I came out when I was 16. That was in 1972, when “coming out” didn't mean mumbling a choked confidence to your best friend's Mom: it meant Costume, Lights, Music, I'm ready for my close-up now Mister Demille. I enjoyed being a camp spectacle at my boys' boarding school, but at any boarding school the most precious commodity is privacy.
My private privacy was to imagine that underneath my camp exterior and my male body, I was “really” a girl (young woman, I would have said). I walked around proud in my fantasy that inside my pants were a clit and cunt, not a cock and balls. I felt enormously superior to the jocks around me: this is mine, you don't get to know about it, let alone to touch it.
I'm not stupid, I know that in real life the least powerful thing in the world would be to be a girl in that situation. But what can I say? I know that psychologically /mythologically / whatchamatologically it made me feel stronger.
I sometimes imagined what would happen if, magically, I woke up tomorrow transformed into a woman. Of course, I would have no choice but to be a lesbian: so my gayness was stronger than any gender/sex identity. Go figure.
OF COURSE, when I was a little kid I played with girls, OF COURSE, my best friend turned out to be a dyke, OF COURSE I liked dressing up, OF COURSE all the things that are now cited as a background to “transsexualism” or “transgender” are run-of-the mill gay/lesbian stuff.
Now that I'm old (outrageous old queen, thank you, not creepy old guy) I get to give advice. Nobody has to take it. Be as butch or as fem (or neither one) as you feel is right for you, and as those around you will tolerate. But DON'T get your cock lopped off or your cunt sewn up: that is self-mutilation, and any “doctor” who does it for you is a RAPIST.