Blissfully engaged
Nine months after wedding
Four months before divorce
Two weeks later I met my wife-to-be, Greta, classic love at first sight. We fell into the sack on the first date, blissfully cuddled together afterward. As we lay there, I gathered up my courage and told her of my shameful kink, in tears by the time I finished. And when I assured her I never wanted to do that again, she said that she didn't care about the past, that she still loved me. We became inseparable and were engaged four months later. Soon we moved into a one bedroom, and I started a Computer Science degree program at a junior college. I began to have hope I might be "normal" after all.
Even though we made love like sex-deprived minks, my illicit desires would not be denied. When Greta discovered my covert crossdressing, our wedding plans nearly derailed. I pledged that I'd try harder, and thus we tied the knot on schedule. My earnest intentions aside, within seven months my urges overwhelmed me. The campus library carried only one book about transvestites and transsexuals; it suggested that both crossdressing and transsexualism weren't "curable." I took little solace in the book's assurances there was nothing wrong with my behavior. And even more distressing were my memories of that Tenderloin bar, nagging incessantly. I constantly obsessed about going back there . . . dressed as a woman.
Finally, it became too much. I confessed to Greta what I needed to do, and she agreed with resignation that better we find out now than later. I'll never forget my first trip to a "drag" bar, how normal it all seemed to me within a few hours and, most of all, how incredibly gratifying it was when the bartender told me I was a very beautiful woman. The only problem was the sex; I let the barkeep take me home with him, and it was a complete zero for me. I began to think I was wrong about myself; no way was this for me. How dismayed I was when two months later I found myself again going out in public en femme, this time to a Halloween ball. Bitter spats and marriage counseling ensued.
I checked out that book again, this time pondering the chapters on transsexuals. I was amazed to see my feelings described so unmistakably. I could not longer deny that, whatever I was, I was not a "normal" guy and maybe not a guy at all. I began to frequent that bar, the Spirit Club, usually in male garb, seeing if I could really picture myself there. Soon I knew I'd have to leave my wife. Thus I moved to the Tenderloin where rent was cheap and there were lots of girls like the kind I thought I might be: transsexuals. It seemed the best place to find out who I really was.