This is a story about life’s regrets and about the transition from a young boy to a grown woman. This is a story about the price each of us has to pay, to be true to our inner selves, and become what we must be.
This story remains my property, and may
not be posted on any other website or published without my written consent. -
Nicole Braun
Chapter
Eight: A Flight, A New Life
Denver in the
wintertime can be very depressing. My sessions with my therapist were going
nowhere. My one-room hole-in-the-wall added only to the total atmosphere.
I, myself, didn’t
look much better. Since that night I found Andrea, in her sexual puppy pile, I
had let myself go. I still showered, and wore clean clothes, but that was about
it. I had to ponder, when it was the last time, I had had a haircut, or bought
new clothes.
It was than at one
of the few meeting I had with one of Aunt Madge’s (now my)
financial advisors, that he asked me why I was still in Denver of all places. He
himself had flown in from Houston, and was very out of sorts, with the cold
windy Denver weather.
His idea appealed
to me somehow. I signed over a limited power of attorney to my divorce lawyer.
Sold my car. I threw most of my clothing away. Put most all my personal
belongings in storage. Than I got on a plane headed for Miami.
Once there I bought myself a cherry red Mustang convertible,
and started to look for a place to stay.
Since my bank
account now read at around three quarters of a million, I started to look into
buying something real. I wanted some place to live… that made me feel good.
I didn’t want too
big of a place. I didn’t want involvement. I wanted comfort and freedom.
Instead of searching, I let be searched. I knew enough about real estate from
Andrea, to know, that I didn’t know enough, to do it on my own.
Talk about dejavue
all over. I didn’t give the matter a thought when I called what looked like a
larger realtor and was assigned to a lady. She could have been Andrea’s sister
for all it mattered.
She was though,
good at her job. In short order, she had figured out what I wanted, and I was
settling into a nice two-bedroom condo. It had a large terrace overlooking the
beach with a private harbor not far away. It was in a Mediterranean style, with
terra-cotta tile in the kitchen, living room and flowing out on to the terrace.
Also the walls of the kitchen, halls, and living room were of stucco. I
decorated the living room in black Italian leather and cherry wood furniture.
On the other side
of the condo lay a small old styled very upbeat community. There were little
cafes and shops of all kinds. With my mid-west small town background, the
diversity of peoples in that town was first perplexing, but amazing.
My neighbors, to
the one side of my place, were a lesbian couple. On the other side…
I still haven’t figured it out. Four people (2 male/2 female) lived in
the two-bedroom place, but how they paired up, I don’t know. Seemed like every
other day it was a different combination… male/male… female/female…
male/female… it was all there.
After I had the
condo, and had enough furniture in it to live, the next thing on my agenda was
to get a haircut and new clothes, clothes that fit the climate, and my hopefully
new outlook on life.
I had seen a little
hair salon on the route I always took, so that’s where I stopped off first.
For some reason, I
decide to keep my hair longer. I told the young hair stylist that I wanted to
let my hair grow longer and needed something that would work. I didn’t have
the slightest idea how, but she said she could do something.
During the time
that she was washing my hair, she asked if I wanted a manicure. In a moment of
splurging, and thinking that men have manicures as well, I said, “Why
not.” Another young woman came to me, so I
just sat back and enjoyed being pampered.
Well… It was a unisex hairstyle, that’s for sure. Maybe,
it would have looked manly on a more manly man, but on me it looked more dykish,
than anything. It was a longish layer cut just touching my shoulders and taper
up, covering fully my ears, to bangs over the front. There was a part high on
the left side, and the bangs were long, jagged and hung down past my eyebrows.
The whole haircut had a jagged, layered appearance. Since I could wear it with
the bangs forward, or brushed to the side, I decided to keep it. It did frame my
face, and give it an even more feminine appearance, nevertheless.
My manicure, I
didn’t like as much. She had kept the nails as long as they had been; only
rounding and tapering them oval. What I didn’t like was the light glossy
effect that they had. I thought she should have kept them natural.
Just a bit down the
road was an upscale men and women’s boutique, so that was the next stop on my
spree. I had decided I was going to get some suits, shirts, sweaters and
trousers. Jeans I still had enough.
I told the
saleslady what I wanted, and that I wanted them not only stylish, but also
comfortable enough for everyday wear. I wanted suits, but not stiff business
suits. For shirts I wanted more mock turtlenecks and fancy t-shirts. She also
showed me some moccasins styled loafers and I bought one of each color, black,
dark brown and tan.
I was in there for
hours, and the mustang was pretty well packed by the time I was finished. I’m
sure I made her day. When I left the shop, I left my old clothes there, wearing
one of my all-new jackets, trousers and a mock sweater. (It was winter, and even
a little cool in Florida.)
The jacket and
trousers were of cashmere/wool/silk mixture and the mock was cashmere/silk. The
trousers were what I liked the best. They did fit me a little loose around the
hips, but they were the first pair of trousers I had ever bought, that did not
bunch up in the waist. Strange was only that the zipper fly opened to the left
instead of to the right. The pants were one of four that I had grabbed off of
one rack, and tried on, while the saleslady was helping, someone else.
Coming back to my
condo, was the first time, I saw the lesbian couple, which lived next door to
me. The more feminine of the couple was very friendly, and waved to me, saying
hello.
I think I saw her
grin and say, “Nice” when she first
saw me. The other had than glared at her. I remembered speculating if the more
feminine one was maybe bisexual. I made a mental note to try and make friends
with the other one first, as I didn’t want to become a point of contention
between them.
Later, the more
feminine one talked a bit with me, over the common wall of our terraces. She
invited me to go with them, to a club that night.
It was an engaging
evening, interesting for me, since I had never had anything to do with lesbians.
The two of them and I, stayed close friends for a year, until they broke up, and
both moved away. I still call, email and write both of them.
Still, even though,
and maybe because, I had moved, and was living better, the Pandorian box that I
had opened, was more actual than ever before.
I had certainly
noticed that my new more feminine hairstyle had made me feel better, and people
acted differently around me. (Yes, I had also figured out that the four pairs of
trousers from that one rack were women’s trousers.)
Yet, in that first
night at the lesbian bar, I had more women hit on me, than I had ever had in my
whole life!
I had stepped out
of my usual drab characterization, of who I was, and people seemed to be
accepting me more, because of that.
Okay, they, in the
lesbian bar, had thought I was a woman, but even after I explained that I
wasn’t female, they weren’t offended. They didn’t change in their behavior
towards me at all.
Much later, it was
my neighbors that explained to me, that even they had thought, for quite some
time, that I was a boi… a F2M, female to male, transgendered.
I
had never given transgenderism much thought. Other than what one sees in
Hollywood movies, that’s about all I knew. I had seen Sex in the City and Mrs.
Doubtfire, things like that. That was my idea of what transgenderism was.
It was Jen and
Sandy (the lesbian couple) that forced me
to start thinking out of the box. Questioning my ideals of what I thought was
normal and necessary.
Still, it took
time, and a lot of talks with Jen and Sandy, to come to terms, with me finally
looking past my denial of fact, as to who and what I really saw myself as.
There were a lot of
little baby steps taken, the plucking of eyebrows, the wearing of small amounts
of lipstick or eye shadow, getting my ears pierced, to finally the day I wore a
bra and breast forms and went out with them dressed enfemme and butch, in a
woman’s business suit and a blouse.
Later, I was a
certified lez (and the designated purse carrier),
when we went out. After a time, I always went enfemme with them. It got hard not
to dress female. My eyebrows were plucked. My nails were too long to be a
man’s. In shorts or a bathing suit, my hairless legs were a dead give-away.
While my hair… still styled with that layered look, hung well down my back,
and couldn’t be considered anything but, a very feminine hairstyle.
It wasn’t a case
of no one taking notice. Have you ever examined how men seem to always study
women? Have you ever noticed how women observe each other?
Women observe each
other constantly, comparing… judging…
Well, and men…
They have a natural tendency to always study women… no matter what.
Being a woman is
being always in the limelight.
Yes, I had been
noticed, but as a woman would be noticed, and that felt so good!
It was scary at
first. People would look at me, and I just knew they were laughing at me.
It was only when
men started to try and flirt with me, that I realized why people were looking.
Realized, how it is natural that women are more looked at and studied, more than
men.
It was odd and
unusual, after having lived most of my life as a male, and that of an indistinct
one at that, to now be noticed so much.
Men are peculiar
creatures.
As Conner, I was,
at best ignored. Otherwise, and than some, I always knew some form of ridicule,
even if it was unintentional.
As Story, I am
fawned over, pampered, but never ignored.
Well, that’s how
I perceived it at first. Now unless it gets to be obnoxious, or I am seeking it,
it’s just seems natural. I guess, maybe, if I had been born a woman, I
wouldn’t even notice, or think about it.
Cross-dressing
had been fun and games. But, we had reached our limits. What we had done felt
nice. But, it wasn’t satisfaction for me. It helped me safely try out and
observe a few aspects of being a woman, but that was all.
Between the
physical me and the mental me, I was still divided. There was a division between
mind and body, which made anything we did, only a play game.
The next baby step,
I could only take, with the help of professionals. The first of these steps
would be, to again go into counseling. This time I needed someone more
understanding and sympathetic to my intentions.
My
problem was, that I was that woman in the mirror. However it had happened, I had
been born with the wrong gender. She was what I should have been, and what I had
to be, to become whole and content with myself, and my life. Anything less was
insufficient.
Playing the part,
without the intentions of actually becoming what I needed to be, should have
been, was only self-abuse. That is why, I perceived the young woman in
Janice’s mirror, to be mocking me.
It’s a difficult
decision to make, to change one’s life so entirely. For many an even harder
decision than mine was.
I could, of course,
question my mother’s and Janice’s influence on me. That I had been
indoctrinated, into believing, that I would be better off female than male.
Still, a lot of how
we feel about our selves, is dictated by how others feel and act towards us.
That was the argument that I couldn’t avoid.
In neither gender
would I be entirely accepted or functional.
As Conner I could
not have children, and neither as Story.
Being Conner, I
would always carry the stigma of wimp and being less manly… not quite a man. I
would always be seen as odd, different, less than… as handicapped. Physically
I couldn’t conform to the image society required of a man.
As Story I would be
a M2F, a transsexual, and be confronted subtly but profoundly by prejudice and
intolerance.
My only hope was to
become so feminine that those that were prejudice, would not know. It was sad,
but true.
I did not have to
worry about the effect on loved ones, or on my occupation, to consider.
Andrea was history.
Aunt Madge was dead. My mother… my father… my brother? Who cared? Not me!
Occupation? My
checks would be deposited to my bank account monthly… no matter what. If one
of Aunt Madge’s financial advisors didn’t like what I became… good bye,
and next one.
It therefore was a
question of, “In which
gender would I have less problems, and have a richer more fulfilling life?”
I knew I couldn’t
transition 100% into being female. There would always be small but critical
discrepancies.
My physical
features were such that as Conner I would never be socially accepted, but as
Story, I would have little, or no problems.
In fact, since once
having stepped over permanently into cross-dressing, people seemed more readily
to accept me as the person I was. Where Conner was tolerated, people seemed to
go out of their way, to get to know Story.
Morally? As Conner
I had been neglected, abused, and ignored most of my whole life. Was my destiny,
to remain so? Or, was the reasoning behind my suffering, that I learn, break the
circle of abuse, and than transform myself, my life, into a being, able to
excel, and be accepted. Using this to help others, that suffered the same abuse
and neglect, as I had?
As such, Conner had
two strikes against him. Before he even started out. People will always judge
the outsides of a person, before they look further. There are doors that would
always remain closed, to Conner.
I have always been
acutely aware of my looks, and their value. Story was… a completely different
story. The feminine body of Story would be pleasant to look at, and conformative
to my personality. Rather than alienating, closing people’s minds, and
thoughts towards me, Story’s body would compliment my character, insuring
people’s interest in my agenda.
Fate had not given
me money for no reason. Money isn’t self-intending. It’s not a goal. It’s
a means. If Aunt Madge’s life taught me anything, it was that my fortune was
in providing serve and help to others. Those that receive the most, have the
responsibility, to give the most.
It’s
nice to think that looks don’t mean much. But, it’s also very naive. Conner
would be a hindrance. Story would be an asset.
Sex,
naturally, was the big question mark.
As Conner I was
functional. Didn’t have many available options (okay, more like none), but the
equipment did work.
What would it be
like for Story? Professionals, the Internet, no one could give me any
assurances, in either direction, to any formative degree. Would I be able to
enjoy sex after the sex change?
Also, Conner could
possibly find a female life-partner, but what could Story? I wasn’t gay. Could
I become a lesbian? Would a lesbian accept me?
I seriously did
want to find a life-partner, could I as Story?
Using only my
logic, my conclusion was that as a female, my body/mind functioned more fluidly,
and socially I was accepted to a far greater degree.
Emotionally, no
matter if my body was male or female… my mind, my thinking, my emotional
makeup, was female.
So,
my personal decision was than to attempt to conform as perfectly as I could to
my feminine persona. Money was not a limiting factor, only reality was.
Sex was just… my
biggest anxiety.
With Jen and Sandy,
I began to seek out and talk to other transgendereds. Transsexuals were hard to
find. Mostly, what we found were cross-dressers and drag queens. They were of
little or no help.
The Internet
remained my best source of information. Yet it was only information, and as long
as it stayed only information, and not deed, it too remained a mockery.
Dr. Johnston became
my second counselor. She is an older woman, who once must have been very pretty.
She is still a pretty woman, even though age has widened her hips and given her
a little bit of a tummy. One thing that made our communications so easy for me
was the fact that her image, her aura, was so much that of a mother figure. She
is professional, open, honest, and straight forward and to the point, but
compassionate, understanding and motherly. I felt, even in the first few
minutes, very comfortable with her.
She also had
extensive familiarity with transgendereds… pre and post ops… She had ample
experience with most all such problems that could arise. She had been there,
done that.
Even
though we both knew that our relationship was going to be a long one, with my
mental issues concerning my childhood always in the background, my intentions of
seeking SRS/GRS (Sex Reassignment Surgery/Gender Reassignment Surgery) and HRT
(Hormone Replacement Therapy)… as soon as possible, was the foremost issue I
wanted to be dealt with.
Still, before
anything could be done, a diagnosis of Gender Dysphoria had to be concluded.
After having told
Dr. Johnston about my sterility, she had appointments made for me with a medical
specialist.
I was diagnosed as
having Klinefelter syndrome (XXY chromosome structure).
I
was also diagnosed with having physically, primary male characteristics (sex
organs), and secondary female characteristics (body form/ skeletal structure).
One in 500 males
born have some form of KS. Most with KS do not have Gender Dysphoria, and are
typical males, having only male characteristics. But, having, simply, a hormonal
imbalance.
Yet, those with my
variation, or better-said complications, commonly do have Gender Dysphoria.
I was not
hermaphrodite. That is something else. I had no female sex organs.
Hermaphrodites also, generally, have either standard XX or XY chromosomes. They
are only born with some form of latent and non-functioning sex organs, of the
other gender. Everyone with KS is genetically male, because the Y chromosome
dominates. It’s the double X chromosome that is the complication.
Still, because of
my body/skeletal structure, I could be classified as female-pseudo. I had a
feminine body and male sex organs. Therefore the purist definition of gender
dysphoria was not fully applicable.
The
next step was a minimum of one year RLT (Real Life Training). Which, I was
already doing. I dressed female now all the time. Dressing male wasn’t really
an option anymore. I would have seriously looked like a boi (F2Ms/F2M
cross-dressers).
Still, living as a
woman, is not just dressing like one.
There are so many
things to take into consideration… behavior. (That’s a bigger one than you
would think!) Just think social skills.
How about voice
training?
Because of my
latent and impaired puberty, my voice had
never really dropped completely to that of a normal male voice. I was a high
tenor or treble. But, do you know how much differences there are between the
resonance and the fluctuations in female and male voices? How about the monotone qualities of male voices, in
comparison to female voices? How
about word usage or sentence structure? How about articulation?
Also, even though
there are real-life exceptions, voice and body usually is a matching pair.
People expect a certain body type to have a certain voice. Just think of how
disturbing it is to hear deep bass tones from a male of my small stature, or a
treble from a 6’5” 250lbs male.
One year is not a
long time to readjust. I took every thinkable study class and course possible…
and than some.
In that year, I was
fully occupied in transforming my life and myself over. I had little time to
think of anything else.
Taking body styling
courses, and having a body stylist, helped me a lot. They were very good in
helping me find my style, and what fit to my body type and personality.
I always liked
dancing, and Andrea was very good at dancing. So, I also enrolled in dancing
classes, to better learn how to dance, and also to learn the feminine side of
dancing and body portrayal.
I had makeup and
hair styling classes, women’s health and social studies, TG women’s health
courses, and behavioral courses. Speech classes, and training, took up a large
portion of my days.
It
was like a call from my distant past, when I received the final divorce degree,
in the mail.
Two weeks later, I
received than also, a wedding announcement and wedding photo, from Andrea, via
my divorce lawyer. She had married “him”. Maybe, I should have sent them a
wedding present? Well, I didn’t.
Where did I ever
get the idea that hormone therapy consisted of taking only one small pill a day?
My butt hurt, my
arms hurt… almost continually… from all the shots! I turn black and blue so
easily, and it stays that way, for such a long time! Seriously, how are you
supposed to wear any decent kind of bathing suit or bikini, when you look like
some sort of needle junky?
I never liked
pills. Still don’t like pills. And here I am, stuck for the rest of my life…
taking pills. There are not only estrogens that need to be taken; there are
antiandrogens and progestagens. Not only do estrogens need to be added into your
system, testosterones needs to be controlled and reduced. Whoa if the levels
aren’t correct! Oh, yuck!
My moods didn’t
change that much… I think. Maybe, that had a lot to do with the mental
attitude, I did have before.
It was my outlook
about life and other people, which did though change extensively. I’m not sure
if that had to do with the hormone therapy, or with the fact I was now seen as
being a female, and people reacted to me differently. Others, and my,
expectations, relating to myself, differed immensely, from before.
Women, I always got
along with good, or very good. There was only a small change in our
interactions. I think that was because, intuitively, some see me now, as a
potential competitor.
It’s men that are
my major transition problem. I never got along with men before. Not in a good
friend or buddy sense, and never in a sexual sense. I was straight…
straight… straight, and wimp… wimp… wimp. My interactions with men, was
always limited at best. I avoided them. But now, how can you avoid them? Well,
that’s for later in the story. I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s just say
it is a substantial problem… bigger, than I could have ever imagined.
I did fill out
nicely from the hormone therapy. I guess, I can’t complain there. Skinny twerp
to … well, I don’t think I look too bad. (I have been getting compliments,
about having, “Killer legs and a nice ass,”
and I do think that they are my best assets.)
I always had wider
hipbones, so with the hormones, I filled out almost perfectly there.
My breasts made it
also just short of where I wanted them to be. Having breast augmentation surgery
was something, I hoped, not to do. They are full enough, and I have rather large
pointy nipples. I’m a size 32B. (Okay, sometimes I’m an A cup, bite
me.)
It’s kind of
amazing, I never thought of my nipples as being anything special or interesting.
I do like them now. They are beyond question, one of my major erogenous zones.
Puberty had not
given me many classical male characteristics such as eyebrow with raised ridge,
larger hands and feet, shorter upper arms and thighs, Adam’s apple, broader
ribcage, and wider jaw. In fact, much of my childhood skeletal form had not
changed that much. Therefore I am physically, in that aspect, nearer to an adult
female skeletal structure, than to a male. Near enough, to be clinically
classified, as having a female skeletal structure.
Still I did need
some plastic surgery. What I did need was fat cell transfer from waist and tummy
to butt and hips.
If the changes
needed, are not too extreme, fat cell transfer is the more natural, though
expensive option. Just like with collagen, there is no guarantee over the if and
when, the stability of the changes created.
I
was and still am very happy with the results of the fat cell transfer. My waist
is as small as it can get. My tummy is not only flat; I have that wide
hipbones/sunken-in tight abs look. (Okay, I did need to work out too… well a
lot.)
My figure is a
little bottom heavy, but, still easily within limits. I have a 23-inch waist and
am 34 inches around my hips. My only problem is, with my 5foot 3inches, I’m
usually stuck looking for clothes in misses or petite sizes. You miss out on a
considerable amount of nice clothing. They just don’t make many of the more
luscious sensual styles in my size. This means also that a lot have to be bought
to fit my hips, than tailored in at the waist and/or bust. Girls usually
haven’t developed into my womanlier figure.
If
you don’t need vaginoplasty… don’t do it!
It was a very
frightening… terrifying time for me. It is an extreme psychological stress.
Jen and Sandy had
broken up by that time, so that left me alone, with no one to be with me, except
the doctors and nurses. I was alone… alone… alone. Stressed going in,
stressed the eight days I was there, and stressed coming out… and no one to
talk with, or hold my hand.
It has to be done
in two parts. After the first part it’s, “Oh yuck, what have I done?
It looks terrible!” Only after weeks of healing can you go back, and the rest of the plastic
surgery is done. Than it takes more days…weeks, until you finally can see,
what you in reality, look like down there.
Than it’s psycho
shock time again. It seriously needs some getting use to.
There are a lot of
variations on how a vaginoplasty can be done. Some cost less than others, I
wanted quality, and the price was not a question.
Cosmetically my
foreskin was used to create my labia minora, and therefore the inner skin is
mucus membrane, just like that of a born female.
Except for the
lacking of mucus membrane in the vagina (which means you don’t get wet), there
is little or no difference, to that of a born female, to see, unless you are
gynecologist.
Sexually, I feel, I
now have more, or better feeling, and better orgasms than before. They are very
different, and cannot be compared. It would be, like comparing apples to
oranges. Still, the orgasms last longer. They are like waves that slowly crest
and than slowly ebb away. Giving you a much more orgasmic feeling, before, and
after. Also, recovery time is a lot… lot less. There’s just less worries
about performance and timing. You can just let yourself go, and enjoy. My
clitoris is very sensitive (some times too sensitive), and I am also responsive
to vaginal penetration. Penetration is, mentally, and physically, something
quite… breathtaking.
Though penetration
is a far greater intrusion into my comfort zone, I have found, that I enjoy sex
more now, than before. I have fewer worries about my body image, and how others
perceive me. I am far more interested in the erotic of the moment, and my
interactions with my partner, than before.
Bad sex is still…
bad sex. Great sex is still… great sex. But before, it seemed more that I was
seeking release. Release was the goal. Now I seemed to be able to just accept
sex and intimacy, for just what it is, not trying to make more, or less of it.
Just accepting the moment.
But, it is
considerably more maintenance and care. No matter how good medical science has
gotten, it still isn’t perfect. Once you’re there, that’s a part of your
body, that’s going to need an immense more amount of attention.
But, unless it was
the wrong thing to do, you do get use to it. Nowadays, I can’t even remember
what it was like before, having that thingy hanging down there.
I don’t regret
it. It could have gone very, very wrong. But, it was the right thing to do, for
me.
Just, if there is
any other solution, that works for you… go that route.
The only regret I
do have, and this might gross some out, I regret not having periods.
I regret not being
able to have babies. Not being able to do that is a disappointment for me. In a
way, I now see clearer, Andrea’s frustration. I seriously do feel for her…
in that aspect.
But, I’m
happy, and that’s all that matters. I truly do feel that, “Only my
gynecologist knows,” and that’s where I wanted to be.
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