The Option
A Short Story
By Maryanne Peters

I did not recognise the name when I was told of my visitor. Although it had been a few years I recognized her as one the victims of the Pickton Prowler, a mass rapist who I had been instrumental in catching. After an exchange of greetings I sat to hear what she had to say.

“I was sorry to hear about your conviction”, she said. “There are many of us who truly appreciate what you did for us. We want to help. In particular Annie Haldane and the Mitchell Sisters want to help.”

I knew who she was talking about. When the Pickton Prowler had been released following problems with his DNA sample, those three victims had captured, tortured and killed him. They were now doing serious time in Garrett Women’s Prison.

“We know, all of us who owe you a debt, we all know that you cannot do time at the state penitentiary. You were a good cop. So many people you put inside will be after you. You may get segregation from the general population for a while, but with so many powerful enemies they will get to you, sometime, somehow.”

She was right. I knew that I would die in prison. The fact is that I knew it the moment I killed that sonofabitch. Another rapist who bypassed the system. I knew he would offend again and I was to determined to ensure he didn’t. I took a risk - I knew that my own conviction was more likely than not.

I pleaded not guilty but I told no lies. After many years on the force I knew the rules. I simply had to put the prosecution to the proof. Plenty got off doing this. It was always the liars who got caught. When I was questioned by the police (my own people) I said nothing. I took the fifth, demanded a lawyer, and kept my mouth shut.

Unfortunately there was evidence. Surveillance footage showing I was there and traces of the victim’s DNA on my clothing. I was sunk.

“There is a way,” she said. “In Garret you would be safe. You have friends there. Your enemies have no reach there, or if they do it would not present a real threat. You have too many friends there. We could get you into Garret.”

“Only one problem,” I wryly observed, “I am not female. Men do not serve time in women’s prisons.”

“You don’t need to be a woman. Under new state rules transwomen can only be held in a women’s prison. That is the solution. If you choose to go with this, we can have you confirmed as transgender and we can get you into Garret.”

Now a man facing the virtual certainty of death, and probably a painful death at that, a rusty shiv in the guts, must consider any option. “Tell me more,” I said.

***

I was safely in remand detention for the period required to qualify for admission to Garret as a transwoman. The rule was simple – no functioning male could serve time in a women’s prison. I had to be chemically castrated in order to qualify, with a measured level of male hormone blockers and female hormones in my blood. Blood testing was to continue while I was in prison to ensure that the rule was not broken.

It need not be permanent, but there were risks that my system might be thrown out of balance. The trick was to keep the hormones levels up in time of the testing.

So I followed the instructions and the trans song sheet that I had been given. I announced at the sentencing that I was transgender and that I wanted to be known as Gina. I was referred to assessment and I was able to convince the psychologist that I was genuine. The concentrated drugs were prescribed and I waited in remand until the hormone levels met the mark – about 6 weeks. By that time my libido had dropped to nothing and I found that I could not get an erection.

I explained to my wife Jen that this was not permanent. While we had already had the tearful “I am not asking you to wait for me” conversation, I told her that I hoped that I would get out of prison and that we could be together - she and me and our two boys. I could have any added breast tissue removed surgically and my hormones could be brought back to that of a fully functioning male. Although I was warned that an extended period on estrogens might cause problems with that.

It was about staying alive and Jen was aware of that.

***

When I arrived at Garret I had an interview with the Governor to discuss the treatment of transwomen. She was supportive and appeared genuine in treating the 5 transwomen already in Garret as genuine women with a physical problem. But she warned that the authorities would be vigilant in ensuring that nobody took advantage of the new approach. She outlined the blood testing regime and regime and indicated that if I was to be accepted as genuinely trans I should make the effort to transition in prison. She recommended the classes that were offered in hairdressing, beauty treatment, deportment and dress-making.

“These courses are of value to most of our women, to help with self-esteem issues, but transwomen in particular benefit from them,” she said. I was left with the clear impression that not participating in these classes would not be an option.

When the gates closed I was greeted immediately by Annie Haldane. She, with Rose and Daisy Mitchell, had been inside for well over a year and she knew the ropes. She had already acquired a positive reputation as a “rapist killer” – somebody who was ruthless but admired.

“I tried to get you in with me”, she said, “But the Governor wants you to room with another trans, so you are with Maria Garza”.

She walked me through and made the introduction.

Maria was big. To say that she was a man dressed as a woman would be unkind, because there was a real femininity about her despite heavy frame. It seems cruel that a genuine transwoman should be cursed with such broad shoulders and big hands, while as a faker I was relatively slight. But as I learned she was happy to have found herself, albeit only after her second conviction for aggravated robbery.

But she was suspicious: “I fought hard to be recognized for who I am,” she said. “I was set to serve in a men’s prison. If you are just pretending to get in amongst us, I will find you out and you will suffer.” I did not doubt it. I could not confide in her of my problem. It was best that as few people as possible knew the reality.

The other person who was watching me was Jackson Clyde, the Deputy Warden or the effective head prison guard working inside the wire. He also warned me: “I am watching you,” he said. “If I for one minute believe that you are a fox in this henhouse, you will be straight down the road to men’s maximum security. You had better be more girl than anyone else here.”

***

Annie understood the situation and arranged for me to move in the right circles. There were several vocational options but as suggested by the warden I signed up to work as sweep and shampoo girl in the hair salon. It seemed a little odd to me that there would be a salon, plus a spa and beauty treatments in prison, but the warden was a big supporter. It was an accredited training school but it also allowed for inmates to take pride in their appearance. That was an important part of the warden’s approach to rehabilitation.

Same with the dress-making. It offered diplomas for students in design, pattern making, sewing machine operation and other skills, and the warden promoted fashion shows and mufti days when the women could wear the creations, instead of the standard orange coveralls.

In return for the work I was doing at the salon I would have credits that I would apply at the busy electrolysis clinic. Busy because it seemed that many of the inmates (women just as much as transwomen) had an ongoing battle with body hair that put me to shame with my sparse cover. Annie insisted that this and a good hairdo would go a long way to convincing all the doubters that I was genuine.

As for the hair, that would have to wait. I had gone several months without a haircut but it was nowhere near enough hair to style. However I did have the advantage (as the lead hairdresser explained) that I had thick but fine hair and a good hairline in the front.

***

Jen’s first visit found me freshly plucked around my neck and chin. “Is this necessary?” she asked. “Will your beard grow back?”

I explained the situation – that I was being watched. I could not just be a butch lesbian transwoman – although I am sure there is such a thing. If this did not work I was to be sent to the state penitentiary and certain painful death. Yes, everything was reversible. Yes, I needed to have my beard plucked out.

But I faced years in that prison. I told Jen that if she wanted a divorce and the freedom to make her own life without me, I would grant it. My only condition was that I would remain a part of our sons’ lives. It was a tearful exchange. She swore that she would stick by me, but I left the offer open. I somehow knew that it would happen that way. I knew that Jen would need the intimacy that I could no longer offer. I was in prison, and she was a woman who needed to be loved and cared for.

Jen called on me every week for the first six weeks. On two occasions she brought with her our boys – Ethan aged 12 and Robert aged 10. At these ages there is no fooling them. They knew the situation. It was important to stay strong for them, although it hurt me so badly that I could not be with them. Jen had explained that I was on an undercover operation in a women’s prison, but even if Robert might have swallowed it Ethan was smarter. Still he knew that I was in jail for doing an honourable thing. Almost everybody who knew me and knew my family, accepted that. I was better off than many men in that regard.

After the six weeks Jen shifted to every month or so, with the boys coming only on special occasions. We stayed in touch by email and that was better in many ways.

The first real change in Jen was when she noticed that I had some traces of eyeliner. I had taken to wearing a cap whenever I met her, pulled low to just above my eyes.

“Yea, its eyeliner”’ I said. “Just the girls in beauty class using me as a model”.

“Take off the cap,” she said, firmly. So I did.

My hair had not yet grown that long, but it had been cut into a bob that screamed girl and had been coloured a chestnut brown with blond highlights. I had washed it and brushed it that morning and it shone like silk. I wore it in a side parting and orange plastic barrette, so she could clearly see my plucked eyebrows once the cap was off. She gaped at me in horror. She did no need to say anything, but I did.

“I have to fit in”, I explained. But she still said nothing. She simply turned away from me and left. Months later she told me that the biggest shock was that I no longer looked like the man she married, and as it would turn out, I never would again.

***

The hormones started to have effect after a few weeks. The initial strong doses before I arrived at Garret had some unpleasant side effects, but I then moved to fortnightly injections. Curiously I came to like the feelings I experienced from a fresh flow of female hormones. Whether or not this was normal, straight after the injections I felt a flood of emotions and then a sense of wellbeing. And it seemed that everybody knew that I had just had a shot. People said that I glowed like a pregnant woman.

I started to develop breast tissue. My nipples became super sensitive. At Maria’s suggestion I made myself a camisole top in silky material at sewing classes, to protect them. At first I thought that the breasts were ugly little things sticking out like small cones, but after a while they began to take shape.

My skin became softer and seemed to gain colour. At the beauty school I was virtually forced to submit to a full body wax as practice for the trainees. After the initial shock to me and my skin, I found the smoothness comfortable, and maybe a little invigorating. Maria shared with me some of her large supply of body lotion. It seemed that her career as a bank robber had been lucrative, as she seemed to have money to buy stuff from outside, and she had a good supply of many products. And she was generous with them among our “trans group” – she was our queen bee..

“Every girl needs a proper regime of skin care”, she said. And it was true that while I thought she could never pass for a woman, her skin was her most feminine feature. At her encouragement or insistence, I cleansed nightly and conditioned my skin after showering.

I also conditioned my hair, which was growing and becoming thicker and softer with the hormones. My bob style had grown out and my hair was now shoulder length. I could pull it back into a ponytail, and because of my “good hairline” and square face shape, this looked good on me.

It was also long enough for hairdressing classes to use me for a model. I found myself with curlers in, and updo styles. I even learned to do some of my own styles on myself and others. I became handy with hairpins and a bit of an expert on buns and French rolls.

***

I got closer to Maria and the other transgirls over time. I came to understand how difficult their circumstances were. I felt a fraud for pretending to be in the same situation, especially when I tried to share my experience in “transitioning”.

We spent time together, just talking. The rule was that we had to sound like women. Some of the girls had studied up on the key techniques and were able to lift their voices to a higher pitch. It was more difficult for others, like Maria, but not for me. The test was to make a phone call and be addressed as female. For some reason it came easily to me.

The topics of discussion invariably came round to the issue of surgery. For example, Maria said: “I can’t wait to get my penis removed so that I can sit down to pee like a real girl. What about you Gina?”

“I feel that it’s too soon for me to talk about surgery down there,” I said. This was the story that I was prepped to tell. I was to follow the line that “a transwoman does not need surgery to be a woman”. But in fact I was the only transgirl in Garret who had not has some surgery. Maria had been castrated, Delphine and Marcia had been in for full sex change operations, and both Shirley and Jane had been in for breast augmentation.

As they looked at me I felt compelled to add: “But I am open to considering all options.”

“In the meantime you must learn how to tuck,” said Shirley. “If I say so myself I can work miracles with tape and surgical glue. You will know how it feels to be free of hanging baggage.”

So I placed myself in their hands (or rather my junk in Shirley’s hands) and for the first time I found myself “tucked”. It was as everything disappeared. Cleverly I could still pee as the knob of my penis was pulled back and pointed down. My balls were pushed up and my scrotum was glued together over the whole package. It was not comfortable but it was transformative.

The dressmaking workshop had a full length mirror and I found myself standing in front of it fully naked, with my growing breasts exposed and my male genitals tucked. I pulled my ponytail out and let my hair fall around my shoulders. I liked what I saw. This was not a man looking at what was clearly an attractive woman. This was a woman who was proud of her appearance.

I barely slept that night. I was troubled by what was happening to me. I had been in Garret for a little less than 2 years. With everything that was happening it had seemed to pass so quickly. For time in prison that is a blessing. But who was I?

***

I also became aware of the effect of my new appearance on men – or one man in particular. Jackson Clyde had always made it clear that he regarded transsexuals as freaks, and me as only pretending to escape doing time in a “real” prison. But it became clear to me and others that he was having difficulties in not finding me attractive.

It was well known around the prison that Jackson Clyde granted favours for sex. He was very careful not to avoid surveillance and leave no traces. He was aware that discovery would be the end of his job.

Maria was not in our shared cell when he came to call. I was changing from working at the salon and I was only wearing bra and panties. I had on some light make-up and my hair was down and curled at the ends – a little exercise at work. I knew that I looked good, as any girl would in that situation. So I gave him my best coquettish smile.

“You have turned into one sexy bitch,” he leered. “Have you blown a guy yet?”

I walked over to him and put my hand on his cheek. It momentarily occurred to me that this was the first time in a while that I had felt the bristles on a man’s face, like the ones I had a few years ago. It was a strangely pleasant feeling. But I had no time for Jackson Clyde.

“Not you, Mr Clyde. Not ever. I spent most of my working life putting men like you in jail. You are a rapist Mr Clyde. You take advantage of your position for sex.”

To my surprise rather than walk out with a sneer he argued the point: “I am not forcing myself. It’s a transaction. They consent. That’s not rape.”

“Is it really consent?” I asked. “Do they have a choice? You can make their life a misery if they say no to you. That is duress, and duress is rape.”

I stared at him angrily and I could not understand the look I was getting back. He was angry with me. He had to be. Few people stood up to him. But there was a look of, … was it disappointment? He just smiled and walked away.

I realised at that point that I was in possession of real power. My appearance and my actions – flirtation with aggression – could work wonders. I was starting to appreciate a key advantage of womanhood. The power of sexuality.

***

I decided that decided that for Jen’s next visit I would not dress down. I had my hair in a high bun and I was wearing make-up. I wore my orange coveralls but unbuttoned so that she could see my bra and blossoming breasts. I had earrings and a bangle on my wrist.

“I see that you’re fitting in,” she said, sarcastically. “It makes it a little easier for me to tell you that I’m seeing someone. Although I wasn’t going to tell you this visit. I have another reason for being here”.

I said: “I told you that you were free if you want that. I want nothing for you but happiness. My being here is not promoting that. As I said, just contact with the boys and a continuing friendship with you if you can manage that.” For some reason, or perhaps it was my default when dressed like that, I was talking to her in my feminine voice.

“So when the boys come here next time you’re going to be dressed like that?! And you are going to talk to them like that?!”

“Jen, I’m an inmate in a women’s prison. While I am here I dress and behave as a woman. If you can’t explain that to them then I will. They will understand.”

“You just look too good”, she said. “Anyway, that’s not why I’m here. I need to talk to you about your sister. The news is not good. The cancer is back. She has only weeks to live. Charles and their kids are in a bad way.”

My older sister Stella had been an important person in my life. Our mother had died when I was young and as she was 6 years older than me she had effectively mothered me through formative years of my life.

When she died a few days after that visit, I applied for prison leave to attend the funeral. With the special circumstances explained that could be granted and I was called to the Warden’s office to discuss arrangements.

“Mr Clyde has made strong your representations in support of your leave,” she explained. “While it is highly irregular to have a male prison guard accompany you, if you agree I propose that you be in his custody for the 2 days leave.”

I agreed. If he had requested this detail I had no idea why.

***

Dressmaking classes had prepared a funeral outfit for me. It was a fitted black dress of conservative length (but a low front) and a waisted grey and black jacket. A pair of black heels had been procured for the occasion. The girls had constructed a padded push up black bra to go beneath it. The look was about as feminine as was decent, maybe even a “sexy widow’ look. I was not even sure that I would be attending the funeral as Gina, but it had been decided for me.

I left the prison with cuffs on, but when we got into the car Jackson Clyde took them off. It was a corrections vehicle but it was unmarked. He wore a plain suit and a dark tie for the funeral. Thankfully we would be incognito. As we drove off I thought that we would appear as a married couple side by side in the front seats.

It would be a long drive - with an early we would need all the hours to get to my old home town for the funeral service at 2:00pm. Then there would be a family gathering and overnight at the motel before the long drive back in the morning.

He said nothing at first, but we were listening to music he had brought and I found that we had similar tastes. We got to talking and then it seemed that we could not stop. I was thankful for it. I was feeling emotional. I had had a hormone shot the day before and that always made me a little soppy, but I dwelt on the memory of my sister during quiet moments. I told him that I was grateful for the distraction as we pulled into town.

“You had better call me Jack,” he said. “Only while we are outside the bars, mind. We don’t need to draw attention to your situation.”

***

I had quite forgotten what a good looking man my brother in law, Richard Finch, was. Somehow the hormones or the inculcation of things feminine had made me more aware of what aware of the attractiveness of men. He was easily 10 years older than me, tall, strong and fit. His eyes were filled with sadness but he greeted everyone with a smile.

“It’s Gina. Your brother in law,” I had to say, as he was clearly a little confused.

“Oh, so you were able to get a pass. That is great news.” He still looked at me with disbelief.

“This is Jackson Clyde from Corrections,” I said, by way of explanation. They exchanged handshakes, appearing so masculine compared to the girlish hand I had offered just before.

“I had heard about your transition,” said Richard. “I was not expecting it to be so … total. You look incredible. So much like your sister when I married her.”

I started to cry. Such a strange thing for me. I have explained the effect of the hormones on me, and had found myself weeping at the chick flicks we watched in jail, but this was in front of everybody. Richard stepped forward and took me in his arms. I could feel the muscles in his arms and smell his aftershave, and even the sweat from the back of his collar. I know that smell now, but it was new to me then - the smell of a man.

He released me and held me by the shoulders. I groped for a handkerchief and dabbed my eyes so as not to ruining my make up. It was such a feminine gesture, but it was not contrived by me. It just happened. I looked up to see his blue eyes holding back tears.

“It is so good to have close family here”, he said.

Next to him were his 2 daughters and their partners and his son. Each of them hugged me and kissed my cheek. Everybody in my family accepted me. My parents were dead, and they may have found my appearance difficult, but distant relatives accepted me easily as Gina. My wife and sons were not there.

I felt so grateful that I was a woman that day. I cried quietly through the whole service. As a man I would have held it in and suffered for it. The freedom to express grief is something to be valued. Jackson kept his distance, and I was grateful for that.

After the service we went for a gathering at the sprawling mansion that had been home to Richard and Stella. Jackson had allowed me to drink a little wine, although strictly speaking that was forbidden on prison leave. It allowed ne to move easily among the other guests. Some knew who I was. For those who did not know me “Stella was my sister” made me her younger sister. I found that almost nobody thought otherwise. Even those who knew me, seemed to have forgotten all about me.

Unfortunately, on the terrace my heels failed me. They had been reconstructed by the dressmaking class but the heel on one shoe parted. Richard came to the rescue: “Come up and look in Stella’s wardrobe. Our daughters would not dream of wearing their mother’s clothes, and my son’s girlfriend has more earthy tastes. I cannot bear to throw anything of hers away. But you are welcome to anything.”

I was surprised to discover that my sister and the new me were virtually the same size. She had always complained that she had my father’s feet – a little large but perfect for me. Her dress size only had more room in the bust – something easily fixed with a little padding. With Richard’s consent I took a pair of heels, some more sensible shoes for tomorrow, a day dress and underwear, a sensible nightdress, and a handbag with a few items inside.

“Why don’t you come back soon and collect the rest,” said Richard, motioning to the huge walk in wardrobe. “I understand there is every chance that you may be out of prison sooner rather than later.

***

Richard was referring to the application for retrial that was being pushed by a new legal team arranged by the Rape Awareness Group (“RAG”). It was being assisted by supporters within the Police who had “found” withheld evidential material. The idea was that the new lawyers would seek a new trial and argue that the killing was “in defence of others” and therefore not murder.

I was later to discover that the increased effort by the lawyers after that day, had been prompted by a substantial payment by Richard (and the estate of his late wife). I was not aware of it then. All that Richard told me is that right up until her death Stella had believed in me and had followed the case.

That was more than I had done. I had gone to prison to do my time. The truth is that if it had been in a men’s prison that time would have been short. In a women’s prison I not only found myself able to survive, but found that I had a purpose, and I with others who shared that purpose. We were on a path to womanhood. No of us considered that a return to prison was in our future. For all of us crime and manhood were things of our past.

That this was a fiction in my case, was something I seemed to have lost sight of. The distraction of it, even the enjoyment of building a new existence, had taken hold of me.

When the time was up and Jackson came over, I put my arm through his and made my farewells. Anybody who knew nothing of my circumstances would see us as a couple, attending a family funeral and leaving together. That was how I wanted it to look, and Jackson went along with it.

***

The motel was low rent, but clean. There were twin beds. Jackson would need to stay with me. The bathroom door would stay open as I toileted.

Above the basin was a large mirror. Cell mirrors were small, but this mirror allowed me to view the full shape of my body. My breasts had developed well over 3 years on hormones. They were round and full rather than cones of breast tissue. The areolas had spread. All muscle definition had disappeared and the arms and legs were soft and smooth. The male genitals were barely visible, with penis and testicles barely visible among the now depleted pubic hair.

Jackson knocked loudly on the door frame to take his time. I slipped on the nightdress and sat on the bed. I opened the handbag. I was only looking for it to contain some tissues, a lipstick or a compact. Instead I found two photographs in a small billfold – one was of her with her husband and 3 children, the other was of her and me, aged about 16 and 10 I guess. She was smiling at the camera and I was looking up at her.

When Jackson came back out of the bathroom I was sobbing. I am sure it was difficult for him, but he sat beside me and put his arm around me. “Tough day,” he said.

“Jack. I don’t think I can sleep alone tonight,” I said.

“I am not a perfect man, as you know,” he said. “If it was anyone else I would take you up on that. But I could not get past your … whatever.”

“I am not talking about sex you arsehole,” I said. “I want a shoulder not a dick.”

He went to his bed, but when I had finished brushing my long dark hair he called out to me: “Come on then.” He had pulled back his covers. He was wearing boxer shorts. I crawled in beside him and put my head on his hairy chest. He stroked my hair. We slept.

***

When I woke we were still close together. The bed was small. I lay there until he awoke.

“Thank you,” was all I could say.

“Tell no one,” he warned. “Maybe I was trying to prove to you that I’m not the bad guy you think I am. But it goes no further. Understand?”

I pulled myself up and over him. “Our secret,” I said. “And to seal it …”. I kissed him lightly on the lips. He smiled.

I had accused him of being a rapist some months before, so why had he not taken advantage? We were lying together and he had done nothing except hold me as I needed. Was I wrong about him? Perhaps the truth is that he thought of me as male, so any sexual activity with me would make him gay. Or perhaps he really was a nice guy, helping some girls in prison who had nothing to offer but sex.

After we were packed up and were in the car and back on the road, he was suddenly more serious. “I have a confession of sorts,” he said. “I should tell you that I was approached by a known criminal to arrange your death.”

I was shocked. He just blurted it out, so I shot back: “I am sure you are capable of arranging such things.”

“Most of the women in Garret are of no concern to me. I don’t care who lives or dies. I have always thought that if I was to profit from the death of someone of no value to me, I would take the money. I’m not admitting to anything, but … well, there have been killings in Garret without the killer being found.”

“So why am I not dead?” I asked.

“Maria has made it clear to me that if you die in Garret violently, I die next. But the truth of it is that this is not the reason. There is something about you. You are not one of those of no concern to me. I want you to know that.”

It was no surprise to me that Jackson Clyde was the “go to man” for dirty work in the prison, but I felt hurt and angry. I had spent a night in this man’s arms, the first time I had been that close to somebody since I was inside. How strange it was that it a prison full of women, that first time would have been in the arms of a man. I was starting to think that he was not so bad, but he was bad. Well, bad to a point. He was not going to help to have me killed.

The reality was that the hormones had destroyed any sex drive. Last night was not about sex. It was about the need for intimacy and comfort. Maybe anyone would do. Jackson was there and he was kind. I was a woman in distress and he responded as a gentleman, and with a sensitivity that had disarmed me.

But fundamentally he was still an asshole.

***

That trip taught me about myself. When the girls quizzed me about being alone with Jackson, I told them nothing. I said only: “He doesn’t do chicks with dicks”.

But from that point my femininity ceased to be a disguise. I suddenly started to dislike my sexless coveralls. I wore the nightdress to bed. I looked forward to mufti days when I could wear a dress. I joined the performance troupe as a chorus girl because it gave me the chance to dress as a woman, and perform in a sexy way.

My dreams changed to. I found myself dreaming of walking down a beach in a bikini, holding hands with Wade, the handsome young attorney on my new legal team. Too young for me but not too young for a fantasy. In my dreams I was a teenage girl, not a transwoman pushing 40.

The object of my dreams had brought positive news. A retrial had been ordered. I was to remain in custody pending a new trial. The prosecution were still pressing for a murder conviction. A new trial would not be until the following year.

The trick to doing time is to keep busy. I was busy. First thing in the morning I followed the news and contributed material to RAG. Then I had salon duties in the morning. Before lunch I went to the kitchen for baking. Then I had dressmaking in the afternoon. Then our trans encounter group. After dinner I had Zumba fitness and sometimes revue rehearsals, and a chance to catch up with the wider population. Before bed I did family emails. In particular I had taken to writing daily to my brother in law Richard. I knew that he was lonely without Stella, and I felt that our common love for her and her memory was a strong bond.

Looking at that list, it is clear that male activities are absent. Obviously there were no men to mix with, and the butch girls did not appeal to me. I had no time for sports, either competing or watching. I just was not interested in many things that I would have considered important to me. They were replaced with feminine activities. I had even learned to knit – I was making scarves for my sons.

***

Not long after the prison leave, Ethan and Robert came to visit me. We had kept in good touch over the years but visits had been only on special occasions throughout the year. They were now aged 17 and 15. Despite my appearance they still called me “Dad”, and I liked that.

They were happy to collect the scarves with winter approaching. They were only a little surprised when I told them they were my handiwork. But that was not the purpose of the visit.

“This guy Brad is a real dick,” said Ethan. “Mom just can’t see it.”

“I don’t know the guy,” was my response – 100% true.

Robert said: “We just wondered if when you get out we can stay with you?”

“You guys must know more than I do,” I said, “unless you plan on waiting another 15 years.”

“We heard from one of your friends from the force that maybe there would be a deal done and you could avoid going back to Court,” explained Ethan. Could I hope for this much?

That evening I asked Annie Haldane (still the link to my supporters outside) what she knew. And I wrote to Richard (who was now paying the bills, I guessed). Almost straight away I got a message back that a deal had been discussed that very day and was going to Court for approval. My lawyers were arranging to see me the following day.

***

My legal team had done a great job. They had been assisted by RAG members filling the courtrooms and by my old friends on the force putting together new evidence and testimonials of all of good deeds I had done as a police officer. I learned that my old captain had been told that I was now a woman and he had said something like: “It is safer world for Gina and all woman because of what he did, I mean she did, or he before she became she, or whatever.”

The Court was told that the new me was a very different person – somebody who had abandoned aggression and violence in favor of a feminine pursuits as a transwoman. It was partly true, but now the Court was expecting that this was my future.

So the deal that I needed to approve was a guilty plea for “mitigated deliberate homicide” and a sentence equal to time served plus 2 days (release paperwork). I was glad of that as it gave me a chance to say my goodbyes.

For those two days I laughed and cried with some of the best people on earth. How is it possible that so many good friends can be found in prison. There was Annie, transgirls Shirley, Delphine and Marcia, Rose and Daisy Mitchell, the salon girls, the baking team, the dressmakers, the performers, even some of the guards. Even Jackson Clyde. “If you get rid of that stuff between your legs”, he said, “call me.”

And there was Maria. Still a year to go on her sentence. I hoped that it would not pass slower by my absence, but I expected it would. “You be a woman we can all be proud of,” she said to me. I had spent my whole time in prison living a lie, and she was now expecting me to make it true? How could any man do that? I was free. There was no more need for pretence.

Sure, as I walked out that barred door I walked out in my sister’s dress and heels, with full make up and my dark hair up in a perfumed loose bun of curls. So would those clothes come off when I was clear of the gate? Would I climb into a pair of dirty jeans? What would happen to me?

If Jen had been there waiting for me with those jeans, that might have been my future. But she was long gone. It was Richard waiting for me. I smiled at him and strode toward him confidently in the high heels as if I was born to walk in them.

“Gina,” he said. He held his arms out and I fell into them. He whispered in my ear: “You look fantastic. Freedom becomes you.”

***

The next time I saw Jen was at the wedding of our daughter Rachel, that is Richard’s younger daughter, but just as much a daughter to me. I had added Jen to the invitation list and, as Ethan and Robert were living with us, she was keen to be there and see them. She was still with Brad, but he was in jail for some fraud or something.

Richard and I had married only a few months after my gender reassignment surgery, which he had paid for. He had also paid for Maria’s operation following her release only a few days after we were married. And he had added significant facial feminisation surgery for her. She would never be a small woman, but the FFS was spectacularly successful. He also paid for work on her vocal chords as well, as before her voice had been way too deep. Now the voice and the face were a match – a big beautiful woman.

She was at Rachel’s wedding too, as one of my best friends, wearing a purple dress which showed off her bust and hips - it was perfect for her. With scalp surgery she could have her own hair styled with an additional hairpiece. She really looked great.

And she came with her a boyfriend. She had found somebody bigger than her who loved her and made love to her the way she deserved. He looked more out of place in his rented suit. He was rough, but seemed like a nice person. I had no doubt that if he got out of line his girlfriend would be able to put him in his place – first by charm, of course; but if that failed then by physical action.

Keeping my promise to Maria was important to me, but not as important and giving Richard a wife who was fully female. It had not taken me long to realise that I was in love with him. But I felt that I was not fully able to express that love until he was inside me, gently rocking me to an ecstasy better than any sex I had had before.

Surgery was painful, but the first time the plastic former went all the way in to my new vagina, I knew that I had made the right decision. It just felt as if what I had been missing all my life was a passage in my groin. Had I always felt this way? I was not aware that I ever had. I found myself searching my memory for clues. It seemed to me inconceivable that I could not have had some gender confusion at some stage in my past. Because now I felt so completely female.

That past was now gone. Life as a man was now a distant memory. I was a woman, a wife and a mother – a step mother to Richard’s children, a mother in law to now two wonderful young men, and a new mother to my own two boys, who had easily slipped in to their cousins’ wider family. And within a month or so I would be a trusted a supportive step grandmother. I was knitting already. And a wedding for my step son was to follow the next year. So many people depended on me. I loved it.

And Richard loved me. I had thought that his attraction to me was as a backup Stella looking so much like her as I did. That is a role I would happily fill, but as time went on he would tell me how different I was from my sister. I know understand that my sister had been driven by mothering instincts that made her a little over bearing and ultimately sad. I think that I am driven by love – by relishing relationships with others. Strangely something that had developed in me in those years in Garret Women’s Prison.

***

So, I went up to Jen and kissed her on the cheek.

“You seem to have done very well for yourself,” she said, bitterly. “Big house. Rich husband. Nice clothes. Our kids …”.

I felt that I needed to clear my conscience, so I said: “If I have messed up your life I have to bear the responsibility. It was my actions that split up our family all those years ago. But we all need to bear the consequences of our decisions. I am doing that.”

She looked me up and down. I was wearing my “mother of the bride” outfit. It was an embroidered dress with a neckline to show off my breasts and a bolero jacket. I had used a designer dress of Stella’s but modified and updated with my dressmaking skills, adding a ribbon and bow at the waist. Richard often said I should just buy what I liked, but what I bought was a sewing machine. I like creating my own stuff in my own style. The outfit looked great and I got heaps of compliments.

“I cannot believe that you were ever a man, let alone my husband,” she said. And then more basely: “I cannot believe that the man I knew would cut off his dick to get what you have.”

“I think that I was a good man, but I’m a better woman”, I replied. “As for my dick, I have no need of it. I have a vagina now and I like it. So does my husband. Oh, and I … I’m sorry to hear about Brad. Prison is tough. I hope he comes through it.”

“It’s not easy,” she said.

“Maybe he should try for Garret as alternative incarceration? It worked for me.”

The End

© Maryanne Peters 2018