I don't know how I know this, but it is nonetheless real to me. On one side, dreamy as any scene of heaven, are the angels, all women. They are all in beautiful white gowns and robes. They all have beautiful long hair and clean, fresh make-up. They look serene. They may be on clouds or in the heavens...it might have been blue and white all around. I am not sure of this.

Of the other side, I can tell you that hell is all men. They are naked, and they are surrounded by molten steel walls that would fry anyone who touches them. It is a cold gray steel but it gives off an aura of orange-brown, like fire. The men are all muscular, and their bodies glisten with sweat, but their skin is blistered and their genitals are like leather.

I am afraid to linger here but I want desperately to know what they do with their eternal damnation. Are they mining coal, or digging dirt? I can't keep my eyes off their genitals; it is so frightening to see them withered like overripe brown bananas, with pinched and hard scrotums that seem like they could crumble.

But I find myself slowly propelled into the elevator on either side of the entrances to heaven and hell. I am transgendered and this is my purgatory. I must stand still, like one of those faceless, jointed wooden figurines that artists use to make poses. My head is more like a helmet. My arms and legs are wooden pins connected by ball-joints. I am wearing cotton panties that seem to be painted onto me. The front slope is maddeningly ambivalent; there is not enough protruding to make me out to be male, but there is no way to be sure I am female either.

I can't move my head, as much as I try, and I am trying, because I want to see if I have breasts, or if my chest is like the rest of this doll-figurine that I've become: sexless.

I feel the elevator go up, and then go down. But it will not open ever. Always there is a strange sound that it makes. The elevator is no color that I can remember. There is no opening for the door to slide now. I am just inside this elevator-box and I am doomed to slowly ride up and down, just as my life was spent pulling women's panties up and down my legs some days, and men's briefs on others.

Accepting my fate, I ride the elevator. Nobody gets on. All I hear is the terrible sound of quiet magnified.

I know that the others, like myself, are all in their own boxes as well. We are lonely. We were not women as much as we wanted to be at times. We were not men because we were not fully in our bodies at times.

Now we pay solemnly and solitarily for the secret moments when we were madly alive and fusing two worlds like crossing electric wires. What better orgasm was there? Yes, I dressed in the sweet lace of womanhood and emoted in the most feminine ways. Yes, I knew in my heart, at the moment of my climax, that I had a male organ, hard and capable, scrotum ripe and hanging, the fluid spitting out hot, manly and defiant.

The elevator drones mechanically now. It takes me nowhere.Is there someplace better? A Nirvana for all sexes, together?