"Tell them," she told me.
Naturally, I had already written a couple of novels about sexual differences--about challenging and, at times, confusing sexual identities. Klaus had read my novels; he'd interviewed me, for Christ's sake--he and his wife (or girlfriend) should have known that my girlfriend wasn't a prude.
"Donna definitely has a bigger dick than the tranny driving the make-believe car," I said to Klaus and Claudia. "Please don't ask her to show it to you--not here."
"Not here?" Donna screamed.
I truly don't know why I said that; the stream of traffic, both cars and pedestrians, along the Reeperbahn must have ma
de me anxious about Donna whipping out her penis there. I certainly didn't mean--as I told Donna repeatedly, back at our hotel--that Donna would (or should) show them her penis at another time, or in another place! It just came out that way.
"I'm not an amateur cross-dresser," Donna was sobbing. "I'm not, I'm not--"
"Of course you're not," I was telling her, when I saw Klaus and Claudia slipping away. Donna had put her hands on my shoulders; she was shaking me, and I suppose that Klaus and Claudia got a good look at Donna's big hands. (She did have a bigger dick than the tranny gagging the guy who was giving her a bad blow job in that make-believe car.)
That night, back at the Vier Jahreszeiten, Donna was still crying when she washed her face before going to bed. We left the light on in the walk-in closet, with the closet door ajar; it served as a night-light, a way to find the bathroom in the dark. I lay awake looking at Donna, who was asleep. In the half-light, and with no makeup on, Donna's face bore a hint of something masculine. Maybe it was because she wasn't trying to be a woman when she slept; perhaps it was something in the contours of her jaw and cheekbones--something chiseled.
That night, looking at Donna asleep, I was reminded of Mrs. Kittredge; there'd been something masculine in her attractiveness, too--something of Kittredge himself about her, something all-male. But if a woman is aggressive, she can look male--even in her sleep.
I fell asleep, and when I woke up, the door to the walk-in closet was closed--I knew we'd left it ajar. Donna was not in bed beside me; in the light that was coming from the walk-in closet, from under the door, I could see the shadows of her moving feet.
She was naked, looking at herself in the full-length mirror in the walk-in closet. I knew this routine.
"Your breasts are perfect," I told her.
"Most men like them bigger," Donna said. "You're not like most men I know, Billy. You even like actual women, for Christ's sake."
"Don't hurt your beautiful breasts--please don't do anything to them," I told her.
"What's it matter that I have a big dick? You're strictly a top, Billy--that won't ever change, right?" she asked me.
"I love your big dick," I said.
Donna shrugged; her small breasts were the target. "You know the difference between an amateur cross-dresser and someone like me?" Donna asked.
I knew the answer--it was always her answer. "Yes, I know--you're committed to changing your body."
"I'm not an amateur," Donna repeated.
"I know--just don't change your breasts. They're perfect," I told her, and went back to bed.
"You know what's the matter with you, Billy?" Donna asked me. I was already in bed, with my back turned to the light coming from under the door of the walk-in closet. I knew her answer to this question, too, but I didn't say anything. "You're not like anyone else, Billy--that's what's the matter with you," Donna said.
AS FOR CROSS-DRESSING, DONNA could never interest me in trying on her clothes. She would talk, from time to time, about the seemingly remote possibility of surgery--not just the breast implants, which were tempting to many transsexuals, but the bigger deal, the sex-change surgery. Technically speaking, Donna--and every other transsexual who ever attracted me--was what they call a "pre-op." (I know only a few post-op transsexuals. The ones I know are very courageous. It's daunting to be around them; they know themselves so well. Imagine knowing yourself that well! Imagine being that sure about who you are.)
Donna would say, "I suppose you were never curious--I mean, to be like me."
"That's right," I told her, truthfully.
"I suppose, all your life, you've wanted to keep your penis--you probably really like it," she said.
"I like yours, too," I told her--also truthfully.
"I know you do," she said, sighing. "I just don't always like it so much myself. But I always like yours," Donna quickly added.
Poor Tom would have found Donna too "complicated," I think, but I thought she was very brave.
I found it intimidating that Donna was so certain about who she was, but that was also one of the things I loved about her--that and the cute, rightward inclination of her penis, which reminded me of you-know-who.