Every time I gingerly walk into the Laundry Room, gracefully balancing onmy ballet heels, carrying a few things I can grab with my thick-latex-covered...fingers, I tremble at the sight of an evil-looking metalcontraption I am about to become a part of.As I mentioned before, the Washing Machine does not wash clothes. I washeverything by my latex-covered hands, while the insidious contraptionmakes the process torturous for me and entertaining for my audience.The Washing Machine stands in a middle. But again, I had to remind myself that my masculinity was in her hands. She was right; the only way to get my male identity back was to be patient. She had taken it away, and only she could give it back to me. Quitting wouldn't solve anything, and if anything it would guarantee the permanence of my feminization.So, frustrated but resigned to my fate, I reluctantly returned to my normal routine as living as a woman. Things had continued as before for another six months. The only difference was. More

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