CHAPTER 5
Joe was waiting when I came out, and we headed off for the nearest pub, the King’s. Joe was bubbling away with excitement, and I was nearly as bad.

A proper job, salary, prospects, and in my own name. One pint, one glass of wine led to another, and by four o’clock we were quite merry. I had already called in the news to home from the pub phone, and it was time to get my train back. Joe offered to walk me back to the station, and as my heels ticked along the pavement I felt the legs above them wobble slightly. Joe noticed, and I ended up hanging onto his arm. There was I, employed, happy, pissed and hanging onto a truly gorgeous man. Could life be any better? Well, of course it could, I could be physically what I was mentally, but it would come.

I now had two things to sort out, my somewhat slow mind was telling me, a shrink to get my transition rolling, and more immediately somewhere to live in Morriston. I pulled Joe into a letting agent’s as we headed to the station, and as I pored over their listings I felt him squeeze my bum. Cheeky boy….but it felt nice so I just kept reading while he kneaded away. By the time we left it was as a couple joined at the hip and at the station he came to the platform with me.

“We shall have to get together when you move over, Sarah. You’re good fun!”

Before I could react he bent down and kissed me, and I immediately felt his tongue pushing at my lips. It would have been rude not to….and I gave as good as I got, reaching up to pull his head to mine, his solid body pressed against my all-too-unreal tits. He pulled back.

“If we keep on like this, you won’t get home and I will get all messy. See you when you move in.”

I dozed off on the train back, but the dreams were rather nice. The only problem was my little chap, who had got all excited with the tonsil hockey and had to be covered by my hand bag to prevent it showing. I was home eventually, having sobered a little on the train, but the euphoria was amazing. So many good things, such a short space of time, it was absolutely unbelievable. I did, however, fail in the courage stakes and while I told my parents all about the interview, somehow Joe slipped out of the conversation.

Some coffee helped with clearing my head, and I started the business of arranging somewhere to live. Within an hour, I had the option of a small two-bed flat not too far from the shop, and Dad agreed to stump up the deposit. I am sure I didn’t stop grinning even when asleep that night. I was alive at last.

Over the next week, Dad ferried my bits and pieces over to the new flat while I busied myself with the necessities of such a move, registering with the local health centre, changing my bank branch, that sort of thing. It was mostly little and messy details, but I did at least manage to have a chat with my new GP and explain my need to find a suitable head doctor. Dr Owain was a bit taken aback by the sudden appearance of a transsexual in his surgery, as he was more accustomed to seeing bruised and bleeding drunks, or ravaged diabetics. I was something very new to him, and to give him due credit he simply asked to examine me.

“Why so, Doctor?”

“Simple, Miss Powell, if you are going to start on hormones I want to be sure your body is strong enough to take the damage they can do,”

Fair enough…and if he saw the smile that his words brought to my face, he hid it well.

The day finally came when I was due to start work. I had moved in to my little flat, my bike was ready to roll, and my white coat was sparkling away in my saddlebag. A speed breakfast of cornflakes and tea, a last check of my face, and in quick time I was walking into Addison’s in jeans and leather jacket. I identified myself at the pharmacy, was shown to the ladies’, and n ten minutes was being shown the layout, including the poisons cabinet, while stylishly dressed in a pale green blouse, a loden skirt and three inch heels..

Eight hours later I was cursing my heels and glad I was now in bike boots. That was mu first lesson. I treated myself to a soak when I got in, after picking up a Chinese meal for post-bath consumption. I lay in the bath, looking at the flatness of my chest, and the diminutive size of my nipples, and almost wept. I was trying to ignore the maggot rising between my legs, but couldn’t. Not for the first, nor last, time, I wondered if a sharp knife might help. Thoughts of Joe only made it worse, as said maggot would respond. I wept for a while, the mood punctured, and dried myself off ready for my oriental meal. Lesson two: spring rolls and microwave ovens are not a good mix.

Weeks passed, my job went well, and the staff were diamonds. I had one major giggling fit with one of the girls, a cymres cymreig, when I heard her name. Alison Parry. I started to chuckle, and she simply said “Oh dear, you are going to call me Arison, aren’t you?”

One of the other girls, from Birmingham originally, looked lost. “What’s the joke?”

I explained, between giggles. “Lots of Welsh names begin with a ‘P’, and it’s often short for ‘ap’, which means ‘son of’. So Arison here (“Bitch!”) has the surname Parry, which means ‘son of Harry’, so she is sort of ‘Alison Harrison”, which suggests her parents either did not speak yr hen iaith or had no sense of humour. Is that right, Ari?”

And Ari ,or Arris, she became. It was one of the things that helped me break the ice, and I noticed that I was easier by far with people than I had ever been as Sam.

For four weeks i had no word from Joe, and I busied myself getting to know the area and the people. Arris and the girls helped, if leaving me struggling to contain my giggles when dispensing to certain regulars can be deemed helping, and the other thing that kept me moving was the regular rock night at the Red Barn.

Picture this: a reasonably tall, for a girl, figure in jeans, tucked into mid calf stiletto boots. A band T-shirt under a leather bike jacket, not a huge chest but enough to play with, as long as you don’t get close enough to actually handle the illusion. Strawberry blonde hair to the shoulder blades, and an eyes closed, whole body dance whenever something decent is played.. There was never a really big name band there, but plenty of cover groups, and even one or two of the better known ‘scene’ bands such as Dr Feelgood, and the Hamsters, played during my time at Morriston. There was always a sensory overload for me there, with the music grabbing my body, and the smells, of leather, and patchouli, and hash. I would stroll back home each Sunday morning at about one, still buzzing from the beat, and the dancing, and just being able to be out, and be me.

My quack had found me a shrink, Rhys Thomas, and he seemed very happy with who I was, and within three weeks of being in my flat I had my own prescription to fill. I suppose it is only girls like me who can truly understand the thrill, the terror, the sheer joy of that moment when the first tablet is there, held on the palm of your hand, and then gone, off to do the work that will finally make you real. That Saturday night I danced until I was soaked with sweat, and drank far too much, but still managed to get myself home safely, buzzing and bouncing with joy.

I lost a little of the good feelings there. ‘Bouncing’ would always mean Becky to me, and when I got back to my flat I opened a bottle of wine to toast her memory. Stupid idea, in hindsight, the hangover was beyond words.. Lesson three: don’t mix wine and beer, lesson four: hormones do nothing you can notice in the first twenty four hours.