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  1. Between the Industrial Revolution and World War I, there was an explosion in cases of “female men” who took advantage of urbanization and its conditions of anonymity to pass for male. We don’t know how many there were, because for every female man who was exposed in the press there might have been dozens who successfully avoided detection. Historians frequently argue over whether particular female men should be considered transgender persons, proto-feminists seeking economic opportunities not available to women at the time, or butch lesbians protecting themselves and their lovers from scrutiny; such debates end in useless tangles of rhetoric and politics which merely serve to illustrate that while queer people have always existed, our current labels for categorizing them have not. Here we have an excerpt from a document dating from “the Gay ‘90s” that was discovered in an attic in Boston. Middle class housewife Polly M_____ lovingly describes her “female husband” Charles M_____, and relates his ability to retain urine for long periods to protect the couple from exposure. She recalls an incident where Charles was harshly tried in this regard. The anecdote offers a remarkable window into the intimate lives of this extraordinary couple. It may be read as a transgender story or a lesbian one, depending on the particular biases of the reader. - Dr. Jonathan D. Berrycloth, Professor of History ______ For the past ten years of our marriage, visitors to the apartment have admired our wedding photograph mounted on the wall. There is me, Polly, buxom and blonde and a tad younger and fresher than I am today in my white dress and veil, and my husband Charles in his wedding suit. He looks at the camera with his serious, clear eyes (which are gray, although the photograph of course cannot show this.) His dark hair is slicked down in the style of 1889. The camera angle is flattering to his high cheekbones and aquiline nose. His face is clean-shaven, perhaps a bit soft and boyish around the jawline and pretty cupid’s-bow mouth, but he still cuts a dashing figure - and lady visitors say so. What our visitors have no way of knowing is that I have a female husband. My beloved Charles was born a girl, and has the same parts as I! It might seem odd to you, reader, that I think of my husband as “he” and “him” even when I must turn his special monthly rags over to the laundress along with my own, but if you ever saw us walking on the promenade of a summer evening, with him dressed in a new suit and leading me upon his arm with the gallantry of a knight, you would find yourself questioning the meaning of “true sex” as much as I did during our honeymoon days! Charles is tall and lean of breast and hip, which might have hurt his marriageability had he remained in New Hampshire and been a young lady. As a man, it helps him avoid suspicion - especially when he is standing next to me, his very little woman! He has many clever tricks for attaining a most handsome appearance. He owns a band like a small corset that he places over his breast each day to flatten his teacup-sized paps. He also scrapes his face with a razor despite not having a beard, to create the appearance of rougher skin. He pitches his voice as low and sonorous as he can, not minding that this earns him a reputation as the quiet type. When the barber, the tailor, the cobbler, and the hatter complete the picture, he looks more a man than the boorish and stupid husbands of many women I have known. No one has questioned us, except when it comes to the appearance that I am barren. There have been distasteful comments among the neighbors about my supposed barrenness. Soon we shall have to go to the orphanage and find ourselves an unfortunate babe or three to raise. I think I should make an excellent mother. […] If you have a presumption that a female husband could not be a great lover, you are sorely mistaken! Charles has always approached his marital duties with great enthusiasm, and shows impressive cunning with the hands, the tongue, and certain novel objects obtained from Paris - cunning that I imagine is frequently absent in the proper male husband, who so crudely wields the blunt instrument God made for siring children. I admit I became frustrated in those newlywed days, because Charles would not allow me to reciprocate in marital joy. He would push my hands or head away from his charming pink muff and say, “No, sweet Polly. I don’t need it. Your pleasure is my pleasure.” […] I did not mention it previously, but among the curious aspects of physiology that have prevented the circumstances of my husband’s birth being exposed is his iron bladder. He need not take the risk of partially undress himself in the water closets at his office because he need not use them at all - he can retain water from morning to evening. There are times that I listen at the door of our water closet and am quite astonished at the volume he has held despite showing no signs of being in distress, whereas I would have been positively frantic trying to do the same. Indeed, without a corset squeezing him or the frequent opportunities for release afforded to most men, my husband has attained capacities well beyond the norm. I have never known him to risk the use of public facilities, even when an evening at the social club with his coworkers taxes him with hours and beer. On these nights he rushes into our abode quite in need after over twelve hours without release, but I never find yellow stains on his underthings to indicate any loss of control. I recall one of these nights early in our marriage, when he had been at the club drinking in hopes of building camaraderie with his then-new colleagues. I had taken cold cuts for my supper and then retired to the bath. I heard him bumble through the front door, then fling open the door to our powder room, yank down his trousers, and drop onto the toilet with a loud groan. He pissed furiously and blissfully for over a minute before realizing I was in the bath! He was horribly embarrassed, but I was not about to scold him after hearing the evidence of how much he needed it. In fact, I praised him for being able to keep so much water (and beer!) sealed inside to protect himself and our marriage. If I were in his place, my tiny toy bladder would fail us at every turn, just as it failed me at least once a week back in school. There have been occasions when my husband’s iron bladder has been put to the test. One of the most dramatic was the visit to the Gershwins’ place in the country. It was two years after we were married. The Gershwins were of a higher class than ourselves, and the invitation was a rare professional opportunity for Charles, as well as a social opportunity for me. We were to take a days’ journey out of the city to their estate and stay in a guest wing for two nights. There would be a formal dinner the first night, and a host of gentry leisure activities the next day. We mustered all the wiggle room in our household budget to prepare for the fête. I had my purple striped party dress altered to look more chic, and attached a whole stuffed snowy egret to my hat (how the times have changed - now that Mrs. Harriet Lawrence Hemenway has made a cause of saving the egrets, this would be considered the height of bad taste!) Charles had his own tailcoat and waistcoat altered and invested in a new tophat, white tie [bowtie], and gloves. He pooled his money with two bachelors who were also invited to hire a carriage. On the day before our journey, I found a notice on the board outside our apartment house stating that the city would be changing the waterworks to further guard against the cholera, and the water service would have to be interrupted at six o’clock the next morning. I set out pitchers for our breakfast and resolved that we would have to wake up very early the next morning in order to take care of any bodily needs before our departure. We had gone modern and sold off the chamber pot after getting our water closet. We did not wake up before six o’clock. Charles, of course, was completely sanguine about missing his chance at a morning elimination. He drank his morning coffee and read the paper without complaint until it was time to get ready. As I mentioned, I have always been a bit plump. If I wanted a wasp waist to fit into my altered dress, I was going to need Charles to lace my corset for me and pull me in tighter than I could ever pull myself. He obliged with an aplomb that I think a male husband would lack. He yanked my laces tighter and tighter, and on the final yank I squealed and helplessly jetted all the water I had accumulated during the night onto the floor. It made a puddle under my bare feet. I moved quickly to clean up, but Charles was not upset. By then he was used to my occasional accidents. “Ah, you look so beautiful!” he exclaimed when he saw me in my full party dress with hat and gloves. I beamed. At nine the bachelors came by with the carriage and we set out on our way. We were giddy with excitement. The bachelors had brought our lunch as Charles had discussed: cucumber sandwiches and a vat of lemonade that was watery from all the ice that had melted in it. We stopped to eat in a meadow around eleven. As it was warm and sunny, Charles and I each had three glasses of lemonade. We rode through long stretches of country and many precious towns once we departed from Boston. After we had ridden through the third town and heard its church bells announce the three o’clock hour, one of the bachelors asked the driver to stop so we could stretch our legs. I silently thanked Providence, as I was quite desperate to relieve myself of the lemonade and anguished from my corset squeezing my bladder and the jolting of the carriage on the rough road. Charles helped me down from the carriage while the bachelors stole into the bushes at the right side of the way, almost certainly to address the same problem. He then chivalrously guided me beneath a tree on the left side where I could spread my legs and lift my skirts. I am loath to admit it, but in my eagerness I began to void as I took the last three steps to the location he had indicated, feeling warm liquid trickling down my thighs. I was grateful that I was wearing the old-fashioned split drawers under my petticoat, and thus soiled nothing but the very tops of my stockings. Is there a greater pleasure than having a piss in nature, with your dear husband standing guard for you, when you are wearing a tight corset and your bladder is bruised from having been knocked about in a carriage for hours? It was so exquisite that I would have liked to water the ground for several additional minutes, just for the sensuousness of it. When we all got back into the carriage, I wondered why my husband had not relieved himself - especially since I knew he had gone without voiding in the morning. Then it occurred to me: he could not go with the other men and then drop his trousers. I asked him later if it had bothered him to stand guard for me when he had to hold it in. “It was my duty as your husband,” he said, “even if the splattering you made on the dirt made me briefly tremble inside the way the earth does before a geyser erupts.” I gasped when our carriage arrived at the estate an hour later. The gardens were sprawling and gorgeous, and full of Boston royalty strolling about in fabulous dresses and suits. In the center of the tableau I could see the Gershwins greeting their guests. I was dazzled and intimidated - these were the richest people I had ever seen or spoken to. The servants guided us to the refreshments and we all had tea and cake. Charles later claimed he was so nervous he had ten cups of tea to be polite. I ducked behind the hollyhocks and made a discreet little puddle, as had been customary for generations of ladies. It was not urgent, but I knew my toy bladder too well and could not risk becoming panicked again due to the tea. I had to concentrate on making an impression. Dinner was not until six, so we were invited to tour the grounds and the stables. Charles had me on his arm and presented me to his work superiors whenever we encountered them. I noticed that he was stiff with me, even unfriendly, but such was to be expected in the presence of high society people. We were informed of a striking feature of the Gershwin’s country place: they entertained so often that they had installed special water closets for their guests, one for men and one for women, located in separate corridors on opposite sides of the main hall for modesty. If I had known this, I might have left the hollyhocks alone. I noticed that Charles vanished for a moment shortly after we were enlightened in this regard, and I was happy for him. I idly wondered about the volume he must have been holding after a night and a day; even iron bladders have limits. When the dozens of guests were herded into the dining room in preparation for dinner, I could not help but admire him all over again. It is a woman’s weakness to see her husband dressed to the nines in a tophat, tailcoat, and gloves, walking tall and holding his own among the powerful. If I had lacked restraint, I would have announced to the other middle-class wives in attendance that that striking man there was my husband and they should envy me as much as they envied the Gershwins! What I did not know was that when Charles, by then bursting with tea and heartily yearning, had visited the water closet for men, he discovered to his dismay that it had multiple fixtures installed, all of them designed for men who needed less privacy than himself. He would have to retain through the whole of the three-hour dinner and then on indefinitely. “I was in agony during that dinner,” he later confessed to me, “I was so anxious to impress and terrified of making a mistake in my table manners, and I was absolutely dying to relieve myself, but I could not show any outward signs of discomfort no matter how my bladder ached. Every time one of the servants poured a drink, the stretched and weighty vessel would throb with the unbearable longing for release, and I could not even cross my legs to ease the pressure on the downspout. I thought that at any moment I would flood my trousers like a young child and humiliate us utterly. But I could not, and I did not.” In spite of all this, I observed only the most dignified behavior from Charles, the consummate gentleman. He did not squirm or make unsavory facial expressions. He forced himself to drink the correct amount. He was quiet, but so were the rest of us who were plucked from the middle classes and intimidated by the setting. After the dessert course concluded, the men and women retired to separate drawing rooms. I nipped over to the women’s guest accommodations beforehand. The water and wine and soup I had had at dinner had run through me. I admired the women’s accommodations, which consisted of two separate water closets with doors that locked situated within a larger powder room. Another good lady came by when I was there, and the walls were such that we could not hear one another. At smaller, poorer parties I have often struggled with my toy bladder and the embarrassment of entering a water closet with men present, so I was quite taken indeed with such luxury. Charles took his entertainment and conversation with the men. He would recall: “Oh, how they made me drink! The brandy was not as hydrating as wine, but its warmth spread through my body and tempted me to relax my muscles when I could not afford to. Seated on a settee as I was, I could not even have the relief of pushing my knees together without my discomfort being noticed. I was laughing along with jokes I couldn’t even understand in that state. It was like a nightmare that would not end.” I became quite swept up in the women’s festivities, and it was around midnight when I excused myself from a game of whist to admire the water closet again. I was surprised to discover my husband moving in the opposite direction toward the drawing room. He seized my arm. “Polly, how happy am I to see you. I was just coming to speak to you,” he whispered anxiously. “Why, dear?” His brow was furrowed and his hand on my arm was trembling. “Darling, I…I need to piss,” he said. “I thought you were able to go to the water closet before dinner.” “It’s not private enough.” “Oh my goodness!” I was horrified to learn that he had not had a chance to void since the night before. “And God, I need to piss so urgently,” he whined, “You must help me. I implore you. I am at the end of my tether.” I looked into his eyes and saw how he was in physical pain and panicking from the sense that he was near to soaking his trousers in front of wealthy and influential men. I had to find a safe place for him. “If I swooned, you could take me to our room. You can use the chamber pot there,” I whispered. “I…I am sorry to ask this of you - “ “It is done. Go back among the men and hold it in for one more minute. Be assured that I am on the case!” Obviously, it was much less of a disgrace to swoon in a wasp-waist corset than to have your husband wet his pants in another’s drawing room. I returned to the society of the women, took one look about, put a hand to my forehead, and then theatrically collapsed upon a divan. “Bring the smelling salts!” I heard a matron demand of a maid. I opened my eyes and rolled them around. “No, I need my dear husband’s assistance! He has tonic for my nerves in our luggage! Please fetch me my dear Mr. M_____!” Mr. M_____ was duly fetched. He flashed pleading eyes at me. “Oh, Mr. _____, I must have my nerve tonic and be taken to bed,” I loudly proclaimed. “If you’ll excuse me, my wife has had a lot of excitement. We need to be shown to our private quarters,” Charles said. The other women, wasp-waisted and mildly drunk on sherry, looked at us in uncomplicated sympathy. I made a show of standing up woozily. The butler was brought to escort us to the guest quarters; the way was long and winding through the house. Charles’ forehead was now shining with sweat, and he winced as he walked. He later said that he was half mad knowing that relief was near after 26 hours: “from the moment you mentioned the chamber pot to me my bladder began with a deep throbbing as if being squeezed by a hand every few moments. It came in waves. It was all I could do not to double over in pain each time.” As we ascended the west wing stairs he dropped for a moment into an involuntary curtsey. He had one knee hooked behind the other and his thighs clenched together; I was grateful that the butler was ahead of us and not behind. I had never seen my iron-bladdered Charles openly show distress before. He wound an arm back to grip his calf, feigning a charley horse cramp. At the same time, I swayed back and forth, continuing to feign faintness. We were like actors upon a stage in some absurd, vulgar comedy. “Well, I suppose both of you are quite fatigued,” said the butler. “We had a long journey, and my wife has nerves.” “My nerves are atrocious!” Charles grasped my hand hard when we reached the top of the stairs. It looked like he was leading me, still playing the nervous and foolish wife, but his grip was so tight I knew that it was he who sought support and reassurance. Finally we arrived at the corridor that housed the guest rooms, and the butler unlocked one of them. “Accommodations for Mr. and Mrs. Charles M_____,” he said, gesturing for us to go inside. When the butler vanished down the hall, I locked the door from the inside. Charles pulled upward on the waistband of his trousers as hard as he could and crumpled into a half-crouch, his knees folded inward, panting as if he had run a mile through the driving snow. His tophat tumbled off onto the floor. “Help me, Polly.” I dove under the bed for the customary chamber pot, only to find that it was not there! Was there some mistake? Had it been stolen? Were the Gershwins so thoroughly modern that they forced their guests to walk into the front halls and use noisy water closets at night? Despite keeping a modern home myself back in Boston, I was outraged. Would I have to order my husband to water the carpet like a puppy just to avoid injury to his kidneys? “It’s not here!” I wailed. “It’s…it’s…oh, oh, I must have a piss. I must, I must!” he jumped from foot to foot and grabbed himself between his legs. The poor thing! “Wait here,” I said. I had had a wild idea. “Oh, wife, I can’t wait any longer! Oh, I’ll burst, ohhhhh,” he moaned pitifully, grimacing as he pushed his hands yet harder against the much-stressed dam. “Please try,” I whispered as I hurried into the hallway. I tiptoed back to a side corridor I had seen a few minutes before and discovered my prize on the buffet table: a medium-size China vase filled with cut hydrangeas. I took the flowers out and emptied the water behind the buffet, then rushed back to the room with the vase half-hidden amidst my skirts. I found poor Charles shaking with his back against the wall and his legs crossed, eyes shut tight, gulping air. There were tears upon his cheeks. I kneeled before him and nudged his legs apart. He whimpered as I unfastened his suspenders and pulled down his trousers and undergarments, exposing his quivering thighs and cunny. Above this I beheld the astonishing sight of his distended bladder protruding from his abdomen. It looked like a round, ripe melon peeking out beneath his waistcoat. “Please, wife, please…” he begged me. He cupped the swelling with his hand and bent his knees. I positioned the vase and said: “now, dear.” There was a tense moment before he could release, but then a hot golden torrent burst forth from his quim with a great hiss and splashed into the vase. I could feel the force of it through the porcelain! He rolled his eyes back and moaned deeply. Oh, how he pissed that night! I could not believe he had endured being so very full without ruining his new suit. His stream rushed and rushed, longer and thicker and fiercer than any I have ever been able to summon under the most dire of circumstances. I continued to hold the vase, happy to attend to the cessation of my husband’s agonies. At last the majestic river slowed to a trickle, and Charles pressed on his lower stomach, now flat once again, to make sure he was empty. His cheeks were flushed. His shoulders sagged with relief. “Oh my darling Polly, that’s much better. I was suffering so that I thought I would burst and die from it,” he sighed. I noticed that there were dewdrops suspended in the curled hair along the outside of his little muff. In a moment of daring, I took my handkerchief and dabbed the drops away. He laughed at the ticklish sensation. I looked into the vase and gasped, as it was half full! He must have voided two quarts [~1.9L]! Thankfully, there was still room for me to relieve myself as well - my own needs had become unexpectedly urgent upon watching my husband’s performance. He was quite amused when I lifted my skirt and started adding my waters to his. “If we must defile this vase, we shall do it together,” I said, as the tinkling sound filled the room. “Ah, but whatever are we going to do with the vase?” he asked. “Allow me.” I crept out of the door to the guest room, checking to see if the coast was clear. Then I scampered on swift but silent feet to return the vase to where it had been, placing the cut flowers in with our waters! I believed that when the smell or wilting of the flowers inevitably led to the discovery of the mischief in the morning, it would surely be blamed on some drunken boor and not anyone so prim and quiet as my husband. It was the naughtiest thing I ever did as a grown woman! After I retreated to the room, my husband wanted to make love. We had to be very quiet indeed. It was quite memorable, because it was one of the only times in ten years that he has allowed me to pet him between the legs for his pleasure. It was as if the experience of holding his water for such an excruciatingly long time had softened his defenses. I have fond memories of that night and the soft, velvety texture of his quim, which I get to touch so rarely, and which is smaller, pinker, and daintier than my own in a peculiar contrast to the general masculine cut of his jib. In the morning, the vase was empty and cleaned. A servant must have found it and disposed of its contents without comment. An announcement was made at breakfast: our hosts apologized for the absence of chamber pots in our rooms the previous night, and any inconvenience this may have caused. It was the fault of the servants. The pots were being replaced at that very moment. Charles and I were silent conspirators for the rest of the meal, exchanging a lot of smirking looks as Mr. Gershwin droned on and on about croquet and the discovery of gold in the Klondike. I noticed that Charles stole away to our room several times that day. He whispered to me that his bladder was “exhausted.” I felt so sorry for him, and yet so impressed by what he had accomplished under duress. Not many people can say they have gone from nine one night to midnight the next without passing urine through sheer determination. Thankfully, he sustained no lasting damage to his system as a result of this test, and was able to keep his cunny sealed tight for the duration of our return journey two days later.
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