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He told me about growing up in his strict family, how tough it was to come out to them, and how they'd rejected him afterward.

He said he wanted to start hormone therapy—weekly shots of testosterone—as soon as possible and get reconstructive surgery on his chest.

I liked being wrapped up under his broad shoulders and having him pull out my seat for me at a restaurant.

I wound up with the world's best deal, I joked: a boyfriend who could lift heavy objects and empathize about my period.

For two hours, we talked about politics and bad TV, how I missed my hometown of Chicago, and his dream to work as a legal advocate for other transgender people, who face rampant discrimination., I expected to do some crazy things for love: get wrapped up in a lover's drug-smuggling ring, perhaps, or steal a rival's yacht.But helping my boyfriend in his transition from female to male was not an act of devotion I could ever have anticipated." His identity was more than a personal quirk I could use to differentiate him from other men I'd dated ("Rock Critic Guy," "Might Have a Girlfriend Guy"); being transgender wasn't a funny thing to talk about with my girlfriends over brunch.Still, I kept thinking about us in bed, and saying, "Whatever you want to do, I'll try it." What would I call that: a whateversexual?

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