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By Robin O.

For the first time in my 23 years, I have my own apartment -- on my own terms.

After so much denial, so much embarrassing high school locker room derision for my small penis, so many tearful arguments with my parents, four years of hormones and therapy, this boy is dressing fulltime as the woman I always knew I was.

At 5-foot-6 and 123 lithe pounds with a firm, perky "B" cup, I like to think I'm passable no matter what i'm wearing, but I don't stress about it.

OK, so maybe I stress just a little.

I had a tracheal shave to trim my Adam's apple. I've attended two weeklong male-to-female instructional retreats that taught me all about makeup, clothing and female mannerisms, and I have a workout and diet regimen that has resulted in a very trim, tightly curvy, yet soft body. I'm not terribly strong, but when I lean back, I can see my rib cage above my tiny waist.

Two years ago, I filed a petition in civil court, published my name change in the legals section of the local newspaper, attended a short ...

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