D-Day

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D-DAY
By Joannebarbarella
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D is for decisions. The day has come. As some of my coarser friends would say “Shit or get off the pot”. It’s now or never.

D is for dithering; decades of dithering.

D is for Dianne. As I looked in the mirror that morning I knew I had to do it. A lifetime of pretending to be someone who I was not was finally about to come to an end.

I stood in front of the mirror naked except for a pair of panties. I still had the package I was born with but I didn’t like to look at it any more than absolutely necessary. I had decided that it wasn’t worth getting rid of it. At sixty-plus I wasn’t going to be using it and I had no great desire to change my plumbing so that a man could insert his penis between my legs. A couple of snips had ensured that it was no longer pumping poison into my body.

My problem had never been about sex or sexuality, but about feeling comfortable in my own skin.

I looked at my breasts, newly augmented, and felt a surge of pleasure at the pure femininity that they expressed for me. I couldn’t help myself in fondling them and giving my nipples a tweak until they engorged and hardened into little rocks on my chest. My little girls stood firm and proud. They hadn’t had time to sag into sixty-year-old razor strops yet.

I realized that I was dithering again, delaying the moment when I had to step through that office door. I put on my bra, enjoying the feeling of the white lacy cups and the mounds of my flesh which filled them….one of the ultimate signs of womanhood….cleavage. To look down on those twin mounds and know that they were mine.

I had started taking hormones (at last) about nine months before and now I had taken a month off work to try to refine the changes that had taken place to my body before I finally exposed my real self.

After my bra came my pantyhose. They had to be black and 40 denier, enough to hide the varicose veins in my legs that accompanied my sixty-odd years. I thought my legs were pretty good but you can’t always hide the ravages of time.

What to wear? What to wear? I rummaged through my wardrobe, wanting something distinctive but not outrageous. I was, after all, going to the office, not a night club, although in some ways a night club would be easier....nobody would know me there. I finally settled on a plain white silk blouse coupled with a swishy black and white striped skirt and a black jacket with white piping to highlight it. I set them down on the bed while I did my make-up.

I had been taking lessons in how to do sophisticated but discreet make-up from a lady who specialized in make-overs for people like me. She was “one of us” and had plied her trade for thirty years. She was an expert and had taught me well.

I sat in front of my mirror and reckoned that the face-lift had been well worth the money. After four weeks all signs of the surgery had gone and I thought I looked at least ten years younger. As I applied the foundation and other creams, lotions and powders my confidence grew that I would be able to survive today. As she had taught me I took special care around my eyes without going overboard.

The coup-de-grace was of course my lips. I had indulged myself with collagen to give me that Angelina Jolie look…a total indulgence….there was no way I could ever look like her or be anybody’s idea of a pin-up girl at my age, but those lips! I could not resist. As I parted my lips and stroked on a coral pink colour I regretted all those wasted years. I was never going to be beautiful now but I hoped that I could pass as incognito and I was going to be happy.

Dressing took only a couple of minutes. I checked myself out in the mirror and then I added some simple pearl-drop earrings. My wig was ready to wear with a bit of combing out. My make-over lady had prepped it with a very nice everyday style. I pulled it on and fluffed it up to add that bit of body. After experimenting with various styles and colours we had agreed that I was blonde. In truth I felt a bit light-headed when I surveyed the results. Part of me still had difficulty believing I was doing this.

I stepped into my shoes, black naturally, with two and-a-half-inch chunky heels, a chisel toe and a gold band around the heel. I knew I could wear these all day without them killing me. I loved heels but I knew that they could cripple you if you overdid them.

Now almost ready to leave the house I packed my handbag. Repair cosmetics, tissues, money, keys, spare panties in case. What had I forgotten?

I paused at the front door and almost panicked, fear rising up to nearly make me throw up, then firmly shut the door behind me and minced to my car, bridges burning behind me.

Driving to work was no different to before even though I was dressed differently. I did take my shoes off and drove in stockinged feet for extra care as I didn’t want to be involved in any accidents. I drove into my usual parking space and nobody challenged my right to park there. I was early, so none of the other partners had arrived yet. That was actually normal. I was usually first in.

So… shoes back on and out of the car, heels clicking on the concrete across the car park in the open, heart thumping and waiting for the laughter to start. Nothing happened. I opened the door and entered the lobby and headed for my receptionist’s desk.

The moment of truth and my personal moment of terror. What would my long-time receptionist say and think? She had been with me for fifteen years and was the only employee I could never beat into the office. I sometimes thought she slept there, but if she did she must have had a concealed wardrobe with all her clothes there.

“Good Morning, Margaret.” My voice still needed some work.

She looked me up and down with that cool receptionist’s gaze. I froze, waiting for the ultimate rejection.
Instead she smiled at me; her usual warm, welcoming smile.

“Good Morning. Welcome back. About time you took yourself in hand. What took you so long?”

I gaped a little.

“How did you know?”

“Well, for a start you always treated us girls much better than any of the men, and there were lots of other little clues. Then it’s been obvious for months that you were up to something, and when you took the month off we ran a book that you would return as the person we all thought you should be.”

“We’ve been waiting for the day. May I say you look much better this way.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

“So what do we call you now?”

“D for Dianne.”

“No problem.”

I turned to go into my office.

“By the way, Dianne, love the outfit.”

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Comments

Some days...

The world seems to be a great place. To have that sort of acceptance would be wornderful. if only...

Denial

joannebarbarella's picture

Is not a river in Egypt. Sometimes you have to kick your fears into their rightful place. Margaret's reaction is the first of the day.
Thanks for commenting.

D for Delightful

laika's picture

A perfect little gem of a real world story that fits the October/November challenge theme to a T.
Loved the encounter with Margaret at the end. Understated but so, so sweet.
~hugs, Honeybunny

Discerning

joannebarbarella's picture

Is what you are!

Great Little Story

Well done. Charming!

Jill

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

I guess I don't get it.

>> I still had the package I was born with but I didn’t like to look at it any more than absolutely necessary. My problem had never been about sex or sexuality, but about feeling comfortable in my own skin. <<

I'm 67 and have been post op for 24 years. My partner and I have experienced 'Lesbian Bed Death' so I don't have sex; I masturbate about once every 3 months. Even so, I can't imagine having my old male junk. If I still had that junk and the money, I'd have GRS ASAP!

How can she feel comfortable in her own skin with junk she, apparently, abhors; she can't bare to look at it. I know very well that it's always there and often in the way even if strapped down and covered with clothes.

If she can live with only platonic friendships and never wants intimacy, I guess wearing a gaff all the time isn't too bad; if she can find some way to make peace with her 'junk'.

OTOH, she is still keeping a bigger secret than once being TS. She can still be embarrassed/ exposed any time. She'll have to act in a way her friends might find strange like avoiding changing clothes in front of them or showering en mass before swimming in a public pool.

For many people, 60 is not that old. People fall in love and marry after 60 and have sex married or not. I suppose it's possible to find a man or a lesbian/ bi womyn who can accept a lover with parts that don't match her gender, but I think it would greatly narrow the field of possible lovers. She might be unable to get with someone (slightly intolerant, I guess), but otherwise kind and loving and settle for someone less nice.

Hugs and Bright Blessings,
Renee

I Know Quite A Few Girls

joannebarbarella's picture

Who have decided not to go all the way with SRS. The reasons vary and I won't go into them here but many of us can live with the consequences of living with male appendages while presenting ourselves as female.

D- for don't stop here...

I hope you are continuing this story. Write more about what you want to do as you. What will be different in your life. Dianne has your driver's license and other things been changed to reflect you being you? Do you have adult children, nieces, nephews? I hope some will be excited and want to help you along.
I celebrate the Margarets in the world who care more about the person and celebrate with us.

Hugs ^_^ , JessieC

Jessica E. Connors

Jessica Connors

D For Didn't Think

joannebarbarella's picture

About continuing the story. It was supposed to be "stand alone", but yeah, there are possibilities and I will knock my two brain cells together to see if they can come up with a sequel.

By the way?

Andrea Lena's picture

Loved the story!

  

To be alive is to be vulnerable. Madeleine L'Engle
Love, Andrea Lena

D Is For Darling

joannebarbarella's picture

Which is what you are!

You May Thank

joannebarbarella's picture

Or blame the effects of two typhoons affecting Hong Kong during the last week for this vignette. Not being able to venture out caused brain cells to collide and produce this little story.

Ditto

joannebarbarella's picture

Thanks Karen. I'm a fan of Gene's Story too.

thanks for this

so lovely, and I love the acceptance she received

DogSig.png

Dear Joanne,

After our PM's I thought it appropriate to read your lovely real life feeling story again . I agree with your sentiments entirely !!!

<em></em>

Powerful...

Sunflowerchan's picture

Before I decided to turn in for the night I decided to read one last story from you. Before resumming the campain tomorrow. And this one, this one struck me in a way I'd never had a story move me in this way. I can't put into words. Or maybe I lack the words to summon up my feelings. But, in 1,253 words you somehow managed to write a very compelling and complete story. So thank you for that, and again as I close all my reviews, thank you for all you share, thank you for all the postive feed back you leave, thank you most of all for being being. You make this site special by being here and being yourself and sharing wonderful stories like this.

Sharing With You

joannebarbarella's picture

Is a great pleasure, Sunflowerchan. You are so good for my ego!

I write for my own pleasure and, like any other author, I enjoy basking in the reflected glory of the comments that I receive, the hits and the kudoses (kudos?) so I am delighted that you enjoyed this little piece and thank you for taking the time to comment.