You know the old story. You're eating dinner in a fabulous, exotic Asian locale. One dish is particularly delicate and tasty. You ask your generous host, "What is this?" He smiles proudly and says, "Monkey brains." Even Indiana Jones gags; you cannot even contemplate taking another bite.

I am Monkey Brains.

Except my story goes like this: A handsome gentlemen is flirting with me. His blue eyes hold my gaze. His hand touches my arm, my knee, as he talks. He drops enticing little tid-bits into his conversation, like "...my Ferrari..." and "...my friend Bono..." Finally, he starts asking playfully, "What are we going to do after this wing-ding breaks up?"

I decide it's time to drop my bomb. "Just so there is no misunderstanding, there is something about me I want to tell you. I have had a sex change operation." I imagine Indiana Jones would politely attempt to suppress his gag reflex; but he would run, like when that tribe of headhunters was hot on his heels, little puffs of dust rising from each footstep. I am Monkey Brains.

Why did I tell my suitor about my deep, dark secret? To begin with, I don't exactly consider it deep, or dark, or a secret. I believe it is best to talk about it as early as possible in dating situations, even though my every instinct screams against the injustice of it. I view my situation as similar to having an STD (Sexually Transmitted Disease); in that case one is obligated to inform one's partner out of consideration for their health. In my case, I need to inform my partner out of consideration of his values and sensitivities, regardless of my own judgment of the their validity.

I am still a newbie post-transsexual woman, only a year and a half full-time and six months post-op. I pass fairly well, despite my 6'1" stature and my size 11 shoes. The urge to tell everybody I meet that I am transsexual passed about three months into my Real Life Test. Now I love the fact that I generally move invisibly in society, like any other woman.

In my opinion, which is backed by considerable medical evidence, I AM a real, genuine, authentic, natural, 100% woman. I happened to have had a medical condition known as transsexualism, which was corrected by the medically-recommended procedure of triadic therapy — living in my true gender, hormones, and sex reassignment surgery. Why should I ever tell anyone about my condition? Whose business is it to know? Who is affected by it?

Generally, I don't bring up my condition without a good reason. If someone else brings it up I am honest about it, but this very rarely happens. Do I pass so well that people do not suspect anything? Or is it merely that they are polite enough to keep their suspicions to themselves? I don't know; either way is fine by me.

Occasionally, I do disclose my special quality. Sometimes I do so to make a point, like the time I confronted a comedian about a dumb joke he made concerning a sex change operation. Other times I bring it up because it is somewhat relevant, like when I explained to a clerk in a store where I was ordering some custom dance shoes just why it was that I needed such a large size. I like to tell myself that my intentions are to make transsexualism visible in the world to promote respect for us and our rights. But it's probably at least as true that I'm still testing to see if I get the very desirable reaction of, "Really? I never would have guessed!" Frankly, I would even get perverse pleasure out of a shocked reaction; but that has never occurred.

I always tell doctors and health care professionals about my history, in case it might have some bearing on their treatment.

Other than those special circumstances, I don't tell people about my transsexualism. Most of my new friends and acquaintances don't know, unless they've figured it out on their own and haven't brought it up with me. It's not important to our relationship. Who cares?

There is one person who cares; that is, one class of people. That class (a discouragingly small one, it seems) is guys who might want to have sex with me. Transwomen and transmen who are already in an intimate relationship with a significant other don't confront this issue; indeed, they seem puzzled by how much it dominates my life. Every time I meet a new man, I immediately begin to size up whether it might lead to something serious. If so, I need to start deciding when to tell him THE BIG SECRET. There are a few ways to play it. I can tell him immediately, eventually, or never.

The option of never telling an intimate friend about one's transsexualism is only available to those who live in "deep stealth" mode, where none of the people in their lives know about their past. I am much too out and about to consider this approach. Anyone who is close to me will be bound to pick up obvious clues, like the dozen or so books about transsexualism on my nightstand or the family pictures in which I look rather like a boy; or, they will run into an acquaintance who mentions the fact. Besides, I'm no good at lying or keeping secrets.

For a while I believed the tack of telling "eventually" was the shrewd play. I would let the guy get to know me first. By the time I told him, I reasoned, the image of me as a woman would be so firmly established in his head, that the news would not make any difference to him. I have found this to be untrue. Although there may be exceptions, my experience is that a guy is going to be able to accept me knowing of my transsexual nature, or not, and no amount of knowing me before hand will change his reaction. What is for certain is this: whenever I tell a guy, he always feels cheated that I didn't tell him sooner. He can't help it. His gender-recognition skills have failed him and he feels betrayed. It doesn't matter how much he can accept, intellectually, that I had no obligation to tell him; he still feels like he's been played for a fool.

For some girls, the idea of telling "eventually" means on the cusp of, or after, a sexual encounter with a man. These girls are really playing with fire. It is all too often that the man in such a situation reacts with violence. Often they feel the need to "prove that they're not homosexual," although how beating up or killing the t-girl proves this, I don't see.

My policy is to disclose my transsexualism to a guy as soon as it appears that we may have a mutual interest for some kind of intimate relationship. In my Internet personal ads, I state the fact up front. (I recently withdrw all my ads because they were not attracting the kind of guy I am interested in.) If I meet a guy in person and he asks for my phone number, I give it to him on my social card. It also lists my website's url, so he can read all about me at his leisure. If the fellow wants to move faster than that, I'll just tell him, "You might want to know, I've had a sex change operation." That isn't exactly the way I like to think of it, but it cuts directly to the point that most guys are most interested in.

When I tell guys early on, they are genuinely grateful for my honesty and openness. I am afraid it is the same sort of gratitude they would have if I had pointed out a pile of dog poop in their path. "Thank you," they say, and, in my head, I can hear the rest of what they left unsaid: "...for keeping me from stepping into that mess." Worse yet, if the guy sticks around at all, the conversation subtly shifts and his questions become less respectful and more intimate; I know I have become something less than a woman in his eyes. It is similar to what happens when a guy finds out that a woman is a prostitute; except it's worse for me—at least the guy still wants to have sex with the prostitute!

Since I've instituted this policy of telling immediately, I haven't gone out on any dates at all. That's okay. I'd rather not have the first date if I'm going to be dumped for being transsexual later on down the road. Besides, I don't attribute my dateless-ness solely to this policy. I'm picky about who I go out with, and that limits the field quite a bit. I'm not sure I'm doing any worse than most single women with discerning tastes in my age group.

I had one last thought about poor old monkey brains. When the tourist hears the name of what he has been eating, and he gags and spits out whatever is left in his mouth, are the monkey brains' feelings hurt?

Love,
Lannie Rose
8/2003

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