A word on penises. What was Cal's official position on penises? Among them, surrounded by them, his feelings were the same as they had been as a girl: by equal measures fascinated and horrified. Penises had never really done that much for me. My girlfriends and I had a comical opinion of them. We hid our guilty interest by giggling or pretending disgust. Like every schoolgirl on a field trip, I'd had my blushing moments among the Roman antiquities. I'd stolen peeks when the teacher's back was turned. It's our first art lesson as kids, isn't it? The nudes are dressed. They're dressed in high-mindedness. Being six years older, my brother had never shared a bathtub with me. The glimpses of his genitals I'd had over the years were fleeting. I'd studiously looked away. Even Jerome had penetrated me without my seeing what went on. Anything so long concealed couldn't fail to intrigue me. But the glimpses those men's rooms afforded were on the whole disappointing. The proud phallus was nowhere in evidence, only the feed bag, the dry tuber, the snail that had lost its shell.

And I was scared to death of being caught looking. Despite my suit, my haircut, and my height, every time I went into a men's room a shout rang out in my head: "You're in the men's!" But the men's was where I was supposed to be. Nobody said a word. Nobody objected to my presence. And so I searched for a stall that looked halfway clean. I had to sit to urinate. Still do.

At night, on the fungal carpets of motel rooms, I did exercises, push-ups and sit-ups. Wearing nothing but my new boxers, I examined my physique in the mirror. Not long ago I'd fretted over my failure to develop. That worry was gone now. I didn't have to live up to that standard anymore. The impossible demands had been removed and I felt a vast relief. But there were also moments of dislocation, staring at my changing body. Sometimes it didn't feel like my own. It was hard, white, bony. Beautiful in its own way, I supposed, but Spartan. Not receptive or pliant at all. Contents under pressure, rather.

It was in those motel rooms that I learned about my new body, its specific instructions and contraindications. The Object and I had worked in the dark. She had never really explored my apparatus much. The Clinic had medicalized my genitals. During my time there they were numb or slightly tender from the constant examinations. My body had shut down in order to get through the ordeal. But traveling woke it up. Alone, with the door locked and the chain on, I experimented with myself. I put pillows between my legs. I lay on top of them. Half paying attention, while I watched Johnny Carson, my hand prospected. The anxiety I'd always felt about how I was made had kept me from exploring the way most kids did. So it was only now, lost to the world and everyone I knew, that I had the courage to try it out. I can't discount the importance of this. If I had doubts about my decision, if I sometimes thought about turning back, running back to my parents and the Clinic and giving in, what stopped me was this private ecstasy between my legs. I knew it would be taken from me. I don't want to overestimate the sexual. But it was a powerful force for me, especially at fourteen, with my nerves bright and jangling, ready to launch into a symphony at the slightest provocation. That was how Cal discovered himself, in voluptuous, liquid, sterile culmination, couchant upon two or three deformed pillows, with the shades drawn and the drained swimming pool outside and the cars passing, endlessly, all night.

Outside Nebraska City, a silver Nova hatchback pulled over. I ran up with my suitcase and opened the passenger door. At the wheel was a good-looking man in his early thirties. He wore a tweed coat and yellow V-neck sweater. His plaid shirt was open at the collar, but the wings were crisp with starch. The formality of his clothes contrasted with his relaxed manner. "Hello deh," he said, doing a Brooklyn accent.

"Thanks for stopping."

He lit a cigarette and introduced himself, extending his hand. "Ben Scheer."

"My name's Cal."

He didn't ask the usual questions about my origin and destination. Instead, as we drove off, he asked, "Where did you get that suit?"

"Salvation Army."

"Real nice."

"Really?" I said. And then reconsidered. "You're teasing."

"No, I'm not," said Scheer. "I like a suit somebody died in. It's very existential."

"What's that?"

"What's what?"

"Existential?"

He gave me a direct look. "An existentialist is someone who lives for the moment."

No one had ever talked to me like this before. I liked it. As we drove on through the yellow country, Scheer told me other interesting things. I learned about Ionesco and the Theater of the Absurd. Also about Andy Warhol and the Velvet Underground. It's hard to express the excitement such phrases instilled in a kid like me from the cultural sticks. The Charm Bracelets wanted to pretend they were from the East, and I guess I had picked up that urge, too.

"Did you ever live in New York?" I asked.

"Used to."

"I was just there. I want to live there someday."

"I lived there ten years."

"Why did you leave?"

Again the direct look. "I woke up one morning and realized, if I didn't, I'd be dead in a year."

This, too, seemed marvelous.

Scheer's face was handsome, pale, with an Asiatic cast to his gray eyes. His light brown frizzy hair was scrupulously brushed, and parted by fiat. After a while I noticed other niceties of his dress, the monogrammed cuff links, the Italian loafers. I liked him immediately. Scheer was the kind of man I thought I would like to be myself.

Suddenly, from the rear of the car there erupted a magnificent, weary, soul-emptying sigh.

"How ya doin', Franklin?" Scheer called.

On hearing his name, Franklin lifted his troubled, regal head from the recesses of the hatchback, and I saw the black-and-white markings of an English setter. Ancient, rheumy-eyed, he gave me the once-over and dropped back out of sight.

Scheer was meanwhile pulling off the highway. He had a breezy highway driving style, but when making any kind of maneuver he snapped into military action, pummeling the wheel with strong hands. He pulled into the parking lot of a convenience store. "Back in a minute."

Holding a cigarette at his hip like a riding crop, he walked with clipped steps into the store. While he was gone I looked around the car. It was immaculately clean, the floor mats freshly vacuumed. The glove box contained orderly maps and tapes of Mabel Mercer. Scheer reappeared with two full shopping bags.

"I think road drinks are in order," he said.

He had a twelve-pack carton of beer, two bottles of Blue Nun, and a bottle of Lancers rose, in a faux clay bottle. He set all of these on the backseat.

This was part of being sophisticated, too. You drank cheap Liebfraumilch in plastic cups, calling it cocktails, and carved off hunks of Cheddar cheese with a Swiss Army knife. Scheer had assembled a nice hors d'oeuvre platter from meager sources. There were also olives. We headed back out across the no-man's-land, while Scheer directed me to open the wine and serve him snacks. I was now his page. He had me put in the Mabel Mercer tape and then enlightened me about her meticulous phrasing.

Suddenly he raised his voice. "Cops. Keep your glass down."

I quickly lowered my Blue Nun and we drove on, acting cool as the state trooper passed on our left.

By now Scheer was doing the cop's voice. "I know city slickers when I see 'em and them thar's two of the slickest of 'em all. I'd wager they're up to no good."

To all this I responded with laughter, happy to be in league against the world of hypocrites and rulemongers.

When it began to grow dark, Scheer chose a steak house. I was worried it might be too expensive, but he told me, "Dinner's on me tonight."

Inside, it was busy, a popular place, the only table open a small one near the bar.

To the waitress Scheer said, "I'll have a vodka martini, very dry, two two olives, and my son here will have a beer." olives, and my son here will have a beer."

The waitress looked at me.

"He got any ID?"

"Not on me," I said.

"Can't serve you, then."

"I was there at his birth. I can vouch for him," said Scheer.

"Sorry, no ID, no alcohol."

"Okay, then," said Scheer. "Changed my mind. I'll have a vodka martini, very dry, two olives, and a beer chaser."

Through her tight lips the waitress said, "You gonna let your friend drink that beer I can't serve it to you."

"They're both for me," Scheer assured her. He deepened his voice a little, opened the tone a little, injecting it with an Eastern or Ivy League authority whose influence did not entirely dissipate even all the way out here in the steak house on the plains. The waitress, resentful, complied.

She walked off and Scheer leaned toward me. He did his hick voice again. "Nothing wrong with that gal that a good poke in the hay barn wouldn't fix. And you're just the stud for the job." He didn't seem drunk, but this crudeness was new; he was a little less precise in his movements now, his voice louder. "Yeah," said Scheer, "I think she's sweet on you. You and Mayella could be happy together." I was feeling the wine strongly, too, my head like a mirrored ball, flashing lights.

The waitress brought the drinks, setting them demonstratively on Scheer's side of the table. As soon as she disappeared, he pushed the beer toward me and said, "There you go."

"Thanks." I drank the beer in gulps, pushing it back across the table whenever the waitress passed by. It was fun to be sneaking it like this.

But I was not unobserved. A man at the bar was watching me. Wearing a Hawaiian shirt and sunglasses, he looked as though he disapproved. But then his face broke into a big, knowing smile. The smile made me uncomfortable and I looked away.

When we came out again, the sky was completely dark. Before leaving, Scheer opened the hatch of the Nova to get Franklin out. The old dog could no longer walk, and Scheer had to lift him bodily out of the car. "Let's go, Franks," Scheer said, gruffly affectionate, and with a lit cigarette between his teeth, angled up in a patrician manner not unlike that of Franklin Roosevelt himself, in Gucci loafers and sidevented, gold-hued tweed jacket, his strong polo player's legs braced under the weight, he carried the aged beast into the weeds.

Before going back to the highway, he stopped at a convenience store to get more beer.

We drove for another hour or so. Scheer consumed many beers; I worked my way through one or two. I was not at all sober and feeling sleepy. I leaned against my door, blearily looking out. A long white car came alongside us. The driver looked at me, smiling, but I was already falling asleep.

Sometime later, Scheer shook me awake. "I'm too wrecked to drive. I'm pulling over."

I said nothing to this.

"I'm going to find a motel. I'll get you a room, too. On me."

I didn't object. Soon I saw hazy motel lights. Scheer left the car and returned with my room key. He led me to my room, carrying my suitcase, and opened the door for me. I went to the bed and collapsed.

My head was spinning. I managed to pull down the bedspread and get at the pillows.

"You gonna sleep in your clothes?" Scheer asked as if amused.

I felt his hand on my back, rubbing it. "You shouldn't sleep in your clothes," he said. He started to undress me, but I roused myself. "Just let me sleep," I said.

Scheer bent closer. In a thick voice he said, "Your parents kick you out, Cal? Is that it?" He sounded suddenly very drunk, as if all the day's and night's drinking had finally hit him.

"I'm going to sleep," I said.

"Come on," whispered Scheer. "Let me take care of you."

I curled up protectively, keeping my eyes closed. Scheer nuzzled me, but when I didn't respond, he stopped. I heard him open the door and then close it behind him.

When I awoke again, it was early in the morning. Light was coming in the windows. And Scheer was right next to me. He was hugging me clumsily, his eyes squeezed shut. "Just wanna sleep here," he said, slurring. "Just wanna sleep." My shirt had been unbuttoned. Scheer was wearing only his underwear. The television was on, and there were empty beers on it.

Scheer clutched me, pressing his face into mine, making sounds. I tolerated this, feeling obliged for some reason. But when his drunken attentions became more avid, more targeted, I pushed him off me. He didn't protest. He crumpled into a ball and quickly passed out.

I got up and went into the bathroom. For a long while I sat on the toilet lid, hugging my knees. When I peeked out again, Scheer was still sound asleep. There was no lock on the door, but I was desperate for a shower. I took a quick one, keeping the curtain open and my eyes on the door. Then I changed into a new shirt, put my suit back on, and let myself out of the room.

It was very early. No traffic was passing along the road. I walked away from the motel and sat on my Samsonite, waiting. Big open sky. A few birds in it. I was hungry again. My head hurt. I got out my wallet and counted my dwindling money. I contemplated calling home for the hundredth time. I started to cry but stopped myself. Then I heard a car coming. From the motel parking lot a white Lincoln Continental emerged. I put out my thumb. The car stopped alongside me and the power window slowly went down. At the wheel was the man from the restaurant the day before.

"Where you headed?"

"California."

That smile again. Like something bursting. "Well then, this is your lucky day. That's where I'm headed, too."

I hesitated only a moment. Then I opened the back door of the big car and slid my suitcase in. I didn't have, at that point, much choice in the matter.

Gender Dysphoria In San Francisco

His name was Bob Presto. He had soft, white, fat hands and a plump face and wore a white guayabera shot with gold threads. He was vain of his voice, had been a radio announcer for many years before getting into his present line of business. What that was he didn't specify. But its lucrative nature was evident in the white Continental with red leather seats and in Presto's gold watch and jeweled rings, his newscaster's hair. Despite these grown-man touches, there was much of the mama's boy to Presto. He had the body of a little fatty, though he was big, close to two hundred pounds. He reminded me of the Big Boy at the Elias Brothers' chain of restaurants, only older, coarsened and bloated by adult vices.

Our conversation began the usual way, Presto asking me about myself and I giving the standard lies.

"Where you off to in California?"

"College."

"What school?"

"Stanford."

"I'm impressed. I've got a brother-in-law went to Stanford. Big muckety-muck. Where is that again?"

"Stanford?"

"Yeah, what city?"

"I forget."

"You forget? I thought Stanford students were supposed to be smart. How are you going to get there if you don't know where it is?"

"I'm meeting my friend. He's got all the details and stuff."

"It's nice to have friends," Presto said. He turned and winked at me. I didn't know how to interpret this wink. I kept quiet, staring forward at the road ahead.

On the buffet-like front seat between us were many supplies, soft drink bottles and bags of chips and cookies. Presto offered me whatever I wanted. I was too hungry to refuse, and took a few cookies, trying not to wolf them down.

"I'll tell you," Presto said, "the older I get, the younger college kids look. If you asked me, I'd say you were still in high school. What year you in?"

"Freshman."

Again Presto's face broke into the candy-apple grin. "I wish I were in your shoes. College is the best time of life. I hope you're ready for all the girls."

A chuckle accompanied this, to which I was obliged to add one of my own. "I had a lot of girlfriends in college, Cal," Presto said. "I worked for the college radio station. I used to get all kinds of free records. And if I liked a girl, I used to dedicate songs to her." He gave me a sample of his style, crooning low: "This one goes out to Jennifer, queen of Anthro 101. I'd love to study your culture, baby."

Presto's jowly head bowed and his eyebrows rose in modest recognition of his vocal gifts. "Let me give you a little advice about women, Cal. Voice. Voice is a big turn-on for women. Never discount voice." Presto's was indeed deep, dimorphically masculine. The fat of his throat increased its resonance as he explained, "Take my ex-wife, for example. When we first met, I could say anything to her and she'd go bananas. We'd be fucking and I'd say 'English muffin'-and she'd come."

When I didn't reply, Presto said, "I'm not offending you, am I? You're not one of those Mormon kids on your mission, are you? In that suit of yours?"