I awoke with a start. It took me a few moments to get my bearings — I was back in my room. My brain felt a bit fuzzy; probably as a result of whatever the doctor injected me with. I rubbed the spot where the hypo had made contact. There was no soreness, nor any bumps on the skin.

After a few moments, my head cleared. I ran my hand down the length of my arm and marveled at how sensitive it felt. I could feel just the finest hairs, almost more like very fine peach fuzz. I recalled when I had rather thick hair there. It seemed like yesterday, but I knew that wasn’t right.

I turned the bedside light on, and looked around for a clock. I didn’t locate one, but there was a note on the night table. I leaned over a bit and retrieved it. Opening it, I read:

     Sorry about having to sedate you. It seemed the most prudent course of action — some guests here”... I snorted at the word ‘guests’ ...“have become violent, or physically ill, upon learning their fate. We can talk later.

     Meanwhile, I recommend viewing a bit more about your future home. You will find a remote in the nightstand. Its operation is self explanatory — just follow the menu cues on the screen.

     Give me a call when you have reviewed all the information available on the television.

     Regards

     Phil Westham

I reread the note, and then tore it up into tiny pieces. I deposited the small pile of scrap paper onto the table. I just sort of sat there for a few moments, still not believing what was happening. My emotions quickly rotated between sadness, disbelief, and anger. I wasn’t capable of rational thought for what felt like hours, but was probably only a minute or two.

When my brain stopped chasing itself and settled down, I thought about my life. I focused on my behaviours and actions that seemed to mark me as a prime candidate for this demented program.

Just after puberty started, I discovered the joys of masturbation. Just like any other teenaged boy, I’m sure. But unlike other guys in that age bracket, I soon found myself wondering what sex was like for females. I would look at the pictures in my dad’s porno mags while wanking off, and pretend that I was one of those women.

Soon after, I began pilfering or borrowing women’s clothing at any opportunity I had. I would wear them while stroking myself. I was amazed at the feel of bras and panties. It was weird, though — as soon as I had achieved gratification, I wanted nothing to do with those clothes. I’d return them, or hide them, or throw them away. I wouldn’t necessarily feel bad or guilty about it — I just went back to being a normal teenage boy again.

As I got into my twenties, and started dating, the urge to dress subsided a bit. But soon, the novelty of making love to women soon wore off. I would still spend time making sure that whatever girlfriend I had was satisfied, but when she was out, I’d end up in her clothes when I had the urge for sexual relief.

A bit later on, I discovered the internet. Wow! The pictures were amazing. The only limit was one’s imagination. What I found most fascinating were the pre-op transsexuals. They were so femme, and yet retained that important piece of equipment. I found my fantasies shifting that way. What if I could be a TS? That would be amazing! Still, one thing remained. I only wanted that while I was engaged in auto erotica. As soon as I hit orgasm, the urge went away.

After all, their lives couldn’t be all that pleasant. They were stuck in bodies that they didn’t want. They were most likely ostracized by family and friends, when they began to transition. They could even be the subject of violence in certain circumstances.

Then there was that whole female angle — the clothes, the make-up, the rules, the way women talked about nothing, society’s view of them. That would get pretty old, pretty fast. No, I would just hide in my little fantasy world, and dream of almost being a woman when I needed to. I’d be a normal guy the rest of the time, and that would be that.

My anger rose to the surface. Now, it seems, I no longer had the option. It was being taken away from me, due to the actions of people who weren’t even born yet. The doctor and his dictatorial bosses were robbing me of my life, and I grew more enraged by the second. I sat there and steamed about it, until I finally couldn’t stand it any more. I got out of bed, and stomped over the bathroom. I turned the lights on as I walked over to the full length mirror.

I just stood there, looking at myself for what seemed like forever. My pretty face. My stick like arms, which looked like they contained no muscle at all. My chest, which I could almost swear had grown since I looked at it last. The very faint curve of my hips. Besides a penis, there was basically no trace left of me. The old me. The male me.

My fury, which had been building up since I had woke up, was finally released. An unintelligible scream escaped from my mouth. My right fist moved with speed that surprised me and made contact with the mirror. It disintegrated into a thousand small pieces, like safety glass in a car window.

My rage, unabated, went with me into the living area. I picked up the lamp off the night table and threw it at the far wall. It made a thump as it impacted, then fell to the floor. It lay there, still shining. Next, I picked up the night stand, and tossed it towards the blinds. The drawer opened up in mid-flight, spilling its contents en route. The table hit the blinds, then the carpet, with a thud. I grabbed the edge of the mattress and flipped it over.

My trip over to the closet didn’t help my mood — it contained absolutely nothing masculine. Dresses, slacks, skirts and blouses were quickly tossed to the floor. I shattered the other mirror — the one on the inside of the closet door. The dresser’s contents soon joined the other clothes on the carpet — panties and bras, along with pantyhose and stockings. I tipped the dresser over, as it was too large to pick up and toss.

My rage spent, I surveyed the mess I made. I crossed the room to see what damage the night table had done to the window. None — there was no window behind the blinds, just wall. Other than the two mirrors which broke in a safe fashion, I had really not accomplished anything, except to make a mess.

I walked over to the sofa, and fell face down on to its soft cushions. I lay there for a few moments, my mind a blank, and my emotions in turmoil. My anger was almost gone, and my disbelief was dissipating rapidly. This was real, it seemed. That only left the sorrow and the sadness. I shifted to my side, and then curled up into a ball. I tried to hold them back, but the tears came; slowly at first, and then in a torrent. I lay there sobbing, and asking “Why me?” over and over again.

I jumped slightly as I felt a hand on my head. I looked up, and through my tears, saw Dr. Westham. He gazed down at me, and asked with a smile “Bit of mess you’ve made here, eh?” I just nodded slightly, and continued to cry. “It’s okay,” he said, as he stroked my hair. “It will all work out. You’ll see”.

Gradually my crying stopped, and I slowly drifted into an exhausted sleep.