“when you make the male and the female as one. . .

13: Am I a… woman?

["This is what I love about women, what I love about femmes, what I love about myself. I danced my blatant butch's dance for such a femme once, who thought I was powerful in that angular way, but who could take me in the palm of one hand like a precious talisman and excite me to power simply by touching me. She could hold me like that in a doorway, in midsentence, neither in or out, neither touching nor untouching. She could suspend my movement and move me to the core of my being. She could stop my breath, my heart, and in that instant of timelessness I would die a thousand deaths, held in suspended animation, in the thrall of her femme's powerful contradiction, and my cunt would ooze its admiration.

And on occasion, I have danced the femme's dance too, for myself and for another. I have danced it on the street and in the privacy of my home. I have danced it in the real world out there, and in the context of my imagination. In my fantasy, I can do anything and everything. I danced the femme's dance and I danced it well. Took off my butch's mask, maneuvered myself to the edge of the cliff, and drove myself to distraction. I stood in front of the mirror that usually reflected my cock, and dressed myself in a lacy camisole, garter belt, and nylons. I put makeup on my face, where normally I dreamed of shaving straight lines. I put femmy earrings in my ears. I put on the femme's mask and danced the femme's dance and watched myself in the mirror. And when I danced this femme's dance, I danced the butch's dance too, somewhere in my head. I became a whore for myself and wanted to straddle my own thighs, lower myself onto my own cock, and fall in love with myself."]