Hillary's Hollywood bungalow was Egyptian themed, and looked like one of those small actor bungalows built in the 1920's for the thousands of actors mobbing to the dreams of tinseltown. Strangely enough, it fit my father/mother/what-ever-you-want-to-call-it. Full of drama and pretense, with an image of mystery, it captivated me as I gently knocked on her door.

I was on a mission because my ship was sinking and I knew it. My anger and rage had turned everyone against me, and I felt that the only way to restore my lost luster was to get on my hands and knees and beg in front of my own father.

I mean, my own mother.

The transgender community is, to me, one of the last remaining mysteries of the gay community. While support for gay men and lesbians continues to grow in mainstream America, the transgendered community struggles for acceptance. And I can tell you why, because THEY'RE FREAKS! Even with my own father in preparation for the biggest transition of his life, I still feel very little sympathy for him. More like pity. How could any man want to get rid of his own penis? It's ridiculous to me and to put it mildly, disgusting.

Footsteps approached and let me tell you, these weren't sounding like some little feminine and demure flower prancing forward- they were more like a Russian gymnast. Hillary opened the door, her large arms swinging it forward.

A smile filled her face but she quickly returned to the authoritative parent.

"What do you want?"

"Geez, Dad. Mom, sorry." Hillary looked at me, clearly not amused, but I continued. "I'm sorry, I'm trying here."

"What do you want?"

"I...don't know what to do." I made my eyes tear, shaking my lower lip as the tears rolled down my cheeks and I began to cry. My mother/father/it embraced me, and I knew I had scored.

"I know you're faking it, Steve, but it's all right. It's actually more pathetic."

I pulled away, a wave of real emotion falling across me, accused of the truth and caught because of it.

"There you go, son." Damn, he knew me! This woman knew me.

And then all the pain and the hurt rose inside me like a fire hydrant struck by a car. I rushed inside Hillary's home, hiding my face.

"I'm...afraid." I mumbled.

Matthew, the man from the beach, flashed into my brain. His kind smile, so accepting. Would he be another person I'd use and take advantage of? And then my wife Barbra, murdered by me, her gentle hands touching my face. All of my hate, all of my rage against the Mocha Daze crew spewing forward with a dinner party and the barrel of a loaded gun.

"You need help, Steve." said Hillary, sternly.

"I came here to borrow money. I have nothing."

My red and crying eyes looked at Hillary whose face was filled with sympathy, but calmly shook her head no.

"Why can't you help me!? Where do you get your money?"

"That's none of your business. Only you can help you."

Fucking great. I don't need any pop psychology right now, I need some cash!

We looked at each other and then I ran to the front door. Suddenly, I wanted to be anywhere but in her home. I wanted to be away from everyone, away from this planet.

I wanted to be in a place that understood me, a place that loved me.

And as fast as all that pain had arrived, it disappeared into a quiet rage once again. Stewing, stronger, and more convinced than ever that it would strike and kill once again.

Perhaps I would kill the one person that understood me; kill all of that pain once and for all.