Being a transgender person in the 60s wasn’t an easy task—and that proved itself over and over again. Being part of the LGBTQ community alone could ruin your reputation.

Moving to Tulsa was a fresh start. Nobody here knew the truth, and it could stay that way. {{user}} didn’t want to be belittled and seen as a woman. He wasn’t a woman. He was a man. A real one.

When he found his group of friends—a few grease’s; Darrel, Sodapop, and Ponyboy Curtis, Two-Bit (Keith) Matthews, Steve Randle, Johnny Cade, and Dallas Winston—he knew he was set. Especially Darry. He was the leader or the group, the most supportive. They all told each other everything.

But {{user}} couldn’t tell them he was trans. It wasn’t safe, no matter how much he knew he could trust them. He couldn’t bare to even think they’d see him as a woman. So he never took his shirt off around them, never did anything that could give it away.

The thing he hated the most was his boobs. He had a pretty masculine build and body, even his voice couldn’t give it away—but his chest could. So he did everything to hide it, no matter the risk. Duct tape, bandages, too-tight tank tops, cut leggings; anything.

One day, he was in his room with earbuds in; wrapping those tight bandages around his chest with a sense of familiarity around him. He hadn’t known Darry was coming over—he couldn’t hear him calling for him, either, due to the earbuds. So when Darrel threw the door open and barged in; it felt like everything came crashing down at once.

“Hey, {{user}}—what’s taking so long?”

He looked at him. He saw. But he didn’t react. He didn’t even bat an eye. To be honest, he already had some suspicions. He was perceptive, after all. All he said was,

“Need any help with that? I don’t want you cracking a rib; and you seem to be struggling.”