Inconvenience

By Joannebarbarella

The phone rang.

Of course it did, I was sitting on the loo. When else does it ring, other than when I’m in the shower.
I refuse to take my phone with me when I’m doing my business or I’m naked and wet, so it rang out and went to “Message”, allowing me to complete doing what I had to do and make myself half-way decent (or at least to cover myself up) before going to see if anything worthwhile had come in.

I keyed in 101 but the replay said the caller hadn’t left a message and the number was unfamiliar. To me that meant that it was either somebody looking for money, probably one of the charities to which I already contributed, but once you’ve done so, they consider that you are a bottomless well existing only for their convenience, or maybe it was a scammer also trying to get money out of me. The buggers never stop.

It hadn’t always been that way. One of my girl friends used to call me most mornings. We often joked about how she must have had some kind of “trans-dar” that told her when I was enthroned or wet and naked. Then she stopped ringing. It took me a little while before I found out she was dead…suicide. Like so many of us, she couldn’t take it. I wish she would have told me. Maybe I could have said something…. done something…. Who knows? You feel so guilty.

I pressed “Delete” and continued to have my breakfast, my glass of orange juice with my pills, a bowl of Weetbix and a couple of boiled eggs with a slice of toast, not to forget my coffee. None of that instant crap, strong ground roast to open my eyes for the day.
After washing the few dishes I carried on getting dressed for the day. That took me longer than it used to a couple of years or more ago but I wasn’t complaining. It is only natural for a woman to take longer than a man. When I was still pretending to be someone who I wasn’t all I had to do was throw on a pair of underpants, socks, a shirt, slacks and decide whether to wear my brown shoes or my black ones. I might need a jacket if the weather was cool. The biggest chore was shaving, but I’d usually already done that when I showered.

Now I have to think about what I’m going to wear today, and it can’t be the same as yesterday. Underwear is relatively easy. As long as I’m happy with a matching panty and bra it’s not a problem, but you have to wear white or pink or flesh with a light-coloured outfit ,or something darker if your outerwear needs it . Actually, these days I am mostly restricted to a skirt and top, thigh-highs or panty-hose and matching shoes with at least some kind of heel. For work It’s usually a white or bright-coloured blouse with a black skirt and jacket. Of course I have to add make-up and a bit of bling to give me a professional look. Luckily my nails are taken care of at work. It’s only in the evenings that I can really get dolled up.

The story here is that my current situation is due to one of those almost unbelievable strokes of luck. Some people would say that I was hit in the bum by a rainbow and I can’t really argue with them.

I won the lottery when I was nineteen, during my first year at Uni, not the big prize, but a more realistic $970,000 plus a little bit, not quite a million. Not enough to bring all the vultures down on my head; the first prize that day was $60 million, won by somebody else who they could chase. I was more than happy not to attract the attendant publicity. The lottery company had a policy not to pay for two weeks after the actual win, which gave 19-year-old me some time to actually think about it and discard some of my wilder impulses and teen-age flights of fancy.

Maybe I was selfish but I decided not to tell anybody about my luck…nobody at all. My parents were well-off enough so I had no guilt about them and I had no siblings to worry about. It was mine….all mine! Gollum. My Preshuss! It was me who had bought the ticket. It was mine to spend. I still buy a ticket every week; you never know. Lightning could strike twice.

Those two weeks were a godsend by giving me time to think. I determined to buy an apartment, which would give me the freedom to pursue my dream. This took nearly half of my winnings. However, my main priority was to get myself fixed. I had known for years that I should have been a girl, but previous opportunities had not been propitious. I had dressed very occasionally when I still lived at home, pretending that I was going to parties or for Halloween, but the reception from my parents had been pretty lukewarm to say the least. They were people of their generation and just did not understand how their son could want to be a girl. No matter how hard I tried I couldn’t get through to them that I did not “want” to be a girl, I was one. They weren’t cruel but they definitely weren’t supportive. Ignore the problem and it will go away.

That situation had been kinda resolved when I went to university and lived in digs. I still could not be my real self full-time but I managed to spend a much greater amount of time in my true gender at least as far as dressing and presenting went. Uni was quite kind to folks like me. Nobody gave a monkeys when I turned up to lectures wearing a dress or a skirt and top. Long hair wasn’t even noticed.

Still, my win enabled me to review my life and I researched what I would have to do to become as completely female as I could possibly be. I knew, of course, the general outlines of transitioning but without the means to pursue my goal I had put it on the back-burner, one of those impossible dreams.

With money to spare I dug much deeper into the internet and it didn’t take long to chart a course through the mechanics and medical requirements of the process. As it turned out it wasn’t so much the money but the time. It was going to take me two to three years to go from being technically male to achieving the femininity needed to satisfy myself and face the world full-time.

My windfall meant that I had no problem financially. I could afford all the necessary treatments, even allowing for private medical and hospital charges and I had almost enough to live on while I transitioned. I still wanted to complete my course at university even though I had no idea how a degree in English Literature would benefit me after I graduated.

It took me a few months to finalise my living arrangements and get my new flat in a location and a condition that I was happy to live in, but now without financial restraints I didn’t feel under any pressure. I used the time to bring my wardrobe up to scratch and to widen my other requirements to enable me to live while transitioning. With half a million to hand it was amazing how much “advice” I could get.

One thing my parents, particularly my father, had drummed into me as a child was to look very carefully at the motives of people who wanted to “help” me take care of my finances. He had invested in a mix of stocks, shares and property, which, while not making our family wealthy, had provided us with a decent income on top of his salary, enough to fund my tuition fees.

I now had my property. It didn’t generate any income but relieved me from the burden of paying rent. My only outgoings were for Council rates, utilities and Body Corporate levies. I could buy shares through reputable stockbrokers and that’s what I did, sticking to what were called blue-chips that paid decent dividends. I couldn’t live completely on the proceeds but as a student it went a long way and the money enabled me to pay for my treatments. Part-time jobs were easy to come by for all the little extras. Mostly I waitressed and the tips were OK too.

I was definitely lucky insofar as I had never looked particularly masculine and I grew only to 5’ 8” (172 cm). I knew that with a little cosmetic enhancement facially I could present as a woman. After all, I had already been passing on a regular basis. With my domestic arrangements and my financial situation settled I got serious about advancing the medical aspects of my transition. Obviously I had to jump through multiple hoops with respect to endocrinology and psychiatry but after a few months I was cleared for hormone therapy and once on the path I found it surprisingly easy. Perhaps because I was paying my own way the support was very sympathetic and regular check-ups were just a phone-call or email away with few problems in getting appointments.

What I had to keep schooling myself in was that there were no shortcuts. The process took time and the only parts under my control were the cosmetic procedures to ensure that the rest of the world looked at me and saw a girl. I didn’t go overboard with my face. I wanted to blend in, not be Miss Universe, so a few tweaks to my mouth, nose and eyes were enough to satisfy me. Just as well, because even those weren’t cheap.

It was only when I had completed my hormone treatments and my course at university that I allowed myself some breast enhancement and went up to a C-cup and then I scheduled the Big One, the conversion of my genitals to female. For that I went to Thailand. I had already changed my documentation to enable me to present as female. I had engaged a lawyer to expedite it and it was surprisingly painless and easy, the only confrontation needed was changing my Driver’s Licence which had to be done in person. We won’t go into that little ordeal. Thus my passport already showed me as female and I had no trouble travelling.

The internet had provided the details of the necessary surgery at a well-known hospital in Phuket and my operations and accommodation pre- and post-op were already booked and paid for. I also booked a further two weeks for recuperation in a local tourist resort. I’m glad I did, as none of the literature tells you how painful the aftermath can be. Things take a while to settle down and even an extra two weeks is not really enough. Anyway, all went well and after a month in Thailand I flew home happy that my physical changes totally matched the details on my passport. I drank champagne all the way (Business Class).

Now I had to come out to my parents and while they weren’t overjoyed they finally had to accept that my strangeness hadn’t just been a passing phase. They didn’t cut me off (not that they could) but our relationship was cool, in the temperature sense, not the friendly sense. The friends that I had were cool, in the second sense.

With my gender sorted and my Degree completed it was time to get a job. I determined that I would not hide in the shadows and would inform any prospective employers that I was transgender in order to avoid future repercussions or recriminations. I still don’t know if that was smart.

Despite protestations of inclusive diversity policies I failed to get any interviews for those jobs for which I initially applied, and those were the ones where I thought my degree might actually be worth something. Consequently I lowered my sights and began applying to commercial outfits that might appreciate someone with a decent general education and after a few more disappointments I landed an interview with the management of the major shopping mall closest to where I lived. I imagined that I would be doing some kind of management training or clerical work; I hadn’t specified anything in particular. By this time a job was a job. A living wage was a priority and any experience was worth having.

My initial interview went well and my transsexualism rated only a little comment. I was assured it would not be a problem although I asked the HR ladies not to spread it around. I had a second interview with the overall manager of the complex and it didn’t even rate a mention. A week went by and I was beginning to think it had been another wasted effort when I was called back. A third interview? They must be serious, I thought, but what they proposed came out of left field. Later I reckoned somebody must have had a twisted sense of humour.

They offered me a job, but in their Security Department. It sort of made sense. They had no problems getting male security guards, but females were surprisingly hard to recruit. If you took out the major “anchor” supermarkets over 50% of the retail outfits in the mall catered to women. Situations often arose where the presence of men was not the best way to deal with transgressions. Most shop-lifting was committed by females and searches could only be done by another woman without the perpetrator screaming “harassment” and the police had to be called in, not a good look.

The other possible area of conflict was in the women’s washrooms. They had not yet had any major problems but they wanted to be prepared. Was I interested in being a mall-cop? It would involve patrolling the aisles waiting for trouble and dealing with it if and when it arose.

Surprisingly it appealed to me. I would be dressed as a “civilian” but with an identity badge, a panic button and a phone on which the outlets would be able to contact me in the event of trouble and I would be able to notify my male colleagues. With respect to the washrooms there had been accusations that they had been infiltrated by men for sexual impropriety, although nothing had been proved. A female security officer would be able to hopefully cut such problems off before they got ugly.

I thought about it and accepted. Not only for the money, but because it was something different which might prove interesting. Two weeks later I started my induction course. There were three male security guards to show me the ropes and they were all pretty much relieved to have me join them. Naturally they were all big, beefy blokes and hated to have to restrain generally much smaller female miscreants and then be accused of assault or harassment while the cops were coming.

A couple of weeks accompanying my colleagues and I was considered ready to patrol on my own. I had been introduced to the staff of many of the retail outfits, particularly those involved in women’s fashion. Without exception I was welcomed. They had nearly all had incidents where a female presence could have helped to ameliorate in restraining a perpetrator with less drama.

One of the pluses which I had not anticipated was the offer of employee discounts at many of the stores! I was, after all, an attractive 23-year-old. The nail salon was only too pleased to look after my talons for free and my hair was kept looking good. Sessions were arranged for slow periods or after-hours.

My daily rounds consisted of basically posing as a shopper and visiting those stores which were the principal targets of thieves. The salesgirls very kindly gave me previews of the latest clothes and shoes before they hit the shelves. What more could a girl want?

As it happened, my first months on the job were relatively quiet crime-wise and I only had a few “arrests” to deal with, mainly attempted shoplifting. Actually I, strictly speaking, could not arrest anyone unless I called the cops, but most of the thieves did not want the police involved and nor did our Management, so what we did was photograph them, obtain their personal details (quite often they lied) and ban them from entering the mall on pain of police involvement next time. We also notified the other malls in the vicinity. This worked quite well. Presumably they either went straight or went elsewhere to practice their larceny.

Christmas approached and the volume of shoppers increased. So did the thefts (we knew we didn’t get them all) and attempted thefts. There was also the occasional fight at one of the pubs, but those were usually dealt with by the men in our little squad. Management took on a couple of temps to deal with the increased workload and even managed to employ a rather tough-looking lady to assist me. She scared me, so, hopefully, she also scared the thieves.

Just after this, my first restroom emergency occurred. As it happened I was just about to check one of the Ladies’ toilets when I heard a ruckus inside. I entered as quickly as I could and encountered two middle-aged women attacking a girl about my age or maybe a little younger. They were trying to restrain her physically and being none too gentle about it. I took a few pictures on my phone and inserted myself into the fracas and demanded that they all separate. When I showed my Security pass they obeyed, the older ones with some reluctance.

I looked at the younger girl and my own experience and circumstances caused me to suspect that she was like me, a transsexual. Unluckily for her she did look somewhat mannish, but she was nicely dressed and made-up and I wouldn’t have given her a second glance anywhere else in the mall. She was clearly terrified at what the two women had been doing to her.

The two older women were frothing at their mouths and going on about counterfeit males invading women’s spaces with the intention of committing rape or worse on unsuspecting females.

I yelled at them all to shut up and we would sort the situation out. I told each of them to stand in a cubicle while I conducted my investigation. They did as told but the two aggressors looked smugly triumphant. What I had done was isolate each of them so I could control the situation. I was learning.

I gave the girl who I suspected to be trans a big wink, which the others could not see.

“Will you please allow me to see your genitals?” I asked and gave her another big wink.

I motioned for her to raise her skirt, but gave her a signal to stop when I could see her panties. I actually did not need to see any further to see that she was actually still pre-op.

“OK, Miss. It’s all fine,” I said, winking again, out of the line of sight of the others.

I turned to the first of the other two.

“Will you please allow me to see your genitals?”

“How dare you?” she spluttered.

“Well, this young lady has shown me that she is indeed female, so she has every right to use this restroom. If you refuse my request then I have to suspect that you are a fake male using this toilet to commit an offence.”

She turned an interesting shade of puce. I took her photo while she spluttered.

“I will not! I demand that you call the police.”

“Maybe I will,” I replied, “but first I have to check this other lady.”

“Madam, will you please demonstrate that you are female,” I said to the other woman.

“Don’t be ridiculous, I’m obviously a woman. It’s this man in drag who is the problem.”

“So you’re refusing to be examined?”

“Yes I am! You have no right!”

Actually she was right, but I took her picture while she frothed at the mouth. I had these two off balance. They had expected support, not questioning, but they got me. I was laughing inside, because they had no idea that I was one of those whose very existence, and right to exist, they denied.

“Very well, then I must detain you both until the police arrive, for causing a disturbance in a public space and assaulting this young lady. Please stay where you are, they’re on the way.”

This was total bullshit on my part. I had pressed the Emergency button with which I had been issued and called my male colleagues. They would shortly be outside the toilet waiting for me to tell them when and if to enter or apprehend anybody trying to exit.

I turned to the young girl who had endured the hostility of the pair of harpies, “Miss, you may go, but here is my card if you decide that you wish to lay charges.”

I pretty much knew that she wouldn’t, but hoped she would call me when she had calmed down. The whole experience must have been traumatising for her.

The two women were both frantically protesting their innocence and claiming that I had misinterpreted the situation.

“I don’t think so. Shall we wait for the police?”

They began to bluster.

“You have no evidence.”

“Oh, but I do.”

I showed them the first pictures I had taken, which clearly showed the two of them attacking the young girl, and then I showed them the photos of each of them demonstrating the depth of their antagonism towards their victim. Neither of them was a pretty sight when enraged.

“I’ve no doubt the cops will interpret your actions and attitudes exactly as I have.”

Realisation started to dawn on them and they suddenly became much more compliant and co-operative.

“We don’t think you need the police. We didn’t do any harm. We were just trying to stop a pervert from committing an offence.”

I didn’t feel like giving these evil shrews any leeway. They had attacked a girl like me who was only interested in having a pee and maybe repairing her make-up. Still, I knew I could only push it so far.

“Maybe I can hold the police back, although I don’t see why I should. You assaulted a young woman because you “suspected” she was a man and you were wrong. From what I saw it was obvious that she was in here legitimately. I’m not so sure about you two. You both refused an inspection to prove you are female and you don’t look particularly female to me. Give me one good reason why I should allow you to get off scot-free.”

My diatribe took the wind out of their sails and they protested that they were “real” women who were dedicated to exposing transsexuals and other “perverts” who were not women at all. These individuals did not have periods and could not bear children.

I stopped them in full self-righteous flow. They were really starting to get up my nose.

“Let me get this straight. You are saying that nobody who doesn’t menstruate can be a woman?”

“That’s right!” from both of them.

“Well, my mum doesn’t menstruate and neither does my twelve-year-old sister,” I said, laying it on thick, “so neither of them is a woman?”

“That’s not what we mean!”

“What about women who cannot have children?”

“You know that’s not what we mean!”

“ I think you two LADIES have no idea what you mean and I don’t think you care. You just have some kind of prejudice against girls who were born with a problem.”

“You’re one of them, aren’t you?”

“Well, you’ll never know and you’re lucky you are only going to get banned from this mall. Now, if you don’t shut up I WILL call the cops and with the evidence I have I will tell them to charge you with assault and I will happily testify against you in court.”

They didn’t want the police involved. Bullies like them never do, so, grumbling, they exited the loo at my insistence, into the hands of my beefy mates. We extracted statements from them, which only served to further incriminate themselves in their bigotry. They just couldn’t restrain themselves. Then we escorted them from our domain with an injunction not to return.

That’s how I became a T.E.R.F. hunter. I’ll show those bitches.

OOOOOOOOOOO

One thing I should have checked is whether the term "convenience" applies to public toilets in USA and Canadian vernacular.