There have been many times when I thought I would be better off with a female therapist. You see, for him, femininity was something to be sought after, an elusive, if highly desired, state. For me, as a lesbian suffering from breast cancer, femininity was a kind of burden. During one of my first visits with him, I explained that I had begged my surgeon to "take both my breasts." Her reaction was to gasp in shock and fold her arms around her surgically implanted breast. In that moment, the gesture was subtle, but also deeply meaningful. He had bought her breasts, he had desired them, he had saved and planned for those orbs under the sweater. They were precious to him and he couldn't imagine asking for their removal. But you see, for me, losing my breasts didn't mean losing my identity. My identity did not depend on my breasts and my gender would still remain female. Sure, it was a sad thought – I'd had those whores since I was a little girl, and I really liked them – but I was thinking about my survival. I wasn't thinking, like my M2t therapist, about their value versus my own