At The Clinic.
by
Angharad.

Drew stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom; it was still a bit misted up despite his opening the window a little. He gazed at his body and felt sad. He’d been out for a training ride, but had forgotten to fill his water bottle, so had to stop and buy some from a village shop. His mind drifted back to the event.

The ride had been going really well until he got thirsty and realised he’d forgotten his drink bottle, he was well pleased with the difference interval training had had on his riding, especially his stamina. This is where you ride in spurts, a few minutes near flat out then rest at base level for a few more then off again at speed, and so on. However, the mouth breathing at full pelt made him thirsty.

He always carried a few pounds in his mini-saddle bag, along with a puncture repair outfit and spare tube. He’d walked home often enough with a flat tyre to learn that one. You keep enough to call home or a cab, or to buy food or water. These days he also took his mobile phone which he strapped to his arm or kept in a bum bag if he wore one.

On the day in question, he had it in his bum bag, his MP3 was on his arm there being no real pocket in some racing skins. It was a relatively warm day and he stopped at the village stores to quench his thirst.

On this day, he was big butch Drew, his hair although long was ponytailed and tucked up under his helmet. He wore, the skins, socks and shoes oh and a sports bra, which he hoped streamlined his little problems, as well as reducing wind resistance!

“Go and serve that girl,” said the shopkeeper to his assistant. Drew’s heart sank immediately. He caught sight of a reflection of himself in an upright freezer door, his relatively wide hips and small waist and the tell tale line across his back. His skins didn’t hide the blue of the Pearl Izumi sports bra, which showed through his sweaty top.

He bought the water and drank half the 500ml putting the half full bottle into the cage on his bike, where he knew it would rattle, but his mind was elsewhere.

He tried to get back into his ride, instead he dwelt on his dilemma, the changes which seemed to be continuing to his body, and which were entirely natural. He was getting more female by the month, in shape if nothing else.

As he rode he pondered over his physiology. According to a thing he saw on the internet, fat people produce more oestrogen than skinny ones. Apart from his bum and chest, he was like a flayed whippet, a stick insect with bumps!

Wearing boy’s trousers was a problem, his waist hip ratio was off the scale unless he looked at girl’s ones, then they fitted, so that’s what he wore. Thankfully, they looked more or less unisex, or the ones he chose were. The ones he wore as Gaby he sometimes shared with Jules–after all she was a full time girl, he, a part timer–were more overtly feminine.

Race skins are designed to be streamlined, made of lycra and nylon or equivalent, they are almost painted on. On a cooler day he could get away with wearing a jacket or gilet, or even a sweater, which he did in school. That was another matter, the bandage he wore to wrap up his titties for school, showed under his shirt. If he wore a vest, he looked so un-kewl, if he wore a tee shirt he got too warm; if he wore a pullover, he got too hot, and if he went without any of them, his nipples poked through the shirt and rubbed on his blazer, not to mention their ‘bouncing’ when he moved about–stairs or running were purgatory.

Life was unfair, he thought to himself. I should be producing masses of testosterone, ‘cos skinny types do, instead I don’t. The problem, as he saw it, was if he took male hormones, it would cause problems with his racing. The endocrinologist he had seen at Nottingham, at the Queen Elizabeth medical school, thought he was fascinating but wouldn’t do anything until he’d conferred with the medics at British Cycling.

He remembered that day too. He finally thought it would solve the problem of Gaby. He’d be sad to lose her, but at last he’d be free and just an ordinary lad. What a farce! Loads of blood taken, he felt like he was surrounded by vampires. Then the dumb quack who examined him.

“What’s the matter, young lady?” he said to Drew. At least he’d spoken to Drew not Jenny. Drew thought he’d looked reasonably butch, a Tour of Britain tee and cargo shorts, okay girl’s ones but with his hips he had a lot of choice, not! Then his new Reeboks, they were really kewl, so he felt pretty okay. Until the doctor spoke.

Jenny opened her mouth to intervene and the doctor waved her quiet, “Let your daughter speak for herself.”

“That’s my son, doctor.” Jenny said ignoring his instruction.

“Surely not?”

“It’s true.”

“But you look as female as your mother!”

“Yeah, well, that’s kinda like why we’re here.” Drew felt himself blushing and hospitals were hot enough without this. Still if they could fix his problem, it would be worth it.

The doctor asked loads of questions of both Drew and Jenny and wrote reams in the notes. He asked if he might examine Drew, who’d bound his breasts–well a bra in a tee shirt tended to give the wrong impression.

“Can you remove the bandage, please?” asked the doctor, and Drew did as requested. Two perfectly formed B-cup breasts popped out, causing the doctor to gasp and Jenny’s heart to miss a beat.

“Do you mind if I examine them?” he asked nervously of a now-sweating Drew.

Drew’s throat seemed to close up and he managed to shake his head. The doctor lifted them, and then prodded and poked, of course the nipples responded and Drew almost glowed with embarrassment. Talk about copping a feel didn’t come into it.

Drew removed his trousers on request and was down to his Bart Simpson boxers. He was asked to remove them too. Standing naked while the doctor prodded and poked him, he should have felt cold, but he was boiling and he felt a trickle of sweat run down his back.

He exchanged nervous glances with his mother, she looked concerned too. He was thirteen, going on fourteen and she hadn’t seen him naked for some months, if not a year. He didn’t like to say anything to her. She’d eventually picked up on it when seeing him as his alter ego, and showing some cleavage, then the visit to his own quack, now the referral to the expert: who, it seemed wanted to pickle him and keep him as a laboratory specimen.

Finally the doctor, after getting permission, had a poke around Drew’s privates. His little dingle had practically shrivelled up into his body out of fright, so it looked smaller than ever.

The doctor, chuckled to himself. “Aha! This might be part of the problem. You may dress now.”

Drew had brought his back pack with him, a book and some water the usual stuff, and a bra. He thought it was easier than the bandage and less hot. It was also more comfy.

The doctor’s eyes nearly came out on stalks when he saw Drew casually don the feminine garment. “How often do you wear one of those?” he asked.

“At home, a sports one for cycling. Depends on who’s gonna see me.”

“I suppose that makes sense. Tell me, if you are trying to be more boyish, why do you keep your hair so long?”

“I like it this way, besides it annoys some of my teachers.”

The doctor smiled, ‘confuses them, more like’ he thought to himself.

“So what is your opinion, doctor?” asked Jenny.

“It’s a complex case, made more so because of the sporting element. We’ll probably need to do a series of tests and possibly some scans.”

“Oh!” said Jenny, hoping it would be easier.

Drew thought, ‘Kewl, I get to go in one of those machines and they can see what I had for dinner.’

“Effectively, Drew isn’t it?–appears not to have any testes.”

Drew nearly fell over in shock. He was a girl!

“However, this could mean they haven’t descended yet, which is unusual at this age, or that they don’t actually exist. The scan would confirm this, or the possible presence of female organs, ovaries, uterus etcetera.

“One of the tests is for chromosomes, because several possibilities exist there, but there are a number of possibilities we need to rule out, including androgen insensitivity syndrome.”

“What’s that?” asked Drew wondering it meant he was insensitive to Andrews, which would be ironic in itself.

“It means that your body doesn’t respond to testosterone, the male hormone. In which case giving you some would be a waste of time.”

“What?” gasped Drew, “but I’m a boy.”

“Not from where I’m standing,” said the doctor who blushed as he spoke.

“Is there anything we can do?” asked Jenny.

“Not until we get the results of the tests, which will take three weeks or more. However, the next appointment with me is likely to be considerably longer, I’m afraid. I have a colleague on long term sickness, and another on holiday, and when he comes back, I’m off to the States for a conference and a holiday.”

“But what about Drew? Can we see you privately?” Jenny asked, wondering how much it would cost and if they could afford it.

“I’m sorry, none of us do private stuff in this department.”

“Oh! But what about my son?”

“Mrs Bond, this has been going on for some time, it isn’t life-threatening and while it might prove a source of embarrassment, he seems to be coping. It isn’t an emergency, is it?”

“That’s okay for you to say, you know you’re a man,” said Drew quietly, “I don’t know what I am.” He felt a tear run down his face.

“I’m sorry, Drew, but I don’t want to jump the gun on anything, and this cycling thing is quite important to you isn’t it?”

Drew nodded as tears dribbled down his face, the doctor handed him a box of tissues.

“He’s being considered for possible selection for the Cycling Academy.”

“Which means?” asked the doctor.

“He could be the next Lance Armstrong.”

“Is he a British rider, sorry, I don’t follow cycling.”

“Obviously,” retorted Jenny in exasperation. “Lance Armstrong is an American who has won the Tour de France a few times.”

“Ah, I suppose that’s important. So do you cycle as well?” he asked her.

“She’s the elite women’s road race world champion,” said Drew, defending his mother. Jenny squeezed his shoulder in acknowledgement of his effort.

“Oh, like I said, I don’t follow cycling. Oh well if it’s bad news, you might be able to succeed her,” he said.

“What does that mean?”

“Drew could just be Drusilla,” he said smiling.

“Gaby!” said Drew.

“Gaby?” queried the doctor looking at his watch.

“That’s what we call his alter ego,” said Jenny, and both she and Drew blushed in tandem.

“So you spend some time as a girl?”

“Yes,” Drew said so–quietly it was almost unheard; he looked at the floor in abject horror. Now another doctor knew about Gaby, why couldn’t he keep his trap shut?

“Quite honestly, with a body like yours, I don’t blame you. It’s probably easier than hiding it. Sorry, but that’s how I see it at the moment. I’ll write to Manchester to the head doc at British Cycling, and see what they suggest. If you make another appointment, hopefully we’ll know what the options are then.” He opened the door and Jenny and Drew knew the consultation was at an end. They went up to the hospital cafeteria and sat over a cup of reasonable tea.

“He thinks I should become Gaby, doesn’t he?”

“I don’t know, kiddo. He has a point I suppose.”

“But I’m a boy, Mummy.” He felt the tears drip down onto his tee shirt leaving little wet patches on the grey material over his bulging breasts.

“Are you?” said Jenny absently, “Sorry kiddo, I don’t know what to do, any more than you do. Let’s go home and see what your father has to say, shall we? I’m sure there have to be other doctors we could consult.”

“I don’t know if I could go through all that again with someone else.”

“What? Even if it could sort the problem?” Jenny looked aghast.

“No.” Drew shook his head, “I don’t like being poked and prodded and asked stupid questions, which are like, designed to make me feel stupid.”

“I don’t think he intended to belittle you.”

“Well he did, and I’m not giving some other bloody doctor the chance to do it again.”

“If you don’t, the options may be reduced.”

“They already are aren’t they? My bloody body wants to be a bloody girl’s one.”

“Try not to get so upset, darling, I know it must be difficult.”

“Yeah, you try waking up as a bloke and see how you feel, you have no idea what this feels like. You’re never there.”

Jenny felt this rebuke like an arrow in her chest, and her eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry, kiddo, I know life has made things difficult recently, but I’m here for you now and I’ll be with you until we resolve this problem, okay?” She placed her hand on his small delicate fingers. Nothing about him said, ‘boy’, so she had grave misgivings about the outcome, the only saving grace was how well he adapted when in Gaby mode, but could he sustain that permanently?

“Come on, sweetheart, let’s go home.”

Drew felt the tears created by his memories run down his face, blown away by the freshening breeze as he struggled to control his feelings and the bike. He stopped on the pretext of another drink, but he wasn’t thirsty, except for a solution to his problem. Unless things changed dramatically, it looked as if Gaby was here as a fixture, it could be Drew who was the moveable feast.

He rode home and showered, looking at his body in the mirror which was now clearing and seemed to confirm his less than masculine status.

This story was read at the 2008 Gabycon and has previously appeared on Maddy Bell's website.