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SNAFU Part 15

by Angharad

This is a work of fiction any resemblance to anyone alive or dead is unintentional.

Leicester is a big place and I don’t like cities very much. I might have grown up near one but have been fortunate enough to live most of my life near the countryside. The clinic I wanted was a few miles south of the city itself and was fiddly to get to. They had sent me a map which included bus times and routes, and I was glad they had, I’d never have found it without them. I was also glad I’d supplemented these with some I had got from the internet because it also mentioned some roadworks nearby which would have caused me to be late. I hate being late for appointments.

I met the surgeon Mr Francis, a consultant urologist. He was a man in his late forties perhaps even fifty. He was charming, and certainly knew what he was about. He described the operation and showed me photos of the finished product. It looked very natural.

“If you don’t mind me saying Miss Curtis, were it not for the referral, I would never have thought you were anything but a natural female.”

I explained a potted history of how I’d got here and he listened intently. He also made very sympathetic noises, however, there was a problem. “I know you have lived as a female for about a year, but as this wasn’t your idea I will need a psychiatric assessment.

“What do you mean, not my idea. It was my idea to come and see you and get things sorted.”

“I appreciate that Miss Curtis, but the Harry Benjamin rules suggest that you should have lived in role for at least one year and been assessed by two experts in mental health. This is the code by which most of us work when dealing with GID and reassignment.”

“But I’m not transsexual, as I explained, I’m already officially female thanks to the army, so you wouldn’t be reassigning anything, I’m already there.”

“I’m aware that your position is unusual, but I need to show that I have followed the code. I am prepared to allow just one opinion to confirm the referral, instead of two. But in order to show that you are serious about this, I need the referral.”

“Can I show you how serious I am?” I was livid and angry enough to do anything.

“I don’t understand.” he retorted.

With that, I stood up and stripped off to my underwear. He sat there open-mouthed in astonishment. Looking at my body, a curvy thirty-four C, with twenty-four waist and thirty-four hip. “Does this look like I’m seriously female or just playing at it?”

“You have a remarkable body, Miss Curtis, quite beautiful. Are you sure you really need this surgery?”

“Yes I do, and as soon as possible. Now, do you understand me?”

“I think so. I need to examine you anyway. Please pick up your clothes and go into the examination room, through that door. Please lie on the couch. I need to make a phone call, I’ll be there in a minute.”

I did as I was told, being a compliant female (some of the time anyway. Look I needed his help, so had to play his game despite its absurdity to my eyes.).

He came in a couple of minutes later and donning a pair of latex gloves asked me to remove my knickers. I did and he gasped. “Whoever did this for you is really good.”

“Major Collins, he was the one who removed my testes and also did some implants for me. I’ve grown quite a bit since then.”

He managed to ease the skin of my scrotum apart with some solvent and examined me. “We have a problem.” He said and my heart sank.

“I’ll have to do a bigger op than the usual. Your penis has shrunk so much there won’t be enough skin to do a proper job, so we’ll need to use a bit of colon to make the vagina.”

“It might have shrunk a bit, but it was never very big,” I confessed and felt myself blush to the roots of my hair.

“Okay, you’ll be in hospital for two weeks. We do a colostomy and then reverse it a few days later. The bit of bowel we use to fashion a vagina, the skin of your penis and scrotum we use to make the labia minor and major, and a piece of the penile head we’ll use to create a clitoris. It won’t be quite perfect, but most men won’t be able to tell the difference, and one or two doctors,” he laughed at his own joke.

The vagina will be self-lubricating. It’s a bigger operation than the usual penile inversion sort, but it has quite satisfactory outcomes usually. Is there anything you want to ask me?”

“How soon can you do it?”

“After a referral from a psychiatrist, how much oestrogen are you taking?” I told him, “That’s quite a low dosage, so we won’t really need to wait too long. At the earliest, I could do it in two weeks.”

“Where do I find a psychiatrist?” I asked him.

“Because of your unusual position, I have taken the liberty of asking a colleague to come in to see you.”

“What? That’s brilliant.” I exclaimed and before I knew it had thrown my arms around him and kissed him on the cheek.

“Miss Curtis, please control your exuberance.”

“I’m sorry.” I blushed.

“Please get dressed and I’ll show you to Dr Humbolt’s room.”

My fingers were shaking as I fiddled with buttons and laces and hooks and eyes. I had dressed simply in my usual jeans and top, with a pair of loafers and short socks. I had on minimal makeup and my hair was up. I decided to go as I normally looked, even though many transsexual writers had said one needed to appear to be ultra-feminine, so to wear frillies and skirts and things. Bugger that for a game of soldiers. I nearly appeared in full uniform, that would have thrown him.”

He took me along a plush corridor to another office where I met Dr Humbolt. I had asked my leonine protectress not to embarrass me with visions of this bloke’s wife driving up trees. On entering the room, it became obvious that that couldn’t happen this time. Dr Humbolt was not the marrying kind, he was rather overtly gay.

Now don’t think I’m anti-gay or anything, I’m well aware that people in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones, but he was just a trifle camp. His initial handshake was like a wet haddock, and he minced about his office like he had just sat in a plate of cold custard. He spoke with an affected lisp, which made it difficult to keep a straight face.
He was only a young man, about thirty-five or six, much smaller than Mr Francis and with mousy fair hair. He was wearing a designer shirt and tight trousers.

“You appweciate why you are here?”

“Yes.”

“I must say you wook absowutewy stunning, despite your dwessing down for the occasion.”

“I never dress up to travel, it ruins your clothes.”

“I see.” He hummed to himself. “Does that mean you never dwess up?”

“No, I wear what I feel comfortable in depending upon the needs of the occasion. I have some photos if you’d like to see?”

He jumped at the opportunity, so I gave him the small album to flick through. All the people in the pictures were named underneath, so he could see what I looked like from the first times in dresses to the more recent occasions when I was happy to get the waiter’s attention with a bit of cleavage.

“This is your mum and dad?” I nodded. “From the way they are stood with you they seem okay with your changeover.”

“My father has offered to pay for the op.” I said.

“I see. And your mum, what does she have to say?”

“By all means give her a ring, the phone number is….”

“I should prefer your opinion.”

“She told me to sort out the plumbing problem because I needed to move on from schoolgirl to possible wife and lover.”

“You have a boyfwiend?”

“Yes, but he doesn’t know yet. I thought it better to tell him after the event rather than before surgery.”

“Do you have sex?”

“No, not until I feel complete.”

“And this operwation would make you compwete?”

“Essentially yes.”

“How wong have you been dwessing as a girl?”

I told him the long tale of the injury and my experiences with my grandmother, well the knitting and sewing ones, then the babysitting empire and the army mix up, then the surgical enhancements and finally the present-day need.”

“So until the army got it wong, you hadn’t ever dwessed as a girl, but were sometimes mistaken as one?”

“Yes, that’s about it.”

“You are a vewy unusual case.”

“So they keep telling me.” If he knew the broader context he would be certifying me there and then.

“Fwom what you tell me, and I bewieve what you say, you seem vewy suited to wive as a female.”

“I’m already female, the army and the registrar general saw to that, without my consent or agreement. But it’s only the lack of consultation that irritates me. I have no disagreement with the outcome, just the means.”

“Of course, yes you are female. Are you happy?”

“Yes, I have met a super man, and I love him and I think he feels the same about me. I’d like to have the opportunity to consummate the relationship, were I to feel it appropriate.”

“How will you know if it’s appropriate?”

“Oh I shall know, we women know these things. When I’m lying in his arms and my body is aching for his touch and my lips for his kisses, when the moment arises, I shall know.”

Dr Humbolt had gone all starry eyed on me. It took him a moment to come back to earth. “That was wuvwy.” He said. “I don’t think you ever were a boy weally, were you?”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“Off you go young wady, I shall confirm the weferwal with no hesitation at all.”

“Thank you doctor. I think you are doing the right thing.” I blushed again as I realised what I’d said. I must stop winding up shrinks, but it’s so easy.

The next day the date for the surgery arrived. I hadn’t slept very much and when I saw the post mark, part of me felt very nervous. I opened it with trembling fingers, I read the letter four times to make sure I understood it. The date was exactly three weeks from today. I phoned my parents.

“Oh hello sweetheart.” Said my mother, “I’m just about away off to work.”

“I’ve got a date.” I stammered over the phone.

“That’s lovely sweetheart, I thought John was out of the country.”

“No mum, a date for the op.”

“Op?” there was a slight pause. “Oh that op.” she laughed nervously, “well when is it?”

“Three weeks today.”

“Goodness, that’s quick.”

“How do you feel?”

“Frightened.”

“Not changing your mind.”

“No.”

“So what’s so frightening?”

“I don’t know.” I felt my eyes fill with tears.

“Look, sweetheart I have to go, I’ll ring you tonight.”

“Bye, Mum.” I sniffed down the phone. I was trembling and I had to sit down. Moments later I had to run to the bathroom and was violently sick. I called in sick and went back to bed. I couldn’t get warm. Shit I thought, I’ve picked up some bug. I drifted off to sleep.

I awoke with a head like a bucket, the phone was ringing I think, or was that in my dream? No, there it was again. I dragged myself out of bed and staggered to the phone. The bucket of which my head consisted, seemed to have been struck by a large hammer, it was still ringing like a giant bell. Picking up the phone I dropped it, swore and picked it up from the floor. Bending over, my head swam and I crashed to the floor. It was hard and it hurt, then it stopped hurting, Everything seemed to stop.
In the distance, I could hear a hammering noise, but I was drifting far away. Someone was calling my name, it sounded like my mum, I smiled. The hammering continued, then some other noises and suddenly the voices were louder and hands were pulling at me. It hurt, but I didn’t feel like saying anything. I tried to look at who was pulling me about, but one of my eyes wouldn’t open and the other felt very unfocused. It was a weird feeling.

Now someone was shaking me and calling my name. It was my mother, I think. She must think I’ve overslept for school. I don’t feel like going today, so I’m not going to wake up.

“Jamie, Jamie answer me.” Sheila Brice was shaking the inert form which lay in front of her. She felt for a pulse, it was racing. The beautiful face was turning purple and green as the bruises began to form around the right eye and cheek. There was some blood from the nose, but she wasn’t sure if it was broken. She picked up the receiver/handset from under the body and redialling called for an ambulance.

Putting the young woman in a recovery position, she waited for the ambulance. Her eye alighted on the letter, which was what she had rung about in the first place. She read it and smiled, then looked at the body lying before her. She felt a sadness.

My dream involved some bizarre characters, all of them saying weird things to me. I kept wanting to respond and tell them, but my mouth didn’t seem to work and I couldn’t open my eyes at all. There was a strange taste in my mouth, it felt like blood. This was some mega - weird dream.

I came around some hours later. My head throbbed and my face hurt. My parents were sat by my bedside. “Oh my darling, how do you feel?” my mother said and stroked my face lightly.

“Awful.” I croaked. “What happened?” my head was spinning now as well as throbbing, but at least I was awake.

“You’ve been unconscious for three days.”

“What ?” I exclaimed.

“You’ve had viral meningitis.”

“Oh.” I think I said and seemed to drift for a minute.

“Where am I?” I croaked as I came back.

“In hospital, they’ve had an epidemic of it.”

“Oh,” I said. My head felt thick and full of feathers. I had to concentrate very hard to stay awake let alone say anything. “My head hurts.”

“You bashed it on the floor when you fell. You’ve got a lovely shiner.”

“Oh,” I said.

The appointment for the plumbing alterations was put on hold. I was upset by it but accepted that I wasn’t strong enough to break off a square of chocolate let alone stand up to the ravages of surgery. ‘Life’s a bitch and then you die.’ Whoever said that showed great insight into my life.

I was in hospital for two weeks and my parents took me home for a month. My course was now in tatters and I would effectively have to restart the year if I wanted any sort of recognition for it.

It was the least of my worries. My recuperation was the primary aim. Each day I would walk for a period that became a little longer each day. Then I’d usually fall asleep, wake, eat and read before sleeping again. It was boring but I was trying to get fit again both physically and mentally. It was very tough, but I was lucky. One of the girls had died and another was possibly brain-damaged. How could some stupid virus, the simplest life form on the planet do this to me, the most sophisticated? It didn’t make sense.

The doctor wouldn’t allow me to return to Barbury for three months. By that time I was cycling again and running and walking for miles. I wasn’t as good as before, but I wasn’t complaining. I was now fit enough for my date with destiny and Mr Francis’ skills.

John was still overseas somewhere, he texted me regularly but I missed him. My facial bruising had now healed, I was lucky there, my nose wasn’t broken, but it was badly bruised. Thankfully, John hadn’t seen me while I was black and blue.

What can I say about the surgery? It hurt, but not as much as I thought it would. It was mind-numbingly boring to be in hospital yet again, even though I had chosen to be here this time.

This was a private clinic, the food was brilliant. Well if I’d been allowed to eat it would have been. My gut had to heal and so did the now real slit between my legs.
I won’t go into the boring detail, besides which the sort of surgery I had isn’t typical, neither was the bill. It cost my dad a fortune, he must love me. Besides, do you really want to hear about enemas and bowel washes? At least I didn’t have to dilate with some plastic bullet thingy which makes your eyes water by all accounts. I also wouldn’t need to lubricate before sex, but then most SRS patients don’t have a scar like mine. Hopefully, it will be mistaken for an appendectomy one.

When the swelling from the surgery began to subside and I was allowed up for saline baths, I felt quite strange. The area was numb but sensitive, it felt as if the skin of my penis and scrotum was sticking out not in. The clit was sore and I avoided touching it like the plague, although it needed to be cleaned every day. My vagina, was strange it felt as if my bottom had been transplanted.

Eventually, catheters came out and I was on solid food again, albeit a mushy sort to help ease colonic motion. I had to be careful not to strain anything.

I had washed and whatevered what was necessary down below. My stitches were out and the swelling was much less. I did have to dilate a bit to keep the entrance open, it was okay. Everything was tight and tender. I got sick of the sight of povidone-iodine gel and having orange ‘periods’ when the stuff flowed back out of me. I also found no joy in having to wear sanitary towels to catch it.

What was really quite interesting was the shyness I felt about my new sex. I did what-ever was necessary to dilate or keep it clean, but I hadn’t really explored it. I had obviously touched various parts of it and had doctors and nurses do it as well. It was embarrassing, but when required I would ‘assume the position’, lying on my back with my legs in the air. Any natural female in the west would know this only too well when presenting for smears or vaginal exams, but for someone who hadn’t quite been brought up to it, it was a bit of an ordeal and very embarrassing.

Why I felt shy, I didn’t know. But then I’d never been much for examining what was there before any more than I examined my bottom. They were functional elements of my body and apart from washing and drying, they only got extra attention when they gave trouble, which thankfully, they didn’t very often.

I almost felt as if the part, my vagina and associated bits, didn’t quite belong to me. I didn’t know why I felt like this. It was obvious they were part of me but perhaps the damaged nerve endings made that seem not quite so because it felt a little alien.
Don’t get me wrong, I was pleased it had been done and was successful. The surgeon was delighted with it. I was too, in an abstract sort of way, but I felt almost as if I was being voyeuristic if I examined myself in anything other than what was necessary for cleaning or other function.

One day in the saline bath, I had a real feel about on the pretext of washing the salt into all parts. I found myself blushing and looking to make sure no one was around to see me. I imagined it must be how some girls feel in a boarding school. What made things worse in some ways was that my little clitty, while still very tender, seemed to like it. My touching it, that is.

Because of my injury, I had never masturbated. The stories I heard other boys tell made me blush, and I couldn’t relate to them at all. I had no urge to try it, and while my penis would get a bit hard when I needed to pee, and occasionally felt nice to touch, I rarely did because the feeling soon went. I associated it with being dirty and when I was abused, the sense of dirtiness grew even greater.

One day when dilating, I wondered how I would feel if John was the thing between my legs not, the plastic bullet. I felt a mixture of sensations, pleasure and pain and flashes of the abuse from my childhood. It was not entirely comfortable and I cried as I thought about it. I was frightened and ashamed, but of what I wasn’t sure. Here I was, with the body I wanted for some time to be able to give myself totally to my relationship and when appropriate to my lover, and I felt ashamed and frightened. What was going on in my head?

Most of my friends and family in the know popped by the clinic while I was there. Some of the others also came but were told I’d had a gynae problem sorted, which was nearly true.

I returned to Barbury after six weeks, because I felt too well to stay away. I wasn’t riding a bike yet, nor would be for a while. But I was walking well and sitting down was getting more comfortable. I spent a month of cramming, having tutorials with individual lecturers and much to my astonishment managed to sit the end of year exams and pass. I was behind with my practical hours, but that was something I could catch up with.

I had been quite focused on firstly getting fit again and secondly catching up with my course. Failure was not a word I allowed to enter my vocabulary if I could avoid it. I was aware that John’s text messages were getting more infrequent, but was trying to see them as a result of his work making things difficult. In my heart I knew he wouldn’t betray me, in my head, I did wonder.

I wanted to try and find out if he was alright, but how? I didn’t know where he was based or where he was. Besides, I didn’t think they would tell me anything anyway, even if I could find his office. It felt like a catch twenty-two.

I was making discreet enquiries whenever I got the chance but was getting nowhere fast when one day I took the bull by the horns and went to the military police headquarters.

“Can I help you, Miss?” asked a young woman on the desk in reception.

“Yes, I’m trying to find a friend of mine whom I believe works here.”

“Oh. Who is that?”

“Sergeant John Anderson,” I said, “he’s my boyfriend and I haven’t heard from him for a while. I just hoped he was okay.”

“I can’t tell you, because I don’t think we have anyone of that name here and I’m afraid even if we did, I couldn’t tell you. We can’t give personal information about staff to anyone but next of kin.”

“Is there anyone I can speak to?” I asked politely.

“Not really.” She dismissed me.

“Who is your commanding officer?” I asked.

I saw the anger in her eyes. “Who wants to know?”

“I do,” I said very calmly. “I should like to speak to the officer on duty.”

“Why, he won’t tell you anything either.”

“That’s quite a presumption. Please ask him to see me.”

“No.”

“Are you always as helpful as this?” I asked coldly.

“Only with people who piss me off.” She snapped back.

“Well, I’m afraid I’m going to stay here until I see the duty officer.”

“Stay there, then,” she snapped and turned her back.

“Captain Brice, could you give me the name and number of the officer on duty at the RMP HQ?” I spoke into my mobile. “I’m having a bit of a problem with some moron on the desk. No, she doesn’t seem to realise who I am. You’ll have her put on a charge, I’d certainly support that, for obstruction of an officer on official duty?”

“What are you on about?” came the voice from behind the desk. “You’re bullshitting me.”

“Am I?” I replied. “You’ll find out soon enough. My C.O. will be on to yours and I’m not worried, it’s not my arse.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t divulge personal information except to next of kin.”

“You’re bluffing. You’re not old enough to hold any rank.”

“No, but I am.” Came a voice from behind me.

“Sorry sir, but this young woman was……”

“That’s okay, Adams, I’ll take care of the young woman myself.” He indicated a corridor. “Would you come this way?”

I could see two pips on his uniform, he was a lieutenant. We went into a small office.

“I’m Lt. Simon Pankhurst.” He smiled at me. “How can I help?”

“I’m Jamie Curtis, and thank you for seeing me.”

“It’s always a pleasure to help a beautiful young woman.” He smiled at me.

‘Chauvinist dickhead ‘ went through my mind, but my mouth said something far less offensive. “My boyfriend works for you, well for SIS, and he hasn’t contacted me for several days now and I just wondered if you could tell me if he was okay. I appreciate it’s all hush-hush.”

He gave me a startled look. “Who are we talking about here?”

“Sergeant John Anderson. Do you know him?”

“He doesn’t work here. He’s not regular RMP.” His smile was fading.

“I know he’s not regular RMP, I told you that, he’s SIS. How can I make contact with them?”

“I don’t know. They tend to make contact with us.”

“Look this cloak and dagger stuff is all a pile of schoolboy crap.” I snapped, “I’m a signatory to the Official Secrets Act, so why can’t someone tell me something?”

“I’m not telling you this.” I nodded my understanding. “SIS only get involved in the big stuff, national security stuff, if you take my meaning.” I nodded again. “So your Sergeant Anderson is probably just working abroad or something. He may be too busy to write or phone. They get into some heavy stuff.”

“Thank you for your help,” I said and turned to leave.

“It was a pleasure.” He replied, “look if you’d like to go out just for a drink or something…” I looked at him with disdain. “Sorry, I only meant a drink, nothing else.”

“I think you know who John is. Everyone knows him in the RMP. I accept you have reasons for not divulging anything in the same way that I have some for making my enquiries. To suggest that in his absence you can fill his shoes shows a great miscalculation on your part. Firstly because, you aren’t anywhere near man enough, secondly he’d probably kill you if you tried and you know that, thirdly, if he didn’t I would. “ As he heard this his face turned to a scowl.

“I can’t see you hurting anyone.” He almost sneered at me.

“Shows how appearances can be deceptive doesn’t it.” With that I turned and left his room, “I’ll see myself out.”

As I left I heard him start up his computer and knew exactly what he was typing in, a search on his data-base of my name. I stood just down from his room the door was open and after a moment or two, I heard him sigh, “Fuck me! That was the Lion Woman, was it? What a load of shit.”

I smiled as I left the building, I was tempted to ask my little friend to give him a visit, but that was demeaning its function. At the same time, I had a feeling he would soon understand what he was laughing at, was not funny.

That night, I had a text sent me. ‘Hi, I’m ok, so stop bothering the pigs! J’ It was a forgery and I began to get anxious. However, my investigations were brought to an abrupt halt the next day.