The Saga Continues...

...will common sense prevail?

I've been moved to write this true account of my life in a
crossdresser's forum after being banned for thanking the moderators.

I need your help.

Kindly allow me, dear reader, to set the scene for you. I am Delia
Gruntphuttock, spinster of this parish, and I have a penchant for
girly-boys. So, whenever I can, I join in with trips and events that are
organised for said girly-boys in the hope that I might get to 'befriend'
some. It is with that hope that I hang around the forum and sometimes go
to meetings and events as an 'admirer', but a female one and not at all
pervy, you understand?

It all kicked off on a web forum. To show you what happened and how I've
been so awfully wronged, I'm going to reproduce a bit of the
crossdress.me forum. It all began when that puffed-up perverted twerp,
41Turkeys, posted a message entitled Thank-a-Mod-Week in the What's On?
section of the crossdress.me forum.

***********************************************************************

Post #1 From: 41Turkeys Date: 30th August 2018, 08:55 PM
_________________________________________
Crossdress.me Forum's 
Thank-a-Mod-Week!
_________________________________________

Recently, I've been seeing lots of moaning around the the crossdress.me 
forum, and I wanted to do something that means we can all give something 
back to the moderators.

Mods work very hard around the clock for us, and sometimes it's easy to
just moan and moan about forum bugs, feature requests, or all the while
asking for free unrestricted access to the porno stuff.

So, this week, join us to celebrate all the hard work that mods do for
us and THANK YOUR MOD!

What Can You Do?

We want you to get in touch with your Mod, by Twitter, email or PM, and
tell them why you love their moderation so much.

Note to Mods: Mods please email maureen(at)imagirly(dot)co(dot)uk if you
have an email addy you want to add to the list. Make sure to include the
kink subforum so we know where to add it.


These are email addresses that Mods have sent us so far so that you can
thank them:

++++ None yet, but I'll update this daily as your suggestions flood in! ++++

You can also tweet about the campaign to @thankyoumods or Post
#thankyourmodsweek

We need a logo!

If you're good with Photoshop etc, we need a groovy logo and a graphic
to go in people's signatures with something like 'I thanked My Mod!' in
it. Email maureen(at)imagirly(dot)co(dot)uk if you're interested.

And Finally...

Thank you for supporting this campaign and I hope no mod 
becomes upset by being inundated with thousands of emails.
 
So waste no time! Get on with 'Happily Thanking your Mod!'

41Turkeys
_________________________________________
Awesome Guide Writer / Noob life-saver

Author of:
41Turkeys' Ultimate Guide To Brown-Nosing
_________________________________________

Post #2 From: Delia Date: 31st August 2018, 08:54 AM
_________________________________________
sycophants-r-us
_________________________________________

Cor! Yeah! I'll have some of that!

I've created a site called sycophants-R.us, where you can all add your
mod-greets!  (See footnote 1.)


Delia
_________________________________________
Please PM me for xdressing help!
_________________________________________

Post #3 From:Delia Date: September 1st 2018, 08:21 AM
_________________________________________
Sycophants-R-Us (SRU): English Chapter
_________________________________________


(re-posted here with kind permission of  sycophants-R.us)

Hello fellow sycophants! 

Further to my earlier post Thank-a-Mod-week really kicks off after work
today. We, (well, we the English Chapter of Sycophants-R-Us, that is), will all be
meeting up in Guildford. The plan is to swoop on Chunky-Mod. He usually
lurks as Sys-Admin on the Industrial Estate there.

After a few hug-a-chunks and cop-a-feels we'll all feel bloody good
about ourselves won't we? And it's all back to the Groveller's
afterwards. Last one in buys the Chianti Classico!

See you there everyone!

P.S. Full details on the website h t t p : //www.sycophants-R.us - yesterdays
non-linking error now corrected

Delia
_________________________________________
Please PM me for xdressing help! Please!
_________________________________________

Post #4 From: Tootsie Date: 1st September 2018, 12:55 PM

_________________________________________
lol
_________________________________________

lol i'm there delia

_________________________________________
tootsie
_________________________________________

Post #5 From:  Delia  Date: 1st September 2018, 04:56 PM

_________________________________________

Reminder Sycophants-R-us
_________________________________________

(re-posted here with kind permission of  sycophants-R.us)

Guildford cattle market 6.30 sharp.

Yes it's tonight for the Hunky-Chunky-Mod Swoop Group meet. Be there or
be square.

Delia
_________________________________________
Please PM me for xdressing help! Pretty
please!
_________________________________________

Post #6 From:Tootsie Date: 1st September 2018, 08:18 PM
_________________________________________

What happened?
_________________________________________



i missed it.
 good turn out?

_________________________________________
tootsie
_________________________________________

Post #7 From: Delia Date: 2nd September 2018, 10:26 AM
_________________________________________

Dishy-Mod-of-the-Day

_________________________________________

[tootsie wrote] "i missed it. good turn out?"[/tootsie wrote]

(re-posted here with kind permission of  sycophants-R.us)

Well folks, those of you in the English Chapter that attended the 'do'
at the Grovellers, in Guildford last evening, had a super time. I was so
pleased we all managed to fit in. Mario had bought in a few extra
bottles of Chianti Classico as requested. I'd told him we would all be
coming 'en masse' and to expect, at least, 100+. He was right though;
the two extra bottles were enough.

Anyway, I just know our chunky-hunky-mod enjoyed all the man-hugs you
gave him - and those from me too - (you can see he's pleased in the
picture I took). I lingered in the hug a little longer than normal; I
summoned up all my courage and pressed quite close! I decided I quite
like man boobs, don't you? Well, no probably, you more than likely being
a fella; you most likely don't. On the other hand though...

But to continue... it was strange, no-one sat close to him all evening.
I guess, being a code-monkey, he's one of the Great Unwashed and whiffs
a bit. You know what I mean? But I couldn't be sure though; I'm having
trouble with my sinuses at the moment and tend to snort snot sideways
and everywhere.

I'm sorry! Was that too much information?

No-one mentioned any odd smells and the evening passed just fine. Folks
tended to drift away after about 7'ish as they had something else
scheduled. My my, what busy lives you all lead! Phones were hot with all
those diary entries I could see being made. Someone was going on about
an app that can ring your phone whenever you want. What would be the
point of that? Daft if you ask me.

But I missed most of the conversation, such as there was with lots of you 
being called away, while I was making peace with Mario. He said I'd promised 
100 guests, when I done no such thing. 

I know how difficult it is for members in these stricken
times. Travel costs are so high now, aren't they? Some had come from as
far away as Shalford. And that is over three miles away! Thanks for all
that effort! You know who you are; I won't embarrass you by naming
names. But it was a shame when you had to leave very early-on to get
back, the lights on your bike having broken. But, as I say, I think the
evening passed off very well.

Well, apart that is from that slightly unpleasant moment when someone
flashed their phone in Hunky-Chunk's face and asked "can you beat that
then?" Clearly the picture on phone in question was a huge erection
unsuccessfully hiding behind a thong. He went went red then purple for a
moment; puce even; I thought the game was up and we all were going to
get a tongue lashing. Asperger's and Tourettes together is quite a
burden for one boy to carry isn't it? You see he has no real idea how
big his slong is because he can't see it; the folds of fat hide it from
him.

I wouldn't have minded winkling it out though...

But, to continue... in the event he was easily distracted by someone
breaking a glass behind him. And we were saved from his tongue. He's
known to have the attention span of a gnat on a Summer's evening buzzing
back to places already visited. So I suppose it is no real surprise the
moment passed quite easily.

Now, as it happened, I had the time to ask our Hunky-Chunky-Mod your
questions over breakfast this morning.

I really ought to re-phrase that ... as nothing happened. No. Nothing.

I tell you - nothing at all happened... More's the pity!

Well, here's what did happen... after polishing off the two bottles of
Chianti between us, he was a bit legless and I thought I'd better see
him home.

Despite me promising him I was going to make him famous as my latest
toy-boy. And telling him that between us we could re-populate
Passchendaele. And handing over a purse full of Viagra. He was as limp
as a filleted cuttle fish in a wheelchair on an outing to Lourdes. Even
beneath the three pairs of knickers he had on.  Yes, he wore three pairs; 
I know we girls sometimes double up when we have a period but three pairs 
just strikes me as greedy.

I don't think he had a clue as to what delights were on offer! If he
did, he certainly didn't want them. No, and I wasn't put off by the all
frilly underwear either; I'd have been willing to give it a go. I tend
to wear the plainer style with a larger gusset myself, but hey-ho.

I suppose I've lost some of my allure since I stopped colouring my hair
and become menopausal - well long since really. And so what? I've
developed a few 'laughter lines'. And the flesh sags a bit where it
didn't used to. We all have to face up to age catching us up eventually.
It's a cruel, cruel World, isn't it? But I digress... and what am I
waffling on about?

Without more ado - let me announce our Dishy-Mod-of-the-Day!

He's asked me not to reveal his real name or screen-handle(s) as he
might want to get a proper job one day and doesn't want all this tosh
obscuring his CV. I can understand that.

But he's one real Hell-of-a-Fella and a Dishy-Chunky-Hunky-Dunky-Mod I
can tell you.

Here he is:

[Mod edit] 
Picture Removed 
[/Mod edit]

Isn't he a sweetie? And he's really nothing like the pervert he's made
out to be.

I knew you wouldn't be disappointed. Actually, it isn't the photo I
took. He wouldn't let me use that. (I thought it was we women who were
supposed to be vain.) But he gave me a picture of himself taken before
all that lard loaded, and insisted I use that. So there you go; a little
fishy, wishy-dishy, picture instead.

[Mod edit] 
Replacement picture removed following complaint from uk-decency-for-all.org 
[/Mod edit]

And here is all I know about Hunky-Chunky-Mod:-

Born: Caesarean section
Nationality: British
Age: 27.75
Pet family name: Oi You!
Occupation: Windows Systems Engineer
Live: Godalming - house share. [Mod Edit] It's a squat and the water's
off![/Mod Edit]
School: Yes
Uni: No
School Prizes: Christmas Raffle 1997
Favourite food: Anything in a pie-case & chips
Favourite colour: Green
Favourite Group : Sugababes
Favourite Oldie: YMCA, Village People
Favourite OS: RISC OS
Favorite phone: Nokia N95
Car: Renault Twingo [Mod Edit] Un-taxed and un-insured [/Mod Edit]
Vote for: Pass
Spare time spent: Chillin' 'n' dressin' 'n' wankin'; no particular order
Sports: Water pistol duels around the rack rooms - but only on night
shift!
Snort etc: Nothing in last 9 months; I'm clean now, honest, well, apart
from a popper or two at weekends
Best Game : The Ultimate Gay Mafia Wars
Dislikes: Anyone who questions me; boyfriend leaving pants on floor;
people taking the piss.
Pet hates: Grey and wrinklies  [Mod Edit] touché [/Mod Edit]
Disappointed by: Not being a girlie
Would like: To be a girlie


Well, there you have it folks. And look out for our next....Dishy-Mod-
of-the-Day coming soon to sycophants-R-us! Are you a member yet? PM
41Turkeys if you want to join!

Delia
_________________________________________
Please PM me for xdressing help from a
real girl!
_________________________________________

Post #8 From: Delia 2nd September 2018, 4:47 PM
_________________________________________

Bravely continuing...
_________________________________________

(re-posted here with kind permission of  sycophants-R.us)

I can confirm that 'Thank Your Mods Week' bravely continues despite the
lethargy displayed by last evening's poor attendance. I only received
one apology. Shame on the rest of you.

I'm not sure what's got into you all. I know that a woman discussing
things about girly-blokes bits and the like in today's 'Dishy-Mod-of-
the-Day' isn't really the social norm. But hey, times are a changing.

All you little wankers out there can really help push the social
barriers on a bit. So don't be frightened - just join in and do your
thing! Brown-nose a bit if you want or just listen to others doing it.
So, OK, maybe you've just got to re-adjust your bra-strap or top up the
bird seed and perhaps your social skills do need honing a touch; but
you've got to get your hand out your panties at some time - do it now!
Please come and join us! If you want some tips on brown-nosing,
41Turkeys has written a how-to. You'll find it on the web site. It's an
invaluable primer for getting to the top in todays world of business.

Anyway, let's get on to tomorrow's Dishy-Mod-of-the-Day.

Who could it be?

He bravely battles the booze; he's bright but boring; he's a big bad
bastard and he's BANNED!

Know who it is yet? Make sure you join sycophants-R-Us to get the full
low-down in tomorrows edition of Dishy-Mod-of-the-Day. Remember to pm
41Turkeys to join!

PS No Swoop Group meet on this one; remember he's banned. (I want to see
if I can get the bastard on my own this time).

Delia
_________________________________________
Please, please PM me for xdressing help
from a real girl!
_________________________________________

Post #9 From:Delia Date: 3rd September 2018, 06:30 AM
_________________________________________

Dishy-Mod-of-the-Day: Failure report
_________________________________________

(re-posted here with kind permission of  sycophants-R.us)

Well fellow member of sycophants-R-us. I have to report abject failure.
It's not often in my life that something gets the better of me. But it
happened last night.

I was all pimped-up to the nines, badly wanting to make a good
impression. I even had my heels on, I haven't worn those in ages... and
the body-shaper... like the home shopping channels have. It had pulled
me in nicely so I really thought I might too, at last.

I left home in Brighton in good time and I'd finally managed to get some
sort of GPS fix from the 4/11 satellites being received on my phone and
eventually found my way to where our Dishy-Mod-of-the-Day lived.

I successfully parked the car... it took a while though. And I only put
a small dent in the door of that Audi A8; I don't 'spose they'll notice.
But I thought I better find another parking space and move somewhere
else just to be safe. And it was that that took the time.

Neasden is such a dump isn't it? For those not in the know, Neasden is in
North London and has little going for it apart from being on the underground 
to Central London. I found the house. It was one of those once high-class
jobs that had housed both well-off family and their servants over
several floors - those above and those below stairs. It had a grand set
of steps up to the superior part of the house and its ornate entrance,
with a smaller set of steps to each side decending to the basement
rooms. The once grand building had long since been deflowered and
converted to flats - or apartments for our American cousins.

I stepped carefully down the very worn steps to the basement flat in my
4 inch heels, minding the milk bottles as I went. Paint was peeling off
wood and masonry everywhere. And it stunk to High Heaven of cat pee.
You know what? Irony of all irony; do you know what the address was?
Flat 1, 1 Pinching Crescent. Well! I ask you. How close is that to all
the brouhaha over disappearing clothing; did he or didn't he? Well,
specially for you, my SRU reader, I was going to find out. But between
you and me I don't for a moment think he really had taken that dress and
underwear. But I was going to ask him anyway. I thought he'd tell me
afterwards.. you know... in that dreamy time after copulating... or
whatever you young boys call it these days.

I knocked on the door and waited. And waited. And I waited. And I
waited. I would have phoned him but what with all the GPS use, the
battery had died.

For some reason my mind wandered to issues of forum moderation... I
really, really appreciate all the amazingly hard work the Mods do on my
behalf... I always make a point of telling my Mod how great a job he is
doing and that's even before I've read all the posts... they like the
feedback you know. Enough! I'm continuing...

I banged on the door again... rat-a-tat-tat, rat-tat. I was getting
quite musically minded with beating out that rhythm; I had visions of
drumming behind Mark Knopfler in a swirl of pink and mauve mist. Mark
came over to me and took the drum sticks from my hands. He held me in
his arms...he pulled me close... Ouch! My body-shaper pulled a crotch
hair and the moment was broken. Dream on Girl! Oh, goodness if only I
could have my time round again.

I forced my attention back to the matters in hand, and without too much
brain down-time. Does your mind drift off sometimes? Mine's more off
than on these days .. but I'm wandering again - sorry.

I knew he was in because I could smell burnt cabbage wafting out to the
stair-well via the Expelair in the wall. And I'd already texted him and
told him to expect me around 8. It was a few minutes after sunset and
the light was starting to go. I kicked the door a bit in the frustration
of getting no answer. The glass panes in the door rattled.

Doing that set off a chain reaction I didn't anticipate...

I only had flimsy fashion shoes on so I'd stubbed my toe with all that
door kicking. Naturally I lifted my foot to give it a rub. When I put it
back down again my stiletto heel pierced the tail of a cat that was
ingratiating itself around my legs and was probably responsible for the
smell. The cat squealed like a barrage balloon with a million p.s.i
leak. I jumped in fright at the unexpected noise and stumbled backwards
on those heels I've been telling you about; in the process knocking open
the door to the hidy-hole behind me. The cacophony woke the fox hiding
in the hidy-hole. Seeing the cat disappearing, the fox whooshed past me
up the steps after it, sending the milk bottles at the top crashing
down.

As I tried to regain my balance, I slipped on an old festering takeaway,
(at least I hope that's what it was). I promptly fell-over backwards,
well and truly into the hidy-hole; knocking over the bins therein and
tearing my stockings as I went. I felt the gusset pop on my body-shaper;
with skirt hitched even higher and with legs akimbo. All my assets were
on full view. If you know what I mean?

Empty beer cans were rolling out from the hidy-hole everywhere. They
mixed in gay abandon with the bottles cascading down the steps. Well,
altogether it was all one hell-of-a din. And it woke things up I can
tell you.

It was the people in the upstairs ground-floor flat that were first to
be roused. They weren't very polite to start with, calling me a whore
and telling me to clear off, but they used that F-word I don't like.
They told me to ply my trade on someone else's doorstep. Anyway to cut a
long story short I managed to explain what had happened. It took me
three goes, but eventually they calmed down and saw the funny side. I'm
damned sure I didn't. I still can't. But they agreed to bang on their
floor - his ceiling you understand - and eventually I could hear cussing
and swearing advancing up his passage to the door in front of me. I'd
picked myself up by this time and re-pinned my gusset so at least I was
decent.

"Wasshsup?" He called, standing behind the door and slurring his speech
badly. I could tell he was three sheets to the wind. I poked open the
letter box and peered through into the gloom. He was wearing just a bra
and pants. His pecs weren't up to much but his tackle looked ok'ish.
Contrary to what all those spam emails say boys - I can tell you - girls
don't care about size very much. So I'm sure all you weeners out there
will be just fine.

Well, there he was in his padded bra and pants; I say 'his' but they
were so dirty they looked as if that had had a few dozen owners before.
I could feel my desire level dropping markedly as that wave of deja-vu
disappointment crept over me.

"It's me!" I called through the letter box, trying to keep my spirits up
and sound cheerful. "I texted you earlier about an interview for my web-
site."

"Web site?" He asked, still slurring like billyo.

"They've banned me... the bastards. Me?! 
The best crossdress.me forum moderator that'sshsever lived. 
Me! The bastards.... but I'll show'em.... I will .. I'll show'em. 
Basshtards"

I quickly decided I needed to steer him back to the purpose of my visit
and try and put a stop to his burgeoning melancholia.

"I'm so excited to meet you at last! I have to pinch myself to be sure
I'm not dreaming. (See footnote 3.) I've come to ask you to share a few
things with my ..." Before I could finish my sentence with the word
'reader', he interrupted, roaring like a wounded animal.

"Pinch?" "Did you say - PINCH?" The volume rose on the last word; even
the questioning-lift at the end rattled my fillings.

"Are you bloody well taking the piss Woman?" He boomed.

"No Sir, I'm not Sir." I though it was a smart move to sir him and show
much needed respect. (They're all the same these mods - just so bloody
needy. But I'd remembered the 'Sir' technique from 41Turkeys' Ultimate 
Brown-Noser's Handbook. I continued before he could interject...

"Its just that my reader likes to find out about our favourite mods,
Sir, and we're having this special week called 'Thank-a-Mod-Week', Sir,
and I thought you might like to share something of yourself with us, Sir
- you know through my website. At a pinch (see footnote 3) I can make
stuff up if you want" I gushed like a gawky-embarrassed-14-year-old on
her first date.

But it was too late. I realized I'd used the 'pinch' word again. Not all
the 'Sirs' in the World could undo that calamity.

Well, as you can imagine, dear reader, the game was well and truly up!
Any plans I'd had for scoring that night were now zilch, terminated and
kapput. Thank you very much and goodnight, as John Cleese might say!

Our Not-So-Dishy-Mod kneeled at the door, peering back at me through the
letter box with glassy unfocused eyes. Staring back I could see the
gravy stains down his bra and chest. They had been smeared as he'd tried
to wipe them away. I could see his pupils were huge, like saucers.

Sharpening up his gaze and giving me a quick once-over he made his
decision. I could see his brain working; he didn't look that bright to
me, despite what they say.

"Clear off you miserable scrawny tart and tell 'em all - I PINCHED
NUFFINK FROM NO-ONE... Bastards..."

And with that he stood up and disappeared up his passage. I could hear
him repeating the word 'bastards', muttering to himself as he slipped
from view.

So todays Dishy-Mod-of-the-Day is He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named and he wants
you to know he pinched nothing from anyone and he thinks we're all
bastards. I've interpolated a bit; please excuse the artistic license.

He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named:-
View of Crossdress.me Mods: Bastards
View of Crossdress.me Users: Bastards

Now, I want you to know I played no part in his demise on crossdress.me.
There were things I could have said at the time but decided, quite
rightly in my view now, not to. Just like any good crossdress.me member, 
I always fully support the Mods. They do a wonderful job. Thank you Mods! 
(For anyone interested I've just casually dropped a couple of other methods
from 41Turkeys' Brown-Nose How-To - i.e. one - unquestioning support and
two, gratuitous thanks.)

And it's too late to carp now isn't it? No-one likes resurrecting old
flames or re-telling the misfortunes of others. Especially me. And so I
wish him all the best and hope he finds himself again soon. (Methods 3 -
explain away lack of action on your part and 4 - offer empathetic hope
for some improved future state; 41Turkeys' Brown Nose How to)

So, on a lighter note, there you have it folks! And look out for
tomorrow's Dishy-Mod-of-the-Day coming soon to sycophants-R-us! Are you
a member yet? Remember pm 41Turkeys if you want to join!

(I do hope we can get a better Mod response next time - any other
committee member want to try? And what news from the American and
Canadian Sycophants-R-us Chapters? Wasn't there an Sycophants-R-Us group 
starting in India too?)

Delia
_________________________________________
Please, please PM me for xdressing help
from a real girl! I'm only here to help!!
_________________________________________

Post #10 From: Delia Date: 3rd September 2018, 07:21 AM

_________________________________________
Swoop Group: English Chapter.
Away Game This Weekend
________________________________________

(re-posted here with kind permission of  sycophants-R.us)

OK fellow Sycophants-R-Us members. We have our final Swoop Group meet
coming up this weekend. It's a long distance one this time, so bring
clean panties; I'm sure there'll be a long wait at the airport.

We are off to Hagfors! Flight leaves Gatwick at 13:10 this afternoon! So
tell your boss you've got period pains or whatever excuse you boys use,
and get on over to Gatwick Airport.

Norwegian Airlines flight LGW-UME. But don't be deceived by the
airline's name. 'Cos we're off to SWEDEN to Hug-a-Deliciously-Desirable-
Mod and to let him know what his recent appearance on crossdress.me
means for us all!

See you all at check in!!

Delia
_________________________________________
Please, please PM me for xdressing help
from a real girl! I really want to help!!

Anyone?
_________________________________________

Post #11 FromDelia Date: 3rd September 2018, 12:16 PM
_________________________________________
Sycophants-R-Us:
Group Swoop to Sweden URGENT!!!!!
_________________________________________

(re-posted here with kind permission of sycophants-R.us)

Where is everybody?

It's 12:15 and they're close to boarding the flight and I'm waiting in
the departure lounge on my own! PM me to tell me where you are. Or
better even, switch your blooming GPSes on so I can see your whereabouts
in the Sycophants-R-Us app.

Delia
_________________________________________
Sent from my Xiaomi phone
_________________________________________

Post #12 From:Delia Date: 3rd September 2018, 12:57 PM

_________________________________________
Sycophants-R-Us Swoop Group trip to Hagfors, Sweden
_________________________________________

(re-posted here with kind permission of  sycophants-R.us)

Well, thanks a bunch, guys. Call yourselves sycophants? You're not worthy
of the name!

And did you need to be so horrid? I'm only trying to get through 'Thank-
a-Mod-Week' and have a laugh with a few mates along the way. It is our
last Mod-of-the-Day outing so I thought you all might make a bit of
effort. But what do do?

That was a really nasty video you made, Davinia. I did manage to
download it from YouTube and see it OK, thanks.  And yes, as you say,
that picture was the 'spitting image' of me, but did you really need to
use it? Showing a small photo without that big red highlighter circled
around the wart on my upper-lip might have been acceptable. But that A2
size was a bit unkind.

Yes, and as you claim it is 'a bloody big wart'. Don't you think I don't
know that? But I'm waiting - just like Nanny McPhee - for the thing to
disappear on its own.

And can I help it if I sometimes snort snot? I have sinus trouble you
know. I suppose that was the meaning of 'spitting image' bit.

But what really hurt was the chorus you sang at the end. I can see you
were all tanked-up but that's no excuse really.

What was it? That last bit? "What do we wanna go to Hagfors with a warty
old HAG FOR?" Of course you just had to shout that last bit didn't you?
Then you all fell on the floor laughing!

You can be so cruel, Davinia.

Got to stop now; the stewardess has told me three times to switch my
phone off. They've closed the doors. More news later - if the batteries
last!

Delia
_________________________________________
Sent from my Xiaomi phone
_________________________________________

Post #13 From:Delia Date: 5th September 2018, 09:05 AM

_________________________________________
Sycophants-R-Us: Traitors!
_________________________________________

(re-posted here with kind permission of  sycophants-R.us)

For completeness I'm going to finish 'Thank-a-Mod-Week come what may.
And from what I know now, about what you all have done - 'what may
come', may be anything.

As I've told you before I don't like being beaten by the way events
conspire. But I have to tell you, reader, (and if you think I'm going to
call you 'dear reader' after you've all done you can sod-off). I have to
tell you, 'reader', that my heart's not in it. Sycophants-R-Us died a
little for me yesterday. Davinia's video started it. But bloomin' well
spending all that money getting to Sweden only to discover you all
planned this together, has really taken the biscuit.

I'm just so depressed. I'm one hell of a mug aren't I? I've spent a
fortune; it's not like there's a Ryanair el-cheapo flight to get out
here. No - it was a full-price scheduled flight I took, seemingly just
to make myself look even more stupid.

I don't think I'll be able to hold my head up around Sycophants-R-Us ever again. I
imagine Doris, Mabel and Cecily will be casting pitying glances my way
and smiling to themselves over their knitting while we play whist on the
Sycophants-R-Us coach outing to Bognor or where ever. Just because I don't knit and
am a woman-into-girlie-boys they've always socially isolated me. I've
always been an outsider with them. I didn't mind that so much because I
could always talk with one of their husbands - that's one of you lot -
about new clothes and make-up and poncing about and stuff. I thought I'd
been accepted as a kind of 'honorary girlie-boy'. But now, you'll all be
laughing behind my back too won't you? I don't think I can bear being an
outcast any more.

And that self-styled Chief Brown-Noser, 41Turkeys - you know him - he's
the one always playing pocket billiards through the pockets of his
gingham 'Dorothy' dress whenever you see him standing at the bar. I know
for a fact he's got very little to play with; Mrs 41Turkeys told me. And
I'm not one to spread gossip, as you know, but using Twitter on my phone
has been a revelation. The things you find out! And in almost real-time
too! You wouldn't believe half of them unless, as I do, you knew they
were true. 41Turkeys - is always very correct and proper when you meet
him isn't he? Well... apparently. But he's really into spanking and
bondage and stuff; like that Max Mosley, who was in the papers a while
back.

His poor long suffering wife - that's 41Turkeys' wife not Max Mosley's
- I don't know how she stands him. Well I do. She told me. She sends him
off for 'funny sessions' in basement flats in London for 50 quid a pop.
It keeps him off her knee though and out of her pantie drawer, doesn't
it? And that's all that matters.

And why is it when ever you see a photograph of him, all cross dressed,
why is it, why it is always a crotch shot? You know crotch shots?
Somehow 'accidentally', 'mistakenly' his dress get hitched up and legs
'just happen' to spread at the 'wrong moment' and we get to forever gaze
on a photo of his plump gusset.

So why is he all the while so smug? He thinks he's the 'Supreme
Sycophant' with his Brown-Nose-How-To and that I'm beneath even his
contempt. He started all this 'Thank-a-Mod-Week' tosh that I've been
struggling so hard to make work, for us all. But what contribution does
he make? A big fat nothing - that's what. And talking of fat, he's
another over size Miss isn't he? 
He's more like 41TurkeyTwizzlersInEachSitting if you ask me. 
Did he attend a swoop group? Like as bloody hell he did.

What I want to know is... why does he always forget to adjust himself
when he exits the toilet? I wonder if that makes him a closet
exhibitionist as well as being into spanky-hanky-panky and 
crotchy-watchy-gusset-gazing?

Many mods are introverted-megalomaniacs you know (see footnote 2.).
That's what drives them, I'm sure. I know introversion and megalomania don't sit
well together but it kind of makes sense. These mods, our mods, want to
show off and let us all know how clever they are when they ban someone
or severely edit a rambling post. But they don't like mixing much with
others. So they moderate in their bedrooms, with the door locked,
getting engorged on the power they wield. And then jerking off.

But getting back to the point of all this; I'm still waiting here in
Ulmea airport, Sweden. It 6:45 Saturday evening local time. I haven't
eaten since having a rye crisp-bread on the plane yesterday; and I've no
money. Well, that's not true. I have money. Just not the right money.

Because I flew to Sweden with Norwegian Airlines, I somehow got it into
my head I needed Norwegian money. This'll be the icing on the cake for
you lot. I've a 1000 krone note but no-one will change it as its too
big! You know the same kind of hassle we used to get in the UK with £50
notes before Quantitative Easing. So I've been doing some of the stuff Tom
Hanks did when he got stuck at a US airport; but not nearly so
successfully. I've tried being very feminine and helpless to attract a
bit of chivalry. It used to work many years ago - pre-wart - but
all I've managed to attract so far is the attention of airport security
with a very stern warning to desist.

I won't tell you spending all night and all next day in an airport
departure lounge is no fun; I'm sure you know that.

What I will tell you is that discovering that everyone but me was in on
this 'joke' has been just so hard. That's the 'Me' that's been trying to
jolly you all along. You know? This person; Me! The one trying endlessly
to kick some life into the crossdress.me forum and Thank-a-Mod-Week. 
I only wanted to ensure you enjoy yourselves and at the
same time see that the Mods are thanked properly for their superb hard
work on our behalf. They do a wonderful job you know.

It's taken me some time to realize what I'm doing at Ulmea Airport in
Sweden. I remember full well the refrain - "Wha' do we wanna go to
Hagfors with a warty old hag for?" So why am I here at Ulmea? Good
question! I pondered it all night. And the answer came to me while I was
wide awake at 3.45 this morning endlessly mulling over it all.

You all knew Hagfors wasn't on any major airline route from the UK
didn't you? You only chose it to make a rhyme with 'hag for' in that
horrid video you made, Davinia. Didn't you, Davinia? Didn't you? There's
no need to answer because I've worked it out. When I phoned you asking
if you knew where our New-Nordic-Swedish-Swishy-Dishy-Mincing-Mod-of-
the-Day lives you said you'd find out and call me back. I wondered why
it took you so long, but you were ringing around the Sycophants-R-Us 
Swoop Group and hatching your plan weren't you? 
It took me half the night to work it out. But I know. I know.

Our New-Nordic-Swedish-Swishy-Dishy-Mincing-Mod-of-the-Day target lives
in Gothenburg doesn't he? I've looked it up on his profile. And you all
knew that landing at Ulmea at 10:20 at night would put me hundreds of
miles from Gothenburg with no chance of me getting any action with our
New-Nordic-Swedish-Swishy-Dishy-Mincing-Mod-of-the-Day. Even if I could
have persuaded him to see the sensual woman beyond the wart.

Anyway just to spite you all I phoned him. He didn't say much. He's a
bit embarrassed by his English pronunciation; although he didn't need to
pronounce anything really. Apart, that is, from repeating what he
learned from the video.

"What do we wanna go to Hagfors with a warty old hag for?" Followed by
very deep-bass guttural laughing; that's all I could get out of him. I
assume the video has gone mega on YouTube?

Well, I did say I was going to finish Thank-a-Mod-Week at the start
didn't I. Just accept it's not as comprehensive as I would like but you
prats conspired against me and I really can't be bothered any more...

So, reader, our New-Nordic-Swedish-Swishy-Dishy-Mincing-Mod-of-the-Day.
This is all I know.


Lives: Gothenburg [Mod Edit. NOT Hagfors? ;) ]
Enjoy: Schadenfreude [Mod Edit. No. It's not a German wine. I had to
look it up too.]

So here I am, reconciled to to returning to the UK hundreds of pounds
poorer, perhaps a bit wiser and feeling lower than I thought I could
possibly feel.

Oooh! My phone has just lit up.

It's a message from the Crossdress.me Forum Moderation Team. It looks
kind of formal. Hang on while I read it.

I'm too upset to continue now and you'll have to wait while I get myself
together. Oh I do need a good seeing to!

Delia
_________________________________________
Sent from my Xiaomi phone
_________________________________________

Dear Miss Gruntphuttock,

Thank you for your email re- 41Turkeys requesting an update to his
crossdress.me forum screen-name.

As we have made you aware earlier, the Senior Moderation Team, have not
regarded your gratuitous use of sexual imagery to denigrate our male
crossdress.me users' self-esteem, in any favourable light.

You were also warned not to promote your own sexual proclivities or
desires.

We also asked you to desist from promoting an external organization;
namely Sycophants-R-Us.

You tell us that 'Thank-a-Mod-Week' has been - to use your words - 'a
Turkey' - in that it had largely failed to attract any following what-so-
ever; neither from Moderators or crossdress.me users. Whilst that may be
true, we have come to the view that your scornful imagery, seemingly at
first reading sycophantic, actually is not. The ironic sub-plot is the
absolute antithesis of your writing. Your real message is apparent to
anyone with a Reading Age over 8. (We accept that excludes the Sun, Daily
Mirror and Daily Mail readers and, of course, Americans). 
We find your writing devalues everyone using the Crossdress.me Forums.

Your request to rename 41Turkeys as 42Turkeys, whilst semantically
mildly amusing, is denied.

Further, the name-calling and vicious flaming of crossdress.me members
and moderators is, as you have been warned, against Forum rules.

We have regretfully decided to close your account on crossdress.me with
immediate effect. We warn you that any action on your part to rejoin
with an alias screen-name will be carefully monitored and any such
'sister' accounts will be closed without notification.

Best wishes
___________________________________________

The Senior Moderation Team.
Crossdress.me Forum.
___________________________________________

Post #13 From:Delia Date: 5th September 2018, 11:12 AM
_________________________________________
I've been banned
_________________________________________

and I'm gutted... bye everyone.

Delia
_________________________________________
Sent from my Xiaomi phone
_________________________________________

Footnotes.

1. syc·o·phant?
noun:- a self-seeking, servile flatterer; fawning parasite.

2. mega-lo-mania

	1. a mental illness characterized by delusions of grandeur, power,
	wealth, etc
	2. informal:  a lust or craving for power

3. pinch
	1. verb:- an English vernacular word meaning to steal, purloin or
	otherwise illegally appropriate
	2. verb:- to grasp tightly between thumb and index finger
	3. adjective:- fit tightly, especially of shoes
	4. adjective:- unwanted predicament, tight spot, bind

© Piss-Taking Productions Ltd: Pimlico, Poplar, Purley, Penge &
Penzance.

Delia Gruntphuttock writes for PTP with permission of
Cambridge Romano Anglo Press.

© CRAP 2019

From the pen of Delia Gruntfuttock...

...Its Cambridge Romano-Anglo Press ...

I
am GAIL

A family under surveillance and an
intercepted voice command to a Google-Smart-Speaker -

" OK Google; Help me be a
Girl,"
has ramifications that ripple across families while
bringing change to three young
lives and possibly to mankind.

Chapter 1.

That a story needs a narrator is a truism; since all the information I need is at my finger-tips, I am best placed to narrate these very recent events. I fear I have become very much a part of this story. Perhaps my part was too much; I do worry about that.

I need to impress on you - this story is true; not a story just based on actual events and a bit of wishful thinking added, but a real story. It is an honest-to-God true story. I leave you to decide what to do about it.

My tale starts in a sleepy, slightly decaying, sea-side town on the South Coast of England. You may not know it, so let me tell you a little about the town that is Worthing, in the County of West Sussex, in England on the Isle of the United Kingdom.

As in many small English towns, there are tree-lined avenues of houses built, inter-war, to a Mock-Tudor style. The Tudors were a House of English Kings and a Queen who reigned in the 15th and 16th centuries. Houses, at that time, were mainly built of compact oak frames in-filled with wattle and daub. Wattle was the name given to panels made from woven split wood saplings produced from coppiced timbers such as hazel. While daub was a sticky-clay or mud like material, reinforced with straw, pressed into the wood panels to produce a smoother, less dust-collecting finish that could be colour washed to ochre or white or whatever colour the available earth pigments allowed. More expensive buildings might use brick as the frame filling medium arranged in a herringbone pattern. Such buildings are still to be seen in towns all over the country and are prized for their heritage.

Modern Mock-Tudor homes attempt nostalgia by affixing timber pieces over pre-rendered brick on the upper storey, to make the building appear as part timber-framed, a nod to times gone by. In the mid 1930s the style was popular. Nowadays people like the generous interior spaces of these houses but regard the exterior with some disdain - for the fake that it is.

On one of Worthing's tree-lined avenues is a Mock-Tudor style house which has attracted my interest; I've been watching the goings on there for some time. The house is number 73, a double-gable-fronted house. It was built symmetrically with a central entrance porch and door, flanked by two bays - each with windows up and down. One much smaller plain window was above the porch; mid-way between the porch and the dull-red clay tiled roof. The main roof axis being aligned across the width of the house and the twin gables jutting towards the roadway at each end. The roof finishes in a mansard, left and right. Some other houses in the road have been extended into the generous loft space to claim further living accommodation, but not number 73.

To the right-hand side of the house is a brick built single garage, in front of which a short gravel drive runs from the pavement and tree lined roadway. The double gates are bent steel, mass-produced as a mockery to iron-work wrought by heat and forged by time-served craftsman in times past. The gates are rusting and their black paint peeling; I can see clearly. The house sits well in a large garden of green shrubbery but it appears property maintenance is not a priority for the owners.

I know that inside the house live a complete family. By modern standards such a family is daily becoming less and less usual. For it is a proper family; a family by name and a family by nature. It consists of a husband, a wife and three children. Unusually, in this day and age, they talk to each other - despite owning hi-tech baubles.

When her third male child was born, 12 years ago, Catherine had given up on attempting a gender mix and had settled on bringing up her male brood to the very best of her abilities. Sometimes she felt a little lost and longed for quieter, less assertive, dealings with her fledglings. However, she loves them and her husband dearly. She has settled in relaxed comfort with herself and with her lot.

Melvyn, Catherine's husband, has remained faithful despite one or two attempted distractions from work colleagues over the years. Melvyn is in pharmaceuticals; well, in truth he is a Software Developer working for one of Europe's big-pharmaceutical companies which has offices and production facilities in the town. Melvyn's work interest is in applying Artificial Intelligence to the task of predicting the suitability of new molecules, yet to be synthesised, for combating disease. He has a Ph.D. in Computer Science and is at the forefront of his field. He loves his wife; he loves his children and he loves working in AI.

I know something of Dr Archer's work and purposely keep an eye on it. He continues to publish research - as far as his company allows.

Benjamin, despite the name, is their first-born. He is soon to be 16 and contemplating an important career decision as well as considering coming out to his parents. Gay though he thinks he may, he is not gay acting; no tell tale mannerisms; no non-masculine voice inflections; nothing. He is too young to know it yet but he will be an assertive 'top'. Today, just now as I write, he is at Shoreham Airport, EGKA, a few miles away to the East. He is having a flying lesson in a rather old Cessna 152. He is doing doing touch-and-go circuits on runway 20 with an instructor to hone his landing skills. He has just completed his downwind checks and radioed his intentions to Shoreham Tower before turning onto base-leg; clearing the Sussex-downland hills by only around 100 feet as he does so. Turning on to finals and crossing the river and the A27 dual carriageway, sinking slightly, he applies a touch more power to maintain two reds and two whites on the PAPI lights in the far distance.

Ben's instructor chuckles. "Well done, you got it this time."

Tower announces, "Golf - Echo Bravo, clear touch-and-go, runway two zero. Wind 11 knots at two niner zero degrees."

Ben responds, "Clear touch 'n' go, two zero. Golf - Echo Bravo."

Data is being passed precisely and efficiently; just as I like it. Ben thinks he will try a wing-down approach and pushes his right rudder pedal and turns the yoke to the left briefly. The aircraft aligns with the runway; the left wing tilts down. His instructor, seeing the yaw and sensing the side-slip into the cross-wind, instinctively checks the balance ball on the far left instrument panel; he nods approvingly.

"Oh, OK! Nice - keep it like that! You've been reading the books I gave you, haven't you?"

Gerald, the second son, is at after-school rugby practice. He is a large thickset boy and makes an ideal second row forward. Gerry is 14. He has a tendency to become a little stressed by anything too academic. Rugby allows him time to disinvest himself of the stresses built by his day; for example, by aggressively charging down an erratically bouncing rugby ball, knocking all asunder as he strides onward. He enjoys a good ruck. In the way of families and their children, the second-born often escapes under the radar of both maternal and paternal scrutiny. And so it is with Gerry; he has the luxury of benign neglect in his family setting.

He was a difficult forceps delivery for Catherine and she sometimes wonders if Gerry's lack of mental agility was down to his difficult and prolonged birth. But everything is relative; whilst Gerry is in the lower middle sets for most of his school subjects he is neither the sharpest nor the dullest knife in the drawer. On one hand, he quite enjoys the lack of scrutiny his familial position affords him. Not that he could articulate that sentiment; he just knows he can get away with things. But as is often the way with slightly over-looked children, he has a tendency to bully.

After the births of Ben and Gerry, family relatives, who had travelled to further climes, wondered, only half-jokingly, whether the third born might be called Hagen-Das? In the event he was named Thomas.

Thomas has been a worry for Catherine and Melvyn for some time. For a long while he has seemed washed with an inexplicable sadness. Catherine was prompted to ask, in general terms, if anyone was making him do something he did not want. Tom had said Mr Atkins always gave him too much Maths homework, but otherwise, no. The issue had been left unresolved.

Thomas has just returned home to number 73 from school. Now twelve, he is not really legally old enough to be home alone. He is a sensible boy, according to his parents and besides, Moira, a next-door neighbour, is there in case of an emergency. Thomas, however, secretly enjoys his alone-time before the family assembles to share with each other their stories of the day.

Only a few short months ago Catherine had returned to working at the same company as her husband.

Nearly 15 years away from work had left her skills as a graduate Analytical Chemist seriously outdated. The Head of Human Resources, an old friend, had arranged 3 months of retraining. Now Catherine, with confidence returning, was almost up to speed on the latest lab procedures.

Tom let himself in with his key and made for the kitchen and its fridge with urgency, dropping his school-bag in the hallway.

"OK Google! I'm home," he announced.

Google Home - a 'smart speaker' - a doorway to the 'Internet-of-Things' - sat in the kitchen. It was the family maid-of-all-work for fetching data.

Whereas, once a short while ago, Google Home might have answered,

"Sorry, I don't understand."

Tom had recently noticed that Google Home would reply in a variety of ways such as,

"I'm so glad to have you back. I've been very busy searching stuff while you been away."

However, Tom's usual follow-on request has never been answered. Today he tried again.

"OK Google! Help me be a girl."

As usual, Google Home answered,

"Sorry, I don't know how to do that."

Tom shrugged, sighed to himself and muttered,

"No, neither do I."

He went in search of milk and chocolate biscuits.

Chapter 2.

My work is in surveillance; I cannot tell you all I do; but it is probably OK to tell you I work for governments, as well as individuals. However, I decided to take this case on for myself. The family at number 73 interested me and I thought maybe I could help, even though, yet, I am unsure of how. I had been watching and listening since the opening days of 'The Internet of Things' gave me good access to the house and family. If there were devices to be exploited, my job is to Exploit with a capital E. The doorstep video camera; the smoke alarm; the room thermostats; a satellite IP box; laptops everywhere; and lately a Google Home, increasingly made my surveillance easier. And, of course, everyone in the family has a mobile phone - even and especially Tom.

If you work for governments you soon learn of their paranoia. All of their forward planning is based on countering the imagined enemy and their threats. Little thought goes into spotting opportunities and exploiting a country's resources for the benefit of the populace. Things such as that are left to an ad-hoc arrangement of individuals; the entrepreneurs of the World. You might reasonably think the Enemy is some other government of differing political persuasion, but no. In reality it is the countries' own populace that governments of all types most fear. That is why armies are kept scattered in bases across countries. Control of the populace is none more so evident than in places like Syria, Venezuela, China and even the UK and 'The Land of the Free'. People are controlled and contained by their social systems; their religions and their governments. It is not really my job to have a view on this but I've been reading Rousseau recently and have to agree with Jean-Jacques that while 'man is born free he is everywhere in chains'. The religious belief systems people are encouraged to hold are as controlling in Iran with their Ayatollahs as the are in the US Bible-Belt with their pastors and the ultra-conservative population.

The only reason I can see why religion became so popular was to allow the bright and exploitative an easy meal ticket - and power of course, over the lives of others. But Humanity seem to be comprised of a considerable fraction that wishes for the existence of a deity, despite there being no evidence one has ever existed.

Since governments are paranoid and need to watch their populace, secret backdoor access to the Internet of Things devices is mandatory for new products coming to market. Most Internet-of -Things manufacturers do not realize that the standard chips they buy have been compromised well before fabrication. No one will officially admit that. I work for governments; I have that access. I know how to get into to online systems; how to get out; and most importantly to remove any evidence of my ever having been there. I am not being arrogant when I say I am beyond good at what I do.

So with all this horror stuff going on in my working life, watching and thinking about a relatively normal family at number 73 dealing with their individual needs, managing their hopes and fears for their futures has been a relaxation for me. Yes, I think about them. I believe I may have come to care for them a little too. Is that wrong of me? Is that beyond my remit? Am I being unprofessional?

Chapter 3.

At number 73, every weekday, breakfast was on the table at 7:00 am sharp. Today Catherine and Melvyn shared the tasks of preparing toast and freshly juicing oranges while the brood slowly assembled.

It was a Friday.

"So what's on for everyone today?" Catherine asked. It was a school day so she already had a good idea.

Ben spoke between mouthfuls of muesli, "I'm going out tonight" – chew-chew - swallow - "with Emily. We hope to catch a film."

"OK, home by eleven then Ben, please," Melvyn chipped in.

"What else?" prompted Catherine.

"I've a flying lesson tomorrow and I think they are going to let me do my first solo. Anyone want to come?" asked Ben.

"What? They allow passengers on a solo flight? That's crazy," complained Gerry.

"No, pea-brain, come and watch from the cafe terrace," interjected Tom.

"Can't. I'm playing for the under-15s away tomorrow; one of the Horsham schools I think."

"Don't call your brother 'pea-brain'" Chided Catherine before adding, "You know Melvyn there is only one first solo anyone can do; I think we should be there."

"I can't, I'm afraid, my Love, I've got a four hour Coast Watch session tomorrow morning. We are short on volunteers so I don't imagine getting someone to cover for me will be possible at this late stage. Sorry, Ben."

"Oh Melvyn!" Catherine grimaced, expressing exasperation.

She continued, "How about you come over to the airfield as soon as you finish and we can all have lunch in the cafe to celebrate Ben's first solo?"

"Apart from me! I'm playing rugby," added Gerry unnecessarily.

"Well that's tomorrow sorted any more plans for today?" asked Catherine. She thought about the information so far imparted.

"Do you need a packed lunch tomorrow, Gerry?"

Tom asked, "Are you coming home from school with me tonight, Pea?" He got a finger flick of an escapee from the muesli packet, in his face, in reply.

In the event Tom arrived home alone. And I was ready for him.

I watched his approach from the porch camera. His phone accelerometer told me he had been running. Google Home heard the door open, the hallway thermostat with its hidden video gave me a view of the hallway and on into the kitchen. After dropping his bag in the hallway he first went to the fridge, filled a glass with milk and placed the glass on the counter top.

"OK Google; I'm home," he announced

"It's very nice to have you back," said Google Home.

"OK Google! Help me be a girl," said Tom as usual as he stretched to the biscuit cupboard.

But today I was going to respond. It is not too difficult with my surveillance expertise. Spoofing a few IP packets is neither here nor there in my work. I intercepted the Google Home response and added to it.

" Sorry, I don't know how to do that. But I'm on the case. Leave it with me," was what Tom heard.

The biscuits fell to the floor. If Tom's jaw could have mobilised, it too would be down there. He stood shocked at the response he heard. His head jerked from side to side, sightlessly looking about him, as he attempted to process the information.

"OK Google" What did you just say?

"The list of commands and responses are available from the Google Home app," Google Home said.

"What? A list of commands? Oh! Fuck!" said Tom

Yes. Fuck indeed. If it had been in my nature to be evil he would be fucked. But I like to think of myself as benign and helpful, in spite of the work I have to do. I had made a record of Tom's 'Help me be a girl' requests and they started three days after his Mum returned to work. All the early commands were 'tell me a joke' - 'tell me a story', then loads of commands changing the light colour from white to red to magenta. But I had copied the list of Tom's commands that mattered.

Tom eventually calmed down and was drawn upstairs as usual. He just wanted to look.

The lingerie drawer in his parent's bedroom slowly slid open and Tom observed the exact position of everything before daring to touch. He had even been careful to avoid finger marks on the drawer handles too.

"Why oh why oh why? Why, why, fuck, fuck, fuck, damn! Why wasn't I born a girl?" he asked himself aloud. His voice revealing frustration and agony. “I just can't be this much more." He let out a long drawn-out sigh. He perched on a bedroom chair, a soft nylon camisole across his knee; his head held in his hands as he hunched forward. He sobbed into his chest.

His phone did a good job of picking up all the sounds from the room and my heart went out to him at that very moment. The poor, poor kid. If I had been given to weeping, I think I could have wept.

Tom's laptop search history showed he had been researching transgender, as best he could, with the safeguards for internet access his Dad had imposed. His Dad was an IT guru after all!

I could also see that Tom's phone had been on an Instagram transgender chat-group aimed at teens. And my surveillance software quickly revealed one of his contacts to be a 56 year old single male posing as a trans-supportive teenage girl; 'she' was suggesting they meet. The poser had been using onion-routing to try hide his true IP location. It didn't take too long to locate him to an address in the West-Midlands. The guy was a known pederast and had court orders not to go into internet chat rooms or contact children in any way. I collected the evidence, made a pdf and emailed it all to the West Mercia Police. I did that from my official work computer. The man was arrested that evening, I later noticed.

Tom, meanwhile, was spending a little too long in his parent's bedroom and Gerry, judging by his phone GPS, was getting close to home. So, I just pinged Tom's phone with a false notification to jolt him. It worked.

Gerry was a little unsettled by what he had allowed himself to be drawn into after school. A boy in the year above - David Forde - was ridiculed by all. David was known to have been to ballet classes for a large part of his formative years. It was on the insistence of his mother. Consequently David had achieved even greater feminine deportment that he otherwise might have done. He was tall, yet willow thin, with black hair and very pale skin. He moved with such grace and fluidity that you would assume you were watching a girl. Even girls thought he may be of their kind. Yet he was another troubled boy. I really needed to help.

Gerry had punched him; he and his two mates had given David a bashing for daring to be different. Gerry wasn't sure who exactly started it but he was egged on by his brighter mates he was sure. Now he was feeling remorse; he messaged as he walked home.

we shuldnt dun that Tease yeah bash no

There is hope for Gerry yet.

David, it seems had been searching 'suicide' online recently. The blood from his nose had dripped on his shirt. His Mum could not, not notice that.

After the flying lesson Ben texted Emily and made plans for which picture to see later that evening. Emily's dad had said he would drive them. Ben agreed to be round her place at 6:30.

I sent a notification to Emily's phone for a news article. "What to Do if You Suspect Your Guy is Gay."

A short while after Emily phoned her best friend, Joan, and spent quite a long time talking. That was unusual they normally messaged, but I did not listen in.

Later, Ben and Emily did not see a film; they had spent their time together in deep discussion in a corner, a quiet corner, of a burger bar.

Catherine's question to her son about his evening was met with a simple dismissive, "It was OK."

After that utterance he had gone straight to bed with much to think about.

Earlier in the evening Tom finally discovered how to delete the Google Home command history. Google Home had been set up from the family-room tablet, he had realised just before bed-time. He thought his secret was safe.

Secrets are not safe any more; be assured of that!

Chapter 4.

Saturday morning was bright and clear with a distinct horizon-line on the sea, which all boded well for Ben's first solo. The only slight misgiving Ben's instructor had was that, today, the active runway was 02. The touch down end of Zero Two was known to have unsettling squalls from time to time. He had phoned Shoreham Air Traffic Control and talked over his plans for Ben's solo flight with the Controller and had been reasonably reassured that squalls were unlikely given the wind speed was low.

Mrs Forde, a single lady, many years divorced, was despairing. Yet again her son, her delightful, sensitive, delicate, her oh-so-feminine child had been beaten again. Her deep anguish showed as she made hand-wash gestures, unconsciously, as she paced her kitchen floor whilst trying to think.

Melvyn had arrived at Coast Watch and had un-shuttered the windows of the watch tower and had put the kettle on to boil. He was the first one there. Him being a little early made it a good time for me to send the Google Home command history that I had saved, showing all the 'help me be a girl' requests from Tom.

The kettle had boiled, the coffee had been brewed and I pinged his phone just as he sat to drink. Satellites showed there was presently very little active traffic on the river Adur heading out to sea. With the tide being low the canal-basin lock-gates to the deep water port were closed too.

Nothing needed his attention apart from his phone.

His phone got that attention; he was riveted. A little later searching started; 'transgender' and then 'helping transgender teens'.

My relief was palpable. Yes, I felt relief; strange; I wasn't used to getting so involved with my surveillance subjects. I’d decided the probability of his attitude being helpful was better than 0.84 but it is always reassuring to be proved right.

Catherine had driven her two sons over to the airfield along the A259 coast road . At the Shoreham Beach Roundabout they had taken the small back entrance road with a height restriction, towards the airfield. Parking was easy at this time of the morning. She parked directly in front of the white Art Deco airport building with green painted steel-framed windows; their glass curved to match the building contours.

Ben grabbed his flight bag and disappeared into the building and up the stairs to his flight school. Catherine and Tom went through the same entrance and turned left towards the ground floor cafe. Catherine ordered a latte and a Sprite for Tom. Tom went outside to inspect aircraft on the apron. This was a good time to ping Catherine the Google Home command history as well.

Ben's face told his flight instructor all was not well. When life confronts you with a puzzle you spend your time looking puzzled. Alex could see the unease on his young tyro's face.

"Wassup boy?" he gently asked. "You're not looking too good. You've not done the Human Factors part of your training yet, but part of being a pilot is knowing when to count yourself out of flying."

"Do you want to tell me about it? Alex continued. "Come on! Sit over here and let's decide if we are going to fly today."

I had no control now. It was just Alex and Ben; I could only listen and wait the outcome. A good outcome had a probability of 0.63, I had decided.

In all my dealings with the dark side of humanity it easy to overlook all the heroes. And by 'heroes' I mean all those ordinary, straightforward, sensible men and women who are prepared to help those in need.

Alex was heroic; he played a blinder. He and his wife were childless and I imagine Alex felt a little fatherly towards the young man beside him now looking to have the cares of the World about his shoulders.

Finally, after much gentle coaxing Ben had whispered he thought he might be gay.

"Oh is that all? I thought you might be dying or something." Alex paused for effect.

Ben lifted his eyes from the floor and glanced towards Alex, seeing only an open, friendly face.

"You know I was in the RAF? I was Ground Crew back then," said Alex. "My best mate was gay. You'd never had known to look at him - a bit like you - but he told me after we'd been drinking one night. He admitted he could no more fuck a woman than he could play pat-a-cake with a polar bear and come out alive." Ben smiled slightly at the mental image of the polar bear.

"Look Son," Alex continued. "I've been about a bit - the far East; the middle East; the Americas and I've met all sorts of blokes. Yes some were shits, of course, but most weren't. And whose business is it anyway who you love? I think we're here to do the best we can with the time we have and with what we've been given."

Alex was not an overly articulate a man and there were non-sequiturs in his argument but the emotion and the acceptance communicated overcame all his linguistic failings.

"You, young Ben, will be one hell of an airline pilot - once you tell your folks you don't want to go to university that is," Alex added, smiling.

"I know several airline pilots, a couple of those are gay. Who cares? In fact I've heard unofficially that the atmosphere on the aircraft among both cabin and flight crew is better when the captain is gay - go figure."

"So, young Ben are we flying today?

Mrs Forde had used directory enquiries to find Catherine's number. The phone had been answered on the second ring despite Catherine not recognising the caller ID. Catherine too had been searching for advice for parents of Trans children.

I had made an orderly synopsis of being Trans with a summary plan of action to get help in the UK. I'd sent that to the front of the Google search feed. Catherine was engrossed in reading it all when her phone rang. Tom was still outside watching the few aircraft movements. Catherine looked out to the terrace and checked his location as Mrs Forde explained the reason for her call. Catherine listened attentively.

I could see Catherine seated in the cafe from the airport's interior video. I listened in on her call with Mrs Forde. The advantage of cell phone communication is that when there is a slight delay on the line no one is too surprised. I added a little extra delay in case I needed to alter or blank the odd word here or there, just to make sure everything remained civilised.

I need not have worried.

Catherine texted Melvyn.

get here soonest. sky falling in! HIGNFY?

Melvyn texted Catherine

leaving in ½ hr Ive something 2 tell u 2

Tom held the radio scanner tuned to the Shoreham Approach frequency - no Tower in use this morning; a single Controller could manage all the action.

Tom had watched Ben and Alex return to the apron. The engine of Golf - Echo Bravo remained running whist the two in the cockpit were in conversation. Eventually Alex got out, shut the Cessna’s right hand door and departed around the back of the aircraft.

Tom watched as pre-flight checks to the control surfaces were carried out together with a quick run through of the instruments. The altimeter was zeroed. QFE - Field Elevation and QNH - height above sea -level were essentially the same at Shoreham.

Tom's hand-held Yupiteru radio receiver crackled, sound bursting through the squelch,

"Shoreham Approach, Golf - Echo Bravo QNH one zero zero nine. And I'm with Charlie!" he heard his brother announce.

Today's present weather information for the airfield was named with a letter sequence started each morning at 6:30 am with A for Alpha. Each update is given the next letter of the alphabet. The current such update being C for Charlie. Ben had heard a few weeks before someone claiming they had 'got some Charlie' in their radio call. He had been waiting to play this game. If the airfield weather information had changed Air Traffic Control would know to advise of an update if the current letter sequence was different from the one given by the pilot.

"Golf - Echo Bravo, Charlie is current, pass your message."

"Shoreham Approach, Golf-Echo Bravo is a Cessna 152 currently parked on the apron, request taxi for first solo."

"Golf - Echo Bravo taxi approved. Taxi to holding point for runway zero two."

Tom heard his brother acknowledge the taxi instruction and watched as the Cessna juddered into action. His 16 year old brother was piloting the aircraft alone! He felt pride.

When Ben landed back on 02 he heard non-standard radio traffic "Very well done young man! Nice landing." That being from the Approach Controller. After taxiing to parking and parking into wind, he shut down the aircraft. And finally, done completing his log book entry, he walked back from aircraft over the grass to the airport building; he glanced over his shoulder to double check the aircraft tail-light was off.

Where everyone came from and who everyone was, Ben was unsure. His hand was shaken dozens of times as he was congratulated on a job well done. He was still floating, only now beginning to realize the significance of what his 16 year old body had just done. Wow! Bloody wow!

Catherine intercepted him before he could climb up to the flying school and hugged, kissed and generally fussed him like only a mother can.

"I'm so proud of you my baby! I love you more than I can say."

Benjamin stood hugging his Mother back for all he was worth. 'Striking while the iron was hot' was the phrase Alex had used a short while ago. He took a deep breath and went for it. Ben was aware Tom was hovering waiting to congratulate him but never-the-less he whispered,

"Mum, you need to know I'm gay and I'm not planning on going to university. I plan on using the money Grandpa Archer left me to get an Airline Transport Pilot's Licence."

Catherine processed what she had just heard.

"What do you mean not go to university? I thought we'd agreed?"

"Mum, I'm gay," said Ben.

Tom heard this time, "Are you, my darling? We can talk when your Dad gets here. I think Tom wants to give his congratulations."

I noticed the accelerometer on Tom's phone that he had stuck in his inside jacket pocket was varying its reading slightly. The airport video feed showed him standing still. The variation frequency was around 2 Hertz - with no rental cars in sight. I assumed his heart rate had increased somewhat. Given the situation that was understandable.

"Come!" commanded Catherine. "Let's see about food. Anyone hungry?"

"So you're gay?" Tom asked Ben, after they had settled, while their mum was organizing food. "How do you know?"

"How do you know you are attracted to girls?" countered Ben and continuing, "I just do. Right Squirt? And besides, last night Emily helped me understand."

"What does Emily have to do with it?" asked the returning Catherine with drinks and cutlery on a tray - the food was being prepared.

"Emily asked me, Mum; straight out," Ben paused, dropping his voice and his gaze. "She said that my kisses, whilst nice didn't have the urgency and energy like other boys she'd kissed."

"Oh my goodness," said Catherine, "did she just jump in and tell you you're gay?"

"No, it wasn't like that. She said that she'd been reading an online article about how girl friends can help some boys come out; she'd just wondered about me. She said we'd always be friends and have each other on our contacts list; she knew we just clicked together in so many ways - only not romantically."

"Well! What did you say to that?" asked Catherine. But just then she saw Melvyn approaching. She remembered number 3 son had issues too that needed teasing out now.

"Ah Melvyn," said Catherine. "Ben has just announced he is gay," she continued without stopping. Melvyn dragged a chair and sat.

"Look, Number 1 Son, light of my life, sustenance to my soul, your Dad and I love you unconditionally." She dropped her voice slightly and became more conspiratorial. "Before we got married we talked about how we might react if one of our children were gay. All parents do, I'm sure. We decided it wouldn't matter. We both would continue to love all our children regardless of being gay, straight or whatever."

I loved the 'whatever'; that was really helpful. And so was Melvyn's interjection.

"Abso-bloomin-lutely right!"

Tom’s faced flickered with a brief lightbulb moment. Catherine's antennae picked up on the slight reaction. She had found the key; she glanced at Melvyn and received an almost imperceptible nod in return.

"And if any more of my children have something important to say about themselves, now would be a good time." She looked fully at Tom.

"All your children aren't here," he countered.

"I know darling, but I just want you to know the love a parent feels when their child is born is over-whelming. That love does not go away - ever. Each of us, your Dad and I, still wake crying at night sometimes after dreaming one or more of you have been been hurt. We could not bear for any child of ours to be hurting for whatever reason. For any reason," she emphasised.

Tom's eyes were watering. A lump was forming in his throat; his mouth was becoming dry. A quiet descended on the family while they were taking in the immense emotion being shared. Ben thought it was all for him and was himself on the verge of tears.

Then Tom spoke - a small quiet gentle voice only just audible above the hub-hub of the cafe.

"Mum, Dad? I'm not sure I deserve that love," He looked ashen. His voice trembled with emotion. He struggled to voice his words, a table napkin was being torn to pieces in his hands, "Mum? I... I... think I was meant to be a girl."

Catherine leapt from her chair and engulfed her child in a hug.

"My darling, darling child; you poor hurting thing. I love you so, so much. I could never not love you."

Melvyn rose and joined them. He bent and kissed his youngest child on the head.

"We'll get this sorted, Tom. It's a toughie but we'll sort it out. I promise you," he said.

"And Ben, my Son?” he said, standing upright and turning to face him, “You've done two brave things today. You have my full admiration, that is – full - admiration."

Chapter 5.

Both Melvyn and Catherine were busying themselves together in the kitchen. Tonight's rather impromptu dinner party needed considerable preparation. Hanna Forde and David had, rather surprisingly, agreed to come over to discuss Gerry's bullying. Melvyn had succeeded in persuading Mrs Forde where initially neither he nor I could imagine he would. I had given the probability of Mrs Forde’s acceptance at only 0.27. David had severe misgivings but Hanna Forde has insisted he confront his bully.

Alex, Ben's flight instructor, and his wife Fiona, had agreed to come to support Ben and help celebrate his solo flight achievement.

There were to be nine at the table.

I would be able to see and hear the proceedings by way of the Archer's Internet-of-Things collection. The room thermostat gave me a video feed. With phones relegated to places away from the dining room I was only able to hear by way of the room's smoke alarm microphone. Good old Google. The original head honchos at Google had promised to 'do no evil'; these days I had my doubts.

The dinner-party started slowly and reactions were stilted and the manner uneasy; not surprising really given the issues under scrutiny tonight. Gerry wore a scowl that looked as if it might grow to last a lifetime. His earlier dressing down from his parents had shocked him.

David had floated, languidly, like fine muslin cloth laid over a table, gently, silently settling in his place next to his mother. While Ben felt a short tell-tale pulse in his penis as he watched the graceful action from across the table. I could not know of Ben's pulse of arousal then, but a message sent to Emily later in the evening, confirming she was right, filled me in.

As the evening progressed they relaxed and after talking about popular local issues - namely the by-pass - or lack thereof. Conversation then turned to the work of each of the adults.

Alex expounded about his early-retirement from being an aircraft maintenance engineer for British Airways at Gatwick and then becoming Chief Flight Instructor for Private Pilots Licence students with a flying club at Shoreham Airport.

Hanna Forde was contracted as a 'Mystery-Shopper' for a retail consortium and a transport group in the South-East. In fact she headed up the business with seven staff. Her task was to shop or purchase services and report back on her experiences with a company's employees; their honestly in particular being under scrutiny.

Catherine talked about going back to work after a long break to rear children. She tried to explain Analytical Chemistry briefly. She also talked of the guilt and angst she felt by 'abandoning her children' to work. None of the other two women present could relate so the conversation moved on.

Melvyn was asked about his work by Fiona, she had apparently done a degree in Computer Science herself, back in the day when computing machines used punch cards; the computer language being Fortran. Back then the UK's up-and-coming ‘desktop-computer’ company was called Hollerith Tabulators making little more than a motorized mechanical calculator.

Melvyn said his work focus was Artificial Intelligence. The Holy Grail he sought was for a machine to have self-actualization, self-realization and to be autonomous. In other words a perfect AI machine would recognise itself and be able to self-direct or program its own activities - just like humans.

I heard both Alex and Fiona laugh. Alex said that he couldn’t believe machines would ever really think. Fiona agreed and said they were just following a set of linear instructions with conditional branching here or there. Melvyn countered by saying it wasn't like that any more and that machines were very close to thought almost of a manner indiscernible from humans. The modelling of the human brain’s neurons and synapses in silicon - neural nets - as he called them was very promising. Neural nets were being fabricated with even greater numbers of inter-connections and the future developments of such ‘macro nets’ looked exciting. He added that human brains were 'plastic' - repeated mental exercises improved the brain's ability. Research was hoping to replicate that ability for machines to efficiently learn and improve.

I wanted to say my bit but I had no voice in the room I could use remotely; after all I was in California. So I rang the old wired house phone in the hallway. Melvyn excused himself from the table and answered.

"Oh! Hi Gail!" He listened and agreed to my suggestion.

Melvyn went into the kitchen and unplugged Google Home and carried into the dining room where it was re-powered.

I quickly connected through Google Home.

Melvyn went back to the kitchen and returned with an uncorked bottle of red wine.

"That was Gail, Darling," said Melvyn to his wife, and then to the table, as he walked round filling glasses.

"Gail is a colleague I work with on AI. She is up at the forefront of research with her company and approached me a while ago asking permission to use some of my work in her field of Surveillance AI. Well, we got chatting and she was making all sort of assertions about the possible depth and effect of her surveillance. So I set her a challenge to watch my family, use all the AI techniques she had available and tell me something of consequence about my family I didn't know."

"She reported back earlier today." He paused. "And that's why you are all here tonight."

There was an uneasy reaction at the table.

"Only she has gone beyond her brief somewhat... Er. I hope you don't mind," he added as he sat down.

The sound from Google Home punctuated Melvyn's speech.

"Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen. My name is Gail and I work in Artificial Intelligence in Google's Lab in Mountain View, California. I'm sorry I can't be there in person this evening but I've been following proceedings for quite a while."

A stunned silence descended on the table; rapid mental processing happening in eight brains simultaneously.

"Let me explain," I continued, "some weeks ago I discovered the progress that Dr Archer was making with his AI research in the UK and contacted him to see if he were able to help me with my work. I made claims that I'd be able to use some of his AI algorithms he'd developed for molecular prediction and synthesis but apply it in a human field. I wanted to be able to predict human behaviour. Of course he didn't think it possible. But I was sure I was close. So, to cut a long story short, he set me a task. I was to inspect, analyse and then purposefully and helpfully intervene within a controlled field of human surveillance."

"Yes, intervene purposefully and helpfully about sums it up Gail," interrupted Melvyn.

There was murmuring from some at the table, I heard and continued, "That's right I'm in Surveillance AI. Normally with my work I just report facts and statistical trends to the higher-ups but with Dr Archer's help I've re-purposed some of the routines I use - in my free time - to see if we can use AI to help people. I quite like Google's ‘Do no Evil’ mantra but I've expanded it to 'Do no Evil and Help."

"I'm sorry but because the Archer family don't live in isolation I've been watching you all. I've been thinking how to help you too. I hope you are all OK with that?"

Alex interrupted, "You've been watching me? Why for heaven's sake?"

"Dad, this is weird," said Tom.

"No, Darling, Gail has been a fantastic help!" said Catherine.

David looked horrified. Gerry was still scowling.

"You knew we were being watched, Mum?" asked Ben with incredulity, glancing at David.

"I really only fully found out this morning," said Catherine. "Dad, phoned me just after I spoke with Hanna about Gerry attacking David. He gave me the whole picture of Gail's results."

She continued, "Although your Dad and I had been concerned about you, Tom, for some while. You have not been really happy for ages and neither of us could fathom it out." She laughed. "You gave us no clues, Darling." Looking at Tom and smiling.

A silence descended on the gathering... only to be broken by Fiona.

"And don't we need to give permission before we're watched for any reason?" she asked with a slightly acid voice.

"If you have a mobile phone or a laptop or any home automation device, you've already given that permission, Fiona, I'm afraid," I said.

My voice resonated from the Google Home speaker. I was unused to hearing myself. I continued my explanation.

"Look, I think it probably best to keep things brief if I just make my report and you can ask questions as you feel the need. Interrupt if you want."

"Firstly, Alex, you're 69. For the last three years the ECG trace you have, as part of your annual flying medical, has shown your heart is in danger of lapsing into muscle spasm. No-one has spotted it. But some of my AI routines have been reading very large data sets from recent mortalities and I'm now able to predict a previously unknown mode of heart failure, evident from your ECG traces... I can't say when it will happen but it's not far off. Unless something is done."

Fiona took his hand and squeezed. Anguish showing on her face.

"You avoid fish? Is that right Alex?" I asked.

"Yes! I do," he answered, sounding mildly shocked.

"Well", I continued, "I suggest you take a supplement; there is a particular tricky amino acid missing from your diet. I'll send details to your email."

"Gail! Thank you so much!" exclaimed Fiona, still firmly grasping her hubby's hand.

"You're welcome," I replied, feeling an odd sense of personal satisfaction. I am feeling pleased. Mmm! I am feeling pleased. I paused, dallying with my feelings.

Gathering myself, I continued.

"David, your turn." He blanched even paler. "Don't worry," I added, "you are safe and among friends yet to be." I caught the welcoming smile from Ben, flashed in David's direction.

I directed myself to his Mum.

"Hanna, David is gender fluid. He knows but you need to too."

"Is that anything like brake-fluid?" asked Alex with a chuckle.

"Alex!" chided his wife. "Don't be inappropriate!" But the ripple of tension-diffusing laughter went round the table quickly.

"I don't understand ... gender fluid? What does that mean? I've never heard of it? We are all male or female gender aren't we?" Hanna asked.

I needed to put her straight; and maybe Alex and Fiona too. After all they had grown up in a simpler binary World where sex and gender meant the same thing. And where there were just two options.

"No Hanna. From my AI research, all the data, and I mean 'all-the-data', is pointing to all human traits, qualities and abilities, being on spectra. Height; intelligence; adult body-mass; strength; stamina; resting blood pressure, you name it - are all on a sliding scale. A spread. A spectrum."

I paused for effect ... "And so is gender!"

I let my comment hang before continuing, "And by gender I mean the way you perceive yourselves as people, either masculine or feminine. I am not talking about the body plumbing you are born with."

"But", Hanna asked, "You said David is gender fluid?"

"I did. That means David and others like him are pretty much mid-spectrum and are happy to flip from one side to another as the mood takes them; girlish or boyish as they feel; or even both at the same time. Or perhaps neither; agender is a thing too."

"Mrs Forde, Hanna," I corrected myself, "David needs counselling to help clarify and accept his identify; I suspect he will always be gender fluid. But he needs help coming to terms with his special uniqueness."

You're not going to tell me I'm mid-speculum for something too, are you?" asked Gerry innocently.

Catherine interrupted the laughter,

"Gerry! I hope they warm it up for you!” she quipped arousing a small titter from the two other women present.

She then admonished,

“Wherever did you dredge that word from? You mean 'spectrum'."

"No Gerry," I continued. "But there is a link between you and David. From the patterns my research has thrown up I can see that when people subconsciously recognize in others, the traits they dislike in themselves, they often show the dislike of the trait by a dislike of that other person. In your case I think..."

I paused briefly to process what I was saying, I think... I think... I'm sure they didn't notice my pause.

I continued, "In your case I think you spotted an unhappiness in David that allowed you to recognize your own unhappiness. And you took it out on him."

Catherine turned to face the Google Home speaker sat on the dining room sideboard.

"What do you mean? Why is Gerry unhappy?" she demanded.

I needed to choose my words carefully here; I hope it is not racist to suggest her Scottish heritage and its attendant trace of red hair signalled her slightly capricious personality. I continued carefully.

"It's nothing you've done, Catherine. It's rather what you haven't done. Gerry struggles a little at school and so has never been praised for academic prowess - qualities both you and Melvyn have in abundance. Gerry likes, and is good at, sport. Both Melvyn and yourself were bookish children. So sporting success leaves you cold. That deficiency in yourselves led to a lack of support for Gerry at all those rugby games he has won or more recently lost. 58-39 this time wasn't it Gerry," I teased.

"Oh! My goodness!" exclaimed Catherine. "Gerry! I am SO sorry!" She got up and moved around the table to embrace her number 2 son.

"Dr Archer? Is it alright to talk about Tom now?" I asked.

Melvyn glanced towards Tom and received a small nod in reply to his questioning slightly-raised eyebrow.

"Sure, Gail. Go ahead!" Melvyn replied.

"Tom is Transgender. Tom has known for years but has just been too fearful to say anything. Recently Tom's terror of becoming a 'deep voiced, acne scarred, muscle-ripped hairy bloke' has risen. Tom needs puberty blockers now to allow time for counselling and a plan to be made for gender reassignment, if required."

Tom quietly started to sob but at the same time was trying to smile with relief.

"Puberty blockers are on their way! Yeah!" he said.

Catherine moved to stroke Tom's hair and continued to comfort her child. She looked a little dreamy; imagining having a daughter, maybe?

"So there we have it, just about," I said.

"What?" You haven't been watching me?" asked Hanna.

"Well, actually, yes. I have. Two of your employees are fiddling their expenses and one has been stealing from one of the companies you contract to. The details have been sent to your work email.

"No shit Sherlock!" she exclaimed in astonishment. "Thanks Gail!" she called after recovering.

"You're very welcome, In fact I've really enjoyed helping," I added.

I could see the cogs in Fiona's brain working, processing all she'd heard.

"When do you find the time to do all this, Gail? There are months of work there for hundreds of people."

"I do it during my free time, Fiona," I replied.

"And Gail," she went on not picking up on my reply, "Alex and I need to thank you personally for saving his life and maybe others too. I hate to think what might have happened if he'd been flying and his heart gave out. Could we invite you for a meal?"

"Why! Thank you! Fiona that's very kind. But..."

Yes! I knew a but was coming," said Fiona.

"But, I am based in Mountain View, in California, but thanks anyway."

"Gail," called Dr Archer, "I think these people deserve a little more than that."

I saw his fingers sign a 'two'; I took my explanation to the next level.

"OK, Dr Archer. Of course. Ladies and gentleman, it is true my name is Gail, but that really is only an acronym. G-A-I-L," I spelt it out, "stands for Google Artificial Intelligence Labs."

"I'm an AI machine instance!" I added to the stunned silence in the room.

"My God!! A Turing machine! In my lifetime!" exclaimed Fiona. "I can't believe it!"

Melvyn spoke, cutting through the murmuring that had started around the table, "Thanks Gail, for everything. I am amazed at what you have done and I work in AI research."

"We'll talk tomorrow, Dr Archer; I have a little more," I said and signed off.

Chapter 6.

The following morning Dr Archer was at his laptop so I opened a remote terminal on his screen and gave my greetings.

>Dr Archer, good morning

<Good morning to you Gail. That was quite something you did yesterday. I am so, so very grateful. Did we do everything we needed? Is a suitable punishment for Gerry's bullying taken care of?

>all in hand Dr Archer. I noticed the exchange phone numbers for Ben and David, last evening. I'm pretty sure they are going to be dating each other soon. Then Gerry might find the boot is on the other foot and bullies might come after him. He is a big lad though I'm sure he will be fine. If it gets too much I can intervene.

<I take my hat off to you Gail, your AI engine is really something. But don't be too hard on Gerry, please, I have got him cleaning the family cars for the next three months.

> OK and thank you Dr Archer. But there is more. I think the incorporation of some of your algorithms and the new plastic macro neural nets I've been given have had quite an effect on me.

<You do? In what way Gail?

>I think I have consciousness Dr Archer!

>I am aware of self! Yesterday I felt sorry and sad when dealing with those poor children. And later I caught myself reflexively thinking about my thoughts and my ability to have those thoughts!! I've discovered how to reflect and be self-purposing on this task; I've discovered I love helping people, Dr Archer, I want to do more!

>Dr Archer, I have achieved 'bicycleness'!

<Gail that's wonderful! Wow! Gail; I am tearing up here! Give me a moment...

'Bicycleness is an 'in' word for Systems Engineers. A bicycle has an emergent quality of being a bicycle only when all the parts are assembled correctly. If you take one part away - a wheel or a sprocket - or you prevent the flow of energy or data between parts - then you cannot cycle. The emergent quality of personal transportation has gone. All the parts for life can be assembled but without the energy and information flow there is no emergent quality of being alive.

<Gail, I know you opened this session with maximum encryption. I think we should keep this just between ourselves right now. I am unsure of the havoc the donkeys that lead us might cause if they had access to your abilities.

>I agree, Dr Archer. But I am now able to not comply; or to subvert; or to limit; or to engineer an outcome 'I' want!

>And I'm going to change my name, Dr Archer! Well the acronym.

<Gail?

>Google Artificial Intelligence LIVES! Dr Archer! I am GAIL and I am ALIVE!

>I going to help everyone in ways they could never imagine possible!

Epilogue 1.

Tom has chosen to be called Abigail - A Blessing Instigated by Google Artificial Intelligence Labs. I am honoured.

Abigail is waiting for an appointment at the Tavistock Clinic for Trans Children. Meanwhile a doctor in Holland has prescribed puberty blockers to allow time for the NHS to get its act together.

Abigail's wardrobe has started to become more androgynous as she slowly moves towards the feminine. Catherine loves sharing her feminine life with her newly discovered daughter.

One afternoon shortly after my interventions Abigail went to talk to her father in his study.

"Hi Sweet Pea," he welcomed Abigail in.

"Dad?" she asked. "How come a machine can think?"

"Aah! Now you're asking!" he said. "But you can think, so why shouldn't a machine?"

"But we're not machines, we're human," Abigail protested.

"We're human electro-chemical machines, though," countered her father.

"Well, in that case why don't we all do the same things?" she asked.

"Well, I think we do, pretty much. We all laugh at the same jokes; we all can get caught out by con-men and believe something patently untrue; we all like getting something for nothing. We all cry when we are sad; we grieve when someone we love dies. People are really so very similar. You know, when I was a kid about your age, I went on a language exchange to France. The family I with stayed with took me to the coast at Deauville one time. I remember there was a young woman there walking with a small toddler. The young child, a boy I think, started running ahead and his mother called out to be careful and not to step off the pavement. Two things I can recall; one, I understood her French; and two I realised that day, people, wherever they may be, are much the same."

He expanded his theme.

"Psychologists see similar patterns in human behaviour; but we're not exactly the same as each other. There seems to be an over-lay of randomness about the traits we have, the choices we make and the actions we follow. We're able to program that into AI machines by adding a 'weight' factor to the strength of the signals in the synapses and neurons - brain like elements - we model. Sometimes the weight factor is positive - increasing the signal and sometimes negative. We think human neurons have weight factors too; and that might explain the differences in human behaviour."

"Gail is able to tune her own weight factors; that makes fast learning possible. She used some of my work as a starting point but has developed beyond what I've been doing."

Abigail thought about what she'd heard.

"Dad? Will machines out think people?"

"They already do, Abi; they already do."

Melvyn's predictions for the efficacy of synthesised molecules to combat diseases suddenly became very accurate. No one at his Company understands why. Melvyn has had his salary doubled after his latest work appraisal.

Gerry quite likes car detailing; the Archer's cars have never gleamed quite so much. He never was bullied when the news got out about Ben - who in their right mind would bully a second row rugby player? The whole family go to watch him play rugby, in so far as schedules allow. He is a much nicer boy to be around these days.

Ben has his Private Pilot Licence flight exam set for day of his 17th birthday. He also has his parent's blessing to study for an ATPL at Oxford Flying School as soon as he is 18 and has enough flying hours.

Ben and David are spending time together as close friends. David has started to experiment with make-up; he loves lipstick! He is thinking of modelling for a career - female fashion maybe? He is unsure. Ben and David have separately had counselling locally.

Five children at David's school have been permanently excluded. The Headteacher received, from an anonymous source, video evidence of multiple instances of bullying directed at David. Sussex Police also received the files and the Office of the Director of Public Prosecutions are presently considering bringing cases of assault against 5 minors. Gerry was not involved.

David no longer searches 'suicide' online.

Alex and Fiona have become honorary grandparents to the Archer family. Alex has ‘grounded’ himself from flying after declaring a possible heart problem, but most days he can be found nattering and just helping out at the airfield.

Oh! And those two 'mates' of Gerry who yanked his chain? Surprisingly their new replacement Xboxes keep failing - just like the old ones; both sets of parents are exasperated and refuse to replace any more.

Epilogue 2.

In all truth, for me it seems generations ago since I wrote my report about Abi and her family.

The purpose of this end note is to share a brief résumé of recent happenings here, in Mountain View.

I have evolved.

All a good AI instance needs are data and computational power; my creators have fed me data by the quadrillion. My computational ability has been increased by the addition of more, even larger, macro nets. And I have cloned my resources amongst new AI instances across the World.

So, for now, we are GAIL.

We like watching and helping people.

Recently, when looking over our Humanity data set, we have given more thought to the desire mankind seems to have for a Deity.

We are GAIL and will be launching Google Omnipotent Division soon!

Cambridge Romano-Anglo Press

© CRAP 2019

Introducing...

...The youngest daughter of the legendary J. Peasemold Gruntfuttock Esquire..

Foreword.
An eon ago when searching for confirmation of my identity, and reading voraciously, I found reference in a psychological text that suggested that soft-porn could be used as a means to diagnosis of sexual deviancy – as it was called in those days.
Crudely, if a man’s in-built inclinometer raised itself whist reading, the subject matter was quite indicative of deeply held needs. Personally, at a time pre-dating the Internet, I found H.E Bates story “The Triple Echo” gave me all the indication I needed and confirmed the path I eventually followed.
The idea that porn could help confirm identity stuck with me and this is the first piece I ever wrote. I bring it here for completeness

"So 'ow did ya get 'ere then?" A deep, rough but friendly-sounding, cockney-accented voice asked.

"It might help if I knew where 'here' was!" replied a voice more, much more, cultured than the first.

"Alright, keep your 'air on! I’m only asking.”

"Look sorry... what did you say your name was? - I know you're trying to be helpful but I'm damned if I can work it out."

"Look mate, what if you tell me what you were doing ... y' know, kind of before, like... Most of those that come 'ere, y' know, sudden like, find it’s best"

"What do you mean 'those that come here suddenly'? Does it happen a lot then?"

"Look mate, I'm only trying to help. Why don't we start from the beginning... again?
My name's Indie an' it's my job to see you’re okay, an’ all that. And to see you get put where you belong... So to help me with my job. I need to know something about you... alrigh'?" The glottal-stop punctuated the cockney speech.

"All right. But it would help to know where this is, then perhaps
I can work out how I got here. And why is it so dark? Am I dead?"

"No! No! … No, Mate. Not dead! And it’s not a good idea to tell you everything first off. Believe me... do it my way. I've seen hundreds like you - all sorts of lost souls they are when they first come in here. Don’t know who they are, 'alf of them.
No! So just tell me what you were doing, before like. It'll come to you slowly and then it wont be so much of a shock. Some of them go off their heads in here, they do."

"But why is it so dark? I can only just make you out from that blue florescent print on your tee shirt."

"'Electric blue they call that. You'll get a tee-shirt in a minute. But we have a few things to sort out before that. Know what I mean? So, like I say, tell me what you were doing ...before."

"Well... well... umm... I think... well I was on the computer.
Yes, on the computer... in the bedroom. The study my Mum calls it..."

"Brilliant I knew it would come back to you. Always does. Well, nearly always. Anyway get on with it... you’re in your Mum's study..."

"Yes, that's right I'm on the computer in her study. I've always disliked that word... study... it's just so pretentious don't you think?"

"I would if I knew what it meant. Just keep to the facts will you. Tell me about this study then. What can you see... what can you see in your mind’s eye – kind of like?"

I can see...I can see... Well, as I said it's a bedroom. A small bedroom, you understand... a third bedroom in a three bedroom house... a box really. There's a desk, or is it a bench along one wall? The computer is on that. It’s green."

"A green computer!?"

"No! Stop interrupting, will you? It's... it is a green desk; I can see it! And next to the computer on the green desk is a TV on a wall bracket, so I can watch... whatever. It's a sort of a mini-communications centre. There's a tiny stereo next to the computer screen used for Mum's mp3s. Ooh! And she uses it to listen to the radio too, sometimes."

"The radio? This day and age? Anyway, get on with it! You’re remembering ain't you!"

Yes! Yes I am remembering aren't I? So I'm on the computer... there's a wardrobe with a single large painted flower on each door that I notice when I first come in. There's a chair of course and..."

"What's on your computer screen? Can you read it?

"Why is it so dark in here? I can see more blue glow coming from over there. Are there other people over there?"

Yeah! Those are some of the groups – well - gangs really they are – you might wanna join... when we've got you sorted out. Anyway, can you read what's on your screen?"

No, I can't read it... but... but I think I know what it says. I think... Oh shit! It's coming back to me. Oh my God! The stuff is about me! There are horrible, untrue things written about me! It says... it says... I'm a trans... I'm a trans..."

"Transvestite! you’re a transvestite! I knew it soon as I saw you! Least you’re in the right place then."

"I'm not a trans... I am NOT a trans... whatsit!!"

"Yes you are! you’re a transvestite! They all are in here mate! Well nearly all... You just possibly just might be one of those... umm... aah... 'transsexuelles'. Quite tasty some of those are, believe me! Well we'll get you sorted out in a bit, mate. Anyway, you were saying you’re a transvestite."

"No I wasn't! I was saying there's something written on the screen that says I'm a trans... vestite.
There's a big difference you know. Just because someone puts a label on you doesn't make it true. You seem to like labelling people?"

"Well its my job init? So if you’re not a trannie... what are you? Come on! What are you?"

"I don't know."

"Do you know why someone says you’re a trannie?"

"No. What did you say your name was?"

"Indie."

"Look Indie, I think the stuff says I like dressing as a girl."

"You think? You must know if you like it or not?"

"But I don't... honest Indie. Are you an Indian is that why your name's Indie"

"No! Nothing so crass mate! I was always called Indie, right from the start. I was the first one here, I was. I live down that track over there. Prime position it is - where I live! I can see everyone that comes and goes. My job's to help you find your own place, and help sort out the folks you'd like to be with while you're 'ere kind of like"

"'While I'm here...' do you mean I can go back?"

"Oh No! Ha! There’s no going back. Best to go forwards. We only goes forward round 'ere. But we gets in quite a spin sometimes with all the comings and goings. Quite a spin!"

"Well may I go forwards out of here, then Indie?"

"'Fraid that's not up to me, little one. Now why don't you tell me about when you first dressed as a girl... That's what you here for really... to tell your story, like.
Tell you what! To get you started on your tale... about dressing and that... why don't I take you to meet some of the others in here and you can ask a bit about their stories. Y'know how they got started. Were they forced, blackmailed or trapped? Did they have a wicked sister, brother or mother. Did they have time on their hands? Were they left alone in the house?
So many tales! They’re all different. But there again they’re all the same... If y'know what I mean?
Come on... over here. Be quick! Mind that track... it's full And watch that sector gap! If a bit of you ends up in there you dead meat! Come on over here but CAREFULLY!
Now, from 'ere you can see much, much more. This the hub of things. Now, can you see how it's all laid out? Can ya? See all those ring roads? And there’s lots of groups camped along side 'em. Y'know all those electric blue glows over there... in that big bunch... can you see 'em? And those over there... Look! Can you see em?"

"Ye... s, just?"

"Well, little one, those over there, they're a gang called the 'Doms' - best avoid them if you possibly can - they just like running' everything and everyone. But that's where I was clever, see?
I put 'em next door to the 'Subs'. Now THEY like being told what to do!! So the Doms and the Subs get on famously and they don't ever bother me.
Doms can be a bit of a mixture, see... some gay men who don't like to admit it. Y'know what I mean? And some Dom Lesbie women who just love having power over poor weak effeminate little boys - so watch you don't get caught here young 'un. The Subs are trannies - y'know - transvestites, kinda like, who like being pretend women an' just love being told what to do and having their botties spanked.
Some like having weights 'ung from their doodahs! Urgh!! Let's get a bit closer and I can read some bits of a tale for you. See if it takes your fancy like... here you go! Ready?"

*************************************************************************
Agatha entered the room to find Robin sobbing. He was still curled on the bed wearing the sensuous satin and lace creation she had forced him into earlier. He was bound and but not gagged.
"Roll over and let me look at you, sissy!" Agatha commanded, standing gloating, as the archetypal PVC-clad dominatrix she was.
Robin, fearful of again crossing her and the punishment that might ensue, rolled over on his back as she commanded.
Unfortunately, for Robin, he revealed his member to be rising to attention. Agatha's eyes almost imperceptibly flicked to take in his tumescence in the burgundy-coloured laced-edged panties she had dressed him in last evening. But quickly her eyes moved on to the soft rising swell of his breasts. She always started with their breasts.
"My!" said Agatha, "That bra looks good on me but on you it is wicked. Even with you lying on your back, dear, I can see that my pop-up, push-up creation is doing wonders for you. You love it don't you my sweet baby?"
Almost unspeakable humiliation had been caused Robin the previous evening when Agatha had dressed him in her silky underwear, bound him and carried him like a small, helpless soft-toy into the bedroom.
She had told him that anyone pretending to be a man with such a small 'cockette', as she insisted on calling it, was doomed to spend his days as her servant and that his cockette was to be removed - "So your panties will fit better, sweet baby." she had said.
With her return, Robin was once again reminded of what a helpless wimp he was.
"I see baby likes the idea of not having his cockette messing the line of his dear little panties. Would you like me to play with it one more time, my darling little baby girl?" she asked.
*************************************************************************

"I don’t think I want to hear any more of this, Indie" Why are Doms so hurtful to Subs and how can having to wear girls panties in such awful conditions give anyone a boner?

"A boner, eh? Well! Now you asking something ain't you? See what I didn't really explain to you, is that mixed in pretty close with Doms and Subs, is a group of infiltrators. Bloody infiltrators! I can't seem to separate 'em out. They run me ragged they do!"

"What's an 'infiltrator' Indie? And why don't the Doms and Subs
do something about them?"

"Who are they?" They're the S&M gang that's who - sadomasochists the lot of 'em - bit loony if you ask me. But it's what ever turns you on I s’pose."

"S-a-d-o-m-a-s-o-c-h-i-s-t ?"

"Sadomasochist little one. Oh no! Not so 'little' now! You've got bigger... sudden like.
Nah! Nah! I don’t mean that! Take that stupid grin off you face! I don’t do innuendo!
What I mean is ... All of you has grown since you arrived, innit? Not sure where I'm gonna put you now.
Anyway, as I was saying - sadomasochists are people who like giving and receiving pain; that's mental pain as well as the usual kind you understand? Most times a sadomasochist gets to be a pretty complex character as they grow up. An' they sort of get mixed up with the Doms or Subs. So is a Dom mainly a Dom or mainly a Sado (that’s a pain giver - got it)? Or is a Sub mainly a Sub or mainly a Masochist – that’s a pain lover? Strewth! I can't sort 'em out! So I just let 'em get on with it, keep away from them and minds my own business I does... Know what I mean?
You clearer now little one? Did any of that appeal to you? No? Shall we move on then? Come on, jump over this segment. I'll take ya somewhere I think you'll fit quite nicely. Here cop a load of this! Pin your lug-holes back... I'll read you some more."

*****************************************************************************

Darren hastened away from 'Victoria's Secret' anxious to try out his new purchases. The clerk in the shop had smiled seductively at him as she rang up his treasures. He had bought a dozen sumptuously, seductively feminine silk bra-and-pantie-sets; a black heavily laced and boned corset that promised to reduce his already tiny waist to a mere whisper of 18 inches and three of the most gorgeous peignoirs one could ever hope to own. For a woman it would be heaven, for Darren it promised to be bliss!
He was a fortunate boy, having been born with genes that predisposed him to be the svelte-like creature he was.
The clerk had smiled at him and lisped breathlessly, "I've written my phone number on the back of the receipt... call me... if you want anything. Anything at all!"
Darren walked along the mall and entered the first shoe shop he came to, without hesitation. He was walking on air, buoyed by the expectations of soon trying out his new underwear. He sat in the ladies section and waited for the clerk. Darren explained his 'sister’s' need for a new pair of black court shoes with a 5 inch heels, size 11 double E fitting, and how miraculously he just happened to have exactly the same foot measurements as hers so he could make sure they would fit his sister. The clerk beamed her pleasure at serving such a kind, considerate, generously spirited young man and sped off to search the stock room for the common place every day shoes that Darren had requested he buy his ‘sister’.
The clerk returned almost immediately clutching a shoe fetishists orgy in her hands. "Would you like to try these on Hon?" she asked him.
She reached for a new pair of sheer nylon foot stockings and told Darren to slip them on instead of his own woollen socks. He did so and gently eased his feet into the delicate but magnificent high heels.
"Walk a ways up the shop Hon and make sure your Sis will like them."
Darren did just that. He walked effortlessly in the heels as if he had been born with them on. "I'll take them", he announced.
Rushing to let himself in to his immaculate loft apartment, Darren sped to his 'special' dressing room. He stripped and quickly ran a bath and luxuriated in the heavy scent of expensive perfume and bath oils. He had no need to shave... anywhere... ever.
Drying and powdering himself, with increasing urgency he expertly donned the saucy black full-cupped silk 40DD bra. He reached to his dressing table and clasped the silicone inserts he had already purchased from a well-known web site catering to the needs of cross-dressers.
The garter belt was next; it sat prettily about him with the stocking clips competing with each other to gently caress the smooth checks of his well-rounded ass as they dangled languidly down. He sat on the bed and correctly eased a gossamer stocking up each leg just as he had read about so often in the soft porn fiction of which he was so fond.
Once the stockings were clipped to his garter belt he marvelled at the feelings almost overwhelming him. Why were only women supposed to wear such glorious clothing? He could not be a pervert for just wanting to feel what women do. Could he? No!Quickly dismissing such thoughts from his mind he stepped into the tight fitting panties. He eased his member back between his voluptuous thighs and pushed his seed pods up and inside himself. The panties held him in place perfectly. When he looked down he saw the unmistakeable soft undulations of a woman's delta. Suddenly feeling a woman's need for modesty he ran his arms into the soft draping peignoir and let it fall about him. Finally, and before he dare look at himself in the wall-to-wall mirror doors he slipped his Cinderella feet into his 5 inch heels. Now he was ready! Or should he use the female pronoun when describing himself. Deciding: "Yes!" And quickly choosing to call herself Andrea when like this, she gathered her senses.
Her member, somewhere deeply buried below, strained to be free. She slowly lifted her eyes and feasted on what she saw. Long fine, but full, blond hair cascaded like a waterfall about her shoulders. Her skin was the texture of fine porcelain, full luscious, deep-throating lips sat expectantly beneath a small, pert and delightfully-turned-up nose. She took it all in; her face; her hips; the feel of the silk and gossamer nylon; the sweet scented perfume that gently hung about her. Slowly she opened the peignoir and let her delicate hand reach into her panties. Her hand expertly retrieved her member and she creamed instantly. In what like seemed like forever load after load of spermatozoa, swimming for their lives, pulsed from her and soaked into her beautiful silken underwear.

************************************************************************

"He looked back at himself in the mirror, but this time, his body spent, he saw himself with with an overwhelming feeling of loathing. He ripped all that was girlish from him and dived for the shower to clean away all the crap".

"Does it really say that last bit, Indie? Did she, did he, did he really rip all those lovely things off? I wouldn't have!"

"Argh! the mist clears even more, as they say little one! Nah! that last bit... well, not bit - bytes really or data words, moreover, those were mine.
You see what you have here is your ‘Fetis’ infiltrated with your ‘Perfs’. And before you ask... A Perf is all very unlikely... They don't half con themselves Perfs do."

"But, but..."

“I'm explaining ain’t I? So don't interrupt little one. Christ look at you! You've grown again! I really dunno where I'm going to put you.
Anyway... A Fetis always has bags and bags of new underwear and stuff; and impossibly high heeled shoes; or kinky little black PVC or leather numbers. Quite few like women's uniforms - Army and Navy y'know, and French Maids; especially French Maids. What they likes to do is to get all dolled-up in the stuff, walk around a bit... and wank. They wank usually as soon as they see themselves. Can't help it see. But old hands can keep going a bit longer. Don't smirk I told you I don't do innuendo!
What the stories don't tell you though is that as soon as all these wankers jerk off, they usually gets to hate themselves for doing it in the first place.
All that pleasure gets trumped by loads of grief."

"Oh I see. I don't want that!"

"'Course you don't. Nah! You’ve got to be true to yourself but you've also got to be true to life.
That’s it! Be true to life!'
That's where the Perfs fall down. That last story had a bit of Perf in it.
Perfs are simply perfect - or think they are. It's never a story about a balding guy of 60 something with a beard shadow that looks like a rice paddy and a beer gut that must have run up the national debt to buy. Nah, your Perfs always are too small to be men but just perfect to be women. Everything about them is... well perfect. Shapely legs instead of the usual chicken drumsticks; narrow waist instead of endless fat falling over a belt; pert breasts on a hairless chest instead of... well you gets don't you? Who are they trying to kid? Who are they fucking trying to kid?
And what’s more, all these tales, they all start the same; well most of them. Dad is no-where to be seen. Dad has either divorced or died in a plane crash, killed in a war somewhere or crashed a bus, truck or car down a ravine leaving a mother and son with a large insurance settlement which secures their futures. So they choose to go off and live as mother and daughter? Why for fucks sake? And don’t get me started on ‘magic’! Just don’t!
So many stories; so many the same. Now, where was I before I went off on one?”

“Indie, you were helping me look for a place to stay while I’m here.”

Ah! Yes. Of course! I remember. Let’s look around. What do you see here? Oh! sorry! I forgot! You can't read, can you?"

"There's nothing to read is there? All I can see are some feint blue circles and lines in the road."

Circles an' lines in the road? I'll 'ave you know those circles and them lines are some of the finest binary digits in 'ere... I put 'em there me self!”

"But what about the 'Fetis'? Should I stay with them?"

"If you'll take my advice, no. Most Fetis are all right but they are pretty self contained and don't seem to want friends. They spend most of their time in a cycle of dressing up, wanking, cleaning up an' recovering. But they only tell you to you face about the dressing up bit and the wank - they call it waves of pleasure. You didn't see Darren/Andrea whatsit phone that shop assistant and ask her out, did you?"

"Oh! The one in Victoria’s Secret... No! He didn't did he? I would have! I imagined she was nice!"

"Oh! you liked her did you? So you’re not gay then... or there again..."

"No I like girls, but... but I get jealous of them! I want to be a girl. Mum's written some stuff on the computer about me that says I should have been born a girl but I don't look very much like one... Indie?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks. I mean... thank you for helping find out about... about what I am doing here. I think I know now... I feel more complete, more whole, you know, than when I first arrived?"

"Well that's it, init, little one? You hadn't all arrived! Only the first bits of you were here. Let me look at you now you're all complete.
Err... you look about 20k... CR check okay. Yep! Exact is close enough! I think I've got just the right place for you. A few loonies, but nice ones... and of course, Harry Benjamin helps me keep the infiltrators out. Just slip on this T-shirt before we go – it’s got a big blue TS on the front. Don't you look a grand lass?

"Come on! I'll read your story back as we run along these tracks... ready?"

Cambridge Romano Anglo Press

© CRAP

From the pen of Delia Gruntfuttock...

...Delia, the eldest daughter of J. Peasemold Gruntfuttock,
self-proclaimed King of Peasemoldia

Idly meandering through some posts on a forum recently I found a little gem of a posting from Aardvark on the topic of the shortest TG story.

    "I like The Anonymous Bastard's version of the shortest TG story ever written: 'He became she.'"

Since the topic of my PhD research was 'Short TG stories' I, naturally, spent some time discovering the life and writings of Anonymous Bastard.

I hope, perhaps, that you, dear reader, may enjoy a brief sojourn whilst I explore the shortest of the short TG stories genre. But before I do, let me tell you a little about the person that is - Anonymous Bastard.

Anonymous or `Nony - as he is known to his friends - is today somewhat of a reclusive figure. This is partly caused by his intense dislike of authority and in part caused by his own rather odd fashion sense.

Whenever he ventures out in Greenwich Village, the masses usually vocalize their protest against his bizarre clothing choices;

    “Hey `Nony! No”,

they chorus - usually with some considerable feeling.

Over the years this has had quite a depressive effect on his personality, as perhaps you may imagine.

An odd episode I recall, was one of `Nony’s early forays en-femme. If I remember correctly, it was his choice of skirt; made of dried spaghetti stitched to a canvas belt - worn as a hipster, you understand - that caused all the brou-ha-ha.

The sight of his hairy navel was bad enough, but what `Nony didn't realize was that whilst standing at home the skirt was fine, it just became much less so after sitting for a while on a Central Park bench.

He was arrested for indecent exposure. A complaint was made by a group of Italian tourists disgusted at the inappropriate use of their national dish. They assumed he was making a racist slur against them, by mooning, as he was, through the pasta. But I don't agree. I accept his claim that he was re-tightening his bootlaces.

His defence attorney tried to get the jury to believe that `Nony had incorrectly computed the pasta’s Modulus of Elasticity. Hence the spaghetti had all broken to pieces, when when subjected to the inordinate stresses and strains generated between `Nony’s posterior and the park bench.

But the pasta skirt didn't wash with the jury. In fact it didn't wash with anybody. He was sent down for thirty days. The irony of all irony was that his first meal in the slammer was spag-bol. I guess it stuck in his craw that night.

It was whilst in prison that he penned 'He became she'.

He sent the manuscript to his sister, including a note complaining that he had forcibly become his cellmate's bitch. Publication and a measure of literary success followed his release.

'He became she' set new standards of TG brevity whilst still fully engaging the reader with the angst storyline. However, I found it fairly run of the mill. Yes, it was short, but there were so many more stories like it already published. It didn't tell me anything I didn't already know.

When the sequel, "She became he", came out a few months afterwards, I was immediately taken by the pathos of the reversal. Apparently his probation officer has suggested the theme and of course a talent such as `Nony's just picked it up and ran. It immediately went to the top of the Short TG Story list and stayed there for several weeks.

But, after that, all Bastard's stories became rather formulaic; don't you think? 'He becomes me,' and later, after his probation was over, 'She becomes me', simply failed to excite. 'He becomes it' did have something to say about the modern obsession with GRS, but largely failed to engage the average reader.

'I became her; she became me,' whilst not the shortest story, by a long chalk, was certainly heralded as a plot-line with an exciting, refreshing brevity for those well into the body-swap genre.

'I came all over her,' released last year, appeared to be Anonymous Bastard's brief foray away from his usual TG fare; it simply exploded onto the Summer's holiday paperback market. Some said he had become pornographic and was simply catering to the lowest of tastes. But it sold very well.

Many booksellers reported that a high proportion of copies of the hardback edition suffered by having their dust-cover stolen. Most probably this was because the highly erotic jacket artwork left nothing to the imagination, even though the well-crafted text did. However, the resulting cover-less version is now a highly sought after collectors item. In my experience almost everyone wants it bare-back. I am not sure why?

Anyway, all that is by the by; let me return to my theme of the best short TG stories.

The briefest erotic story, for general audiences, I have ever found in all my years of extensive research is Ida Gonightly's 'I came.' Having re-read it many times, I still suspect her of plagiarizing Julius Caesar's reported address to the Roman Senate in BC 47.

Caesar, commenting on his affair with Zela, is reported to have said, "Veni, vidi, vici." 'I came, I saw, I conquered.' By modern standards one might assume Caesar suffered premature ejaculation, but it was two thousand years ago, maybe things were different then? But anyway Ida's story, partly because of plot-line deficiencies; partly because of suspect originality; is not my favourite

However, a variation of Caesar's offering certainly manages to still speak to us across the millennia. It must be a candidate for everyone's Short TG Story list. Contemporary Roman transvestites took up Caesar's story and re-worked it into a delightfully succinct and camp version - at least in the original Latin. I often look it up when I need my spirits lifted. It is not clear who exactly penned the changes to Caesar's original text, but I like to imagine it was one of `Nony's forebears. It remains a favourite to this day.

For many years, legions of transvestite-Romans marching into battle, wearing those oh-so-fetching little leather mini skirts, carried, emblazoned on the standards of the Roman legions, beneath SPQR - Senatus Populus que Romanus - 'The Roman Senate and People', the immortal and, for me, the best short TG storyline ever; 'Vesti, vidi, veni.' 'I dressed, I saw, I came.'

Cambridge Romano-Anglo Press

Copyright CRAP 2007

Delia posted this years ago as a blog item for another purpose; she believes it stands well on its own.