Introduction

It's about the oldest continuous memory I've got. Sure, I can remember flashes of stuff like a toy or an animal at the zoo, but this memory is like a movie. I'm standing with my sister in the wings of a stage in a theatre, watching the empty stage as the audience waits for the performance to begin. A spotlight comes on and my parents walk on stage. Dad is in a tux, as an adult I would say he was resplendent in a tux but I was only about six at the time and such words were not in my vocabulary. He was just my father and he was smiling, doing what he loved to do most - make music with my mother.

I speak first of my father because he tends to get lost when on stage with my mother. Resplendent would certainly apply to her as well, but breathtaking or glorious or divine or incandescent would apply equally well. She was wearing a beautiful blue velvet gown, made of a fabric so soft that I would pet it whenever I had the chance. Diamonds sparkled from her ears and around her neck, brought to gleaming points of incandescence by the spotlight focused on her. Even at the tender age of six I knew my mother was beautiful and I so wanted to be like her.

But I stood in the wings wearing a junior version of my father's tux, disappointed that I couldn't be beautiful, but unable to express that thought. My sister was wearing a blue velvet dress just like my mother and it just wasn't fair. At home we played dress-up together rather often, but I was feeling miffed that for some reason I wasn't allowed to be as pretty as my sister. That evening was the first time I realized that boys and girls were somehow different, but I wasn't able to understand why.

I listened as my parents went through the program of classical music, my mother's superb voice filling the hall without need of any electronic amplification. At the conclusion of the performance Uncle Armond placed a bundle of roses in Janice's hands and gave me a single white carnation, then and gently pushed us toward the stage, where we presented our floral tributes. I felt sorry for my father who got only one little white flower, it seemed awfully unfair to me.

As we had rehearsed it, my father introduced us, then Mom and Janice left the stage and we sat together at the piano, where we played a short excerpt from Bach's Die Kunst der Fuge scored for four hands. Dad had to modify it a bit because of my small hands, but we played it well. I got my first taste of applause from an audience and I was hooked for life.

 

The early years

I suppose I should introduce myself - I'm Cherie Alcorn, originally the son of two musicians but it shouldn't surprise anyone reading this that that appellation is no longer accurate, at least the son part. Growing up in a house with two superb musicians my sister and I were immersed in music starting from the womb. For all I know, there was music playing as we were conceived.

Family legend has it that Mom broke into the aria from Wagner's Ride of the Valkyries as I came forth into the world, lustily joining her in excising my lungs. You can credit that or not as you wish, but while I have developed a speaking voice that is not inconsistent with someone named Cherie, I will not be singing arias in any range, thank you.

Our parents were wise enough not to force musicality on us, but to provide ample opportunities for us to pick up a flute or guitar or sit at a piano whenever the spirit moved us. Naturally, whenever we had a question they were there to answer it, helping us find the correct fingering or providing examples for us to emulate.

Janice found herself drawn to wind instruments while I gravitated to piano and guitar. When Janice discovered Dixieland I found the banjo suited me, we probably drove our parents nuts with squealing clarinet reeds and sour banjo strings until we mastered those instruments.

Janice and I spent many evenings playing with our parents, both on instruments or with cards or board games. I have virtually no memories of watching television as I grew up; family games, reading, guests for dinner and conversation of an evening and of course hours and hours of practice at their craft were the norm.

Above all, our parents encouraged freedom and exploration while gently guiding us away from things that might get us in trouble. I inherited both my parents talents in the kitchen but Janice never did find more than the basics of preparing food interesting. Her interest slowly turned toward the mechanical, eventually becoming a highly sought-after luthier as she matured.

Her voice, while not possessing the spectacular range our our mother's, was versatile enough to sing duets along with Mom or myself. Me, while primarily an instrumentalist, I found my vocal interest in small trio jazz where Janice was equally at home singing scat with me.

My older sister Janice and I grew up in a rather eccentric fashion. Part of the time we lived in our New York City apartment, where we were surrounded by a plethora of instruments, sheet music, recordings and no few living, breathing artists. Because of our parents' extensive touring schedule, we were home schooled, spending about half or our lives on the road once Mom had recovered from the rigors of birth.

In our sexist society, the phrase home schooling usually implies that the mother assumes the role of teaching and the father assumes the role of provider. This most certainly did not apply to our family. Both of our parents actively participated in our lessons which, while heavily biased to the musical, did not ignore math, science, history and other subjects. I dare say that Janice and I received an exemplary education, strongly tilted to independent research appropriate to our current ages.

As we matured, we each had our own computers, of course, but with all the other attractions in our lives we weren't really into computer games. Likewise, since we would be in one place only for a few weeks at a time we didn't really develop any social networks beyond playing with the various children at any particular venue. Long-lasting relationships were just not a part of our life.

Spending much time in France, Spain, Austria and Germany, we naturally soaked up the local language, we haunted local libraries when we had matured to the point of being able to do so on our own. I think the word eclectic quite adequately describes our education.

We learned how to amuse ourselves while our parents were rehearsing or performing. We became very independent children, creating our own games and making do with whatever was available when we landed in some new apartment in some new country. Janice had her few special dolls that came with us no matter where we went, and since I doted on my big sister I simply had to have my own collection. No matter where we were in the world, our small doll family could be depended on to provide hours of amusement for us.

Then there was dress-up. (You just knew that had to be coming somewhere, didn't you?) Until the age of five or so, the various babysitters, not to mention our parents, thought my wanting to wear Janice's clothes was cute. I can't explain it even to this day, but I have always liked frills and skirts and colorful outfits. I invariably chose brightly colored t-shirts for my everyday wear and never could see the sense of wearing a suit and tie.

I thought my father looked good in his formal wear, but I knew my mother was far more striking in her gowns and jewelry. My poor mother had to lock away her jewelry box for a time as my young self just couldn't understand why wearing her expensive jewelry was forbidden. Mom was quite wise, however and eventually bought me some cheap costume jewelry of my own to use when Janice and I had tea with our dolls.

Years later I asked Dad what he thought when that happened, and he replied that he probably realized I was more a girl than a boy even before I had the capacity to realize that for myself. He didn't understand it, but he remembered how his own father had tried to stifle his creativity as a child, thinking that a career in music was not proper for a man. He was fortunate that his father realized his problem eventually. Dad was simply not going to try to make me conform to any arbitrary set of values.

Which brings us back to where I left off in the introduction, with me in a junior size tux on stage with my father. Even at that tender age I had absorbed the truism the show must go on! Even though I was unhappy to be wearing the tux I played my childish best on the stage, but my parents noticed my introspection on the way back to our home. Even in the lethargy that often follows a successful performance, my parents sat us down and tried to find out what was bothering me.

I knew I wasn't happy with wearing a tux, but my six year old vocabulary wasn't quite up to the task of putting my dissatisfaction into words.

Because of my open and tolerant upbringing I had no conception of the rigid gender lines people outside our family held to. I really thought that Dad wore a tux and Mom wore a dress just because that's what they liked to wear. Certainly I knew men and women wore different clothes at the theatre, but since kids everywhere wore different clothes I didn't really make the gender connection to the costuming. After all, I wore Janice's skirts when we threw a tea party for our dolls. Tea parties are formal, right? Thus you should wear a nice skirt and blouse when you go to a tea party.

My parents are patient people, and eventually they managed to work out that I really wanted to wear pretty dresses like Mom when we were at the theater. Not so much because I wanted to be a girl, but because I simply liked those clothes more than the men's formalwear.

I'm sure my parents had some serious discussions once they had put us into bed for the night, but in my innocence I was just happy to have managed to tell them why I was unhappy. That made the world right again.

 

The next morning I awoke with our conversation of the night before clear in my mind. Having been able to put my previously unfocused thoughts into words, I begged Janice to let me wear one of her dresses that day. Even at the age of eight, my sister was the consummate director and producer she was later to become; the family was scheduled to attend a luncheon with the people who paid the bills for our musical addictions, so naturally we had to be in our best clothes.

Although she was two years my elder, we were within a few pounds and a couple of inches of each other, wearing the other's clothes was no problem at all. Little miss director selected our dresses and even let me wear a pair of her frilly panties. We both wore white tights and shiny black shoes, but I was in her red dress with white lace accents that she wore last Easter, complete with a silly little hat that kept falling off my head. Janice chose a very simple green dress that made my outfit seem all the more feminine. I doubt she had that in mind, but that's the way it worked out. We brushed each other's hair and presented ourselves to our parents feeling very grown up that we had dressed ourselves for the party.

That was the morning Janice christened me Cherie, as Charlie just wouldn't do. There are pictures of that morning, the very first time Cherie made a public appearance. My parent's expressions were bemused, our expressions were insufferably pleased with ourselves.

Looking back, I am amazed at how my parents reacted. The evening before their son had played his first professional gig in front of a large audience. This morning they had two daughters ready to go to a very important fund-raising luncheon before all the money people and supporters of the arts. Their decision to allow me out of the house and into the public eye in my sister's dress was perhaps one of the most important decisions of my life, even though I was completely oblivious to it's import. To a six year old, there was just no problem.

It is perhaps fortunate that there are no pictures from the luncheon showing the confusion of the people who knew our family when two daughters appeared where only one had been before.

As usual, the unusual soon became the mundane, and the adults forgot us small fry amidst the plotting and planning for the future of the arts. Even at age six I was a veteran of these gatherings, so Janice and I found ways to amuse ourselves while our parents glad-handed the crowd. We talked to some of the people there, but that soon became boring. We had come equipped with coloring books, so that filled up some of the time, but you can only color so long before that, too, palls.

Fortunately there was a piano available to us. I hesitate to use the word prodigy, but by this time Janice and I were pretty good pianists for our ages. These days you can go on You-Tube and find video of three-year-olds storming through Bach variations, so we weren't the only talented little kids in the world.

Janice had recently discovered the stride piano style and was enthralled. The problem was her small hands simply couldn't make the reach to play the walking bass, so she recruited me and we figured out how to do it with four small hands. I played the bass line while she did the melody. With the memory of last night's applause still fresh in my mind, I happily joined her at the piano and we played, completely oblivious to the crowd around us.

The crowd, however, did not remain oblivious to us for long. Two cute little girls playing Jelly Roll Morton's King Porter Stomp on a grand piano are not easily ignored.

We didn't realize it then, but to accommodate our small hands we created our own unique arrangement of the tune, with Janice improvising like mad. We were so into the music we didn't notice that the room had gone quiet, listening to us play. When Janice had milked all she could from the tune she gave me the signal and we went out with a run along the keyboard passing it from hand to hand along it's length. Fun Stuff!

We were completely startled by the applause. Remembering the night before, I slid off the bench and Janice and I curtsied to the crowd. Now just why I chose to curtsy rather than bow I can't tell you to this day, but someone in the crowd had a camera and in due course a photo of us with bent knees appeared in our mailbox.

Naturally we were encouraged to play something else, so we chose Scott Joplin's Maple Leaf Rag because we had been playing that one a lot lately. Janice had infected me with her interest in Ragtime music and we enjoyed playing together. Even at eight years old, Janice had become proficient at jazz improvisation. Our arrangements were simple, we were still too small to reach the pedals back then, but sounded good to us.

They sounded good to the others, too. Someone asked what happened to Charlie who played so well the night before and Mom managed to deftly deflect the question before I could say 'Hey! I'm here!' So Dad and I played the Bach piece together and then Mom sang one of Schubert's songs.

I was sorry that the party was over, I loved being the center of attention with my sister. The Alcorn sisters had given their initial public performance, but certainly not their last.

 

The Alcorn Sisters

It took all of my parent's persuasive powers to get me out of that dress at bedtime. Janice and I stayed in our party clothes all day. Riding in a bus or taxi, my parents proceeded through the errands of the day. Confirmed urbanites, they didn't even own a car. Parking was a hassle and since they were gone much of the year, it was far more economical to use public transportation or rent a car on the few occasions one was required. That day I noticed my sister and I attracted far more attention than usual, cute little girls tend to do that. I rather liked it.

It's certainly trite, but from that day forward I really liked wearing pink. I know, I know: a sexist at six. If not pink, then something with ruffles or lace. Somehow, having gotten the concept that boys and girls wear different clothes, I was convinced I was a girl. Maybe it was because of the home schooling, where we were never separated into boys and girls for bathrooms or activities, but I was as close to ignorant of gender as it was possible for a child to be.

But I liked Janice's princess t-shirts better than my race cars and semi-macho images. At home I was perfectly happy to wear a t-shirt and jeans just like Janet, but if we were going out I wanted to wear something nice. To me, something nice meant a skirt or dress, frilly, colorful and fancy. I annoyed Janice constantly because she didn't really care about looking nice when we went out, and at first I had to borrow her clothes if I wanted a dress to wear.

After my debut as Cherie, Janice and I became even closer as we tried to make music together. As the older, Janice often decided where our next musical foray went, but as we grew more proficient on the various instruments we really did find ourselves reading each other's minds and simply knowing where the other would go on the next note and realizing where our own path lay. As most musicians can attest, it's as close to telepathy as a person can get when playing with someone you really connect with.

Our parents encouraged us to enter various youth competitions both home and abroad, and we followed our parent's lead in becoming seasoned performers even at our tender ages. Of course, the competitions called for our best clothes, and Cherie was the one who guided Janice in her couture even as Janice guided me in our musical selections.

In time, Charlie simply faded from the world as Cherie came to dominate my personality. The only time Charlie appeared was when boarding an airplane, and his ambiguous wardrobe only lasted until we opened our suitcases at our destination.

By the time I was eight and Janice ten, I had my own wardrobe of mostly girl's clothing, and it was far more girly than Janice's. We were still virtually the same size, so we traded clothes like sisters do.

Years later, my parents admitted they thought this was just a phase and decided to let it run it's course. By the time Janice was ten and started to develop a figure it was pretty clear that it wasn't a phase.

Things came to a head when Mom decided that Janice's budding breasts were in need of a bra. No way in hell I was going to let her get a bra if I couldn't have one, too. My parents had done their best not to freak out because their son thought she was a girl, but there's something about a bra that crossed some line in my mother's head. My father's, too, I suppose. Being professionals themselves they called in a professional for advice, and that's how I got to meet Doctor Bianca Walker.

 

The Doctor Will See You Now

I was a bit confused by Doctor B. As a healthy kid, I had seen a couple of doctors who just measured me and poked me here and there, then sent me on my way. Well, that is unless they used a needle to poke me, and then I wasn't quite so complacent. OK, I hollered my head off and let everyone know I was not happy with getting a shot.

Having been assured by my mother that Doctor B would not be sticking needles in me, I actually expected to get weighed and measured and go home. Limited life experience, you base your expectations on what has happened before.

I was surprised when Mom just sent me in the door to see the Doctor, no one even asked me to step on a scale or stand under that measuring stick thingie doctors use. Mom just said 'talk to the nice lady, please.'

And she was a nice lady. Even at eight I was a veteran at talking to strangers, that was an essential attribute for the child of a traveling musician. Doc B was smart, she she got me talking about music right off the bat, then about making music with my sister. She snuck in questions about what we liked to wear when we performed, then asked about how Janice and I played together. I had no idea that she was exploring my gender identity, I was just happy to tell her all about the things I liked and the things I did. After all, what kid doesn't like to be the center of attention?

So OK, I now know there are lots of kids who would rather melt into the wall unseen, but I was never one of those kids. My parents made their living standing out from the crowd and I had become addicted to the applause from an audience rather quickly. Be that as it may, I liked Doc B and was perfectly happy to see her again in another week.

As strange as it may seem, the few kids I knew tended to be the children of other artists, who were also immersed in the arts. It should come as no surprise I had met a fair number of gays and lesbians, who were far more common in artistic circles than in the general run of people, so they were nothing unusual to me. Until Janice and I got our training bras, the whole gender thing was a non-issue to me. Strangely, it was the lady who fitted us with our bras that somehow made the whole boy-girl thing click in my brain.

 

The Training Bra

I was conflicted about the whole bra thing. Naturally I knew that girls got breasts, after all Mom had a considerable pair of her own. A year or so back, at another meet-and-greet in Vienna, there was an older boy who was hanging with Janice and me because there wasn't anyone else even near his age. Janice and I were having a bit of fun with him, pretending our German was far poorer than it actually was, making him work at using his rudimentary English to talk to us. Kids can be nasty, even us innocent girls, right?

So anyway, Mom was wearing a pretty low cut gown that revealed quite a cleft between her breasts. This was a strategic decision on her part, one of the big money guys got off on looking down cleavage and tended to write checks in proportion to how far down the cleft he could plumb. (That comment is from my older self, I was innocent of such nuances at the time.)

Anyway, Franz muttered something in German that I later translated as 'Hot shit! Look at them tits!' What? You think a couple of innocent home-schooled girls wouldn't know what such comments in a foreign language meant? Believe me, Janice and I had long since mastered profanity in quite a few languages, even if the exact meaning of some of the words was, shall we say, obscure.

But getting back to the subject of bras, that night Dad had made a similar, but far more proper, comment about Mom's bra without realizing I was in hearing. So I asked why she had to wear a bra in the first place and I got the breast 101 lecture about what happens to girls when they grow up. I listened and filed it away with the 'where do babies come from 101' and 'why can I stand up to pee and Janice can't?' lecture as another interesting but currently irrelevant item.

So, when Mom and Janice started talking about how a girl needs a bra to make her dress look right, there was nothing else for it than to demand one for me as well. I didn't want my dresses to look funny, I was proud of looking good in them. My bratty sister (she was bratty whenever she said something I didn't want to hear) started to tell me that 'I would never need to wear a bra because…' when Mom gave her that look that says 'shut up and keep shut up, do you hear me?' I was starting to get steamed, but Mom assured me that we could both have training bras as soon as we had time to visit the store.

Mom knew when to trod the path of least resistance.

 

When we got to the store, the lady there took us into the changing rooms and had us remove our blouses. My mother's wisdom went up several points in my estimation because she had told me to wear a button-up blouse and not my favorite violet sundress since we were going to be fitted for bras. I only pouted a little before giving in to her judgement.

The lady measured me and then Janice, then told her she would not be needing a training bra because she was almost an A cup already. I thought Janice would be disappointed because she was so happy to be getting a training bra, but she surprised me by being overjoyed and putting her fist in the air like those soccer players did after scoring a goal.

Then Janice and the lady had to explain about cup sizes and why different girls needed different sizes. Janice and I had the same chest measurement and so would need the same size bra, but hers needed a bigger cup because she had bigger breasts. The lady was nice to say 'bigger' even though I had no breasts at all.

So we each got six new bras, but Janice got one in pink and one in blue while I had to settle for all white. The nice lady explained that training bras only came in white and I would have to wait until I matured a bit before I could get colored bras. I was ready to mature right then and there, not really understanding what the word meant, but the lady just told me it would take time.

I almost whined 'it's not FAIR!' but stopped myself, remembering that Mom and Dad didn't like us to say that, especially in public. Mom did buy me a new pink blouse with a Peter Pan collar, so I was mollified by the time we got home. Also by the time we got home both of us were wiggling and writhing, trying to adjust our new bras that had started to itch in places where it wasn't polite to scratch.

I just hoped by the time I 'matured' my bra would stop itching.

 

The next time I saw Doc B she commented on my new bra and I proudly told her that Janice and I were now big girls.

"Girls?" she asked.

"Sure," I replied with all the confidence of an eight-year-old.

"And how do you know you're a girl?"

I reeled off a list of superficial things that had sort of soaked into my young brain: wearing dresses, playing with dolls, that sort of thing. Doc B slowly got me to talk about each of the things I mentioned and I had to agree that there were exceptions to each of the things I thought made a girl a girl. Eventually she asked the jackpot question: "Why do you think you're a girl?"

The answer boiled down to: "I just know I am." Heavy stuff for an eight-year-old. But now the cat was out of the bag; I started thinking about the difference between boys and girls and wondering why I just knew I was a girl. Since we bathed together when we were younger I knew I had a penis and Janice didn't, that fact now achieved significance. Over the next couple of years I recognized the significance of the physical differences between me and my sister, but mentally I never doubted I was a girl.

When Janice was twelve she had matured to have a very nice figure but I was still flat as a board and still wearing a training bra. I envied her - no, I was downright jealous - but by then I understood why I was not going to be able to follow her. It was somewhere around this time when Doc B introduced the idea of eventual hormone therapy.

Of course, finding out that there was a way that I could actually grow up to have a woman's body thrilled me and I was ready to start right now! Once again I had to swallow my "it's not FAIR!" when she explained the age limits. I was singularly determined to appear mature before my friendly shrink.

I had to settle for what appeared to me as a half-measure - anti-androgens so at least I wouldn't start turning into some hairy monster. True to my parent's teachings, Janice and I did our research. We searched the web and we found a whole lot of information, not to mention a whole lot of pretty icky stuff. Mom and Dad were advocates of free inquiry and we had no childproofing or filters on our web access.

Since Dad was the handiest at the time, we cornered him and asked about the weird stuff we had run into. I think it was the first time I had seen dad get really embarrassed, but he valiantly tried to explain pornography before reprising the birds-and-bees explanation we had gotten as we grew older.

Oddly enough, actually seeing a man with an erection was what brought home the differences between boys and girls and sex started to make sense to me. Seeing a man with an erection who also had very generous breasts gave me hope that someday I could have breasts, too.

Naturally, my next question was how I could have breasts, so Dad, who by this time had done some research himself, repeated Doc B's simple explanation of hormones. I already knew from the doctor I couldn't do it that way for just ages and ages!

That's when Dad introduced the idea of how doctors had come up with ways to help women who had breast cancer look like they still had breasts. From there it was a short step to realize that women with small breasts and even men could use prosthetics (I worked hard at being able to pronounce that one as Dad shied away from the more colloquial falsies.)

Ah-ha! Immediate gratification, that appealed to my impatient, ten-year-old soul. I could at least look like my sister even if it wasn't all me. With the sophistication of a denizen of the great metropolis of New York City, I knew you could find absolutely anything in The City and probably could get it wholesale. I was ready to go out the door and find those prosthetics without any further delay.

Sometimes Dad could be a wet blanket. It was almost bedtime on a Wednesday night, even if he knew where to go the place would be closed. Besides, it was more appropriate for Mom to be the one who helped me in this endeavor. Years later he admitted that no matter how liberal his outlook, lingerie shops still made him nervous. I went to bed frustrated that night.

 

My First Breasts

Again, I have to give my parents points for patience and tolerance. I woke up the following morning just raring to go shopping and find the prosthetics that could make me look like a proper girl. I suppose they were used to my enthusiasms, but I must have been particularly obnoxious, practically dragging Mom out the door before she even had her face on.

When she said we would have to wait a while until she was ready to go out, the uber-girly part of my brain kicked in and I decided if I was going to look like a girl with breasts I certainly should be able to wear makeup. Like I said - I was prone to enthusiasms. I suddenly stood before my mother's 'stern face' and knew I was in trouble.

"Young woman! I'm sure you have heard me tell your sister that there will be no makeup until she turns fifteen, haven't you?"

Busted! Of course I had heard that, more than a few times. Janice had even tried the 'it isn't FAIR!' bit to no avail.

"Oh, yeah." I mumbled.

"So what makes you think you can wear makeup when you are still five years away from the minimum age?"

"Uh… Nothing?"

"Don't worry, sweetie. Your day will come, you just have to be patient."

"I just wish I was the older sister."

"I don't know about that. With all the trouble you cause I probably wouldn't have wanted another kid after you."

"Moooom!"

"Gotcha!"

"There were times when my mother was about as far from the poised and beautiful singer that appeared on stage as anyone could imagine.

 

Mom took forever to get ready - probably all of half an hour. In that time I think I changed clothes three times, I really wanted to be wearing a pretty dress so it looked right with my new breasts. It was all in vain, however, as Mom reminded me that we were going bra shopping and wearing a button-up blouse was far more practical. I begrudged every second it took me to change into a blouse and skirt.

Mom splurged on a taxi instead of the bus and we ended up at a small storefront in a part of town I had never seen before.

At the time I wondered how my mother knew where to go for fake breasts. (I was still trying desperately to pronounce 'prosthetics' properly.) I now realize that a woman involved in the entertainment industry in New York City would naturally know just where to find such paraphernalia. Perhaps she had even patronized the place for herself, but I never thought to ask the question.

I suppose I was expecting someone like the nice lady who fitted me for that first training bra, but this time it was a man. A very tall, skinny, curly haired man who spoke with a lisp. He wore a screaming green lady's blouse (I knew which way the buttons went) and shiny black satin pants. A gaily multicolored scarf was wrapped around his neck.

These days Gene would be considered an almost painful stereotype of a gay man, but back then I just thought he was a nice, funny-looking guy. He greeted my mother by name and welcomed me to his little store quite effusively. To this day I've never had the nerve to ask her how she came to be on a first-name basis with Gene.

Gene plied his measuring tape quite professionally and confirmed it was time for me to go up one more band size. My bras had been feeling a bit tight lately so I was pleased to realize I was growing up.

After a whispered conference with Mom, Gene left and Mom told me not to be afraid to take off my bra with Gene in the room. She assured me he was a professional and had even seen her without a bra at times.

Wow! That was something I hadn't thought could happen, I knew that girls weren't supposed to let boys see their tops. I suppose my mother was able to interpret my dazed look properly and assured me that this one time it was perfectly OK to remove my bra with a man present.

Eventually Gene came back with a new white bra and it even had lace on it. I had been jealous of Janice because her bras were prettier than mine, but training bras didn't even try to be lacy and pretty. Gene looked at me like an artist planning a portrait, then adjusted the straps and handed it to me. I slipped it on and snapped it behind my back with the ease of long practice and he made some minor adjustments of the straps and was satisfied.

"So Cherie, do you like chicken?" he asked.

Say what?

"I guess…"

"That's good, Cherie darling. I have here what we in the trade call 'chicken cutlets'." He laughed at his little joke, but I didn't understand. "Pick one up and see what it feels like."

"Reluctantly I did. It was slightly cool and very squishy. It was colored much like my own skin tones and when I looked on the bottom I could see it had a small nipple, just like Janice had on her breasts.

"Put in your new bra and see what it feels like."

"I did and it settled in quite easily. On my right side my bra now looked like it had a real breast in it. I took the other one and put it in, then smoothed the cups like I had seen Janice do a million times.

"I think that is quite satisfactory, don't you Meagan?" asked Gene.

"You always have an eye for just the right thing, Gene. What do you think, Cherie?"

I was staring at my reflection in the mirror.

"They look real…"

"Of course they do, Cherie! And proportioned properly for a girl your age. As you get older we can change them so you will appear to be growing naturally. When you're older we can even glue them in place so you will feel more secure and will not have to worry about embarrassing accidents. For now, simply wash them each night in warm, soapy water and place them in their holder."

"OK. But what's with the chicken cutlets?"

"Ah! Have you ever helped your mother to cut up a chicken breast for dinner?"

"Sure."

"And what did these forms feel like when you picked them up?"

The light dawned!

"I get it! Using a real chicken would be gross, though!"

"I'm sure you're right. Actually, these are more properly breast forms, what we call laughingly call a chicken cutlet is smaller and used by women with smaller breasts. They place the cutlet in the bottom of their bra and it lifts their breasts up and makes them look bigger."

"That sounds silly."

"My dear, you are not the only girl - or person who wants to be a girl - who needs a little help up top. You can put your blouse back on and enjoy your new figure."

"Thank you for all your help, Gene." my mother said.

"Yeah, thanks!"

 

And so it went. I continued growing up as a girl. At eleven I started taking the testosterone blockers and stopped worrying about turning into a grunting caveman. Doc B saw me regularly, but mostly we talked about the normal problems of a teenage girl, or at least a teenage girl without any real sex drive. Actually, watching Janice go through the passions of the lovelorn I counted myself lucky to have simple friends - not boyfriends or girlfriends.

The only time I had to be a boy was when we flew overseas. For that I had to take off my bra for a while and wear androgynous clothes. When I was thirteen my passport came up for renewal and we sent in current photos of my face just as it was, complete with full scale feminine makeup. (Mom made an exception to the fifteen-year-old ruling.) Nobody noticed a thing and eventually the booklet came back and there I was. I didn't bother to remove my bra or falsies any longer and not a blamed thing happened when I flew.

Janice and I continued to hone our musical talents and we entered several contests as the Alcorn sisters, the world simply forgot our parents once had a son.

 

When Janice was ready for college, she scored a full scholarship to Julliard and suddenly I was an only child. Because of our frequent travel it wasn't practical for Janice to live in the apartment alone, so she moved into the dorms. With exquisite bad timing this happened at the same time I started on hormones.

Well, bad timing for me - for her not so much. I doubt she missed my mood swings and bouts of shaky self-confidence. At least I didn't have to cope with being a transgendered student in the NYC public schools. Like Janice before me, our parents continued to home school me, but recently with the assistance of a few tutors in specialized subjects. For the first time in my life I had the experience of finding friends that didn't go away when whatever performance was finished and we went on to the next stop or simply went home.

 

Hormones and Angst

While piano was my first love, I had been increasingly drawn to the guitar as I got older. For about a year I had been taking lessons in classical guitar with Maestro Jordan whenever I was home and was truly getting a feel for the instrument. The skills and feel of the piano is vastly different from the guitar, but both can make beautiful music.

I arrived early for my lesson one Friday evening and, as usual, let myself into the the Maestro's studio. I was surprised to hear complicated blues riffs from an upright bass and a steel string guitar coming from within, where only the softer tones of the nylon stringed classical guitar had held sway. I knew the Meastro taught several styles of music, but I was immediately taken by this driving, repetitive, forceful music. The Maestro was on the bass while his partner wove in between the notes, bending the strings and sliding the tones in a way that completely captivated me.

I couldn't help it, when they finished I applauded and enthused "I have to learn how to do that!"

The Maestro looked rather like a kid who had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, but he laughed and said "Sometimes you need to break out of the pattern and try something different. Tonight was one of those nights, Cherie."

"Next time I come over I'll bring the electric axe and we can really lay down some tunes, Gerald."

"Please, David! You'll ruin my reputation with this lovely woman who plays the classical guitar like an angel."

"So I'll bring along two electric axes and she can play with us."

Me? Play an electric guitar? Madness!

"David! You'll scare the poor child with the Devil's Music."

"Nonsense. She's no child, if she's good enough to be your student then she's good enough to play the blues."

"My sister and I used to play Dixieland together and we sometimes play some jazz with our parents," I informed them.

"What did I tell you, Gerald. She's a natural. What are you doing Saturday night, Angel?"

"David! She's half your age. I'll not have you robbing cradles in my studio!"

"You're a dirty old man, Gerald. I'm not going to invite her to my bedroom to see my etchings, I'm inviting her to the Guitar Club meeting tomorrow."

"Don't go, Cherie! This reprobate will have you singing the same line twice in a row as you meet the Devil down by the crossroads."

"Keep that up, Gerald and I'll tell your sister on you."

"Did I mention this agent of evil is my brother-in-law, Cherie?"

"My condolences, Maestro."

"See David! She knows you for five minutes and already she sees through you."

"My dear Angel, since this depraved musician - that my sister married in a fit of misplaced passion - has never been known to be wrong in his estimate of musicianship, I propose we put it to the test. Join us and let's play something together!"

"A capital idea!" replied Maestro Gerard. Cherie, you pick the piece and we'll see if David can keep up."

I was suddenly very glad of my father's musical teaching. One of his favorite games was to play the first few notes of some random piece of music and see if Janice and I could follow along. Since I had been getting interested in Irish tunes lately I decided to cheat a bit.

"Can I use your banjo, Maestro?"

"Of course."

I took it from the stand and we spent a minute tuning our instruments, then I launched into Whelan's Jig. Like most Irish music, it is pretty easy for an accomplished musician to find a part even if the particular tune is something you haven't heard before. I certainly had some accomplished musicians to play with and we had a great time.

My classical guitar lesson was forgotten in the joy of making music. Despite their banter, it was obvious these two older men were fast friends and playing with them was a brilliant experience.

I didn't know it at the time, but my life had just been thrown into an entirely new direction. Remember the old saw about for want of a nail the shoe was lost? That eventually ends up with the army being defeated. Well, I wasn't in any army, but by being twenty minutes early for my guitar lesson I was about to change the course of my life.

I could blame it on the hormones, but by the time I left the session with Gerald and David - you'll notice I was now on first name terms with the wonderful musicians I had spent a good two hours playing with - I was flying higher than a kite. I'll spare you any more clichés, but in those two hours I had been introduced to a dozen styles of music on an unbelievable assortment of instruments.

I had a passing familiarity with reeds and winds, mostly because Janice was so enamored with them, and I got to play them every so often. But Gerard handed me a pennywhistle after I had introduced an Irish tune and patiently waited while I worked out the fingering. By the time we got to the end of Black Eyed Susan I was feeling fairly confident of my fingering. No sooner had I started to feel more relaxed than I was handed a violin and we sight read some Mozart. I found the bass in my hands and they started in with some more blues, then a standard from the forties and a silly piece of bubblegum rock from the sixties. I have never been through such an eclectic and challenging set of music in my life. Here were two masters, looking at me with confidence and telling me I could do it if I tried!

Gerard even pulled out a hurdy-gurdy, a bastard instrument that looks like a violin sitting on top of a mill-wheel with an attached keyboard. Seriously! I sucked at playing it, but it was fun to try. I think by that time Gerard was just itching to see how far he could stretch my talent.

I did try and I think I succeeded. Janice tells horror tales about sitting before a jury of professors and having to play for them in order to pass a course; I don't think I would be even slightly worried about my performance before such an audience after that session.

 

Saturday Night at the Guitar Club

I practically counted the minutes until Saturday night. David had assured me that my classical guitar would be welcomed but he encouraged me to bring my banjo as well. Seems that the club is pretty liberal and any stringed instrument is welcome at their jam sessions.

My parents were somewhat skeptical at first - they were uncomfortable with the idea of a sixteen year old girl going off alone on a Saturday night to meet with a crowd of people she didn't know. Of course I had the bus and subway schedules engraved on some part of my brain and could easily find my way to the church basement where the Guitar Club met, but parents worry. Gerard assured me I would be home before eleven as the meeting broke up by ten, but young girl alone at night is one of those things a parent worries about.

A call to Gerard (I think Mom and Dad were impressed that I had been invited to use his first name) reassured them and so, purse securely around my neck, guitar and banjo in hand, I set off on my adventure.

I was warmly welcomed and David introduced me to the regulars there. I was a bit surprised that there were only two other women there but over a dozen men. In the orchestral world the male female ratio is nothing to write home about (about 60% men) but could this be typical of guitarists?

I found I was rather over-dressed for the occasion. Unconsciously I had dressed as if I were performing in a classical concert - white blouse, long black skirt, sensible black shoes. By this time I was wearing a very high end pair of glue-on silicon forms and had taken the trouble to use the makeup so I could display a hint of cleavage. I don't know if I can express just how feminine that made me feel, but I still wasn't quite used to feeling the cool air on my chest. I loved it!

Everybody else was mostly in jeans and t-shirts, even shorts. The one exception was this tall, skinny back dude in a brilliant green dashiki. His instrument was a big gourd with an absurdly long fretless neck and only three strings. He could play the heck out of it, though.

We sat in a circle and traded tunes, and the range of styles was impressive. It's amazing just what you can do with a guitar. I was also impressed at how someone could start a tune and the others would just jump in and play along. In the classical world playing by ear is rare, but I can thank my parents for our family sessions where creativity was king. Janice and I often tried our best to trip up the other in a tune, so we both became very adept at listening to another musician playing and following along.

I contributed a short piece of Bach for my tune and was applauded warmly. I wasn't the only one there with a classical guitar. A little later a guy named Philip also did a classical piece that I knew well, an instrumental version of Schubert's An die Musik.

I had heard my mother sing this one a thousand times, and found myself unconsciously singing along. I hardly realized I was doing it until I noticed Phillip's brilliant smile was focused on me and his eyes encouraged me to keep going.

Now I don't consider myself a singer; after all, who could compete with my mother? Probably because I had been born male and had never gone through male puberty my voice had settled in as a passable contralto.

The applause was surprisingly enthusiastic. Phillip rose and came over, taking my hand and kissing it like some old time cavalier courting his lady fair. My first kiss from a man! Under my glued-on forms my nipples did something… something… indescribable. They tingled. I could barely speak, but I managed to say 'thank you' to my new friend.

Little did I know that I had just met my future husband.

 

Because of my parents' professions I had learned how to work a room while still in diapers. I had attended innumerable gatherings of artistic people all over the world, introducing myself and making small talk were as much a part of my art as the actual playing of an instrument. The difference that night was there were no supporters and patrons to impress, we were all working musicians or highly talented amateurs. We were gathered for the sheer joy of making music and conversations at the break tended to be stories of some amusing incidents at a concert or how someone found the perfect instrument for themselves.

There was one other difference that night: Phillip. For the first time in my life I felt a strong attraction to a man. We inevitably sought each other out after making music together and the rest of the room seemed to fade as we talked. I found myself actually feeling shy around the man, his glowing smile and deep, dark eyes seemed to suck me into their depths. Naturally we held a short mutual admiration session, but talk turned to more personal things rather quickly.

Me being sixteen, he seemed to be an 'older man' although he was only six years my senior. At sixteen anyone more than a couple of years older seems ancient, what could I say? Unlike me, his musical talent appeared in a family that made music by turning on a radio, his parents still couldn't understand why he wanted to fool around with instruments instead of getting a real job. I had known intellectually that such people exist, but I felt scandalized on his behalf that he had to cope with them. I think he was a bit wistful learning how my family encouraged my art.

The break seemed far too short, but we once again sat in a circle and made music together. This group was all about encouraging each other, even those few who were, frankly, pretty bad were applauded and encouraged to keep improving their skills. I found myself wishing I had a steel-string guitar at times, the soft tone of my nylon-string instrument couldn't compete when half a dozen people traded licks and stretched a rollicking tune to its limits.

I was distracted because Phillip sat next to me after the break and I felt a certain something just sitting next to him. When his turn came he started a slow Irish air, turning to face me so I could watch his fingering. With a nod he invited me to play along and I screwed up my courage to do so. Much Irish music consists of two melody lines repeated over and over as you embellish and expand them with each repetition. We soon found our way together and once again I found myself singing along. No words this time, just soft la-la-la type sounds. This time something magic happened, but I can't explain it if you don't play yourself. Our souls joined is a bit over-dramatic, but it certainly conveys what happened. As the haunting melody came to an end the room was completely silent. I couldn't help myself, I leaned over and kissed Phillip soundly, which isn't easy to do when you both have a guitar strapped to your body.

I'm not sure if the applause was for the music or the kiss, but the accolades were heartfelt.

 

The Older Man

I really don't remember how I managed to get home that night, after all I was in the throes of my first (and last) teenage crush.

Seriously!

You have to realize that while I had known I was a girl from as far back as I could remember, and I had been raised and socialized as a girl, the anti-androgens had arrested my development well before puberty. In other words, sex was simply a word to me - it had no personal meaning. Love, romance, all that so-called mushy stuff - that did compute. I could see the love between my parents, I had read scads of romance novels hoping to understand, but I had felt no urge to mate with anyone, male or female.

That evening I had been taking female hormones for almost eight months. Besides mood swings at the start (OK, maybe more than just 'at the start') the only effect I saw was my skin got a little softer. I spent hours looking at the place where I was willing my breasts to grow. This commonly happened whenever I had to unglue my forms to let my skin breathe, but the stubborn little breast buds didn't do a darned thing.

Tonight, after I had kissed Phillip those darned hormones had strapped on little Johnson outboard motors and swarmed directly to my brain, leaving roiling wakes of unfamiliar emotions in passing. Having not found what they were looking for in my brain, they headed directly to my nipples.

My brain was swirling, my nipples were tingling and I was pretty sure I knew what 'romance' meant in those bodice-rippers. I know I would have been happy to have Phillip rip my bodice if it weren't for the silicone glued over my tingling nipples.

First loves can be a bitch.

 

I have to wonder why my parents didn't immediately cart me off to the ER and have me checked for drugs or booze - I was certainly high. I babbled on about how wonderful the Guitar Club was and how I had connected with this marvelous musician that had played with me. I was this far from saying we made beautiful music together before I realized that that phrase could be easily misconstrued. I even admitted I had sung the Schubert piece with him.

My mother was beaming at this, she had always encouraged me to sing in public, but when your mother is one of the world's foremost female vocalists it's downright scary to think you could ever be taken seriously after her performances.

 

For the record: I'm glad I never had to raise a daughter like myself. I now know that raising daughters is hard enough under normal circumstances, but raising a transgender daughter who has gone positively bananas over an older man is a challenge I am happy to have left to my parents.

Sorry, Mom and Dad.

Having mastered the art of the teenage girl's almost-tearful face and honing my ability to imply 'you-don't-love-me-anymore,' I dragged my bemused parents to a performance by Phillip's guitar quartet. Actually, my parents were quite impressed, the intricacy of the music and its brilliant execution showed the fine talents of all Phillip's fellow musicians.

The guitar is a very expressive instrument, but it's lack of volume before electrification has relegated it to more intimate venues; it seldom is used in an orchestral setting.

Phillip and his friend Samuel displayed considerable talent in transcribing orchestral pieces to be played by four guitars. Dad, who has done a bit of that for the piano, was impressed. Thus I received tentative approval to see more of Phillip, but under some strict rules. The one that chafed the most was someone else has to be in the room with us at all times. After all, he was an older man and I was not your ordinary teenage girl.

I suppose I was ordinary enough and girly enough to be annoyed by the rules, but I did recognize I hadn't really any choice if I were to see Phillip.

Then the world ended five weeks after we met: We flew to Europe for six weeks of engagements in five different countries. I was bereft. I was heartbroken. I was a pain in the ass.

The only possible upside to the whole disgusting mess was I no longer had to put on my Charlie suit to get on an airplane. Small consolation when you're heart is breaking because of the cruel separation of the greatest lovers of the age.

Dramatic?

Who? Me?

I slogged through Switzerland, pouted through Poland, moaned through Monaco and grumped through Greece. If I could have thought of any more euphonious derogatory words for the other two countries we traveled through I would have used them in profusion. I marvel that my parents didn't dump me in the Mediterranean tied to a few hundred pounds of lead.

Such is the strength of love.

My only solace was the guitar. Sure, we had a piano in our temporary digs, but you can't take the piano into your bedroom and hide from the rest of the world. The darn thing was right there in the common space and you had to actually interact with people if you were going to play it.

I wasn't in any mood to interact with people.

So I spent hours every day in my room playing the guitar. I burned through Gerald's lessons in the first two weeks because I spent most of my day driving myself to get more proficient on the instrument. I downloaded music from the net and worked on that, too. I got sick of classical stuff so I found some challenging jazz to play, then took a break with folk. I threw caution to the winds and started learning the Blues, I wanted to be able to play with David the next time I met him. Besides, the Blues was perfectly suited to my mood.

I had to overcome my prejudice against electric instruments, far too much of the Blues is only suited for down-and-dirty electric guitars. Old electric guitars with ancient, fuzzy tube-type amps that weighed about a ton and a half and and suck up enough power to run a small city.

The more I heard the more I longed to be in some down-and-dirty dive in old Chicago, surrounded by those uber-talented black men who had migrated from the South and poured out their anguish in song. I blithely ignored the fact that if a sixteen-year-old white girl had appeared the music would have vanished instantly in the fear of the KKK or some other racist bunch of thugs.

I had to make do with my nylon-string acoustic, but I found some cool audio programs that could process the heck out of my mp3 files and make them sound almost like I was playing a vintage electric.

The lord help me and the saints preserve us, I wanted an electric of my very own. Obviously my parents were pretty liberal (after all they coped with a son turning into a daughter) but there are limits!

But the Blues aren't the Blues without the lyrics. Your guitar can not-so-gently weep the blues, but you need to sing about your hard luck to make it real.

So I sang.

My low contralto was just the thing to moan and cry about my hard luck. From somewhere inside I found a huge pit of rock and gravel, excavated it and poured it into my voice. Move over Big Mama Thornton, Cherie has some troubles to tell you about.

At last, after weeks, months, nay years of being separated the tour was over. I was home again. I could see that wonderful, delightful, brilliant boy named Phillip once again! I fought off the effects of jet lag and called Phillip about twenty seconds after I got to my bedroom, only to get a recording. I had conveniently erased from my mind the fact the Phillip would be on tour for the next two weeks.

Despair! Misery! It just ain't FAIR!

Mood swings?

Damn right! Hormones, the only thing those damned hormones seemed to be doing was make me ride an emotional roller-coaster. Maybe the doctor could up the dose so my boobs will grow just a little faster?

Speaking of boobs, it was time for me to unglue my pretty falsies and let in some air. In fact, I should have done it a couple of days ago but didn't want to fly without them firmly attached. Wouldn't want the TSA to confiscate them because they contained too much liquid, would I?

So I got out the bottle of solvent and gently removed them, then dampened another little wipe to clean off the glue. I ran the pad over my nipple and WOWSER!

Like that word? I had picked it up doing some research on Vaudeville in the early 20th century and was trying to use it all that I could. The endocrinologist warned me that my nipples might become a little sensitive, but what a boffo feeling! That's another word I picked up; it means outstanding. Hey - I did all that research and I need to use it for more than just writing a paper.

I carefully cleaned off the rest of the glue and went to the mirror. Somehow, while I was pissing and moaning about my lost love, my boobs had started growing and I hadn't even noticed! Here I was almost seventeen and I had started to develop at last! Actually, Janice had more boob at ten than I had then, but those boobs were on me.

But talk about frustrating! There really wasn't enough there to make any difference, I could still have been wearing that training bra for all the breast I had. I was excited, but who could I tell? Dad? Give me a break! Mom? Maybe, but it would be embarrassing. Phillip? If telling Mom would be embarrassing then…

I wasn't going to complete that thought.

So my excited teenage girl brain came up with another: What would it be like to have Phillip touch them?

Damn good thing Phillip was out of town. Maybe I should get the endocrinologist to decrease my hormones if I was going to be thinking things like that. Even if the idea of sex was starting to be more interesting, I still had the wrong equipment down there. Touchie-feelie up top could get out of hand big time.

But a girl could dream!

 

Mom and Dad tell me it took a good week to get over my grumps once we were home again. Naturally, I wasn't let out of my schoolwork just because I was behaving like a spoiled child. At least my parents were smart enough not to directly tell me I was acting like a spoiled child or I really would have acted like a spoiled child. A spoiled, bitchy child. Whatever!

Janice tolerantly listened to my crabbing until she had to get her own work done, but having a big sister is a good thing when you are feeling abused by the world.

Friday came and I had my guitar lesson and I was hoping that maybe David would be there and we could play together once again. No such luck, Even though the Maestro was still Gerard he was still the Maestro, he didn't cut me any slack when I flubbed and patiently took me through the exercises until I was grasping them. He relented for the last fifteen minutes and we played duets together.

My funk was gone completely by the time we finished; music can do that for you. Not so studying, but you take the good with the bad. I had SATs and ACTs coming up; even though I was younger than the usual high school senior, the concentrated lessons from my parents had prepared me for college earlier than most students.

Another decision was looming - I had always felt I should concentrate on piano when I went to college, mostly because Dad was a piano genius, I suppose. But for the past couple of months I had found how expressive the guitar can be and I wasn't sure.

Playing with Gerard and David, trading songs with the Guitar club, and (not the least) being able to play with Phillip I was beginning to think I was destined to concentrate on music played in small, intimate settings with just a few other players. I screwed up my courage and finally talked to Mom and Dad about where I saw my talents going.

To my surprise (teenage girls are just so self-centered) I found my parents just as liberal musically as they were with gender. Their answer: go where your muse takes you.

When the time came to fill out the college application, my request was to concentrate on the guitar and other stringed instruments.

 

Looking back, I have to think it was a really good thing Phillip was a few years older than I was. Naturally, I just knew I was and adult at sixteen - that goes without saying when you're a self-absorbed sixteen-year-old - and he had the patience to wait while my infatuation became something with more depth and maturity. Looking back, I still think I should have beaten the man bloody for the trick he played on me when he came back from his tour.

Ah, the passion of the young!

I did not have a cell phone at the time, such things were still in their infancy, which is probably fortunate or I would have been calling the man every five minutes while he was on tour. He had called me twice once I was back in the good old USA, so I knew he would be back this week, but not exactly when. By the time I headed for my lesson with Gerard the next Friday I was a bundle of nerves, breathlessly waiting for his call so we could see each other. I missed my stop on the subway and had to backtrack, so I was late. I knocked and hurried into the studio all a-fluster, ready to spurt out an abject apology.

The words died unspoken. There were four chairs in a circle, the first occupied by Gerard, the next by David and the third by Phillip! I barely had the presence of mind to set my guitar down before I ran to him and enveloped him in a giant hug.

I had a new appreciation for those steamy scenes in the romance novels where the hero returns to his fair maiden after defending god and country in the wars in far-off Germany.

The poor man was overwhelmed. Remember, we had only known each other for a few weeks. He tells me that on that Friday he had certainly become interested in me, but we had barely started holding hands by that point. We had played together and both of us were attracted to each other, but in my teenage passions I had rather built up a romance that had yet to happen.

Gerard and David kindly looked at other attractions in the room while I gushed, but they had knowing smiles upon their faces. While Phillip was surprised at my greeting it didn't stop him from returning it. When he squeezed my ass I just about feinted - it was so romantic!

Eventually I realized we were there for something besides a passionate reunion. So I took the empty seat, fumbled out my guitar from its case and we settled down to making music, which was romantic in its own way.

I didn't know it then, but my formal guitar lessons with Maestro Gerard were over. From then on the four of us met on Fridays for the sheer joy of playing together. Certainly I learned from such masterful musicians, but we now met as equals and friends.

 

Life in College

Life went on as it always does. Phillip and I became closer, he being a frequent guest at our house for dinner and jam sessions. My parents came to love him almost as much as I did. Life was very busy, I prepared to follow my sister to Julliard, traveled to China with my parents - a much less angst-ridden trip as both myself and my relationship to Phillip had matured - met many of Phillip's friends. I couldn't reciprocate there as I didn't really have any close friends to introduce. Acquaintances in plenty, but no close friends.

Like Janice, I moved into the dorms at school. Doc B wrote a letter and Julliard is a progressive school as far as LGBT (and all the rest of the letters that some people hang on after those four) goes. Janice made my life much easier by deciding to be my roommate - no hassles about me still walking around with a hidden penis. With any luck, by the time I graduated that would be a non-issue.

College life was different! I made friends after a while, made music with people who had very different ideas of what music actually was, and learned how to cope with people in large quantities.

Not an easy time, believe me.

Then there was fashion. My big sister had learned a whole lot about fashion in the two years after she left home. Me, I loved skirts and dresses, but my tastes were rather primitive. Like I mentioned before, the long black skirt and white blouse that seemed to de rigueur for orchestral performance played a large part in my wardrobe. Janice expanded my horizons (and my wardrobe) quite extensively. We were still almost the same size and she had no problem sharing her clothes with her little sister once again. Once I developed some taste, she had no problems raiding my closet, either!

After almost two years on hormones I had expanded my personal horizons as well, filling a B cup. With mixed feelings I abandoned my lovely C cup glue-on forms and went all natural. I nerved myself for comments about my sudden reduction but nobody said a darned thing. How is it we work up irrational fears so ridiculously easily?

Actually, one person did notice, but not because I was suddenly reduced up top. With only me filling my bra I let Phillip's hands wander in there one memorable evening. It felt just as good as I had imagined it would be.

Afterwords I felt guilty - not because he had been playing with my boobs but because I knew I was going to have to tell him I was transgendered. Our romance had gone slowly, what with both of us being gone for long periods touring and generally busy schedules. Our petting sessions when we met after a period of absence were getting heavy and this was no longer the infatuation of a teenage girl for a suave older man.

One of the things that endeared me to Phillip was that he had never tried to push me further than I was ready to go. Hugs, kisses - serious kisses, a little groping; we both wanted more but…

Partly it was lack of opportunity. Partly it was because I was technically underage and didn't want to do anything that could get Phillip locked up! Then again we both had roommates. Add to that the touring and we didn't even have much opportunity to take it any further.

Darn it!

Naturally I went running to Doc B and poured out my troubles. I'm sure she had heard it all before, but she treated me as her only concern and gently made me come up with ideas as to how to tell Phillip just who I was. A tricky women, Doc B. She didn't tell me what to do, she made me tell her what I should do.

I knew that - I just didn't know that I knew that.

 

The Revelation

How do you tell the man you love that you aren't fully a woman? Yes, love. I was two months away from turning eighteen and had a much better idea of what real love was. Not what they call love in the romance novels, certainly not what the call love in the movies and TV. Love is what my parents shared, love was what I saw between Phillip's parents. Love was what I saw in Central Park when families watched their children on the playground. Love was patient, tolerant, tempestuous, playful, passionate in turns as the situation demanded.

I was sure that love was what I felt for Phillip. Once I told him, could he love me?

If it really was love, I wanted Phillip by my side when I went for my GRS. Doc B had assured me that when I was legally of age (in only two months!) I had her blessing for surgery. My parents had told me that they were ready to pay for it, their child deserved the best medical care available.

But would he want to be there with me?

I was scared shitless. I don't use that word lightly, my parents taught me to avoid cuss words as unbecoming a professional. I'm using it anyway, it exactly expressed my feelings like no other word could.

I knew he was not a virgin - he had broken up with a woman a few months before we met and he didn't try to hide that they were intimate. I knew he was fine with L, G and B folks; in fact Ross, one of the guys in his quartet, was openly gay.

Unlike many guys I had met in college, Phillip had never made a nasty joke about gays or lesbians and vociferously disapproved if someone tried to tell one in his presence.

So I screwed up my courage and one Friday after two glorious hours of making music with Gerard and David I asked Phillip if we could go somewhere to talk.

Yeah, right.

Now ordinarily when the girl asks her guy that question it could be reasonably interpreted to mean much more than just talk. To his credit, Phillip caught my mood and suggested his apartment as his roommate wouldn't be back until late that night.

We rode the bus hand-in-hand and settled together on the disreputable couch the guys had found somewhere. I carefully hadn't asked just where that somewhere had been.

"I love you, Phillip," I started. "I mean like getting married and forever ever after love."

"I love you too, Cherie. And I mean forever-ever-after, get married and have lots of babies kind of love, too."

"Oh dear! Phillip, I need you to just listen without saying anything for a few minutes. I have to say this and I don't know how to say it right. I just hope you don't hate me after I'm done."

"I could never…"

"Please, just listen. No promises until I'm finished, It's important."

"OK."

And he did listen. All the planning and rehearsing with Doc B and in my head availed me nothing. The whole story came tumbling out in a jumble. I couldn't read anything from his face, but he listened attentively, just like he always does. When I finally ran down I finished with "I'm going to Thailand after the semester ends for my surgery. I want you there with me if you'll still have me."

"Cherie, I love you, but I think I need time."

His arms were still around me, he hadn't rejected me outright."

"You've never pushed me farther than I was willing to go, I would never push you to a decision like this. I want you Phillip, not just as a friend but as a woman wants a man. If I had the right equipment I would have taken off my panties for you months ago. I want you to be the one who lets me say I'm no longer a virgin. Take all the time you need, be sure you can handle this, then call me no matter what you decide. I'll always be your friend even if I can no longer be your girl."

I kissed him on the cheek and left him to think.

 

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Those squiggles are supposed to represent the three longest days in my life. I knew Phillip loved me, but could he love me only as a real girl? Did I wait too long to tell him? Was I going to end up hurting the man I had come to love?

Janice knew immediately that something was wrong. Well, she could hardly miss that I was laying in the bed, face down, and crying my heart out.

Kinda gives away the game, doesn't it?

I heard her come in, heard her go out, heard her come back a minute later. Something cold was pressed to the back of my neck and I arose screeching.

"What are you doing?" I screamed. Or words to that effect once they were cleaned up. Sometimes my pledge to avoid profanity just will not allow the full and complete expression of my thoughts.

"Have a cold Pepsi and tell me what's wrong, little sis."

It takes a big sister to piss you off while being understanding. On autopilot I popped the top and slugged the fizzy liquid back. This resulted in my attempting to imitate one of those medieval fountains where the cute little winged cherub squirts water out of his itty-bitty pursed lips. As far as I know no sculptor in history has chosen to shoot the water out the cherub's nose, but if anyone is interested in trying I have experience as a model.

When I could breathe again and had mopped up the mess, I sniveled and whined and whimpered my tale of woe. Janice was good; about a year back she had broken up with Mr Wonderful and she knew what I was feeling, even if she didn't have my particular problems. Hugs helped. Utter nonsense spoken in just the right tone helped, too. Encouraging words helped, and suddenly we were singing Home On the Range together.

…where never is heard a discouraging word…

Silly helps, too. I wasn't feeling great, but I was feeling better.

 

The phone rang. I went to a progressive school, we had a black rotary phone in each dorm room. Cell phones weren't even cell phones - they were radio phones and had a big, boxy transmitter in the trunk of your car and an antenna stuck to the back window. Sorry to scare younger readers, but I grew up in the stone ages.

Janice answered the phone and I held my breath.

"Yes, he can come up," she told the guy on the desk.

"Phillip?" I asked.

"Yup!"

"Oh god, oh god. What am I going to do? I'm not dressed…"

"Cool it, sis. I suppose you could quick change into those babydolls if you really want to make an impression on the guy."

"Janice!"

He knocked on the door. I tried to say something but my throat was stuck.

"Come in," urged Janice.

He was here. He looked at me and didn't say anything. I couldn't say anything. Then he was on one knee kneeling in front of me.

"Cherie? Would you do me the honor of being my wife?" He fished out a small box. "This ring was my great-grandmother's engagement ring. Since my grandmother and my mother are still using theirs, I would be very pleased if this ring could remain in my family on the hand of the woman I want to share my life with."

I still couldn't speak, but I practically broke my neck nodding 'yes.' The ring was too small for my ring finger so he had to put it on my pinkie, but little details like that were no big deal.

He loved me!

 

Epilogue

Of course there's more to the story, and maybe I'll tell it sometime. Like I said. I started writing on the occasion of our own daughter's sixteenth birthday, and this seems to be a good a place to pause as any.

I will hit some of the highlights, though.

* Mom and Dad's agent was actually able to put together a summer tour of Southeast Asia, so we actually got the world's art lovers to pay for us to visit Bangkok, where my parents took an extended vacation and I had my surgery.

* As part of the tour, Phillip and I opened the show with several guitar pieces, and I even found the courage to sing on the same stage as my mother. I'm not sure which was more daunting, singing or letting the doctor slice and dice my genitals. The surgery was a one-time thing but I'm still singing.

To the amazement of the classical audience, Phillip and I closed our portion of the concert with Dueling Banjos, with me on the banjo and Phillip on the steel-string guitar. Even in Southeast Asia they knew that tune well and clapped along.

* Phillip's guitar quartet eventually became a quintet.

* I did get an electric and learned to play the blues with David. There's a vast world of music out there and I'm not going to be pinned down to any one type.

*Phillip and I adopted a son and a daughter. Our son shows not the slightest desire to follow in his mother's footsteps in other than a musical direction. He is cute enough to make it as a girl, though.

 

In closing, let me wish that you may sing the song of your life with the same verve and gusto as we have sung ours, and may all your songs be sweet.

 

Unless you're singing the Blues, that is!