ìThe Pretty Volcanoî

By Roberta Angela Dee

I was 28 years old and had been living as a woman for only 3 years. I drew attention only because I was so tall -- six feet. Still, because I was thin enough and feminine enough few people had any problem acknowledging that I was a lady.

I had a two-bedroom apartment on Long Island -- acquired because I knew that if I could attract a room mate, preferably another female, I would spend considerably less for lodging than if I rented a one-bedroom apartment and lived in it alone.

Not long after I secured the apartment, a young woman by the name of Carolyn accepted my offer to share the residence and most of the expenses associated with it. Carolyn was quite the opposite of myself. She was short and almost boyish in her demeanor; and where I was shy and reserved, Carolyn was outgoing and assertive. It was not until we had roomed together for three weeks that I revealed to her that I was transgendered.

ìYouíre more feminine than I am,î she exclaimed when I told her.

To convince her that I was telling the truth, I had to show her an earlier photograph -- one taken of me as a young man. She looked alternately at me and then at the photograph. Finally, she said, ìWell, I guess you really want to be a woman.î

Like most people, Carol wanted to know when I would have my sex change operation. You see, the criteria in the 70s was that anyone born male, who wanted to be considered a woman, would have to have his penis severed and reconstructed to form a vagina. The idea that someone could be born male, and live as a woman, in many ways overwhelmed her -- as it did most people.

Carol insisted that I could never be a woman, so long as I retained a penis. This was how most people defined a transsexual at that time, and to a slightly less extent, some 20 years later, it is still the way that most people define a transsexual.

A transsexual, for most people, is a man who is willing to have his penis cut off so that people will respect him as a woman. The problem was that few people accepted a transsexual as anything but a transsexual. And this too continues to be true, although to a slightly less extent, some 20 years later.

I was fortunate that Carol liked me as a person. My being male or female was not all too important an issue to her. She enjoyed the fact that I was well-read and could answer her numerous questions on nearly any topic. Carol, you must understand, was inquisitive by nature; and I was, to say the least, an oddity to her. And, if not an oddity, most certainly an enigma.

Most of the time, she respected me as just another female. We shared the household chores, took turns doing the laundry, and spent many evenings talking about men and how they contrived to entice women to have sex with them. Every so often, however, should you direct a question to me that would come as a total surprise. For example, we were both in the kitchen, preparing dinner. She turned to me abruptly and asked, ìSo, how many guys have you slept with?î

Carol had no way of knowing that, as a prostitute for my first male lover, I had over three hundred sexual encounters with approximately 30 different men. These encounters all took place within a year, but were not what I would consider to be relationships as her question implied. So, I told her that aside from the man who had taken my virginity, there had been only one other man.

ìYou mean to tell me that youíre, what, 28 years old and youíve only dated two men?î

ìWell, two different men,î I answered, ìbut Iíve slept with each of them a number of times.î

ìOh, so you like to stick with one guy at a time,î she replied with an inquisitive tone.

ìBasically,î I answered. ìItís just not safe sleeping around anymore. Havenít you heard about AIDS?î

ìHave you forgotten that Iím a nurse?î she retorted. ìI havenít seen very many cases, but the patients Iíve seen were in very bad shape.î

ìAnd thereís no cure,î I added.

ìNone,î she replied. ìBut it mostly affects gay and bisexual men.î

ìYes. I knowî

No one could have predicted how drastically the population of people infected with the HIV virus would change over the next few years. In fact, at the time I was rooming with Carol, few people had even heard of the HIV virus. If they knew anything, they knew of it only as AIDS or as the ìgay diseaseî -- as it was known for several years.

Even before Carol grew to accept me as a woman, she respected me as such. This made me feel especially close to her.

The aspect I regretted most about being a transgendered woman was having to explain who and what I was to people. The whole world was locked into a very narrow perception of gender. Far too often, it seemed that I was fighting a one-woman, uphill battle to change those narrow views.

Being transgendered in 1977 was a good deal different than it is today. There were no buffers to all the prejudices that could be directed towards one individual. There were far few support groups, books, on-line chat groups -- none of the technological and social advances that make it so much easier today. Itís still a difficult transition, but not nearly as difficult as when I decided to do what today is called a real life test (RLT).

Carol returned to the apartment somewhat later than usual one evening. I guess it must have been about 9:00 PM, and I was just getting up to prepare for bed.

She walked right up to me, slid her hand under my skirt, and started rubbing my derriere.

ìWhat are you doing?î I asked, a bit startled and perhaps slightly offended.

ìYouíve made love to a woman before,î she answered. ìAm I so unattractive to you?î

ìYouíre not unattractive at all,î I replied. ìBut weíre room mates, not lovers.î

ìWhy canít we be both?î

Before I could answer, Carol had lowered my panty and pulled it down to my ankle. I stepped out of them like an obedient child.

She whispered that she wanted to my caress my ìpretty volcanoî -- the phrase she used to refer to my tiny erogenous portal. And how exquisitely she used her finger to part the lips that served as a doorway to my innermost pleasures.

Somehow our conversations coupled with my patience had encouraged Carol to explore her own bisexual spirit. And in doing so, she did not hesitate to let me know which of us was more dominant and more experienced. Still, what aroused me most was the gentle way in which she took my love. She fully understood that it was my nature to be a woman. And whether or not she understood everything that caused me to develop in such a feminine way, she respected how I had developed.

That night I learned that there is an enormous difference in the way that a man dominates a woman from the way that a woman dominates a woman. A man is aggressive, and aggression is quite different from assertive.

Aggression merely engages strength and force. Assertiveness, on the other hand, engages sensitivity combined with mutual respective. Given a choice, I will always prefer a womanís assertiveness over a manís aggression. Itís a concept that male lovers should think about for a good while before their next conquest of a lady.

In any event, Carol did everything she could to ignite the pretty volcano that evening, and for many evenings afterwards. I assure you, the result was always pleasurably explosive.

Roberta Angela Dee RADANGLE@aol.com