Simon(e) Book 2: Chapter 3 of 12 by D.L. Copyright  © 2011 D.L. All Rights Reserved. “I noticed something back in the changing room,” my mother states as she drives. “What?” I ask puzzled. “I hope I didn’t behave out of the ordinary for a girl.”

I wake Friday morning hardly believing it is almost the weekend again. Grabbing a clean pair of knickers and a training bra, I proceed to get dressed in jeans and a checked shirt. I don’t bother putting anything on my head before I descend downstairs to start the day. It has just gone six and it’s time to grab some breakfast before seeing to the cows.

My parents look at me slightly surprised when I enter the kitchen.

“What’s the matter?” I ask them.

“I would have thought you would be, well, dressed more girly,” my mother replies.

“Most of my girl clothes aren’t suitable for working in. The ones that would be are currently in the wash. I have no problem with how I am dressed. You weren’t expecting me to trot round the milking shed in high heels were you?” I ask in response.

“No, but you don’t look any different from normal,” my mother states.

“That’s because I’m exactly the same person as normal. Nothing has changed in that respect. I have always been, and will always be, me. The difference is that I no longer have to worry about hiding my true self,” I answer, smiling. I am relaxed and although the air is still a little tense, I am happier than most mornings. I slept better last night than I have in months.

After breakfast, I assist with farm work for an hour and a half before heading in for a shower and change of clothes. I don the girls’ version of my school uniform, and fix my wig in place. Gathering my books into my bag, I head downstairs and out to the barn. I take my road bike from its new storage place and mount it. I wave to my parents as I cycle out of the yard on my way to school.

When I get into the cycle sheds, I meet Alison and Mary. Both of them embrace me in a hug and ask if I’m all right. I grin at them and tell them I’m fine.

“Have you brought your swimming costume?” Alison asks.

“Um, no, I forgot. Also, I don’t know how my parents will react to me continuing to use public pools,” I say timidly. “I take it you have no issues with me joining you for swimming.”

“No problem, girl,” Mary responds, emphasising the last word.

I smile at her, “I will phone home at lunch and see if I can come. I can’t guarantee anything. I am no doubt breaking numerous rules in doing this, but hey, that’s nothing new.”

I’m greeted by Julie and Josh as I walk into our classroom for morning registration. Both are relieved that I am okay, and that I’m still in girl mode.

“Don’t I get a kiss from the most beautiful girl in school this morning?” he asks grinning.

“Who’s she then?” I ask. The other girls giggle and whisper, and then one by one thank him for the compliment and plant kisses on his cheek. He now has three different shades of lipstick on his face. He stands in shock as everyone laughs. Seeing what is going on, the other girls in the class join in and soon he has been kissed by every girl in the room except me.

The other boys are cheering the events on when Mr Francis enters the room. There is a mad scramble as everybody returns to their seats. I try to control my giggling as Mr Francis raises an eyebrow at the now multicoloured Josh. There is a flash as a camera phone records the moment for posterity. I hand him a mirror so that he can see the damage.

Mr Francis instructs Josh to clean himself up, that is unless he wants to make an unusual fashion statement for the next few hours until break. He rushes off as Mr Francis starts to take the register.

The mood remains light-hearted through the morning. At break time, I take Josh to one side and give him a proper kiss.

“Josh, as much as I like kissing you,” I say slightly sadly, “I think we should be careful. With my history, you could get some opposition for being gay if you try to date me. Besides which, I don’t want to push my luck with my folks. They are only just coming to terms with me being transgendered. I don’t think they would like me dating.”

“I understand,” Josh states, “friendship first, romance can come later if it develops. It’s not like we don’t have plenty of time.”

Relieved that we can take things slowly, I swiftly head off to the detention room. I’m being punished for lying to the school about my identity. They allow a few minutes leeway for you to use the bathroom before you spend the rest of the twenty minutes sitting doing homework.

At lunchtime, I phone my mother. When she answers the phone I ask, “Hi mum, it’s Jasmine. I have been invited to go swimming again this afternoon, and wondered if you would be willing to give your permission, and if so if you could drop off my swimming costume for me?”

“I don’t know. Is it legal for you to use the women’s facilities?” she queries.

“I’m not sure, but as long as there are no complaints I don’t think it’s a problem. It is not as if I’m a functional male anymore,” I reply honestly.

“I will meet you after school and let you know. I will be parked outside the school at leaving off time. Come find me,” she answers. I explain where to find the swimming costume. It’s one of the items I brought home from the bunker.

As promised, I find her waiting for me at the end of the day. Mary and Alison accompany me out of the building to meet her.

“Hi Mum, this is Alison Hardy and Mary Green, two of my new friends. They know my history and yet are still willing to invite me to join them,” I say introducing the girls to my mother. After hellos being said all round, I ask the dreaded question. “So, am I allowed to go swimming again or not?”

“On one condition, I join you and supervise your behaviour. If you girls don’t mind that is? We can load your bikes in the back and I can give you all a lift.”

Alison and Mary have no objections and all three of us head off to the cycle sheds to collect our bikes. After loading up the Land Rover, Alison directs my mother to the car park for the swimming pool.

When paying the entrance fee we sign up for the residential pass so that we can get a discount. It takes a bit of haggling, but we are able to argue that the farm is within the five-mile limit. The line only just clips the edge of the farmyard, so one corner of one barn is in the limit, but the house is outside. They decide that it’s close enough and grant us the discount.

We head to the changing rooms and I enter with caution. This is the first time in years I have been naked in front of my mother. I have exchanged my wig for the swimming cap in the car so that I don’t have to switch over in public. I notice that Alison and Mary strip naked before they even pull their swimsuits out of their bags. In fact, they stand naked chatting to me while they neatly and slowly fold their clothes.

I know exactly what they are doing. They’re showing my mother that they are perfectly happy treating me as another girl and have no hang-ups being in the room with a freak like me. I have been hesitating a bit at stripping off, but realising what they are doing I copy them. Soon, all three of us are standing naked chatting about the book we are reading in English class.

My mother looks around nervously and is slow to strip off. I think she is having reservations about me seeing her naked, as she is still thinking of me as a boy. I deliberately keep my eyes focused in the opposite direction while she removes her underwear and slips her costume on. Why she didn’t just put it on underneath her clothes before she came, I don’t know. None of the other women in the room seems to pay us any attention as we change.

Once all four of us are dressed and ready, we lock our possessions up and head for the water. My mother is impressed with the facilities. This is the first time she has been to this pool. Thankfully, there is no sign of the boys this week. However, we are quarter of an hour earlier than last week as the drive was quicker than coming by bike.

We are soon enjoying the water. Once more, the girls help me gain confidence, and I’m soon swimming short distances out of my previous comfort zone. After what happened last week with the boys, they are now on the lookout for them as well. I hope that by sticking with my mother that if I’m spotted they won’t try anything.

I do notice Bart and his friends arrive, but this time I keep my distance from them. They notice me and I make a point of talking with my mother, so that they know I am not here alone. My mother takes a good look at them, when I point them out. They decide to err on the side of caution and leave us alone.

I am truly able to relax and I thoroughly enjoy my session in the pool this week. Now that all the lies have been ended and I don’t have to worry about anything I feel a lot happier. I know that I am still using a fake identity and I’m still classified as male, but that doesn’t bother me as I can easily show that I should be in the female changing room.

When we have finished swimming, we head back to the changing room to shower and get dressed. I enjoy the spray as I rinse the chlorine from my skin. I have kept my back to my mother, but I’m facing Alison and Mary. We make idle talk while we clean ourselves and I lend Mary some of my shower gel as she has forgotten to bring her own.

Once dry, we proceed to dress. My first task is to switch my cap for a scarf, which I do while standing naked, with my back to the wall. Again, I use the principle that my short hair won’t be questioned while I’m showing my crotch.

I do get a funny look from my mother but she doesn’t say anything. Once outside we drive Mary and Alison home, dropping each of them off in turn. We then head back to the farm.

“I noticed something back in the changing room,” my mother states as she drives.

“What?” I ask puzzled. “I hope I didn’t behave out of the ordinary for a girl.”

“Your behaviour was fine. What I noticed is that you have breasts, or at least the beginnings of them,” she replies. “Have you been finding them itchy?”

“Well yes, but I put that down to a psychosomatic placebo effect caused by wishful thinking,” I reply, “I shouldn’t be producing much testosterone anymore, and all males produce some female hormones. Therefore, I should start automatically to feminise without any intervention. I have been taking some herbal plant supplements that mimic hormones in the absence of being able to obtain proper ones. However, I am not confident they will have any effect. I really should be on hormone replacement therapy to replace the lost production capacity.”

“You look slightly puffy and your areolas are almost as big as the other girls. They are certainly bigger than I remember them,” she replies. “You have a hospital appointment tomorrow with Dr Truman, an endocrinologist, and a shrink. You will be getting the full works, including an MRI and ultrasound to see what damage you have caused yourself and if further surgery will be needed. The vampires will be drawing your blood for various tests, and if all goes well then you will be prescribed replacement hormones for the ones you can no longer produce.”

“As long as they aren’t male ones, I’ll be happy. One reason to castrate myself was to stop male puberty. I don’t want to be forced to go through that artificially,” I reply. “Dr Truman didn’t say anything about my breasts when he examined me at school, although having said that he was concentrating on my groin. I might be starting to show signs of secondary sexual characteristics, but I would have thought it a bit early. It’s less than eight weeks since my operation. Why are we going at the weekend? I thought the clinics only ran during the week. It’s also remarkably quick; I would have expected to have to wait weeks for any appointments.”

“We’re going private. Remember we have comprehensive medical insurance. I spoke to them earlier and we are making a claim,” my mother answers. We took out private health care in case any of us were injured or became ill. My father used it to speed up the waiting time on his prostate operation last year. Being self-employed and in a labour intensive industry, we can’t afford to be off sick. Therefore, we took the cover out to get the fastest response, as the National Health Service can be a bit slow at times.

We pull into the car park of a Fish and Chips shop. I stay in the car while my mother fetches three lots of cod and chips for our dinner.

Returning home we eat the meal before it gets cold. I then spend the rest of the evening ironing. Having washed nearly my entire girl wardrobe, I now have many garments to press.

I am up at my usual early time on Saturday morning and help my father with the cows and goats. I leave him to do the sheep while I head indoors to shower and change. I wore jeans and a shirt for the farm work, but now need to get ready for the hospital appointments.

As I am going to be examined and will need to strip, I decide to wear something convenient. I grab a blue denim skirt and a pale yellow t-shirt. As the weather is getting cooler, I also put on my blue fleece. I don’t bother with a bra, as it may be awkward and I still don’t need one, especially as the t-shirt is of soft fabric. I am wearing simple white panties and white ankle socks. On my feet, I have a pair of cream plimsolls. Figuring the wig may be awkward, I instead wear a scarf to hide my lack of hair.

We drive to the hospital and arrive shortly before nine for my first appointment. We are given some paperwork and have to proceed to the rear of the hospital to queue up so that I can have my blood taken.

Before they start poking needles into me, I have to undergo some measurements. My height, weight and temperature are recorded and my blood pressure taken. Dr Truman had noted that my blood pressure was high when he examined me at school. He was slightly concerned, but had put the level down to anxiety caused by the stress of the situation. The level is still above average, but not as high as it had been at the previous reading.

I have never been keen on needles, but put up with the procedure out of necessity. The loss of blood resulting from the extraction causes me to feel faint and I have to have a sit down. If I did have high blood pressure before the procedure, I suspect the number of vials taken have rectified the problem.

The next stop is a shrink. I know my mind, but in order to progress to SRS I need the sign off from such a medical professional. Unfortunately, I immediately take a disliking to the prat to which I have been assigned. He insists on calling me Simon, even after I request that he call me Jasmine.

Dr Patel is Indian, which is annoying to start with, as I can barely understand a word he says. I am not racist; I just have a genuine problem making sense of his accent.

He immediately focuses on my clothes and the fact I like to dress as a girl. I keep my answers as short as possible and have to make him repeat his questions, as I am having trouble deciphering what he is saying. I can see where his thought patterns are headed by the questions he asks. Dr Patel thinks I’m gay with a clothing fetish and it is obvious he isn’t getting it.

After twenty minutes of pointless off-topic questions that I have to get him to say numerous times before I understand what he is asking, we are both getting frustrated and I decide that I have had enough. This doctor is useless and any longer term treatment won’t be worthwhile.

I tell him that this is no use as we are failing to communicate but he insists on continuing, even though he has to repeat himself as he is talking too quickly for me to understand his heavy accent. To prove my point and get my own back I switch to broad Norfolk. Perhaps if he has trouble understanding me, we can end this pretence and I can get somebody decent as a shrink.

I don’t usually have an accent as such, but I can lay it on thick when needed. Actually, I am not very good at it and wouldn’t get away with talking to a true speaker without being laughed at, but for this pillock I am willing to go all out. I therefore not only lay on a broad accent, I also try to use as many localisms as possible, even if not the best grammatical choice.

I slowly drawl, “Hold yer hard, Oi hint driv’ all way hair to hack-slarverin abou’ clobber. Thass hint n’diffus f’ me dressun like a mawther. Do oi do do that signifoi? Wooss thur problem that goo t’er meetin’ tis’a dress? When troshin t’ midder pusshun crud-barrer, oi wear bor clothin’. Hintut puckaterry skirt? Shink. Oi arst that mardle do n’wher cor blast me fare y’ well.”

This seems to annoy the doctor as his head starts wobbling and he rapid fires a load of fast-talking at me that I don’t even try to understand. He then storms out of the room.

For those of you who don’t speak broad Norfolk this translates as, “Hold on, I haven’t driven all the way here to babble about clothing. It isn’t any different for me dressing like a girl. If I do, does it matter? What is the problem if my Sunday best is a dress? When I am working in the meadow pushing a wheelbarrow, I wear boy clothing. Isn’t it more stressful in a skirt? I should think so. I ask you if chatting does not get anywhere then we should say goodbye.”

Okay, so I’m talking nonsense. Nevertheless, it’s had the desired effect. The shrink has left the room and the door is now wide open. I stand and walk to the door where my mother sits waiting outside. She doesn’t look happy about the doctor storming off. I suspect she will blame me for this.

The receptionist comes over and asks, “What on earth did you say to him?”

I repeat my speech, much to the amusement of the people present in the waiting room.

“Yew dint ortera dun that Littl’un,” the receptionist replies in an equally broad accent. [You ought not to have done that, little one.]

“Wus up? His accent was crazing me wick. That’ll larn him to speak proper like what we do,” I reply. [What’s the matter? His accent was getting on my nerves. That will teach him to speak properly as we do.]

“Listun hair yew waarmin, you’ll hoolly cop it when yew git home. Oi’ll ding yer lug, do yew dint stop slaverin’ squit yew duzzy mawther,” my mother says getting in on the act. Although mawther is usually regarded as a derogatory term, I don’t mind because it is exclusively feminine. [Listen here you misbehaving person, you’ll definitely be in for it when you get home. I will smack you in the ear if you don’t stop talking rubbish you silly girl.]

“Seriously, how can he do his job when I can’t answer his questions because I don’t understand a word he says? Okay, I was being awkward by laying it on thick, but how do you expect to work in an area without at least some understanding of the local dialect,” I reply. “Besides which, he wasn’t listening to what I was telling him, and he deliberately annoyed me by calling me by a name I hate. I would like a different shrink. One that I can actually talk to and have a meaningful conversation with, without having to stop every few minutes so that he can repeat himself - preferably someone that will respect and use my preferred name.”

“Leave it with me. I will book you an appointment with Dr George. He’s Norfolk bred and born. You can be as broad as you like with him, he won’t be fazed,” the receptionist tells us. “If you don’t like being called Simon, then I suggest you get your name legally changed. That way nobody has any excuse for using the wrong name.”

I look at my mother, grinning. She sighs and says, “We’ll talk to your father about it when we get home.”

After sorting out the details of my next appointment, we head down to the medical diagnostic ward where I am subjected to various scans and tests including an ultrasound and an MRI of my lower torso.

Our next appointment is to see Dr Truman, who unfortunately deals mainly in prostate conditions. This means that his waiting room is full of older men, and a young girl does seem to be out of place amongst his other patients. We sit patiently and ignore the stares before being called into an examination room.

Dr Truman and a second doctor, Dr Stirzaker, then proceed to prod and poke at me. They have the results of the scans and pulling them up on screen they proceed to point out the scarring. I am once again interviewed about the procedure I performed. Both doctors are impressed with my handiwork and much to my delight; they don’t treat me as an imbecile. Instead, they discuss the results of my operation and the possible implications for reassignment surgery.

At my mother’s request, they examine my chest for signs of breast growth. They agree that I am starting to show signs of female secondary development. We then discuss the cause, as I am surprised that it’s happening so quickly. The one thing the MRI confirmed beyond all doubt is that I am indeed male. There is no sign of female sexual organs so we can rule out me being intersexed.

I have brought with me the herbal remedy that I have managed to purchase. Dr Stirzaker is an endocrinologist so is able to give advice on the hormone replacement that I will need. The initial results from my blood work suggest that as expected my male hormone levels are lower than normal. My levels of estrogens are about halfway between the levels expected for a boy, and a girl undergoing puberty. The herbal remedy has had an effect to boost my natural production.

Dr Stirzaker also suspects that I might have been slightly androgen insensitive, as I should have been showing more signs of male puberty, and it might explain why I appear to be reacting so well to the female hormones, as they aren’t high enough to do what they appear to be doing.

We spend a further ten minutes discussing options as to my treatment. I make it clear that going through a male puberty is not an option, and I will refuse any procedure that tries to correct the deficiency in androgens.

The doctors are initially not happy to proceed without a physiatrist report, but I explain the issues I was having with Dr Patel and that it will be several weeks before I can obtain an appointment with a different shrink. I also point out that actions speak a lot louder than words and that I am deadly serious in my transition. I consider that I have already gone beyond the point of no return and have no inclination to reverse my course.

They are also not happy with me taking self-prescribed remedies off the Internet. The quality control on the tablets is unknown and it cannot be guaranteed that they don’t have dangerous chemicals inside. I successfully argue that I need at least to partially boost my hormones in order to maintain healthy bone growth. I am therefore prescribed a very low dosage oestrogen tablet which will raise my levels, but not far enough to go properly through puberty.

Given my past tendencies for self-medication, my mother is going to be tightly controlling my usage of the tablets so that I’m not tempted to take them faster than I should. I am to be given fortnightly checkups to monitor my condition closely.

I am therefore given a prescription for a half-strength contraceptive pill. They are effectively prescribing me a placebo, as the dosage is too low to have a noticeable effect. I think their main reason for going along with my wishes is psychological. They are worried I might do something stupid if I don’t appear to get my way. Considering I have already self-mutilated and self-medicated, I do have a track record of taking stupid actions, although I prefer to think of them as calculated risks.

I believe the doctors think that I am mentally unstable, having already shown symptoms of being close to a breakdown. If this is the case then I agree with them. I am the first to admit that I am slightly mad. Sanity is not one of my attributes.

It is lunchtime before we finally escape the hospital and head home. I feel satisfied with the results I have obtained. There is some reluctance by the doctors, which I expected, but they are at least going in the direction I desire. They are understandably taking things slowly.

I only have one cottage that must be cleaned today, thankfully, so I’m able to complete the task after a quick lunch in time for our clients to arrive. One of the other cottages is halfway through being rented for a fortnight, and we only do cleaning at the end of a rental. The third cottage is vacant this coming week, so I don’t have to rush to clean it, and it is late afternoon before I start the task.

After finishing the work, this time not using the maid outfit in case I’m seen by the guests, I retire to my room. I have spent the whole day in girl mode, not bothering to change when I came home from the hospital. I have no problem being seen in girl mode, but the maid costume is a bit silly looking and is obviously not designed for practicality.

I stay out of the way, as my relationship with my parents is strained by my current appearance. I feel strange dressing en-femme around them, and they are not used to seeing me as such.

I discuss the possibility of changing my name with my parents. Since I do not intend to remain as a boy, and I’m already living nearly full-time as a girl, it seems logical to make the switch. My mother is reluctant, believing I’m rushing into things. I once again point out that I’ve already made the decision and past the point of no return. I can no longer switch fully back to a boy, even in the extremely unlikely event that I should get second thoughts.

We go online and locate a mail order deed poll service. After following all the instructions, we print and sign the forms ready for submitting by post tomorrow morning. From this point on, I will officially be Miss Jasmine Simone Whittaker. I have decided to keep the feminine version of my old forename as a middle name.

I have an early night, going to bed and reading rather than staying downstairs watching television with my parents. It has been a long, but ultimately fulfilling and positive day.