"What do you mean two surgeries? What--one for each tit?" I asked.
"No. The doctor explained to Hunter the transition is easier when breasts--larger ones--are removed in two stages."
"Oh," I said. "Isn't that more expensive--two surgeries?"
He nodded. "You have no idea."
It was a late Friday afternoon in April near the Wichita Mountains of southwestern Oklahoma. My old friend, Darin, and I were having a drink on his back porch, looking out onto the vista of Mount Scott and Lake Lawtonka from his ranch home near Medicine Park.
Darin and his wife and daughter lived here. We served in the army together years ago, being stationed at nearby Fort Sill. He was my commanding officer when I was just a butter bar second lieutenant. He stayed in, eventually retiring and remaining near the base as a civilian contractor.
I got out of the service years ago, but I still traveled to bases around the country as a civilian construction manager for Department of the Army projects.
We became close enough friends through the years that I was like family, especially after his nasty divorce from his first wife. Best man for his second marriage, I felt more like a brother to him and his wife and an uncle to his daughter, Harper.
I flew into town on a Thursday to review plans for a renovation of the bachelor officer's quarters at Fort Sill. When I finished all of the meetings, Darin picked me up from the base and drove me out to his place.
His wife, Maria, was out with Harper when we arrived. This was by design, I discovered. Darin needed to chat with me--alone. I knew the subject from a phone call about a month prior--Harper had decided to begin the transition from female to male. I had been dumbstruck.
She was no longer Harper; she was Hunter. She was an eighteen-year-old high school senior, and the medical process had begun with testosterone therapy, resulting in a voice that reminded me of my teenage years. She sounded like she had an awful cold. The next step was a mastectomy, apparently in two stages.
"Wait a second, Darin. I need to ask because I can't understand these things outside of sex--is Harper--Hunter, sorry--is Hunter interested in men or women? Or both?"
"No clue. Seriously."
"She's never dated?"
"Not 'she,' 'they.' No. They hang out with friends--a small group."
"Guys or girls?"
"Both."
I sighed, taking in this information. Then, carefully choosing my words, I said, "Reason I ask is because--and forgive me for the picture I'm about to paint here--I think she would be much more successful in matters of love if she stayed a woman. I mean, how tall is she? She can't be five feet."
"They," he corrected.
I rolled my eyes. "It's bad English. That's not going to be easy for me to say."
Darin said, "You have no idea."
"Anyways, how tall?"
"Four foot eleven--almost."
"Right, and she weighs what? A hundred pounds or so?"
"More like ninety-five."
Nodding, I said, "Exactly, so here's my point. As a woman, you can attract men or women being that small. As a man, though? How many women are interested in a man the size of a very small woman?"
"It's rare."
"I suppose they're out there, but Harper's--damn--Hunter's just reducing her--their--odds for happiness in a big, big way."
Darin shrugged. "Yeah. Yep."
I went on. "Now come at it the other way. If she's--they--if they're interested in men. What kind of gay man is attracted to a four-ten, ninety-pound, and very young-looking man? Think about that one a second."
Darin's face went pink. I didn't need to explain. I could about see the images pop into his mind from his expression. "Holy--," he muttered. Then, he slammed down his drink and hollered, "Fuck!"
"I'm sorry, man, but do you see what I mean?"
Darin stood and turned away. He surveyed the mountain for a few seconds. "That fucking bitch," he muttered.
It was his first wife, Nadine, that he was cursing. She had not been a rational human being. After the divorce, she got custody. Darin deployed to Iraq. He didn't know how bad things had gotten until he returned to find his ex-wife alone, but pregnant with someone else's child and not yet remarried. That was not the worst of it. Harper wasn't there; she was in a juvenile detention facility--had been for over a month. Her Mom just left her there.
As I understand the story, Harper had been mentally and emotionally abused and--starved goes too far--undernourished, let's say, but not quite enough to clue in the social workers, so when, at twelve, she lashed out and struck her Mom with a pepper grinder, Nadine called the police. They took in Harper.
But she didn't get sent to juvie for that.
Meanwhile in Iraq, all Darin knew was that his ex-wife would not take his calls so that he could talk to his daughter. Harper was released into foster care, and there, she was caught shoplifting. She assaulted the clerk who nabbed her and got put in juvie. Upon his return from deployment, Darin swept in and took custody after another ugly legal battle.
Darin and I knew Nadine had fucked up Harper, just not how much. The kid barely ate anything. She hated women, and Maria struggled to build a relationship with her step-daughter, dealing with awful tantrums throughout Harper's teenage years.
"Has she--damn it! They--," shaking my head, I continued, "Has Hunter ever had a boyfriend?"
Darin turned to me. "I told you. I don't know."
At the risk of conjuring more unpleasant imagery for Darin, I suggested, "Look, a good boyfriend, a kind and nice kid, might have changed everything, right? He might have been able to show her--sorry, man--but showed her how pleasurable it is to be a woman. I mean, I guess a good girlfriend could have done the same thing--made her appreciate the body she already has."
Darin nodded and stared at me for a moment.
I sighed, saying, "I just don't see how it works out for Harp--Hunter, shit--as a man, especially a medically-manufactured one."
Darin snatched up his drink and guzzled it down. With a gasp, he shook his empty beer, asking, "Another one?"
I handed him my empty, and he said, "And let's change the subject. I can't take this anymore. Let's hear about your recent conquests."
***
