“What? Why?”, I ask him. The time and place vary, the questions vary, his specific displays of stress, shame and discomfort vary. His answer does not.
He doesn’t know.
He doesn’t know what it is that he wants. He drops his head, refusing to look me in the eyes. Mumbles, “I don’t know.”
He doesn’t know why he wants to be seen as a woman. But this is what he wants. He wants “to be” a woman.
“Why?”, I ask him.
He doesn’t know. He squirms on the other end of the couch, twisting away from me, stares out the plate glass window.
“What do you like about being seen as a woman?”, I ask.
He doesn’t know. He picks at the cuticles of his fingernails.
“What do you dislike about being a man?”, I ask. “I don’t know!”, he snaps, exhaling heavily, rolling his head back, eyes searching the…
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