Transition

Transition
By Janet Baker

 
Synopsis: John started life male and ended female. His transition has been experienced by many. For John it was not fun -- not all that he expected.


 
My divorce was finalized yesterday.
The registered letter came to my efficiency apartment this morning.
My life as I knew it was over.
I had to start anew.
I am so lonely.

I got what I wanted, I am now a woman. My transition is complete. Months of operations and recovery were past, I was released from the hospital and I returned home -- home? I took a cab from the airport to what was my home, found the locks were changed. I rang. My wife and a man answered the door. I was crushed. I fainted, fell to the ground. When I awoke I was still on the ground. She -- my wife -- looked down at me and said, “Yes John, we are through, this is no longer your home, I am divorcing you. I am sorry. I did once love you -- when you were my husband but you are now a woman. They shut the door in my face while I lay on the front steps.

I rang again, he answered the door, said, “Well?”

I replied simply, “Please call a cab for me, I have no phone with me. Thank you.”

He looked at me, sympathetically, said, “Sorry, so sorry, yes I’ll call a cab for you. I am so sorry.”

It all started when, believe it or not, I was about seven years old. I found that I liked playing with dolls more fun than throwing a ball with my daddy. I played with girls rather than boys. I even tried putting on my sister’s dress. I liked to see myself in the mirror. My daddy caught me and spanked me.

As time went on I began to realize that my preference for girls and girlish things resulted from a deep feeling that I was a sort of a girl. I was made like a boy but I felt like a girl -- felt that I should be a girl. I wanted to wear girls’ clothes -- I tried to explain to my mommy my feelings. She told my daddy -- he spanked me again -- and again, trying to beat the girlishness out of me. Year after year I wrestled with my confusion. Year after year I was beaten. I suffered with the conflict between my growing masculinity and my deep seated feelings that I should have been a girl. My mother loved me, I think. My father hated me, I’m sure.

Puberty came and went and I was mostly male because I thought about girls although frequently I found myself thinking about being a girl -- about dating a boy -- about making love as a girl. A virgin, I wondered what it would be like.

I was a cute fellow, the girls liked me and being with the girls, playing with the girls suited me. I dated, remained a virgin because, I guess the masculine part of me was suppressed by my girl side and I was never aggressive toward my dates. Maybe that’s why the girls liked me -- I was safe and nice to be with.

Ultimately marriage came upon me when I met a lovely young lady, a fellow student at college. We were well matched. We married. We moved into our first apartment, then later into our house. We both gave up our virginity together -- stumbling but happy. It was new, this sex thing. One of the things I liked about marriage was the pretty clothes my wife wore. The old feelings returned and I felt drawn closer to her things -- her pretty things -- her pretty lace trimmed panties, her pretty dresses. I called them her ‘pretties’.

As time went on, she would do the shopping and I was left at home and passed more time with her pretty clothes. We weren’t the same size so I couldn’t wear anything of hers but I wanted to… so I bought some things -- panties, stockings, cami for myself. The first purchases were fraught with fear as I entered a department store, ventured to the women’s section and selected a few pretty bits of clothing for myself. I was drenched with sweat -- the experience was thrilling but terrifying as I selected my first feminine clothing -- albeit just underthings.

I took them home and tried them on. The fit was good, I had researched sizes carefully. I put on the panties, loving the smooth, silky feeling. Same with the cami, I loved the feeling of the material against my chest. The thigh high stockings were a joy to don. Dressed in my few pretties, I finished dressing with my men’s clothes and passed the day feeling most girly.

My wife returned from shopping laden with groceries. After everything was put away she came to me, hugged me and discovered that I had something slippery on under my shirt. She pulled my shirt up out of my trousers and found the cami. She was bemused more than shocked or disturbed.

“What else do you have under there”, she asked.

I confessed that I wore panties and stockings but that was all. We had a long discussion about my feelings and what had brought me to this point.
I confessed that through most of my life I’d occasionally had some leanings toward girlishness but still felt largely male and, yes, here we were married and having a successful marriage and sex life. She wanted to learn more and suggested we visit a sex therapist.

An appointment with the therapist was most educational. We learned that the transgender phenomenon was more common than one would expect and the therapist (also a doctor) outlined the accepted reasons for this largely male abnormality. The reasons weren’t so important to me as was the reality that I was not the only transgendered person in the world.

“What can we do about it?”, my wife asked with some asperity. “I married a man, not a… a… mutant.”

She (the therapist) said, “You have choices. Live with his crossdressing. Try to control the development of his dressing. In other words, keep pressing him to remain in the closet, that is, not go public with this aspect of his personality. I have seen couples divorce because of dressing. I hope that it does not happen to you as you seem to be a happy normal couple excepting the dressing of course. At the extreme is transition leading to surgery to become a woman. It is expensive, time consuming and painful, but it is an option. Basically he is what he is and nothing can change it, but you can live with it.”

My wife was very quiet for the next few days. Finally she sat with me on our sofa and laid out a plan.

“I have given your -- our -- problem much thought. I love you John. This… getting dressed… to me is silly, stupid and degrading. I understand what the doctor told us but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. Go! Go do it! Go get dressed like a woman. I do have one caveat. If you do it, do it well. If you want to look like, feel like a woman, do it right. But do it at home, I‘ll not be humiliated by our friends and neighbors knowing about your perversion.”

I was speechless. I smiled, gratefully hugged and kissed my darling Sandy.

“Sandy, I don’t know where this will lead but I’m so happy that I have your blessing.”

“Sorry, John, you don’t have my blessing, you have my tolerance and I will ride you to make sure that you do your best to look good. We have to shop now.”

We shopped ‘till we dropped. It was fun. She seemed to be content and happily aided me in selecting proper clothing. Wigs and makeup were going to be a problem so we put off buying wigs. Sandy was uncomfortable with aiding me in makeup and told me to go to a beauty salon in another city so no one would know me or connect me with her.
I did finally and it was a humiliating experience but I did learn about makeup. I bought two wigs from a very helpful salesgirl in a wig shop. The coloring reflected my own and the girl commented that should my own hair grow out, the appearance would be almost the same, especially in coloring. I wasn’t sure that I wanted my hair to grow since this would alter my appearance and I was sure my wife would object and I could anticipate employment problems.

As time went on I dressed every night when I came home from work. My wife generally ignored it, not looking at me but looking away even when we were chatting about the days’ events. Routinely I would dress and then do some housework. My internal need to dress was largely satisfied. I did occasionally feel the need to venture out but suppressed the urge, knowing that it would cause an eruption with my wife.

Weekends were wonderful, staying dressed the entire time save necessary forays to buy necessities, groceries, fuel, etc.

The months passed and my wardrobe expanded, like most women’s. I had more pretty things than masculine clothes. At work I underdressed, putting on panties, a camisole and maybe even stockings. All were well concealed under my suit and tie. I had an outside sales job and needed to wear a professional ensemble. Of course my tasseled loafers were the most feminine thing I could wear and show. Wearing stockings with these loafers felt almost girly. I almost swished when wearing them.

“John”, she announced one day, “for the weekends from now on, I want you to wear maids’ dresses. Get used to it. I am going to host my bridge club once a month from now on, and so you don’t have to hide or leave I want you to look and feel like a maid, and I want you to serve. None of these ladies and men know you so there won’t be an identity problem. It will also give you an opportunity to wear makeup in an attempt to really pass as a woman. I know that you’ll love it since you can buy and dress in some really cute things and in those high heels you love so well. Also John, if someone comes to the door you won’t have to run and hide. I am tired of covering for you. Oh, and John, I want you to buy one or so of those French maid dresses. You’ll look so cute”, she added sarcastically.

What transgendered man has not thought at least once of performing as a cute little French maid dressed prettily in a black satin maid’s dress, ruffled panties, petticoat, cap, gloves, stockings and finally the piá¨ce de résistance, the erotic patent pumps with ankle straps? I was thrilled and eagerly set about buying these treasures. I was in fact delighted to find that my wife was beginning to more than just tolerate my dressing, she was actually aiding my progress in developing my feminine persona. I wondered if I should be suspicious about her seeming acceptance.

A few weeks later my costume was complete. I dressed after work and presented myself for my wife when she arrived home. I had completed my makeup, arranged my wig, put on some jewelry, even added perfume. She inspected me, smiled and pronounced me ‘acceptable’.

“This weekend, John, I’m hosting the bridge game Sunday afternoon. I want you to aid me in setting up for the games and I want you to serve. You will be announced as ‘Julie’ and you’ll be summoned by this little bell. When your presence is not required, you’ll wait in the kitchen. When my guests arrive and depart you’ll help with their coats. After the last guest has left, you’ll clean up. I think that you’ll enjoy the afternoon, it should suit your servility and give you a chance to show your expertise at posing as a woman. Some day if you do well enough, I may take you out in public -- as my maid perhaps,
or possibly dressed as a friend, shopping together. We’ll see.”

“Sandy, I don’t feel servile, I just feel happy to do this for you, I appreciate being dressed like this with your approval and I’ll be delighted to serve at you bridge game. It’ll really be a pleasure, not a punishment. I love you and I’m so grateful that you’re accepting my dressing.”

“John, you know I’m not in favor of your dressing but since the therapist says we can’t work it out of you, we have to live with it and that’s what I’m trying to do. You have cleaning to do, John. I’m going shopping. I’ll return later and we’ll have dinner. You can prepare dinner for us. Oh, yes, John, when you‘re dressed, I‘ll call you Julie. It makes no sense calling a woman ‘John‘.”

She returned from her shopping trip carrying a few parcels. I put the groceries away and asked her what took so long for so few things -- she had been gone all afternoon. She replied that she consumed much time in finding a few very important items for my persona.

“Julie, come with me, you have to change clothes.”

“OK, but what’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

“Nothing except that your chest is flat. I have a cure for that.”

I went to our bedroom and undressed, waiting for instructions.

“John, here is a bra for you and breast forms. You must have a proper chest appearance to complete your costume. I think that satin maid’s dress will now look perfect and you‘ll be perfect for the bridge game”, she smirked.

I was too happy to be wary or suspicious. I was simply thrilled at her acceptance and at my appearance. I was beginning to really look like a woman.

That weekend.

“Julie, the guests, some men, mostly ladies, will be arriving shortly. You know what to do, but most important for your security, keep your voice down. Speak very quietly, your voice is too masculine to fool everyone. We must do something about it. We’ll talk with your therapist next week, but until then be careful.”

“OK Sandy, I’ll do my best.”

I was grateful for her help and forbearance and as such I smiled through the bridge game, kept my voice low and helped as much as I could. Being dressed throughout was an absolute delight. My youthful fantasies of dressing were achieved and I felt quite feminine. I had no idea what could be done about my voice except some sort of training. I wondered what the therapist could offer.

Sandy and I went to the therapist’s office, presented the problem -- voice -- and asked what could be done. She suggested that with considerable training my voice could be altered and I might achieve a result that could fool people. An alternative would be a minor laser tweak to my vocal cords to increase the level of my voice, making it somewhat more feminine. This would be an absolute fix and easily done but I was concerned about what impact this voice change would have on my professional life.

“Sandy, I’m worried about what impact the voice change will have jobwise.”

“John, I don’t think there would be a problem, many men have higher voices than yours. I see no problem at all, in fact I think I’ll like your new higher voice. Please try it John. Also John, it‘ll go so well with your dressing. I’m sure that I’ll like it”, she said soothingly.

“OK, Sandy, let’s do it”, I agreed enthusiastically. I felt myself moving towards womanhood but was afraid that my wife would be turned off if I went too far too fast. Also, when I reflected on it, I wondered if I was doing the right thing by embracing this change. Did I really want to be a woman? At times I wasn’t sure. I was sure that Sandy would object — she’d married a man. ‘For better or for worse’ surely did not envision a sex change, especially a voluntary sex change.

The voice change was satisfactory, my level was raised somewhat and no one made any negative comments.

We talked now and then about where this dressing would lead. One evening as we relaxed in front of the TV, Sandy asked me what my plans were regarding dressing. “Julie” -- I was dressed in a little black cocktail dress — “how far do you intend to take this dressing? Do you want to be a woman?”

“No, I don’t believe I want to be a woman, I enjoy dressing and I found that passing as a woman was very pleasant. I really liked serving at your bridge games. But I love you and I don’t want to do anything that would change our relationship -- our marriage. But do you love me? Would you love me if I were to transition to womanhood?”

She thought a while and answered slowly and thoughtfully. “Yes John -- Julie -- I would still love you but our marriage would obviously change. If you were a woman what about our sex life? Children? How would I become pregnant after your change?”

“Yeah, there is no doubt that our life would change. On a practical level, there are things we could do. Sperm could be saved for children. There are many sex aids that could provide you with sexual pleasure. I assume that if I were woman I could also be pleasured similarly. That’s funny, we’d become lesbian lovers.”

“That does not please me Julie. I married a man. I like sex with you as John -- as a man. I could still love you but there would likely be no sex between us. I am only heterosexual, I have never had any inclination toward a relationship with another woman.”

“But Sandy, what would you -- we -- do for sex? Would you want to give up sex if I ever went that far into womanhood?”

“Good question, Julie. I get so damned confused with your dual persona, I don’t know if I should address you as John or Julie. I just don’t know. I’m not obsessed with sex as many people are but how could we live together as man and wife if you became a woman? Can’t you just keep this thing under control and limit your compulsion to simple dressing? Otherwise we could never have friends over for a party or simple get together. I’m not going to endure the humiliation of introducing you to people as my husband who is now a woman. It’s bad enough having you dress but we can control it to a large extent.”

The Winds Shift

Weeks turned into months. Our sex life diminished -- seriously. I became more enamored of my dressing and my appearance and Sandy became more accepting.
I thought increasingly of changing my appearance to look more womanly. I considered breast enhancement. My forms were fine but real breasts would be so much nicer -- so real. I went to my therapist without Sandy. I discussed my concerns -- my increasing desire to become a woman. She prescribed the regimen required to bring me to the point of surgical transition. She cautioned me that my sex life would change. I recounted how our sex life had already changed. Sandy was reluctant to bed me when I was dressed, which was almost always, and I, being thrilled with my dressing, was less inclined to pursue sex with her.

Oddly however, Sandy seemed more accepting of my Julie persona and even encouraged my progress. We frequently went out together as women to do the shopping, and as I became more womanly in my dress, figure, and performance we started shopping locally. From time to time we would meet some of her friends and I would be introduced as Julie. We even started going out to dinner as women. I passed so well that I don’t believe I was ever ‘made’.

The months passed with my femininity becoming more pronounced. My supervisor called me into the human resources office and he and the HR officer asked me what the hell was going on. They told me that my changes were becoming obvious, and even some clients were asking questions. I said that I was in transition to become a woman. I shocked myself by saying it, since I was not sure I wanted to change.

Their response however convinced me that I should continue. They told me that I would be accepted as my new person and that a sales job for a woman would be available for me. They asked when I planned to do the SRS. They were both aware of what was required. I answered that I had not yet planned a date but would let them know when I made arrangements.

A Deadly Calm

That night I told Sandy what had transpired at work including my statement that I was in transition. She was shocked. Wordlessly she rose and went to our bedroom. I remained seated, wondering….

She returned later.

“So you decided to go ahead with this… this… without asking me. Without thinking of me. Without thinking of our marriage. How could you be so thoughtless?”

“I’m sorry, Sandy, it just seemed to happen. Month after month I evolved I guess from what I was to what I am. It came to a head when my management called me in and asked my intentions. I… just… told them that I was in transition. Their response was so encouraging that I was relieved and also felt trapped by my own words.”

“Well, you go right ahead and do your thing -- do your SRS -- we’ll cope somehow. I love you. We’ll survive.”

The Operation

After consulting with my employer, I started dressing full time. My sales position worked out well. I did well as a woman, still using the name Julie. Sandy seemed to accept my new persona but our sex life diminished to almost nothing.
I continued with my regimen continuing toward womanhood, finally making arrangements for SRS. I went to Thailand for cost reasons and returned a few months later. Recovery was slow and painful, requiring regular dilation so the new vagina would not heal and close.

Epilogue

A week after I returned and was turned away from my own home by Sandy and a somewhat more sympathetic man, I tried again. I drove to my old home one evening and knocked on the door. When Sandy answered, I asked if I could come in and talk, since we had some loose ends to resolve. I needed some papers, birth certificates, etc. to reconstruct my life. She and her new man admitted me this time, and we sat and talked. We finished the technical aspects first and then I ventured to ask Sandy why she had deserted me, since she had told me she loved me.

“Julie, I did care for you but simply put, I married a man. You are now a woman.
I want a divorce so I can remarry. I am sorry this happened but you deserted me. You left me to change your sex. I can no longer live with you. I no longer want anything to do with you. I no longer care for you.”

“I understand Sandy. I am also sorry this occurred but I seemed to have had no control over it. It is as though I was born wrong and have finally been fixed to the detriment of both of us. I will cooperate with a no fault divorce and bother you no more although I hope we can remain friends.”

“I doubt it Julie, I don’t want to see you again. I have a new life and will have a new husband. Good bye Julie.”


The End



 © Janet Baker 2009



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