Easy As Falling Off A Bike pt 1469

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The Daily Dormouse.
(aka Bike)
Part 1469
by Angharad

Copyright © 2011 Angharad
All Rights Reserved.
  
-Dormouse-001.jpg

After dinner I mused upon Stella’s attitude to the cross-dresser she’d mentioned. I began to wonder why she mentioned it to me, after all I hadn’t seen the person concerned, and if I had, what difference would it make? I wasn’t in competition with them or anyone else for that matter. If I had been, who would I have been in competition with? Probably more other women–yeah–other women because that’s how I see myself, as a woman. So that begs the question: why would I be competing with other women? The answer: for attention.

Next question; attention from whom? Answer that would depend upon the situation, but often the competition is to be noticed by men. I am, however, happily married to the nicest one I know, so I don’t need to attract attention there unless I want to wind him up and remind him that there are other men out there who fancy me or perhaps to make other men jealous of him.

Now, I live in the real world and have seven kids to look out for, so I’m not looking to compete with anyone, besides, I’m not that competitive, she lied. I like Si to stroke my ego–I love it when he tells me he thinks I’m beautiful. I don’t believe it, because there are loads more beautiful women out there and some are younger too. The only advantage I have over many, is that I have no tattoos. I think they’re beastly things, and mutilate the wearer–I don’t care if they’re full blown tramp stamps or more discreet little butterflies or rosebuds–I think they look common. Tattoos are for sailors and even there they look horrible. So Angelina Jolie or Megan Fox may be prettier than I, but I’m afraid I think they look like Popeye with their inky detractions.

Sermon over, I sorted out the kitchen and unloaded the dishwasher–it was making some funny noises so we might well need to engineer to come and look at it. I mentioned it to Tom who suggested as it was seven or eight years old, it may need replacement. That was my thought as well, and as we use it more than him, considered I should pay for the new one.

I spoke to Simon in bed about this and he was quite brisk in telling me to buy what I wanted, “We’re hardly short of readies are we–so just get on and replace it.”

“Is that what you’ll do to me when I get to my sell by date?” I asked him, thinking again about competition–should I be more aware of the opposition out there, after all, he’d be quite a catch.

“Yeah, sure it is–I already went online and ordered your replacement–they’re just growing her now.”

“Growing her?” I sat up and stared at him.

“Yeah, a sort of bio-robot.”

“An android?”

“Is that what you call ’em?”

“In science fiction it is.”

“Yeah, well I’ve ordered one that shags like bunny, cooks like Delia Smith, presents like a super model, and does what she’s told.”

“A Stepford wife?”

“A what?”

“The sci-fi film, The Stepford Wives, Stepford was a place where all the women were totally compliant to their husbands and looked like they’d stepped out of a beauty parlour.”

“Sounds good to me.” He smirked and I felt like hitting him.

“If you like women like that, why did you marry me?” I pouted coming close to a full blown sulk.

“You were available.”

“Is that it? I was available?”

“Yeah, course.”

“You’re not just winding me up are you?”

“Now why would I do that?”

“Because it’s an inherited trait in a family of psychopaths.”

“Nah–I mean that might be true, but my conscience pricks me every so often, so I can’t be a psycho.”

“And it would prick you if you dumped me for a beautiful yes-woman?”

“Eventually, yeah.”

I was pretty sure he was messing with me, but just that tiny smidgeon of doubt–make that self-doubt–meant I wasn’t completely sure. It also explained why I burst into tears and fled to the bathroom.

“Oh shit, what have I done now?” I heard him say as I shut the door rather more noisily than I usually do.

I heard him tap lightly on the door, “I was joking, Cathy, c’mon, come back to bed.”

I sat on the loo sniffing and sobbing. Why did these things happen to me–I mean, why do I get upset by them–I thought he was probably joking, so why am I feeling this pain inside me as if he’d shoved a knife in me? Why do I need him to say he loves me and that he thinks I’m beautiful? Am I that insecure? Perhaps I am–oh boy.

“Please come out and back to bed–I love you, Cathy and I’m sorry I joked like that. I thought you’d appreciate I was pulling your leg. I married you because I love you–without you I’d be lost. I think you’re beautiful and very sexy–come on out and I’ll prove it to you.”

What–he thinks after taking the piss I’ll come out and let him maul me about so he can prove how much he loves me? Sod that for a game of soldiers. He can cwtch me but that’s about it.

I wiped my eyes had a quick wee and washed my hands, then came out of the bathroom. I said nothing but got into the bed and lay on my side facing away from him.

“Aw c’mon, babes, I said I was sorry.”

“Just hold me,” I said, and felt my eyes fill with tears again.

He lay beside me and put his arm round me, “I love you, babes, you know that.”

“Sometimes I wonder if you do.”

“I hope we’re not going down the road of you not being a real woman again, are we?”

“Is that what you think?” I sniffed–he must be if he mentioned it.

“No, and I’ve lost count of the times I’ve told you that. You’re a woman, you’re beautiful, I married you and I love you–is that good enough for you? Why do we have to have this discussion about once every month–I don’t change my mind you know–leastways, not about you. You are the only constant in my life, which would be over without you and our children. Does that convince you?”

I didn’t know if it did that, but it certainly made me cry.

“How can I convince you?” he said after holding me sobbing for several minutes.

“I don’t know,” I sobbed back to him.

“I know it’s a sensitive point for you–but I do love you and I do consider you a woman, female, however you want to define it. You have a piece of paper–no–you have two bits which say you’re legally female and a whole family who agree with them.

“You have men leching after you on telly and I’ve seen it for real when you dress up. So why don’t you dress up tomorrow and I’ll take you out for dinner and we can make the whole world jealous.”

“No thanks.” I felt it was a consolation prize or peace offering to distract me. Yes, he knew I had a sensitive point about my biological sex, so why did he play on it? He knew I had little confidence when challenged by him or the others I love and trust and how much it hurts me–so why did he do it? If he loved me as much as he purports–why does he do it? And why do I let him? Why do I fall apart when he does it? I thought I was secure in myself–I have no illusions about myself–I know who I am and what I am–so why does it happen?

I know I can’t change the past, and although I live in stealth as a married woman, I still fear disclosure–why I don’t know. Everyone who’s important to me knows anyway.

I ran through some memories of facing down students and others who’d as good as accused me of being a man or a freak. I asserted myself challenged them to say exactly what they were thinking and each one of them backed down–saying they were mistaken or if I had been a man, which they doubted, I’d made the right choice in becoming a woman. I felt like I wanted to assert that challenge again–only to Simon. I turned over to face him and he rolled over onto his back and began to snore...

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