I have a few copies of “Playboy” from the 1970s stashed away somewhere. One of them has a letter where a guy writes in saying, “I met this really gorgeous, sweet woman, and we were planning to get married, but she sat me down yesterday and told me that she had a sex change before she met me. Mr. Hefner, should I marry someone who used to be a man?” and the response was, “So she had a sex change, big whoop. Would you be asking this question if she’d made any other change in her life before she met you? You love the woman she is now, and that’s all that should matter. If you want kids you can adopt or something.”
I feel so conflicted right now
That awkward moment when Hugh Hefner is more trans-positive than most feminists of the same era.
One morning, I was awakened by a knock at the door. I rolled out of bed, threw a blanket over my shoulder because it was cold, and made my way to the front of the house. I opened the door and a very nice lady of some sort of christian denomination handed me a pamphlet and launched in to a well-rehearsed spiel about accepting jesus in to my life when she stopped mid sentence and gave me a peculiar look. I used this pause in her speech to politely decline her offer and wish her a pleasant morning. It wasn’t until I looked at what she handed me that I understood why I stopped her in her tracks and then proceeded to laugh for the next half hour by myself.