Defending my Female Identity — to My Brother the Prosecutor

Lawyers are always suspicious of what they hear

Content and Trigger Warning:

This article includes brief references to sexual violence and a candid discussion of human sexuality and anatomy. None of it is gratuitous. It is necessary to understand the issues involved.

My brother was a lifelong federal prosecutor. He never accepts anything he hears at face value.

I am a transgender woman. In the late summer and early fall of 2020, I began sharing my true identity with virtually everyone I knew. I had written a particularly graphic and personal email to my brother sharing that not only was my true identity being revealed, I also seemed to be experiencing a change in my sexuality. In his mind it raised more questions than it answered. My comments completely contradicted everything he thought he knew about me. This is how he responded:

*To: L+C B…..

Subject: A question lingers

The one I asked you on the phone.

When did you first feel this way?

I ask you this because I feel blindsided. Not that I haven’t been blindsided before in life, and not because I feel any particular embarrassment at being caught unaware. But I have a keen emotional intelligence (not openly respected, or God knows, even acknowledged in a family such as ours). But….

You said “at age 14.” You then went on to explain being raped at SPS. That didn’t answer the question.

Most of the people I know who are gay, lesbian, or other, wrestled for many years with their sexual or gender identity. I am not saying it is necessary, and you are an extraordinary person.

But…

I guess what worries me is that the drug treatments you have been receiving have had a hormonal effect on you. You told me that they have and that you have embraced it. You said that you cry easily. You told me that your libido has shot to the moon. Do these feelings stem from liberation or chemistry?

I ask these questions because someone should, someone other than yourself.

I ask them because I love you. I want you to do the right thing, the thing that will make you happy. Your enthusiasm sells me a lot.

But, as I said, a question (or two) lingers.

Bob

* Bob’s emails are reprinted with his permission

This is what I wrote in reply:

Bob:

Valid questions. Apparently I got sidetracked during our conversation. Within a couple of weeks of arriving at SPS I acquired the biography of Christine Jorgensen. I don’t remember much about it except the pictures of her waterskiing and rubbing shoulders with famous people. When I got done, I was sure I wanted to be a woman, and she seemed to be proof that I could be — some day. But of course that was going to be long into an uncertain future. The reason I mentioned the 3 ½ years of abuse is that it soured me on sex with men. Obviously being barely into puberty, I had no experience with anyone up to that point. One of the things Andre Jacques loved to do was to put his penis in my mouth and have me stimulate his frenulum with my tongue. When he attained an appropriate level of stimulation, he would force my head down on his groin until the whole shaft was deep in my throat and he would ejaculate in waves until I almost gagged. I found it disgusting. He had very little interest in my pleasure. He might masturbate me a bit to get an erection so he could admire it, but that was about as far as it went. The relationship was totally one sided.

Sometimes he would opt for anal sex. I found that much less disgusting, and, because he was not particularly large, relatively painless — and even somewhat pleasurable because, as I later learned, he was stimulating my prostate, which is a highly erogenous zone in men. During our encounters I always tried to steer him towards sodomy so I did not have to choke on his penis and semen. I was mostly unsuccessful. The lesson I learned was that men are abusive in their sexual relationships, not sharing or caring about their partner; they forced their desires on their female companions — yes, female; I equated all sex as having the same motivation and pattern. I did not differentiate between abuse, homosexuality and normal heterosexual relationships. I assumed they all followed the same pattern. So the obvious conclusion was that sex was only pleasurable for men; women were merely items to be used, and I knew that I did not want that. That slowed me down for decades, plus when I did start having sexual encounters with women, I enjoyed them — still do.

Then in the late 70’s early 80’s along came AIDS and any inclination I may have had towards experimentation or exploration of my true identity was put on hold. I did not want to subject myself to that risk, plus I had a developing career and growing family. I seemed to be on the normal path of most young adults…. but there were always hints or echoes, if you will, which, if I had focused on them more closely, would have led to an earlier awakening. I mentioned in a previous e-mail that I make love with people — not to them. The distinction is important to me. It is a shared experience — hopefully mutually fulfilling — which deepens the intimacy I feel for those I love and respect. During the act itself, I have almost without exception projected my mind into my partner’s. I want to feel what she feels; I try to visualize what she feels; I want to be the receiver, not the penetrator, and when she is extremely aroused and climaxes, I feel it in my body and for a moment lose all sense of self — there is only an us. Does that mean that I have never had casual sex or a quickie with one of my 22 😂 wives? Of course not. When I was younger and the hormones were raging at a higher level and the equipment worked better, there were times I wanted that release and got it — like scratching an itch. But it was impersonal and unsatisfying.

There was only one time in my life that I remember having intercourse as a man — the night Chip was conceived. Lois and I wanted a child of our own. I knew she was fertile (there are ways of checking) and I was ready. When the moment came with candles and incense and a fire in the fireplace of the master bedroom, I looked into her eyes as I was approaching the point of no return and said “I love you; are you sure we should do this?” She replied, “More than anything in the world.” So I pulled her hips closer to mine and ejaculated over the tip of her cervix. I could feel the contact. As we lay there still joined, I felt a sense of joy and excitement, but also a soul numbing sorrow. I did not feel a sense of accomplishment or anticipation of bringing a new life into the world. I felt useless and without purpose. Like the male spider or praying mantis, I had done my part in assuring survival of the species and all that was left was to have my head bitten off and eaten by the female. I looked at Lois with wonder and envy, knowing that a new life was stirring inside her and the physical and emotional changes they would bring. I wanted that for me. I wanted to bring that child into the world. I wanted to experience the changes, the roller coaster of emotions, the pain and ultimately the joy of holding a newly birthed life to my breast — but all I could do was watch and wait for 9 months. I was a useless appendix.

There were other signs. With all my wives, I would often borrow a pair of their panties and wear them for the day. It made me feel feminine in the most important way that defines the gender physiologically. I was not a cross dresser. I did not have that fetish. I had no desire to borrow a bra or nightgown or dress. I would have looked ridiculous. The panties were enough — my secret garden. When my wives or other female companions menstruated, I would borrow their tampons and use them (well a rough approximation anyway) and fantasize that I was menstruating too. I envied them. When Lois was lactating, she produced copious supplies of milk — more than enough for both Chip and Sheila and her breasts ached with what was left over. She would often have me suckle her to relieve the discomfort. I always looked forward to it and my breasts and nipples would ache in sympathy and anticipation. I wanted to be the one nursing our new baby.

There were also signs in the business world. Obviously I was a high academic achiever and was raised to believe that only the very best succeeded in life. It was a zero sum game. I was taught to bury the competition. But that was not really me. When I practiced law, I was always embarrassed if I felt I had been given too much credit for a project and extremely unhappy with the manipulative conduct of some of my peers to make themselves look good and put others down. I wanted more cooperation, more honesty, more sharing. There was enough to go around. Why was everyone being so greedy? The same applied in investment banking. I always spread the bonuses around. The secretary who worked late into the night would get several thousand dollars and even the kid in the mailroom hauling the latest draft of a registration statement to and from the print shop would get a couple of hundred. I didn’t owe it; but it only seemed fair. It created a fierce loyalty in those who worked with and for me and an extreme resentment in my peers. As Rodney King said, “Why can’t we all just get along?” There was more than enough to go around. When I started the small construction company about 20 years ago to put ex-cons to work and help them make a living wage, I never took a dime; I gave all of it to them in the hope that they could get back on their feet. My sole goal was to cover expenses, which, for the most part, I failed at miserably. My nature at its core is nurturing, encouraging, empathetic, collaborative, affirming — in short, quintessentially female. But in the “real world” being mercilessly cutthroat and ambitious is the ticket to success. I could do it, but I hated it. I became an angry, short tempered, depressed person. And that was because I was denying my true identity. There is more, but you get the picture.

Let me shift gears for a moment and address the other question — hormones. There is no question that they can dramatically affect emotions and perceptions — sometimes bringing understanding, but at times creating dangerous fantasies. After all, what I am undertaking cannot be undone. For 3 1/2 years I took 5mg of finasteride [1mg is used in propecia for baldness in younger men] and .4 mg of tamsulosin daily — high doses. Finasteride is a dihydrotestosterone (the most potent form of testosterone) inhibitor. and thus shrinks the prostate by starving the adenoma causing BPH of some of its fuel. Tamsulosin is used to relax the smooth muscles in the urinary tract, making is easier to void. Both have been historically considered fairly innocuous with few side effects, and when they do occur, quickly resolved over time. Newer research suggests that this is not the case-especially in older men and the side effects can be drastic. That happened to me. I suffered from 22 of the 28 symptoms described as part of Post-Finasteride Syndrome [you can look it up if you are curious], including loss of hair on my arms legs and chest, extreme weight gain — over 45 pounds in less than a year in spite of being on a low calorie (1500 per day) diet and a vigorous exercise program, gynecomastia (feminization of my breasts), noticeable shrinkage of my testicles, lethargy, and others. It was so bad I stopped taking them around the end of 2018-early 2019. (They really did not help my BPH symptoms anyway. It generally does not work on large prostates since the average shrinkage that can be expected is 28%, or in my case a reduction in size from about 130 grams to 94 — still massive; normal is 30 grams. Earlier. this year I underwent testing of some of my sex hormone levels. Both men and women have the same hormones; the proportions of them are just different. The significant findings were very low testosterone (100; normal is 300–900) but low normal female estradiol (the most potent form of estrogen). You don’t have to be an MD to conclude that the imbalance meant that my female hormones were having a greater influence on my body than my dwindling male hormones. Thus the symptoms. I was immediately put on weekly 200mg injections of testosterone cypionate. Unlike oral forms, the injectable form is immediately available and not degraded by preprocessing in the liver. The effects were dramatic. Within a week I regained muscle tone, had a lot more energy and began losing weight with no change in diet or exercise — 30 pounds in 6 weeks and 4 inches off my waist. Bottom line, I am being re-masculinized, but my conviction that my gender identity is female remains unchanged. I have now been on the testosterone for a little over 2 months. My growing realization has become a certainty even while the remasculinization was occurring. The weepiness, the libido change, accompanied the certainty I attained and were independent of my drug regimen. My world view changed overnight. It was a poignant aha moment. The feminization process and emotional changes will not really take hold until my testosterone is whacked down even further than it was before. At the moment I look fundamentally male except in my chest. Reducing testosterone is more important than increased estrogen and progesterone levels. I need to get mine down to 15–70 to really accelerate the feminization process, ideally closer to the low side because I have more “maleness” to overcome. This can be done in one of 2 ways. Spironolactone, which is used to lower blood pressure, is a diuretic which helps reduce edema in the extremities (I have suffered from this for several years — probably related to one of the prescriptions I take) and is a strong androgen receptor blocker which essentially shuts down the ability of the pituitary to tell the testes to produce testosterone, so they don’t. There is residual testosterone production in the adrenals which provides all I will need and which is the source of production in natal females. Spironolactone is essentially a wonder drug for me since I take losartan for modestly elevated blood pressure (138/94) and it reduces it to about 117/68-a good target. It will get rid of my edema and control testosterone production — a triple win. The other alternative is an orchiectomy (removal of my balls — a simple procedure little different from the vasectomy I had 35 years ago.) I am half hoping this is the suggested course of action. I am not repulsed by my testicles but feel no more need of them, and their removal gets me one step closer to my ultimate goal. As I asked in an earlier e-mail , do even vaguely normal males fantasize about this? I think not; probably just the opposite. But I find the prospect exciting. Time to visit the vet!

One final thing that happened recently. One night I had a dream that my prostate had been magically healed and I was a normal functioning male again. In real life my prostate was so large that it compressed not only my urethra, making it virtually impossible to urinate, it also constricted my prostatic, seminal vesicular, and other ducts making me anejaculatory. (The finasteride and tamsulosin also contributed by giving me hypogonadism.) It was enormously frustrating. Anyway, I woke up being certain that my prostate had been cured and wondering if my belief that I was the wrong gender was just some sort of fantasy to compensate for the virtual destruction of my sexual function. I went into the bathroom, still considering this and looked in the mirror at my emerging breasts and just knew in an instant that this was the real me. All doubt faded away. I liked them.

And my final, final thought. Under WPATH guidelines, sex reassignment surgery can only be done after undergoing thorough counseling with two therapists specializing in gender dysphoria and drug therapy under the auspices of an MD specializing in HRT therapy, preferably for at least a year though I intend to cut that to 8 months (my birthday) and my health providers do not object. To proceed with the ultimate surgery, both therapists and the HRT endocrinologist have to sign off. Otherwise it does not happen. I spent 2 hours with one yesterday. Her name is Roene Zohler — a 62 y.o. self-described hippie. I like her a lot. At the end I kiddingly asked her if I had passed. She said we have more work to do, but that I appeared to have a good understanding of who I really am; I was on the right track. My first meeting with the second is on Thursday. Roene has scheduled 3 more appointments with me over the next 6 days. She understands how important this all is and I feel is excited for me.

Part of your concern I think may be due to your perception (and I must admit, historically mine as well) of those who have gender dysphoria. The classic stereotype is a male with very feminine features and mannerisms who hates his male parts. That is certainly part of the spectrum and perhaps easiest to identify. The others are those you described who wrestle with the issue continuously over a period of years. Sometimes it is true dysphoria, but sometimes just frustration with how life has turned out and the misguided feeling that a drastic change might create true happiness. But the population is not that binary. There is a whole range of gender identities which suffer from the same condition. I do not look like or act like the kind of individual who we normally associate with gender dysphoria. But then think of Caitlyn (nee Bruce) Jenner a former Olympic gold medalist in the decathlon. Who saw that coming? And he was older than me when he made his decision. I have not been unhappy as a man and that is probably one of the reasons that it has taken so long to peel away the layers of the onion. I always knew that something was not quite right. I just didn’t know where to look — perhaps because it would never have occurred to me in a thousand years that my gender identity may be the problem. For whatever it is worth, I have always felt a need to hide parts of myself from the world (and I am not referring to my apparent kinkiness) for reasons I never understood. There was nothing I consciously felt guilty or embarrassed about. I am not even sure what it was that I was hiding. I called this decision liberating because it is. I feel no need to hide anything. It has given me a great amount of joy and relief from anxiety which has been missing for too long.

Your Honor, what do you think?

Love L

My brother’s response?

r***** b**** (r*****b****@gmail.com)

To: you Details

The Court finds for Plaintiff L.

Best

B

There was no appeal.

My brother has stayed in touch, but not on a regular basis. He seems fine with the woman I have become. He remains supportive, and I am grateful for that. I look forward to sitting down with him when the pandemic finally recedes and formally introduce him to the sister he never knew. I think he will be pleasantly surprised. I just hope he doesn’t want to dip my pig tails in an inkwell!