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We were making love for the first time in more than two weeks, an unusually long break for us caused by a combination of incompatible work schedules and her monthly rhythms. Now here we were making up for the interruption and something different and unprecedented was happening to me.

My whole body seemed to be on fire with small electric shocks jolting through me, my skin an organ of its own. Sort of like the feeling you get when you light up your first cigarette in a week, when your skin tingles all over, but multiplied by one hundred or maybe even one thousand. I was lying in bed naked, on my back, my darling on top of me, and I looked down to see the nipple on my right breast standing upright like the eraser on the end of a pencil and just as long and hard. As Lucy caressed it between her thumb and forefinger my whole body twitched as nerve endings sent strange new signals. I couldn’t see the left one as she was nibbling and sucking on it as hard as she could, but I knew it was at least as hard and stiff as the other. I was writhing uncontrollably as the sensations seemed to focus on my groin and my cock stood up as hard as a rock. Then without a touch, I ejaculated. I came and came and came. The feeling was unlike any normal release. Every bone and muscle contracted with the spasm. Nothing like this had ever happened to me before and I lay there gasping and shuddering, spent but somehow craving more, wondering where this fantastic orgasm had come from.

“God, darling, how did that happen?” I managed to pant, when I came back down to earth.

“Wasn’t it great? Did you like it? I think it’s fantastic,” she said when she released my nipple from her mouth, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

“Like it? Wow! Yes, but I’ve never felt anything like that before. Where did it come from? What’s happening to me?”

“Let’s talk about that later. Right now I think you’d better go and have a shower and get dressed.”

I did as she said and went into my bathroom. I tucked my hair into the shower-cap, stepped into the cubicle and turned on the water. As I soaped my chest my nipples were quite tender and a little sore, but they got rock-hard again and grew to the size of that pencil eraser. I could have sworn they were nearly half an inch long. As I rubbed them the sensation almost drove me mad, making me feel sexy in a completely different way from normal and then I came again, shuddering all over. When I finished showering I dried myself off, carefully patting my chest, and looked at myself in the mirror. My nipples certainly looked bigger than I remembered and the aureoles seemed bigger too, a deeper chocolate colour against the paleness of my chest,and there was a bit of puffiness there too, or was I just imagining things? Thinking about it I realized that they had become gradually more sensitive over the past few weeks, but it had sort of sneaked up on me until today when they were totally unprotected from the attention they had received.

I began to get dressed. I slipped on a suspender belt, a pair of panties and a bra, all white, putting in my falsies and applying some spirit gum on each side to fix them in place and stop them from shifting. I then put on a white knit roll-neck top with long sleeves that flared a little at the wrists. After a practiced rollup I stepped into and pulled on a pair of nylons, fastening them to my suspender belt with the hangers next to my skin underneath the panties before donning a burgundy-coloured slim-line calf-length pencil skirt with a slip lining and a rear slit that allowed me to walk with enticingly small steps. I hadn’t worn it for a couple of weeks and it seemed to be tighter round my hips than I remembered. Perhaps I was putting on some weight, I thought, but the waist still fitted just fine. In fact it looked better than normal and I was pleased with how it looked. Usually I had to wear my padded girdle to get that smooth curve that I craved, and although it gave me the desired appearance, wearing it made going to the toilet a real chore, so by preference I wore the suspender belt and panties.

Sitting down at my dressing table I began to carefully apply my make-up. I was conscientious about it, not only because I was going to go to work later but also because I liked doing it. I just knew it made me look so much prettier and, also because Lucy would always inspect me to make sure I was up to her standards. Next was a pair of dangly crystal earrings and I turned my head back and forth a few times to see them sway enticingly and to feel and admire them, then brushed out my hair and sprayed it into place. I checked my nails and decided they didn’t need any repairs, so I finished off with a small gold watch, a bracelet, and a thin gold necklace with a cross pendant. A few steps to the wardrobe to select and pull on a pair of white winkle-picker-toed sling-back shoes with a four-inch stiletto heel, since I wouldn’t have to worry about my height tonight. I do admit to loving heels as they make me feel really feminine and make my legs look good, and I do have good legs, even if I say so myself.

I stood and examined myself in the full-length mirror and liked the slim, tall girl reflected back at me, as I turned from side to side to make sure everything was in order. It was a requirement of my job that I dress smartly and I thought I looked both smart and elegant. I couldn't help but smile at my reflection, and she smiled back at me.I liked to kid myself that I looked a little like Jean Shrimpton...well, only a little.... maybe it was my hairstyle.

I titivated for a few more seconds, adjusting my skirt and top, and, when I was satisfied I grabbed a black leather jacket and a large white handbag, into which I stuffed my emergency repair kit and my purse and sashayed into the living-room with the delicate shortened steps that were all that the hobble skirt and heels permitted, to wait for my love. She came in barely a minute later. Tonight she was dressed completely in black, a figure-hugging dress with a boat neck and a knee-length skirt, black stockings and patent leather high-heels setting off her beautiful blonde hair. She was carrying a black woollen coat and a matching patent leather handbag. As usual, my heart skipped a beat when I saw her. Oh, how I loved her. She really was the centre of my universe.

“Well,” I said, “Are you going to tell me what’s happening to me?” It never occurred to me that she might not know.

“On second thoughts, Suzie, I think we should talk about it in the morning. We haven’t really got time to discuss it properly before we go to work. Anyway, it’s really nothing to worry about, so just relax and we’ll get to it later,”

I really didn’t mind waiting too much, as I loved discussing things in bed with her. We always seemed to agree things much more easily there, especially when we made love. So, anyway, off we went to work. We both worked at the Lyric Theatre in London’s West End (Shaftesbury Avenue actually). She was the principal make-up artiste and I was the cloakroom girl. My job might not sound like much but it was the best-paying job I had ever had, two pounds ten shillings a night plus tips. Lucy got thirty pounds a week but she really didn’t need it as she had money from her grandparents and a divorce settlement as well. She did it because she liked it.

The night at the theatre was normal. We had a hit and standing room only so things were a bit hectic. I helped out in the bar in the interval..always a mad rush... and it was 11 o’clock before I finished in the cloakroom. I remember I made nearly thirty shillings in tips that night. Afterwards we went for a couple of drinks with some of the back-of-house staff and a handful of the actors. Everybody as usual just treated me as the girl I appeared to be and we had a fun time until about one thirty.

Later Lucy and I went back to our flat and after showering we slipped on our nighties, climbed into bed together and slept. I woke at about 9 a.m. and made breakfast as usual and she gave me my glass of milk and the vitamins she always insisted I take. That made me feel like I was still at school but after nearly two years I was used to it. I knew she only did it for my own good. She had introduced me to all sorts of things I was ignorant about before I came to live with her, like washing my hair with shampoo and conditioner and flossing between my teeth, not to mention all the things that I needed to know about being a girl.

After we had eaten I cleaned away the dirty dishes and she said to me;

“Come back to bed and we’ll have a little fun.”

Off came our nighties and we started to play with each other. She liked being on top so when I had warmed her up with my tongue to her satisfaction she lowered herself slowly down on me and started playing with my nipples again. I couldn’t help myself. I began to buck like a horse being spurred. I was totally out of my mind, twitching and shuddering and thrusting into her as hard as I could go until we both exploded in one fantastic burst and lay there gasping for breath. God, my nipples were just so sensitive, and I thought I could get used to this very easily.

When I could talk coherently I said to her, “You have to tell me what’s happening to me. It’s fantastic, but why has it never happened before?”

“Darling, don’t worry. It’s just a natural part of the process of you becoming a girl.”

“What do you mean?” I asked stupidly, not understanding at all.

“Well, as the hormones start to work you will become more and more feminine. Your nipples and aureoles are the first sign. Soon your breasts will start to grow and I think maybe your hips and bum have already begun to develop a little. Your skin is already softer and will get softer still and you will get less hairy. As a side effect you will become more emotional for a while. In fact I’m sure you already are. I don’t want you worrying about any of this. You’ll love it when you’re all girl and I can hardly wait until you’re fully developed. I just know you will be absolutely stunning. In a couple of years you’ll be able to wear really low-cut necklines if you like. Maybe we’ll even get you some implants. You’d really like that, wouldn’t you? And just think of the tight skirts that will hug your hips and show off that lovely bum.”

“Hormones? But I’m not on hormones.” I was really flummoxed.

“Yes, you are, my darling. I started you on a proper dosage over two months ago.”

A block of ice settled in my gut and my skin crawled. My stomach turned over and I thought I was going to be sick. I began to shake and had to stop myself from hyper-ventilating.

“But why?” I got out when I had myself under control again. By this time she had me in her arms and was making soothing noises to calm me. “And how did you get them?” As if it mattered.

“There, there, Suzie. There’s no call to get upset. Relax now and I’ll explain. As to where I got them, that’s simple. A pharmacist friend of mine supplies them. They’re actually used in low dosages to treat severe acne. I’ve been giving them to you at that level since we came to London to make sure your skin stayed nice and clear. You must have noticed that you rarely get pimples like you used to when you were still a boy. I’ve upped the dosage over the last couple of months to make you more feminine because I felt you had settled in nicely to being a girl and we wouldn’t want you to develop any gross male characteristics, would we now?”

I was somewhat calmer now and absorbed what she said. When I thought about it I realized that she was right about my skin. Until about a year ago I had been prone to get pimples and I hadn’t had any for months. In fact my skin looked great, but I had put this down to the use of cleansing creams since I was regularly wearing makeup. Nothing had seemed any different over the last couple of months except that maybe I had become a bit more emotional and, of course, now I knew why my nipples were so sensitive and my hips and bum had started to grow. My brain was in a whirl. I didn’t know what to think.

I repeated myself, “But why, Lucy? Surely I was all right as I was, and why didn’t you ask me?”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, sweetie. You can’t just go on the way you are. If you’re going to continue as a girl you have to become a real girl, and the reason I didn’t tell you is because you’re such a sissy when it comes to making decisions.”

“I am NOT a sissy, why would you call me that? “ I said, with my lower lip trembling, “and you should have asked me.”

“OK, darling, tell me what you are then. You’re lying here in bed with me with your long hair done in a nice feminine style, trimmed and shaped eyebrows, long fingernails, toenails and fingernails all varnished in scarlet and you’ve got a boy’s body except for slightly enlarged nipples and hips. So what does that make you?”

“I’m a-a-a-a. Oh, you’re not fair. I-I-I don’t know what I am, but a sissy is just…” and I burst into tears. She cuddled me again and stroked my hair.

“Sssh, my love. I’m sorry, I shouldn't have called you that but at the moment you’re neither one thing nor the other. Just think, when you get dressed you will put on a bra and panties and put in falsies to give you a bust line. You’ll wear a suspender belt and stockings, a pretty dress or skirt and blouse with high-heeled shoes. You’ll make up your face, do your hair and wear some jewellery and generally make sure you look like a beautiful girl, and that’s what the world will see and that’s what you want them to see. You walk and move like a girl. You talk like a girl. You act like a girl. Your own mind tells you you're a girl. So wouldn’t it be better if your body matched your appearance? You know you love being a girl and it's what you've always wanted. You don’t want to go back to being a boy, do you?”

“No, you know I don’t, but it scares me, becoming a girl for real. I thought you loved me as I am. What about my willie? How will we make love? And I wouldn’t be like this if you hadn’t encouraged me.”

“I admit I “encouraged“ you to do something you were dying to do but were too scared to try, but you have to agree you love it and I never forced you to do anything you didn’t want to. Of course your willie will shrink and maybe not stand up any more but there are lots of other ways for us to make love, and I do love you. I’m doing this for you because I‘m sure you will be happier in the long run. There’s no need for you to be scared. I promise I’ll look after you, just like I have ever since we met.”

“But I love making love to you. What if you don’t like me when I’m a real girl?”

“I will, silly. I want you to be one hundred percent girl and I’ll love you even more when you’re totally happy with yourself. The last thing either of us want is you turning into a boy again.”

“Do you promise? You’ll never ever leave me? I wouldn’t know what to do without you.”

“I promise. Now be a good girl and do what I tell you.”

“All right.” I said. I still wasn’t convinced but I needed time to think and she always seemed so reasonable, while I got confused and tangled up, so I let my natural cowardice take over and postponed thinking about my situation until later.

Three days went past and, while everything was normal on the surface, my mind was chewing away while I continued to be a good girl and took my “vitamins” (most of them were actual vitamins. I checked) knowing I had to make a decision that would decide the rest of my life. Finally there was a day when I didn’t have to work and Lucy not only had to do two shows but also had some personal business to attend to and was out of the flat at 10 a.m. She would not return until maybe midnight. After she kissed me goodbye I went into my bedroom and got out all my mementos and photos of our relationship since we first met and sat down to consider what had happened between us. My first thought was that for me, up to now, it had almost been a 'fairy tale' come true and scarcely believable. I had never been as happy as I was in the last two years and I didn't want my happiness to end.

The first picture I looked at was of me, two years ago at 17, looking slightly nervous. It had been taken just before I met her. I was a skinny boy, weighing in at 133 lbs and 5 feet 10 inches tall. If I turned sideways I looked like a head on a broomstick. Years later I would realize that I was actually quite good looking in an androgynous sort of way, but that was with the benefit of some more maturity and, at the time, it never crossed my mind. All I knew was that from the age of about 14 I got hit upon by gay men (they weren’t called gay then; they were queers or bum boys or poofs) while girls generally ignored me or, if they noticed me at all, thought I wasn’t manly enough or I was sweet or, worse, pretty. Consequently, I didn’t have many girlfriends. It was also possible that some sixth sense told them that I wasn’t entirely normal.

My deepest darkest secret was that I had been dressing in my mother’s clothes at every opportunity since I was eleven years old. I didn’t know why I did it but I loved the feelings I got when dressed as a girl and even though my mother was the most unglamorous woman you could imagine I still envied her for being able to wear dresses and skirts and wished I could have been her daughter so that I could dress and be accepted as a girl. I would go green with envy when I saw pretty girls with lovely clothes and hairstyles and I knew deep inside that this was what I should have been. All these factors probably contributed to my raging inferiority complex.

I had left school some months before the snap was taken in a fit of teenage rebellion and had got a job as a Tracer, which was a kind of assistant draughtsman, a job that probably doesn’t even exist any more in the computer age. It was mind-numbingly boring and I was being paid the magnificent wage of four pounds two shillings a week. The only reason I stuck with it was that it gained me entry to the technical college where I hoped to learn real engineering. So it wasn't too surprising that I did not look particularly happy in that photo.

I remembered vividly the day that we met. It was a wet Saturday morning in early September 1959 and I was sitting in a Brighton coffee bar nursing a coffee and reading a book, just killing time, when a female voice said; “Excuse me, it’s awfully crowded in here. Do you mind if I share your table?”

I looked up and saw this gorgeous woman who was probably in her mid-twenties. My first reaction was that she must be speaking to someone else and I looked over my shoulder, but there was nobody behind me.

“I’m sorry, you surprised me,” I replied, flustered. “No, of course I don’t mind. Please sit down.” And I got up, as one did for ladies in those days, and held a seat back for her.

“Thank you so much. I hope I’m not interrupting you?” She smiled at me as I sat down again.

“My pleasure.” I said, taking my own seat again and expecting that to be the end of the conversation.

“What are you reading? Is it any good?”

“Oh, it’s just a science-fiction magazine. It’s OK I guess.” I think I probably blushed like a lobster at being engaged by this blonde vision, elegantly dressed in a royal-blue dress under her trench-coat style raincoat.

“I don’t mind science-fiction,” she said, “but I’ve just read this wonderful book called “Lord of the Rings”. Have you heard of it?”

Of course I had, and it immediately came to me that she could have been Galadriel, tall and slender as she was. I couldn’t tell her that, naturally. I could only think it.

“I‘ve read it too. Yes, it’s a great book.”

We chatted about passages and story lines and characters for several minutes and then the conversation drifted onto more personal lines. She introduced herself as Lucy and told me she had just moved to Brighton to take up a job in one of our local theatres as a make-up assistant for the coming Christmas season. In no time at all, my usual shyness forgotten, I was telling her about myself, my job, my life and generally gushing. She said that she had never actually been to Brighton before, even though it was only 50 miles from London and she asked me if I would mind showing her around a bit.

Mind? Mind? I couldn’t believe that this beautiful woman was asking me to escort her around in public, and agreed to meet her in this same coffee bar the next morning. Suddenly, over two hours had flown by and she had to go, leaving me sitting there dazed and stunned, mind in a whirl and already in love. As I gradually came back to earth I asked myself who I was kidding. I’d probably never see her again. She was just passing the time and she wouldn’t turn up the next day.

But I couldn’t take the chance, so I turned up early and lurked out of sight across the street to see if she would come. She was already there! My heart raced as I nonchalantly sauntered across the road trying to look as if everything was normal (as 17-year-olds do) and entered the café. She greeted me with a brilliant smile.

“Hello, John. I’m so glad you came. I thought I might have come on too strong yesterday and scared you off.”

And then we were away again, chatting as if we had known each other for years. She had this gift for relaxing me and getting through my normal defences. I took her for a walk along the promenade, past the Palace Pier and the West Pier to the Peace Statue at the boundary between Brighton and Hove (actually).She slipped her arm into mine and leaned into me like she was really my girlfriend. We went down onto the beach and threw pebbles into the water and laughed at how people came here to sit on the stones and dip themselves in the nearly freezing sea, assuming that the sun made an appearance now and again.

Later we had lunch in a nice little café. I should be able to remember which one, but I can’t. I was lost in her presence, but she paid and I wasn’t embarrassed. After lunch we walked again, with her hanging on to my arm again. She showed me where her flat was, in Black Lion Street in The Lanes, about five minutes walk from the coffee bar and the same from the theatre where she worked. Then it was over and she asked me to meet her the next Saturday, to which I agreed of course and floated off at least a foot off the ground.

The next several weeks went by in a blur. I took her on the bus to the villages of Patcham and Rottingdean, along the cliffs east of Black Rock, around the Royal Pavilion and Old Steine. We went to the cinema several times, and even rode the midget railway along the seafront. This occupied every Saturday and Sunday during that time.

Then one day, in early November, in our favourite coffee bar, she said she wanted to ask me to do something for her.

“Please don’t take this wrong, darling John, but I want you to move in and live with me. The way things are now, between your job and mine we only get to see each other at weekends and it’s not enough for me. I’m seriously asking you to give up that awful job of yours and come and live with me and look after my flat and help me with my household chores and shopping and suchlike. I’m more than happy to pay you and it’ll give us a lot more time together. I have a spare bedroom and you’re welcome to use it. For me, it’ll be so nice to come home to a friend and not be lonely and to have someone I trust looking after me.”

My mind was doing cartwheels at the prospect, because after the past weeks I was head-over-heels in love with her. I could hardly believe what she was saying to me.

“What would I have to do for you? What will I tell my parents?”

“Well, I’d like you to clean and cook, do the laundry, and shop for daily stuff, and just be there for me when I come home. I know it doesn’t sound that special but you would really help me because I’ll be working most evenings. As for your parents, that’s up to you of course, but you could tell them you are going to share a flat with friends. That would be true in a way, except that I’m only one friend, and maybe you could tell them that you’ve got a better job or been promoted. From what you’ve said I know you have been dying to leave home and I want you as company and a nice face to come home to and share my day with. I’ve been putting a bit of thought into this and I can pay you ten pounds a week and include board and lodging. Please say yes. You’ll make me very happy.”

“But I don’t know much about housework. I can do a bit of cleaning and I know how to shop but cooking and laundry are new to me.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll teach you in no time, and I bet you’ll even enjoy it.”

Of course I would, living with her and looking after her. I thought about it for all of thirty seconds just so as not to appear too eager.

“OK, yes, I'd love it. When do I start?”

“How about two weeks today? That’ll give you time to get organized and quit your job and we’ll have you in over a month before Christmas, so you’ll be well and truly settled.”

With the deal agreed she leaned across the table and gave me a big kiss and grasped my hands in both of hers. That almost stopped my heart right there, but it kept beating and after a few minutes I could breathe again.

During the next two weeks I made all the arrangements. I told my parents I was going to share a flat with some friends, without mentioning that it was one female friend, since in those days that would be called living in sin. I said I had got a better-paying job, which meant I could afford it, sort of implying that it was in draughting without actually saying so. I think they were actually quite relieved that I was getting off my backside and doing something. I hadn’t been the best company since I left school so they really didn’t mind me leaving home. I gave the required notice to my employers to quit my job and finished on the Friday. I moved in with Lucy the next day.

During the next few weeks she taught me the basics of housework, some of which I actually did know from helping my mum. She was far more particular than my mother and had higher standards for washing up and mopping and cleaning and dusting, and she wasn’t backward in telling me if I hadn’t done some task to her satisfaction. She was firm, not nasty, and I wanted to please her, so if she wanted something done better I just did it without argument. She taught me how to cook and within weeks I became quite good, in part because I discovered that I really liked it. I also learned how to wash and iron all the various kinds of women’s clothes except for those that had to be dry-cleaned.

She had such nice clothes that I was very tempted to wear them when she was out but I was terrified that she might catch me and throw me out, so I refrained and contented myself with feeling the textures and admiring the colours and patterns of the beautiful garments when I ironed them, contenting myself by just imagining how nice I would look in them.

She didn’t need to teach me much about general shopping as I had worked for a greengrocer and knew my fruit and vegetables and general goods, but she insisted on everything being the best quality even if it cost a little more. I even cleaned the car,a Rover, which I hadn’t known she had, and she started giving me driving lessons.Seventeen was old enough for a Learner's Permit even though I wouldn't be able to get a full licence until I was eighteen

She also took me in hand in some of my personal habits, insisting that I had a shower or bath every day, washed my hair with shampoo and conditioner instead of soap, flossed my teeth, used a mouthwash and deodorant and changed my shirt and underwear daily, and put me on a daily dose of vitamins for health.

The week before Christmas she showed me how to stuff and cook a turkey, and so I made Christmas dinner with roast potatoes, peas, brussels sprouts and giblet gravy, with plum pudding (from Fortnum & Masons) and brandy sauce for dessert. I remember I couldn't get the sauce to burn because I didn't know you had to prime it with neat brandy, lit in a spoon. We had a good laugh about that after she showed me how to do it. I was really proud of myself and Lucy said it was delicious, the best Christmas dinner she'd had in years.

There were no shows that day so we went for a walk after lunch to settle our digestion and then she took me to her bedroom, undressed me and herself and gave me the best Christmas present I have ever had before or since. I could never describe the effect that had on me. I had had fumbles before but this lady knew exactly what to do and what buttons to press and I was totally blown away. I had just never imagined that making love could be like that, or some of the things that women liked.

After that I was her total slave. I would have walked over red-hot coals for her, and I still wondered what she saw in me. She told me she loved me for my innocence, sweetness and honesty but my inferiority complex always caused me to have those little niggling doubts.

However, there was no way I was going to upset the applecart and I continued to happily work as her household helper and general companion. As I grew more proficient I was able to do my chores remarkably quickly and we used the time left over for going out together as well as making love on frequent occasions. This was such a perfect time I almost couldn’t believe it was happening to me. Fairy tales don’t happen in real life. I was sitting looking at a picture of the two of us smiling happily at the camera as a tear trickled down my cheek.

Then came the day that would change my life even more dramatically. We had been living together for over three months and we went to the cinema to see a brand new movie called “Some Like It Hot”, a very funny film in which Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon were forced to impersonate girls in order to escape from the Mafia. We were still laughing when we got home and then she sprung a big surprise on me.

“I want to see what you would look like as a girl. I think you would be much more convincing than either of those two.”

I started to protest, although of course I was secretly dying to find out the answer. I had never worn make-up except for a smear of lipstick, which was all my mother ever used. She brushed aside my apparent reluctance.

“Come on, don’t be a scaredy-cat. I reckon you’ll look great and it’s just a bit of fun. I’m soooo curious.”

What could I do but go along with her? She told me to take off my clothes and put on a dressing-gown, and then sat me down at the dressing-table in her bedroom, facing away from the mirror, and started working on me with her cosmetics. This was, after all, what she did for a living. She applied creams and lotions and powders for what seemed like an hour, brushed my cheeks, forehead, nose and chin, outlined my lips with a kind of pencil, fixed on false eyelashes and spent ages working around my eyes. Then she took a blonde wig and put it on me, spending more time brushing it out before clipping a pair of hoop ear-rings to my ears and finally applying lipstick. I was bursting with curiosity and at the same time terrified of looking ridiculous, but she still wouldn’t let me look until she got out her camera and took half a dozen shots of me. I was looking at one now.

“OK, you can turn around now,” she said, giggling. “You’re gorgeous. I thought you would be, but I couldn’t be sure until I finished.”

I turned to the mirror and, sure enough, a very pretty girl looked back at me. Not Marilyn Monroe, I thought, but definitely female and very presentable. My reflection was all my most secret dreams come true and at the same time terrified me. This was the real me that I had always known was inside me and I wished with all my heart that I could look like this all the time.

“What do you think? Do you like yourself as a girl?”

“Not really,” I lied, but then my body betrayed me as my member stood up on its own accord and I blushed beet-red.

“See! You do! You can’t lie to me. You’re really turned on, and so am I. Come on to bed. I want to make love to my new girlfriend. I’ve never made love to a girl before.” She dragged me over to the bed and practically ripped off my dressing-gown, exposing my rigid penis.

“Ooh, look at that. Who says he doesn’t like it? He loves it,” and she quickly slipped off her skirt and panties and climbed on top of me. The next half-hour was totally wild.

When we had finished she said, “Wow, that was fun! Now, tell me the truth this time. You do like looking like a girl, don’t you?”

I just nodded; too scared to speak.

“Come on, I have to know. It really turns me on seeing you like this. Even if I have ruined your make-up you’re still really pretty and I want to do this again, but next time I want to dress you completely as a girl. So tell me true. Do you want to?”

“Yes,” I croaked, going dry-mouthed with excitement and fear at the prospect.

“I think it’s very kinky and I’m almost wetting myself thinking what I can get for you to make you look extra-nice. We’re going to have such fun. I think you’ve done this before, haven’t you? Tell me about it, go on.”

She seemed to like it and she wasn’t going to throw me out so I steeled myself and told her how I had a compulsion to dress in my mother’s clothes and it had been my most shameful secret for years. She asked me if I had worn any of her clothes since we had been living together and I told her I had been too scared to, because I had thought she might hate me if I did and she found out about it.

“I’m glad you didn’t,” she replied, stroking my cheek. “I don’t want you having secrets from me. Now it’s our secret, not yours. You poor boy, bottling that up all this time. Now that I know, I can help you,” and she took me in her arms and kissed me, which caused me to burst into tears, as much from relief as anything else.

I was on tenterhooks for the whole of the next week. I was dying to get dressed as a girl and have my face made up again and wear a wig so that I would look like a real girl. I was wondering what clothes she would choose for me and at the same time I was scared witless of how I would feel and if it would make a difference to our relationship.

The day came. It was a Tuesday, which was one of Lucy’s days off. After breakfast she told me to go out and get the grocery shopping while she got everything ready for me. It took about an hour and I was so nervous when I got back.

When I returned she told me to get undressed and have a shower, so I did. She followed me into the bathroom and soaped me all over with her perfumed soap, and then she took a razor and shaved my legs, my crotch, my forearms and my armpits. I wasn’t actually very hairy but she got it all and then made me shave my face even though I only needed to shave about once a week and I had done it just the day before. Then she made me wash all over again and rubbed a flowery smelling body lotion into my skin before letting me dry off. She finished by dusting me with a fragrant talcum powder and told me that I must always smell like a girl when I was dressed as a girl. I didn't need convincing. I really did smell good to myself and understood exactly what she meant.

Then she took me into her bedroom and placed a white suspender belt around my waist. She sat me down and pulled a near-black pair of sheer nylon stockings up my legs and fastened them to the hanger straps of the suspenders. I was shuddering with anticipation and the erotic feel of the stockings, which seemed to whisper on my newly-shaved legs. She then produced a pair of white panties with a kind of sleeve in them. When she had pulled them up my legs she took my penis, and with some difficulty, because it was getting hard, tucked it into the sleeve and adjusted the panties to pull me back between my legs. That was a bit uncomfortable at first but the pressure helped and it settled down. Next came a white bra with some padding to the cups. She fastened it on me and adjusted the strap lengths before inserting two rubbery-looking falsies, to which she applied spirit-gum to stick them to my chest and ensure they stayed in place. I held them for a couple of minutes until they were firmly stuck. I was in a kind of a daze waiting for the completion of my transformation.

Lucy gave me a wrap-around smock to wear and again sat me down facing away from the mirror on her dressing-table. She went to work on my face and I soon realized she was doing it differently to the previous week. She spent a lot more time round my eyes and singed my eyebrows with a taper before plucking them with tweezers. When she had finished my eyes felt almost stiff when I blinked. She did not do much to my forehead at first but fixed on a wig with spirit gum to keep it in place. I later found out that this type of wig had a very fine gauze strip at the front to give a natural-looking hairline. The strip was covered with foundation and powder and became invisible at normal viewing distance.

This time she did not immediately brush out the wig after completing my make-up, but got me to remove the smock. She held up and had me step into a beautiful black dress with a flared calf-length skirt and a form fitting top with long clingy sleeves and she zipped me up at the back to a kind of polo neck with a knitted rollover. The skirt had a built-in slip/petticoat that made a lovely slithery kind of noise when it brushed across my stockings. Only now did she begin to style the wig, which came down below the collar of the dress. When she was happy she clipped a pair of 3 inch golden hoops to my ears, strung a thin gold chain with a cross pendant around my neck and completed my jewellery with a small gold watch on my left wrist and a gold bangle on my right. A wide shiny black belt went around my waist and was pulled as tight as it would go.

I still was not the finished article. She produced a pair of black patent-leather shoes with pointed toes and 4 inch heels and placed them on my feet. They fitted perfectly! Unbeknown to me she had gone to a custom shoemaker with a pair of my shoes to match the size and had them made specially. At last the final touch was to apply my lipstick.

“Next time I’ll do your nails, but we’ll pick a day when you can leave the varnish on for a while.” She inspected me critically. “Not at all bad. You’ll do for now and we’ll get better with practice.”

“There’s going to be more times,” I thought excitedly.

She took me by the hand and escorted me to the three-way mirror in her room, me walking a little gingerly with tiny steps in my brand-new high heels, but with no discomfort.

I saw myself and nearly swooned on the spot with excitement, exultation....glory....jubilation.... mixed with abject terror and dread; total desire to be like this forever laced with the fear, shame and embarrassment of it. But in the final crunch it was the desire that won. I simply loved this different me. She...No...I was the dream that I had been hiding for years, the dream that I had thought would never be seen.

Of course I wanted more. Wearing my mother’s clothes, with no make-up or wig and stodgy old-fashioned underwear was a pale imitation of what I looked like now. From the brunette wig and hoop earrings, the made-up face with thin arched eyebrows, false eyelashes and highlighted eyes, painted lips, the lovely dress with the female shape inside it, the shapely legs in the sheer nylons, to the elegant shoes with their high heels, this was what I wanted to become. The idea of being able to go out into the world as a girl really excited me, even if it also terrified me at the same time but I knew I would have to do it. I just could not resist the desire, the urge to be and to be perceived by the world as I knew I should always have been.

Lucy, meanwhile, had grabbed her camera, and was dancing around taking photos from all angles. She kept on telling me how fabulous I looked and started to get me to strike girly poses. I was looking at one of those pictures right now and I still loved the way I looked that first real time. Girlish innocence stared back at me, wide-eyed and eager. I started to cry again as I wondered if it had all been some kind of game on her side. Was it genuine or was I some sort of idiot being manipulated? If I was rational about it, it didn’t seem possible as that occurred over eighteen months ago and had seemed very genuine, but why oh why hadn’t she levelled with me about the hormones?

She got me to walk up and down and pirouette and twirl and prance and took a whole roll of film, and I really enjoyed showing off for her. It made me feel so feminine and ladylike, comfortable and natural. She finally let me stop when she ran out of film. I automatically went back to the mirror and stared at my reflection all over again. I was entranced and I went weak at the knees and my pulse raced with the excitement and elation and terror of it all. But, best of all, Lucy liked me as a girl! I didn’t have to worry about hiding in the shadows any more.

“What do you think, darling? Didn’t I do a good job? Don’t you just love the way you look? I actually think you should have been born a girl. I have to say that even though I think you’re good looking as a boy you’re absolutely gorgeous as a girl.”

I gloried in her compliments and this time I just could not lie as I admired myself and struck poses to view myself from different angles, catching the sparkle of the light off of my earrings and pursing my lips into sexy pouts, batting my luscious eyelashes and dabbing at my hair to get it just so. Vanity, thy name is woman!

“Oh, Lucy, I really do love the way I look. It makes me feel so good and it really feels RIGHT if you know what I mean. I’m just scared you won’t love me any more if I look like this all the time.”

“If that’s what you want, sweetheart, you can look like that all the time. I’ll try and make you even more beautiful, and it turns me on so much seeing you like this. You do want to do it some more, don’t you?”

“I can’t wait. I'm going to hate taking these off. Can we do it again next week, or sooner?”

“Of course, that’s settled. We’ll do it as often as we can from now on and you’ll be my secret girlfriend, but right now I want you on your back on that bed with your skirt up round your waist and your knickers off. Move, girl!”

I did exactly as I was told and lay on the bed, a girl from head to toe except for one rather obvious attention seeking piece in the middle and let her have her wicked way with me, imagining all the time that I really was a girl.

When we were back to earth she propped herself on one elbow and stroked my cheek and played with my hair.

“OK, my love, if this is going to be a regular thing we have to get a few things straight. If you’re going to wear girls’ clothes then you must learn to become a girl. Wearing a dress doesn’t make you a girl. If you want to do this you’re going to have to work very hard. It’ll be a bit like rehearsing for a role in a stage-play, but harder. You’ll have to be able to convince everyone, including yourself, that you’re a real girl, so that they won’t think twice about you. That means that you will have to learn to walk, talk, sit, move, and stand and even think like a girl. You’ll have to learn to use make-up properly and choose the right clothes for the right times, go to the Ladies automatically when we go out, be a lady when men talk to you and all sorts of things that I haven’t mentioned. I have to know if you’re prepared to do all that. I’m happy to teach you but you have to be prepared to study. Can you do all of that?”

“Oh, Lucy, there's nothing I want more, as long as you still love me. Yes please. Please teach me.”

That was the start of several months when each week she would produce a new outfit for me to wear and through the week she would drill me in female behaviour and I dressed the part for my lessons. She was right. It was very hard work learning to be a girl. As she said, I had to walk, stand, sit, move and gesture in a different manner. Speech was not just a matter of talking in a higher-pitched voice but also using an entirely different way of phrasing and intonation. Women put a far more intimate emphasis in their conversation and say things in a way that men do not, using their faces and hands to project their feelings. I spent many hours with the headphones of Lucy’s tape-recorder clamped over my ears practicing in front of a mirror until this became second nature.

Make-up is a skill which girls learn over years with their mothers’ and friends’ help. How to dress and choose what items match and which outfit is suitable for morning and which for afternoon and evening needs a great deal of attention. Fabrics and colours, mixing and matching, accessorizing, are all things absorbed by girls over years. A boy starting from scratch has to catch up very quickly, but desire is a powerful motivator. I wanted to learn and I had a relentless teacher. While she wanted me to be perfect she also said that most people see what they expect to see, so you can get away with little mistakes as long as you correct them later. The theatre works like that all the time. The plays run more smoothly as the number of performances mounts up.

A month after my first dressing she considered I was ready to go out “en femme”. She called it a dress rehearsal, ha ha, likening it to pushing a fledgling out of the nest. Needless to say I was once more between terror, elation and anticipation, wanting to do it but scared to death. She picked a Tuesday evening so that it would be quiet, sternly supervised me to ensure I passed muster and we went to a pub close to the flat. I was even legal then, having turned eighteen a couple of weeks earlier.

I was wearing a black calf-length hobble skirt that ensured I took only short steps, a maroon ruffle-fronted blouse and a black knitted cardigan top. My shoes had only 2 inch heels so that I did not tower noticeably over the other customers. My wig was a pageboy in a mid-blonde colour and Lucy had done my make-up even though she was already teaching me to do it by myself.

We went into the saloon bar and I sat down at a table while Lucy went to the counter and bought us gin-and-tonics. We sat and drank and I began to relax, since nobody seemed to be taking much notice of us except for a couple of young men who occasionally looked our way, but Lucy said that was normal. They were just checking out a pair of good-looking girls and, whatever I did, not to look at them, except out of the corners of my eyes. We finished our drinks and she said to me;

“Now it’s your turn. Go and get us two more.”

“I can’t.” I squeaked.

“Yes, you can. Otherwise I’ll yell out to the whole bar that you’re a boy dressed as a girl.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“Try me.”

I believed she would, so with trembling knees I went to the bar with our empty glasses.

“Yes, Miss. What’ll it be?” asked the barman.

“Two gin-and —tonics, please,” concentrating like mad on my intonation and pitch.

He poured the drinks and brought them to the counter.

“That’ll be seven and six, thank you, Miss.” And I took the money from my purse and paid him.

I carried the drinks back to our table, feeling enormously pleased with myself. I had just had my first interaction with another person other than Lucy and the man had accepted me as a girl!

She said, “There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” and I had to admit that it wasn’t.

Over the next weeks I gained in confidence as I went out more and more dressed as a girl. Looking back, she was gentle in introducing me to the outside world. We went to more pubs, and to coffee-bars and cinemas. All the while my tuition was continuing. She taught me the difference between day-time and evening make-up and made me practice putting it on and taking it off and the importance of moisturizers and cleansing creams to keep my skin in condition, and soon I became, if not as good as her, at least competent. She also showed me how to fix and style my wigs to complement the cosmetics and soon she insisted that, if I wasn’t going out shopping or on other errands, that I made myself up every morning and every evening before she came home. As often as I could I would also dress while at home and just enjoy the routine of being a girl for the day. It felt so comfortable. She took to calling me Joanne because she said I didn’t look like a John anymore and anyway it was a good habit to get into for when we were out. I didn’t mind at all. It was really reassuring to be recognised as a girl.

A defining moment came about two and a half months after my first full dressing. She had never taken me out to any of her theatre gatherings or events, saying she didn’t really know them well enough and, being actors, they might pick up clues that I was not what I appeared to be. She now thought I could pass. Some of her colleagues were holding a fancy-dress party to which she had been invited. Of course she suggested that it would be the perfect opportunity for me to “come out” as it were and go in costume as her friend Joanne. If anybody guessed I was a boy we would have the perfect excuse. I couldn't wait; I knew I had to go.

She chose a saucy French maid’s outfit for me, like you see in the stage farces, and I fell in love with it as soon as I saw it. It was just sooooo sexy, with multiple petticoats, seamed stockings and lace-trimmed neck and sleeves with a little white cap and 5 inch black patent heels to match. She chose for herself a 1920s flapper costume, complete with dangly beads and a long cigarette-holder that made her look quite sophisticated and off we went to the party. I was very relaxed about being dressed as I could pass the whole situation off as a joke if I was sprung. If anyone guessed they either said nothing or accepted it as party fun. In my heels I stood 6 feet 3 inches and a couple of the girls said I should be a fashion model.I admit I would have fancied being on a catwalk. I mingled and chatted, totally relaxed, had a few champagnes and got a little giggly and thoroughly enjoyed myself.

Later in the evening I even had to fend off advances from a couple of half-drunken men. Lucy teasingly said later that I behaved like a right not-so-little tart. I actually danced a couple of times! Afterwards we decided to walk home to get some air and clear our heads. It was about two in the morning, a nice spring night, and there were few people about. As we walked along the promenade we encountered a couple of police constables. I clutched Lucy’s arm, as it was illegal to cross-dress in England at that time, but one of them asked if we were all right, and when Lucy said we were fine, told us to take care and get home safely.

That night proved to me that I could handle myself in company and crowd situations. There was no stopping me after that. The very next day (or later that same day) I dressed in a tartan pleated skirt, an oversized men’s jumper and a pair of flatties, put on my day-face and a shoulder-length auburn wig, took a shopping bag and went out, greatly daring. I went up to the fashion end of Western Road and browsed the shoe-shops and the dress-shops. I went into Marks and Spencer’s and BHS (British Home Stores), to the ladies’ fashions, browsed to my heart's content and nobody took any notice. I wouldn’t have dared to do that as a boy.

It made me feel so free, so liberated. Later I went grocery shopping and the boy assistant almost tripped over himself to serve me, calling me Miss several times. When I went home I was walking on air. I had achieved what every girl does without thought every day and I gushed to Lucy and went on about it until she shushed me and with a small smile told me what a brave and clever girl I was. After that I spent nearly my whole time dressed in what I now thought of as proper clothes.

Oh, and I bullied her into buying me another couple of maid’s outfits because I loved dressing the part. Most days I would put on a uniform in the morning and become a real maid. My chores seemed so much more enjoyable that way and when I served Lucy her evening meal I really felt like a maid taking care of her lady.

I had, of course, to go and see my parents occasionally since I left home. This wasn’t a problem at first, but after I started to feminize I really had to watch myself and concentrate on behaving like a boy when I saw them. My mother naturally noticed my eyebrows, but I told her we were doing a play and it was necessary for my part. She may have been suspicious but said no more. I hadn’t cut my hair but passed that off as the fashion. My father grumbled that I looked like a bloody beatnik, and, if I wasn’t careful people would think I was a girl! By-and-large though, I think they just put it down to me being a teenager. I only saw them about once every six weeks (although I phoned my mum more often). I told them the job was going well and the flat was good and they were glad I was OK. They just didn’t know how OK I was.

Soon it was July 1960. I had been with Lucy over nine months, nearly six of them gradually becoming female. One day she sat me down and said;

“Joanne, darling, I’ve been offered a job back in London, and I want you to come with me.”

I was so relieved. My heart had missed a beat and I had nearly panicked when she said London, thinking she might go without me. She took both my hands and looked me in the eyes.

“They want me to be the principal make-up artiste at the Lyric Theatre and I want it, but I won’t go without you. I love you, so please say you’ll come with me. I have a lovely flat there and I want you to stay with me because you look after me so well and I couldn't live without you.”

“Lucy, you must take it, and of course I’ll come with you. Don’t think I’d let you get away.”

“Thank you, darling,” and she gave me a big kiss. “I’ve got something else to say, to see if you like the idea. If you don’t we’ll just carry on the way we are. Why don’t you take this as an opportunity to live as a girl full-time? Nobody knows you up there and you can be my proper maid, except for when we’re out and then you will be my girlfriend. We’ll have to get you a permanent identity but I think I know how to do that. What do you think?”

I squealed with delight, the thought running through my head that this was only a small step for me now. I was virtually living as a girl all the time anyway.

“Can I really? Oh, Lucy! Yes please. Oh, yes! When do we go?” I actually did a little girly dance, twirling and jumping with joy.

“In about two weeks, sweetie. Now you’ve said yes, we’ll have to organize your hair and nails, get your ears pierced and get you some new shoes and clothes. We can’t have you looking dowdy now, can we?”

I went to see my parents the next day, carefully dressed as a boy, which was starting to feel strange. I told them that the firm I worked for wanted me to go to London (well, she was a firm, wasn’t she?) and I would probably have to work long hours, so I wouldn’t be able to see them very often, but I’d phone regularly. They accepted that and my mum told me to take good care of myself and let her know if I needed anything, and so I happily cut away a link to my former life. I felt a bit bad about it, but I was focused on the future with the innate selfishness of a teenager.

A couple of days later Lucy arranged for a hairdresser and a beautician to come to the flat and cut and style my own hair, which was now shoulder-length. I got a fringed pageboy cut, somewhat like Prince Valiant but longer and had it tinted auburn, and Lucy said the colour really suited me. So it was no more wigs for me, except when I wanted to make a fashion statement. I also had my ears pierced and keepers inserted into the holes, my nails shaped and coloured crimson and a facial that seemed to take half my flesh away but left me looking fresh and clean. The next day we went shopping for clothes and she bought me a huge selection of bras, panties,suspender belts, slips and petticoats, about two dozen pairs of stockings in various shades, including a few pairs with seams for me to wear with my maids’ uniforms.

We purchased half a dozen fashionable jersey-knit dresses in black, chocolate, maroon, forest green, navy and a striking one in crimson that matched my nails. She had already schooled me that I must generally wear darker shades to minimize my size. Then we went for skirts and tops and bought ten of each. Some of the blouse necks were lower-cut than I had previously worn but she said it was summer so I had to fit in, and anyway my Adam’s apple was just about invisible. We also got me a smart navy business suit in case I went for job interviews, although I couldn’t imagine myself doing that.

After all of this we went to get shoes. As I said before I had to get them made so I was a bit nervous of the shoemaker’s reaction, but all he said was;

“So you’re the young lady I’ve made several pairs for over the last few months. I’m pleased to meet you. You have elegant feet. Now let’s see what we can do today,” and we settled into the business of choosing suitable shoes to match all the clothes we had bought. We ended up with a dozen choices, which I’m sure delighted him, and he promised they would all be ready in a week.

All of this was costing a small fortune, but I had learned not to worry about money since being with Lucy. When I met her I had been a poor boy, but I found that by my standards she was VERY well off. Besides earning good money at the theatre, she had been married for a couple of years until she caught her husband playing around with another woman (the fool!) and got divorced, the net result of which was that he had to pay her twenty pounds a week in maintenance/support (alimony). As if that wasn’t enough she had a bequest from her grandparents that had bought her flats in London and Brighton, with some left over, and her mother had died of cancer two years earlier and willed her life insurance to Lucy. I would have been jealous but she was unstinting with me and I had never been short of money since we met.

We went home tired but happy, and then Lucy sprung a further surprise. She had had several special undergarments made through theatrical suppliers. These included padded bras, industrial-strength corsets and padded girdles to give me those “to-die-for” feminine shapes. I had to try them on and she nearly cut me in half with one of the corsets.

“And I thought all those actresses had such fabulous figures!” I wheezed when I learned how to breathe again. ”I must be down to an 18 inch waist.” Actually it was 23. The torture instrument had only taken 3 inches off my normal measurement. I was only going to wear these on special occasions, like when I impersonated Cinderella or Scarlett O’Hara at the ball. Lucy took pictures and I am looking at that tiny waist now, in my room. It really was to die for.

Two days later I took all my boy clothes, such as they were, to the Salvation Army. It was a strangely liberating act. Another piece of my past disappeared and the die was cast.

The following week we packed up our clothes, jumped in the car, and drove to London. I wanted to drive, as she had been teaching me, but she wouldn’t let me, as my Learner’s Permit named me as John, and that could have caused a problem if we had been stopped for any reason. A couple of hours later we arrived at her flat in Finborough Road, a few minutes’ walk from Earl’s Court tube station. She had arranged to have a company come in and clean and air the place and take the dustsheets off the furniture, so I didn’t have much to do except hang and fold our clothes and put our toiletries in the bathrooms while she took the car to the garage in the mews behind. It was a lovely flat, three bedrooms, two bathrooms, lounge, dining-room, kitchen and laundry, on two levels, very airy, with high ceilings and big windows.

I knew I would be happy here with her, and I had embraced girlhood completely. My only enduring fear was the prospect of being exposed. Because of my height I made a point of wearing flat shoes when I went out during the day. In fact Lucy was 5 feet 8 inches to my 5 feet 10, so if we were out in the evening and she wore 4 inch heels to my 3 inch, there was little difference in our relative heights. My fear was more imagined than real. Although it was never completely absent I was mostly able to lock it away in some remote corner of my mind.

A few days after we arrived and were settling in Lucy insisted that we went for a walk in the Brompton Cemetery, very close to where we lived. As we walked past the graves she was obviously looking for something. Then she stopped and said, “I’ve found the new you.”

“What do you mean?” I asked her.

“I think we can make you into Suzanne Wright. I don’t think she’ll mind.”

The dead girl was exactly one month younger than me, but I still didn’t know what Lucy was talking about. Then she explained that one of the plays she had worked on recently had in it a character that had taken on the identity of a dead man and got away with it. The ploy was very simple and she thought it would work for us.

So the very next day we went to Somerset House, the Central Registry for Births and Deaths in the UK, and just asked for a copy of my (Suzanne Wright’s) birth certificate, saying I had lost the original. Within half an hour they produced a copy and charged us ten shillings. Remember this was before computers were in general use, so cross-checking was not so easy, and in those days it was assumed that people were honest. We left the building giggling and I was on my way to becoming Suzanne Wright. I was holding that certificate as I sat in my room remembering.

The next moves were for me to apply for a Learner’s Permit for a Driving License in my new name, and get my photo taken for a passport application. I then enrolled at a local driving school, took the lessons diligently, even though I could already drive, and passed my driving test two months later. In the meantime Lucy called in a favour from a friend who she got to sign the back of the photos, attesting that she had known me for two years and we sent off my passport application. That came back with the new passport after five weeks. I sat looking at the pieces of paper that cemented me into my new persona. I have three documents proving I am Suzie and none proving me to be John, so why am I finding it so hard to accept that I am destined to be a girl? I worked hard to become what I am. What’s wrong with me? What difference do a few hormones make? I sat there in tears, confused and strangely lonely.

As soon as I got my Birth Certificate I began to be Suzie. Lucy called me Suzie from that day on and I stopped answering to any other name. I prayed to my new self that the baby girl whose identity I had taken would forgive me and perhaps get a new lease of life through me just as I was getting one through her. I AM Suzie, I AM! I AM!

While all this was transpiring we were settling into London life. For Lucy it was a return to the familiar but for me it was all new and exciting and I was doing it as a girl as well so it was double-dips for me. It was so good to be an eighteen-year old female at that time; the shopping, the crowds, the bustle, the theatre, the nightlife. People being nice to me, holding open doors, men giving up their seats on the tube, waiters seating me when I was in a restaurant, shop assistants smiling when they served me. The daily thrill of dressing in nice clothes, putting on make-up, getting my hair done and looking after my darling. Oh, I was just so happy!

Lucy included me fully in her life here, which she hadn’t in Brighton. Her explanation for that was that she didn’t know the theatre crowd there so well and I was still learning to be a girl so she didn’t want me to get hurt. Now I was more confident and she knew this crowd better. It seemed reasonable. Apart from doing my usual chores and taking the driving lessons, I would accompany her to the theatre in the evenings and sometimes watch the play, or I would go window-shopping in the West End while waiting for her to finish. As I said before one of the greatest kicks I got was looking at shoes or beautiful dresses and nobody took the slightest notice. In Brighton I had been extra-sensitive about my height but it seemed there were more tall girls in London and we would often exchange conspiratorial little smiles as we passed one another, as if there was a sisterhood of the lofty.

Occasionally I would go for a drink while I waited but rarely, as we nearly always went out for drinks after the show or to parties that lasted into the small hours. During these days I was thrilled to meet famous people like Peter Sellers, Hattie Jacques, Sid James and Peter Ustinov (and many others). One I remember with particular fondness was a very tall young man named Derek Nimmo. Mostly they seemed very nice and treated me well. There must have been some in that crowd who knew or suspected that I wasn’t a real girl, but they never let on, except on one occasion when a girl called Gwen, who I had seen a few times, said to me at a party one night;

“I think you’re like me.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

“You’re a boy too, aren’t you?”

I think I must have nearly fainted and gone as white as the proverbial sheet. I know I nearly dropped my glass.
She grasped me by the wrist.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shock you so.”

When I had recovered a little and thought about her words, I said;

“You said “too”. Are you a boy as well?” I couldn’t believe it.

“Yes, I am, just between us girls,” and she laughed.

“I would never have known about you. How did you pick me?”

“Don’t worry, my dear, it’s nothing you did. You come across as a total girl. It’s just that someone like me is extra-sensitive to the signs. You’re a little too tall, and your shoulders are a little too broad, and your hands and feet are a little too big and you’re actually a little too perfect as a girl. I think nobody except someone like me would notice.”

“But aren’t you XXXXXXX’s girl friend? How can you be a boy?”

“Darling, yes I am his girlfriend, but he likes boys and doesn’t want anyone to know, for the sake of his career, so we pretend and I take hormones to make sure I appear feminine. I love him and I don’t want him hurt, which he would be if the world knew.”

We talked some more and agreed to meet for coffee and a chat the next day.

I was fascinated by her use of hormones and she told me lots of details that I had never known. We swapped information about her boyfriend and my girlfriend. We were both glad to find another person living as a girl. Technically we were different. She was actually a homosexual and I was a what?? A boy/girl living with his/her lover, but not wanting to be a boy. She asked me if she could see me naked and I agreed, as long as we were both naked. We went to her flat and stripped off. I was intrigued by her breasts and couldn’t keep my hands off of them. She, in turn, wanted to fondle my privates, but we both drew back from going any further because we loved our partners. We parted good friends and agreed we would not divulge our secrets. I believed her and as far as I know we still are true to each other. For me it was very comforting to know that there was somebody like me out there. We still saw each other every now and again and had nice little chats over coffee and cakes.

Three months passed in London and I loved it all. Here I was, Suzie Wright. Lucy and I usually made love at least a couple of times a week. I looked after the flat and dressed as a maid at home most days. While we both treated it as a joke I would answer the door to deliveries and callers and watch them do a double-take. Sometimes I would put on a fake French accent and have an internal giggle while they tried to figure out what was going on. I loved wearing the uniforms and particularly the high heels and seamed stockings. It gave me a real kick and made me feel ever so sexy.

But there was one boy I treated as well as I knew how. That was the greengrocery delivery boy. I had done his job myself and I knew it was not as easy as it looked. He was a lovely lad and I think he would have liked to ask me out, but, of course, he never did, and I would have had to turn him down anyway. I just used to flirt with him. He reminded me of me in that other life. I guess it was strange, but I never had the slightest inclination to have any kind of sexual relationship with a man. It was enough that I had Lucy.

As time passed, days would go by when I forgot that I was a boy. Being a girl became routine, but not boring. I know my attitude changed. Things that upset me as a boy no longer bothered me. I was able, in some ways, to be more relaxed in my relationships with people, especially girls. I learnt an awful lot about girls! I became much more observant and noticed little details and nuances that I never saw before. So many of those lasses wore completely the wrong clothes and didn’t know how to do their make-up and hair properly. Huh, I knew I was better than them. Meow!

One day in October, when I had gone to the theatre with Lucy before work the house-manager came rushing in and took Lucy by the arm.

“Darling, would your girlfriend help us out? The cloakroom girl’s had an accident and we’ve got nobody to check coats.”

“Why don’t you ask her?” said Lucy. “She’s standing right there.”

He turned to me. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to be rude. Would you run the cloakroom for us for a while until we can make some other arrangements? We’ll pay you two pounds ten shillings a night, plus whatever you get in tips.”

I looked at Lucy, who shrugged and smiled. “Up to you, Suzie.”

“All right, I’ll give it a try and see how it goes.”

The temporary assignment became more and more permanent. Weeks passed and I was looking after the cloakroom five nights a week as it turned out that the other girl was happy just to work part-time. Once the audience was seated I would close up and help the barman to get ready for the mad rush at the interval, when we would both serve drinks as fast as we could go. After that we would clean up and occasionally I would accept one of his cigarettes, before returning to my big closet. Some of the patrons were quite generous with their tips and I often ended up with an extra pound or more at the end of the evening, which I regarded as mad-money if we were going on to a pub or club after the show (although in those days a girl wasn’t expected to buy her own drinks if she was in male company). Whatever I had left I spent on clothes, shoes or make-up, just like any other 18-year-old girl.

Shoes were my thing though. I LOVED shoes. I had a thing about them since I was eleven. I always thought women were so lucky to be able to wear such beautiful creations on their feet. I needed to get mine made-to-measure and I found a place which had a huge variety of styles and the shoemaker became a great friend of mine. I would go in and browse and he would suggest colours, heel heights, decorations like buckles and bows, whether to have stilettos or chunky heels, which style was in, like sling-backs or pumps, and I would have a lovely time choosing my next pair or three. In those days winkle-picker toes and stiletto heels were all the rage. He always called me Miss Suzanne and made me feel like Cinderella at the ball. A pair took a week to make and cost five pounds or more.

If I could have shopped at the regular shoe-stores the average price was about three pounds a pair. I loved going to try them on when they were finished, admiring them and my legs in those tilted mirrors they had on the floor, so that, if you get a bit further away, you can check out your skirt length and do a little pirouette. Lucy told me I was mad as I only wore some pairs a few times, but I had them if I ever needed that exactly-right pair for that particular outfit or that special occasion, didn’t I?

One thing that didn’t change was my devotion to Lucy. She was my rock, my muse, my haven, my guide, my shoulder-to-cry-on when I got scared of what I was doing, and my role model. I loved her in every way and I think most of all, I admired her. She was so cool and collected, elegant and beautiful. I wanted to be like her. In fact, I wanted to BE her. If only I had been born a girl. She was always there for me, and protected me. I thought we didn’t have any secrets from each other, but, as I looked at my favourite picture of the two of us in evening dresses, the tears rolled down my cheeks. Did she really love me or was she playing some kind of game with me? I had to know.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. I remembered the time when that picture was taken. It was early December 1960 and we had been invited to a ball. She looked absolutely stunning in a silver gown with a plunging neckline showing lots of cleavage, a full-length figure-hugging skirt split up one side to the knee, high-heeled silver sandals, and her blonde hair in an up-do, face immaculately made up as usual. In fact I looked pretty good too. I was wearing a torture instrument of a corset to get my waist small enough to fit into an emerald-green number with a high neck and no sleeves falling to a tight-fitting skirt. With a padded girdle my shape was very feminine. I also had matching sandals with 3 inch heels and elbow-length opera gloves. I was wearing my hair down and. of course, had my best face on. We both appeared tall and elegant. We were going to knock ‘em dead that night!

Then I recalled the conversation we had while we were doing last checks for each other, and I went cold as I remembered. Perhaps I had brought this on myself. I had said;

“You make me so jealous, darling. You look good enough to eat. I wish I had breasts like yours and that lovely figure. You’re so lucky to have been born a girl.”

“Well, Suzie dear, you never know your luck. Maybe one day your wish will come true. I am your fairy godmother after all. I’ll see if I can whip up a magic potion.”

We both laughed.

Christmas 1960 came and went and my life was still full and happy. I cooked a turkey and we had half a dozen of our friends round for Christmas dinner. I served in my maid’s uniform, pretending my name was Fifi and hamming up the French accent for all I was worth, as if we were doing one of those stage farces. We had tremendous fun and I even got a couple of big kisses from the men. Although I didn’t fancy them in a sexual way that chuffed me no end, because it showed that they accepted me completely as a girl. I think most people thought that Lucy and I were lesbians, and I could live with that.

I carried on looking at my pictures. There I was at my nineteenth birthday party, looking absolutely radiant as I blew out the candles on my cake with Lucy holding my shoulders. Other happy snaps with me in bright summer dresses or dressed for more formal occasions in elegant slim-line knitted outfits with little matching jackets.

I was being torn into pieces by these mementos of happiness and I knew I had to sort it all out when she came home. As much as I hated confrontation this was one time when I could not dodge it.

I had to face myself as well as her. Did I want to be a girl enough? I read the newspapers and the treatment of the likes of Christine Jorgensen, Roberta Cowell and recently April Ashley by rags like “People” and “The News Of The World” was truly horrifying. They wrote nasty pieces portraying them as freaks and abominations, inciting and publishing letters from readers that suggested, or stated outright, that they should not be allowed to live in our society.

This scared me very much. If I was to change my sex I did not want any newspaper getting a sniff of my situation. I did not think I could survive their scrutiny. I would be exposed to everybody who knew me, my parents, my former schoolmates, the theatre community and all of Lucy’s friends.

It was getting late. I put away my things and waited for Lucy to come home.

To Be Continued…