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The life I knew -- the life I had with my husband -- died that night. There's no other way to describe it.
Apr 15, 2016, 11:47 AM EDT | Updated Dec 6, 2017
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It was early July, and we were on our way home after a botched date night. My spouse's mood was off, once again; this chronic melancholy, this little Eeyore cloud hanging over our lives and saturating everything in miserable little droplets. It happened all the time.
The unhappiness had put a wedge between us for years. I, the happy, bubbly, social person on one side; my partner, the quiet, brooding, isolating one. And on those rare nights we could sneak out for a meal or a drink, I would grow resentful when the Eeyore cloud starting pissing all over our parade.
"I wish you would tell me what's going on with you," I said as we drove home from the coffee shop.
"Enough of that. We've been together 22 years and you've been unhappy the whole time. Everyone can see it. The kids and I can feel it."
I sighed. "Is it me? Are you unhappy with me? With our family?"
"No, it's not you. It's not the kids. This predates all of you, trust me."
"Look," I said. "I'm tired of brushing this under the rug. I think it's time for some honesty. Nothing will get better if you don't tell me what's wrong."
"I can't," she insisted, staring straight ahead, hands firmly on the wheel.
I thought of potential big secrets and just started guessing.
"Are you gay?" I inquired. Hey, it happens, right? Maybe she wasn't as into me as my ego wanted me to believe.
"OK." And then I just threw it out there. "So, do you want to be a woman or something?"
Silence. And suddenly, I knew. But I had to ask again because I needed to hear the answer.
"You..." My voice was caught in my throat. "You're a... a woman?"
More silence. My stomach was in knots. I wanted to throw up.
"I can't talk about this," she said in the smallest, most vulnerable voice I had ever heard from her. I felt my heart break on the spot.
And I, the supportive mom of a trans child, the advocate, the ally, friend of the LGBT community, replied with an eloquent, "Oh, you have got to be f*cking kidding me!"
The life I knew -- the life I had with my husband -- died that night. There's no other way to describe it.
I thought I knew everything about my spouse. And yet, at that moment, I felt completely blindsided by the news. I didn't know this could happen twice in one family. (Our daughter, Alexis, is also transgender.) I didn't understand how someone could hide something like that from the person they'd been married to for over two decades. I didn't know how this would affect our family, the kids, his job.
I felt betrayed, hurt, devastated, angry and scared. And he, by the light of the Walmart parking lot we had stopped in, looked a perfect picture of terror and relief.
"I never thought I'd tell anyone," he said, staring down. "But I just told you."
I wanted to scream at him and I wanted to hug him, all at once. We were lost in a situation neither of us saw coming.
But that was eight months ago. I would love to tell you that, given all the experience my family has with trans issues, it's been an easy journey. It hasn't. The first few months were incredibly bumpy. I didn't think we could come back from it all.
But we did. Life with Zoe is beautiful. That's her lovely chosen name, by the way, and I helped pick it by vetoing all the ones I hated. I hated a lot of them. I'm really supportive.
Her name is now legally changed on her birth certificate, along with her gender marker. The papers came in about a week ago. Her birth certificate says "female," which means -- you guys -- I'm gay married! (Insert rainbows and plaid shirts here.)
You have no idea how many lesbian jokes I've been holding in for the last few months. Sh*t's about to get real.
This same-sex marriage revelation was a perfectly comfortable shift for me. It feels right, because we feel right. After nearly 23 years together, I finally have my whole partner, not just the part she wanted to show me. And that Eeyore cloud? It hasn't come out to play in a while.
My wife is gorgeous, witty and social now that she's finally comfortable in her own skin. We're the happiest we've ever been.
I need to give some serious props to our two sons. These guys could teach a class in resiliency, compassion and acceptance. They've embraced their mama with open arms, just as they did their sister.
And Alexis? She taught her mama to be brave like her by example, and saved her from drowning in secrets and misery for the rest of her life. What a gift that girl is.
While I know there are many horror stories out there about what happens when people come out, we haven't dealt with a single one yet. Our families, friends and neighbors have all been incredible. We're so fortunate to be surrounded by many caring, open-minded people.
And that brings us to this very day. Today is the day Zoe is coming out at work. There's much at stake here, and she's understandably nervous.
Like her daughter, Zoe has also written a coming out email to all her coworkers who don't yet know she's transgender (the ones she works closely with already know, as does HR, but there are may more people to tell). It's a big day.
After we do these two things, there's no more hiding. Zoe gets to be herself full-time. I get to say "my wife" without outing her before it's time. My kids finally get to say, "I have two moms."
We don't have to remember who knows and who doesn't know and who can't know yet because they might tell someone else, and ... well, let's just say it's been exhausting for all of us. We've been living in the closet, and it feels damn good to be busting out of it.
This is the internet, so I expect not all of you will be supportive. But believe me, there isn't a thing you could say in response to this news I haven't already thought of in the last several months. I used to worry about the shade people would throw our way, but not anymore. Our world is so full of love and support that it leaves absolutely no room for hatred or ignorance to reside within it.
Besides, on top of having both a transgender daughter and wife, I've been fully immersed in gender issues for two years now: studying research, interviewing experts, giving talks, writing articles, and connecting with thousands of families. So unless you're coming at this with at least as much knowledge as I now have, I'm probably not going to pay your negativity much mind. Just sayin'.
So why share this at all? The same reason we share Alexis' journey: I want you to learn with me.
If you learn along with me, then you won't be afraid. You won't be judgmental. You won't think families like ours are defective or weird. You'll get to know the queer parents at your kids' school instead of avoiding them. You'll invite the trans kid in your child's class over to play, like you would any other child.
And then you'll teach these things to the people in your life, whether directly or indirectly. Knowledge creates change. And then the world gets safer for Alexis and Zoe, the two bravest ladies I've ever had the pleasure of loving.
You and I are going to help make that happen, OK? Here's to the messy stuff of life, the woman I love more and more each day, and to wonderful new beginnings.




By
Lorenzo Jensen III ,
August 1st 2014



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Being raped by a woman isn’t cool and you aren’t “lucky”.
When I was 21 I was raped by the girl who was my girlfriend at the time. … The worst day of my life was when she decided to tie me up. She told me all the dirty things she was going to do to me while she kissed my neck and whispered into my ear as she tied my arms and legs down to the bed. Everything she said she was going to do was normal to me (suck me, ride me) so I let her tie me up. After I was tied up she asked me to try to break free and offered a reward to me if I could. She said she would be back and if I wasn’t free then I would miss out on the reward.
She came back and stood at the door and stared at me. She then told me how I wasn’t going to be rewarded because I couldn’t get out. She then told me she was going to punish me. Long story short, she ended up sodomizing me with her vibrator. I must have said no a thousand times. I was crying and begging her to stop which in hindsight probably made it worse. I was anally fucked, then she tried to ride me but I couldn’t even get up. I was so broken emotionally and in pain physically. She then got very mad that I couldn’t get it up which was never a problem. I was beaten for a while. Then the vibrator again while being hit. It lasted about 6 or 7 hours but felt like it was a dozen. For a while she just left it in me while she went in the other room to watch TV.
It was mid day when she tied me up and had been dark for a few hours after it was over. I ended up falling asleep tied up. I think I just passed out more from exhaustion of trying to break free/get her to stop. I woke up and I was untied in bed by myself. …
I ended up calling the police, which was the best decision I had ever made. The second I called them she calmed down and started to behave. They got there pretty quickly. Of course once they were there she played the damsel in distress and claimed that I was beating her up and choking her, etc. I told the cop everything that happened, which was embarrassing but worth it. They arrested her and she was jailed. … I had the option to press charges but ended up choosing not to after consulting with my lawyer.
Being raped has ruined my life for the time being.
I’m a man. I was raped as a child. She was my cousin. About 15 or so, while I was four. I don’t remember a lot, either because I was so small or because I mentally blocked it, but I remember that she performed oral sex on me. Made me do the same to her. Stuck various things up my butt.
My mom called the police when I told her a few weeks later. They didn’t even investigate. They said since it was a girl doing it to a guy, it was just “experimentation.” Said it was okay.
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How I broke my husband with one simple dress
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IT IS 7.48pm. I am just about to leave the house for a night out with friends. I have checked I have a spare pair of tights in my handbag, ensured that the working remote is actually in the oldest child's hand - no more panicked, 10pm ''WE CANT FID [sic] THE CONTROLLS!!!'' texts for me - and now, the last thing that needs to be done is to bid my husband adieu.
I walk into his ''study'', where he is listening to a reggae compilation, while contemplating his new Fotheringay mug, which is full of tea. He has a happy look on his face.
''Have a great night,'' he says, taking his headphones off, and beaming. There is a pause. I kind of … stand at him a bit. Loom, maybe.
''I'm off out, now,'' I say, again, more purposefully. ''Off into London. To see people.''
''Make sure you've got your keys!'' he says, cheerfully. ''Have a great night. Send my love to … whichever bunch of arch, chain-smoking homosexuals you're on loan to tonight.''
There is another pause. I stare at him quite intently. He stares back, confused. Pete can tell there is some manner of urgent business left unattended here - but he does not know what. I can sense his heart rate accelerating, like a panicked lab rat on sighting a speculum. The rat does not know exactly what is going to happen next - but it knows it's going to be bad. ''Do you … want a lift to Finsbury Park?'' he asks, eventually.
''HOW DO YOU THINK I LOOK?'' I shout.
Pete is immediately contrite - ''Sorry!'' - but also back in charted territory again.
Twelve years ago, shortly before our wedding, I told him - with the kind of fearless honesty that lovers can afford - that I would only ever impose two rules on our marriage. First, that he must never, ever throw me a surprise birthday party in our front room again. And second, that every time I appear in front of him in a new outfit, he must say, without hesitation:
''You look so thin in that!'' Pete says - delighted to be back on firm ground. He puts his headphones back on. He clearly thinks all the business has been concluded.
''Phew. Have a great night out,'' he says - going back to staring at his Fotheringay mug, which depicts the whole band as 15th-century minstrels. ''I'll see you in the morning.''
Unfortunately for Pete, ''You look so thin in that'' is not the droids I am looking for in this particular conversation. The dress I am in is a bit of a new development, in terms of my ''fashion range''. It's a 1950s tea dress in shape - but in pattern, it's got an African-textile theme going on. I'm wearing it with zebra-skin sandals, and a snakeskin clutch-bag. Basically, I need to know if I look like Lady Ace Ventura: Pet Detective in it. I don't know if this ''lysergic safari'' thing is working.
Were I with any of my female friends or relations, they would have understood this instantly. My sister Weena, for instance, would have greeted me with, ''You're perverting the assumed prejudices of postwar chicks, with some kind of 'demented gay Ghanaian disco' vibe. It's Mad Men versus Brixton Market. You're essentially saying you're a liberal - but with big tits. Nice. Catch that bus with confidence.''
This is what women do - tell each other what story their outfits are projecting, by way of confirming that the wearer has got it right. The women who love you recite back to you the aspiration and impact of your ''look'' - hence a group of eight of us being able to greet our friend Hughes with, ''Post-divorce slutty secretary - but with unexpected neon rave-stilettos! You're a sexy lady who will not cling to one man tonight, but seek the communal ecstatic uprising of a room full of party-goers instead. In this Pizza Express we are having dinner in.''
Women speak the language of clothes. Everything we wear is a sentence, a paragraph, a chapter - or, sometimes, just an exclamation mark.
Unfortunately, however, Pete does not speak the language of clothes. My dress and zebra-sandals are essentially shouting at him in French. Unable to make out a word they are saying, he panics.
''It's a top-notch item,'' he says, staring at it. ''Unusual. It's, ah, amazing that 'they' keep coming up with innovative things - even in 2012. That's … got to be good news for the fashion industry!''
There is a small pause - then he starts laughing so hysterically at the desperation of what he has just said that he slides off his chair, headphones still in hand, and kneels on the floor, red-faced, and weeping.
He's still there when I leave. Which is a bit annoying, because I did actually want a lift to Finsbury Park. My zebra-skin sandals are chafing.
From Moranthology by Caitlin Moran. © Caitlin Moran 2012. Reprinted by permission of Random House Australia. All Rights Reserved. RRP: $29.95
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