Risks!

Fiction by Johnny Cumlately

I've always been a risk taker and this has sometimes got me into trouble and for many years I have been an active transvestite. I am also something of a loner and in view of what has happened, perhaps that was just as well.

I used to love the risk of discovery when going out dressed. I am fairly small — 5 foot 7 and only 112 pounds with naturally light brown hair — and found it fairly easy to wear a wig, falsies and a little padding over my hips. I became quite knowledgeable about make-up and, although I say it myself, presented as quite an attractive woman. I loved it. But above all it was the risks involved which really added to the excitement.

I acquired quite a large and varied wardrobe and wore anything from light summer dresses or shorts to winter warmers — sweaters and slacks. Footwear ranged from 5 inch heels to brightly coloured wellies. But always underneath I wore a “SheMale” chastity belt. It had cost me a small fortune and became a very treasured possession. I found it secure (although I held the key myself) and preferable to hiding things away with a gaffe.

By the time I turned 40, I had had a variety of different jobs. I lived alone in a luxurious apartment and but never seemed to be able to earn enough to satisfy my chosen life-style. So it was that I answered a job advert at a salary almost three times my then earnings. It was as Catering Manager to a small diplomatic mission for 12 months in Kabul, Afghanistan. The location was the obvious reason for the high salary on offer. I had worked in several hotels and restaurants and was confident of being able to meet the job requirements. I was offered the contract and signed up without really considering the risks involved.

I realised that I would have to forego the pleasures of cross dressing. Even for me the risks would have been too high in a Muslim country. However, I packed my CB and some frilly panties and was delighted to find, once there, that day to day security, though strict, did not involve airline type scanners! I found that I could wear the CB which was unlikely to be discovered. The fact that I had no key-holder did not concern me. I did not have one at home anyway. I was careful to avoid any personal contact although one or two ex-pat female staff made quite obvious advances!

I soon settled into the work which I found both challenging and enjoyable. An apartment went with the job, as did a small car to enable me to commute across the city to the base.

It was just three weeks from the end of my contract when my luck finally seemed to run out and I found myself coming round in an American military hospital. A young doctor was leaning over me. “Hello. You awake now? Do you know what happened?”

I shook my head. “You're car was booby trapped. The good news is that you have been very lucky to survive with no life-threatening injuries and we should have you up and about in a couple of weeks. The bad news — (the doctor winked at me) or perhaps in view of what you were wearing you might find it good news — is that you're cock and balls were blown off. You owe your life to that nice chastity belt which took the full force of the explosion. And I'm afraid we had to throw out those little frilly panties with the remains of the belt.”

I soon discovered that all the nurses had been acutely interested in my predicament, but there was no way I was going to pretend to be embarrassed and managed to put a brave face on it.

Over the next two or three days, I asked a lot of questions and managed to piece together what had happened. The previous day, my car had been in for service and someone had placed a small anti-personnel device under the drivers seat. I always made a habit of looking under the car for bombs but never imagined one would have been put inside. Fortunately it had failed to explode fully but it must only have been about two inches from my crotch. I suffered a lot of bruising and loss of blood but help had arrived quickly.

The pain eased off after a few days and when I was allowed to see the damage, it was clear that the surgeons had done a wonderful job. I certainly now had no cock or balls, but I secretly had to admire my lovely smooth crotch. Later, I was also very relieved to find that I could still control my bladder, although peeing was a bit messy and, of course, I need to sit on the toilet. That was something I was used to anyway when wearing the belt.

As predicted, recovery was surprisingly quick and I was soon looking forward to flying home. I was also looking forward to getting back to my wardrobe and an idea began to form in my mind. Maybe the doctor had guessed right!

By the time I got off the plane, I had made a major decision. I would in future live as a female. After all, my manhood had been blown away so I was already half way there. I had only a couple of remote cousins as relations and few friends, most of whom were in “the scene”. And I had been away from home for a whole year anyway. I knew there would be complications but once again, I was keen to take the risk.

In spite of all the things to be done when I reached my flat, my very first priority was that Johnny should become Elizabeth, which was the femme name I had used before. I had a long hot bath and shaved my legs before collapsing into bed in a silk nightie. I felt quite emotional but was soon asleep, tired after the long journey.

Next morning, it was wonderful to dress without the need to hide any “bits”. Frilly bra and panties seemed even more right now. But with jobs to do, I settled for practical clothes — blue jeans with a white top and white strappy sandals. Falsies, of course, and I still needed my wig as my hair had not had time to grow long enough to be styled.

I had written to my friendly landlord warning him that I might have changed a lot in appearance while I was away. He had kept an eye on my flat and, until recently, forwarded any mail which looked important. He came to welcome me home and to check that all was well and was clearly taken aback by the woman who answered his knock on the door. “Hello! Is Johnny home?” He paused with a slightly puzzled expression, “Wow! You are Johnny! You did say you had changed but I thought you just meant that you would be suntanned with a beard or something.”

I assured him that I used to be Johnny but would he please now call me Elizabeth? Or perhaps just Bessy for short. Bless him! He was too discrete to ask for details!

It did not take long for the complications to arise. I knew that my passport would always describe me as male but there were things like the photo on my driving licence. And the bank wanted all sorts of security information before they would change the name on the account and give me new credit cards and a new cheque book.

I had stopped taking the testosterone pills the American hospital had provided and needed to buy oestrogen instead. And until I had a new credit card, I could not even order things on the internet. I decided to take my doctor into my confidence. Once he had got over his surprise and been told about my bomb injury and I had explained how I had always been a transvestite, he agreed to refer me to a gender reassignment clinic and wrote out a prescription for me in the meantime. That was one hurdle overcome. But I never did bother with the clinic!

One piece of luck was finding a suitable job. I soon found that my savings from Afghanistan would not last for ever and the local college of adult education advertised for a manager for the refectory. My experiences in Afghanistan almost exactly matched their job spec and I was duly appointed as manageress but not before I had come clean about my gender and been able to offer references as Johnny.

The catalogue of problems, mostly small but annoying, was long and tedious. But the main thing was that I was happy in my new self. Yes! I had taken another big risk but I could see light at the end of the tunnel. I had absolutely no regrets and celebrated by disposing of all my old male clothes. I redecorated my flat using more feminine décor and was surprised that I quickly made new friends, mostly straight females who seemed to accept me without question.

With the new pills. I soon began to notice small bodily changes and knew it a just a matter of time before I had a visibly female body.

And, here I am, a year after the bomb injuries. I have long wavy shoulder length hair and wear a 36C bra filled with my very own boobs. In most ways, I have become a typical unattached 40 something female. And that is exactly what I want to be.

So I now sign off as Elizabeth Cumlately.

May 2012

[email protected]