Last week I reread Everett Maroon's Bumbling into Body Hair: A Transsexual's Memoir, and was again amused/annoyed to read how, after realizing he wasn't a dyke, but transmale, transitioning at work, and going on hormones full time, within a few weeks, he was recruited for a government job, allowed to name his salary, and had met and won over a hot a new girlfriend, whom he eventually married.
Before, he'd been a fat dyke with a bossy part-time girlfriend in another full time relationship, was overworked, underappreciated, and underpaid.
It was a country western song played backward; as white male privilege cut in (or as testosterone gave him confidence), he found himself rich, successful, and with a wonderful woman.
He and I talked salary, and in this collapsed, tight time frame for making a decision I didn't have the chance to overthink anything. He asked what salary I wanted. I was shocked, realizing that one month into my transition at work, more than fifteen years into my career, someone was asking me this question for the first time. This sexism crap is real, I thought. Like really super-real real. I named a number I thought was somewhat absurd and was grateful the phone didn't communicate how far my jaw dropped when he agreed. He asked when I could start, and we agreed on that, too.
Maroon, Everett. Bumbling into Body Hair: A Transsexual's Memoir (p. 186). . Kindle Edition.