God granted us a brutally abbreviated time on this Earth, and the majority of us piss it away like it's water. Scratch that. Water's fucking precious too. I like to make the most of what I've got. Is that smart or selfish? You can't buy happiness in 48-bottle cases at Costco.
Eleven years ago I was compared to The Velveteen Rabbit by a wonderful young woman I had met online. We e-mailed and IM'd daily and became fast friends, and then one day she asked if she could meet me. She was, to my surprise, attracted to me.
It was then that I told her, as I have had to tell other women since, that I am transgendered. What you see, you know, isn't always what you get. If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck, is it a duck?
Actually, that's not a fair analogy. I look like a man and talk and act and think like a man but, sadly, I can't fuck like any other man. I have (thanks to Doc Johnson) the accoutrements necessary for fucking and I can not only be any size a woman wants, I can last longer than any other man.
I love women and they love me but that one point -- that sadistic truth -- eviscerates me. I'm the perfect man, according to them, because I'm sensitive and intelligent and witty and compassionate. But in what order of importance do my desirous qualities fall? And is that enough to negate the one thing I'm missing?
My friend -- that dear, sweet young woman who wanted to meet me -- was not offended by what I had told her. Instead she compared me to a literary icon, a tattered, life-worn bunny who wanted nothing more than to be real. And to continue to be loved.
Is there anything wrong with that? Why shouldn't I have love -- real, unconditional love -- like anyone else? Why shouldn't I be real?
The sad truth for guys like me is that the closest we're gonna get to real is through the rose-colored glasses of love worn by a few very special women.
I have, since that time eleven years ago, been bathed in the love -- however briefly -- of a very few such women. And it was wonderful.
Because they made me real.
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