I suppose, in the classic sense, I had run away from home. That sounds so juvenile and when you’re nineteen years old all that kind of thing is meant to be behind you. Mind you, I think I had extenuating circumstances. I’ll have to back up or you won’t understand. It's a bit complicated. I was born with a male body, but I wasn't a boy any more...well, sort of. I wasn’t really a girl either, although you could have been excused if you thought that I was, because I certainly looked like one, or hoped I did and that's what my mind said I was.

I won’t go into the history here. Suffice it to say that I had been living as a girl for more than a year and probably at least half-and-half for some months before that. Lucy was my girl-friend, lover, mentor, muse and guide. I had believed that we had no secrets from each other, and then one day I discovered to my absolute horror that she had been giving me female hormones without my knowing. Not only that, she had been doing it for a year, and at maximum dosage for the last three months.

A part of me really welcomed those hormones. After all, I would not have been living as a girl if I did not want to be one, and the feelings that they gave me were sooo good. The other part was scared silly of the consequences. If I continued I would no longer be able to function sexually as a male. What if Lucy no longer loved me or wanted me when that day came? This was 1961 and transsexual was a word of derision, scorn, shame and guilt,and if the papers got hold of it, notoriety and finger-pointing. There was also a feeling that my beloved had betrayed me by not sharing the decision with me. I was torn in all sorts of ways. Like I said, I was nineteen years old and I didn't know how to deal with it.

I had packed a bag and left our flat, leaving a tear-stained note for Lucy saying that I needed to get away and think, and so I had booked into a small but comfortable West London hotel for three days, hoping I could get myself straightened out. After a couple of days I had convinced myself that I had a solution, even though I knew in my heart that I was probably kidding myself. I would accept taking the hormones but we would stop short of emasculating me.

I had rung Lucy to put this to her and she had promptly poured cold water over my brilliant idea and further frightened the living daylights out of me by calmly laying out the path for my future transition into girlhood. The fact that she seemed to have planned everything for me without talking to me just served to highlight my fears that the trust between us was no more. I had put down the phone and then cried for hours......a typically girly reaction, you may think.

When I had cried myself out I began to seriously consider my options. I could go back to Lucy, but to the teenager that I still was it seemed like surrender and I would have to eat large chunks of humble pie, as well as agree to her plans, and the paranoia remained.

I could go and live on my own, but that appeared to be a sort of dead end. Even though I had been living a female life I had few real contacts other than Lucy and I would have to make a clean break of it. The only verifiable skill I had was as a cloakroom attendant at The Lyric Theatre, not really a solid foundation for any new career, and I would have to give that up or face Lucy every day. I thought perhaps I could get a job as a waitress or a shop assistant, but the more I thought about it I knew I just did not have the confidence to make a go of girlhood on my own. I needed that support and I would be very vulnerable without it.

The third possibility held little charm either but at least I could handle it and I still had some friends, if I could make contact with them again.

I could go back to being a boy.

At least I could go home, back to Brighton, for a while, and find my feet. I didn’t want to do it. I really, really didn’t want to do it, but the more I thought about it, it seemed to be the lesser of three evils. After all, only two years ago I had been a pretty ordinary, boring, more or less regular boy. Now I had experienced over a year as a girl. I would always have that, a beautiful memory. Very reluctantly I decided this was my least worst option. Sometimes life serves us up with a shit sandwich and we just have to eat it.

The next morning I went out and bought myself a complete set of male clothing. Thank God for Marks and Spencer. Isn’t it funny? Nobody thought it strange or in the least bit out of the ordinary for a girl to be shopping for men’s clothing but if I had gone out as a boy shopping for women’s clothes I would have received all sorts of weird looks.

So there I was in M&S dressed in a black jersey knee-length dress, nylons and black high-heeled pumps, face neatly made up and my shoulder-length hair properly brushed, black patent bag over my shoulder, going through the shirts, trousers, underwear, shoes and other bits and pieces in the menswear section. The irony wasn't lost on me.

The other items that I purchased were a bar of Imperial Leather soap (Lucy had always emphasised how important it was to smell right) and a set of barbers’ clippers.

I returned to the hotel, unpacked the clothes and sat for a while to steel myself for what I had to do. Then I stripped naked and put on a peignoir since I didn’t have a dressing gown. I mentally tried to prepare myself for the fact that I would never again wear lovely clothes or shoes. I sat at the dressing table, wiped off every last trace of make-up and carefully removed the varnish from my fingernails and toenails. Then I cut them short to normal male length. Next I singed my eyebrows clean off, easier to explain no eyebrows rather than thin elegant, arched, feminine ones. I went into the bathroom to cut my hair, so that I could flush the long tresses down the toilet. The clippers should leave me with about an inch, sort of like a crew-cut.

I took a comb in my left hand, plugged the clippers into a power-point and turned them on. As they began to buzz I started to cry and my hand was shaking so much I didn’t dare to move it towards my hair. With the tears welling out I couldn’t see in any case. I wiped my eyes, calmed myself down, and tried again, and then again, and yet again, but each time with the same result. I finally turned off the machine and decided to have a shower first.

When I got into the shower I took my new soap, not unpleasant, but undeniably masculine-smelling, and began to lather myself, including my hair. It might be easier to handle cropping it after a good soap wash, no shampoo or conditioner. If it felt and smelt nasty I could make myself believe it would be better short.

Of course as soon as I started to wash around my breasts and nipples I began to lose control. The sensitivity imparted as a result of the hormones was too much for me and I could not stop myself from rubbing, squeezing and fondling myself until I climaxed with that now-familiar all-over spasm, gasping and shaking and tingling as though being hit by a myriad electric shocks. I wondered how long it would be until that utterly fantastic feeling disappeared, and wished with all my heart that it would stay with me forever.

I rinsed off, stepped out of the cubicle and dried myself, leaving my hair damp and combing it back from my face. I found a scrunchie and tied it back into a ponytail, thinking I could cut everything downstream of that off in one go and then shorten it all over. Actually it felt awful without conditioning, really coarse. Lucy had taught me the proper way to care for my hair. I looked in the mirror and decided I made quite a passable boy with my hair pulled back like that and no make-up or eyebrows. I then thought it might be a good idea to try on my new clothes before cutting my hair. If I could see myself as a boy it would put me in the right frame of mind to shear my locks.

I dressed in my new male clothes, underpants, singlet, socks, trousers, shirt, shoes and a V-neck pullover, having a little difficulty with the shirt because the buttons were on the wrong side and my fingernails were too short. I surveyed myself in the mirror, adjusting my collar. Not bad, I thought, if a little uncomfortable, and reached up to tuck back a stray lock of hair and...froze.

The way I did it was so unmistakeably a girl’s movement, totally feminine. Okay, of course I should have expected it. After all this time as a girl I was going to have to practice being a boy again. I turned and walked across the room, then swung back so that I could watch myself in the mirror. My reflection minced towards the glass, with delicate little steps, hips swinging, arms held at a completely inappropriate angle for a boy, elbows tucked in. Right. Lengthen the stride, feet parallel, arms down by the side, lean forward a little, keep that bum still. Deep breath. Try again.

I tried and tried and tried and it would not come. My body betrayed me. It just would NOT do what I told it to. I remembered when I had become a tracer (a sort of junior draughtsman) a couple of years ago. I had spent the first few months doing nothing but alphabets, upper and lower case, until the Chief Draughtsman deemed me ready to touch a real drawing. One day I went to write a letter to a friend, expecting to write in the cursive way that I had learned as a kid and I always had. I couldn’t do it. My hand would not obey me. After a few attempts I just let my hand do what it wanted to do, which was to write in those alphabets I had been practicing day after day, now ingrained in my nervous system and requiring no conscious thought, and I have written that way ever since.

That’s where I was now with my body. Lucy had made me practice....practice...practice for months learning how to move as a girl, to walk, to sit, to bend, how to hold my arms and hands, body language, head movements, and then I had had another year of living that practice and watching and copying other girls, blending in. I didn’t have to think about it. It was now instinctive. I couldn’t unlearn it in a day, if ever. Perhaps I didn't want to....

I had another thought and addressed myself or at least my reflection. “Hello, John. Welcome back, I think. Can you deal with this?”

Now, it’s difficult to recognise your own voice when you’re listening from the wrong side of your ears, but of course it was a girl’s voice welcoming *me* back. No surprise there. After all, I had been speaking like that for well over a year and practiced and practiced with the tape-recorder and headphones on a daily routine for months before that. So, talk in a lower register, easy, right? Yes, that part worked OK, but the inflection and cadence was still a girl talking to a boy. The way the words were pronounced and the phrasing was definitely feminine, as was the expressiveness in my face as I spoke.

I tried again and again and again. All I ended up doing was sounding and looking as camp as a row of tents.

I had thought... well, I suppose actually I hadn’t thought.... going back to being a boy would be easy. After all I had been one for most of my life. Technically speaking I still was one, but my act had become the reality, the role had taken over the player. The girl within me was the reality.

I sat on the bed and wondered what to do. Even in that simple action my knees automatically drew together, my ankles crossed and my hands clasped prettily in my lap. If I tried to go out like this, dressed as a boy, I would either get torn to pieces by the first gang of Mods or Rockers that I encountered, or mobbed by the nancy-boys out looking for fresh meat. Let’s face it, with the best will in the world I could only be described as EFFEMINATE.

Apart from my body, I think my sub-conscious may have been giving me a message. I must have sat there for an hour, maybe more, thinking what I could possibly do. All sorts of conflicting thoughts ran through my mind. Did I want to be a girl or not? That was a no-brainer really. Did I want to dress in beautiful clothes or not? Would I really like to have breasts? Did I want to never wear high heels again? Did I like wearing make-up or not? Did I like looking after Lucy? Was I too cowardly to do what I wanted to do?

And suddenly this great wave of relief swept over me that I hadn’t cut my hair. I still had my beautiful hair, and NO WAY was I going to chop it off. Maybe in those few minutes there I grew up. After all, hadn’t I wanted to be a girl for at least the last seven or eight years that I was sure of? And I had just come within a whisker of throwing away my destiny. For what? Teenage hang-ups? Immature reactions? A lack of courage? I braced myself and made that fateful decision. Yes. I decided that I was going to be a girl. Me. I would go home to Lucy and *I* would tell HER what I was going to do. Somehow I knew she would listen to this new me.

First though, I had to repair some damage. I wanted to look good; cool, calm and collected, elegant, sexy, and totally feminine when I got home. If I was going to be a girl for the rest of my life I was going to be the very best girl I could be. I rang down to reception and a girl answered.

“Good morning,” I said. “Is there a salon nearby which you could recommend, where I can get my hair and nails done, and maybe a facial?”

“Yes, Miss. There’s one we often send our guests to, just a few doors down the road. I use it myself. Everybody says they’re very good. Would you like me to see if I can get you an appointment?”

“Yes please. Could you? Any time say after an hour from now.”

“I’ll ring you back,” she said, and hung up.

Sure enough she called back five minutes later.

“I’m sorry Miss. The best they could do was 2.30. Will that be all right?”

I looked at my watch. It was now 12.05. “That will be just fine. Thanks very much. Can you confirm for me?”

“Certainly, Miss. I’ll do that,” and she rang off again.

I had been staring at my lovely delicate ladies’ watch, which it had never occurred to me to change. Wouldn’t that have been a dead giveaway? Sub-conscious again, or just an oversight?

Never mind. I stripped off my male garb (and the watch!) and headed back to the shower, where I used a bar of Lux (carefully not exciting myself when I washed) and proper shampoo and conditioner and came out smelling like a lady should. I dried myself, thinking about how much I would like breasts, and combed and brushed my hair out without really trying to style it, a quick blow-dry was enough, presentable would do for now.

Then I got dressed in REAL clothes, again not too snazzy at the moment. I would do that after the trip to the salon, but it felt so good to put on proper panties and a bra (even though I had to fix my falsies. I longed for the day when I wouldn't have to do that). I didn’t bother with suspenders or nylons for the present, only a floral just-below-knee-length full skirt with a built-in petticoat and a plain white blouse, no jewellery and a pair of black patent shoes with two-inch heels. I did a very light make-up job on my face. That was all going to get scrubbed off anyway, but you have to be neat when you go out. I finished off with the watch, two bangles and my favourite gold-chain necklace; no earrings to get in the way when they did my hair. Finally, I applied a little scent to the back of my ears and my wrists, sniffing appreciatively at the floral smell.

It was a little after two when I made my way downstairs, a pink cardigan draped over my shoulders and black patent handbag dangling by the strap in the crook of my left arm. I stopped at the front desk to thank the receptionist for making my appointment, and get the name of the place. She was a pretty brunette, probably a couple of years older than me, looking good in a white blouse and a blue uniform skirt and jacket, her make-up perfectly done without being overdone.

She smiled at me as I thanked her and she gave me the salon’s name and address on a sheet of hotel notepaper.

“If you don’t mind me saying, Miss, you hardly look as though you need to go. You look so elegant.”

“Why, thank you very much.“ A little flattery is always good for a girl’s ego.

“It must be nice to be tall, just like a model,” she sighed.

I had to laugh. I always regarded my height as a curse, not a blessing. “Actually, it embarrasses me.”

“Oh, no. Don’t be like that. You’re very striking.”

“Well, at least I usually don’t get lost in a crowd,” I said, and we both laughed as I headed for the door.

Sure enough, the salon was only a hundred yards or so along the road and I got there about five minutes early for my appointment. The receptionist asked me to take a seat and told me that Angela would be doing my hair today. I sat and picked up a copy of Vogue, looking at the latest fashions as I waited. Trousers for women? I wasn’t sure I liked that, but the models in the magazine looked very feminine and the pants looked very smart. Maybe if I had a nice bum it would be all right.

My reading was interrupted by a thirty-something blonde in the obligatory pink uniform smock. “Miss Wright? I‘m Angela. If you’d come with me we’ll get you started.”

“Please call me Suzie,” I said as I got up and followed her to a chair near the back of the shop.

She took my cardigan and bag and hung them in a little cupboard behind her work area as I sat in the big swivel- recliner.

“OK, Suzie, what are you having done today? Hair, obviously. Nails? Dear, dear. Whatever did you do to them? Your eyebrows? Well, they’re going to need some attention, aren’t they?”

“I seem to be having a bad few days,” I told her, making it all up on the fly. “I was lighting the gas and I took too long, and, POOF, no eyebrows. I was lucky I had my hair tied back. The nails? I was getting chips and splitting and I got so frustrated. I thought it’d be better to start over.”

“Right, dear, we’ll get Linda to give you some nice new ones. She’s our nail-lady. I’ll do your hair and we‘ll do a bit of magic to make it look like you’ve got some eyebrows when we give you your facial. I can feather in some liner so that it doesn’t look artificial. With a pretty girl like you it really won’t be that difficult. I wish all my customers were as easy as you.”

So saying, she spread the coverall over me and gave some signal that brought Linda over. She tut-tutted over my nails and produced a huge tray of false nails, which we proceeded to match against my pared-down ones. I was awfully tempted to get inch-long talons but settled on extensions of about three eighths of an inch, maybe a little more, much like what I had cut off. She went off to get her witchware ready while Angela swivelled me into position for shampoo and conditioning.

Most of the afternoon passed with me being pulled by the head, the hands, or the feet, my only input being to select the colour of my nails and tell Angela how much body I wanted in my hair-do and agreeing to the highlights that she suggested. I spent ages reading the fashion magazines while under the hair-dryer, with Linda doing my toenails and then laid back while my skin was peeled off (or that’s how it felt) when I had my facial. When asked how I wanted my face done I said “Dramatic. Tonight’s a big night.” I’m sure they thought I was up for a big date with a man.

Finally, after about two-and-a-half hours of pampering and teasing I was allowed to see the results. My hair was full-bodied, with blonde highlights, which I thought looked gorgeous, my make-up was sexy, but restrained, and my new nails were a rich burgundy, matching my lipstick. Yes, I thought, not bad, considering where I was at this morning. And, oh yes, I had eyebrows, which was a big relief.

“Well, Suzie, aren’t you a picture?” said Angela. “You make my job worthwhile.” And then she whispered in my ear, “You really must get something done about your beard, my dear. It’s starting to show.”

I looked at her aghast, but she just smiled and patted me on the shoulder. “Between us, just a tip,” she said. “You’re a lovely girl.”

When I paid the bill I purchased the nail polish and the lipstick and left a more-than-healthy gratuity.

I walked back to the hotel thinking about Angela’s little aside to me. I had thought that I was really careful about my beard, and it wasn’t much of one anyway. I usually only shaved about once every five or six days, but it brought home Lucy’s predictions that if I didn’t take some action now I would gradually become more and more masculine. This was watershed time all right. Now that I had surrendered to my true desires to be female and feminine I had better make sure that I took the necessary steps to preserve myself and nurture my inner and outer girl.

I entered the hotel and looked for my friendly receptionist, but there must have been a shift-change and a pleasant-looking man in his thirties was on duty. He gave me a smile and a hello as I passed the desk.

Back in my room at just about 5.30 p.m. I knew I could not get home before Lucy went to work. I mentally tossed up whether to let her know I was coming or just turn up. I decided that it was better if I told her, so she had something to think about before we faced each other, and so I rang her.

She picked up almost straight away, with a breathless, “Hello.”

“Lucy, it’s me, Suzie. I’m coming home tonight, so you had better be prepared for a chat when you get home from work.”

“Oh, darling, just come home and we’ll get everything straightened out, I promise you.”

“We’ll see. I want to look you in the eyes when we talk, so that I know I’m getting the truth.”

“All right then,” she sounded uncharacteristically meek. “I really have missed you, you know. Hurry home, my sweet.”

“I’ll be there when you get in. Bye for now.”

I still had to restrain myself from melting. It’s not only physical reactions that become ingrained. I cradled the phone eventually after sitting for several minutes with the receiver pressed between my breasts.

Well, with that little confrontation over, I could get down to business. I wasn’t going to waste my afternoon at the beauty parlour. I stripped off again. It seemed that today was my day for striptease. I slipped into my peignoir while I decided what I was going to wear tonight. I finally decided to show her my new cleavage. I had found that with surgical tape strategically applied beneath my budding breasts, an A-cup bra and some tissues I could produce convincing, if not massive, cleavage, so I proceeded to work alchemy on my chest and when I had adjusted everything I had a lovely little cleft between my boobs. I loved it, and it made me very aroused. I really had to swat Percy into behaving himself. There was a mix of fear, delight and outright confusion at the mixed messages my body sent me.

I went for simple but elegant. Suspenders and stockings of course, very sheer and dark. Black satin panties and a silky black knee-length half-slip under a form-fitting black hobble skirt coming just below my knee, with a small slit that let me walk, and the white angora cardigan-type top on which I left four buttons undone. A pair of black sandals with 4-inch heels and the black woollen three-quarter length coat with karakul cuffs and lapels that I really liked would finish me off. For a little flash I wore 3-inch gold hoops in my ears and a necklace with a longer chain that permitted the pendant to nestle between my breasts. Lucy wouldn’t see the whole ensemble of course, but it made me feel pretty good when I surveyed myself in the mirror. With my hair done nicely (think Marianne Faithfull) and an evening face on I could have knocked ‘em dead if I wanted to. I waved my burgundy nails around and touched one to my lips to check the match. Perfect. I only needed to touch up my lipstick before I went out. I took off my coat and packed quickly. I didn’t bother to fold all my stuff properly as it would be unpacked before too long. I debated whether to chuck out my worn-once boy outfit, but decided that would be wasteful. The Salvation Army could use it.

When I had packed I rang down for a porter to come and pick up my things. While I was waiting I looked at myself again and asked myself how I could have been so stupid as to imagine I would ever again be a boy. When the porter came I grandly gave him a ten-shilling note and asked him to arrange a cab for me. Then I went down and settled my bill while he handled my case and the cab. The receptionist asked if everything had been satisfactory and I assured him that it had. I went out to the waiting taxi with my case already on board and told the driver to take me to Finborough Road. I arrived home about nine and the cab-driver carried my bag up the front steps for me. It’s amazing how men assume that women are too weak to carry their own bags. We let them keep on believing that of course. I gave him a decent tip too.

I was so glad to be home. I loved that flat and I loved the woman it belonged to. Never mind that we might have a blazing argument later that night. I now knew in the deepest recesses of my heart that we would thrash all our problems out. What she didn’t know was that I was not the same girl who had slunk out of here three days ago. If we made love tonight it would be on my terms and she would be on the bottom. So there!

I let myself in and immediately took my bag up to my bedroom, unpacked all my things, the girly things that is, and hung them or packed them away in drawers. The boy clothes I stuck in a laundry bag for disposal, a waste I know, but a lesson I had to learn.

I went and inspected the rest of the flat. Three days without my care and attention showed. I sighed to myself. However would Lucy manage without me? It wasn’t as if the place was actually dirty, but her bed was unmade and there were three days-worth of clothes to be washed and ironed. The dusting could have been done better and the shower and washbasin were just a little greasy. In the kitchen she had washed up but the dishes stood undried on the sink. There were no pots or pans out because she hadn’t cooked, of course. I couldn’t really blame her. Even though she had taught me, she wasn’t very good. Oh, well. I would fix it all up tomorrow.

Ten past ten and I decided to pour myself a glass of wine. I made it a large one. She wouldn’t be home until 11.30 at least. I was quite relaxed as I sat down in the living room and kicked off my shoes. Suddenly I was dying for a cigarette. Both of us were only social smokers and I went hunting through the drawers of the sideboard and found a half-packet of Rothmans and a box of matches. My hand trembled when I lit that cigarette and took a deep drag. Yes, me, little Miss Cool-Calm-And-Collected, as the nicotine buzz hit me and I gulped down some wine. Come on Suzie, get a grip of yourself, girl. It’ll all be OK if you just keep your nerve.

I paced up and down as I smoked and drank. When I finished I went back to the kitchen, rinsed and dried the dishes and cups before putting them away, rubbed a damp cloth across the table and looked around for something else to do. I went up to her bedroom and made the bed, gathered up the dirty clothes, changed the towels in the bathroom and took the old ones and the clothes down to the laundry. I nearly started the washing machine, but managed to restrain myself. Slow down you silly cow. Go and check yourself out. You want to be slim, elegant, feminine and ladylike when she comes home, right?

I went back to my bedroom and spent fifteen minutes primping nervously, checking my make-up several times over, fussing with my hair and pushing non-existent stray strands into place, adjusting my skirt and sweater, making sure my jewellery was just-so, spraying a little more scent onto my wrists and neck, and a touch into my cleavage. Nervous? Who? Me? No way.

I heard the key turn in the lock downstairs and almost rushed down to meet her until I pulled myself together and descended the lower half of the staircase sedately. I wished I hadn’t left my heels in the living room. It would have been nice to use my extra height to dominate her a little. I gasped when I saw her standing just inside the front door.

She stood there with her keys still in her hand, swaying slightly, and peered at me with glazed eyes. Her lipstick was actually smeared!

“Hallo, Ssuzhie, darling. I’m sso glad you’re home. Help me with my coat, will you?”

She was drunk, totally blotto. I had never seen her like this.

I went over to her, took the keys from her hand and her bag from her arm, and put them on the hall table before taking off her coat, which set her to giggling. She lurched as the coat came free and I caught her round the waist. She staggered into me and her arms went around my neck. I stood there supporting her with her coat in one hand.

Her face was close to mine and I smelled gin, lots of it. She hiccupped.

“Ohh darling, you don’t know how good it is to shee you. I wanted you to come home sso much. I wanted to apolo.... apologizhe.....shay I’m ssorry. I never meant to hurt you,” and she burst into tears and hung around my neck with her face buried in my shoulder.

I managed to dump her coat and get my other arm around her and led her stumbling up to her bedroom, while she wailed, “I didn’t want to hurt you,” and similar sentiments. I tipped her back onto the bed and undressed her with the greatest difficulty, heaving her around like a sack of potatoes to get her dress off. I went to get some tissues and face-cream to clean up her tear-stained and still made-up face. When I got back she was snoring.

My oh-so-sophisticated and self-possessed Lucy was snoring like a pig!

As I cleaned her up I couldn’t stop myself from giggling. It was such an anticlimax. Here I was, done up to the nines, all prepared to fight and argue and lay down the law, nervous as a cat, and THIS happened. Oh, Lucy, I loved you then. You were no longer my goddess on a pedestal, but a normal vulnerable woman, just like me.

I finished cleaning her up, tucked her in, kissed her on the brow and went to my own bedroom to sleep, feeling pretty good about everything. Hee, Hee. I might have a ball in the morning. I could play the aggrieved party to the absolute hilt, although truthfully I was a little bit hurt, she was drunk and obviously well kissed when she knew I would be waiting and wanting to talk. We shall talk, Lucy, we have to.

I awoke about eight and I could hear her in the next bedroom, still snoring, but much more gently, so, after the usual ablutions I dressed in my black maid’s uniform, went and picked up the wreckage from last night and hung it all nicely, except for what went in the wash, and went to the kitchen. I had a glass of milk and my vitamins, with a double dose of hormones to make up for what I had missed during the last three days. Then I made her coffee and poured her juice, putting two aspirin on the tray too, and went back up to her bedroom. I placed the tray on the side-table and gently shook her awake.

“Good Morning Mistress,” I said.

She groaned as she came awake, opened her eyes and saw me. She launched herself at my neck and wrapped her arms around me, causing me to overbalance onto the bed. It was just as well I had put the tray down. She showered me with kisses and started to cry (again!).

“Suzie, Suzie, Suzie. Oh, I’m glad you’re back. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I was so stupid. Please believe me, I never meant to hurt you.”

Now this was more like what I wanted to hear. I felt that somewhat guilty satisfaction that you get when you’ve been proved right, but I also felt a surge of love.

“How are you feeling this morning, Mistress?” I asked her, still playing with her.

“Rotten and great, all right? You don’t fool me. You’re not pulling away and you’re accepting my kisses. You still love me don’t you?”

“Mmm. Maybe,” I replied. “Kiss me a couple more times and I’ll tell you.”

She did that and held me so tight I wound up lying next to her and, of course, had to put my arms around her too, and then I burst into tears as well and we had a lovely, satisfying cry together in each other’s arms. Suddenly there was no need for recriminations, only explanations.

I stroked her hair, still ratty from last night. “Your juice is getting warm and your coffee’s getting cold.”

“I don’t care. I have this wonderful maid who will make me more if I snap my fingers.”

“Oh yeah. If you snapped your fingers this morning I reckon your head would explode.”

She laughed and winced at the same time. “However, I know a sure-fire cure for a hangover, and I don’t mean aspirin,” she said. “Undress now, fair maid, and give me my hangover medicine.”

Well, I did of course, and I don’t know if it cured her headache but I certainly didn’t have one afterwards. And I made the running while she lay underneath me and submitted to my ministrations, until she had a silly smile on her face.

“I suppose we have to talk, but I have to have a shower first. I really STINK.”

“Very well Mistress, as a lady’s maid it’s my duty to help you.” So we both got clean again. It took some time, because I had to shampoo and condition her hair and then she insisted on soaping and cleaning my nipples, reducing me to another helpless orgasm. She was right. I did get her a fresh coffee and juice. She still took the aspirin though.

Freshened up, we sat in our dressing gowns at the kitchen table and she eyed me a little nervously.

“Look, I know I come on strong at times. I don’t want to sound like your Mum, but you can’t believe that I ever meant you any harm. I only want what’s best for you. Yes, I should have included you in all the decisions, and I didn’t and I’m so sorry. It wasn’t because I didn’t trust you. It was because I knew how scared you were of the consequences, and I sort of thought I could ease you past that fear. I know now it was wrong. It took nearly losing you to make me see that.”

She reached across the table and grasped both my hands in hers. I held onto them and looked her in the eyes.

“You don’t know how close you came to losing me. I almost went back to being a boy. It was only after I got dressed and almost ready to do it that I discovered that I actually had no choice but to come back to you.”

She gaped at me. “You were going to go back to being a boy? How could you even think about it?”

“Well, it seemed to be the only road open to me. I thought you didn’t trust me and that meant you didn’t really love me. The only thing that stopped me was that you schooled me so well in being a girl that I just physically couldn’t do it.”

“What do you mean, "schooled you so well?" And why couldn’t you do it?”

So I told her how I had got dressed in my boy’s gear and then found that I still moved like a girl and couldn’t stop myself, no matter how hard I tried. Then I had thought about my voice and the same thing happened. Whatever I did I still sounded like a girl trying to sound like a boy. I had practiced so much and drilled femininity into my very bones, into every fibre of me, that there was no turning back. The hormones didn’t actually matter.

“When I sat and thought about it I knew I had to come home and have it out with you. I finally grew up and faced myself. I’m still scared about some of it, but as long as you do trust me and hold my hand along the way, we’ll be all right.” I remembered and snickered. “I was all fired up to have a real row with you last night, and then you came in pissed as a newt. I really wanted to fight, but.....”

She blushed fire-engine red. “I only meant to have one to steady my nerves, really, because I was afraid you might not listen to me, and that didn’t do the trick so I had another, and another. I honestly don’t remember how many. You know I don’t drink that much. The last time I got drunk was when I found out that that useless prick of a husband of mine was sleeping with my best friend.”

“I know, and you were blathering on about how sorry you were and how much you loved me, and I knew it was true and I forgave you then and there. What is it they say? “In vino veritas” Well, you’d had lots of vino, so out came the veritas.”

“You rotten little chit! You forgave me last night and you didn’t tell me until now!”

“You knew I forgave you when we were in bed this morning. I wouldn’t have made love to you if I hadn’t. So don’t try that injured innocence stuff with me. There’s going to be a few changes round here and if you don’t behave you might end up wearing the maid’s uniform. Besides, I want to know who mussed your lippy.”

“Oh...um, I really don’t know, sorry. Just some guy who was handy.” From looking a little glum, she suddenly smiled brightly, “Ooh, will you beat me too? Please! Please!”

“I’ll think about it, but only if you promise not to enjoy it. On second thoughts, you’d make an awful maid. I’d have to follow you around making sure you cleaned up properly. As for cooking, well, I like to eat decently cooked food, so I’ll either have to hire a chef or do it myself.”

“Bitch!” she laughed at me, and a few seconds later we were wrestling. Somehow our dressing gowns came off and we were naked again and kissing each other all over. My cock came to attention and she grabbed it and towed me back up to the bedroom and then we were on the bed and cuddling.

She looked me in the eyes and stroked my hair. “Don’t ever leave me again,” she whispered. “Promise?”

“As long as you tell me what you want me to do, and we talk it through, OK?”

“It’s a deal.” So, of course, we made love again to seal the deal, much more satisfying than a handshake.

Lucy asked me if I still had the men’s clothes and I told her I did, but I was going to give them to the Salvation Army. She asked me if she could see what I looked like in them. She hadn’t seen me as a boy in over a year. I obliged her by not only wearing them but pulling my hair back tight, just as I had in the hotel. She got me to walk around and fell off the bed laughing as I sashayed across the room.

“You make the girliest boy I’ve ever seen,” she gasped through tears of laughter. “I tell you what. Keep the clothes for the next fancy-dress party we get invited to. You’ll be a sensation.”

So I did keep the clothes and, sure enough, some months later we went to a fancy-dress bash and I was the hit of the evening. Everybody thought I was hilarious. How ironic, eh? A boy dressing as a boy, who no way could be mistaken for a boy.

The very next day I started electrolysis to get rid of that pesky beard. If anyone tells you becoming a girl is easy send them on a course. No pain, no gain? Well, there’s pain all right, and yes, the upper lip is murder but I guess there’s gain. It was great when I didn’t have to shave any more. Five months later I went back to Angela’s salon for a facial and make-up job. I specifically asked for her when I made the appointment.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again, Suzie,” she said when she came to get me to start the treatment. “I thought you were just a recommendation from the hotel.”

“I was, but you gave me something to think about and I had to come back and let you know it meant a lot to me.”

I watched her carefully while she did my face and saw her eyes widen and then she smiled at me.

“Good girl! Smooth as the proverbial baby’s bottom, but much prettier. This makes my job even easier.”

She leaned closer and whispered, “Does this mean you’re going all the way? None of my business of course.”

“Yes, it does.”

She squeezed my hand. “Be happy, and invite me to the wedding.”

“You may have to wait a while, but if it happens I promise I will.”

She finished me off and did a great job. I looked like a princess. I thanked her and promised to come back, and I meant it. She had been very kind to me.

Lucy and I discussed our next moves and decided, first the psychiatrist, then the doctors. When I went to see the doctors (endocrinologists) I was armed with a letter from the psychiatrist telling them that I was a prime candidate for sexual reassignment and recommending immediate hormone therapy. Knowing that the medical men would not be happy that I had already been taking hormones the letter also said that I had been treated for severe acne and that there had been an error in the prescription which had resulted in some partial feminization. After some initial grumbling and doctor talk they examined me and pronounced me healthy, took blood samples, grumbled some more and, on my second visit, gave me two massive injections in my bum. Well, they felt massive, anyway. There were daily pills to continue with and more injections to come.

No turning back now, girl. I was committed and I have to say it was a relief. No more agonizing needed. In the next few weeks I had my Adams Apple shaved, although I hardly needed the procedure. In a way though, the act of having it done was evidence of my new determination to go through with my transition.

I would like to say that it was all plain sailing from then on, and perhaps it should have been, but I guess human beings will always want to tinker and make things better even when they’re not broken. I was required to go and see the psychiatrist every week for a monitoring session, in other words to make sure I wasn’t going nuts as I turned from a boy into a girl. As a part of the sessions she used hypnotherapy to soothe me and “iron out any little hang-ups” which sounded reasonable enough.

Some months into my transition I started to have these strange dreams. I remembered when I was a little girl how I loved playing with my dollies and how I used to love it when my Mummy dressed me up in pretty clothes to go to other girls’ parties. I remembered going to school and playing jacks and skipping with my girlfriends and running away from the boys and all sorts of female things.

Now, on an intellectual level I knew that these things hadn’t happened, but my memory kept insisting that they had. At first I thought it was some kind of weird side-effect of the hormone treatments.

I told Lucy what was happening to me and she went ballistic.

“It’s not the hormones. It’s that bloody shrink. She’s messing with your mind. We’ll see about this.”

Together we went to see the psychiatrist and asked what she was doing. She blandly told us that she was just making sure that my mind and body were aligned. We pressed her to tell us where this would end up. It would mean that by the time I was physically a girl I would have a complete set of memories of myself as a female, from childhood to the present.

I would only be able to remember myself as a boy with the greatest difficulty, as though in a dream. I asked how this would affect my feelings towards Lucy and she told us that they would be entirely appropriate. I would consider Lucy to be a good friend or an older sister, enabling me to relate to men on a sexual basis.

That was when the pair of us went ballistic. After a lot of shouting and arm waving, threats and invective, our friendly psychiatrist petulantly agreed she would play no more mind games and would reduce the impact of the suggestions that she had already implanted in my mind. She seemed awfully miffed and disappointed that we hadn’t appreciated her efforts.

The lesson here was–never trust a psychiatrist! They’re mad! I know the reaction nowadays would be that this was malpractice, but nobody had ever heard of such a thing then. This, after all, was the era when Hans Eysenck ruled the roost and advocated “curing” abnormal psychological conditions with drugs, hypnosis and electro-therapy.

Over the next two years my body changed completely. God, it seemed so slow at the time, but it did give me a breathing space, which I probably needed. My body became virtually hairless within a year and of course my beard had gone in months.I suppose like any boy who ever dreamed of becoming a girl I was fascinated and delighted by my developing breasts. Since I couldn't see them grow on a day-by-day basis I got Lucy to take pictures of me (naked) at fortnightly intervals, and when the photos were developed we would pore over them eagerly comparing the size of my nipples and aureoles with the previous snaps and admire the increasing curviness and prominence of my bustline as well as my hips and bum.

Lucy claimed that she helped them develop to the maximum extent possible because she massaged them every day and sucked my nipples to make them protrude properly. Whether or not it was true I never resisted her efforts.I Oliver Twisted her all the time.

After about eighteen months my puppies stopped growing at about a B-cup (with a little stretch of the imagination). They were nice, and I loved them, but with my height Lucy and I both considered I could carry a bit more without looking like Diana Dors, so I had them augmented to a C-cup. When the pain, bruising and discomfort had subsided about three weeks later they looked really nice. Of course, the extreme sensitivity of my nipples was long gone, but there was now much more of them for my lover to kiss and fondle and normal was still pretty nice. I had to get a whole new wardrobe of bras amd tops of course. Such agony!

My hips and bum had acquired that shape that I had desired for so long and my waist settled at 25 inches. I was no longer angular. All my parts seemed to flow into one another in smooth curves. I could have admired myself in the mirror for hours (and I did!) All these changes made my movements even more feminine. The subtle changes in centre-of-gravity pushed my breasts forward and my tush backwards and made the latter sway seductively in a perfectly natural manner.

My dick had continued to operate for about a year, although it gradually became harder and harder (no pun intended) for me to reach a climax. Lucy did not mind one bit as she would have multiple orgasms while I was still plodding along waiting to cum. In fact, she sometimes went cross-eyed with pleasure, which broke my concentration and left me soft and giggling, so that I would have to start all over again. Then one day it just went on strike. No amount of kissing, sucking, stroking or playing would make it stand straight, and the funny thing was, after all my misgivings and fears about losing my ability, that I didn’t really care. Lucy said she would miss it, and when the day came, we should give it a decent burial with full military honours for fine upstanding service. In the meantime it served to pee through and we found other ways to play.

Shortly after that I asked the doctors if it would be a good idea to be castrated, as it seemed to be a waste of time to have testicles any more. Surprisingly, perhaps, they said it would be better to leave it go until I underwent the final transition.

By the end of 1963 the only reminder of my boyhood was that now limp appendage between my legs. Not having to worry about bulges or falsies simplified my underwear no end. Bra and panties were all I needed and I learned what a wonderfully versatile garment a bra could be, from totally demure to utter trollop. Down below a quick tuck was all that was necessary, although I still wasn’t game to go swimming. I was twenty-one years old and VERY sophisticated. I was the best dancer of the Twist that I knew.

It was a time of great changes not only for me, but for the world and Britain. While I was somewhat self-absorbed we had gone through the Cuban missile crisis, President Kennedy had been assassinated, men had gone into space, and the music scene had been transformed by The Beatles and the Rolling Stones. Despite not being into boys I had a real crush on Charlie Watts. He was just sooo cool! I met him (and the others) once, after a performance they did at The Marquee, which Lucy had got us into, and he was really nice too. Not only music, but the clothes were getting so elegant and with-it. This girl Mary Quant, who was only about Lucy’s age, had opened a boutique in Chelsea, just down the road from where we lived. She designed the most fabulous gear, and once I discovered it I wouldn’t be seen dead in anything else.

I had given up my cloakroom keeping at the end of the previous year and Lucy and I had decided that I should have an independent income stream just in case, even though she had made me the sole beneficiary of her will. That was money I did NOT want. I looked around and found a little salon on Fulham Road near the junction with Finborough Road, on the fringes of the fashionable areas. I considered I knew a bit about the importance women attached to looking good and, because of Lucy’s tuition, I was more than competent in make-up. I also thought it would give Lucy an interest if she ever wanted to leave the theatre.

I had a brainwave and went to see Angela, the beautician who had been so nice to me. I told her what we were thinking of and asked her if she would like to be the manager if we went ahead. She leapt at it. It was closer to home and she had a few ideas she wanted to try out, with my agreement, of course. I then took her to see Lucy, who liked her on sight and we set the whole thing in train. Two months later I was the proud co-owner of my very own business. Angela was a raving success. She had the manner to set the clients at ease and make them feel special, just as she had me. I would go in after lunch and do facials and make-up under her supervision, but mainly learn from her the tact to deal with customers, some of whom were right bitches, but you kept them sweet if you could.

Angela became a very good friend. She knew what I was, of course, having picked me at our first encounter, but she always treated me like she did any other girl. Perhaps she was the favourite auntie that I always wished I’d had. The nearest she ever came to criticism was to chide me for not inviting her to my wedding (because she was a hopeless romantic), but once she knew about the relationship between Lucy and me she accepted that marriage could be in the mind as well as in the law. Anyway, she ran the business with a velvet whip and we were soon doing very well, including her, because she was on a share of the profits.

One of the reasons I had given up the cloakroom job was that rumours about me had started to spread in the circles we frequented. Medical practitioners are supposed to have a code of confidentiality, but it probably leaks through nurses and assistants, specialists and technicians, and their girlfriends and boyfriends. Some people stopped talking to me and others whispered behind their hands, and still others seemed to be embarrassed by my presence, not all, but a significant number. I never encountered outright hostility, but we thought it would be a good idea to head things off at the pass and so I quit and ended up going into the beauty business.

Apart from being part-owner and cosmetician, I was also Angela’s favourite guinea-pig for new hairstyles. I wouldn’t let her cut too much, but other than that I had, in short order, platinum, black, ginger, streaks, purple (ugh), highlights, extensions, curls, bangs and god-knows what else. Sometimes Lucy would collapse when she saw me, but more often she would say;

“Angela’s a genius.”

Of course we made sure that Lucy was a customer too, but she insisted on staying her natural blonde self and refused all but the most basic styles. Angela would give her grief about her having no sense of adventure and Lucy just smiled and said she was right and she could practice on me. Thank you very much, darling!

At Christmas, Lucy asked me if I was ready. I knew exactly what she meant and said I was. In truth, I could hardly wait to get rid of my poor little dick. Maybe that shrink had kept on doing the odd bit of manipulation after all. I wanted a vagina. I no longer feared it as an entry to my innermost self for men but thought of it as a proud symbol of my passage into womanhood.

“You know,” she said, stroking my cheek, “I really regret that I didn’t marry you when you could still pass as male, and it’s too late now, but, just in case you didn’t know, you are my soulmate forever. Now, I haven’t booked anything yet, but here’s a proposal. We fly to Singapore in April and we arrange for your surgery at the end of the month. I’ve checked that the doctors can schedule you in. I’ve allowed for a couple of weeks in the hospital and a couple of weeks swanning around after that, for recuperation and relaxing. We’ll get back here at the end of May or early June. How does that sound?”

“Oh, Lucy, it sounds wonderful and, as usual, you give me absolutely no choice.”

Intermission.