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Sex Reasignment Surgery Success Stories We are committed to serving the Transgender community  'I Had To Fix My Life'
A NASCAR champion gave up everything to become a woman. Can she reclaim her racing life? A Turning Points essay.
Web Exclusive
By Terri O'Connell
May 13, 2007 - J.T. Hayes won over 500 regional and national championships in go-kart, midget and sprint racing and competed in NASCAR Winston Cup before undergoing sex-reassignment surgery in 1994 at age 30. During the two years she transitioned from man to woman, the Corinth, Miss., native raced throughout the South and California, wrapping an Ace bandage over her breasts to flatten them out ("Boys Don't Cry"-style), wearing baggy T shirts and tucking her long hair under a baseball cap. Now as Terri O'Connell, she's had very little luck breaking back into the racing world. O'Connell still lives in Corinth with her elderly mother and is working on a clothing line for female NASCAR fans. The petite redhead is also writing a memoir, "Dangerous Curves," (due this fall). She'd like to get back on the track and is currently looking for a sponsor.
The terms transgendered and professional motor sports just don't go together, especially when you say I'm 5 foot 6 inches and weigh 118 pounds. I have girl's body—small, fragile and tiny.
I grew up in a little community in Mississippi. There were 10 or 15 boys in the neighborhood, we played sports in the front yard, and my daddy always had men over to work on race cars in the garage. He was a race-car driver, so I had this cache of toughness. I didn't get bullied too much. But by junior high, my mom stuck me in these sports programs to make me tougher and I started getting picked on. I was looked at like a girl, so bullies in gym class used to sit on top of me and put me in headlocks. I was lugging around this whole transgender thing and I was already depressed—suicidal really. I will never forget when we registered for school in the fall of eighth grade, this girl said to me, “You know, you got prettier legs than any girl in this school.” It scared the hell out of me because I knew it, but I didn't want anybody else knowing it.
When puberty kicks in, that's when it becomes complicated. You're in a panic over it. “Oh, my God, what am I gonna do!” As a kid, I had girl clothes I hid under the mattress: I'd slip 'em on, put some makeup on. … You're depressed over it, but you're still not mature enough to know this is gonna get out of hand at some point. No matter if you’re from New York or Corinth, it's difficult to endure, but when you throw on the social atmosphere of the right-wing, bigoted, Southern Baptist, Pentecostal South—and motor sports—you build a wall around your life and don't let anybody in.
I never did feel I was in the wrong body though, because when I woke up and looked at myself, I was looking at a girl. I saw this little cute face looking back at me. I knew my body compared to my friend's bodies was different. I had a small waist and bigger hips than they had. I was just tiny and feminine. But I had this male urology. Not only was I psychologically and emotionally feeling what girls feel, I also have this girl's body with things attached to it that don't fit. That's how I knew I was transgender; not only was I feeling it, I was looking at it everyday.
Eventually, I started racing more and more, and started racing on a national level and became a national champion, so I had that cache too. But I told my story to three of my best buddies in my hometown back in the early '80s—“Oh, I'm hurting, I have to go do this thing [transition]”—and they went and told everybody in town. So really, from then on I was a scandal in my hometown. They were just looking for something. You had to watch your P’s and Q’s.
Once that rumor was out on the racing circuit, throughout my career, I was always trying to outrun it. Moving from one team to the next until the rumor caught up with me. Then once I had my surgery I walked away from the sport entirely. It was like, “OK, I'm done with this.”
What pushed me to that point was a sprint-car accident in Little Rock, Ark., in 1991. I went end over end, side over side, destroyed the race car. I was trapped upside down, engine throttle stuck wide open, fuel running all over the race track and me. Once all the smoke had cleared and they got me out of the car, I thought, “You know, this could have been it.” I've had a ton of accidents, broke half the bones in my body, had wrecks where I should have died. This one, I only busted a rib, but I was trapped like that. I suppose the accident didn't scare me as much as the thought that I hadn't lived my life to it's full potential. That just gave me chills.
I'd been toying around with this gender issue for 10 years, driving my parents crazy, driving myself crazy, outrunning the rumors. I had all these high-powered people lined up to get my career going down the road, and I wasn't happy. I knew what I wanted to do, I'd just been putting it off. That night, I made a decision. I knew it was going to take two years. It was the first time I had a plan, and I didn't care this time if anyone rejected me, if I lost my career—I had to fix my life.
I went home, told my parents [I wanted surgery], my daddy went crazy: “Oh, my God, you can't do that!” So I went and lived with some friends in California and I was living full time as a woman. I got a job working at a print shop, but ultimately, I couldn't make a living. So I got my old black book out and started dialing up some race people I knew on the West Coast. They said, “If you show up you can drive.” Here I am going through transition, so I thought, what am I gonna do? I just put my hair up under a cap, put my only pair of boy jeans on and went to the racetrack. I looked pitiful. They noticed, but they didn't say much. We were making money.
Father's Day weekend I called my daddy, told him I won a race the night before in hopes he'd say, “Oh, that's great!” But when I called him, he hung up on me. I broke down, slid down this telephone booth, onto the sidewalk and started to weep uncontrollably. People rushed outside to see what was wrong with me. Daddy took me back in because I said I was going to be J.T. again. I was racing again too. We started putting the NASCAR program together. So I went from living full time as a woman to driving as a man for a sprint-car team in Mississippi to running a NASCAR Nextel Cup race in March. That was a hell of a year.
All through my transition, my dad tolerated it. We went racing together, I lived at the house. We had even made a deal we would sell my race car to pay for the surgery. But when I finally asked for it, he reneged on me. I was suicidal after that. Then my mother told him she'd kill him if he didn't do it. He did it. I raced a Midget race in Memphis on Saturday night and was in surgery on Wednesday in Colorado. What a damn deal. It's almost difficult to believe at times. … If I had not lived this life, I would not believe it. My parents took three or four days to call me in the hospital. You know, they were small-town Mississippi people, plus I was their only child. When I got back, my dad totally shut down. It's like he went into mourning, so I moved to Charlotte, N.C., in April of 1994. It took him five months to talk to me. Ultimately, by Christmas, my dad came around. There we were, watching TV, hanging out under the Afghan on the couch. I later brought my boyfriend around, and he and my dad hung out, rummaging around in junk yards for parts.
After my surgery, I knew I had to leave Corinth and racing. My background, my education, was motor sports and mechanical engineering. I grew up working at my dad's tool-and-die business and I always hated it. I wanted to get as far away from the mechanical engineering field as soon as I could.
When I moved to North Carolina, I had $25 to my name and no job. I drove to the mall in Charlotte, filled out at an application at Dillard’s and they hired me on the spot. I went from driving race cars, making a six-figure salary and signing autographs to selling purses for $8 an hour in the mall. One of the biggest things my psychiatrist and I dealt with was the ego blow after I left racing.
But I did not want to race right after surgery. I fully knew I had to heal for at least a year before I could risk having a racing accident. My head was in a good place at that time, but I did miss the action and the atmosphere. I fully felt like my professional driving career was over.
I knew I had this gift for art though, specifically motor-sports art, and my creativity was in full throttle. When I was selling handbags, I put my brain to work figuring out how to do something with my art … that's when I came up with the idea of a Disney-type store with a motor-sports theme.
I was still going to the racetrack, and dealing with a lot of people on the racing circuit because I had all these ideas for different businesses—the Disney-store thing, women's NASCAR-themed clothing … But they knew me as Terri. I just remembered my loss of anonymity back in my home town, and all that implied over the years, and it sent chills down my spine. I felt if any one in Charlotte was to find out my past, all hell would break loose.
It did. I had two roommates who outted me. After my story broke in the Charlotte press, NASCAR officials went nuts. In fact more than nuts. They were putting their TV contracts in place with Fox, NBC and TNT at the time and they were hell bent on killing the story. I was the last thing they wanted in their midst. But I had been living with those bubbas for four years, socializing, doing business, drinking coffee and eating donuts, and dating a few of them. I really pissed them off at the highest level. They just want me to go away. Not doing it! Some people said if you can get a sponsor you can come back and race, but they know how difficult that is. You need more than $100,000 just to get out on track. Maybe someone will sponsor us at some point. Maybe I just need to get more aggressive and do it.
I don't think the public opinion is one way or another. It's the big boys at the top, the corporations, who don't know what to do with me. For all the negativity I've had to deal with, I've also had a lot of positive reaction—from women. I was with my mom at the Daytona Beach Mall two summers ago, the day after the Fourth of July race, thinking no one would know who I was. There was a group of women who spotted me, and here they come. I said, “We need to get out of here.” But a crowd gathered, and I ended up signing autographs for 45 minutes. The love I was gettin'! The women crowded in, the men just stood back. The women see me as a woman, but the redneck bubbas wanna make an issue out of it.
I'm not gonna put a sign on my forehead, OH BY THE WAY, I USED TO BE A MAN. In a situation where you may have a date, I have to suss the person out. If they have common sense, I may tell them, if not, I'm never going to see them again so I don't say anything. I'm not sleeping with anyone at that point anyway. I kind of play it by ear. My boyfriend Ray, I told him on the second date, and he didn't care. I went out with this NASCAR team owner, he knew from the beginning, and we ended up sleeping together. He did not even blink an eye—I was just somebody he found sexually attractive. I was constantly hit on by high-ranking executives in the NASCAR world.
I would like to race again. I've been doing testing and training, a little bit of racing locally, and I'm gonna try and do a NASCAR truck event this June. We need about $150,000 to do it. It'll be big if it happens.
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No Big Deal
A veteran of corporate America says big companies are leading the way in helping transgender social reform.
Web Exclusive
By Lorraine Ali 
Newsweek
May 13, 2007 - Margaret Stumpp, 54, is a vice president at Prudential Financial Inc. A 20-year veteran, she is the first openly transgender person at the firm, which has nearly 40,000 employees. Stumpp transitioned from Mark Stumpp to Maggie in February 2002, all while maintaining her position as chief investment officer for Quantitative Management Associates (a subsidiary of Prudential). When Stumpp returned to the office as Maggie, she sent this memo to her fellow employees: "From: M. Stumpp. Subject: Me." "This will be new ground for all of us," Stumpp wrote. "However, if September 11 taught us anything, it was that life is far too precious and short. Each of us must strive to be at peace with ourselves." She signed the note "Margaret." She spoke with Newsweek’s Lorraine Ali.
NEWSWEEK: Do you feel attitudes in the corporate world have changed in the five years since you transitioned?
Margaret Stumpp: I think the days of transgender people being something you only see on Jerry Springer--the yelling crowd, the feathered boa, the outrageous outfits--have changed. As more of us go through that process and people are exposed, it becomes much less threatening. It gives people a chance to rethink gender--what does it mean to be male or female? What are the stereotypes that we're dealing with in society? How many of those stereotypes are genuine and how fluid is human nature?
Why are attitudes moving forward--is it movies, documentaries, more people like you speaking out?
The interesting thing about watching this whole phenomenon is that employers have taken the lead. A number of far-sighted corporations who've extended protection to transgender people are in the forefront of the movement. People usually think of corporations as being a bastion of conservatism, it's not the case. When it comes to the bottom line, they're all for embracing ideas and effecting change that they think may help them. Here's a case where corporations are in the lead, and broader social reforms will follow.
What do you say to people who feel being transgender is a choice?
This is clearly not a choice. Why would one chose to endanger their entire lives, in all likelihood lose significant portions of your career potential as well as friends and family? No one does this out of choice. They do it primarily because they have to. It about grappling with the soul of one's being.
You had to go public about your transition at work, but why talk to the media or other people about it?
Traditionally people don't want to be recognized as transgender. When I walk down the street, I don't want someone to point and say, "There's a transsexual"--it would ruin my day. Yet, for people to treat us properly, there has to be some of us who identify as transsexuals in a very public way. It's what's needed for a broader understanding and acceptance.
Are you treated differently in the workplace as a woman?
Between changing gender and becoming a blonde, I've lost 20 IQ points in the public eye. It's kind of a hoot, and something you can use to you're advantage, though I'm not pretty enough to do it very well. It is a challenge. I kind of broke through the glass ceiling from the wrong direction.
Switching from slacks to panty hose cannot be easy, even if you hate slacks.
To tell the truth, it took a lot of time for me to get comfortable with the whole thing. Comfortable in your new self, your new presentation, learning how to deal in society. Women spend their whole life knowing what makeup works well for them, what clothing works on them. For people like me, it takes a while to do. I'm tall, when I walk in the room, it's like someone from the WBNA showed up. Trying to find clothing that fits me is just not that easy.
How do the people you work with, the ones who knew you as Mark Stumpp, consider you now?
The response for me was really positive. We all joked about wearing panty hose, whether "my condition" was contagious, those sorts of things. But when all was said and done and the dust settled, everyone got back to work. Now if you were to talk with anyone who works with me, they'd say, "What's the issue? She's just Maggie." The whole transgender thing is well behind us.
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Making a Difference
A former Air Force sergeant (and former man) on running for office as a transgender candidate.
Web Exclusive
By Pam Bennett
Newsweek
May 13, 2007 - Pam Bennett is 5 feet 10 inches, sports a blonde bob and is the only transgender running for city council in the United States. Bennett, who is running for a seat in Aurora, Col., transitioned from Bruce Dennis Bennett to Pam four years ago at the age of 52. The former Air Force sergeant and aerodefense engineer has no problem telling potential voters about her past so "there's no guesswork involved."
There's not much about me that isn't known. I've been involved in politics for many years—from supporting candidates to raising money—but when you file for office, you are no longer a citizen. You are a public figure. That changes the dynamics of everything in your life. I had to accept that once I filed to run for Aurora City Council, I would immediately become not only of local interest, but of international interest too.
You can count on two hands now how many transgender people have run for office, but only need to use a couple fingers to represent how many have won. I knew this going in and I had to be ready for just about everything.
Still, it's extremely rare that I receive negative comments. Almost never. Yes, there is sensationalism and small groups of people who have a problem accepting things they don't understand, but major changes in attitude have come in the last five or six years. Cable channels like Discovery, MSNBC, HBO, they started getting involved in transgender life and exploring what was going on factually, not sensationally.
There are national implications to this race. I look forward to everything from here to November. I think there's going to be a lot of eyes on this race. The local paper, The Aurora Sentinel, did an online poll to gauge the feeling around someone like me running for city council. Roughly 60 percent of the people said it didn't matter as long as the candidate could do the job. It became apparent that I was not just running for election, but also representing a group of people who are really a minority among all groups.
I'm running on Aurora issues, but equal rights are a basic fundamental of society and government. My city is a wonderfully diverse city; in our school system, there are 86 languages spoken. To say I'm going to run on a specific little issue—you can't. Equality is a basic fundamental right that everybody has. My platform is trying to control the development and focus on redeveloping old Aurora and the subdivisions that have been built over the decades.
But I've always been involved and interested in how our laws work, how we govern. I've followed politics closely, talked about it by the water cooler intensely. Then, once I stopped working and transitioned, it dawned on me I was in a position to do something. I did not consider running for office, but I did get involved in local and state races—knocking on doors for candidates, and explaining what his or her city issues were. I had a passionate interest in the same issues: development, water rates, jobs, creating a world-class city. After a while, various people said, "Why don't you run for office?" And I did.
It's incredibly important for me as a politician to be honest, and probably something we need right about now. Trans people living their lives pre-transition are living as someone they aren't. When you transition, you're saying, "Here I am." You can't get anymore honest than that. Trans people learn to be the most incredible actors on earth for survival. What's uncommon is actually saying, "I can't live this way anymore," and going into transition. I held off for as long as I could, but once you learn, it's very difficult to pretend anymore.
I transitioned at 52, so it took me that long to find out exactly who I was. For those of us who are older, the information was not available when we grew up, so we didn't even know what we were looking at because we were lacking that education. Plus, you try to be something you aren't so you're accepted by your family and friends. Most trans people work really hard at that. When I finally reached a point where I got enough information about what I wanted, I said, "Boy, well … " and that's when I started living my real life.
I decided I wasn't going stealth after my transition. You know, where you do the surgery and all the work on your face, then slip into a different life and not let anybody know? I was never going to be able to do that. I realized it's a new era, we're in a new world now, and I'm going to be me. It's probably the best thing I've ever done. When people meet me, they don't meet somebody who's projecting a separate image. That makes a big difference when I talk to big groups, they don't have to guess—what they see or hear, when they shake my hand, or hug me—they actually know who they are meeting. It works out well because I'm tall, and when I walk in a room, I get attention.
People still grapple with pronouns on occasion. Some people who knew me before still have a problem, but it doesn't bother me a lot. The longer you know somebody, the harder it is to change. The only time I have a problem with it is if someone uses it a nasty way.
Still, transition is an extremely difficult decision. Going into this you better know that everybody else you know has to transition too, but they don't have the luxury of having spent years—decades—preparing for it. It's very hard for family and friends. The emotions are very, very deep. I cried for a week when I told my wife. The boys were in there 20s, and it affected them very, very deeply. I was still their father, but repackaged.
My relations with my family are OK now, but it takes time. They have to go through a lot of adjustments. We're good friends now. In fact, today I was over working at the old house fixing one of the computers.
In the other part of my life, I was also in hardware and software for the aerodefense system, and before that, the U.S. Air Force, where I was a sergeant. I lived most my working life as a fairly high-level engineer, fairly important and an expert in many fields. Now, I'm not. You go from the top of the heap to the very bottom, and it's an eye-opener as to how our culture works. I couldn't run for office and do what I'm doing if I hadn't gone through what I did before. I learned how to run meetings, how to be forceful—I have something a lot of women wish they had—the ability to be in a meeting and control it, speak up. It's just not taught to women in our culture.
I am a mechanic. I like building car engines. When I go to the parts store now, I'm treated as though I don't know what I'm talking about. Even if I write it all down they still question me: "What's the year, the model … " The old me was an expert and the people behind the counter would ask me about things they didn't know. Then as a woman, the same people wouldn't even accept my word.
As far as how that translates into politics? I have to be much, much better. I have to work harder, I have to raise more money, this is just a fact of life. People have no clue what transgender people are. They've heard this or that, but the knowledge about who we are has not been out there. Thanks to things like "Transamerica," people are finding out this has always been around. It's like a woman running for office has to work harder than a man. It's the way things are.
I know discrimination now, and as a white male, I didn't. I've been in meetings where I have not been called on. It's very frustrating, but I'm not a wilting flower, so they eventually hear: "Hey, I'm here, and I have something to say."
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'None of Us Are Safe'
Actor Alexis Arquette on the politics of gender in America.
Web Exclusive
By Lorraine Ali
Newsweek
May 13, 2007 - Seventeen-year-old Alexis Arquette landed her first acting role in 1986 playing a transgender in "Last Exit To Brooklyn." Eighteen years later, she went through a real transition from man to woman. Arquette, an actress, musician and cabaret drag performer, comes from a family of actors that includes siblings Patricia, David, Richmond and Rosanna Arquette, father Lewis Arquette and grandfather Cliff Arquette. She's done almost 70 films—mostly indie, some adult—but one of her most memorable roles was as the Boy George character in 1998's "The Wedding Singer." "I did play transgender characters that were comedy roles and I feel bad about that now," says Arquette, 37. "That Boy George character, it's offensive to me now." She's now starring in a forthcoming A&E documentary about her transition, "Alexis Arquette: She's My Brother," which just debuted at the Tribeca Film Festival.
We Are Family: Rosanna, Alexis and Patricia Arquette (left to right) at the GLAAD Media Awards in Hollywood, April 2006
NEWSWEEK: Why do a documentary on something so personal?
ALEXIS ARQUETTE: I decided to document my transition partly because I wanted clarification for myself, but primarily because I wanted to challenge some of things that transgender people have to go through if they want to transition with a doctor in America. A lot of it came out of my conflicts with the standards of care and the idea that we need counseling before an elective surgery. It's questioning that the sanity of people like myself, that we can't make these decisions for ourselves, and doctors or specialists can say no if they don't feel confident with who we are.
It's almost a political issue then, too?
There's no sound-bite compact enough to cover this subject. I wish it could be boxed up and passed out in pretty packages, but it can't be. It's not just that it's a multilayered subject, but it's also different for every person like me. It's hard because I'm using my fame, and exploiting it, but in a positive way to do something beneficial as opposed to catastrophic—which is what we're constantly doing to ourselves as a group. I'll say it a million times—my documentary is a vain pursuit, and I can see why a lot of people could say gays are narcissistic, but it is just as important. Until all of us can feel we can walk down the street without ridicule, none of us really will ever be safe from Hitler's Gestapo.
Even before you came out as gay or transgender, you were playing a transsexual in "Last Exit To Brooklyn,"
I was 17, in art school and in the closet. I came out after that film as a gay male. I went from people seeing the performance and saying, “Wow, this is a young Al Pacino!” to having a lot of roles dry up because I came out as gay. But luckily because I was really fervent about showing up at auditions and working, I've been in, like 70 movies. I defied them. I kept working—some gay roles, some not. I got to play a commanding officer in a movie about Navy Seals. I was the character who slept with all the women and got them pregnant.
Were you worried that your transition would kill your career?
I had no concerns. I knew immediately it would not be a burial of my career, but opportunities would be few and far between. But I'm also at a different point in my career. As a young actor, you go out, audition, struggle, that's what you do. But I've worked enough, if they want to work with me they can make an offer and call. If they want to get me in the room, jerk my chain, I'm not into that. People would say that's snooty as an actor, I don't care. Is it because I'm gay or transgendered I have to come in and do sideshow freak thing for you? Well I won't.
How did your family react to you coming out as transgender?
This is the kind of thing that was kept under the rug, even in my progressive family. It's the kind of thing you don't want to acknowledge, that people might think is ugly or it may bring ridicule. But they weren't ashamed of me, it was more like they were trying to protect me from myself, and that becomes a weird thing. They were fiercely defensive of me.
You've presented yourself in so many ways—gay man, drag queen, woman, Navy Seal— so it's literally impossible for people to label you.
I grew up at a time with androgyny in the 1980s, it was easy to pass under the radar as a gay may. Yes, I am transgendered but I also am a cross-dresser—I dress as a woman. It's not that I just want to be seen as a female in our society, I'm also a drag queen and a performer—there are many levels there. I started grappling with all the boxes one has to fit into and all the flags I was willing to wave, and I started to realize it's hard to fit into one realm and be a productive member of society. I realized I'm not the kind of person who wants to go with the flow and fit in. I'm an agitator, I'm opinionated, I'm a libertine and leader. I wasn't willing to fall in line.
Do you still identify with drag?
Yes. All cultures have drag. The forefathers of our national wore wigs and makeup while their wives sat at home in drab colors with cropped hair. Look at animals—birds. The females are brown and sitting in the nest, while the males are colorful and flouncing around. Women do not have a monopoly on femininity and men do not have a monopoly on masculinity. It's a dance some people take seriously and some don't, and it's OK both ways. I take it pretty seriously but I also see the humor in it.
How do you think Hollywood views gays and transgenders in their ranks? You think it would be more open-minded than most professions.
When I came out as gay, people would immediately say, “Oh, so you weren't really acting when you did that role?” They seemed more comfortable with heterosexuals playing transgendered and gay. They don't really want to see the real thing. I know there was a time in the '40s and '50s when white actors played blacks and Asians, but we've got to a point with the civil-rights movement when that became a minstrel show that people were offended by. It never became that way for heteros playing gays.
Why is it so important to challenge traditional gender roles?
I feel annoyed that I'm affected by the trappings of male and female in this world. I feel I'm limited. It's heavy stuff. I don't want to think my happiness depends on something that covers our flesh. The vagina and a penis are very different, but humans at our core are all very similar. Pull all the facial hair out and we're not that different.
What about self-identity?
If all of your life is riding on wearing that cowboy hat and no one ever sees your pink frillies, than how strong is your self-identity? Are you really a man just because you dress like one? What are real men and real women? How about real people. Do men have to kill and women have to heal? I think everyone knows we’re all capable of the same.
Your life is, and always has been, very public. What was it like struggling with your gender in the limelight?
Do I wish I lived in a world where I could just take a deep breath and exist like others and pass under the radar? Yes, but I was as a gay male doing that. People on the street just saw me as male, and it was a safe place to be, the closet. But I came to a point where I'd rather be harangued daily, all day long, and allowed to be myself. Or feel free to be this one day and that the other, and not worry about it. This is a fight, it's a struggle. But it's somebody else's fight. The people who have a problem with it—it's their fight.
When your documentary is released in theaters, that's yet another big public moment, and it deals very directly with you sexuality.
I'm a transgendered female who started as a male, I'm now female, you know all those things, so why do we need to go further than that? They don't need to know about my genitalia because it becomes sexual then—it's not about gender. Unless I'm getting ready to sleep with someone—we're falling in love, we're dating—we can talk. But you see me as female if I still have one part that's male, or I've gone through the complete surgery. Sure I may be limiting the kind of heterosexual men that I'm dating, but it's a personal, private thing. There are a lot of people who are attracted to people like myself because they like boobs and a penis, and let's just be honest about that. They like she-males.
When someone says the word transgender, most people think: man trapped in a woman's body, or vice versa. Do you agree?
I'm not correcting a mistake. I don't feel I was born female. I was born transgender for a reason, so I can transition. You can talk about butterflies, human evolution, any species trying to spread it's wings and find new ways to survive. Who knows, are transgender people an indication that we as a race are starting to realize that there's something wrong on the earth and they we need to find other options? Men have to realize they have nipples because they started out as the prototype—female. I'm just returning to the fold.
Copyright © 2005-2008 The STHN Group
Last modified: August 5, 2007
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