Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 17

“Of course I can. Could you cope with me in fancy dress?

"That’s all it is. You remain you, whatever you wear. I’m actually looking forward to seeing you in your rugby kit, you know…I like short-shorts….”

We headed off past the street performers for our pancakes. That may sound a little premature, so soon after coffee, but I intended a few diversions en route. Jan’s leggings had solved a few problems for me, and were turning into a preferred clothing item. They were one symptom of my swiftly-changing outlook.

To me, being myself at home was a matter of being clearly female, reinforcing my body sense of who and what I was. That meant dresses and skirts, things that shouted “woman” rather than “Hmmm. Not sure” Even with my ongoing physical changes, it was not until the Festival that I was presented with the fact that I did indeed not just pass, but easily. I put that down to a human tendency to see what they expect, and as I was seen as “the skinny ginger bit with the fiddle”, that is what they saw.

So, today’s shopping would be for practical stuff, shoes in particular. I just hoped the shops all had Husband Chairs. I am sorry if I am boring you, dear readers, but there will be no litany of colours and materials, no dropping of labels and makes. I just bought a pile of stuff that I realised I needed for daily wear.

Then we had pancakes.

The pancake house serves a very odd dish, which is essentially a pizza-style confection using a pancake as a base. We both went for the Red Hot Dutch (yes, thank you, stop sniggering at the back) and an early pint of Heineken. I don’t normally touch lager, but it does have its place, even if that is usually poured down the sink. Replete, we caught the tube back to Victoria and the Brighton train. I grabbed a cab back to the house, and while he sorted kettle and pot I started to make up my bed, so quickly stripped last night.

“Are you riding home tonight?”

“I have a confession to make…….I have my working clothes in the saddle bag. I sort of hoped to make as much of our time off as I could. Would you mind if I stayed tonight?”

“I’d mind if you didn’t”

I could not hold back another full-body blush. I mumbled something very, very quietly as my face burned and my heart rate ramped up so high I felt dizzy.

“Sorry?” said Geoff

I looked up at the ceiling and clenched my fists at my sides. Deep breaths.

“This question has never come up for me before, for obvious reasons.”

Breathe again.

“Which side do you sleep?”

I don’t have a television. There is almost nothing broadcast I would want to watch and I have other and better things to do than sit and vegetate, things that I would use to fill my mind other than with despair. I have a silly number of books, an even sillier number of CDs and, of course, my instruments.

I mean, of course, “our instruments”. The octave mandolin was on a stand next to my normal one, Dave having dropped off all my kit. I have a mandolin, the fiddle, a small bodhran of my own with THE perfect beater, and a harmonica I could never get to work for me. I can play stringy things and bangy things, but all those squeezy and blowy things just confuse me. My singing is atrocious, too. Yes, I know, a West Walian without a voice, tell Llais y Sais* to hold the front page!

I put on a Kathryn Tickell disc and lost myself in her playing for a little while as Geoff sorted his stuff for the morning. Once he was done, I led him to the box room and revealed my rather large store of climbing kit. I had another Little Moment as a thought crossed my mind. If he stays around, we will have the time to do so much together. I knew that I had just crossed a Rubicon of my own, and I now knew in my heart that the full surgery was my goal. I started to tear up, and of course he noticed, and of course we ended up in a kiss, and this time I made it so hard we finished by banging into the wall. I let him breathe for a second, and he asked me what I was thinking as he idly teased my left nipple.

Hang on, how exactly did we get to that point? I rewound the last few minutes, of kissing him, and pushing him against the wall, my elbows either side of his head while I shoved my thigh between his legs…

Oh. That’s how.

It was very, very nice, and not just because the sensations were pleasurable, and oh yes they were, but because it was just so normal. I knew that if I explained exactly what thoughts I was having, it would surely kill the moment and the mood. I had felt his erection, and that left me more than a little nervous. I mean, I knew there were things we could do, but THAT was out of the question.

A lifetime of celibacy and suddenly I am wanting and needing, and not knowing quite what it is I want and need. It was nine o’clock, we would soon be off to bed, the same bed, and I had no idea of what I should do. Should I do something to help get rid of it? Would he expect that again at other times if I did? I touched him, just there, and he groaned again.

“What should I do, love?”

“I can use the bathroom for five minutes…”

I knew what he meant, of course, and some twisted part of my mind felt flattered at the thought of this man masturbating because of me. Another, even sicker part wanted to watch…..but most of me simply wished we could go the whole of the way together.

“No. Not ever”

I unfastened his trousers and slipped my hand in as confirmation, and the rest is private.