Eyes Speak To Other Eyes

By Roberta Angela Dee

Many of my accounts contain elements of eroticism, but only because the events themselves are erotic. One of those events took place in my seventeenth year.

It was 1966. Frank Sinatra had a hit record, singing ìStrangers in the Night.î Elizabeth Taylor acted superbly in ìWhoís Afraid of Virginia Wolff.î And while many Americanís protested the Vietnam War abroad, many Americans protested for their civil rights here at home. And it was the year that Donna Taylor discovered me dressed as a girl.

I was attempting to sneak through her backyard to reach the streets behind my own house. I did so to see if I could be perceived as a female, specifically, a young woman. Donna was coming out her back door just as I was heading towards her driveway.

ìRobert,î she cried out, what are you doing? Why are you dressed like that?î

The fact that she called me by my masculine name made it clear that she recognized me. This made my heart pound at least a million times a second as the adrenaline flowed into my veins.

There was no way to deny who I was, nor that I was there. So, in response to her questions, I answered with atone of desperation, ìI want to be a girl, Donna. I want to be a girl.î

To my astonishment, Donna neither laughed at me, nor threatened to reveal my secret passion to be a woman. Instead she simply commented, ìWell, youíre overly dressed for one thing. And youíll either need to let your hair grow or buy a wig. That scarf just isnít going to fool anyone.î

ìIím not really trying to fool anyone,î I replied. ìI really do want to be a girl.î

ìI understand,î she responded as casually as any normal conversation. ìAnd Iím a lesbian. So weíre both outcasts as far as society is concerned. So we might as well be girl friends.î

There is no way to describe my emotional response. I believe it was a combination of joy, excitement, surprise and embarrassment. All at the same time. The shock of being discovered as a girl had led to being accepted as a girl!

In my wildest dreams, I never had imagined this could happen. Then again I had never imagined that Donna could be gay. Like many people, I perceived that gay women were decidedly masculine. Donna, however, was the most delicately feminine image of a young African-American woman I had ever known -- not only in her appearance bit also in her demeanor, her grace, and the elegant manner in which she attended to others. She was no less beautiful than any model to ever grace the cover of ìVogueî or ìMademoiselle.î

She and I did in fact become very good and very special friends. We had endless discussions about her passion for women and endless discussions about my desire to be a woman. There were never two better companions. We shared every experience.

One day she took me into the bathroom with her and showed me a sanitary napkin she had just removed from her panty. It was not a pretty sight -- blood and coagulated material, dark red and not at all feminine as I perceived femininity.

ìBe thankful you donít bleed,î she said. ìThe way it looks is only the half of it. It feels worse to go through it.î

As appalling as her revelation might seem to some, it was Donnaís way of expanding my understanding of what it truly means to be a woman. Not to suggest that one has to menstruate, but only to suggest that there are some elements of femininity that have nothing to do with being dainty or pretty. A woman, by nature, has to be beautiful on the outside while able to deal with all the ugliness of the world on the inside.

We were so like girl friends that it was nothing for Donnaís mother to leave Donna and I alone for hours at a time in Donnaís bedroom. We could even shut her bedroom door without arousing her motherís suspicion. In fact, Mrs. Taylor would frequently comment, while I aided in her in the kitchen, that I would make some man a fine wife some day.

On an occasion when Mrs. Taylor was away from the house, and Donna and I were alone, Donna asked if I could respond to another female the way I had told her I responded to young men. I told her that I didnít know -- that I had never kissed a girl the way I had kissed a boy.

ìWell, letís see what happens,î she said.

Before I could accept or reject her invitation, her lips were pressed to mine and we kissed in a way I had never kissed a girl before. I remember that it was really quite nice.

Being the more assertive partner, Donna wasted no time undressing me and then undressing herself. She commented that I would make a pretty girl if I had breasts. ìYour face is pretty enough,î she said.

She placed me on my back and explored my body with her lips. A trail of lipstick prints could be followed from my mouth all the way to the most private portal between my thighs.

She ignored the part of me that was male, and directed her lips and tongue to the part of my body that men and women have in common.

The joy she delivered was exquisite. My passions were taken to a level I had never believed was possible with another woman. I suspect that 15 or 20 minutes passed. Thereís no way for me to be certain. However, her kisses forced me to erupt with an orgasm without ever having touched the male part of my anatomy.

This was a few years before I started taking female hormones, so I was still able to ejaculate. She noted my ejaculation and commented that it was more unsightly to her than a used sanitary napkin.

We redressed quickly -- both fearful that her mother might open the bedroom door. But she had given me a gift I would never forget -- a gift that opened the door to my own bisexuality.

Looking at each other, after our intimate encounter, we understood that eyes speak to other eyes, as much as they peer into anotherí soul. I continued to focus my attention on young men. The possibilities with other young women, however, was never a thought too distant.

It makes me sad sometimes, and should make all of us sad, that so few transgendered women ever know the love, beauty, and wisdom that our lesbian and bisexual sisters can share with us. For too long a time, Iím afraid, there has been this wall between our sisterhood based solely our difference in genitals. Yet, what makes us all whole as women is not based solely on our genitals at all. Perhaps, some day we will all look beyond the limitations of defining gender solely on the basis of genitals and learn to define each woman on the basis of what is in her heart, mind, and soul.

One day, perhaps, we shall learn to define ourselves solely on the content of our characters, and not on the physiological definitions imposed on us all by men. We are not men. We are women. Let our eyes speak. Let our eyes announce what lies in our souls.