It's September 2007, about 3:00 in the morning, and I'm lying flat on my stomach on the cold, hard floor of the county jail, wearing a short black skirt and pink pullover top. I got arrested on a DUI after leaving a gay bar. Three or four big, macho sheriff's deputies are on top of me, punching my sides and back and slamming my head against the floor, as other cops, including a couple women, stand around laughing. The cops pick me up—laughing in delight at the puddle of red blood and beige makeup left smeared on the floor—and they literally throw my body into the jail cell, where my head crashes against the concrete bench and I bleed some more.
As the cops finally leave me alone, I sit in the cell in excruciating pain with a bloody face and, as I later found out, with three cracked ribs and a fractured arm. Why did those jerks beat me up? Just because I was a man dressed like a woman? How will I ever explain this to my family? How much trouble am I in with the law? And most importantly, just how the heck, at this point in my life at age 47, did I get here? And what am I going to do with my life now?
