Them

"Shit, I can't wait to have muscles--actual muscles," she commented. "See an actual pump on them when I work out."

I continued.

"Look at your shoulders," she said.

I didn't bother.

"They're beautiful," she explained.

Finishing, I got up with a grunt, wincing at the ache in my abs and obliques.

"You've got pretty good abs," Hunter offered, "but mine will be better."

Still chuffing air, I did a 'talkie-talkie' gesture with my hand.

She laughed. "Oh, come on. You're older. You have an excuse. Mine are already almost as good."

I signaled for her to show me.

She drew up her tank top, saying, "There. See?"

I nodded, turning back to my exercises, but I could have looked at her stomach for much longer. I saw myself kissing its sleek skin, and then a pang of guilt struck me.

"You're not so hairy," she said, watching me crank out dips off the edge of the couch. "Your chest and back, I mean. Your forearms and legs are pretty hairy, though."

I finished a set and changed my grip.

Hunter continued, "That's one thing that bothers me--all the hair. I don't want to be super-hairy as a man, like my Dad."

I nodded, breathing.

"Do you manscape?" she asked.

I guffawed, and my triceps gave out on me. Collapsing to the floor and laughing, I said, "What the hell?"

She was laughing, too. "Seriously. Do you?"

"You mean my--?" I asked, pointing to my crotch.

"No, not that! Oh, my gosh. Manscape isn't just about your pubic hairs, geez! I meant your chest and back."

"No."

"Wait, though. Do you manscape down there?"

Still struggling between chuffing air and chuckling, I said, "It's a bit personal, you know."

"I mean, do a lot of guys?"

"I don't know. I don't ask."

"Do you?"

We looked at each other for a beat.

Giving up, I laid prostrate on the carpet. "Maybe. I do not shave it--no way. I trim it back a little bit. I keep it--," I paused, and then I finished, "I keep it Army tight."

She burst into laughter, pitching her head back and holding her tummy.

I tucked my arms behind my head and relaxed.

When Hunter recovered, she asked if I was finished.

"Not usually at this point, but I'm tired and you keep interrupting me, so yeah."

"I'm sorry. I'm just curious."

I shook my head and waved it off--no big deal.

She sat on the floor beside me. "You don't stink, at least," she said.

"What a nice thing to say," I responded.

She laughed. "Some guys do--a lot of them in my P.E. class--is all I mean."

"No, don't say that," I countered, "now I only 'don't stink' compared to sweaty, pubescent boys. The compliment's ruined."

More laughter. When it ended, an uncomfortable silence crept in.

"Would you mind if I--," she did not finish. Shaking her headache said, "Forget it."

"What?"

"It's nothing."

"Tell me."

"No."

About recovered, I was planning on sitting up when Hunter said, "Thanks for being honest with me. It's refreshing."

A thought occurred to me, and after I told her she was welcome and that I would always be honest, I asked, "Will you be honest with me?"

She nodded.

"What were you going to ask me a minute ago?"

Hunter rolled her eyes. "Oh, that's not fair."

I shrugged, saying, "You don't have to. I was being tricky."

With a sigh, she said, "I was going to ask if you would let me touch your muscles--just to see what it will be like."

Understanding, I said, "Tell you what. I'm going to close my eyes and rest, right here. You can touch wherever you want."

I hesitated. We looked at one another.

"That came out wrong," I clarified. "You know what I meant."

I closed my eyes and waited. I listened to her reposition her body.

Hunter squeezed my shoulder. First one, then both. She placed her palm on my right pectoral, and she squeezed it. Her hands were so small that I had to remind myself that Hunter was a young woman, not a girl.

Both hands were on my pecs, and she squeezed, whispering something under her breath

I peeked, and we made eye contact.

And then I knew. And I knew that she felt it, too; I could see it in her eyes: there was a connection here, an attraction.

I closed my eyes again.

Hunter sighed quietly.

She might have been too inexperienced to recognize the signals or acknowledge the sensation for what it was, but I knew. I had been single a long time, and I had plenty of girlfriends over the years, plenty enough to know what it was when that little jolt of warm surprise thrums in my heart.

She liked me.

But I had to ask myself: did she like me because she wanted me or because she wanted to be like me?

To that question, I had no answer.

Hunter's fingers began feeling my abs. It was almost a massage--I didn't know. I wondered if it counted as a massage when the point was for the masseuse to feel and not the client.

One hand remained on my belly. The other moved to my arm, and Hunter said, "Flex your bicep." When I did, she let out a tiny gasp.

It was a beautiful sound--even with her testosterone-induced cracking voice--and it dawned on me that, before the whole insane proposal from Darin, if he had caught me like this with his daughter, he would have come after me with murderous fury.

"What are you thinking right now, Hunter?" I murmured.

She cleared her throat before saying, "I wondered if I could ever have a body like this."

"And what did you decide?"

"I'm not sure. I don't think hormone therapy is going to make me any taller, and I'm not sure my frame will ever be able to carry muscles like yours." When she said this, her hands squeezed my shoulder first, and then my thigh. "What do you think?" she asked.

I said, "I think there are capabilities and limitations with every body type. But, if you want muscles, you can have them." Glancing down at her hands on my thighs, I added, "You know, in a way, you've kind of got them right now."

She looked at the chunk of hairy, meaty leg muscle in her hands and smiled. Letting go, she said, "You know what I mean."

I nodded.

She reached for my chest again. "What do you think of my body?" she asked.

"I try not to leer."

She pinched me and said, "Seriously, though."

"You tend to cover it up."

"Naturally," she said, "we hide the things about ourselves we don't like." After a beat, she insisted, "Answer the question."

"It is a small body, but one worth putting on display some more. I think people will find it very, very beautiful just as it is."

"That's what Maria says."

I sat up. "Maria is your step-mom; she has to say nice things," I said. "But, I don't."

I rose the rest of the way and helped her to her feet. "Hungry?" I asked.

She nodded.

"I'll shower and we can go out to eat. You name the place."

***

After a fried chicken dinner we went home and watched a superhero movie she liked. She relaxed on the couch; I sat in the chair. When it ended, we chatted about the movie for a few minutes, and then she asked if I had any more questions for her.

"About your transition?" I asked.

"Yeah."

"Sure," I said, "I've got a few more."

"Only no questions about Nadine," Hunter said. "I don't want to think about her anymore."

"Fair enough," I responded, wondering if something I had said before had peeled a scab.

"So?" she invited.

"So, what's the first thing you're going to do with your new body?"

She smiled. "Ooh! That's a pretty good one." She hung her foot over her knee and said, "I'm going to pee standing up."

"Looking forward to that?"

She nodded. "And I think I'm just going to check myself out, you know?"

"Check out--everything?"

She smiled. "Yeah, I need to know what I've got."

"Then what?"

"I'll go for a run or I'll work out. I'll--I'll get a short haircut."

"How short?"

"I don't know. Army tight, maybe."

We smiled.

"That's pretty short."

She nodded.

I said, "Hey, that reminds me of something I meant to ask about the other day."

She raised her chin expectantly.

"So, we talked about being authentic, right? You want to be authentic to yourself; you like the idea of being friends--or maybe lovers--with someone who is living an authentic life."

"Yes."

"Are expressions like haircuts and clothing authentic?"

"What do you mean?" she asked with a mixture of genuine curiosity and trepidation.

I tried to explain. "I suppose I'm wondering if how we present ourselves and our bodies to the world is always a bit less than authentic."

"Example?"

I smiled. "Okay. I wore a swimsuit to the lake. Maybe to be authentic to my truest self, I wanted to wear a tuxedo, but I didn't. I recognized that wearing a tux would invite social confusion and get attention for the wrong reasons. So, I wore swim trunks as a way to--to lubricate social interactions. Ergo, I was being disingenuous to my true self."

She nodded with interest, responding, "Well of course we adapt to outside considerations. I don't wear sweatpants to a funeral. I don't wear a suit of armor in the jacuzzi. There are always social considerations, but within those confines, how I will present my new body will always be driven by authenticity to myself."

"But is expressing authenticity really the reason that drives how we present ourselves to the world?"

"For people who lie to themselves, no. For me, yes."

"I don't know, Hunter. I think there's another reason."

"What reason?"

"Before I say, let me just point out that this comes from my own experience. Maybe it applies to everyone, maybe to males, or maybe just me, okay?"

"Go ahead."

"Think about how I present myself to the world--my haircut, my shave, my clothing, all that stuff. Got a general impression in your mind?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, now let's just say for argument's sake that people who identify as straight females--through changing ideas of fashion or whatever--begin to start preferring male partners with long, curly hair and wearing prom dresses."

"That's a little weird, but okay," she said, smiling warily.

"If that were to happen, then I am probably going to begin growing out and curling my hair. I'm going to maybe pick up some--some tolerable to me prom-style dresses. I would not like it. I would hate it, actually, but the minute I began--forgive me for being crude here--began scoring with babes, I would probably start liking my look."

"You're saying how we display our bodies is driven solely by sex appeal?"

"Basically, and as another example, let's just say that I wake up tomorrow, and I am suddenly female, and there's nothing I can do about it. I'm stuck as a woman--female, sorry. If that happened, it would not change my interest in women. I would still want them, so I imagine I would find ways to display myself meant to attract other wom--females, lesbian females."

"But--," she began.

I held up a finger. "One last thing?"

She signaled for me to continue.

"I do think that we can fall into habits as finding a sexual partner becomes less and less important. The 95-year-old woman, as an example, who still puts on make-up is probably doing it more because it is part of her daily routine, but the habit first formed for sexual reasons."

"So what are you saying about me?"

"I'm not saying; I'm asking."

"Ask it, then."

"Is it possible that your body--however it happens to be--and how you display it to the world have nothing to do with being authentic to your true identity?"

She opened her mouth, but no words came out.

I added, "That, put simply, is it all an advertisement?"

Shaking her head, she said, "I refuse to believe that." A moment elapsed before she asked, "But, so what if it is? What does it matter to me?"

"If it's true, then I guess the question you have to ask yourself isn't 'Who am I?' but 'For whom will I advertise myself?' Do you want females or males or both to be attracted to you? With whom and how do you want to have sex?"

Hunter shot up from the couch, snapping, "I told you before: I am not answering that kind of question! I don't like this conversation!"

She marched into her room and threw the door shut.

I was taken aback by her reaction. I remained on the couch for nearly a minute, thinking. I knew there were two courses of action for an angry woman. First, the hell with her. She knows she overreacted, and she'll eventually recognize her culpability, come to me, and apologize. The second was to pursue--to chase down the fleeing woman.

I decided to pursue. I rose and went to her door, knocking. "Hunter? I'm sorry. I didn't mean to--to put you on the spot like that. I just--," I had no way to finish that one, yet.

She didn't respond.

I decided to be brutally honest, "Ever since Bruce Jenner became Caitlyn Jenner, I've been confused about this whole T thing. I never had to confront it before, and when it became this big news story, I figured I needed to understand it. So, I tried."

Silence from her room.

I went on. "And I didn't get it, outside of sex appeal; I really didn't. I felt Jenner's whole true-to-herself thing was disingenuous. When she showed up on the news looking the way she did, I felt like she was betraying women out there. It was like she was saying, 'All you need to do to be a female is to have big tits, slap on a shit-ton of make-up, and dress like a news anchorwoman.' I felt like there was so much more to it than that--the female experience, I mean."

Nothing from Hunter.

Continuing, I said, "There was nothing foundational in what Jenner seemed to be doing; it seemed to be all about a look, and what's the point of a look if it isn't to be looked at? I know people want to be seen for certain reasons--maybe political, maybe to sell something--but in the end, all of those reasons to be looked at can boil down to sex appeal."

Still cold silence from her.

"I could be wrong, you know? I freely admit that pursuing an authentic identity might be at the heart of it. I'm not saying what you're doing is disingenuous; I'm just saying I haven't been able to understand it outside of sex appeal. Not yet, at least. You could help me see it differently."

Nada.

I sighed. "Look, I'm not here to persuade you to stop. I'm not here to spy and report to Darin. I'm just being honest. As your friend, there's really nothing else I can do, Hunter."

Met by ongoing silence, I gave up and went to my room.

***

I didn't see Hunter at all the next day. I wasn't even sure she was in her room. Her car was still in the garage. Though I never heard her leave, she could have easily left without my knowing. A friend might have picked her up.

She didn't respond to my text or my phone call an hour after that. I used the morning to catch up on the work I missed yesterday.

At 3:00pm, still not having heard from Hunter, I sent another text. I wrote: If you're ok, reply STOP to end these messages.

Two minutes later, she responded, STOP.

I went for a run.

Reliving our conversation as I went up Mount Scott, I thought about what I'd said and wondered where I'd crossed her line. None of what I'd said had been driven by some agenda. Maria and Darin might have tried to give me a mission, but I had abandoned it. I had been honest with Hunter.

What struck me was how it appeared two matters set her off. The first was her mother, Nadine. I understood that. An abusive parent? Sure. Perhaps it wasn't so healthy for Hunter to avoid discussing her awful mother, but it made sense. She doesn't want to relive those horrible times. I got it, but it made me wonder what I didn't know about Nadine and Hunter's history.

The second was Hunter's sexual desires. That one confused me a bit. I could see an eighteen-year-old in her position being reticent to chat with her parents about such things, but I felt I had successfully established myself as a person she could trust--a friend. Wasn't sex not only a common thing for a young adult to chat about with a friend, but an exciting one, too? Why would Hunter avoid it, grow visibly upset by the subject? Plus, though there was some room for debate, what I had been driving at was not for her to tell me but for her to ask herself.

About three-quarters the way up the hill, I saw a car on the lower loop, heading up. It was an old white Buick convertible filled with four teenagers. The music was blasting. The car sped along, swerving a bit. The kid riding shotgun screamed out some lyrics.

Two minutes later, the Buick approached me from behind. I moved to the rocky gravel shoulder to give the crazy kids some space. Glancing over my shoulder, the young man riding shotgun saw me. He took a pull of some drink, lurched over the door frame, and as the car passed, he spat it at me.

Most of it missed. I heard the driver laughing. As they sped away, the kid turned back and hollered, "Fuck you, Nazi!"

Then I saw Hunter--her eyes. She was in the convertible, riding behind the driver, looking back at me. The car disappeared from view around the final circle near the mountain's peak.

I stopped, took off my shirt, and wiped the beer from my leg and arm. Then, I continued my run. The car stopped at the top, and I could hear an exchange of words. A minute later, the car passed me as I came around the final corner. Hunter was no longer in it, and the three remaining teens passed me on their way back down the mountain.

None said a word, and I never even looked because Hunter was waiting for me at the peak.

I ran to her and stopped.

"Hey, Hunter," I huffed.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know he was going to do that."

Still chuffing air, I shook my head and gasped, "Maybe I deserved it."

"No. You didn't."

I bent over with my hands on my thighs. Looking at her I asked, "Forgive me for yesterday?"

"Yes."

"I should have remembered how you didn't want to talk about those things. I'm sorry."

"No," she said, "I overreacted. I'm the one who should be sorry."

"Forget it," I said, rising and walking off the early signs of a leg cramp. I pointed back down the road, saying, "I hope the driver wasn't drinking, too."

"No. Not that I saw."

"Friends of yours?"

"Not right now, they're not."

I nodded. We walked around the circle, and I stopped, looking west. Hunter stood beside me.

Sighing, I said, "You don't appear dressed for a jog home."

"I've got my phone. Do you want to finish your run or Uber home with me?"

"Home with you, though I don't have any money."

"I've got it," she said.

Twenty minutes later, a small SUV picked us up. Annoyed when he saw me, the driver told me not to get his seats all sweaty.

When we got home, I told Hunter I was going to hop into the sauna. She asked if she could join me.

"Sure."

"Give me a minute change?"

"I need to re-hydrate before I go in anyway," I said. "Take your time."

I fired up the system and drank some water while the little cedar cabin heated up. Hunter came out in a short white bathrobe. I grabbed a towel, and we went in, sitting across from each other in the little two-, maybe three-person shack.

I had hung my towel on one of the hooks on the door. Hunter remained in her bathrobe.

"You going to leave that on?" I asked, pointing to it.

She nodded.

"Isn't it a little bit hot?"

"Hot," she responded, "is the point."

"Yeah, but I thought getting the steam on your skin was, too."

She shrugged. "I'm okay."

Looking around, I remarked, "Man, I wish my gym had one of these. It's perfect after a workout."

Hunter said, "I hardly ever use it."

"You don't like it?"

She shrugged again. "It feels good right now. Maybe I should."

My nuts were squished a bit underneath me. I adjusted my weight on the bench, and I probably put too much hip movement into the act. Hunter noticed, glancing at my crotch.

A minute later, she broke the silence. "What's it like having a cock?"

I took a second to process the forwardness of the question, being careful not to let my face show any surprise. I wasn't offended. I finally said, "Think about your nose. When you want to breathe with it, you can. When you want to smell something, you sniff. When you want to wiggle it, it does. A cock isn't like that. It's like having an unreliable limb."