content: The Fantasy That Keeps Me Going I'm walking down the street. The Sun is out, but the temperature is cool and the wind is breezy. I'm wearing tight, dark colored short shorts and a long sleeved, flowy top with a light colored floral pattern, like a tablecloth. The wind is making it dance beautifully, accenting my figure. My dark, curly hair is dancing to the same tune.  I pass a woman on the sidewalk. She's on her cell phone, and talking too loudly. She glances down at my shorts - my crotch. She pulls the phone away from her mouth and pushes it against her chest in a sudden motion, making her breasts jiggle obscenely. With her other hand, she points at my crotch and begins to laugh loudly. Violently. I look down, and see that my tight shorts have revealed the outline of my small but masculine penis.  Without missing a beat, I turn to face her directly. I give her a hard look before removing my top. It's unnecessary because the scars have already drawn her eyes, but I hold my hands under my chest. The scars tell a sad story, these defined pecs were once breasts, hiding who I really am, but now it's crystal clear. I am a man. She drops her phone on the sidewalk, and it shatters. I laugh. She begins to mumble something and rapidly grows louder and more incoherent before breaking into tears. I know that it is an apology. I am unfazed. I point at her crotch, shrouded in a loose feminine garment. I laugh, because there is no penis there. Only an obsolete female organ, because she is a simple bleeder and breeder. She stops crying, and jerks off her skirt. There is a penis there. I stop laughing. I pull out my phone and throw it on the ground. Now we are equal. She invites me into her home and we both become what we always were.