The Other Woman Was Himself

An excerpt from "18 Months"

Shannon Thrace had fourteen blissful years with her husband. And then, when he announced he wanted to cross-dress—something Shannon was fine with—that seeded a change that grew quickly, malignantly, overtaking their marriage. Shannon’s memoir, 18 Months, published today, details the dissolution of their relationship and her husband’s intense shift, transforming from someone embracing a sexual proclivity to someone deep in the hold of an ideology. Below is a brief excerpt from the book, which you can buy here.
-LD

Rejecting Gender
“I intend to crossdress,” you announce. You say it without smiling, all wide eyes and raised eyebrows. Then you lean against the couch and look at me, as if waiting for an objection.

“OK...?” I peer over the unwieldy book on front-end development I’ve lugged home from the office—my bonus depends on my acquisition of a new certification every quarter. The night I gave you the makeover, you slept in my blouse. So I searched upscale thrift shops and surprised you with a free-size kimono. You were touched. You’ve slept in it ever since.

So your desire to crossdress has hardly escaped my notice.

But I put aside the book and give you my full attention. You want to crossdress in the daytime now, you say, and in public. That’s significant for you, but honestly, it’s not for me. Clothing rules are socially constructed, and “women’s clothes” don’t belong to women. As far as I’m concerned, anyone can wear whatever they want. We have no kids, so there’s nothing to balance there. And in the personal taste department, I’m not your average woman, anyway. I’m attracted to few men, and those who catch my eye aren’t classically masculine.

—

“I like the word ‘transvestite,’” you say, loudly enough to be heard over Avenged Sevenfold. You pull a plaid miniskirt from the rack and check its size. “It has a sort of old-school formality that I appreciate.”

You need something to wear to the show, so I’ve brought you to Hot Topic, a teenage mall destination smelling of patent leather and lip gloss. A wall to the south is covered with corseted dresses, black and red and adorned with bows and skulls. Near the entrance a topless mannequin sports pleather hot shorts, ripped tights and over-the-knee boots. To the north, metal and hardcore t-shirts hang alongside fingerless gloves, seamed stockings and studded belts.

A high school girl with mermaid hair starts a fitting room with the dozen garments you’ve collected. I join you behind the thick black curtain, reading the band stickers plastering the walls while you try things on. “I’m an executive transvestite,” you continue, squeezing into a babydoll dress.

An ultra-short skirt dangling with ripped tulle and garters meets with your approval. You become enamored with a pair of rainbow-colored thigh-highs, too. To complete the outfit we stop by a thrift store where you find a man-sized pair of chunky high-heel oxfords laced with fat ribbons.

You pull on your new skirt, thigh-highs and shoes, finishing with a Yoda t-shirt and an armful of leather wristbands. After shaving, you do your own makeup: a generous layer of foundation to hide the hint of stubble beneath your skin, black eyeliner and red lipstick. It’s a bit much, but I assume that’s what you want.

You hand me your phone so you can pose for photos: hands in front, hands in back, knock-kneed, head tilted. Eager to see, you grab the phone from my hand. But your face falls as you scroll through the gallery.

“I look garish,” you say.

I shrug. “It’s the Rocky Horror Picture Show.”

You grow quiet as you lock up the house and start your truck. I guess garish isn’t the look you were going for.

—

“Let’s talk about boundaries,” you say. You take my hand in yours, explore its contours with your fingers. “I’ll abide by any rule. I’ll give this up completely, if you want. It’s one hundred percent up to you.”

I love that you’re checking in with me—it’s so very you. I think for a second, though I know there’s nothing to think about. The fact that you offered means the world to me.

“I don’t need to make rules,” I say.

I expect to see relief in your eyes; instead I see pleading. “I’m not gay. You know that, right? You’re the sexiest thing in the world to me.”

I do know. We’ve always had a sexually charged relationship, and our passion has not waned with time.

“I’ll always respect your wishes,” you say, letting go of my hands and wrapping your arms around me. “You can change your mind at any time.”

I press my cheek against your neck and allow myself the indulgence of gratitude—for you, for fearless intimacy, for us.

You lean back and look into my eyes, your own moist with emotion. “I won’t let anything come between us,” you say. “Least of all this.”

—

“In defense of crossdressers!” you announce when I arrive home, pointing your open laptop in my direction. The students you teach are on Christmas break, so you've been home all day. I knock the snow off my boots, drop my bags and pull off damp gloves.

“Cool,” I say. “I’d love to read it.”

You’ve purchased a domain name, you say, following me to the thermostat in the hall. You’ve installed blogging software. You’ve written your first post.

“Do we have to keep it so cold in here?” I bump up the heat.

You’ve customized a theme, you add, following me into the kitchen. You’re calling the blog “Outside the Binary.”

“I’d love to read it,” I repeat, popping a mug of water into the microwave. I sift rooibos into the infuser as you explain the impetus for your first post, “Open Letter to a Trans Woman.”

It’s to someone named Shesha you chatted with online. Your interest in crossdressing, she suggested, means you’re really trans. Perhaps you’re afraid to face that right now. But you should take a hard look at yourself. Maybe you’re not a crossdresser at all. Maybe you’re a woman.

I settle on the couch and pull a wool throw across my lap. Outside, a sprinkling of snowflakes stains a vista of brown: dead zebra grass, dried echinops, a lone maple leaf fluttering on a branch. Shesha’s remarks got under your skin, you say, handing over your laptop. You were motivated to respond.

The post is a familiar synopsis of a philosophy you’ve honed over the last several months.

You’re a crossdressing man, you write. A man, not a woman. You have male privilege, and you want to acknowledge that.

Crossdressers are the most closeted of the LGBTQ spectrum, you explain. You’re called weirdos or perverts. You’re made the butt of jokes. But there’s no shame in crossdressing. You want to own it. You want to destigmatize the word “transvestite”—it’s a beautiful word. You like women’s clothes: the fine fabrics, the lovely patterns, the flattering fit. Why shouldn’t a man enjoy fashion? You’re proud of your sense of style.

You want to be yourself, not impersonate someone else. So you refuse to wear fake hips. You’ll never “Spackle on makeup like a clown.” You don’t even want to stuff a bra. Women must sometimes work around a flat chest or a thick waist, so why shouldn’t you? You reiterate a favorite line: “I wear women’s clothes for self-expression, as a punk might wear a mohawk.”

Folks like Shesha want you to say you were “born this way.” You weren’t much of a baseball player, to your dad’s chagrin—but you were otherwise a typical boy. You wrestled with your brothers and hammered on odd bits of wood. You never favored girls’ toys or played dress-up or got bullied for running weird. You’re not “wired” to enjoy feminine things. You’re a human with agency, not a medical anomaly.

Maybe you’re not a typical man. But you’re not a woman, either. You’re fine the way you are! You have no desire to grow breasts or lose your penis. When it comes to gender, you fall “outside the binary” and you like it there. We need to challenge the gender binary, you say, not shove people into one or the other of its poles.

Revering Gender
“You don’t think of me as a woman, do you?” You’re sitting on the edge of the loveseat in the den, as if about to rise. Earlier I referred to you as “he” while talking to my mom on the phone. You heard.

You’re dressed to the nines in boots and a wrap dress. You’ve put on a full face of makeup and have fixed your hair. I’m not sure why; I wasn’t aware you had plans tonight. You come toward me now, taking on the s-shaped posture of a tall person who struggles to walk in heels.

No good can come of this discussion. But I will not be allowed to opt out of it. I own up to the mistake.

“I’m sorry. I have respected your pronouns since we talked about it this spring and I will continue to do so.”

“But you don’t think of me as a woman.”

You’re right. But I can’t help what I think. And I don’t think rewiring my brain is a reasonable goal for you. I think respecting each other, in all our difference, should be our goal. I don’t say this; honesty too often rankles you now. But I’m not giving up on honesty. If I can’t speak with you frankly, but compassionately, then we no longer have a relationship to save. I don’t like the way lies feel in my mouth.

Still, I can’t help but employ every technique at my disposal to protect your feelings. Avoiding unproductive discussions. Stretching the truth to its breaking point. Meeting your questions with questions.

“What is a woman, anyway?”

“I am a woman.” You motion toward your body with both hands. “This is what a woman looks like.”

“But what makes that true? I’m genuinely curious, I promise.” You’re thinking. “Is it your clothing?” I ask, when it seems no answer is forthcoming.

“Of course not! I’m still a woman no matter what I’m wearing. Clothing is just an expression of my womanhood.”

“OK,” I say. “And you’ve said you don’t believe women have different brains...”

“It’s not about sexed brains!”

“If it’s not in your body, and it’s not in your brain, where is it?”

Instead of answering, you say: “Trans women are a subset of women.”

But a subset has all the traits of its parent set. What traits describe females, plus you? At best, people like you and people like me belong to a superset—“women-in-effect,” or something. But set theory is probably the wrong framework for this discussion.

Still.

“I have a female gender identity,” you say, after a moment. “Same as you.”

“Wait—no. I don’t have a gender identity.”

“Sure you do.” You seem offended, as though I deny it to prove some sort of point.

But I’m sure I don’t.

—

“I am literally a woman,” you say, your expression suggesting you’ve just chewed up an aspirin. “And not someone who identifies as one.”

Though you stand a few feet from me in the foyer of our home, you couldn’t be further away. For most of our fifteen years we’ve shared an unassailable, easy intimacy, and my heart aches to reach you, to bring you back, to talk with you. Instead I stare down a yawning chasm that can’t be breached. Sometime within the past few months, talking with me became a thing you no longer do.

“Jamie—” I call, stepping forward and offering my hand. But you move toward the door. Towering in high-heel boots and a dress too slinky for the cold November air, you scarcely resemble the person who proudly identified as a man only months ago. The shift in your position is written all over you: the dress ill-suited for winter; the layers of pasty foundation; the fussed-with, sprayed hair.

You turn back to glare at me, pulling your coat tightly around you in defense against some invisible barrage. “Trans women are women,” you add, mechanically. A cold blast of air fills the foyer as you slip through the door.