Date an intersexed lady

She listened and learned, and gave me similar lessons in her anatomy.

And then, one night in bed, she whispered playfully in my ear: "Boy, Jude, you sure are weird." Exactly.

Not even the almighty gene provided any clear answers, since it was discovered that I was a mosaic, with some cells in my body having the XY genotype and others having XO. Consciously, deliberately "raising me female"—it's like consciously, deliberately breathing.

Once released, I continued to take my self-loathing to therapy, bedding down with (and eventually marrying) the next guy to come along.

Everything that didn't make sense in my tortured world—even the scars—blossomed into perfect clarity when viewed through that lens: I am a lesbian! But I also carried another truth, a terrible corollary to the first secret: I cannot be with women.

For being with a woman revealed what I wasn't—"finished," a girl, normal—and (so much worse) revealed what I was—a freak, a monster, an anomaly.

Yearly visits to endocrinologists and pediatric urologists, lots of genital poking and prodding, and my mother's unspoken guilt and shame had all served to distance me considerably from my body: I was a walking head.

In retrospect, it seems odd that a tomboy should have been so removed from her body.

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I began to experience myself as a sort of sexual Frankenstein's monster. I was incredibly inhibited about my body, the scars, the mysterious medical condition and history that I—the patient! The differences between our bodies were staggering.

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