Page 38 of Precise Justice

“Feel better?” Marc asked.

“No, yeah, I mean, yes, I do. You knew, didn’t you?”

“I never thought much about it,” Marc said. “I’ll make the call. Sentencing will be up to the judge. She will get a report from court services. We’ll see.”

“Okay. Thanks, Marc. Do what you can.”

FIFTEEN

Dear Diary:March 5th

I don’t know why, but I have kept track of how many entries I have made in you, my Diary friend and conscience. Tonight is entry number five hundred. Not all of them certainly, but most of them were me writing about this transgendering to a girl.

I still have my boy parts, but am I feeling more and more like a girl? At times, I think so. But then, I must be a lesbian.

I have told you, Dear Diary, that I can’t help it. I am attracted to girls. No matter how hard I try not to be, I can’t help myself.

One of my trans friends, Erin Christianson, is ready for the surgery. He/she is having serious second thoughts. Up to now, he (even I’m not sure what to call someone transitioning) was quite sure. Having your boy parts cut off is a bigdeal. No turning back.

My other transitioning friend, Stephanie, is all for it. She even says she can’t wait. I almost wish I was that certain. At least the anxiety and doubts would go away.

More news. It’s final. Remember, about a month ago, my mentor friend, Joan, told me she is getting married. It’s really happening. Today she told me they have set a date, June 14, a week after she graduates. Remember, she will have a degree in psychology, she has been accepted to the psychology department at Northwestern in Chicago to study for her post grad degrees. Her parents are rich so money is not a problem. I’ll miss her.

Joan and her trans boyfriend are going to get married by a gay judge. Trans woman marrying a trans man in front of a gay judge.

Will I fall in love with a trans boy? It’s all too weird for me to understand. But I like Joan (I haven’t met her fiancée) and wish her happiness.

“How are you feeling, Robbie? Are you becoming more comfortable as your feminine side takes over?” Dr Friedman asked.

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Robbie answered telling Friedman what he wants to hear.

Over the past four or five sessions, for the past seven or eight months the appointments were monthly, Freidman had moved his chair closer to Robbie. By now, Friedman’s left knee was almost touching Robbie’s right knee.

Robbie no longer sat on the couch. Instead, since Priscilla was not sitting in, Robbie was using a more comfortable club chair. When Friedman first began moving closer, Robbie assumed it was part of the therapy. Today, it was becoming a little creepy.

Friedman placed his left hand on Robbie’s knee and said, “I could sense your concern, which, of course, is quite natural. I’m delighted to hear you are becoming more comfortable, more accepting.”

Robbie licked his lips to deal with his nerves. He glanced down at Friedman’s hand and tried to smile. The good doctor was practically leering at him.

“We’ll see, I’m still, a little nervous,” Robbie said. “A little uncertain.”

“Again, perfectly natural,” Friedman replied while removing his hand.

Friedman sat back, crossed his legs and said, “Let’s talk about the surgery. Have you thought about it at all?”

“Some, yeah, I guess. Oh, I almost forgot, I have a question,” Robbie said.

“Go ahead.”

“I thought the puberty blockers would reduce my growth, my height. I’m about as tall as any of the other boys my age,” Robbie said.

“The puberty blockers usually inhibit some height growth,” Friedman replied. “Not always. Your mother is about five foot seven, I would guess. How tall is your father?” Friedman asked never having met Blake.

“Um, I don’t know” Robbie said. “Not real tall. Probably not quite six feet. Maybe five-ten, five-eleven. I don’t want to be a six-foot girl.”

“Why not? You would be beautiful,” Friedman said placing his hand on Robbie’s knee again. “Robbie, we can’t control everything. I doubt you’ll reach six feet. Probably around five-eight or nine. You’ll be a little tallerthan most girls but not an Amazon either, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“How big will my feet get?”