Pandora’s Box

Interlude V: Pandora’s Box

Thursday, December 4th, 2008

Okay, I knew how to end this foolishness.

Unlike when I was a teen, there was something now called “the internet” where I could look up information and figure things out. After all—I held a Master’s Degree—I was supposedly smart.

Also, the internet was where I found my cheap wig, ugly shoes, and a waist cincher from a place called Glamor Boutique.

In any case, I discovered terms like crossdresser, transgender, and more.  I also discovered there were people who specialized in transformation makeup, where they could make a guy up to look like a girl.  One was up the road in Bethlehem, PA.  Another was on Long Island, New York.

So—the plan.  I knew how bad I looked on Halloween.  Downright ugly.  My friend Dawn was a competent makeup artist, but I wanted to try a specialist.  When even they couldn’t make me look feminine, that could be the end of it.  End of story.  Solved.  QED.

But… which to use?  I knew nothing about either of them, except for the reviews on their websites.

One was in Bethlehem, PA, about an hour away.  Hmm.  Still close.  I might stumble upon someone I knew.  Long Island?  Two and a half hours away.  No chance of “chance” encounters.

Besides—the owner in New York was female. I wasn’t sure about the owner of True Colors.  I didn’t feel comfortable being all “girled up” in front of a guy.  Not yet anyway.

So I sent an email to Femme Fever.  Eventually all was set.  I paid in advance.  I told my wife that I was going up to Penn State main campus for the day—meetings.  Plausible, as I worked part-time as an instructional designer at the Great Valley branch campus.

Still, I hated lying to her.  I really did.

The trip took forever, but I was only fifteen minutes late.  Karen let me in, and we sat down to discuss what I wanted.  But first, she gave me a bra that had pockets for breast forms, a pair of forms (looked like chicken cutlets), and told me to put them on.  She left the room, and I did as she asked.

She returned and told me she did that, to quote, “put me at ease.” Got it.  She was right.

We sorted out outfits, hair color, that sort of thing.  The first outfit was a baggy orange sweater dress (yes, seriously) and a copper-colored wig.

After being dressed in the dress, hose, and shoes, she seated me on a barber’s chair in a room with a wall full of mirrors.  I told her that I wanted to be surprised, so please turn me away from the mirrors.  Karen did the makeup for about an hour and asked what name I was using. I told her Lisa but said it was not set in stone.  What would she suggest?

As the makeup was finished, she stepped back and looked at me. She looked at me and said, “I have a strong feeling your name is Sophie.”

She then turned the chair around, so I faced the mirror and said, “Say hello to Sophie!”

I couldn’t believe it!  I couldn’t believe that the person in the mirror was me!  I didn’t see myself at all.  I actually looked passably female.  Or so I thought.

Also, I usually don’t ignore strong feelings, so I kept the name.  In addition, Sophie is Greek for wisdom, and I can use all the wisdom I can get.

That woman in the mirror simply could not be me.  There was no way…

She took pictures of me in that outfit and a few others.  I ended up buying the pocket bra and the wig.

I was in deep trouble.

Saturday, December 20th, 2008

I needed help.  In addition to the other terms and shopping, I found a support group that met in nearby Malvern called Renaissance.

I told my wife I was going to play D&D (another lie, damn it).  I stopped in Valley Forge Park, tried to put on the waist cincher… which broke.  I decided to find the place and change there.  I pulled into the parking lot of an office park that looked rather empty.  Did I have the right address?  Then I saw someone walking toward the correct door. She wore a black, Goth-looking long dress and had very long, straight gray hair.  I asked her if this was the right place for Renaissance.

She confirmed it was—in fact, she was the president.  Her name was Rebecca, and she became a dear friend and mentor.

I arrived dressed in normal street clothes, and changed on site, scared as can be.  I didn't bring any makeup.  Well that’s really because I don't have any yet but that’s a minor detail.  In any case, I wore a new white top and black skirt I recently bought, as well as the red wig from Femme Fever.

I looked like shit.  But the girls made me feel right at home.  Some could easily pass.  Others like me, well... In any case, they were very open and welcoming.  I felt I was among friends.  In fact, I met many people who would become friends and mentors that night.  And as a bonus, Renaissance was having a Christmas dinner at nearby Shangri-La, an Asian restaurant.  That was—gulp—NEXT DOOR TO THE BOOKSTORE WHERE I WORKED.

I went anyway, as one of the girls spotted me the money to go.  I was pretty broke.

I was terrified the whole night.  What if someone I knew saw me?  Or my car?

Turns out that Shangri-La has a TG night the third weekend of every month called Angela’s Laptop Lounge.  The DJ, Angela, was one of the founders of Renaissance, and was editor of a transgender news website called Transgender Forum.  Anyway, it was really crowded!  I didn’t know there were so many people… like me.  I felt myself easing into the role of Sophie. Or was it just the drinks?  Does it matter?  I was dressed and having a ball!

I spoke with two girls (one of whom became a dear friend) and mentioned this was my first night “out.”  They looked at each other and said “Pandora’s box is open!”

They were absolutely right.

I stayed several hours, but eventually had to go.  I changed in the car then drove home.

While at Renaissance, I also got some recommendations on local gender specialists.  Maybe they could cure me?

Please?

I didn’t want to be a… freak.

Small dreams of books

Everyone has dreams.  Big dreams, small dreams, some in between.

 

But I have dreams that are dead, destroyed.  Most of the big ones anyway.  Transition destroyed most of those.  Destroyed long ago.  But I still hold on to some small dreams.

 

One of the dreams that I had held on to for a long time was a dream of growing old with my wife by my side, surrounded by my books.  The books I picked up over my lifetime, most of which I've never read.  But I thought that in my dotage, I would have the time to read these books.  To sit back, relax, not have to worry, and just read.

Some of these boxes haven't been opened since I was thrown out in 2013.

Wife and I would travel occasionally, going to places that we’ve only dreamed about as well.  But my time, for the most part, could be spent reading those books.  Those books that I have acquired over a lifetime.

 

Well, really, it’s been a few years.  I determined that I will never be able to retire, as I will never have the money to do this, which means I will never be able to read these books. I still have them—boxes of them in storage, over 20 boxes full of books, most of which I have never read. And it looks like I never will.

Oh look- another stack of book boxes

So, what does one do when a small dream is broken?  What does one do with the books? Well, I could throw them all in the dumpster, but that would be an entire waste.  There’s no one who will buy them from me, not in that bulk, except for pennies on the dollar, if that.  So, what to do?

You know, I’ve had so many dreams smashed in my time.  Big dreams, middle dreams.  

 

But sometimes it’s the small dreams, when broken, that hurt the most.

Old dreams

When I was young, I remember having pleasant dreams.  The ones I remember are when my toys were alive (like Toy Story) and we would talk and play together, and for those dreams I wasn't alone.

As I got older, Nice dreams became rarer.  As a teen and twenty something, some of the good dreams were, ahem, spicy shall we say.  Haven't had that kind of dream in forever.

In college (Summer 88), I remember a dream that was me going to the McDonald's down the street and enjoying a Big Mac.  I really don't like Big Macs, but that summer I was so broke I literally didn't have two coins to rub together.  Being able to afford such an extravagance was a dream come true.

Summer '88.  Living next to McD's didn't help

I've written several times that I almost constantly have nightmares now.  I don't remember my last pleasant dream.  That doesn't mean I don't have them- I just don't remember any. 

 

My dreams these days are usually me trying to go somewhere but I keep getting further away.  Others are sort of typical, taking tests after not attending class, or such.  In many dreams, I’m extremely frustrated or angry, and unable to make anything right.  Some are my being pursued by something I never see, but I know to be caught would be fatal.

 

Still, most are memories gone wild.  Rescue squad calls gone tragically wrong, or dead victims returning to blame me for their deaths.  Many involve being rejected by loved ones or abandoned by everyone.

The last ones are the worst, as I wake up exhausted, sad, or depressed. Sometimes that would last for days.  

The rescue ones tend to be the ones that repeat- frequently enough that I know what happens next but can't change it.  Like I'm just a spectator, or it’s a kabuki play.

I don't remember any good dreams since before transition.  Even before. 

 

 

I miss them.  

 

The First Call (another chapter)

This is another chapter of my book Men of the Skull.  It tells the story of my first rescue squad call, and first (no funeral) dead body.

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Chapter 2.104 First Call

            In this book, I’ve done the due diligence and made sure that all dates are accurate, etc.  However, I’ve obscured this date intentionally.  Do I know the exact date?  Yes, and it’s around this time.  And I still mark it quietly. 

            Some things you never forget.

Chapter 2.104 First Call

January 12, 1988 LCB says fraternities liable for serving minors

The new pledges had already gone home as study hours were over.  I pulled one of the big black leather chairs over to face the fireplace.  I was feeling a bit, well, depressed.  Melancholy.

            I had with me a bottle of Southern Comfort, from which I sipped as I stared into the fire, thinking.

One of the new pledges, Ty, came over and stood aside me next to the chair.  He was a surfer dude with long black hair

            He looked at me and said, "Hey Lens, like, are you okay?"

            I looked up at him without moving my head, and said "just a bad memory."

            "Want to talk about it? he asked.

            “Well, it's kind of gory. It was my first Rescue Squad calls as an EMT."

            Oh, that’s right- you're an EMT," he said.

             "Yeah, still am," I said, offering a swig from my bottle.  "This is back in 84 and today was the anniversary of that call."

            "Okay, tell me about it," he said.

Rescue Squad truck, 1984

            I smiled grimly.  "Well, it was a motorcycle accident involving three cars.  Morning commute.  And without getting into all the gory details, the biker, who had survived three tours of Vietnam, was knocked off his bike, hit by a second car, and dragged over a hundred yards face-down on the highway by the third.  We all hoped the impact killed him before that."  I took a swig and handed the bottle back to him.

Accident diagram

            "And we got there, the rescue squad, and after checking the other drivers for injuries, the captain told me to go over with a body bag to the biker, and to roll him into the bag, as a doctor had already declared him dead.  Don't ask me where the doctor came from. Didn’t see him."    

             Swig.

             "I said sure, no problem.  So, I...  I followed the long blood and shit streak up the highway to the body.  And there he was faced down- my first dead body.  No helmet, dark hair matted with blood.  Open leather jacket with Harley Davidson and Vietnam veteran patches.  Uh, blue jeans. Boots.

Swig.

            You want any more?  I asked.

            "Nah, got more studying to do.  Thanks though."

             "So, I set out the body bag, knelt down, and I put my one hand under his head and the other under his stomach to roll him into the bag.”  

I moved my hands to show him what I did.  The bottle sloshed in my grip. 

             “And I did.  Most of the intestines, they stuck… to the ground or to my hand, and his brain stuck… to my other hand.  Leaving a trail of entrails between that bag and the highway.  I still remember it as clear as day.  The brain was sticky in my hand.  Whole face and chest rubbed  away.  I also remember the smell.  The smell…”

             Finished the bottle.

"So, after I finish throwing up all over the side of the road, the captain, Don, put his hand on my shoulder and says, 'welcome to the rescue squad."

 

             Ty stood there for a moment as I stared into the fire, then looked at the empty bottle.

             "I'm sorry" he whispered. 

             "Yeah thanks.  Anyway, that was four years ago today.  Never even learned the guy's name."       

            I kept staring into the fire.  I have no idea how long he stood there before leaving.

            I didn’t cry. 

A Man doesn’t cry. 

Just… stared into the cleansing flames.

 

 *****************************************************************************

            Ty would become one of my best friends in the house.  He listened.  Cared.  About everybody.  He was among my biggest supporters when I came out as Sophie.  He became a college philosophy professor and youth baseball coach in California.

            He died in a surfing accident onelection day 2024.  Hundreds came to his memorial vigil on the beach where it happened.  There’s a plaque in Skull house now, dedicated to him.  On it is quote from Vonnegut, but encapsulated Ty perfectly: “And I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, ‘If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.’”

A singular honor for a great man.

 

Halloween 2008

I don't think I ever wrote about this night for my blog.  So, I wrote this for my book, Men of the Skull, and, well, here it is. 

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            It’s an ancient cliché that the smallest events, even a single word, can change a life. In this case, an off-hand suggestion over dinner.

 

Interlude 4: Forty-Two (Halloween 2008)

Friday, October 24^th, 2008 World Series tickets a hot commodity

The past year had been very hard— what with a newborn and all.  For my wife’s fortieth birthday, she wanted a weekend at Bethany Beach, Delaware, at the Addy Sea, a beautiful, haunted bed and breakfast.  We left our daughter—with her first birthday just days away—with my parents, who’d retired nearby.

That night, we went south a few miles to Ocean City, Maryland, for dinner at the Blue Ox.  With Halloween just days away, the subject turned to costumes.  We both loved Halloween and often did couples’ costumes.  But “we went as Lois and Clark last year,” I mentioned.  As in Lois Lane and Clark Kent. 

“Yes,” she said, “but this year, you’re Lois.”

At that moment, our meal arrived, and the server refilled our wine glasses, which ended the discussion for the moment.

Me as Lois?  I hadn’t dressed as a woman in twenty-five years.  I had shut down and sealed off that “freakish” side of my life.  Should I do it again?  Could I?  I was now much taller and heavier—testosterone poisoning does that, as does age.

 

What was I thinking?  Twenty-five years… no problem.  One night in a skirt and out.  No biggie.

After all, I was a MAN.

 

Friday, October 31st, 2008.  Parade for the Champs

Halloween

It had been a busy work week.  I asked a bookstore co-worker, Elizabeth, to help.  She showed me a memoir by a famous drag queen called I Am Not Myself These Days.  Brilliant book.  I figured she wouldn’t be weirded out by my request.  She wasn’t.

In fact, Elizabeth was very enthusiastic—too enthusiastic.  She helped me choose an outfit at a store specializing in plus sizes.  I found a wig and shoes online.  The memoir suggested using birdseed in cut pantyhose to fill the purple and black lace bra (it was on sale- 42 D).  An old friend who worked at a salon said she’d do my makeup.  Oh, and she invited us both to her Halloween party.  So, we had someplace to go—but we’d have to bring the baby.

 

No problem.

 

Everything was ready.  What could go wrong?

 

Halloween night.  I showered, shaved my legs, and after a quick nap dressed up in the girl stuff in the bathroom.  With me, I had the Superman T-shirt my wife would need.  She already wore glasses, as do I.  But that night I wore contacts.

On a whim, I brought my digital camera into the bathroom. I figured I’d take a picture of her reaction upon seeing me.  I came out of the bathroom armed with a camera in one hand and a Superman T-shirt in the other.  I adjusted the camera, my hand bouncing off the birdseed breast as I did.  She was in the kitchen, maybe thirty feet away.  She turned and saw me.

CLICK.

The look on her face was utter disgust- a stark contrast to her smiling jack o’lantern t-shirt.  I stumbled over in heels and tossed her the t-shirt.  “I’m ready.  Your turn.”

She looked confused, still disgusted.  She had forgotten all about her idea and thought we were staying home with our baby daughter.  So, I explained her idea back to her—and that our friend would do my makeup at the party.  She reluctantly agreed.

Fast forward: the party, me going into the bookstore where no one recognized me (except Elizabeth) which set me a bit at ease, a bunch of us later at a local sports bar where one of my female co-workers grabbed my fake boobs, curious how they felt.  Lots of people in the bar laughed. 

At the book store

Laughing while wearing a constricting bra and waist cincher was a new experience.  Also, I got some looks when I went to the men’s room.

Driving home, I realized that I had a wonderful time that night.

But something felt… different.  Strange.

I looked down at my sweater covered, birdseed breasts and realized what it was.

I felt at peace. 

The anger and depression I’d carried for decades was gone.  Missing.

I knew then that I had made a major mistake.  I was in big trouble.  The metaphorical wall I had built to contain my feminine self, the one that had held strong and firm for twenty-five years, had been breached.

 

I felt right.

 

God help me.

 

 

 

I still have that purple bra, and even wear it occasionally, despite it being a cup size too small.  Now it’s me, not birdseed, filling out the cups.  Funny how things change.

Burning

Interlude III: Burning

Tuesday, August 2, 1983.  Reagan Strongly Defends Policies On Minority And Women's Rights

I'd had enough.  I was done being a freak.  Goddamn it- I was a MAN (on the edge of seventeen!), and it was time I started acting like one!

Puberty finally kicked in about a year before, but I was still much shorter than my peers.  And still looked like I was twelve, which meant getting a date was all but impossible.  I used to go to dances with a friend named Cheryl, but I screwed that up a year before as well.  She'll probably never speak to me again.

Senior picture: July 1983

I was tired of being bullied by neighborhood kids, by my brother, by everyone.  So, I started studying martial arts in a dojo run by one of my mom's co-workers.  Beat the shit out of one of my bullies, and word got out.  His having a cast on his arm from a compound fracture was a good deterrent.

I would model myself after the men I saw in comics, but also after my dad and show no emotion, but Anger.  Endure no insult.  Defend.  Punish.

It was early afternoon when I started a fire in the backyard burn barrel using all my girl stuff: all the clothes, a wig I bought at Halloween in ’81, a little kindling wood, and lots of lighter fluid.  I put the makeup and shoes in a trash bag, and deposited it in the dumpster at Burger King, where I worked.  My family were all away in Delaware for the week, so no one would disturb me.

The hot, sticky sun beat down, as it had all summer.   As I watched and sweated, the flames rose to the music of my Sears boom box.

Since you've gone, I've been lost without a trace

I dream at night, I can only see your face.

 In the shade of the oak tree, our German Shepherd Sabre lay resting, indifferent.  He was an old dog at this point, and tired.  As the smoke and flames consumed my shame, I felt lost- Like I was burning a part of me I'd never get back.  I felt like a heavy veil descended over me.  Suffocating.  Drowning out all emotions.

Sabre.  1982

A week later, Sabre died suddenly of brain cancer.  

He'd been my confidante: the only one who I could talk to about all this.  I felt like he understood.  Or at least, didn’t judge.

Now, I had no one.

I spiraled into a depression that even my co-workers and few friends noticed. It's never left me, even after decades of denial and therapy.

No one could ever know.  After all…

Men don't share stupid feelings. 

 

 

 

 

            I saved Sabre’s dog tag and put it on my keyring.  It’s still there.

A month later, I started my senior year.  Priority one was applying to colleges.  Drexel University was my primary goal, but I also applied to Penn State, as well as Temple’s Tyler school of Art. 

Then in January ‘84, I met this girl from St. Pius high school at a school dance.  Her name (in my book) was Julianne.  A girlfriend would cure me of that… foolishness. 

Right?

First Dressing

Another new bit of my book.  I'm writing interludes about my transition as "in between semester" bits.  So meta!

            Back in the seventies, kids were left alone all the time.  “Just be home when the street lights come on” was the common time limit.  Still, being left for a weekend at thirteen?  That showed trust…

Interlude II: First dressing

Saturday, October 6, 1979.  Pope Firmly Depends [sic] Church Restriction On Contraception

Wow!  I couldn't believe my parents agreed to the idea!  They and John went to the house in Delaware that dad was fixing up for the weekend… and I got to stay behind ALONE.  John was on the football team, but they had an off weekend with no game.  As dad also had off that weekend, off they went. 

Interlude II: First dressing

Saturday, October 6, 1979.  Pope Firmly Depends [sic] Church Restriction On Contraception

Wow! I couldn't believe my parents agreed to the idea!  They and John went to the house in Delaware that dad was fixing up for the weekend… and I got to stay behind ALONE. John was on the football team, but they had an off weekend with no game, As dad also had off that weekend, off they went.

My jobs were threefold:

One- deliver papers for John's Evening Phoenix paper route. In addition to my own.

Two- take care of the dog

Three- Make sure the house doesn't burn down.

The third one sounds like a joke, but it wasn't.  During the previous summer (1978), there were a series of arson fires in a house across the street. The fifth killed four people: Father, mother, and two sons, the youngest of whom was John's age. The one daughter was convicted of murder.  

In any case, I was ready for this weekend.

Sears Catalogue 1979.  I had this outfit (note the clogs!)

Once the previous spring, while the rest of the family were a way visiting relatives, I tentatively tried on one of my mom's dresses.  By then, I was able to articulate my dark secret: inside I was a girl.  That made me a freak. I also had to make sure I never, ever, let anyone guess that truth.  Learned that the hard way when I was four.

In any case, I tried on one of mom's dresses.  It was way too big on me.  I felt so guilty.  What was I doing?  Stupid, STUPID FREAK!  She would figure out I did this.  How would I explain it?  I was going to be caught!  Add to that the whole idea of me being in a dress to begin with…   After some guilty and desperate thought, I figured I would feel less guilty if the clothes I tried were my own.

So, using the paper route money, I ordered some things from the Sears and JCPenney catalogs:  A dress that should fit my short, tiny frame, a skirt, blouse, and (Horrors!) a bra!  As I was always home from school before anyone else came home, it was easy to intercept any packages in the mail.   Then it was just a matter of waiting for an opportunity.  Hiding the clothes was easy: my bedroom was in the attic and was also the family storeroom. I hid everything among the boxes and things.  No one ever found them.

So, this weekend, I was going to try on this... this… gay freak girly stuff.   And I did!  I used bunched up tube socks to fill the bra cups. (Eventually, I’d use water balloons.)  The clothes pretty much fit.  Lucky me.  And what’s with the buttons being backwards?  Anyway, I borrowed a wig that Mom never wore anymore and looked in the mirror.     

Oh God! I looked TERRIBLE!  Like a boy in a dress!  But past the guilt and shame, I felt… What was this feeling?  Years later, I figured it out.

I felt Right.  At Peace.

Yes, I looked awkward and ugly, but I felt that I finally was seeing myself.  Who I should have been all along.

 

Over time, my presentation improved.  As the girls in school were changing- blossoming, I was left behind. But for these short, blessed times, I could pretend I wasn't.  I could be the girl I was inside.  I knew eventually I would hit puberty (I was thirteen), and it would change me into something… I didn't want to be.

I just had to be very careful in these times.  If I were caught...  I didn’t even want to think about it.

But for those fleeting moments, I had peace. 

 

 

I never dared dream that the girl in the mirror would someday become a woman.

Story of Four

I've told this story so many times giving talks, but I've never written it down.   So here it is.

This story begins in June 1970 on a beautiful morning.  I was across the street playing with the neighbor's daughter, I’ll call her April.  She was my age: four years old.

It should be noted that even then I knew I was different.  I knew that I was called a boy, but I knew I wasn’t one.  That said, I didn't really know what a girl was either.  I just kind of knew our parts were different, also that I kept being told by my father that I was going to be raised as a man. I didn’t know what I was- so I must be a freak.

Freak at four

In any case, I was across the street with April, playing house when I was called back to our house by my older brother.  After looking both ways and crossing the street, I went into the house and found my father in the living room.  My mum and brother were nowhere to be seen.

Dad was sitting on a stool, his belt in his hand. I knew what that meant.  Every kid back then knew what that meant. I was told to come over and drop my shorts, which I obediently did.  He bent me over his knee and proceeded to give me the beating of my life.  

I can see it now, over fifty years later, as if it were still happening- feel the frustration and confusion.  

The whole time, he was saying "I'm not raising no fairies, I'm raising MEN!  You don't play with girls.  Girls are good for two things, and one of them is cleaning the house.  You're a MAN, and you will play with the boys.  Boys are better than girls!" 

I was then sent to my room for Eternity- which is what the rest of the day felt like back then.

So, what that beating taught me was that I was different, that this was bad, and that I would have to hide this difference for the rest of my life if I wanted to avoid punishment.

Oh how right I was!

 

Hall Street from the air, 1969.  My home was just a shade above dead center

Decades later, when I came out as transgender to my parents, I asked my dad if he remembered this incident.  He didn’t- and why should he?  To him, it was just another day and one of his kids needing punishment.

He was performing the role of father as he knew it- as it was shown to him by his father, and probably all the men in the family going back through time to Germany and beyond.  As most other fathers of the time did.

Men of the Skull Prologue Draft 2: Electric Boogaloo

Ok, thanks to input from viewers like you, I've revised the prologue a bit.

Opinions welcome.  Please.  

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Prologue 2025: 

Let me tell you a story. 

  

I’ve fought to save lives. 

I’ve knelt in kitchens, compressing chests that didn’t want to rise. I’ve crawled into wrecked vehicles trying to stop people from bleeding to death. Run into flaming infernos searching for anything living to save. 

But there was one life I couldn’t save — nor did I want to: my own. 

So here we are: the revised, updated, now-with-Pine-scent prologue to a book you never read in the first place. This book shows how I buried myself alive in brotherhood, beer, and basement dive bars. Somehow, decades later, I finally dug myself out. 

Everything you’re about to read happened. Or most of it did. The memories are real, even if the edges have blurred. The names have been changed — some out of respect, some out of mercy, and some to protect the guilty. Some people are composites of several personalities. I haven’t exaggerated. If anything, I softened it. Like Obi-Wan said: it all depends on “a certain point of view.” 

This is the story of my college years — two universities, two fraternities, two lives. One of them was real. The other was the one I tried desperately to live, with mixed results and regrettable wardrobe choices. 

In the 2008 prologue, I asked: 

"Why in the world would I write about my college years? Who gives a damn? Is it a therapeutic assignment? An attempt to exorcise demons? To recapture the 1980s of my quickly ebbing youth? Maybe all of the above. Mostly, I just wanted to get it all straight in my head. To learn from it." 

That was 2008. And it was true — or at least the truth I could admit at the time. What I didn’t admit then was that I was in Pain. A deep, howling, soul-level Pain I couldn’t name. I tried to drink it to death. Didn’t work. So I tried to write it to death. 

Then came Halloween 2008. 

I dressed as Lois Lane for a party — my wife as Clark Kent. I knew what was trapped inside me — my dark secret — but I’d managed to control it, erase it, for twenty-five years. I would be fine. Wouldn’t I?

 

Nope.

 

The psychic wall I’d built crumbled. Driving home after drinking way too much (Wife and daughter drove separately), I felt at Peace. All the pain, the anger, all of it… gone. I looked down at my chest, expanded by a birdseed-filled bra, and knew — I was in trouble. 

I finished the first draft in summer 2008, sent it to agents and publishers. Some were politely uninterested. Some not so polite. Mostly I heard nothing. Meanwhile, the Pain kept growing. Not even my newborn daughter’s smile could assuage it. 

My first trip to PSU as Sophie.  July 2013

Fast forward to March 2014. I’d been to therapy, support group meetings, thrown out of the house, lost a dear friend to suicide, almost followed her, stopped lying — and Lance died. What emerged from the ashes of a ruined life was Sophie — the person who had been silently screaming for decades. I’ve also done a lot of writing: a blog detailing my transition, online columns, even The New York Times. The voice I found writing this book was honed along the way. 

This isn’t a trans memoir in the traditional sense. I don’t come out in Chapter 3 with a triumphant montage and a power ballad playing in the background. There’s no makeover moment, no wise mentor (okay, there was one, but she doesn’t appear in this book), no tidy resolution. Most of the people around me back then would’ve laughed — or worse — if I’d said the truth out loud. So I didn’t. I joined a fraternity. I chased girls. I learned how to chug beers and bury feelings deeper than a Springsteen song. I tried very, very hard to be what I thought a man was supposed to be. 

Spoiler: I wasn’t very good at it.

I didn’t write this book to make myself look good. I couldn’t if I tried. I was insecure, needy, petty, cowardly, and cruel when I thought it would keep me safe. I hurt people. I ghosted people. I threw good things away because I was afraid someone would see through me. And I hated myself for it — for lying. To everybody. For my silence. 

  

I hated myself a lot. 

  

But that silence, that pretending — it’s part of the story. It shaped every relationship, every misstep, every small triumph. If you read between the lines, you’ll see the cracks. You’ll hear the longing. You’ll understand the “shame” I couldn’t name because I didn’t have the words. Or the courage. 

That’s the real reason I’m telling this story now — because it’s not just mine. It’s about being the outsider. About wanting to belong so badly you forget who you are. About regret, hope, and the small mercies that keep us alive. 

And if you were there — if you knew me then — I hope you’ll read with grace. I don’t write this to embarrass anyone. I write it because the past deserves to be told honestly. Because I’m tired of pretending. Because for all its flaws, this story is mine. And if you deserve an apology, as some do, please know how sorry I am. 

The story is about brotherhood. About desire. About trying to belong in a world that felt like it was never built for someone like me. It’s about growing up in the 1980s, under Reagan, AIDS, and the eternal war between cassettes and vinyl. “Tastes Great” and “Less Filling.” It’s about Skull House and Crow House, about parties, betrayals, and those tiny moments of connection that made everything bearable. It’s about the people who shaped me, whether they knew it or not — and probably wish they didn’t. It’s a love letter and a requiem to a decade and a place — both more magical as time distorts memory. 

It’s about a boy who thought he was writing a coming-of-age story searching for answers, and a woman who finally found her way back to finish it decades later.  As Dylan wrote “We always did feel the same we just saw it from a different point of view...” 

And yeah, there’s Music. Always Music. If you want to understand the 1980s, you need to hear the beat. The Devil Inside that moved us all. 

What you’re about to read is what I wrote Before, with a needed heavy edit, and with commentary and observations from After. That After solved the puzzle after buying all the vowels. That After has no more secrets. And between that Before — and that After — that’s where the Truth awaits. 

 

Let me tell you a story.

Men of the Skull Prologue 2025 draft.

 

Prologue (2025): “Let me tell you a story…”

Wednesday, July 2, 2025:  Trump administration restores $175 million to Penn after deal reached on trans athletes

 

Right.  This is the revised, updated, all-new, now with Pine-scent! prologue of a revised book you never read in the first place. 

 

Everything in this book happened. Or most of it did. The memories are real, even if the edges blur a bit with time. The names have been changed—some out of respect, some out of mercy, and some to protect the guilty. I haven’t exaggerated. If anything, I’ve softened some of it. It all depends “on a certain point of view.”

 

Last week

This is the story of my college years—two universities, two fraternities, two lives. One of them was real. The other was the one I tried desperately to live, with mixed results and bad hair.

 

In the original prologue, reproduced next, I wrote:

“Anyway, why in the world would I write about my college years? Who gives a damn? Is it a therapeutic assignment? Is it an attempt to exorcise old demons and ghosts and move on with my life? Is it an attempt to recapture the 1980s of my quickly ebbing youth?
Maybe a little of them all, I guess. I’m doing this because I think it’s a story worth telling- if only so I can get it all straight in my head. I want to learn from it."

        Well, that was Truth as I understood it in 2008.  I was in Pain- a deep, howling psychological pain- and I didn’t know why.  I tried to drink it to death.  Didn’t work.  So I’d write it to death.  I finished the first draft in summer 2008.  I sent it to editors, agents, and publishers and received some polite rejections.  Some were not polite.  Mostly though, I heard nothing.  I also circulated a few printed copies to friends for their feedback.  Still, there was that Pain I couldn’t drink away.  Not even my newborn daughter’s smile could assuage it.  (Ooo big word!) 

Then on Halloween 2008, it all changed.  Long story short, I dressed as Lois Lane (accompanied by my Wife’s Clark Kent) for a party.  I knew what was trapped inside me- my dark secret- but I’d managed to control it, erase it, for twenty five years.  I would be fine.

 

I wasn’t.

 

The psychic wall I’d built crumbled.  Driving home after drinking way too much (Wife and daughter drove separately), I felt at Peace.  All the pain, the anger, all of it… gone.  I looked down at my chest, expanded by a birdseed filled bra, and knew- I was in trouble. 

 

Fast forward to March 2014.  I’d been to therapy, support group meetings, thrown out of the house, lost a dear friend to suicide, almost followed her, I stopped lying, and Lance died.  What emerged from the ashes of a ruined life was Sophie- the person who had been silently screaming for decades.  I’ve also done a LOT of writing, for a blog detailing my transition, online columns, even the New York Times.  The voice I found writing the book was honed a bit.

This isn’t a trans memoir in the traditional sense. I don’t come out in Chapter 3 with a triumphant montage and a power ballad playing in the background. There’s no makeover moment, no wise mentor, no tidy resolution. Most of the people around me back then would’ve laughed—or worse—if I’d said the truth out loud. So I didn’t. I joined a fraternity. I chased girls. I learned how to chug beers and bury feelings. I tried very, very hard to be what I thought a man was supposed to be.

 

Spoiler: I wasn’t very good at it.

 

I didn’t write this book to make myself look good. I couldn’t if I tried. I was insecure, needy, petty, cowardly, and cruel when I thought it would keep me safe. I hurt people. I ghosted people. I threw good things away because I was afraid someone would see through me. And I hated myself for it.  For lying.  To everybody.  For my silence.

 

I hated myself a lot.

 

But that silence, that pretending—it’s part of the story.  It shaped every relationship, every misstep, every small triumph. If you read between the lines, you’ll see the cracks. You’ll hear the longing. You’ll understand the “shame” I couldn’t name because I didn’t have the words.  Or the courage.

 

And if you were there—if you knew me then—I hope you’ll read with grace. I don’t write this to embarrass anyone. I write it because the past deserves to be told honestly. Because I’m tired of pretending. Because, for all its flaws, this story is mine.  And if you deserve an apology, as some do, please know how sorry I am.   

 

The story is about brotherhood. About desire. About trying to belong in a world that felt like it was never built for someone like me. It’s about growing up in the 1980s, under Reagan, AIDS, and the eternal war between cassettes and vinyl. “Tastes Great” and “Less Filling.” It’s about Skull House and Crow House, about parties, betrayals, and those tiny moments of connection that made everything bearable.  It’s about the people who shaped me, whether they knew it or not—and probably wish they didn’t.

 

It’s about a college boy who thought he was writing a coming-of-age story searching for answers, and a woman who finally found her way back to finish it decades later.

 

And yeah, there’s music. Always music. If you want to understand the 1980s, you need to hear the beat. The Devil Inside that moved us all. 

 

What you’ll read is what I wrote Before, with a needed heavy edit, and with commentary and observations from After.  That After solved the puzzle.  That After has no more secrets.  And that before- that after- that’s where the Truth awaits.

 

Let me tell you a story.