CHAPTER 9
I woke up yet again with the dead weight of an arm across me, and dribble down my neck, which, of course, is why I decided I needed the tissues.

I slipped out, still wearing the bloody stockings and stuff, and made my way to Pete’s shower, where I spent a while getting myself human again.

I remember many years ago reading a piece about underwear, how women look good in theirs, and men don’t. Men don’t in male underwear, that is, as the alternative would just be silly. When women disrobe, though, the lingerie that looks so good to the men leaves a lot of red lines and indentations that look pretty horrible, especially with nasty elasticated things like hold-up stockings. There was I stripped of my trapping gear, and covered in smeared make-up, with red lines from my various bits of said kit.

I was also stripped of my breasts, which had become so nearly real a part of me since Mum had bought them. As I soaped myself, I could feel the puffiness building up around my nipples, and they themselves were rather nicely sensitive, as Pete and I had discovered that night. I dreamily wondered how big I would get...

That was a thought, the disappearance of Pete’s impotence. I would have to talk to Mary about that, but I had a theory of sorts. That night, Pete had been rather well refreshed. Not too refreshed to respond nicely, though; my own little attribute hardened at the memory.

That was so odd, feeling as a woman, responding by reflex as a male, but STILL feeling feminine. Anyway…Pete had been relaxed, and I had gone all out on the seduction front. He was only a man, after all, and certain things, certain well-worn strategies, will almost always take charge of a mere male. As Sharon had remarked, I do have rather nice legs (no false modesty there) and for almost any man, stockings, suspenders and heels on a decent pair of pins go straight to the little brain. A little personal attention in just the right way…..mmmmmmmmmm. Fond smile at the memory.

What I was considering, though, was Pete’s mental state. He had a bad case of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, as any idiot could see, and that first time I slept with him I was introduced to Lefty, the one in his nightmares. That seemed to be the crux of his problems, and I had surreptitiously been researching a subject called ‘survivor guilt’ that seemed to fit his case. And there was a joke; a girl who wasn’t even a girl, who had been in fugue for two decades, looking to deal with the mental illness of another.

Two words foregrounded themselves in my mind (John still paid little visits when I went into analytical mode), and they were ‘illness’ and ‘disorder’

Illnesses can be healed. Disorder can be put straight. My beloved man would be fixed as well as I could manage.

Standing naked under a shower, newly feminine hairstyle washed flat under the spray, ‘breasts’ sitting in a pile of underwear and penis dangling semi-hard as I stroked my lovely nipples, I had a real moment of revelation. I was Pete’s Christmas present, and once we got these wrappings off and he saw the real contents….oh gods, doubts washed away with the soap, and I was all female despite those extras, and I loved him completely and without reservation.

Pete was stirring when I reentered, with the obligatory cuppa, and after I had put it down, and it couldn’t spill, he hauled me close and proceeded to kiss me very, very hard and deeply.

“Did we really do all that last night?”

“Oh, yes!” I purred. “We need to get you tipsy more often”

“No, we need to see how it goes when I am sober, now that we know it can go.”

“Mr Hall, are you offering me lots of sex?”

“No, I am offering you as much lovemaking as I can manage. There’s a difference”

Can’t argue with that, and as at least part of me is sane there is no way on Earth I would! After a snuggle while we drank our tea, I helped my grubby soldier off for his shower while I started breakfast. My mother came down with hair all over the place, and I recognised the look on her face. I grinned.

“Snap!”

She smiled dreamily. “Oh yes indeed…..”

Women and tears. I hugged her, and asked a serious question.

“What can we possibly have done to deserve such a pair of diamonds?”

Mum looked at me sadly. “Survived your father”
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It was a busy, busy day. Had to take in a briefcase full of documents to the bank, including the stuff from the solicitors who were our second port of call, the first being a photo booth. Along with the deed poll we obtained a letter and signature for the third stop, the Post Office, where my driving licence amendment was set in train.

“Mother, I don’t drive”

“You have a licence, my darling, and Pete has a car that you might need to drive f he refreshes himself. He is a man, Laura”

The Bank.

“Most irregular…”

“Come along, my dear, after this nice man closes our accounts for transfer to…”

“…but I do believe there will be no problem”

His gaze was rather unpleasantly tracing my body. If he was undressing me with his mind’s eye, what was he seeing? What did he want to see, considering that he knew my previous details? Ugh.

We ran through as many errands as we could think of, including dropping in to see Howard. He had already arranged a change in my University documents, and all he needed was a copy of the deed poll and a photograph for my ID.

“Morning Laura, Lucy!” with a kiss to each of us.

“No hangover, Howard?”

“Just a little, but made far worse by Harriet’s infernal jollity. I don’t know what has got into her”

He grinned. As he opened his mouth, Mother simply said “No. No jokes about getting into her, OK?”

Those were the nice bits. An early tea on a terrace at the Slug and Lettuce on Gun Wharf Quay was also nice. In between was horrible; a session of beard destruction. I will draw a veil over that one.

And so it went, from good to better. The weekend was a rather pleasant time, a family time, where nothing particular gets done and nothing is needed apart from being together, but it was spoilt a little by Dad’s departure for York on the Sunday. Mum cried, of course, as did I, but we knew that it was a temporary thing. Our decisions were made, and our course set.

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Monday morning and back to work. For a number of reasons, such as feeling sneaky, went in by bike for the first time in ages, and could feel the drop in fitness. I needed to get out more, and so did Pete, and I idly wondered if he fancied doing some wheelchair competition stuff. How fast could a chair go? Would it be too slow for me to ride next to? I remembered a Belgian who had passed me near the French border once, in a skinsuit and cleat, his leg pumping away as he powered his carbon roadbike along. What was left of his right leg sat under a sort of stirrup arrangement, and he was truly flying. Perhaps….

I met Pete with the garment case outside my office, where I changed into my librarian costume. Tan tights once more, a floral mid-calf dress with plenty of flare to the skirt and a reasonably high neckline, with a royal blue cardigan over the top. Face done, hair fluffed, feet slipped into black shoes with a modest heel, and I was ready. This was my moment, when I would emerge from the shelter of family and friends and meet my public. I suddenly realised that having my lecture notes might be useful: the American versus the French concept of Film Noir, with schematic analysis, a fascinating subject.

No, really, it is! That’s not John speaking; anyone with a heart must see how the intertextuality and homage elements tie into so many other fields…you are not listening.

I left time for the lecture theatre to fill before making my entry. I could be sure that Miss Udders would have made sure that my gender issues had been spread as widely as possible, so this was going to be brutal.

I stepped in and mounted the podium, eyes downcast as I laid out my notes. When I looked up, the theatre was packed. All come to see the freak, I supposed. Ah well…better get it moving.

“Good morning, all. Before we proceed to address the origins of Film Noir, I realise there will be questions bubbling away. I do not want this lecture to degenerate into a whispering session, so we will have a few minutes to clear the air. Any questions?”

A forest of arms flew up, and I started the process of point, listen answer.

“What do we call you now?”

“Dr Evans”

“Are you going to have it all cut off and stuff?”

“Yes”

“Are you gay?”

“No, and neither is my fianc锝

“Did you proposition Abi the tits?”

“Not at all. I told you, I am not gay”

That one caused a real murmuring.

“Dr Evans, Abi said you looked like the Bride of Frankenstein. You don’t”

“Thank you. One last question before we start. You, with the deathwish, in the Pompey shirt”

“What are you doing tonight, darling?”

“Going home to my fiancé, but thanks for the offer!”

That one broke the mood, and after the laughter had died down we made a start, and as it really is a wonderful subject it all went very well.

I was flying solo at last, and it was a delight.