This Chapter deals with some surprising revelations about the Residency Warden Sally.
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Martina’s Story 9.

Myself. Martina, A sexually dysphoric child whose sexuality has not
yet been ascertained but who chooses to present as a girl.

Beverly My adoptive ‘aunt’ who is a mature she-male and my most supportive adult friend.

Chenille My older half sister.

Jennifer Aunt Beverly’s adopted daughter.

Beatrice Aunt Beverly’s second adopted daughter and Jennifer’s younger sister.

Sian. My lesbian mother who is married to —

Margaret Who is Chenille’s lesbian mother.

Sissy. My and Chenille’s transvestite she male father.

Sandie. My doctor, psychiatrist and sexual counsellor.

Judge Elizabeth Porter. The judge who ruled that I should be allowed to live and dress as a girl.

Angela Hunt. Jennifer and Beatrice’s natural blood mother who is now married to Aunt Beverly who is a she male.

Baroness Wemite’ Sian’s old School Chum

Peter Baroness Wemite’s son

Melanie Baroness Wemite’s daughter and my friend.

Rosemary & Monika. Two bullies in the junior school.

Chrissie My older step sister.

For those readers who wish to get a deeper insight and appreciation of my home circumstances, I suggest that they read Skipper, the story about Aunty Beverly’s rescue and adoption of Jennifer and Beatrice. This is a ‘follow on story’ about my childhood. It starts chronologically after Aunty Beverly finally married Aunty Angela. Some people might disapprove of our life style but I like it, as do my sisters, my mothers and my aunts.

So to Chapter 9.

After breakfast we dressed and set off for the library to do some work before lunch. Jeanette was impressed with our dedication. We were strolling along one of the campus paths when the door witch saw us from across the street. She waved urgently and started to approach us.

“Shit! What does she want,” Jeanette groaned.

As the ‘witch’ rushed into the road she failed to spot a pair of cyclists hurtling silently towards her.

There was a loud curse followed by the inevitable crash as ‘witch’ and lycra-louts crashed to the hard tarmac. This was followed by a collective ‘Oh fuck! by we four as we rushed forward to check the damage.

The cyclists were struggling to their feet and glaring at the ‘witch’ who was whimpering painfully but not moving.
Jeanette turned to the cyclists as I dialled 999.

“She’s hurt badly, she’s only an old biddy, I think she’s broken something.”

As Jeanette checked the woman out she winced fearfully and stared terrified at us girls. I couldn’t understand it.

“Where are you hurting?” Jeanette persisted.

“It’s my hip, - my thigh. Oooh damn! It hurts.”

Jeanette gently lifted the witch’s skirt but she tried desperately to prevent her. Jeanette frowned as she reached up and felt the distorted upper leg. She nodded affirmation.

“Don’t be afraid love, I’m a first aider. You have broken your thigh and that’s not a good place for an elderly lady to have a break. I’ll have to check if there’s no serious bleeding.”

Despite the ‘witch’s’ protests Jeanette insisted on checking under her skirt and told the cyclists to turn their heads away. She cursed as she found the wound.”

“It’s serious love. There’s a lot of blood. I’m going to have to check it out. Tell that bloody ambulance to hurry Martie.”

Without further ado she hoisted the witch’s skirt right up to expose the puncture wound where the broken femur had pierced the flesh. It was serious and Jeanette had little or no stuff. She decided to put a dressing on the wound and try to prevent blood loss but her efforts were stymied by the protruding bone. We only had some small ladies handkerchiefs but one of the cyclists came up trumps with a small first aid kit from his ‘bum-bag’.

“It’s only for cuts and scrapes and things but there’s a single larger dressing.” The older man declared.

“That’ll have to do. Thanks. Martie hold this dressing while I whip my tights off to make a bandage.”

Without batting an eye Jeanette slipped off the leggings I had lent her then slid off her tights to stand there in her panties. I, being a fellow T-girl, recognised the faint outline of a gaff under her panties but I said nothing. The cyclists were too preoccupied with their buckled wheels. Jeanette didn’t bother to put her leggings back on but returned immediately to the casualty and deftly arranged a crude tourniquet bandage. Jeanette explained to me why.

“It’s not a good idea to use a tourniquet but in this case it’s okay. She’s conscious but losing a lot of blood. I just have to make sure that blood is allowed to circulate the lower leg.”

The bleeding seemed to reduce and Jeanette gave a nod of satisfaction then adjusted the bandage higher up into the ‘witch’s groin. Suddenly Jeanette’s eyes widened and she gave a small gasp then quickly recovered her composure as she quickly tugged the witch’s skirt down from her waist and glanced meaningfully at me. The witch stared fearfully at us then gave a curse of despair but Jeanette bent down and whispered solicitously.

“Don’t worry lady, your safe with me!”

So saying Jeanette made the discreet little secret sign against her tummy and between her kneeling legs with fingers pointing to her crotch that we trannies know so well. The ‘woman’ gave a sigh of relief as Jeanette’s sign discreetly indicated that she was a ‘tranny sister’ also.

My eyes widened as I recognised Jeanette’s sign and I caught the ‘witch’s, nervous gaze as I discreetly repeated Jeanette’s sign. The ‘witch’ gave a tremulous moan of relief and smiled as the ambulance wailed into sight. Nobody else had realised what Jeanette and I had just learned. The old witch was transgendered, she was one of us!

As the paramedics quickly set about their business, Jeanette offered to accompany her to hospital. The woman smiled gratefully, she would need a sympathetic ally to fight her transgendered corner. Finally the ambulance left and the cyclists hauled their bikes away. I debated telling Mel and Bea but decided against it. The less people knew the better. The poor bitch could lose her job and since the credit crunch, jobs were bloody hard to come by.
She may have been a dragon on the door but in some ways that was a good thing. It kept uninvited dumb-arse jocks out of the girl’s halls of residence and stopped pantie-raids which were a bloody pain.
We continued on our way to the library where we advised the college authorities of the accident. A temp was hired that same afternoon to replace the ‘witch’

Later that afternoon Jeanette returned from the hospital. She was now in a bit of a quandary. How to return to her male dormitory without being spotted. Fortunately she had already befriended a gay couple who brought across some male cloths for her to change in my room. As Jeanette gradually shed her preferred female persona and reluctantly changed to ‘en-homme’ she turned to me and grinned as I watched fascinated.

“D’you know, you’re not bad looking as a guy as well; if I was a girl, I could fancy you as a bloke.”

Jeanette now ‘Jack’ smiled and thanked me with a big smile.

“I thought you were a girl, in here that is,” (he tapped his head.)

“Oh it’s a bit more complicated than that. It takes all sorts.”

“Yeah. Ain’t that the truth! Come on, let’s get back to my dorm.

“D’you want to leave your femme stuff here and change here in future.”

Jack’s eyebrows shot up with delight.

“Oh could I! That would be fabulous. Will Bea or Mel mind?”

“I doubt it. What’s your wardrobe like?”

“I try for quality and style. I got some lovely stuff during my gap year in Paris.”

My mind did ‘back-flips as I imagined what spectacular designer outfits she might have acquired whilst working for a famous Parisian perfume company. I couldn’t wait to see Jeanette’s entire wardrobe! However I felt it only fair to warn her.

“OK but just remember, we three girls tend to ‘borrow’ each other’s clothes all the time, especially frocks, skirts and blouses.

Your stuff will fit all three of us except the full length stuff like your jeans and your ball gowns.”

“Yeah,” Jack grinned, “it’s the inside leg thing. I honestly don’t mind sharing my clothes but please, please treat the stuff with respect. It’s got to last me through a three year chemistry course. It’s all good quality stuff and it will survive fair wear and tear but you know the score. Choose the right outfits for the right occasions. No expensive heels or designer stuff if we’re just slumming at a Uni bash. I’m not made of money and I had to pick carefully when I put my stuff together even though I was getting fantastic company discounts.”

I giggled as I corrected Jack.

“Your heels are the only other things that are perfectly safe.”

Jack grinned self consciously as he replied.

“Oh! Yeah. Just put my big foot in it, haven’t I?”

I had to chuckle, it was the perfect bon mot. We decided to start moving his wardrobe that same afternoon and he spent a good hour as he carefully packed his trunks. We borrowed the porter’s truck to ship them to our dorm.

“Shit you’ve got some stuff here,” I remarked as we eventually plonked the two huge suitcases in the gap between the end of my bed and the window. Then Mel and Bea came to see what all the commotion was about. They gasped and squealed when they saw the designer collection. Once again, Jack had to repeat the conditions if stuff was going to get borrowed.

After dinner Jack wanted to go and see the ‘witch’ in hospital. Nobody had a car but Peter was coming around later with the delectable Lucinda and Mel had volunteered his services to take the ‘Witch’ some changes of clothes and stuff. Student cars were just impossible to organise on an inner-city London college Campus, there simply wasn’t enough room. It didn’t matter how rich daddy was or anything else. The rule was universal. No cars around the student halls of residence. Jack was grateful when Peter appeared at the Campus gates. Melanie had explained the situation.

“So mission of mercy is it, which hospital is it?”

“Sort of, she needs some nighties and stuff. She’s got no family down here. There’s a whole heap of stuff she needs.”
Jack had persuaded the witch to lend him her door key and he had thoughtfully put together the essentials. The fact that those essentials also included shaving kit and other male grooming equipment was known only to Jack. Half an hour later, Peter and Lucinda dropped Jack off at St Thomas’s.

“Thanks mate; I’ll get the tube back.”

Lucinda blew Jack a kiss and Peter sulked a little. She scolded her fiancée.

“Hey. Stoppit! I’m yours and you know it, even though he is a dish!”

“I wonder where those three found him. I thought they were a devoted lesbian trio.”

Whilst the car waited at the traffic lights they watched Jack leap nimbly up the steps, several at a time before disappearing inside.

Jack made his way to the ‘the witch’s’ ward and presented himself to the duty sister.

“Sally MacTavish please.”

“Oh yes. Name please.

“Jaccob Bensoon.”

The duty sister studied the list and wagged her head.

“Sorry. She’s restricted her list of visitors. Your name’s not on it.”

Jack did a double take and frowned.

“Dammit. I never told her. Okay then, Jeanette Enfield. It was me that accompanied her here yesterday.”

The sister studied the list, frowned again and studied jack.

“There is a Jeanette Enfield, In fact, that names only one of two on the list.”

She studied Jack and frowned uncertainly.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure; I’m down as her next of kin! Check the form!”

“Well, yes, - Jeanette Enfield is down as next of kin. But you’re, -“

“A transvestite, just like Sally,” Jack finished the sentence patiently.

“Oh! Oh I see; I’m so sorry. I’m awfully sorry! I just didn’t recognise you.”

“Don’t apologise love. You weren’t to know where you?”

“But it was remiss of me, what with Sally being, - being, -“

“Transgendered as well,” Jack finished again as he smiled sympathetically. “It’s just that I’m en-homme tonight, not en-femme.

Is she awake?”

“Yes. We’ve moved her to a single-bed room. It was obviously the thing to do the moment a single bed became available. I’m sorry we couldn’t do it straight away yesterday but beds are so short. You were right to make a fuss. It’s three doors down on the right.”

“Thank you, that was very thoughtful of you. Can I go and see her? I’ve brought her toiletry stuff.”

“Well; it’s a bit early for visiting but she had no visitors all afternoon so she’s probably feeling lonely and neglected. Go on.”

As Jack walked purposefully down the corridor he distinctly heard the sister turn to the staff nurse and whisper too loudly.

“What a dish eh! What a waste!”

“Yeah, would you believe it, a tranny; did you see her last night?” The staff nurse replied.

“Yeah. I never guessed he was a tranny. Last night he was all girl. Would you believe it?”

Jack smiled to himself as he knocked softly on Sally’s door. He debated coming in as Jeanette the following evening.

“Who is it?” Sally croaked.

“Jeanette.”

“Oh come in, please come in; did you bring my stuff?”

He held out the bag as he entered and Sally did a double take.

“Oh my God! You quite startled me. If you’re not Jeanette, who are you?”

“I’m Jack, Jeanette’s alter ego.”

Sally nodded and smiled. As Jack inquired after her leg. He made a pot of tea and took her dirty laundry away.

“I’ll wash this and put it away for you. How long are you going to be in?”

“At least a month, it’s bad break.”

“You don’t have to tell me about the fracture, remember.”

“Yes, that was so kind of you and thank you ever so much. You and that Martina girl were just so considerate.”

“You were lucky. What are the odds of getting knocked down and being treated by two sympathetic girls of a similar persuasion to your own?”

Sally smiled ruefully.

“Not high. I was bloody lucky.”

“Luckier still it wasn’t a car.”

“Might have done me a favour.”

“Oh how can you say that!?”

“Well, I’m coming to end of my working life, not much to look forward to. No family, no partners.”

“Oh that’s terrible. Do tell.”

They fell to talking and Sally related her past life, particularly the childhood abuse she suffered for cross-dressing in a severely Calvinistic Scottish Family. Jack responded by describing his early life with his abusive father until his older brother had finally kicked their abusive father out. Sally smiled wistfully.

“I could have done with a brother like yours; mine abused me as much as my father.”

“So there was nobody there for you. Not even your mother or sisters maybe.”

“Mother was as bad as my father and my sisters were far too young.”

“I take it you don’t see them anymore.”

Sally wagged her head tearfully and Jack grabbed a wad of tissues from the bedside dispenser.

“Well you’ve got us now, me and Martina. I’ll bring her tomorrow.”

“I’d never have guessed Martina was one of us. She’s, - she’s just so unbelievably feminine. I mean she’s a stunner. Can Jeanette come tomorrow? I feel more comfortable with girls.”

“Yeah. Sure; oh and Martina’s not a tranny, she calls herself an ‘undecided transsexual’ whatever that is,” Jack gave a little puzzled shrug while Sally frowned uncertainly.

“How can she be ‘undecided’? I mean, they know from the very earliest age don’t they?”

“Apparently not all. She cross dresses and passes without fail, well, you’ve seen her, you know. That’s why she objects to ticking the box marked gender on the registration form.”

“Yes, I remember that. It was stupid of me not to recognise something then; me of all people! I can’t believe I was so cruel. She’s such a beautiful girl.”

“The strange thing is apparently,” Jack continued talking in the same vein to put Sally at ease, “she’s been on a very special, experimental regime of hormones since she was about twelve. I think; she’s still virile and fertile. It’s really weird. She lives entirely as a girl and has done since childhood. Even went to a girl’s boarding school.”

“What about her roomies, I take it they’re real girls.”

“Oh yes, definitely, Mel’s lesbian and Bea’s bi.”

“Yeah, things have certainly moved on since I was a kid. Jee’ze they near as burned us at the stake in the fifties.”

They chatted at length until the sister reluctantly had to turn Jack out. She waylaid him as they walked towards the nursing station.

“Mr Bensoon, please may I talk with you?”

“Oh call me Jack or even Jeanette if you prefer.”

“Jack I think dressed as you are, but thank you anyway.”

Jack smiled and nodded.

“So what is it your after.”

“You seem quite comfortable with your transvestism, I was wondering, - if, - if."

The sister hesitated and Jack smiled as he recognised what was coming. He smiled easily.

“Go on.”

“Well, tomorrow, we’ve got a group of medical students coming down with the psychiatrist Doctor Lindsey to discuss Miss Sally’s case.”

“And?”

“Well, we don’t even know Miss Sally’s proper name, her, - you know; what d’you call it? - her homme name.”

“Call her Sally. She lives full time in the female roll. And might I suggest you don’t give her secret away, to anybody outside of those who need to know. She might lose her job!”

“Thanks, she’s a bit shy of answering our questions; she might seem a bit more at ease if she has a couple of her transgendered friends with her when the consultant arrives.”

Jack sucked his tongue thoughtfully. It was perfectly true that trannies were nearly always most at ease with other trannies.

“I’d better go and ask her. Will you permit me? It’s gone visiting time.”

“Oh yes. This is legitimate clinical stuff now.”

He left and the sister found herself studying his lithe graceful gait. ‘Yes’ she thought, ‘what a waste’.
Jack had a few quick words with Sally, this reassured her and she gave her permission. The sister phoned the consultant psychiatrist to organise a suitable time after Jack had run it by Martina. It was all agreed for five o’clock after lectures had finished for both Jack and Martina.

The sister gave him a peck on the cheek and thanked him profusely. Jack leaned down and whispered.

“I heard you and the staff nurse earlier. I’m not ‘a waste’ you know. I’m hetero.”

The sister blushed with embarrassment but Jack put her at ease. As he explained one more time as Trannies so often have to do.

“Trannies aren’t gay sister. We’re as hetero as the next man. Oh, and as an afterthought, gays aren’t ‘a waste’ either; they’re human beings just like you, - and me.

“I’m sorry; I seem to be making all kinds of mistakes tonight.”

“Why don’t you stand in on the consultancy tomorrow you would learn a lot about us trannies? Maybe you could come in early?”

“D’you know, I think I will, I’ll get my mother to look after the kids.”

“How old are they?”

“My daughter’s sixteen and my son’s seventeen. They’re both hoping to do medicine, they’re bright.” The sister replied with obvious pride.

Jack smiled thoughtfully.

“If they’re hoping to do medicine, why don’t you bring them along, provided your consultant’s agreeable? I’ll run it by Sally on the phone in the morning. She’s asleep now. She fell asleep even as I was talking to her.”

“Well that’s good; she had a very restless night.”

“It’ll do no harm for your kids to be there. So long as everybody’s comfortable. It’s not like a gynaecological exam or something. Think of it as some sort of extended visiting hour by distant relatives.

Your kids could learn a thing or two because there’ll be different sexualities present and we’re all pretty open about ourselves. Even Sally said tonight she’s thinking of finally ‘coming out’. Can you believe that? Nearly sixty and still in the closet!”

“That’ll be a generational thing I suspect.”

“Spot on sister. See, already you’re learning. She’s going to need a lot of support tomorrow Martina and I will be standing right beside her.”

They separated with agreements to talk in the morning.

The consultant had been very wary of letting the two youngsters sit in on the interview with Sally. Firstly she chatted with them and their mother and then she had along chat with Sally to be sure that she was completely comfortable.
She also chatted at length with Sally about her abusive childhood to establish any no-go areas. She found plenty and was feeling a bit nervous when the students finally arrived. They were all of course post graduate students who had completed their primary medical training. Eventually Jeanette and Martina arrived fully dressed to the nines.

The sister met them at the nursing station a couple of minutes before five and she felt forced to comment as she wagged her head disbelievingly.

“My God! If I didn’t know, I’d never have guessed, you’re both incredible!”

“Practice, practice, practice,” Jeanette smiled as she posed with a casually sophisticated demeanour until the consultant came out of a side room where she had been priming her pupils. All heads turned to study the two attractive ladies talking to the sister then jaws sagged as the Sister introduced them.

“These are Sally’s transgendered friends, Martina and Jeanette.”

“And yes, I’m a transvestite while my friend Martina is a pre-op transsexual,” Jeanette added.

“Thank you,” replied the psychiatrist, and thank you so much for being supportive. My name’s Doctor Lindsey Phillips. Shall we proceed?”

“I think I’d better go in first, set her at ease,” Jeanette suggested, “then I’ll introduce Martina, you and then the students can enter. If Sally’s happy with that perhaps these two young people can enter. They’ll bring a fresh perspective to the interview.”

“That seems an admirable arrangement, young lady, lead on,” Replied Lindsey.
Jeanette knocked softly and called.

“You okay Sal?”

“Yes, come in.”

Jeanette entered, paused, smiled and bent down to kiss Sally as Sally’s eyes widened with delight.

“You needn’t have gone to all that trouble Jeanette. That outfit’s fantastic. Thank you so much for coming en-femme, I feel so much more comfortable and secure. There was no need to dress up for a special occasion.”

“Correction Sal, this is Jeanette ordinaire. It was no trouble; it just took a long time preparing. Are you ready for the others? I must warn you some of the student doctors are male.”

“Well, as ready I’ll ever be. With you and Martina beside me, I’ll be safe. The men will have to stand at the back, - sorry. It’s men I fear, men I hate most.”

Jeanette beckoned to the rest and they filed in. Jeanette sat one side of the bed while I took station the other side and kissed Sally affectionately on the lips. It was important to reinforce to the students that transgendered people were as affectionate and tactile as real girls.

Doctor Lindsey opened the interview with some explanations then invited Sally to talk about herself. To everybody’s delight, the session went perfectly and even the two youngsters were able to bring some novel questions from the younger perspective related to individuals at their school whom everybody suspected of being ‘gay or something’.
Their teenaged observations caused Sally to open up some more and she whispered to Doctor Lindsey, Jeanette and Me.

“After what those two young un’s said I think I should tell them about my childhood. D’you think they’re up to it?”

“Are you up to it Miss Sally? I saw how it affected you earlier when we discussed it.”

Doctor Lindsey glanced at Jeanette and me. We shrugged then glanced towards Sally before Jeanette added.

“I was only five when I started cross-dressing and I suffered abuse. If I can survive the trauma then they should be able to endure what is but a simple description.”

Sally’s eyes widened as she followed Jeanette’s reasoning.

“Yeah! You’re dead right. I survived years of abuse, so they should easily survive a few questions!”

“You’d better run it by Sister Jarvis,” I cautioned, “she’s their mum and she’ll have to handle any distress it causes the kids.”
After a brief parley Sister Jarvis’s children agreed to listen with the provision that they could leave if it became too stressful. The questions came from all quarters and Sally answered as best she could. She spoke of being ostracized and isolated from her siblings; she spoke of the beatings and the ‘toughening up’ exercises to stop her stupid ‘sissy ways’.
She spoke of the ghastly condemnations broadcast about her from the pulpit of the family’s narrow and bigoted Calvinistic church. The constant quotes from The Bible, (A book written thousands of years ago by people who knew nothing of such circumstances and yet still used today by bigoted hypocrites to oppress and mislead simple people.) Nobody believes the sun goes around the earth anymore so why believe that it’s right to punish transgendered or gay people just for being born. Religious bigots are just so sick and cruel!

Sally spoke of the nights spent roaming the streets of her Scottish village trying to make sense of her ‘punishments’ the lack of love, the lack of care, the attempted suicides, and the slow inexorable destruction of all hope.

Eventually she spoke of the last, almost fatal beating she received from a transphobic attack by two police officers way back in her lonely teenaged years during the sixties. She bravely showed the children the scars and lumpy misshapen bones in her arms where her broken body’s natural healing had set the bones with no medical attention as she finally fled from the hell on earth that was her childhood. Finally she spoke of the ghastly descent into the inevitable street life of stealing and prostitution and near death from exposure whilst finally plumbing the very nadir of human existence.

Then she was able to somehow drag herself up without any help from others and slowly, dreadfully slowly, put some of the pieces of her broken life back together.

Her life would never be whole again but it now comprised a crude framework of desensitised survival devices that just about kept body and soul together. She learned that negligible expectations served to defeat disappointment, zero ambition served to avoid hope or expectations.

Her whole existence became a series of simple mechanical processes that virtually dehumanised her. It was the only way to block out everything that had come to torment her and leave her forever wounded. All compassion and humanity had to be exorcised from her very being, as she reduced her very existence to the lowest common denominator of sentience. She became a virtual automaton, a tearless, pitiless, unemotional robot. But her strategy eventually worked. She lifted herself out of the cesspit and clawed her way back to a simple, functional existence and slowly worked her way up to eventually work as the warden in a University hall of residence. It was the nearest she would ever get to academia. Despite her innate intelligence all intellectual efforts had been subsumed in the desperate fight to stay alive despite all the odds.

What need of a college degree or high school qualifications to address the daily personal war against the streets. Besides all this, she had missed so much schooling she could all but read and write before finally running away.
Yes, Sally’s story was a litany of everything that could go wrong having gone wrong, and none of it her making!
Who could she blame, God, her family, her school, her church, the doctors, society; who!

Doubt, uncertainty and hopelessness were the foundation stones of Sally’s very existence even unto her present state. No wonder she was such a monster towards others, she had known nothing but monsters both literal and figurative throughout her early life.
Sally’s story was the very opposite of mine and I could not help but feel a sort of primal guilt as it dripped out question by question, revelation by obscene revelation.

Eventually, the session fell silent, more probably through emotional exhaustion than lack of academic interest. Everybody present seemed emotionally drained including Doctor Lindsey.

As the students filed out Martina and I stayed behind briefly to reassure Sally we would always be there for her. They were the first tears I had seen Sally shed. Reluctantly we parted and Doctor Lindsey collared us in the corridor as she invited us into the nearest private space she could find, a used laundry room.

“Thanks for that. That’s the first transvestite I’ve ever managed to interview without there being some degree of sublimal resentment.”

Jeanette and I both nodded in vigorous synchrony and the psychiatrist smiled slightly guiltily.

“It’s girls like you that help your cause you know.”

“It’s the internet that’s done it.” Jeanette countered. “Being able to meet others out there and then organise get-togethers. Being together addresses our fears, or concerns, then we can be our true selves, not always on the defensive. Fear is the prime mover.”

She nodded then sighed.

“If only we could find the cure.”

I shuddered as Jeanette gasped. Doctor Lindsey turned to look at us quizzically.

“What? What did I say?”

“Why d’you want to find a cure?” demanded Jeanette.

“Well, - I, - don’t you want to be cured, doesn’t all this threat, this fear make your lives doubly hard?”

“No, not now, not now we can meet our own kind. Yes there’s still danger, nobody will deny that but the benefits outweigh the risks.”

“Indeed? What benefits? How?”

Jeanette and I shared a smile and wagged our heads, heterosexuals just did not seem able to think outside their own sexual straightjackets, - self inflicted straightjackets at that!

Having noticed our patronising smiles Doctor Lindsay pressed further for our answers. Jeanette hesitated as she gathered her thoughts then finally spoke.

“Doctor Lindsey, being transgendered enables me to enjoy all aspects of my life. Transvestism, enables me to indulge in whatever avenues I find most rewarding and it brings many extra dimensions to my life. Do you like being a woman?”

“Of course!” The psychiatrist replied quite forcefully. “Admittedly, there are some disadvantages but the advantages outweigh them. At least I think so.”

“Well so do I, not to mention millions of other TV’s all over the planet. I love the female lifestyle, the deeper emotional connections, the clothes, the choices, the shopping and, everything else that goes with being a woman. The only thing I regret is not being able to bear a child, though there are emotional ways to circumvent that, but it’s not for me to disclose those here. Apart from the obvious issues such as the menses, the only other disadvantage to being a woman is the fear of violence factor and of course rape.

Well be assured TV’s share exactly the same risks and fears of that, as indeed also, do transsexuals. Now I come to think of it, I find it difficult to think why you came to ask me if I should want to be cured. I never want to be cured, transvestism gives me multiple new dimensions to my life. Viva la difference, especially as I can cross the line to womanhood better than most supposedly ‘normal’ men.

Now I agree, that as a transvestite I can’t speak for transsexuals but my multidimensional view of sexuality helps me to understand their dilemmas better than heterosexist parents, heterosexist doctors, heterosexist judges, heterosexist social workers and indeed the whole damnable oppression of heterosexist society plus the heterosexist faiths that underpin it. Thanks to the internet, we are now learning of all the obscenities that transgendered children have suffered through these past sixty years. Not to mention the last four thousand.

Sally MacTavish’s story is yet another to add to the endless list of hurts. A life ruined by endless heterosexist assaults.

You’ve spoken to her, she’s an intelligent woman, University material even, but what qualifications has she, - NONE!, - diddly squat! And all because of heterosexist prejudice. She’s never harmed anybody but she was punished almost every day of her life, child and adult!

She’s still being punished, locked up in a sterile life with no friend, no companions all because of fear; fear of attack, fear of being ‘discovered’ fear of losing her job, her only lifeline to survival, her only surviving emblem of her self-worth.
Well at least the companionship issues will be resolved because Martina and I will see to that; and she won’t lose her job at the college, I’ve got friends in the legal profession who will see to that also! But as for the damage, the fifty eight years of brutalised torment, who will repair that. Will you, the heterosexual psychiatrist, the supposed healer; well, we’ll see. I’ll lay odds that our companionship and support will do far more good than all the drugs in your arsenal.
Thank God for the internet and we’ll be teaching Sally of its benefits!”

“Do you think she’s transvestite or transsexual.” Doctor Lindsey asked. “She’s lived as a woman very effectively.”

“Effectively, yes perhaps; successfully; well, make your own mind up.”

“So which is it transvestite or transsexual? She pressed.

“God forbid, I don’t know,” Jeanette snapped, “and poor Sally is so tormented she probably hasn’t worked it out for herself yet! She’s been living like that mindless automaton we all saw in there for years; decades even! Let her find some sort of peace first, some sort of sanctuary, mental and physical where she can at last feel safe! Then, perhaps then she might find out what she is; then look out! The anger over the lost fifty eight years might do a million different harms. We’ll be there for her; will you?”

With these words, Jeanette seemed exhausted, she wagged her head wearily and Doctor Lindsey could see she was drained.

“I think you’d best go home now. You look worn out. Thank you for the insight and you’re welcome to visit her at any time. I’ll leave a note for the sisters.”

I called a taxi. Jeanette was in no fit state to be seen in public. As we travelled home I spoke to Jeanette through new ‘eyes’.

“You put it well in there. Words from the heart I think.”

“Words from the walk Martie, the same walk as Sally’s but, just a bit shorter, - well a lot shorter. There was somebody there for me.”

“Charlie,” I said softly.

“Yeah! Charlie, - my brother; my big beautiful, wonderful brother!”

Never had the word ‘brother’ carried so much portent before.

That night, Jeanette slept in my room, in my bed, with me. She simply needed a companion. Her words to the Psychiatrist had opened up some very old wounds.

As I lay with her long silky hair on my breast I knew we had our work cut out with poor Sally. Had Jeanette committed us to too much?