I went into my bedroom and opened my wardrobe. I removed the false floor, hauling out my suitcase.
I stripped off, shaking slightly in excitement and anticipation. I put the suitcase on the bed and opened the combination locks. I stood naked and opened the case. I looked down and smiled, for I was going to become the person I longed to be once more.
I went into my bathroom and checked my face in the mirror. I was so pleased that at sixteen I still did not have any facial hair. I checked my armpits and then my torso - still no hair. Mind you, I shaved my armpits regularly in the shower, and waxed my legs at every opportunity or as soon as any hair should be found.
Taking the elastic band off my ponytail, I shook my hair free. It was quite long now, and I had washed it only a few hours before, so it was light and had a natural wave to it.
I applied the adhesive to the rear of my silicone breast forms, and attached them to my chest in the right place. I had been cross-dressing for at least three years now, and was getting very good at this. I had purchased the breast forms off the Internet, as I had bought quite a few specialist items.
I had been about six or seven when I realised that I should have been a girl, so by the time I was twelve, it became an all-encompassing fact of my life. My mother had left when I was about ten, so my father had simply bagged everything she had left behind and placed them in the trailer for his next trip to the dump. I had gone through the bags and removed anything that took my fancy, so now I had a wardrobe that most sixteen-year old girls would have envied and killed for.
It took me a few minutes to dress and put my makeup on. I wore a blue denim mini skirt with tights and plain white panties. My small male genitalia were tucked in and up between my legs, they spent so much time there they felt as if they belonged. I had a white bra and a pink tee-shirt, with a fluffy pullover should it get cold. I grabbed my denim shoulder bag and the overnight case that I had packed earlier. I dashed round the house, locking everything, and put on my anorak. I grabbed my crash helmet and locked the front door as I left. It would take me five minutes to get to Jenny’s on my moped.
* * *
I was about 5’7”, slim and fine featured. I was terrified of puberty, as I had no desire to grow to manhood. I wanted with all my heart to be a girl, and would do anything to realise my dream. I had found a huge stash of my mother’s contraceptive pills, of which I had taken one a day for the last two years, so I was positive that this was why I was not developing as a male as I should have been.
In fact, my own breasts were actually slightly swollen and sensitive, my male genitalia were underdeveloped, and I had not experienced an erection for several months. I had read of potential dangers on the Internet, so had gone to see my doctor and explained my predicament.
Dr Shepherd had been horrified, and because of my age had told me that she would have to speak to my father. I had created a real scene, claiming that he was potentially violent, and that he would kill me if she did. I would wait until I was seventeen, so then I was legally an adult. She had relented, but had done various tests. She also had me see a psychiatrist who specialised in gender disorders, and I had had several sessions with him.
Meanwhile, I attended school and life carried on as normal. I always dressed in a very androgynous style, taking great pleasure in deliberately confusing people as to my gender. I even wore a little make up from time to time, so even kids at my school were unsure whether I was a boy or a girl. I called myself ‘Sandi’, and that was no help to anyone.
I had a few friends, and those I had were mostly girls, but for the most part, I was a real loner. My father was completely oblivious to me and my traumas, concentrating as he was on his own dealings.
Dr Shepherd saw me each week, and every other week I saw Dr Manning, the psychiatrist. On my last visit, Dr Shepherd told me of the results of the tests.
“Well, Alex…..”
“Sandi - please call me Sandi, as my Dad calls me Alex, and, well, that’s a boy’s name.”
“Sandi then. We’ve stopped the pills just in time, too late for some things, but in time to save your life.”
“That bad?”
“You have completely chemically castrated yourself, so you’ll never be able to function as a male.”
“Good, what else?”
She stared at me, smiling sadly and shaking her head.
“You’ve done some tissue damage to your testicles, so I’m afraid we will have to remove them.”
“Fine, when?” I asked.
“There’s the problem, because of your age, we can’t operate without your father’s consent. And you need the operation within the next few weeks.”
“I’ll be seventeen in a month. Can it wait that long?”
“I think so. But not much longer, you could develop a cancer.”
“When can I go for SRS?” I asked, and she smiled.
“You know your stuff.”
“I should do, I’ve planned this for four years.”
“Well, Dr Manning has started a profile on you, and I’m sure he’ll discuss what needs to happen before full SRS can be a real option.”
“How about privately?”
She stared at me.
“Privately?” she repeated, confused.
“Yes, private treatment. I have enough.”
“Enough? Have you any idea how much full SRS costs?”
“I have over £50,000. And I know three surgeons who would take my hand off at the wrist for that.”
She stared at me.
“As I told you, my father is hardly an honest man, and it isn’t the money he takes pleasure from, it’s the acquisition of it. I’ve managed to save a considerable sum over the last few years.”
“You would be that determined?”
“What do you think?” I asked.
She smiled, shaking her head again.
“Sandi, I somehow believe that you’ll get your way, one way or another. So let’s deal with things, one at a time.”
We discussed my surgical options, firstly the essentials, and then the important, but not life saving. Dates were set, and options explained. She had put me on testosterone blockers, and a very low dose of oestrogen, so low that no further damage would be done. Clearly, she was uncomfortable dealing with a juvenile without my father present, so my birthday could not come quickly enough. She wrote a letter to my school explaining the sensitive situation with my gender dysphoria and my father. I was therefore excused all sports and any kind of activity involving gender isolation and identification.
Life went on.
I became more and more feminine as my shape altered; and my voice was still high and well modulated enough for a girl. It came to a point where my Dad started noticing, so I knew that I couldn’t hide it for much longer.
I got up, made my own breakfast, and went to school. My one real pleasure was the way I dressed. The school I went to had a uniform of sorts, but girls could wear trousers or skirts. I always wore trousers, but they were girl’s trousers, as they fitted my changing shape better. I wore girl’s shoes, and with my long hair, I made everyone play a guessing game.
We lived on the South coast, having moved here from London a couple of years after my mother left. I had one year at a secondary school in Acton, and then we moved. My new school was in Brighton, and although big, the kids were in a different league to those in London. My confusing gender even got most of the teachers. I was teased a little, but most kids found me uncomfortable to be with and my clothing was quite a clear individual statement. Some of the guys called me a queer, but then others thought I was a girl in any case. Occasionally, I was asked what I was, so I just smiled and said nothing.
One Thursday afternoon before Easter, I had been sitting on the wall outside school when a girl from my class came up to me. Her name was Jenny Armstrong. She was a pretty girl whose parents ran a small hotel on the coast, just outside the town not far from our house. She was the closest person I had to being a friend.