The Complications of T Read Free Page B

I contemplated this new, confusing information, I noticed that the sticker on the magazine was to a T. White. It occurred to me then that “Leblanc” translated to “the white”… but that meant…
    “Wait. You”—I blinked at her, not believing what I was about to say—“are Tim White ?”
    Tim White, an influential movie reviewer whose acerbic wit and shrewd observations made him a favourite among those who believed they had discerning tastes.
    Tim White who had ripped into the last two movies I starred in, writing such gems as “A story for mindless masses that delight in being spoon-fed flavourless, money-grabbing pap” and “insipid, paltry nonsense that has all the charm of a visit to the dentist”.
    The woman nodded, looking a little apprehensive.
    It made no bloody sense. Was she posing as a man? Why would she have introduced herself as Tim? I thought about the bathroom. The man’s deodorant. The cologne. She was rather androgynous. I only realized I was staring openly at her when she broke eye contact and turned to look out the window.
    Had I assumed something about her? Hell, had I assumed that…
    “At the risk of sounding like a complete idiot,” I said quietly, “are you… a man? Male?” I remembered my first impression of her and wondered if my drunken brain had spotted something crucial about my rescuer.
    When a crease appeared on her brow in a slightly pained expression, I thought I was wrong. But then she met my eyes and nodded mutely.
    “Oh.” I stood there awkwardly, not knowing what else to say. She… he… Tim obviously hadn’t been born male. And… bloody hell, I was confused and uncomfortable and felt like I would just melt into the floor; I desperately didn’t want to do or say anything stupid.
    “I’m sorry,” was all that I managed, and then I realized how that sounded and followed up with: “For assuming. Anything. At all.”
    Fuck .
    To my surprise, Tim laughed.
    “Stuart, it’s okay. I know I don’t make it easy, looking the way I do. I assume—wrongly most of the time—that simply introducing myself as Tim will do the trick, but… well…” She—He— Tim gestured at my flummoxed state with a little headshake. Getting my brain to accept this sudden change of perspective wasn’t going to be easy.
    Tim stood and crossed the room to perch on one of the high stools. She… fuck… He pushed my neglected cup of coffee towards me, smiling.
    “Go on. Ask.”
    I took a few sips, trying to look as nonchalant as I could. Like I’d been hanging out with transsexuals my whole life.
    Yeah. Right.
    So I swallowed my unease and just went for it:
    “You’re a transsexual… um… transgendered?”
    “Yes. Yes, I am.”
    “But… Are you a new transsexual?” Lord, I sounded like a fool, but thankfully when Tim laughed, it held no mockery in it.
    “No. I consider myself fully transitioned.”
    Transitioned. I tried to recall everything I knew about transsexuals. A few years earlier, a well-known British politician had made a very public announcement to the effect that he was born female, and I remembered being fascinated—and skeptical—over the coverage of his transition. However, when Herbert had emerged as Gladys, a woman who was a fair bit more attractive and feminine than my own mum, I had felt ashamed of my own preconceptions.
    “But your voice?” I said and then gestured to my own face where the black stubble was thick over my jaw. “And… ?”
    “And my lack of beard? Easy: I don’t take testosterone.”
    “Why not?” My reticence was melting away under Tim’s friendly smile.
    “A few different reasons. There aren’t any studies about the long-term effects of using T. Also… The therapist who helped me through part of the process agreed with me that it might be a bad idea,” Tim’s eyes flicked away from mine for a moment. “It took me a long time to get over my anger issues. I’m just now at a point in my life where I don’t feel a constant