When my body began puberty in the early 1970s, I had already been taught the basic intricacies of the differences between women and men through sixth-grade biology lessons. In Bravo, I learned details of interpersonal physical relationships from Dr. Sommer. Surprisingly, every now and then I find myself smooching and exploring new territory with curious hands in the arms of a girl. That's exciting.
But I'm faced with a mystery I'd rather not know anything about: my body feels different from the inside than it looks from the outside. Where the so-called penis hangs out of me, I feel exactly an entrance. A pussy. I've tried umpteen times, when my body unmistakably demands touch, to imagine fucking with a girl. Labour of love in vain. My body longs to receive. To take something in. A tail? From a boy? Even though it is pleasurable when I touch my butt, I feel that this is only an alternative, but cannot be a substitute for the vagina that I feel so real. Am I crazy? And if it does, maybe it doesn't matter as long as no one knows. But I know. Am I a miscarriage? Babies are born with three arms and two heads, maybe I'm such a misconstruction.
