Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 27

And so it went, week by week, as my life went on. Real life, that is, in two senses. Firstly, this was my real life, at last, as the work re-birthday card had declared. Secondly, real life is not like a cliffhanger film plot, or cheap novel.

Things happen all the time, but they are not dramas, nor crises. Just simple things, “everyday” as well as every day. Things such as going to the shops, having a meal together, training ride, a night shift at work.

Just life.

Geoff had moved in fully, and the garage was filled with bikes and his van. We had a new shed set up in the garden, and objects migrated there to allow room for the important stuff, as well as the van. I really can’t say anything more exciting than I have. I had noticed that we seemed to spend hours not talking to each other, and that may sound bad, but it wasn’t. We could share a room, a bed, listen to music, read, cook a meal, whatever, and there was no need felt to fill the empty spaces, for there were none. Just peace, contentment in our own company.

We were always touching, though. That was something I could never imagine having too much of, and from the way Geoff acted he felt the same way.

I was now, of course, completely out of my cage and permanently living as myself, and it got easier and easier. Even when I got a probing look from someone in a shop or on the street, staring at my hands or trying to spot some odd feature in my face or voice, I would remind myself who would be in my bed later, and ask myself if I really gave a shit for the opinion of some random stranger.

My dress sense was also becoming more adventurous. I was still restricted, of course, by the presence of unwelcome guests, damn you Sally, but I was now trying to dress for the occasion rather than just to say “woman”. Now I was trying for “woman shopping”, “woman on business” and so on. I actually owned more than one pair of heels now, as well as two suits and several pairs of tights. Yes, I know a certain number of stories go on and on about other legwear, but stockings and suspenders don’t really work with a set of male genitalia.

Well, they might with some folk, but you know exactly what I mean. I was simply putting together a normal wardrobe for a normal woman, and that was as far as my ambition extended. Literally, a very prosaic dream on its way to reality. “Just life” was a good life.

As we had regular visitors, I was able to get advice on some of my shopping trips. Jan has an excellent sense of colour and coordination, when not impersonating a man dressed as a woman, of course, but the real surprise was Kelly. Despite a taste for some truly outlandish and, to my eyes, simply ugly teenaged fashion items, she shared her mother’s sense of style. If clothes can be said to flow smoothly, the two girls knew where to put the oil.

Kell was down on her own quite often, taking the bus that goes direct from Oxford to the airport, and when we went out I felt more like another teenager than someone literally old enough to be her mother. There is yet another cliché in the fiction I had read, that of the adult who was never allowed to be a girl suddenly making up for it in later life. Clichés have many sources, but surely a major one is the simple fact that they are truths. We went out, we ate junk food, we giggled, and we ogled men’s arses.

Sally had finally kicked me out, as she considered herself unable to maintain a professional distance. I was now under the care of Dr Rajasekaran (“call me Raj”) Chandrasekhar, which allowed Sally to loosen up considerably in the conversations we now had over a meal or a pint. She was not quite as direct as Sue “how’s he hung?” Ward at work, but she had her moments. Talking to her could be very frustrating, though, for as soon as we moved onto any subject that could be deemed clinical, she would simply say “Talk to Raj”

When she met Geoff for the first time, at a local pub, she waited till he went off to the gents’ and said “If you ever kick him out, give him my number”

Cheeky cow!

Raj, for his part, seemed much more amenable to some of the things I was seeking than Sally had been, and I realised that she had been absolutely right in dropping out from my care. I now understood exactly how protective she felt of me, and I had another non-Geoff-related Little Moment. This woman knew all about me, she had seen me at my worst, talked me through my self-harming and alcoholism, and yet she still cared.

That little moment was further recognition by me that if so many people cared for me, and were so protective, I must be worth something, and living must similarly be worthwhile. Perhaps I’m rambling here, but I was having so many revelations in quick succession my head was spinning. I decided to take a gamble, and one afternoon after a session with Raj, I asked him again about castration.

“It’s a simple process, Steph. Would you want a penectomy as well?”

“Beg pardon?”

“Do you want your cock cut off at the same time. I mean, it ‘s your cock that spoils the line of your clothes more than your nads, isn’t it?”

And I thought Sally was tough….

“No, I want to keep that bit, for now”

“Why?”

That was Raj’s method. Sally had been fond of saying things flatly, no intonation or stress, just to see how I would respond to something left hanging. Raj liked short, sharp, awkward questions that I had to answer right off the mark.

“I need to keep it”

“What for, peeing competitions?”
“No….I need the tissue, don’t I?”

“What for?”

We had danced, on my part, around all the reasons I wanted surgery, and Raj had countered each one with suggestions of a cosmetic touch-up that would allow me to pass unclothed. He had stressed how non-invasive such a procedure was compared to a full vaginoplasty, but he kept pushing me.

“To make a fanny out of so I can make love properly to my man!” I finally snapped.

“Better, Steph. Listen, this is not an examination. I am not here for you to give me the ‘right’ answer, I just want YOUR answer. You need to be absolutely clear in your head what this entails and why you want it, rather than trying to second-guess me to persuade me to put you forward. Now, here’s the real deal.

“You have been presenting exclusively as female now for about four and a half months. That is not that long a period, but it is clear to me that you are definitely at home as Steph rather than having to live in Steve. So, what I am going to do is refer you to a surgeon”

“When can it be done?” I interrupted

“Slow down, girl. I am not referring you for surgery, but to be assessed for it and, more importantly, to allow the gentleman to talk you through exactly what you are risking. Steph, I am not here to tick boxes, and if you go for this you will do so with eyes open and aware of the dangers. Is that a deal?”

What a very silly question.

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You will, of course, dear readers, have worked out already that as the perversity of the Universe tends to a maximum, there was something lurking nastily ahead, and so it proved. A week after Valentine’s Day (smile at fluffy memories and go mmmmmm) Dilip called me over to his desk and asked for a quiet chat. We went off to an empty interview room.

“Steph, we have a bit of a problem. Do you remember the assault on Junior Cavendish?”

“Just a bit. He was a nasty piece of work, we had a job to take him down. The trial should be coming up soon, shouldn’t it?”

“It’s been adjourned at the request of his counsel. You see, he has made a complaint, and it’s against you.”

“What, that I hit him too hard, or what? The damage he could have done to Junior…”

“No, Steph, it’s a complaint of indecent assault”