BALLS Read online

  BALLS is a work of nonfiction. The events and experiences I’ve written about are all true and have been recounted to the best of my ability. Some names and identifying characteristics have been changed in order to protect the privacy and anonymity of certain individuals. And so I don’t get sued.

  Published by Greenleaf Book Group Press

  Austin, Texas

  www.gbgpress.com

  Copyright ©2016 Christopher Edwards

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the copyright holder.

  Distributed by Greenleaf Book Group

  For ordering information or special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Greenleaf Book Group at PO Box 91869, Austin, TX 78709, 512.891.6100.

  Jacket design by DEUTSCH

  Interior design and composition by Greenleaf Book Group

  Cataloging-in-Publication data is available.

  Print ISBN: 978-1-62634-325-2

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-62634-326-9

  Part of the Tree Neutral® program, which offsets the number of trees consumed in the production and printing of this book by taking proactive steps, such as planting trees in direct proportion to the number of trees used: www.treeneutral.com

  Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper

  16 17 18 19 20 21 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  First Edition

  For my fam. Love you more.

  Contents

  I Pee, Therefore I Am

  Are You Talking To Me?

  Mortal Thoughts

  All In The Family

  No, I’m Not Just Really Really Gay

  Workin’ It

  The “Hit List”

  Operation: Evangelists

  The Morning After

  Let The Transition Begin

  What’s In A Name?

  Testosterone Power

  Bye Bye Boobies

  Please Allow Me To Reintroduce Myself

  Business Or Pleasure?

  Take My Uterus. Please.

  “Bottom Surgery”

  The Art (and Pain) Of Hair Removal

  Under Pressure

  What’s Up, Doc?

  So Much For Those Eight Inches

  Cathy & Jared

  The Big One

  A Pain In The Balls

  My Doctor The Matchmaker

  The Dating Game

  The 40-year-old Virgin

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Resources

  About The Author

  I PEE, THEREFORE I AM

  March 1, 2004

  So I’m standing there, peeing at a urinal for the first time.

  What makes my situation different from the rite of passage most guys experience is two things:

  1. I’m thirty-four years old.

  2. There’s a man behind me, cheering me on.

  To clarify point two, the man is a doctor, not a pervert. He also made my penis.

  “Aim down . . . and don’t bend your knees,” he says, sounding like a Little League coach. I hear the pride in his voice and wonder if it’s his handiwork or me he’s really proud of.

  “Did you check underneath the stalls?” I ask Doc, paranoid. The men’s room appeared to be empty, but you never know.

  “Yes, yes,” he assures, then squats down to actually check.

  I was “stalling” at the urinal, but my confidence was in the toilet and for good reason.

  It was the night before my flight home to Boston. I’d been in Nashville for thirteen days—three in a hospital room and ten in a hotel room, only the last few of which were catheter-free. I was peeing standing up all right, mostly all over the bathroom floor and myself. What’s a no-brainer for most guys was proving to be a major challenge for me due to a few factors that make my man-made urethra a bit different from theirs.

  First, there’s the opening, which is a bit larger in diameter. Creating just the right size involves trial and error. If it’s too narrow, some of the pee might get trapped inside and potentially cause an infection. So Doc had erred on the wider side, which explained the showerhead effect I had going on. Then there’s the inconsistency of flow and direction due to post-surgical swelling. This was the reason my pee was shooting out at a forty-five-degree angle, forcing me to stand a full foot left of the bowl in order to get even close to hitting it. Finally there’s the shape. Instead of being straight, the extended part of my urethra resembles the letter U—kind of like the pipe under a sink. Whenever I peed, some always collected in a “reservoir,” which is why every time I’d think I was done and zip up, I’d get a warm sensation running down my leg.

  I could deal with this in the privacy of my hotel bathroom, but as I packed my suitcase, I decided there was no way in hell I was ready to attempt to pee in a public restroom, let alone out in the open at a urinal.

  Doc must have sensed my apprehension because just then my phone rang. “Heeeey, Chris. I’ve been thinking about your peeing. I want you to use the urinal before you go. And I want to be there when you do. Meet me at the bar in your hotel for a drink. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  Filled with dread, I finished packing and took the elevator down to the lobby bar where my doctor sat, sipping a martini. I chased a vodka soda with two tall glasses of water and, armed with a full bladder and a clear view of the men’s room door, psyched myself up. Once the only guy I saw go in had come out, I made my move. Doc followed a few paces behind me and waited by the sinks as I took my place on urinal row. Which brings me back to where I started and . . .

  I have to say it was one of the most liberating experiences of my life.

  No longer boxed in by a stall, it felt strange—almost like I was peeing outdoors. No more trying to balance myself to avoid touching the seat. Just unzip, whip it out, and go. The curved sides of the urinal also made it much safer to use than the toilet. No muss, no fuss, no worries about spraying guys next to me and getting my ass kicked.

  On the flight back to Boston, I began making a mental bucket list of all the “guy things” I wanted to do now that I could pee standing up. Number one on the list: Write my name in the snow. It was the beginning of March; there was still time. My visualization of yellow letters on a fluffy white canvas was interrupted by the urge to pee followed by the joyous realization that I’d never have to squat in a godforsaken airplane lavatory again. The less time spent in those hellholes, the better. But thanks to my aiming difficulties and a bout of turbulence, I actually ended up spending twice as long in this one cleaning up the mess I made. Write my name in the snow? Yeah, right. I couldn’t even hit the bowl—never mind forming actual letters.

  Over the next few months, nobody’s bathroom was safe. The direction of my pee was becoming more erratic. I walked around mentally assigning a degree of difficulty—from 1 to 10—to every toilet bowl I encountered: the smaller and rounder, the higher the degree. The things I had feared the most—urinals—were now my saviors; but still there were times when even they betrayed me, like that fateful night at the Loews Theater.

  The movie had just let out. My friend Price waited in the lobby while I followed the throng of guys filing into the men’s room. I took my place in line, praying that when my turn came up, one of the urinals would be free. Usually they rotated more frequently than the stalls, so I felt the odds were in my favor. But what opened up was the worst possible outcome: the center stall in a row of five. I froze, hoping the slight delay would give me another shot at a urinal, but the guy behind me helpfully pointed out the now wide-open metal door. I had no choice but to go in, unzip, and concentrate.

  My pee actually squirted
up and hit the wall in front of me. Then, as if defying all laws of physics, it veered right at a hard downward angle, shooting under the partition and into the next stall. I quickly adjusted my aim to counteract this directional disaster but overcompensated. My pee made a sharp left under the stall on the other side. I was certain any moment now, one or both of my neighbors were going to bust down my stall door with a pee-covered shoe and beat me with it. At the very least I expected a string of swear words to be hurled my way. But nobody yelled. And nobody tried to break in. Still, I stayed in that stall a good ten minutes, waiting out the crowd before making my exit.

  I spotted Price where I’d left her. She looked concerned.

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Just keep walking.”

  The next morning I called Doc and recounted the “incident.”

  He laughed and then assured me he could fix my problem by making the urethral opening smaller. “One stitch should do it,” he said.

  Back to Music City I went—straight to Doc’s office, where he put a stitch at the opening of the urethra. Afterward, I drank a bottle of water and we waited. And waited. And when I finally felt the urge, my pee . . . came out sideways.

  This was not good.

  “I need time to think,” Doc said. “Let’s go get a drink.”

  We found a dive bar off West End Avenue. Three-quarters of the way through my Diet Coke, I had to “go.”

  “I’ll stay here this time,” Doc said chuckling. Good thing he did. The men’s room was the size of a broom closet and the urinal the size of a salad bowl. No savior here. Degree of difficulty: 9.5.

  I returned to the table to find my surgeon drawing on a cocktail napkin.

  “It wasn’t pretty,” I said.

  “I figured it out,” he announced.

  Doc showed me his sketch of the head of my penis and then drew in how he would create a drawstring with the sutures to pull the urethral opening tighter and make it smaller from all sides. It worked. That one adjustment gave me the ability to pee with sniperlike precision and the confidence that I could handle any men’s room situation that came my way.

  I knew then what I know now: My gender identity is not defined by what’s between my legs. Still, this was truly a defining moment for me as a man. And while there was still a lot more I’d have to go through before I’d finally feel complete, it would be nothing compared to what I’d already endured.

  ARE YOU TALKING TO ME?

  Summer 1974

  I came out to my grandmother when I was five. I just didn’t know I was doing it.

  Neither did she.

  I can’t tell you what Gram was wearing at the time, but I’m sure it was something fashionable, which likely meant one of her bell-bottom pantsuits and a wrap turban with some bright, crazy pattern on it. Her mother, my Great Gram, was the matriarch of our family and owned a summer cottage on Cape Cod that served as the hub of our extended family gatherings from July through August. Because Great Gram’s house was a short walk to Old Silver Beach, it wasn’t uncommon to find six or seven of my relatives’ cars wedged in like a jigsaw puzzle on the front lawn (and by lawn I mean crabgrass). On this particular day, my parents’ wood-paneled station wagon was wedged in among them. Gram had driven down with us, which always made the ninety-minute ride more fun, and as usual my older sister, Wendy, and I fought over who got to sit next to her. There was only room for three people in the backseat, so with Grampa up front with Dad, and Mom in the back holding my baby sister, Jill, that meant one of us was destined for isolation in the way back. Still, Gram kept us both entertained by playing “I Spy” or having us compete to see who could spot the most VW bugs. When we got bored of that she’d tell us stories that she’d make up on the spot or put her own twist on classics like “Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves.” That one was my favorite.

  Gram loved the beach and once she gathered up her necessities—aluminum folding beach chair, sticky bottles of suntan oils, and rubber swim cap dotted with plastic daisies to protect her frosted hair—she walked us down to Old Silver where we spent the whole day taking in the sun. With both sides of my family being Armenian, most of my relatives had dark hair, brown eyes, and olive skin like Gram’s that tanned easily. Wendy and I fit the bill. But it was sunblock slather sessions for Jill, who was inexplicably born with light brown hair, blue eyes, and fair skin. (We’d later tell her she was adopted and that the pale Ukrainian man who delivered Mom and Dad’s dry cleaning was her real father.)

  After a full day at the beach, Wendy and I were back at Great Gram’s house in our t-shirts and shorts, hair still wet from the outside shower. We sprawled out on the faded Oriental rug in the family room with our coloring books and crayons, while Gram repeatedly passed by us on her route from the kitchen to the dining room carrying platters of shish kebab, salad, and pilaf.

  On her last pass she yelled, “Come on, girls, dinner’s ready.”

  Wendy immediately sprang up and followed her to the table. I didn’t flinch. I honestly didn’t think she was talking to me. Soon Gram was back kneeling across from me at eye level.

  “Didn’t you hear me calling you?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “I said, ‘Come on, girls.’”

  “I’m not a girl,” I replied, insulted.

  “Yes . . . you are,” she said gently.

  “No, I’m not. I’m a boy.”

  “No, you’re not, sweetheart.”

  “Well, then I’m gonna be,” I insisted.

  “You can’t, darling,” she said, then smiled sympathetically and walked back into the kitchen.

  I’ll show her! I thought.

  Since everything about me was boy-like—my clothes, my toys, my obsession with all superheroes except for Wonder Woman and her lame, invisible plane—I put my five-year-old brain to work and determined that the only thing lumping me in with the girls was my hair length. Girls had long hair; boys had short hair. So to clear up Gram’s and anyone else’s future confusion on this matter, as soon as we got back home from the Cape I told my mom I wanted my hair cut “like Daddy’s.”

  Many moms would have said “no way” to such a request, but my mom wasn’t too concerned with gender stereotypes. “Nano,” as friends and family called her, may have been traditional when it came to family, but she was relatively hip as far as moms went. She had given up her career in nursing to stay home and raise three kids while my dad worked his way up the ladder in advertising. She was extremely involved in our school activities from kindergarten through high school and was known as the “fun mom” who would plan the best birthday parties and supply endless trays of snacks and candy whenever friends came over. She’d even let us watch scary movies, though usually to our own detriment. Seeing Jaws at age seven led to an entire summer on dry land. Forget swimming in the ocean; I wouldn’t even go near a pool. What if the shark came up through the drain?

  Mom wasn’t—and still isn’t—a big skirt or dress wearer, so she never put Wendy or me in anything particularly girly when we were little—only Jill, whose favorite colors were pink and purple. Wendy and I were both tomboys. For us it was OshKosh overalls in neutral colors, Levi’s corduroys, and “alligator” shirts. So when I asked to get my hair cut short, Mom took me to the barbershop in the center of town. After that, sure enough, everyone outside my family started calling me a boy.

  Problem solved.

  See, Gram, that wasn’t so hard.

  It wasn’t until the following summer that I realized I was lacking certain “equipment.” Still sandy from the beach, Wendy and I were eating popsicles with our younger cousin Adam on Great Gram’s back deck, a danger zone for bare feet. I was standing on my wet towel in an effort to avoid another painful splinter-removal session with Mom’s sewing needle when Adam nudged me and said, “Watch this.” He then turned his back, and a stream of what I thought was water came shooting out of his red swim trunks over the deck rail in a perfect arc.

  I was in awe. “How’d you do th
at?” I asked. “Do you have a squirt gun in there?”

  Wendy, seventeen months my senior and always ready to educate (she dropped the “there is no Santa Claus” bomb on me seconds after finding out the awful truth), fielded the question quickly and effortlessly in a “could-you-be-any-dumber?” tone.

  “It’s not a squirt gun. He’s peeing.”

  How was this possible? When I peed it went straight down and I had to sit.

  “But how does he get it to go up like that?”

  “Because he has a pee-nis.”

  This answer only raised more questions in my mind: What is a “penis” and how come I don’t have one? I was too embarrassed to ask and something told me I didn’t want to know the answers, for fear they would only lead to more evidence that Gram and everyone else in my family was right: I wasn’t a boy like I thought—not even with my short haircut. It was easier to talk myself into believing my penis hadn’t grown yet than to face that possibility. So every night I prayed that my body would change into a boy’s body. That I would grow a penis—whatever that was—and everyone would finally realize they were wrong for thinking I was a girl.

  Well, my body changed all right. Just not in the way I’d hoped.

  Puberty struck and it betrayed me in the worst possible ways I could imagine. First, two buds began to protrude from my formerly flat chest, so I wore extra layers of clothing to hide them from myself and everybody else. I couldn’t think of anything more traumatizing than having to wear a bra, let alone shopping for one.

  I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  It happened the summer after my twelfth birthday on a fittingly stormy summer night. My family now had our own cottage in Old Silver Beach Village, directly across the street from Great Gram’s house. While Jill had her own room, Wendy and I shared the larger front bedroom with its wood-paneled walls, cooling cross-breeze, and “magic” closet that you could walk into, turn a corner, and wind up in my parents’ bedroom. The house had only one bathroom, which was decorated in a nautical theme and centrally located at the top of the stairs. It was so small you could sit on the toilet, stretch your legs out, and rest your feet on the tub. The living area was divided into a family room where we’d watch TV and a sunroom where we kept all our toys and games along with a bright green folding card table, the one piece of furniture in the house that got the most use.