Everett Maroon - Bumbling Into Body Hair: Tales of an Accident-Prone Transsexual

Bumbling into Body Hair: Tales of an Accident-Prone Transsexual

Copyright 2012 Everett Maroon. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED . No part of this work may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, microfilm, and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

First published in 2012 by Booktrope Editions.

This edition published in 2016 by Lethe Press, Inc. at Smashwords.com

www.lethepressbooks.com lethepress@aol.com

ISBN : 978-1-59021-619-4 / 1-59021-619-9

Cover design: Alex Jeffers

Ebook design: Inkspiral Design

Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been requested from the Library of Congress.

For Liam and Tyra

Acknowledgments

Many people have helped this project reach completion and I am sincerely grateful for all of their skills and assistance. These individuals include:

Sarah Martinez for pushing the manuscript in the right direction; Jennifer Munro for her excellent editing work and strangely compatible sense of humor; Ken Shear at Booktrope for being as excited about this project as I am.

Im proud and honored to have worked with Lea Mesner as a writing coach for several years now. Her sage advice and ability to encourage have been priceless. I also cant thank Robyn Zeiger enough for her counsel and support; people like her make all the difference.

Many thanks go to my close friends who read early versions of the manuscript, helped me recollect specific events, and were willing to read about themselves without wincing, especially Lori Solomon, Barbara Wally, and Michael Driscoll. Im also thrilled to share this book with my mother, sisters Kathy and Jayne, and brother David, who all had to transition with me and who love me very well.

Finally I have to thank Susanne Beechey, my partner, for her tremendous support, enthusiasm, intelligence, and baked goods, and our son, Emile, who I hope finds an open-minded world as he grows up.

Authors Note

As a memoir, this book offers my memories and perspective on my experiences. Some names have been changed out of respect to people who were involved. This part of my life story is as true as I could write it, and others are free to disagree. The purpose is to share what I went through and what Ive learned and to entertain, and thats what Ive done my best to do.

As it turns out, cellophane is not capable of erasing a D-cup bosom or acting like a protective wall against the emergence of breasts. Instead of the Hoover Dam on my chest, it appears I am only capable of turning myself into a modern, transparent mummy.

Bras have become a nuisance and Im not going to spend any more time or money on them than necessary. Mine all look ratty and threadbare, strips of once-white satin that lose their shape the moment I unsecure them. And I have a thing against underwires, having been stabbed by them on so many occasions that I have a callus on my left side. Why only the left side, Im not sure. Maybe its the way I point my feet as I walk. Perhaps my left side is more jiggly. But the wireless bras all have the habit of turning into a knotted mess requiring a field manual to reorient for future use. Ive accidentally worn them inside-out more often than Id care to acknowledge.

This is a mistake, I think.

I open up the package of cellophane, hopeful, taking care not to cut myself on the serrated edge. Taking the tube out of the box, I attempt to find the end of the plastic. This is more difficult than it seems, not only because all of the material is transparent and thus nearly invisible to the naked eye, but because it insists on re-clinging to the roll in the three nanoseconds between me peeling it away and trying to get my fingers under the plastic. To start my day off with this on a regular basis is not sustainable, but I presume Ill gain some kind of expertise and it would get easier. Such a skill, however, isnt the kind of thing that one should list on ones rsum. Effective at peeling off cling wrap just seems creepy.

From their corner of the bedroom, the place where Ive made this foray into futility, my two cats watch me in what is either indifference or amusement, refusing to give anything away in their expressions. An infomercial plays on the television in the next room.

I hold down the plastic with one hand and pull the roll around to my back, where I attempt to switch which hand has the end and which is doing the unrolling. This would be simpler if Id been born a Hindu goddess with six arms. I make one full pass, slicing open a couple of fingers in the process, before tossing the cardboard box altogether. Free from danger, I realize now that my breasts are smashed in completely odd and uncomfortable positions; I look like alien beings are about to burst out of random spots on my chest.

I fiddle a hand under the plastic and attempt to reorient the mounds. Apparently breasts have minds of their ownnot a collective mind between them, but two individual sets of intentions and preferences. No sooner do I move my right side to a mashed location that minimizes its bulge than it squirts back to the middle of my chest facing the setting sun. The left side is no more cooperative. I look at the quantity of plastic Ive just used in attempting to smooth everything out and acknowledge that if I cant reuse the wrap every day, I will quickly start running up an expensive habit. I dont want breast binding to be like illicit drug use destroying my finances. My skin starts turning bright red from the heat, and my diaphragm is trapped and unhappy, stunting my lungs expansion ability. Binding doesnt seem to be worth looking like a guilty murderer who also stinks.

I notice the stench of fresh plastic and take stock of my situation. Now that Ive wrapped myself in a roll of cellophane, my fingers are bleeding from the razor strip on the box, while sweat oozes out of my temples and armpits. On the floor next to my feet is the disfigured bra I removed to begin this experiment.

Perhaps people learn better when theyre in pain. I briefly consider attempting a quick education in quantum physics while my hand still throbs, but getting to a reference book would entail forward momentum. With my torso unable to take in enough air for walking, that seems overly challenging.

This is one of those moments that I just didnt foresee when I lifted my head off the pillow this morning. And it is becoming clear that trying to crush my breasts under eighteen layers of cling wrap wont serve me well. Time to go for Plan B. Before I can come up with a new idea, self-doubt rushes into the void and I tell myself for the umpteenth time that this is all crazy. I might not be a feminine rose, but Im not a man, either. I peel off the plastic, trying to line up the edges with the rest of the roll in the hopes that I can fit it back into the box and reuse it. Little bits of hair and dust show through the layers, a cheap and messy time capsule of nothing interesting, so I decide that recycling this is yet another poor decision. I dont think Ill ever have a need for wrinkled, sweated-on plastic.

I couldnt get the images out of my head. Id woken up from a dream in midsummer 2003 that seemed to have a mind of its own, and obviously it had decided that inhabiting my thoughts was the way to go. Id written down as much of it as I could remember, startled by how vivid and real everything had seemed. It went well beyond what my other notable dreams had felt like. It was tangible enough that I woke up with the smells from the narrative caught in my nostrils. I was a camp counselor making breakfast for the PTA in the off season, somewhere in the forest of eastern Pennsylvania. I also scribbled out a picture of my face from the dream. I wasnt just a counselor, I was a male counselor, looking burly and at home in the outdoors, none of which was true in real life. I looked at the drawing, which not only didnt look like my face, but also didnt look human because I wasnt an artist. But I supposed it only had to make sense to me.