hard as I could. Through the red haze of my anger I heard his voice go on, low and soft and sad.
“Why do you think I drink? Why do you think I drink so much? Why do you think I’m so depressed? Because now I’m trapped. I’m a woman who changed into a man – my body changed, but not my feelings, or my personality. Or my sexual preferences. I’m still a woman. And now I want a boyfriend. I want a husband, I want to make love to a man – but not as another man. I’m not gay. I don’t want gay men. So I’m stuck. I can’t have anyone, I can’t ever have a relationship, I can’t ever love and be loved – not in a genuine way.
“Why do you think everyone wants me? You’ve seen it – all the women hanging around me at the bar. And men feel it, too – though I think they feel so uncomfortable at the thought of being so attracted to another man that they don’t usually come forward like the women do.
“Why do all the women want me? And all the men? It’s that I’m both sexes at one time – and it’s apparently a potent aphrodisiac, the most powerful one there is. Women want me – they want to love me, they want to fuck me – but I’m not a lesbian, and the thought of making love to a women makes me sick. Don’t you see? Don’t you see what a hell this is?”
Mack turned his eyes on me, eyes full of bitterness, and I could barely meet his gaze.
“And then men want me. And I want them. But I want them as a woman, not as a man. Because I realize my mistake. I could have been a powerful woman, I know that now. But it’s too late, and now I’m stuck. I’m stuck as a man. If I was born thinking that I was a man trapped in a woman’s body, or a woman in a man’s, and got a sex change operation, that’d be fine. That’s okay. Or if I just dressed like the opposite sex because I liked it, or any other variation of male and female. It’s okay to do all those things, to even have an operation to change your body. To do it because it feels right. But I thought women were inferior – even disgusting. Weak. Silly. I really believed it, Doug. Really did. That’s the difference. I learned my lesson – I’m paying for my travesty, I’m suffering for my crime. And I’ll suffer like this for the rest of my life.”
Mack’s voice grew more heated, more bitter and relentless. “What do you think it’s like, the way I live? I can’t have a relationship. I can’t stay anywhere for very long – people won’t leave me alone. I can’t get rid of them. And I can’t go anywhere – you saw what happened when we went to the movies. I can’t hold a job. And I can’t tell anyone why, because no one believes me. I can’t do anything. I pass through a town, staying a little while, letting someone buy me food and drinks and give me shelter, and then when it gets uncomfortable – as it always does – I have to get away. You think yours is the first house I ever snuck out of?”
Pain shot through me. Mack’s voice got very low. “Until I die. I’ll live like this until I die. And sometimes I think – sometimes I think I’m going to hasten that day. I’ve already tried to kill myself. Tried and failed. But I could try again. Or kill myself with booze. Because I can’t stand this – I can’t stand it any more.”
What do you say? What do you say to a confession like that? I had no idea. I had never heard anything so preposterous in my life, and I had never heard anyone speak with such honesty and conviction and simple truth before in my life. It was true. It couldn’t be true. I believed him. I couldn’t possibly believe him.
What was the world coming to? What was going on when someone could make this happen? What was going on when someone could think up such an outrageous lie? I was so confused; I had heard the phrase, ‘it made my head spin’, but until this moment I had never experienced it.
I had dropped my gaze when he finished his words, and I had never looked up again. I could see his demin-clad knees. I could see his folded hands.
Mack’s hands were . . . beautiful. I don’t mean they looked like a model’s hands, like a woman who’s paid to advertise hand cream in magazines. But they were full of character. Full of humanness. They were long-fingered, but not as thin as you’d think they should be from the rest of his skinny, frail frame. They were kind of medium-sized. The veins were large and prominent, rivers of his life’s blood snaking to his fingers, branching into tributaries, raised to hump over the long thin rods of bones that fanned up to his knuckle joints. The skin of the backs of his hands was thin, almost papery, like my Granddad’s had been. Poor nutrition, probably. His color was not good. His fingernails were pale, somewhat ragged, and short. His hands held his personality. They revealed his character. They were peaceful, and gentle, and warm. They made me think of someone who had suffered so much that their body had become beautiful through all the suffering, like a saint. They were kind hands, and there was laughter underneath his skin, close underneath, so that it would take little, really, to allow it to spring forth. And for the first time, I realized that his hands were completely androgynous. Not male. Not hairy, or big and meaty, not girlishly soft and smooth. They were both male and female. I could easily imagine them on a rather big, tall woman – or, equally easily – on a slight, slender man. The hands of a changling, of a fairy prince. The hands of the person I loved.
I knew then what I had to do. No, not what I had to do. But what I would do. Turning from him, I removed my right hand from along the back of the car seat and grasped the key that I had left in the ignition. I turned it, released it. I fastened my seat belt, put my foot on the brake, and shifted into drive. I checked the rear-view mirror, then pulled smoothly out onto the highway. Up ahead was a spot where cop cars sometimes sat, a gravel path that connected the two divided lanes of traffic. There was a ‘no U turn’ sign in front of it. I glanced behind me again, and up ahead and around. No cops. I slowed, and made the illegal turn.
“What are you doing?” I heard Mack’s quiet voice to my right. I didn’t look at him. I was driving now. My job was to watch the road.
“I’m taking you home,” I said.
I had always thought being in love would be a happy thing. A joyous thing. Something to celebrate with champagne and kisses. Instead here I was, feeling so mixed up and sad and angry and forlorn that I didn’t know how I was ever going to feel normal again.
Of course, when you think of it (I thought sourly) it all fits. I’m not normal. I’ve never been able to start a normal relationship with a woman, never been able to talk to one in a normal way. So why would my relationships start being normal now? Actually, when you think of it, it’s very fitting, isn’t it? Very apt. I could see the engagement announcement in the local paper now. ‘Douglas John McDonald, freak of nature with his terminal shyness and fear of women, to wed matching freak of nature, Mack, “Just Mack”, a man-woman changling. No heirs are expected from the match.’ Cute, huh? Fitting, isn’t it? This would happen to me. This just would happen to me. I thought suddenly of what my parents would have said upon reading that announcement, the looks on their faces, and a savage kind of hurtful glee began to claim me.
“Well, Mack. Well well well,” I said, my eyes glued to the road. “I’ve just gone and done it, haven’t I? I’ve just gone and really done it this time, haven’t I? A woman who changed into a man. Well well well. Right here in my car, folks. Here he is. Or should I say she?” Here I darted my eyes to the right, to Mack’s thin face on the edge of my peripheral vision. He didn’t look the least bit hurt by my sarcasm, and that made me want to gouge even deeper.
“Should I say ‘she’, Mack? What’s your real name, huh? I bet it’s not Mack. I bet it’s something like – Susie. Sheila. Sally.” I knew I shouldn’t do this. I knew I was out-of-control, and should shut up immediately and apologize. But have you ever tried to control your words when you’re in that type of mood? It’s really hard. Or perhaps it’s not hard at all. Perhaps I went on because underneath my Nice Accountant’s skin lived a monster, a creature so deeply hurt that it could not pass up such a sterling opportunity to wound, to slice, to twist. Such a fine and noble chance to inflict such exquisite pain, cause such irreparable damage. Such an easy way to get revenge, to retaliate for the yawning black hole of grief and despair that was going to be my sole companion for all the years of my life yet to come.
“Roxanne? Pammy? How ’bout Stacy? Or Patricia? Oh no, no – it has to be one of those new names, one of those new nineties names – boy’s names for girls, so you don’t know who the damn hell you’re talking to. Like ‘Blake’. That’s one. There’s a little girl down the street, a pretty little, sweet little, blond-haired girl named Blake, like a gunslinger or something. Or how about ‘Ashley’? I thought Ashley was a man’s name, like Ashley Wilkes in ‘Gone With the Wind’. Huh? Do you see what I’m saying? Do you see how strange this world is getting? And you’re just easing it right along, aren’t you, Mack? Just helping it right straight to hell in a hand basket. Oh yeah. ‘Woman morphs into man’, that’ll be the morning headline. ‘Fellatio expert gives advice on how to change your sex in three easy lessons, or your money back!” Oh you’ll be rich. You’ll be a millionaire. There won’t be any women left on the planet by the time you get through with ’em, they’ll all be males, they’ll all be working in the pit at the New York Stock Exchange and joining fraternities. You’ve really done it, Mack-baby. You’ve really done your part to improve humanity. I hope your satisfied. I hope your so God damn proud of your great achievement that you’re – that you’re, you’re …” if I started to cry now I’d kill myself. And kill him, too, the son-of-a-bitch. Daughter-of-a-bitch. Just plain bitch. Oh God, what was I doing?
“It’s okay, Doug. Douglas McDonald. It’s all right that you love me. Right now, I don’t mind. I don’t mind at all. And you can make fun of me, if you need to.”
“I’m in love with you? Please! You make me sick, you know that?”
“You’re just hurt.”
“Bull! I’m mad at you, is what I am. I’m incredibly angry at you. I -“
“You’re hurting. You’re hurting because you love me. You love me, and you can’t have me. It’s all mixed up, and you can’t take it all in right now; I understand.”
I kept driving. I felt about a hundred years old.
“And I know what else is bothering you, even if you don’t know it yourself. You’re jealous. You can’t stand the thought of me with all those other men. Of me having sex with all those other guys, those guys whose sperm changed me into a man. That’s one of the main things that’s bothering you.”
I let out a sigh. A big, aching sigh from a chest with muscles that hurt from being clenched so tight for so long. He was right. He was completely, one hundred percent right.
And that took the wind right smack out of my sails. Suddenly, it was Mack beside me, just Mack, and I loved him, and he was really a woman, and it was okay. I felt like I’d known that fact forever, and been comfortable with it forever. What difference does somebody’s sex make, anyway, in the long run, in the whole scheme of things? It’s just one more fact about you, like the color of your hair, or the color of your skin. Like if he was black instead of white, or something like that. I mean, there are other things more important, really. Like if you’re a criminal, or dishonest, or crazy, or something like that. If you’re a child molester. Those things are more important than what kind of genitals you have. I mean, really. Right?
“All out?”
“Huh?”
“Is it all out, now? Did you get rid of it all, can we be human beings again?”
I sighed again. We were almost home. I turned onto my street. “Yeah,” I said wearily. “Yeah, okay. Whatever you say, Mack. Anything you say.”
“Grace.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Grace. That was my name. My real name.”
I pulled into the driveway, put the car in park, and turned off the gas. I looked at him. “You’re kidding. You’ve got to be kidding me.”
That slow, sweet smile – the one that made my heart do flip flops. I realized suddenly that he was flirting. He was flirting with me. To my horror he said, “Think you could get used to me as a woman?”
He was teasing me – there was that impish grin. Oh God. I turned away, and opened the door.
“Never. Never, Mack. Never in a million years.’
