Too Much Information

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Erotica
Mature
Three cross-dressers, a lost manuscript and insulting Julian Barnes. The most fun you can have with someone else’s clothes on.Part One.The first meeting of a writing group for trans people. Members talk about early recollections of cross-dressing, coming out stories and agree to go in search of a missing sequel to ‘I Want What I Want’ a classic novel about a transexual.Part Two.Next meeting. Read and discuss their efforts. Getting beaten up by girls. How I went to my father’s wedding in a dress. Discuss progress of hunt for missing manuscript. interview with GB. tour of Bridlington. Numerous incidents. Not the most TS friendly town in the UK. Part Three.Another meeting.More stories- Sex. Dogging, Sex clubs. Losing virginity (both ways). Going to Paris as a woman. The school reunion.First chapter of missing manuscript revealed. Story of how it was found.Part Four.The manuscript. Getting What You Want.Part One. 1967. Wendy is discovered following her suicide attempt and is discovered to be Roy. Hospitalised with various breaks in a male orthopaedic ward, hit upon by other patients then ostracised by them. Transferred to psychiatric hospital under Dr Strickland like before. Meetings with doctor, sister and June (friend from lodging house). Outline of treatment and Wendy’s battle to be recognised as suffering from a medical condition not a mental one, one requiring physical treatment not psychiatry, aversion therapy and ECT. Finally his father comes to visit. Roy/Wendy realises he must cut all ties with home. Part Two. Goes to London, lives as a woman, works as a woman, socialises as a woman, meets a man and gets referred for treatment at Charing Cross Hospital under legendary Dr Randall. Whilst waiting for treatment experiences life as a transexual - violence, prejudice, harassment, arrest, sexual abuse, medical arrogance and most importantly love, sex, fun, femininity, fulfilment. Ends with Wendy being sedated before GRS.Part Five.Conclusion. Is Getting What You Want a forgery?Never made clear. 

One


They say that a writer must write as if his parents are dead. I’ve gone further than that, I’ve written as if mine have been the victims of a Stalinist style airbrushing. They haven’t of course they’re still very much around but when they read what follows they may well ‘go gentle into that’ Lubyanka ‘good night.’

Or at least one ‘haemorrhage apiece.’

Here goes.

I have a friend who thinks he may be a transexual.

I think so… my friend thinks so because his COGIATI score was 200.

His what score?

COGIATI, it’s a series of questions that are sometimes used in an initial assessment of gender dysphoria.

Oh I see.

My…his result was:

“Your COGIATI result value is: 200 Which means that you fall within the following category:

COGIATI classification FOUR, PROBABLE TRANSSEXUAL

What this means is that the Combined Gender Identity And Transsexuality Inventory has classified your internal gender identity to be essentially feminine, but with some masculine or androgynous traits. It is very possible that you are a candidate for a diagnosis of transsexualism. You show a strong degree of gender dysphoria. At the very least, further investigation should be undertaken. Your COGIATI score places you among the majority of those diagnosed as transsexuals, the 'late onset' tanssexual.

SUGGESTIONS FOR ACTION:

Your situation is potentially serious and indicative of a probable inborn gender conflict. It is definitely recommended that you pursue further action.

The suggestions for your circumstance are several.

1. It is recommended that you seek help from a sympathetic counselor or professional about your gender issues. It is very possible that over time they will become increasingly difficult to cope with. Early determination of what you really need and want is vital. You need to determine if you truly are transsexual. Keep in mind, though, that many alternatives exist other than complete sexual transformation. Partial transformation and many other way of existing are available. While you are very possibly a transsexual, COGIATI has determined that this is not absolutely certain. While time is an issue, being certain is more important. Proceed with investigation of your possible transsexuality or transgenderism, but with caution.

2. Some actions may help you to define your needs more clearly. Experimenting with living full time as a woman, taking hormones for a short time under supervision, or taking testosterone suppressers to observe how you feel are all viable options. Keep in mind that while it is very likely that you might be a transsexual, it is not certain. Do not take severe or permanent actions without long thought and the help of counselors and professionals.

3. Your gender issues are real, and should not be ignored. Neither should you rush into acting on them, however powerful they may feel. You do not fit the full criterion for the rarest classification, classic transsexuality, and so should be cautious, and open to possibilities. You may yet end up undergoing transition, and the path of the transsexual may well be your salvation. Be very careful, but do not ignore your issues.

4. If you have not already, consider joining any of the thousands of groups devoted to gender expression of various kinds. There is literally a world of friends to discover who share your interests. There are also publications, vacations, and activities that would expand your gender expression.”

It's always been there so it’s nothing to do with ‘late onset’ it’s more like outlet, late outlet. He’s a late outlet transexual and only now as he approaches forty can he let it out. Only now does he have the financial and mental independence to do what he wants.

‘Late-onset transexual’ what does that mean? Transexuality creeping up on you late in life, lurking in the shadows ready to pounce.

If ‘late onset’ is correct, it was ‘late onset’ by necessity, he had no money and more significantly no confidence to let it out earlier. Also for a time he tried to be normal or what’s considered normal, so he put all those TS thoughts and feelings from his mind. He purged, he over-compensated.

The Cogiati people used the wrong wording and the poor command of the English language by the people who wrote the test makes one dubious about its validity but if you do accept the validity and he does because there have been so many pointers in his life that just screamed tranny.

I’d…He’d always known that he was different.

Even as a very small boy I felt all those things but I couldn’t say them, I had no way of expressing them and no one to express them to if I had. There was no one to listen but if there had been I would have told them that God had made a mistake and put a girl’s brain into a boy’s body.

Now I no longer believe in God I don’t know who made that mistake. Could I tell people ‘Nature has made a mistake’? Can nature make a mistake? That’s an awkward question, you could make a flippant list of nature’s mistakes, Piers Morgan, Margaret Thatcher etc. but identifying true mistakes occurring naturally is tricky.

Leaving cod-philosophy to one side, I knew I was different even before I started school. I didn’t go in for boy’s toys, I never had a toy car or a train set. I had an Action Man but in my hands he was never a soldier, he was a deep-sea diver, a doctor or a spaceman.

I remember that I didn’t want to keep on growing, my feet kept on getting bigger and so did the rest of me, I was just getting more manly daily, maybe not more manly, more boyish and I didn’t like it. I remember looking at the boys in my class who were smaller than me and envying them their small builds, girl’s clothes would have fitted them and that was what I wanted to wear, girl’s clothes. I would have loved to have been a schoolgirl in straw boater, grey gabardine pinafore and grey woolly tights. I wanted to join the Brownies and most of all I wanted to look like Debbie Harry on the 1979 Top of the Pops Christmas Special in sailor dress, Raybans, heels and red tights.

Even at that age I knew I wanted to grow up like Mom, I didn’t want to be like Dad. For a start I was sure I didn’t want a job, I watched Dad go to work and Mom stay at home, I wanted to be a housewife, I didn’t want the responsibility of being a man. I watched Dad go to the pub surrounded by his baying, sweaty, boozy friends and I watched Mom stay at home and I was pretty certain which form of leisure I would prefer.

I continued to think I’d rather like to be a housewife. It looked quite pleasant, nothing to do and no responsibility. I suppose it just shows how naïve I was and how wrong, on two counts. Number one, Mom had the more stressful job, the house, us kids to look after and Dad and his large, encroaching, ever visiting family to forever appease. Dad had all the fun, a couple of hours work and then the pub and his mistress all afternoon and number two, I rather like responsibility, thrive on it even.

The hotels and restaurants my parents took me to just made me want to be a girl. There was a pretty rigid dress code back then, jacket, shirt and tie for Dad. I remember on holiday, even on the far from sweltering English Riviera, every evening would see him hot and sweaty in a shirt and tie. Jacketed and blotchy, spotty and red-necked, quite literally hot under the collar. Mom on the other hand was cool and elegant in something floaty and strappy, sleeveless, backless. Although having to wear something backless or strapless would terrify me today.

It was always the same with school events such as sports day, Dad in a dark suit, proper shoes and woolly socks, clowning in the Dad’s race with stains under his armpits. Mom was cool and serious, she didn’t clown, set out to win and frequently did. Her feet were cool and elegant in strappy sandals, painted toes.

Women’s clothing just seemed so much more comfortable.

I realise now that it’s not quite so clear cut, heels are uncomfortable, pencil skirts are restrictive and tights get sweaty and cause fungal growth. I’m a martyr to anal thrush and I’ve tried and failed to run from a crowd of homophobic louts in four-inch heels.

I’m just not a tough puff.

You must have come across ‘the myth of the tough puff.’ He couldn’t be more camp, sews on a buttons, cooks a cordon blue meal, minces around like there’s no tomorrow but he when confronted by a gang of skinheads spitting homophobic hatred and intent on doing him damage he clinically kicks their teeth in without even breaking an immaculately polished nail.

The first time I dressed as a girl, I put on a pair of dreadful American tan control top tights which must have been miles too long for me, Mom had an inside leg to die for. Over the tights I put on a girdle, one of those very Seventies instruments of torture with panels of harsh, stiff fabric pulling in every direction and miles of razor sharp nylon stitching. Mom’s skirts and dresses were also far too big for me so I put on an old black negligee made of diaphanous semi-transparent nylon with satin ruffs and frills. I strutted around the bathroom looking at myself in the cheval mirror looking like a pre-pubescent ‘Allo Allo’ girl. I looked awful but that didn’t seem crushingly important. It was more about how I felt. Standing there dressed as a girl I just felt right.

I almost got caught, more than once, I can remember standing on the rim of the bath with stockinged feet slipping on the roll-top and my back pressed against the door as Dad tried to get in. I don’t know what he’d have done if he’d got in and discovered me dressed as a little girl. I’m sure it would have been quite violent and humiliating and worse, a part of me suspects something darker could have happened, punishment involving something sexual.

Funny how things change, when every thing came out and I finally and told them, it was him who was more okay with it than Mom.

But that isn’t surprising really, Mom was always the tougher one. For years I’ve been her daughter without the perks, a male version of a daughter doing all the things a daughter does but never getting any of the usual daughter things in return.

I can’t share her lippy, a spare tampon, enjoy our regular trips to the hairdressers or the manicurist.

I have to wait outside, bored, a real daughter would be in there with her and in return for the lift and putting up with all the hassle she would get her beautician’s bill paid.

To go with all those alleged perks though a daughter would have been on the receiving end of a fair amount of hostility from her mother. My mother was, is, always will be one of those women who doesn’t go a bundle on other women, perhaps she sees them as competition and she just would not have taken to another woman in the house that well at all. She never took to a single one of her daughters in law and there were a lot of them, my brother couldn’t keep his dick in his trousers. I shared her feelings for one or two of them but most were perfectly pleasant girls, it was Mom who was being unreasonable. I’m fairly sure she would have been the same with a daughter, unreasonably hostile. Hostility is necessary to get the perks, that unspoken hostility that exists between every mother and her daughter. She would have done things with her daughter and she would have expected that all the daughterly dues be paid, all the chores, the favours, the caring and she would have accepted them with bad grace. The problems a son has with his mother are different.

Same with dad, I was his daughter without the benefits, I did all the chores, helped out, but I couldn’t wrap him around my little finger like a daughter could. I couldn’t flutter my eyelids, put my head slightly on one side, a lock of my bob in the corner of my mouth and do what I liked with him, work on his wallet, his tolerance.

My brother managed to do all that without using any feminine wiles. He used blackmail pure and simple. He threatened to spill the beans about Dad’s many messy affairs. And my dad allowed it to happen, perhaps as a boost for his faltering ego, his flagging member? Or was it because of their shagger’s understanding?

I couldn’t have done it. He’d have humiliated me.

So I got no benefits from Mom or Dad.

I was the daughter they didn’t know they had, the sister I hadn’t got.

YOU FOOL, you’ve slipped into using ‘I’ not ‘He’.

Rip it up and start again.

A side room in a drab community centre, busy with corporate chairs, chipped brown formica tables, an over flowing second hand book trolley, dusty plastic plants and nondescript posters for crushingly boring community events.

“Dog Training”

“OAP’S Tea Dance.”

“Local History Society – Book Signing – The Local Canal Embankment by A Boring Old Git.”

“CIS Women’s Group.

Guest Speaker Julie Burchill.”

Cancelled.

“TS/Transgender Writing Group!”

Call Fiona for details.”

Cancelled.

If the Writer’s Group meeting is really cancelled shall we go somewhere else, somewhere less municipal, the pub. I know the one on the corner, it’s okay, everyone minds their own business and we’ll be left alone.

I don’t think we should give up so soon, we should wait and see if anyone else turns up. One of the organisers perhaps.

Also I’m not sure if that pub is as TV friendly as you think.

Why, have you had a bad experience there?

Nothing specific, I just think it would be best to wait around.

Alright then we’ll wait here.

If we’re going to wait around, can I put something to you both?

Alright.

Ok.

How serious are you about writing?

What do you mean?

Do we want this to be more than a transexual memoir club? Do we want to produce something more challenging than stories about being bullied at school because you showed a few too many feminine traits?

Or stories about how you over compensated and became the bully to disguise your true feelings. They’re almost as hackneyed.

The other members can write about whatever they feel comfortable with, it’s not for us to dictate what they get from the group but we’ll form a breakaway group and try to do something a little different, break a few rules, push the odd boundary or two.

The Jemima Joyces.

If you like.

I have a friend who is sure he’s a transexual.

Oh hang the pretence, I’m sure I’m a transexual, I got full marks on the Cogiati test. Like Blackadder’s Earl of Doncaster I’ve been riding sidesaddle since I was a boy.

“That steaming left footer.”

Also it’s a bit late to have doubts because the deed has been done, my surgeon has removed certain bits and my pharmacist is supplying drugs that will grow others.

When I was exploring my sexuality, working out if I was truly trans or if I was simply gay I worried about how my mother would react to the very few gay male partners I bought home. She wasn’t openly hostile just quite cool with then.

Later there were the straight male partners of her now trans-woman son. I was terrified that she would be unspeakably unpleasant to the men who were deflowering her newly acquired daughter? I needn’t have worried, she was okay with them. Perhaps some of the latent natural animosity between mother and daughter was beginning to grow between us. If it was it had grown very quickly. Now that I am her daughter there’s a frission between that wasn’t there when I was her son but I rather like it, it’s all part of becoming a woman, having problems of a womanly kind with your mother. Even once the op was done, when I had really become the daughter, I didn’t get the perks, perhaps because we still got on like a mother and son. We needed to be more like a mother and daughter, not really getting on.

Finally came the gay female partners of her trans-woman son, her newly acquired lesbian daughter. She was pretty indifferent to them, possibly worn out by all the changes, possibly shocked.

You will have worked out that my unease with male partners has continued beyond my change of sex, I’m still not comfortable with a man as a sexual partner. I’m more into women. While I was going through the process of transitioning, living as a woman for a couple of years, smoozing the good people at Charing Cross, convincing the NHS that I was worth their investment, I became for that short time at least a lesbian with a penis. A LWAP.

A lesbian with a dick, a LWAD.

A lesbian with a cock, a LWAC.

A Dyke with a dick: a DWD.

DWP: not work and pensions but dyke with prick.

RMWC: Rug muncher with a cock.

RMWC: Royal Mounted wanking Corps.

I was never into the gay scene, finding it all pretty scary, hordes of brutal animalistic men with one thing on their minds. I was put off by the image of homosexuality, two men going together, sleazy dogging areas, cottaging, and unpleasant fumbles in public toilets. Gary Oldman in ‘Prick up your Ears’. It seemed so nasty, brutal. Sex in public conveniences is “nasty brutish and short.” I couldn’t imagine going down on an unwashed, piss smelling cock or having grubby fingers crammed into my ass as a precursor to a brutal penile thrust. And the other way round just seemed even worse, unthinkably horrible to be doing the thrusting, shit, sweat, spots and sleaze.

We need to lighten the mood so I think now is the time for an involuntary Fawlty.

“We haven’t got any this week Major.”

We have got crowds of men rushing to substandard business hotels to parade about in their wife’s underwear. I did just that on many business trips before the op, not the wife’s underwear, my own purchased mail order.

I’d better explain “Involuntary Fawlties.” There’s nothing in life that cannot be accompanied, enhanced and made more interesting or amusing by a quote from the great John Cleese. For instance I recently bumped into my brother as he left the dentist after a particularly long and unpleasant rout canal procedure. He spat blood and mumbled, I went into James Garner in conversation with Robert Graf inside a Silesian POW camp mode.

“I’m not a well man. Our dentist here’s a butcher, only don’t tell anyone I said that.

It’s a soldier’s right to complain.

In your army maybe, in mine…fwwt…the Russian Front.”

He stopped spitting blood and smiled. Only a weak smile but it still goes to show that an apt quote at the right time from Cleese makes conversations funnier, lightens the mood, cheers everyone up.

But it’s more than consciously matching quotes with situations some just come out, without warning.

Mention India in whatever context and I say “At the Oval.”

Say pop-up toaster and I come back with “Pam and Ivor.”

Every time I finish a bit of DIY I step back and say: “It’s done, Mr Moose is up, tell the tyrant queen her cardies are safe forever.”

If I see ‘Prawn Cocktail’ on a restaurant menu I read it out loud as “Prawn Goebbels” and then pretend to order a “Hermann Goering and a Colditz Salad.”

Stand in the pub for ten minutes and I find myself saying: “This is exactly how Nazi Germany started.” Mind you that is not exactly an involuntary statement more a frighteningly valid commentary on the right wing racist claptrap that is spouted in pubs.

If someone gets a little above themselves I comment: “Eating the nuts if you please.”

If a restaurant bill seems large then its: “We’re not putting them through university you know.”

If I’m asked have I got enough of something then there’s only one reply: “We’ve got lumps of it round the back.”

A daunting task always draws the response: “long ways to dig.”

Then there’s a few that just come out:

“Oh you enormous Scotsman.”

“I’m particularly keen on Johnny Matthis.”

“My dear woman a blow on the head like that is worth…two in the bush.”

And the all time favourite:

“Oh I think most of them do down there.”

Its not just Cleese, there are numerous other sources, sitcoms, films, even the odd play from which you can steal an apposite quotation and have everybody rolling in the aisles. Honourable mentions must also go to: -

Norman Stanley Fletcher.

“How’s the diet going? Alright?”

“Oaksie’s Hardy Kruger.”

Rowan Atkinson.

“Wild I was absolutely livid.

Cut off their goolies.

Nancy Boy Potter.

Has Matron seen those boils?”

And George Cole’s most famous creation.

“Yorkie’s snapdragon’s caning the motorway.

Boatrace Madam.”

Mustn’t forget The Likely Lads.

“Don’t mention Dierdre Birchwood.”

Just a cup of tea please.”

But most come from Fawlty.

“Designing cathedrals.

Fussy is he? Poodle?

He’s really gone this time.

I think we got something then.

Yes can I help you?

We have meat here in the building.

We haven’t got any this week, Major.

The fatal accident.”

So if you see an apparently irrelevant and incongruous sentence in this manuscript it won’t be irrelevant or incongruous, it will be an ‘Involuntary Fawlty.’ I will have written something that made me think of a funny quote and I will have been unable to stop myself writing it down.

“Out you get Hooky, you’ve done your bit.”

I will be awarding prizes to anyone who successfully identifies the quotes above but while I’m still in the mood to clarify things.

Do you want to know who it was who said that about writing as if your parents are dead?

The quote is often attributed to Philip Roth, although credit does occasionally get foisted on either of two distinguished English novelists.

One wrote the same book twice and got away with it although it was described as “dismayingly bad” by an equally overrated contemporary and the other is a famous cuckhold although in his case I think cuckhold is a misnomer because I’m sure there is a different word to describe a husband whose wife goes off with another woman.

A lesbold. No. I think he works in accounts.

A cunthold, no nasty word, although it does appropriately hanker back to the Anglo-Saxon.

A sapphold, perhaps, yes that’s better.

Or maybe it would be better to derive a name from one of the many famous cuckolds in history such as Mr Keppel or Lord Harcourt – a keppold perhaps or a harcold? No.

What about Hephaestos, husband of Aphrodite and patron saint of cuckolds.

Hephaestold sounds quite good.

No, No, NO I’m doing what I said I wouldn’t do. I’m doing all that James Joyce stuff, inventing words. I said I wouldn’t, I’d try to write something different, something challenging but no stream of consciousness, no interior monologue and no inventing words.

The cuckold has the devil at his shoulder, a devil at each shoulder so they give him the gift of horns but would someone whose wife had gone off with another woman receive the gift of horns? Should the symbolic gift be feminised to reflect the sex of the person doing the cuckolding? Horns stand for the stag and are a way of saying another stag has got your woman, so we need a means of saying another woman has got your woman. Reindeer horns perhaps, female reindeer have horns. No, we need something more obviously feminine.

Breasts? Milk, the gift of milk.

Blood? The gift of blood. 

two

What do you think of the term ‘Cis?’ I had a lot of trouble getting my head around it. At first I thought it must stand for something, that C, I and S were the initials of something. I came up with ‘Certain in sexuality’ but we’re all certain in our sexuality aren’t we, I mean it’s settled, we can’t change it, it’s just that it’s not always outwardly clear, so I decided it must stand for ‘clear in sexuality.’

What about ‘Comfy in skin.’ Or ‘Cor I’m strange.’ In an ironic kind of way of course.

‘Cow in strop.’

‘Chest indicates superiority.’

Or ‘Cunt in straightaway. And for a cis-man – ‘cock is staying.’

I wish I’d never started this.

Why it’s great fun. I like playing with words. Did you know that LCJ means Least Crazy Judge not Lord Chief Justice.

And have you heard my redefinition of MCC.

MCC really stands for ‘may contain cun…

That’ll do, I think we’ve had too much of the C word already.

I wasn’t going to use it. I was going to say: countrymen, may contain countrymen.

Counts!

I beg your pardon.

Counts would be funnier. ‘May Contain Counts!’

Or Countesses.

Can women join?

Join what?

The MCC.

Can a woman join the MCC?

Would a woman join the MCC?

Can a trans-woman join?

Would a trans-woman join?

The answer to all of the above is, I don’t know but I’ll guarantee one thing, there will be a countess or two among the members regardless of whether women are eligible to join or not

Shall we get back to the point?

What’s our first writing project going to be then?

A project? Must we have a project?

Not a project as such but are the Jemima Joyces going to have a theme for their first pieces of writing?

Or shall we just write something and then talk about it next week.

Just write anything?

Anything.

Anything at all, no rules, no conditions.

Agreed.

No rules it is then.

I think so.

No rules sex change Stories! Ultimate LGBT! Raw tranny! Gender Re-alignment for MEN!

Are you taking the mickey?

Shall we stipulate one thing? No coming out stories.

Definitely not voluntary coming out stories, they will all be the same.

There might be more mileage in involuntary coming out stories, there’s more scope for something interesting there. Take my story. I came home one day and was confronted by my collection of high heels on the kitchen table, all forty two pairs.

What did you say?

What could I say? I had to come clean, admit that whenever possible I dressed as a woman, not a lot different from a voluntary coming out, I was just pissed off that I hadn’t been able to choose the time and place for telling everyone.

Can I tell you my coming out story?

Just this once.

It’s similar to yours, my wife, ex-wife I should say, found my ‘fuck me shoes’ a pair of cheap plastic patent leather effect jobs with five inch heels and a tacky arrangement of imitation French jet beads on each toe. After a session of dressing I’d simply forgotten to hide them away with everything else. My stockings, bra, control panties, dress, wig and make-up had been safely packed inside their holdall and pushed back up into the loft but I’d left the shoes by the side of the settee. Despite taking all the usual precautions I’d just overlooked my heels. She’d found them at once and at first she was rather mystified, tacky size ten heels? Was I having an affair with a woman with big feet?

She dismissed that – no other evidence.

So you’re a transvestite.

No, no they’re something I plan to sell on ebay.

She didn’t buy that either.

You’re a transvestite with very little taste. I can’t believe you wear something so awful. I have good taste and I’d have thought it would rub off on you. I married my first husband in a pair of Jimmy Choos.

And you’re still paying for them.

I’m still paying for a lot of things from that marriage but that’s not the issue. The issue here is do you dress up in women’s clothes? And cheap, tacky even slutty women’s clothes at that.

If you’re going to dress like a woman why dress like a hooker?

She laughed at me despite her anger and hurt.

I decided to deal with the anger and hurt later but put a stop to the laughter immediately so I showed her my full collection of shoes, the smart sensible black courts from Kurt Geiger, the grey suede peep toe courts by Bandalino, the green patent leather Nine West heels, the classy muted lilac suede courts by Escada that I wore to Ascot (they slaughtered me) and the very Alexa Chung classic mid heel navy pumps by Ferragamo that I should have worn to Ascot.

I outed myself to prove I didn’t always dress like a slut.

I never dealt with the hurt and the anger.

I have a friend who thinks he might be a transexual, he’s not sure. His Cogiati score was ambiguous, neither one thing nor the other which is probably an accurate description of his sexuality.

His COGIATI Test results point towards the androgyne – female and male aspects to his brain. I have a theory that that is because his brain leans towards the female but it has been conditioned and trained to be male? It has become accustomed to approaching things in a male way and so displays a lack of interest in others, a resistance to asking questions and a desire to talk about himself. Or maybe that is just a personal thing? I’m a bit of a misanthrope. A lot of my answers to Cogiati were not governed by my gender but by my general misanthropy.

Women can be misanthropes too. I never notice emotional responses but is that because I’m too male or maybe I have a female academics brain and I’m not interested in trivia.

At least I make an effort to ask questions, to make conversation, to seem interested. My friends don’t do that, that’s why I’ve always been left to talk to their wives while they form the obligatory misogynist cabal at the bar.

At tranny meetings and support groups do some of the men who attend take on a female role and ask questions. I doubt it. I’ve been to one or two Trans meetings. To Birmingham Belles, a ‘girl’s’ night out around the gay village in Birmingham and to the tranny night club in Milton Keynes and no matter how convincing everyone looks, something gives the game away.

The smell is feminine, perhaps a little too much and appearances are almost right, the heels maybe too high, there maybe too many garish colours and animal prints on display and of course there’s too much hosiery, everyone wears tights or stockings even in August.

It’s the noise that gives it away, there’s a feminine clip clop of heels but the voices and the laughter are all wrong, deeper, more gravely.

“Machine-gunning crows.”

But most of all its just too loud because everyone’s talking, no one is listening.

Also Cogiati seems very hung up on hugs. I can’t understand why they place such emphasis on hugs, it seems they consider that the more comfortable you are with hugging the more likely it is that you are a transexual. I don’t buy it. Being comfortable hugging people you’ve just met at a business meeting or sitting next to a complete stranger on park bench doesn’t immediately strike me as evidence of a woman’s brain in a man’s body. Are women really comfortable to get so close? I just don’t see it, surely they would shy away from a creepy geezer in the park or the sweaty bloke in the badly fitting suit who thinks the best way to seal a deal is to cop a feel.

Involuntary Fawlty.

“Daddy sends hugs.”

“Porn Bambi.”

With a mid-range Cogiati score, you get a lot of warnings about not doing something drastic based on your score and I find the assumption that I’m going to do anything at all because I’ve scored 120 or whatever it was quite troubling. Why is it a given? I’m much more likely to do nothing; quite frankly I’m inclined to shy away from involving the medical profession in something like this. It’s my body, my brain; I’ll deal with it myself, in my own way.

Just the same as I shy away from seeking treatment for my eczema, I don’t trust doctors to prescribe a bit of hand cream so it’s a given that I’ll treat their recommendations regarding surgery with extreme caution. Also something else holds me back, my scabby skin reinforces my fear of intimacy, strengthens my touch taboos and all my myriad other taboos. There’s simply no way I’d reveal my blemished skin to anyone. They wouldn’t want me to reveal it to them so I’m spared the decision. I don’t have to answer the question - why don’t you go looking for someone who’ll let you suck his cock?

I can’t actually believe that I’d find someone who would let me do that or who would be overly eager to fuck my ass anyway. Who would want to? It’s not exactly a thing of beauty, hairy, spotty and prone to piles and what it has to deal with on a daily basis doesn’t bear thinking about. Who would want to go within ten miles of it? It’s scrupulously clean, frequently washed, my luxury on Desert Island Discs would be a bidet, how anyone can be satisfied with just paper is beyond me.

Although the sad and possibly scary thing is that there are loads of men out there who would, men who would fuck anything, penetrate anything, jab it in, follow the demands of their cock.

Before I go any further maybe I need to do something symbolic. Like Richard Harris downing two bottles of the finest vintage Margaux he could get his hands on for his final drinking session after being told unequivocally – carry on drinking and you will die.

What I maybe embarking on is similarly unequivocal. There’s no going back once they’ve removed your penis and remodelled it as a vagina, so maybe I need to perform a last symbolic act as a male.

I need a Richard Harris moment.

At first I couldn’t think of anything.

What was it going to be?

A beer binge, watch a rugby match and then find a woman. Never going to happen, I no longer have the capacity to consume a binge worthy amount of beer and there’s very little unequivocally male about rugby. Steroidy men in tight shirts wrestling with each other, just closet gay porn and how would I find a woman who would be attracted to me, limp wristed pre-transitioning me. I could pay for one I supposed.

Read some Hemmingway?

Veg in front of the TV watching sport drinking bottles of tasteless lager and eating crisps, at regular intervals watch Internet porn and wank, sleep and scratch and fart. Oh and whinge a lot, mustn’t forget that.

That seemed to me to be the most typical male pastimes.

Fool, you’ve slipped into using I not he again.

Start again.

It was the best of times but a stroll was out of the question even for stately plump wealthy single men who frequently dreamt about Cornish country houses whilst wanting thirteen striking catamites in a place where they do things differently.

You may have noticed that the above glib opening sentence is not strictly all my own work.

The glib opening sentence below is.

Mid way through my Mother’s final illness I sought solace not in the medicine cupboard or the drinks cabinet but in her lingerie drawer. Each evening once she was supplied with fags and scotch and settled in front of a re-run of Inspector Morse I put on her skirts and dresses, her high heels and her tights.

I’m getting better with make-up and I’ve got a very nice wig, a Friends era Jennifer Aniston style bob that does go some way to softening the maleness of my jaw line. Only not quite enough and as always I find myself railing about the fact that I’m never going to pass as a woman. I’m too tall, my shoulders are just too wide. I’ve got nice legs but at the end of the day I’m simply the wrong shape and no matter how many bodyshapers and pairs of thigh slimming tights I buy I can’t change my shape that much. Corsets, bodyshapers and shaping tights work differently on a woman’s body. Her shape is more conducive to being shaped, all her bulges and love handles, her spare tyres and just plain podgy bits are where the corset expects them to be and so it can do its brutal work. All the lumps and bumps on a man’s body are in the wrong places and so need a different form of manipulation. As for these hod carriers’ shoulders, Playtex have never come up with anything that could alter their appearance. I’m just never going to pass as a woman. Finally its gets so you hate the look of yourself and purge, get rid of it all, the skirts, the dresses, the heels and the hosiery. At least now I can sell the stuff on ebay rather than dump it at the rear of Cancer Research or tearfully stuff it all into the recycling skip at the local tip.

I feel a purge coming on now as it happens. I do every spring, as it gets warmer and I set the clippers to No.1 with the result that even where I’m not balding I’ve got virtually no hair, which makes it hard to feel feminine. I’m sixteen stone but tall, not fat for a man but far too heavy for a woman. In summary I’m bald and stout with bad skin, I’m never going to pass so I think what’s the point. Why bother, just forget all about it, no point trying to look like a woman, I’ll never be convincing so why open myself up for all those disappointments, the hostility, the violence, why not just put the lot on ebay and have done with it.

Then again, what about Malkie’s wife Anne, she was massive, they secretly called her the Honey Monster and the first man to openly call her that was knocked over the pool table with a single punch. She was large but still feminine. That’s the frustrating part, a real girl can grow big but she’ll always be a girl, I won’t.

And I’m sick of trying to kid myself that when I get the time and opportunities, I’ll get better at it, I’ll be convincing then, I’ll pass as a woman then. Then I can do the whole TV/TS thing, shave all over and not worry about embarrassing questions when I wear shorts, pluck my eyebrows, practice with make-up, paint my nails.

By time and opportunities I mean after Mom’s gone. But that won’t be for years, she’s not really ill, she’s just a whinger. Her mother lived well into her eighties, so ‘time and opportunity’ could be ten or fifteen years away. By that time I’ll be pushing sixty, I’m never going to find anyone who’ll want to fuck me then. Or am I? We are talking about men aren’t we? Every hole’s a goal. But will I want to get fucked when I’m that age. Unlikely, by then I’ll want it less than I do now and I’m not that bothered now.

Shall we read something as well before we meet up next week?

Why not? What do you have in mind?

How about “I Want What I Want” by Geoff Brown.

Good choice, a TV classic.

Its years since I read it and it’s pretty hard to get hold of a copy nowadays. There may not be time to order it from the library or buy it on Amazon, get it delivered and read it before we meet again.

I’ve a copy with me. Take it away with you and read it, then pass it on to Miranda.

She just happened to have a copy.

Now that should have rung a few alarm bells. 

three

I have a friend who knows he isn’t a transexual, he just enjoys wearing women’s clothing.

I just enjoy wearing women’s clothes.

A famously eccentric potter stole my Unique Selling Point in my chosen profession of painter/sculptor so I decided to channel all my creative energies into writing. The Turner Prize may have already been collected by a man in a dress but the Booker hasn’t. Yet! I’ve even got the dress, a suit by Jaeger, black crepe with satin details and gold buttons. A boxy tuxedo jacket with wide satin lapels and two gold buttons, a short straight skirt with three buttons on the front and a daring split that will show a glimpse of stocking top because I think it’s a occasion for stockings rather than tights. A white silk blouse with faux bow tie detail and black patent heels and matching clutch bag.

For ‘famously eccentric’ read: barking.

Before I abandoned painting I achieved a small measure of success with two very different pieces of art. One was a pair of paintings, maps of an imaginary archipelago, only not done in oil or watercolour. In the manner of Gavin Turk I used bodily fluid, semen to be precise. I used semen stains to represent islands and atolls and rather unimaginatively called them ‘Wanklands.’

The other had a something of an element of performance art about it and was called ‘A Rocket up Your Arse.’

Involuntary Long Good Friday.

“Stick a rocket up their arses and they’ll jump.’

“A bit of respect needed here. Razors.”

I collected many firework rocket canes and replaced the printed warning on the stick. The one that says “Not for sale to persons under 18” with warnings and imprecations of my own, such as: -

‘Under 18, fuck off.’

“Under 18, get a job you waster.”

“Fireworks are for childish twats.”

“Fireworks are shit anyway.”

“Fireworks are just entertainment for the mindless.”

The Chinese like em.

Involuntary Fawlty.

“We both like em.

Ah Harold Robbins. I thought you meant that awful man Harold Robinson. Have you read any? Most awful, American… Transatlantic tripe.

How about a Waldorf Salad?”

The Chinese like them you say.

They do, are they all mindless?

I sincerely hope not or we’re in real trouble, a billion braindead people, think of the mess they’ll make of the world.

Mind you there are five hundred million Americans and they’re nearly all terminally stupid but by and large they do alright, they fuck about with the Middle East and their police are really nasty to young black men but apart from that they’re pretty successful. And there’s sixty-five million of us and we do ok despite being cretinously obsessed with BGT and worse. Most of us do alright.

Another Involuntary Fawlty. Sorry I just can’t resist. “You’re domesticated and you do alright.”

A withering look from Sybil.

Sorry but that lacks the effect on paper, you simply can’t put one of Prunella Scale’s withering looks into words.

Could be a good title for a book though:

“A Withering Look from Prunella Scales.”

A lithering wook.

The first short story I got published wasn’t about transvestites it was about a couple where the woman is so much more attractive then the man.

It was called ‘Unbalanced’ and a quick summary follows. I won’t set the complete story down because I’m sure you don’t really want to read it.

‘Unbalanced.’

Nobody could explain why they were together, how they’d got together and why they’d stayed together for so long. He was small, ugly, ratty and totally charmless, what could she possibly see in him?

Admittedly she’s pond life but very nice pond life, not a nasty bone in her body but when has being a bit thick been an obstacle to a pretty girl landing a rich attractive man.

So why is she stuck with her stunted, ratty man? Perhaps it’s because she is so nice, because she lacks a mean streak, a ‘burning ambition’ like Peter Sarsdedt’s Marie-Claire. She is just a pretty face, it is possible.

Unfortunately their kids inherit the wrong bits from each, his rattiness and her light colouring. They are almost totally white like albino rats, lab rats or even worse those horrible lemon yellow stained boil in the bag rats that were supplied to schools for the kids to dissect.

A possible explanation comes to light. They’ve been together since their schooldays. They got together at the age of twelve and been together ever since and neither has ever been with anyone else. They were one of those couples who were sick-making and treacly.

Never had “a frantic scene with Briony Hood.”

“She did have a fantastic pair of…”

‘No need to flaunt them to the teenage population of Wearside.’

Surely someone must have tried to break them up in the past. Someone must have said ‘they’re too nice, we’ve got to do something.’

Another explanation is bandied about: he’s got an eighteen-inch cock.

When it’s the other way around and the man is attractive and his wife is ugly people ask the same question: ‘What’s he doing with her?’

In this situation everyone goes for and readily accepts the hackneyed answer.

She must suck his balls through his pipe.

She takes it up the ass.

That explains everything because of course most men confuse good sex with love and marry the woman they have the best sex with.

Did you get around to reading “I Want What I Want”?

Yes.

What did you think?

I enjoyed it, it seems a little dated but it’s well written.

Did you think the same as me, there must be a sequel. He must have gone on with Wendy’s story, he couldn’t leave it all hanging in the air like that.

Yes I did think that.

Me too, you have to suspect he returned to Wendy at some point.

That’s our project then. To discover the long lost sequel to “I Want What I Want.”

How are we going to be that?

Leave it with me, I’ll come up with a plan. I’m both the man and the woman to do it, quite often I’m just the woman to do it.

Oh God I hear you sigh, another story about lost manuscripts with parallel past and present narratives, hasn’t that already been done by A.S. Byatt in Possession and she pinched the idea and most of the story from John Fowles’ “The French Lieutenant’s Woman.”

Why did no one accuse her of plagiarism?

Oxbridge intellectual snobbery, that’s why. Byatt produces what they (one day I must sit down and explain who ‘they’ are, I refer to them such a lot) perceive as a more literary worthy piece of work than Fowles, so his work is dismissed and forgotten even though it blatantly obvious she’s ripped him off. There’s an implication that only a thick non-Oxbridge educated pleb would fail to see the superiority of Byatt’s work.

It’s the same with John Updike.

They all say, “Of course he’s a genius.” It’s just so obvious to anyone with sufficient intelligence, anyone who has been properly educated. Perhaps they’re right maybe that’s why they got to read English at Cambridge – because they’re intelligent enough to appreciate Updike and Byatt. I don’t see it, I see them as dull, longwinded, repetitive and haughtily superior. Maybe that’s why I read law at the local poly.

Much as I enjoy the cut and thrust of this not at all biased literary discussion can we get back to the point?

Sorry.

I know in my water that a sequel must exist. The first thing I’m going to do is put a notice on some of the TS Internet sites.

I’ve just read the classic TV/TS novel I Want What I Want by Geoff Brown and I can’t believe that he left the subject there. Does anyone know anything about him, did he write more using a different name? Did he transition and write with a female name? Google isn’t much help, just gives you “Born Bridlington, 1932”. I’m just intrigued that anyone can produce such a sensitive account of being TS and then just leave it unresolved.

We’ll see what sort of response it gets and take it from there.

I don’t really fancy a trip to Bridlington.

It may not come to that.

Her enigmatic smile accompanying that final sentence should have rung a few alarm bells.

I have a friend who isn’t a transexual; he’s something else entirely.

He’s a transexual from the waist down, he sits at my desk and write in my female persona, like the old newsreader jokes, they’re all naked under the desk, well I’m female under the desk. I’m wearing a mid-thigh length skirt, barely black tights and black office heels from Long Tall Sally with a practical two-inch heel. I shave my legs, tights or stockings are so much more comfortable without all those troublesome hairs in the way. And the first time you shave your legs is a revelation isn’t it, it’s wonderful and strange at the same time to feel cool and smooth. Body shaper panties pull in my stomach, crush my waist and crush something else, only gently, nothing to uncomfortable, just a gentle feminisation. Perhaps that’s what I’m looking for gentle feminisation, certainly not surgery, too drastic, painful, intrusive etc. To pick up on an earlier analogy, I’m looking for sex change lite.

I rarely bother with a bra or make-up, I may wear a wig, I’ve only got a couple and they’re short and boyish, elfin.

Even though I’m only half dressed as a woman when I’m writing I’m fully a woman in my head. I’ve tried to think of names for it, experimented with Greek and Latin prefixes, ones that might explain that while my sexual transition exists only in my mind for all that it is very real.

Credosexual – one who’s sexuality is based on belief.

Ideosexual – the idea or mental image of your sexuality is what counts.

Psychosexual – sexuality as played out in the mind.

Sensosexual – sexuality as you sense and feel it.

Onirosexual – sexuality that you have in your dreams.

Phantasexual – sexuality that you make visible to yourself in your mind’s eye.

They’ve all got merits but unfortunately the closest two are the ones I like least because they could equally be used as terms of abuse. ‘Psycho’ has overtones suggesting violence and mental illness and ‘phanta’ suggests fantasy worlds and unreliability.

They say that a blurring of the distinction between the sexes is slowly occurring, a fuzzing of genders but it hasn’t gone far enough yet for me. I would prefer a society that lets you dress any way you please, lets you dress as either sex. No need for surgery, no need for even living permanently as a woman, one day you dress as a woman, the next as a man. Recently we went on a booze up in Brum and prior to being picked up I was wearing grey Jaeger pleated skirt, navy blouse, grey tights and grey heels. I would have preferred to have stayed dressed like that and just gone out as I was but no one would have stood for it, my friends and their wives wouldn’t have tolerated me going out as a girl.

I would like a Chinese Walls approach to sexuality; you can be all things but keep them separate, Gender in a box.

What’s the Greek or the Latin for box?

Buxis in Latin and Pyxis in Greek.

They have a ring to them:

Buxosexual or Pyxosexual.

I want gender to become a corridor train, where you take a seat in the men’s compartment one day but pop along the corridor into the women’s one the next.

That’s not going to happen fast enough for me so I face a choice between living in the body of a woman or being a woman living in the mind of a man.

To do the former would need surgery, to do the latter requires extreme mental strength- accepting things as they are and making the best of it. Making the best of it involves many problems.

Does it satisfy you?

It has to, I could never have surgery. Not only am I afraid of what the surgeon has to do, the cuts, the stitches, I’m afraid of the pain, the drugs, and the side effects. Then there are the slightly icky things that come afterwards like the dildo for the necessary daily dilation. Even the laser hair removal down there makes me squirm. I saw one documentary where one of the patients attempted to castrate himself. DIY castration terrified me, I didn’t even want to hear him/her talk about it.

Like I said I’m uncomfortable even hearing about inserting the glass dildo daily to prevent the newly created vaginal cavity healing up. Mainly I think my problem with that is the shape. I really think it should be a different shape, something non-sexual, a banana perhaps.

A submarine?

But more than that, it’s afterwards that scares me, I’m afraid of all the funny looks, the hostility. I look at my options and it seems I’d become a sort of hybrid, a capon, a podge with a punch and Judy voice. I don’t want that, as much as I want to live as a woman I’m not prepared to sacrifice all the advantages that go with being a man. They outweigh the disadvantages. So I will forever Peter Pan or Petronella Pan a very different type of perpetual boy.

So I make the best of it, sex is a solo affair. Making do with porn is so frustrating. It only makes things worse because you just know that you’ll never find a man to do those things to you. Men who do that, won’t do that to a man in a dress, gay men are attracted to other men not men trying to be women and straight men are attracted to people in dresses only so long they are women. I’m between two fires. Even after transitioning I’m sure its just as difficult to find a man to do things to you, straight men are unlikely to fancy a man who has had his cock cut off and as a woman even one newly created you won’t be attractive to gay men.

So it’s porn and solo sex. I can remember as a teenager watching porn videos with the lads, like all 80s teenagers we got our hands on illicit videos, my brother had hundreds of grainy videos taped from other tapes that were little more than snow scenes with added groaning. I watched them and pretended to be turned on and in a way I was but I wanted to be the woman on screen, even if she was less than delicately treated, perhaps more so if she wasn’t.

Do you remember your first pearl necklace?

When I watch porn now and mostly I watch hetero porn it’s alright because whatever I watch I want to be the woman on screen, no matter how much she’s humiliated or exploited, brutalised, sodomised and wanked on. I want to be her, so I’m not perpetuating her exploitation by providing evil pornographers with an audience for their wares. I’d take her place if I could.

When I’m watching porn I don’t like it when the actress takes a more active role, straddles him, goes on top that’s too proactive. I feel it is wrong to look down on him, I should be looking up at him, looking past him at the ceiling. On my knees with his cock in my mouth but still looking up at him, looking longingly into his eyes.

Do you recall the scene in Quadrophenia where Phil Daniels plays with himself whilst looking at a black and white photo of a bikini clad model. I tried stimulating myself with pictures of pretty girls, fantasising about doing things to them, with them (perhaps that’s my problem – I’m thinking ‘with them’ Phil Daniels’ character was thinking ‘to them’). It was never satisfying. I always found myself wanting to be the pretty girl and have things done to me, only then was it satisfying.

That is not to say I didn’t persevere, I liked looking at the pretty girls modelling middle of the road fashion in the women’s magazines Mom read but I always found myself wanting to wear the dresses, the underwear, the tights and heels not tear them roughly from the models. Ditto with porn mags and movies and latterly the Internet. I try to be stimulated by imagining I’m taking the male role and doing things to the girl but of course it doesn’t work, I have to fantasise about being the girl.

I’ll ask again is it okay to watch porn on-line if you want to be the girl?

If I was the woman in the films I would happily do what women do, I’d suck cock and I’d rather enjoy it. Not only would I enjoy being penetrated, I’d push back to meet his thrusts, with the right man, when you get in tune, into a rhythm anal sex can be great. I dream of taking a really passive position, lying on my shoulders with my arse in the air, stockinged knees knocking against my ears, helpless. He can withdraw from me and with just a bend of the knees enter my mouth, penetrate my throat, pull out of my rapidly numbing sphincter and push into my very not numb mouth, force it past my painted lips. Another knee bend and I’m gagging as it swells in my throat. One thing I might ask him to do here, not insist, I’m too passive for that, is to remove the condom, I’ve never liked the taste, even the rubber residue, the latex memory of it on his cock is a little off putting. A couple of thrusts later and my saliva has washed it sufficiently for me to enjoy it as he presses into my throat. His member blocking the air, choking, my head hemmed in by my black stockinged legs and his belly pushing down blocking out the light, now that is truly ‘bible black.’

I hate reading about women who give up the Golden Ticket as happens in Rose Tremain’s Sacred Country or Eugenides Middlesex.

As I read them I was screaming quietly inside:

‘Don’t do it’ ‘don’t do it’.

I picked up the plot in Middlesex fairly quickly and guessed that Callie was going to opt for being a man, despite all those years as a woman. Same with Sacred Country as she proceeds with transitioning I was shouting.

‘Don’t do it. Why would you want to be a man?’

Does this happen when a trans-man reads The Danish Girl, or Transister Radio for example?

Do they scream don’t do it, keep your cock.

Does it work the other way round?

“The other was round,

Change the plates,

Change the plates,

I don’t know what he sees in you.”

Stop it, enough with the involuntary Fawlties.

Does a trans-man reading a book about a man becoming a woman constantly ask?

Why would you want to cut your cock off?

Do they think?

Send it over here.

No a trans-man wouldn’t say that, being born and bought up a woman would mean that he would want to know where it had been. That part of him wouldn’t be happy with a second hand dick.

Perhaps that would be the true test of being transexual. Do you want to be a man so much that you are willing, were such a procedure possible, to consent to a penis transplant, put aside misgivings about what it had done before, who it had done before, where it had been.

Not even with a borrowed one.

Would that work the other way round?

“The other was round,

Change the plates,

Change the plates,

I don’t know what he sees in you.”

Stop it.

I apologise.

Would a trans-woman have hygiene concerns about consenting to a vagina transplant were it possible?

Would I?

Can I tell you mine?

Your what?

My coming out story.

A small dinner party, he’d invited one of his colleagues from the university and his wife. I cooked, so he was ready when I raced upstairs to quickly shower and change. I put on women’s underwear, barely black tights, silk blousy shirt, skinny trousers, low cut feminine loafers, a trace of foundation, and a whiff of eau de cologne.

His colleague’s wife of course noticed that I was wearing tights.

She asked me about it.

Privately I dress as a woman quite frequently. I told her.

But not in public usually. He barked.

As yet no but I think it will become more frequent. I said very quietly.

They left early, they’d been ok with us as a gay couple but were not too sure how to handle a gay man and his pre-pre-op tranny partner, which we had suddenly become.

When we were alone.

He wasn’t amused.

Were you going to discuss it with me?

I said nothing.

Don’t I get a say?

No.

Well I think I should because I don’t want to be with a woman. I’m gay, I fancy men.

But I’ll be the same person underneath it all and I may be happier, more fulfilled, I’ll be truly myself. I’ll still be the man you fell in love with, the man you still love, I’ll have the same sense of humour, the same heart and soul, the same values and opinions. It’s just the outside that will have changed.

I’m sorry for foisting this dilemma upon you. You’re in a similar position to those unfortunate middle aged women who suddenly discover that their husbands are transexual. Once he’s gone through with transitioning the woman he’s become and who is now sharing her bed is still the man she married. She isn’t gay so doesn’t fancy him now he’s a woman, but she can still love him. If you can’t fancy me once I become a woman you can still love me, can’t you?

I don’t know.

I can still love you, like the middle-aged woman who can still love her husband even after his sex change my feelings for you won’t have changed.

I don’t know what I’m going to feel.

You’re taking a very male attitude to this, a gay man’s approach is still a man’s approach. You’re like a male partner, the husband of a transman wouldn’t love her once she became a man because he fell in love with the sex, not the person, not the heart, the soul. Everything the husband loved about his transman wife would be gone, her cunt would be gone.

You’ll have one, you’ll be one.

I don’t deserve that.

I’m sorry but we’ll be everything I’m not, everything I don’t want, we’ll be a like a so-called normal couple, man and woman, a pair of breeders.

I don’t think so, I’ve got an appointment with a genito-urinary surgeon not a miracle worker.

I need time to think.

To misquote Thomas Hardy, the man was permanently offended by me becoming a cheerful wearer of skirts.

He thought, he left.

Another quote from Hardy “It might have been worse.”

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