I knew I didn't want to go ?down there', but could I do forothers what I wasn't able to do for myself?Could I convince people who suffered from what's...calledgender dysphoria that they WEREN'T sick or perverted? CouldI prevent others from taking the ?easy way out' as I haddone? I knew one thing for sure though. I didn't want to goto that other place without a fight. If I ended up there itwasn't going to be because I didn't try my darndest toavoid it. Maybe my motives weren't above reproach. The address was for a small house in a middle class neighborhood in L.A. and when I knocked on the door, it was opened by a smiling, middle-aged African-American woman who welcomed me inside and told me that it was her son who was the masseur. I took a seat and a tall, slender, fucking-gorgeous guy came out of another room and invited me in. He was nearly as long, taut and lean as I was and not much older. While I was in my Senior year of high school, he might have been in college. When we got. More

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