Skipper! Chapter 3

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Skipper! by Beverly Taff

This chapter describes the first tentative moves by Social Services to win Skipper around. Skipper is still frightened though and unsure of the reasons for Spocial Services choosing him. The truth is obvious but Skipper is just too paranoid to spot it!. The girls love Skipper and there are few issues about logistics. Skipper could easily afford the girls!


Chapter Three

 

I arrived home in the early afternoon and stopped by at the local supermarket to restock.

That night I indulged myself and savoured a delightful night in my brand new silky all-in-one sleep suit. It was a beautiful royal blue long legged all-in-one with delightful lacy details at the ankles and sleeve cuffs. The frilly lace tickled my wrists and ankles and I savoured the transvestite pleasure this gave me. I had ordered it a few weeks earlier from a specialist shop in London and collected it that morning.

It came with an accompanying, matching peignoir and I was delighted with it. As I slithered erotically amongst the satin sheets I finally settled into a blissful sleep.

This was what I had dreamed of and planned for throughout the whole of my life.

I now had my own private bed, my own private house, my own private transvestite life and I owed nobody anything!

After indulging my transvestite urges sleep came blissfully that evening and I savoured the delicious contemplation of the first night of the rest of my transvestite life.

As the summer dawn broke I stirred and swished my silk clad legs again against the satin sheets. First I lay savouring my new lifestyle as the sun climbed the morning sky. There was no hurry. I was retired now and had all the time in the world.

Then I indulged my cross-dressing needs and the slithery sensations sent a frisson of delight through my loins. Next I pulled the sheets tightly around me for one last delightful snuggle before surrendering to the inevitable call of nature.

After visiting the bathroom, I slipped on a pair of heeled mules and sashayed down to the kitchen to savour my first coffee of the morning.

With the coffee in my hand I sauntered into the conservatory and savoured the panoramic views over Poole and Bournemouth. The morning summer sun had already warmed the conservatory and I savoured the beautiful views.

‘Yes,’ I reflected, ‘Dorset was a beautiful county, I had chosen wisely.’

Because the cottage was isolated up its own private lane, I became slightly emboldened. There was nobody overlooking me so I stepped out onto the front patio that overlooked the lawn.

The beautiful morning sun took my mood so I flipped off my mules and a made a series of imaginary bare footed dance steps across the patio pretending I was in a ball gown and going to the ball. My peignoir swung and swished against the silky sleep suit and the summer sun was already warming the patio flagstones. My bare feet savoured the warm kiss of the flagstones and I was in heaven.

After indulging a few more turns around the ‘dance floor’, I settled on the patio balustrade and once more savoured the view. Finally, I reluctantly returned inside the house and debated whether to dress fully or lounge around all morning in my silky night attire.

I decided to start as I meant to go on. If I was to live as a woman, I would have to first dress as one. There was nobody living within a mile of my beautiful old cottage, so I returned to my bedroom to dress. The biggest luxury was being free to finally experiment all morning with makeup and styles until I was happy with my appearance.

By noon, I had achieved a look and style that I thought suited me. I studied my appearance in the full-length mirror and nodded my head in satisfaction.

‘Not bad for a grumpy, fifty-year-old farty’ I concluded.

For the first time in my life, I did not a need to hurry to slap makeup on then clamber into a frock and sneak away to some club.

This time I spent time on my makeup until I was certain that for once, I did not look like a man in a frock.

Fortunately I was a smallish slender man so my size was not a problem. I studied myself in the mirror and concluded that ‘on a dark night as a casual passer by’; I believed I might even ‘pass’. I was tempted to go and visit Sissy’s gay hotel in Poole but decided against it. I really needed to ‘fine tune’ my modest makeup skills.

The next step would be to buy some more decent wigs and garnish some professional advice about ‘passing’. I had seen some adverts in the national press about a ‘Change-away’ service and I decided to give it a whirl.

The next day, found me up in London again, near King’s cross station in a specialist transformation shop being pampered and educated about many of the more important subtler points of ‘passing’.

What blew me away was that their professional skills not only made me look like a genuine woman but the right choices of makeup made me about ten years younger!!!

I wasn’t sure about their advice concerning my wigs though. I still dreamt of being a ‘pretty young thing, despite my age.

The next morning I practiced my newly learned skills and amazed myself at the change in my appearance.

After double-checking my appearance in the full-length landing mirror, I decided I would definitely visit Sissy’s club.

I would not go until the mid afternoon though and that lunchtime I prepared a light lunch and took it out onto the patio.

There was absolutely no wind and the summer sun was getting hot so I read a book about makeup as the sun warmed my bones. Eventually I dozed off.

I was woken by the terrifying and unexpected sound of children’s voices laughing as a car door slammed in the back yard. My blood froze as I recognised the Devon Social worker’s voice from the phone.

Fortunately the still air had carried their laughter and given me an early warning. I dashed into the house and up the stairs where I just reached the landing as the doorbell rang.

Nervously I shouted down the stairs, “Who is it?”

“Mrs Bodkin with Jennifer and Beatrice.”

“Mrs who?” I shouted again.

“Mrs Bodkin; the Devon social services officer.”

“Oh. Wait a minute. I’m in the middle of a shower. The door’s not locked; make yourselves comfortable in the living room.”

The door opened and the trio stepped respectfully into the living room as I frantically struggled out of my frock, cleaned up my makeup and stepped into the shower. In no time flat, I was lathered up, rinsed off and dressed in a casual pair of slacks and polo shirt. I presented myself in the living room and both girls shrieked with delight.

“Skipper! Skipper!” They squealed as they swooped towards me and hugged me around the waist.

I struggled forward to shake Mrs Bodkin’s hand as the girls clung to my legs and giggled. The Social worker smiled, then looked down at the girls.

“They still like you. You’ve made a huge impression.”

“Have you got the forms for the court hearing?” I asked trying to keep to the straight and narrow.

“No. Not yet. There’s a matter of Mrs Fotheringay’s will.”

“What. What will? What’s that got to do with me?”

“Here. Read it for yourself.”

I took the envelope and opened it. There were several pages but I quickly swept through the preamble about the Bank’s rights and expenses as the executors and got to the ‘nitty-gritty’. As I read the second page my jaws slowly sagged.

“This can’t be right. Surely, there’re other relatives?”

“None I’m afraid. Our searches have come up with nobody.”

“That’s impossible. A great aunt or uncle or something; even a second cousin twice removed or something; anything!”

“No. After Grandparents and aunts or uncles, the duty of the courts and the social services is complete unless somebody comes forward to claim the children and prove their relationship. Even then we’d have to do checks. Nobody else has come forward so that puts you in the frame”

“How so?” I challenged.

“Technically, in the narrow letter of the law, you came forward in Iran when you adopted two female orphans of unknown identity.”

“Yeah but that was just a, -“

“I know what you said about that Iranian adoption. It was, just a convenient legal device, but in the narrow definition of the law, that so called device, is still a legally binding agreement. You are still legally liable for the girls. If you read the last page of Mrs Fotheringay’s will you’ll see that she is adamant, that she wants you to have custody. She firmly believes you must have a soft caring heart under all that nautical bluster. Otherwise, you would never have stopped and rescued the girls with your ship. What’s more, the girls are absolutely besotted with you. They’ve been chattering about you all the way up from Devon.”

I just shook my head in utter bewilderment.

“Oh this is utterly preposterous! How can I look after two little girls?”

“It’s not impossible you know. Thousands of young inexperienced unmarried mothers are doing it all over Britain. Both girls are house trained and able to see to their own needs. They’re eight and six for goodness sake! They’re not helpless babies!”

“But I’m a man and a stubborn, stuck in my ways, old salt at that! What do I know about kids?”

“It’s easy to see the girls adore you. It can’t be that hard can it?”

“But what, - what if they get sick or something?”

“Take them to a doctor stupid! That’s what every body else does with sick children.”

“I can’t be hearing this right. You’re a social worker! You know that young girls especially, need a mother. What happens when they, - you know, reach puberty and all that -, you know, - that stuff?”

“Take them to the doctor stupid! It’s not rocket science!”

I stared stunned out of the window as the girls inspected some of my unusual artefacts. I started forward nervously but Mrs Bodkin pre-empted me. A man cannot wander the planet for a lifetime without accumulating the odd memento and some of mine were quite precious to me; even it they were mostly just cheap ornaments. Some of them however were quite unique and expensive. Each one contained a memory of some event or circumstance in my seafaring career.

“Don’t touch those, girls, they’re Skipper’s private things.”

I sighed and mouthed ‘Thank you’ to Mrs Bodkin then I entered one last desperate plea. “Look. I’m just not equipped to be a father at this late stage in life. What happens if I pop my clogs?”

“Then Social services will be forced to step in.”

“So why can’t you step in right now?”

“It wouldn’t be ethical. Besides just look at them! They adore you and they’re two lovely little girls. If social services were to become responsible for their care, there’s a good chance they might become separated.”

“Oh that’s stupid! They’ve been through enough all ready.”

“It’s not stupid,” she snapped, “social services don’t have bottomless resources. There aren’t that many takers for older children and we have to be ultra careful. We have to double check and triple check the carers and that takes forever. All the while, the children are developing complexes about rejection and stuff. Then the children have to like the carers and that can be a minefield. For example one child might like the candidates whilst the other hates them. What’s more, they can soon spot favouritism and discrimination. These may be two beautiful little girls but it might take months or even years to place them properly. In that time, irreparable damage could ensue.”

I looked at Jenny and Bea now carefully studying my collector’s bits and pieces then gently replacing them. I smiled at them then I gave Mrs Bodkin an old fashioned look. “I don’t believe you. There’s a million people who’d tear your arm off for two beautiful kids like those.”

“Yes. You’re quite right. And that could be a million perverts or bullies or fashion snobs who’d want them as little more than sexual playthings or victims or fashion accessories. Do you know it’s easier for us to fix up ethnic children or disabled children? There’s a better chance that potential carers for disadvantaged children are really just that, caring, loving individuals. If I put these two on some sort of pick list, and I assure you no such list exists, the first rich, conceited, self-righteous, do-gooder to step through our doors would try to snatch them off the list.”

Her arguments were sound. God knows! I’d met enough scheming, manipulative snobbish women in my time. Usually they were after what they thought was my fortune. Inevitably, they had quickly shown their true intolerant colours. If, on those very rare occasions the relationship had developed, I had intimated my cross-dressing to test their sincerity.

I fell into a thoughtful silence because I had exhausted all my simple obvious arguments. She seemed to have all the answers and trumped all my tricks. I did not want to play my trump card but it seemed the ‘game’ was coming to that crunch point.

As I mulled the final irrevocable step over in my mind, I remained silent. I still found it hard to believe her.

As the silence grew she adopted another tactic.

“We know about your once being in care.”

“Oh!” I squeaked nervously as I tensed quietly and I mustered my defences. ‘If she knew about that, she’d know about every thing else.’ I swallowed raggedly as I struggled with my worst fears. But then a shaft of reason and light pierced the black clouds of my worst fear.

‘Hang on’ I thought. ‘If Mrs Bodkin knew about my childhood history and of course my transvestism, then why would she even remotely consider me as suitable parenting material?' She either didn’t know the reasons why I was shunted into care or somehow, she didn’t care.’

I swallowed again as I decided how to go about finding out. I had to tread carefully as I played my opening gambit.

“So if you knew I was in care as a child, you’d surely know that I’m damaged goods. I’m utterly unsuitable for parenting. I’ve never had a proper parenting role model or anything. I was ‘put away’ at aged six for heaven’s sake. What do I know about parenting? I know next to nothing about fathering and as for mothering; well, I rest my case. I’m a grumpy old man for God’s sake! These girls need a mother!”

I thought that would settle the argument but no. Mrs Bodkin was persistent.

“It’s not about parenting, it’s about caring. The word is care!”

“Ye-es,” I replied patiently and cautiously, “but doing what I was legally required to do as a ship master and rescuing two shipwrecked survivors, does not make me a qualified carer. Look I‘ve had this argument before, with your colleagues in London. Just speak to them.”

“We have. But then the children’s care wasn’t an issue. Mrs Fotheringay was available and willing to look after them. Her passing has put a whole new perspective on the issue. Besides, there’s the matter of her last will and testament.”

I hesitated for an instant.

“Hold on. Are you saying that you have spoken to the London people?”

As we talked, I was glad to see the girls step out through the French doors onto the Patio. Now they were out of earshot.

“Yes.”

“And do you know why I was shunted into care?”

“Yes. You were deemed beyond parental control.”

“Oh sure! That was for the family’s sake, to avoid all the adverse publicity and stuff. I mean do you know the real reason?”

“Yes.”

The finality of her reply stunned me. If my jaw could have dropped any lower it would have fallen off. I felt a cold empty hollow space growing in my stomach. Finally I decided to take the plunge. If she didn’t know the truth she was about to find out and then some.

“No. I mean the cross-dressing and stuff. The, -“

“Yes. We know about it,” she interrupted, “you don’t think we didn’t check with the London people. We’ve researched you pretty well.”

“Then you’ll know all about it then. It’s bloody obvious that I’m not fit to be a-,”

“Parent.” She finished my sentence for me.

“Exactly.” I finished smugly, certain that my ‘ace in the hole’ had trumped her hand and my argument was won. “There. It’s out now.” I declared, ‘boldly’ I thought’.

“And?” replied Mrs Bodkin as she probed further under my armour.

“Well, perhaps I should have said it in the first place. I wasn’t trying to be deceitful or anything. It’s just -, well it’s private thing and it still hurts if I’m exposed or outed. So. That’s it then, Mrs Bodkin. Meeting over. You’ve got all the evidence you’ll need. You can go about your job with a clear conscience.

Just tell the judge that I’m a self confessed transvestite and that’s it, ‘bob’s your uncle’. Just make sure you find the girls a proper home.”

“Oh no. Not yet. Please don’t be so hasty,” she countered, “there are other issues.”

“Oh come on. Surely enough’s been said. I’m a, - (I almost shouted ‘a fucking transvestite' but I bit my lip) — I’m a transvestite for heaven’s sake! Is that plain enough for you? Short of being a paedophile, there’s nothing much worse is there? What sort of father would that make me?”

“I said earlier,” she smiled, “it’s not about parenting alone. It’s also about care.”

“That’s as may be, but to provide proper care I’d have to sacrifice my little peccadillo wouldn’t I? That could really set up tensions in me, my transvestism also acts as a sort of relief valve sometimes. I can’t give it up completely; ever! Think how it would devastate the girls if my activities became public? I had no plans to keep it a secret any longer.

I’ve been doing that all my working life. That’s what this cottage is all about. It’s somewhere secret for me to retire to and indulge my thing. I was cross-dressed when you called just now. What would the girls have said if I’d answered the door in my dress? That’s why I pretended I was ‘taking a shower’. I was in a blue fit of panic whilst I got changed.”

“And,” she persisted.

I became exasperated and almost wanted to strangle the woman there and then. “Listen. Don’t you get it? I can’t put it any blunter. I’m a bloody tranny! If other people learned about it, it would bring shame or ridicule on the girls. Surely you don’t want that sort of horror to befall them.”

“I suspected that you might be cross dressing when you didn’t answer the door immediately.” She replied calmly. “That’s why I kept the girls in the living room.”

Her attitude got me worried. ‘What the hell was she after?’ I’d admitted my cross-dressing. I’d made it abundantly clear that I did not want to embarrass or hurt the children. I knew I’d never abused a child or caused the authorities any cause for concern. I had absolutely no predatory interest in children. I had always lived an obscure life miles away ‘over the horizon’, literally!, far from any public social spotlight.

Most of that lifetime had been spent at sea. I was not a dummy; I knew that paedophiles usually tried to find employment in some sort of field dealing with children. Consequently I had stayed at sea as a sort of subconscious act; a sublimal statement that I was not interested in children, I had no predatory interest in them. This because of my early flawed convictions that the abused invariably became abusers. For all my early years I had been waiting nervously for some sort of paedophile predilection to somehow explode in my brain and I’d suddenly become like the monsters who almost drove me to early suicide.

God knows! I’d seen enough and endured enough as a child in care. I knew exactly where paedophiles congregated and how to avoid them. I had learned about them the hard way, as an abused child. As a consequence, I had long ago chosen a career as far from any contact with children as was physically possible.

What in God’s holy name was this woman after? I wondered.’ I wished I had been recording this meeting. Then they could not trap me.

Then I had a darker thought. ‘Did they suspect me of having done something when the kids were on the ship or something?’

I sighed wearily and sagged in the chair.

“Look. What is it you want?”

“We want the children to be happy. They’ve had enough turmoil and horror in their short lives.”

“So what d’you want of me? How in God’s name can I possibly make a pair of little girls happy? I’m just a bitter, grumpy old tranny, if that’s not worse than Victor Meldrew, I don’t know what is.”

“They like you. Mrs Fotheringay spoke a lot about you after she took ill. The kids worship you. She said they never stopped talking about you and somebody called Supan. Who’s Supan?”

“He’s the third mate on my ship, well, he’s second mate now. We promoted him when I retired from command.”

“Your ship?” She gasped.

“Yeah. I’ve got shares in a ship. I was once the captain, but I only do a few trips a year now when the officers want to take some leave.”

“A ship. You own a ship?”

“No.” I was being scrupulously honest now. I didn’t want the smallest innocuous mistake to be construed as a lie in some later court case. “I only own one third of a ship. Look, where’s this going? There’s nothing odd about Supan. He’s just a hard working kid. All he’s doing is just the same as I did as a young man. He’s just saving money to start his own business back in Manila. What have those kids been saying about him?”

“Nothing. They spoke very highly of him. In fact they spoke highly of your whole crew.”

“I’m glad to hear it! So where’s all this going?”

“Well. If we can put the transvestism to one side for a moment, we -,”

“Put my transvestism aside!” I nearly choked with cynical laughter. “That shows how much you know about transvestism! It would be like trying to put my legs or my head to one side. It’s what I’m all about. I couldn’t ever ‘put my transvestism aside’. D’you think I’ve never tried. It always comes back. Believe me lady, after fifty odd years of this -, this transvestism thing, there’s one thing I know for sure. It always comes back!”

“Yes, I know what you’re saying, but try and disregard it for a moment.”

I gave her another sardonic look and she wagged her head sympathetically.

“Alright, I understand your doubts but the girls really do need somebody they trust.”

“Trust! Trust!! How can you speak of trust? Every time I cross-dressed I’d be betraying any trust. This is just crazy. I just haven’t got the facilities to do this; I don’t have the emotional wherewithal.”

“No. Please; hear me out. You could have them on a trial basis. The department would supply all the support you’d need. There’s no need to worry about financial support. The children have a substantial inheritance.”

“No you misunderstand me. It’s not the money thing. I’ve got plenty of money! Well enough for my own plans and needs. It’s not money, it’s time. When would I be able to indulge my needs? I want to cross dress whenever I want and mostly at weekends when I go clubbing. That’s apart from sleeping every night in a nightie or something. This means weekends in London and stuff. Who would babysit the girls? Besides, the cross dressing keeps me sane. I get stressed sometimes if I can’t indulge.”

Mrs Bodkin fell silent as she digested my revelations. Then she spoke again. “How often d’you need to cross-dress?”

“Oh that’s a crazy question. How long is a piece of string?”

“I’d be interested to see you dressed.”

My alarm bells began to ring and I wondered if I was being set up. Immediately I refused point blank.

“Oh no! That would be a guaranteed mistake. What would happen if the girls saw me? No, no. Definitely no!”

“But you suggested you might like to live full time as a woman.”

I shook my head. It was the first time anybody had ever posed the question directly to me and it concentrated my thoughts exquisitely. I was confused.

“Look, I just don’t know. This morning I was contemplating living full time as a woman. All I know is that having kids around would utterly destroy my carefully laid retirement plans. Plans I might tell you that have been forty years in the making. For God’s sake, I might even go whole hog and become a woman. I’ve got the funds to go privately for SRS. I just don’t know. How would that sit with the girls?”

“Are you saying you might be a transsexual?”

“I don’t know! I just don’t know what I’ll want.”

“It would be easier if you did undergo a sex change. Then there would be no question of any abuse, at least sexual abuse.”

I stared shocked at Mrs Bodkin. I thought the whole paedophile thing was dead and buried but now here she was averring to it yet again.

“So you still think I might abuse them then. If I didn’t have a dick, there would be no risk of penetration. Huh! That’s a bit naive isn’t it?” Believe me, speaking from many, bitter, personal childhood experiences; I can assure you that women can abuse a child just as brutally as men! Abuse is in the head as well as the crotch you know! If that’s what you feel about me, why ever did you come here in the first place?”

Her head sagged slightly and she looked a bit crest-fallen. “I’m sorry. That was a bit crass of me. I do not think that about you. The children’s responses to you make it abundantly obvious that you’re not an abuser. Children soon show signs if they’re being abused. I was just reflecting on society’s reactions.”

“Yeah. Well I don’t need to be told of that. Trannies know all about ‘Society’s reactions’ and as for victims of abuse, well, hello!”

My bitterness was made obvious as I almost spat out the last two words. Mrs Bodkin sensed my subcutaneous rage and fell silent again. The silence became oppressive so I offered to prepare some food.

“D’you want some tea?”

“Oh yes. That would be nice. D’you want a hand?”

“If you want but I’m reasonably capable in the kitchen. Forty years alone makes anybody fairly competent where food’s concerned.”

She followed me into the kitchen where I dug out some home made cake and prepared some sandwiches. She sneaked a sly nibble of the cake as my back was turned and remarked on it.

“This isn’t bad. Did you make it?”

“Who else.”

Her eyes scanned the kitchen professionally then she spoke again as she secretly ran a professional finger under the worktop rims. It came up clean, as I knew it would.

“You live quite tidily for a man. Is that also the seafaring thing?”

“You got it. It was beaten into me as a deck boy on my first ship. It’s a lesson that sticks.”

“More beatings,” she observed darkly.

“Yeah, but beatings that had a genuine purpose. There was no sexual perversion or malice behind them, just a simple hard lesson that brooked no argument. It was hard decent men in real male company. If you live cheek by jowl in a shared cabin, you have to be clean. I was an angry, dirty little kid; a street prostitute before I was picked up and invited to become a deck boy. .

The lessons were simple. Be clean in your habits, be punctual in your watch keeping, and be careful in your work.” I didn’t mention the abuse aspect when I had been picked up as a fourteen-year-old child prostitute by a queer third engineer and offered a job on the ship. This was the end of the fifties and jobs were for the taking. They were desperate for a deck boy on the ship. I was offered the job but the real intent of the nest of gays was for me to be the ’f’ocsle bike’.

However things didn’t quite turn out as the bent engineer intended. The chief officer caught me sneaking out of the man’s cabin one night and I was hauled up before the old man on Sunday morning after inspection. After investigating all the angles the wise old bastard actually got it right. I was the victim and the ring of adult queers who were abusing me were sacked out of hand.

Indeed, that old captain and his chief officer had been the first adult males in my life ever to have believed me.

I worshipped them and I stayed on that ship from fifteen to twenty five cos I had no other place to go. If ever a boy needed an adult role model that captain and the chief officer were them. I didn’t tell Mrs Bodkin any of this but she sensed there was something behind my demeanour.

“So you say you were beaten.”

“Yeah! Course I was, but they were honest beatings by hard working honest men teaching me real lessons. They weren’t sicko perverts getting their rocks off by beating a small boy into oblivion and eventual submission. It was just a single punch or slap, usually if I was about to make some stupid or dangerous mistake or if I had been too bloody cheeky. I was soon taught my proper place and it wasn’t arse up, belly down in some big queer’s bed.”

“Good lessons then,” she remarked bravely but I noticed her shock as her face greyed with concern.

“Yeah; lessons that kept me alive.”

“Well that’s pretty basic I suppose.”

“Yes, but very true. I’m still here.”

The silence descended again as I buttered the bread.

I called Jenny and Bea from the garden and handed them some fresh juice and two huge wedges of my homemade cake.

The girls thanked me, which I was pleased about, and they returned to feed whilst swinging on the seat in the orchard. I handed Mrs Bodkin some delicately prepared sandwiches and we sat facing each other across the kitchen table. She eyed me thoughtfully.

“Would you really consider reassignment surgery?”

I stared at her puzzled.

“You’re not suggesting that I change my sex just to please some interfering social workers or rescue two girls are you?”

“Oh no!” I didn’t mean that. I -,”

“You were just trying to get inside my head. Is that it?”

“Well, truthfully, yes, I suppose I was.”

“Well truthfully I can tell I just don’t know. I’ve learned that some transvestites finally go down that route when they get to my time of life. Perhaps some of them are like me. They’ve struggled with tranny stuff all their working lives, conforming to the mores of society and the workplace. Then, when they finally retire, they are utterly free to do their own thing. On the tranny lifestyle scale, I don’t really know where I am. The thought of SRS has crossed my mind but I just don’t know.”

“That seems odd. To not know what sex you want to be.”

“Yeah. Tell that to the doctors, particularly the psychiatrists.”

“Have you ever met a psychiatrist?”

I gave her a dumb look but she didn’t seem to get it.

Her brow wrinkled in puzzlement.

“I was in care God dammit! I met one almost every bloody day! They wouldn’t leave me alone. Every bloody weirdo and his pet theory was tried out on me. I spent more time on a laboratory bench than a bloody Bunsen burner. I finally broke and ran when I heard them mention prefrontal lobotomy. I’d seen what it did to others. They put me in a psychiatric unit for Chris-sakes! It was the nineteen fifties remember”

“What, prefrontal lobotomies! You actually saw it?”

“I saw the results. I was wandering around the common areas of a bloody psychiatric hospital at one stage of my childhood. I saw it all. If that doesn’t mess a child up then I don’t know!”

“But you seem so -, so.”

“So what; so normal?”

“Well. In a word yes; normal.”

“You mean apart from the elephants in the room, like my transvestism, - and the abuse, - and the.” I desisted from going into any further detail, it was far too painful. “The truth is Mrs Bodkin I eventually escaped. That did my self-esteem no end of good. I beat them at their own games. They never caught me after that. I became a child prostitute after I escaped from Borstal and before I was taken away to sea. Anyway enough about me, what about these two kids? What’s to become of them?”

“Well that’s up to you.”

I fell silent. I felt sorry for the kids but I also had the remains of my own life to consider. God knows, I had penny pinched and slaved all my life and now I had finally made it.

Now I had my own means and I was beholden to nobody. Now they, the ubiquitous ‘they’ were asking me to sacrifice everything I’d slaved for and take on two admittedly delightful young girls.

Mrs Bodkin seemed to read my mind.

“Look. I can see it’s all a bit much for you in one day. Have a long think about it and we’ll meet again next week.”

“I dunno’ I sighed. I don’ even know if I like kids, but -, well I dunno.”

“Are you worried that you might be tempted?”

“What! The paedophile thing-! No! No! For God’s sake it’s nothing like that. God forbid. I know what that’s like looking from the dark side, the kid’s side. No! That stuff just isn’t in me. If it makes you sick, I can assure you it makes me violently ill. Uuuughh!”

“Yes. I understand. I’m sorry to have even suggested it. Well, I’d best be going. Give me a call if you reach a decision.”

She presented her card and stood to rise. She called Jenny and Bea from the orchard and turned to me as they skipped through the untended grass. Mrs Bodkin watched the girls then smiled beguilingly as she turned to me again.

“That’s a huge orchard; you’ll need a pony to keep the grass down.”

“Stoppit! Right now.” I protested.

She smiled knowingly as she watched the girls run shrieking towards me for one last hug.

“They like you. That’s a rare thing when kids are taken in by carers.”

“Stoppit again!” I objected. “There’s a mountain to climb before anything tangible happens. If it happens,” I added hastily.

Mrs Bodkin let a small knowing smile escape her lips as the girls pounced on me.

They demanded that I bend down to kiss them and I reluctantly lowered my face so that they would have to stretch.

Mrs Bodkin noticed my reluctance and realised where my fears lay.

“Pick them up in your arms. They don’t break!”

I compromised by crouching down to their level and giving them a cautious hug making sure to keep my hands extended so that there could be no accusation of inquisitive fingers or intimacy. I knew that the social worker was watching me but she said nothing. It was obvious that she understood my primordial fears of any unsavoury accusations. She called and the girls reluctantly released their grips on me. I stood to watch the car disappearing down the lane.

Then I turned to return to the house with my mind in turmoil. God dammit, I really liked those kids! But did I like my cross-dressing better? I wondered.

Back in the house I made another cup of tea to steady my nerves. I was just so confused and I was too stressed out to think straight. My hand shook as I tried to drink my tea and most of it ended up on the floor.

As evening approached, I decided to get dressed again. Dressing certainly helped to calm me when I was bothered. I was not angry, just stressed by everything that had happened that afternoon.

There was so much to take in and so much to think about. I spent a good hour deciding what to wear then slowly and deliberately, I started to prepare. It was still midweek and the gay pub in Poole would be very quiet.

As darkness fell I drove to Sissy’s hotel. Once dressed and safe in the warm dark womblike shelter of Sissy’s hotel

I felt I would be able to think better and possibly pick Sissy’s brains.

- - -

“And they want you to adopt them?” Gasped Sissy.

“It’s worse than that. Technically I’ve already adopted them. The legal thing in Iran is deemed binding. All parties were agreeable to it. The Iranian police, the British consul, the Iranian revolutionary council equivalent of our social workers, the doctors, the Iranian judge and me. It’s all up front and legal. I’m still technically the guardian of two young kids.”

“D’you want to adopt them?” Asked Sissy.

“I dunno’. It’ll play hell with my cross-dressing.”

“Hmmm. Yess.” Replied Sissy thoughtfully.

She knew exactly how important dressing was to a transvestite. Indeed she lived permanently as a woman and was quite a local celebrity. Even straight people stayed at her little hotel because they were curious about her.

Sissy had transcended the painful gulf between ridicule and acceptance, at least in the local area of Poole. She explained that now most local business people accepted her for what she was and she was even invited to join the local business organisations. I envied Sissy her position but I, more than most, knew it had been hard won. She had truly ‘walked the walk’. In her earlier days Sissy had endured all the usual ridicule and recriminations.

We sat drinking our Sherries in the quiet of the reception lounge as Sissy kept an eye on the reception desk.

Her mind ticked away until finally she spoke.

“Why don’t you become their mother?”

“Oh don’t be-.” I gasped.

“No! No! Just listen to me a minute. Just look at you now. Several of the residents have walked past you and acknowledged our being here.

Not one of them has batted an eyelid and at least two of them I know to be straight. They just like the cleanliness and ambience of my friendly establishment. In this light you are passing. They think you’re a woman.”

“Oh come on. I know I’ve worked at it especially hard before I came out tonight, but I’m still a man in a dress.”

“Of course you are. But you’ve made a bloody good stab at it. Look; come over tomorrow and we’ll really work at it. Margaret is my accountant and she’s a very smart fashionable woman. She gave me a lot of help transitioning. She’s a lesbian but she’s sympathetic and she understands us trannies. Let her work her magic on you.”

I stared pensively into my empty sherry glass and reluctantly nodded.

“OK then. But she won’t out me will she?”

“She’ll lose my account if she does and I was one of her first. She got a lot of ‘pink’ business through me and she knows which side her bread is buttered.”

“So why d’you want to get me all dolled up?” I pressed.

“You could pass for real.” Replied Sissy. “You’re small enough and you don’t seem to have much of a beard. I reckon you really could pass even in the brightest sunlight.”

“To what end?”

“Well. If you can pass as a woman, you could possibly carry off the pretence of being the girl’s mother or more correctly their grandmother.”

“Oh come on! Get real. The Social workers will never wear that.”

“Don’t be so sure. They even allow gay couples to foster and adopt children today. Things have moved on. They know all about your cross-dressing. You told me that. It can’t be that much of an issue for them if they are still keen to have you care for the girls.”

“Yeah, but full time. That’s a whole new ball game. I mean, the girls, - well it could really bugger them up.”

“Don’t you be so sure! Kids are pretty resilient little things. They can survive a hell of a lot of bad stuff provided they can still run to somebody who really cares, somebody who loves them and nurtures them.”

I fell silent as I reflected on a whole bunch of stuff in my past life.

“Yeah I suppose you’re right. If my mum and dad had cared I might have turned out different.”

“Your parents didn’t make you a tranny. We’re born trannies.” Countered Sissy.

“No not that. Of course I know we’re born this way. No. I mean all the other stuff.”

“You haven’t turned out too badly. You’re a successful ship owner and sea captain.”

“Yeah with the prospect of a long lonely retirement. D’you think I’m considering adopting them because I’m afraid of old age.”

“Oh so you are considering it then?”

I fell silent again as I dragged things through my tired mind. The truth was I really liked the kids. They had brought two real rays of sunshine into my life. Was I really being selfish and just using the kids as potential carers in my dotage? The thought depressed me and Sissy caught up on my mood. I thought she must be psychic or something.

“Hey. There’s many a real normal parent who thinks that their children are there for nothing more than caring for them in old age.”

“Yeah. But that doesn’t make it right. Anyway, I can honestly say that I’ve made ample provision for my old age. Nobody can accuse me of being dependent on others. I’ve always made my own way and always will. At least until my body fails me.”

“Then.” Prodded Sissy.

“I dunno’. A quick end I hope. Suicide even. The last thing I want is to linger in some hospice bed forced to dress as a man or whatever.”

“That’s what happens to most of us. That’s what’ll happen to me I suppose. I’ve got no family either.”

I stared at Sissy as the realisation struck me. He was in exactly the same situation but he wasn’t making a big thing of it. He lived as he wanted and met each day as it came. I was being the maudlin one. I was now too drunk to drive so I ordered a room for the night and continued drinking.

The last thing I remembered was Sissy helping me up the old Elizabethan stairway and along a crooked corridor to my room.

“Good night you old bugger. See you for breakfast.”

Like me, Sissy was a heterosexual transvestite. He had no wish to abuse or assault another middle-aged drunken tranny and he left me to sleep it off.

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Comments

Another Great Chapter!

...In a wonderful story! This is so well written and a joy to read. We know the old curmudgeon is going to give in and give the girls a wonderful home. I'll bet the Skipper becomes a Skipperette before too much longer!

Hugs,
Diane

Wow

There is so much of me in there that it is scary. Not the abuse or anything like that, but my thoughts & feelings about my life as well. This one hits close to home. Great story & very thought provoking, Thanks.

This Mrs Bodkin

seems very enlightened for a social worker, I would guess that not too many of her like would even have mentioned Skipper becoming Mrs Skipper....An interesting thought, But one that might be a little strange for the girls to accept.....Still, If they love Skipper i'm sure they will love his alter-ego!

Kirri

Enlightened? I don't think so

Social workers seem to live in a bizarre parallel universe from the rest of us, with a rule book written by Kafka and edited by Spike Milligan.

I have heard it said that the surest way to adopt anyone in England was to be a black, one-legged lesbian Welshwoman. Social services seem to go out of their way to avoid doing anything that seems to involve common sense.

The back-story of Skipper's upbringing rings sadly true, too. Fortunately I avoided falling into that maelstrom but my father didn't. Although as far as I know he was a perfectly normal child he got moved around and suffered similar things to what was detailed above. He won't talk about any of it, of course. Very fortunately for him he was forcibly enrolled in the Royal Navy at the earliest opportunity and it saved him the worst. He has told me of subsequent life in the merchant navy with crews of rampant queers who left him alone.

I think if I had been Skipper I would have taken out a restraining order on Social Services.

Penny

The Merchant Navy

Beverly Taff.
Thanks for the comment.
Yes it's perfectly true about the Merchant navy, it did employ more than its 'fair share' of gays, (or queers as they were known up until recently) and yes your father's quite right. Because gays were generally tolerated and young deck boys or cabin boys lived in close (almost intimate) proximity to them, the queers knew they were always being watched. If a boy was seen as 'at risk' although we didn't use the expression (It's Social services Jargon,) the 'ordinary' members of the crew would simply keep a friendly eye out and warn any queers off a normal heterosexual boy. Consequently, young lads going to sea grew up in very close association with gays but releatively safe from them because of the very close assosiation with regular guys.
A boy grew up very quickly in such varied company and to this day, merchant seamen are by and large tolerant of all sorts of life styles except theft and uncleanliness.
Anyway, I grew up surrounded by gay crewmen, mostly stewards and after my first desperate experience I found they left me alone. All one had to do was recognise their lifestyle then make clear that you weren't interested and they usually left you alone after that. Yes even heterosexual transvestites were left alone!
Later on as a mate and then a master I usually found my self with a gay steward attending to all my needs like cleaning and tidying up my accomodation. truth to tell it was good having a gay steward to care for your cabin because the tended to fuss and primp and play mother without coming on to you. The system worked and it made merchant seamen very tolerant (usually) of gays.
The sea eventually saved my sanity and although I'm long since retired from it I can only thank the Merchant navy for providing me with a lifeline in every sense.
A job, a warm cabin and bed, 3 square meals a day,money in my pocket and unlimited travel. What more could a broken, illiterate, uneducated 15-year-old child off the streets want?
Beverly

Beverly Taff.
This is wierd. I haven't changed my password but the site wont dispayl all my thingies at the side like 'Submit Story'!

You sound alright to me

And you write really well, are obviously well educated in the real world, well travelled and know the shipping game.

That's pretty good by anybody's standards.

I love the story!

LoL
Rita

Age is an issue of mind over matter.
If you don't mind, it doesn't matter!
(Mark Twain)

LoL
Rita

Education.

Believe me Rita, I am not 'all right'!

I was virtually self taught from aged 6 and there are vast chunks of my education missing. (English, maths, physics, history, geography, --- you name it! I learned the technical stuff when I decided to go and study for my second mates exam when I was approaching my 20th birthday; and even then it was only those bits I needed for navigation, ship stability and such like. After that mates and Masters required much else such as shipmaster's law and stuff. Again it was only the precise stuff necessary to get through the exams. No reading around the subjects like university students have the luxury of doing.

In the Children's psychiatric unit I virtually lived in a single bed room where I was kept like a prisoner in solitary confinement from 6 to 10 years of age. Finally, they allowed me to mix with other adult patients under strict supervision from age 10 to aged 12 whilst in common areas.. Throughout those six years I never received a single formal lesson with other children. I was just handed some books and more or less left to get on with it.

I got the distinct feeling that once they concluded they could not cure my transvestism and they could only modify my behaviour, they considered me a waste of time and that I would end up as some sort of dysfunctional perverted low life.
They could not get rid of me quick enough when I reached my 12th birthday because paediatric psychiatric beds are prohibitively expensive in terms of cost benefits. Almost within hours of me reaching my 12th birthday, I was put into the most convenient secure residental situation there was available; Borstal!!!

Remember up until that time, I had never actually broken any laws. Transvestism is not illegal and it never was!!!

Imagine what it's like for an intelligent, law-abiding heterosexual child to be thrown in with over a hundred young criminals most of whom were between 15 and 17 who learned within days of my arrival about my transvestism.

Yes; I fought like a tiger to try and defend myself but I lost a hell of a lot more battles than I ever won. (In fact I lost just about every one!!!)

The most brutal aspect was the attitude of the wardens to my deviency. I actually have about nine recorded fractures to my arms and every long bone in both my arms (humerous, ulna and radius,)was broken at some different time in that brief period from 12 to just under 15 years old when I finally suceeded in my escape attempts.
They delighted in beating you with cricket bats or cricket stumps if your resisted them in the slightest degree.
The wardens were mainly recruited from the ranks of retired miltary personelle. They detested 'queers' and of course a transvestite has 'got to be a queer, hasn't he'!!

There was absolutely nobody there for me and eventually I discovered that the only way to avoid the beatings was to give up all resistance and become the plaything of a couple of paedophilse who had joined the staff. I did this just before my 14th birthday and finally the beatings stopped.
The brief period from 14 to 14 and 3/4's was bloody horrible and my rectum was severely damaged, but it protected me from the beatings in that desperate final year. I think I would probably have been killed if I had not submitted to the paedo thing.

Naturally, they pimped me out to assorted other paedophiles from Judges down to schoolmasters. Looking back on it all, what sickens me and fills me with unrequitted bitterness is that fact that all the 'Johns' I had to serve seemed to be from the profeesional ranks, Doctor this or Judge that!
All, this of course was before 1965 when borstals were part of Her Majesty's Prison Service and therefore enjoyed crown immunity from prosecution. I'm 63!!! Born 1946!

Just ask yourself if the same young patient appears in your same casualty unit 9 times in less than 2 years with upper limb trauma, wouldn't you think that somebody might have become suspicious when all the questions were answered by the accompanying warden from the borstal. What sort of doctors were they???

To this day I don't trust doctors and I detest just about every facet of the law.

Uuugh! I still shiver at the memory of it!

I never 'blocked these issues out'. They torment me to this day and my wonderful wife of 34 years still has to deal with my nightmares. However, I would never, never consider going to a trick cyclist to address these issues. They got it utterly wrong then and they'd probably get it wrong again today.
I'll take my stuff to my grave but I'll never let it beat me!!! I've concluded that the only therapy for me is to never let it destroy me and never do unto others what was done to me because that then makes me better than them!!

Beverly!

I could never begin to imagine what you went through.

To have your youth destroyed is heart breaking.

Many of us haven't had a youth to speak of but we are still here! I'm older than you and since I married my wife in 66 we have managed to enjoy a life better than both our childhoods.

I'm praying (to God whover or whatever she may be!)you have had a far better adult life.

From you story I believe you have a strength of character and a positive outlook on life better than most, I trust that you will for the rest of it?

LOL
Rita

Age is an issue of mind over matter.
If you don't mind, it doesn't matter!
(Mark Twain)

LoL
Rita

I am glad to see that you

I am glad to see that you have an empathetic wife who stands beside you and gives you the love and support that you need to survive -- and possibly even thrive -- to this day. Thank you for letting us share your hurts through your writings.

Jessica

Royal and Merchant Navy

My father joined the RN at 15 and served for twelve years, so he fortunately never had to face the gay scene at sea as a boy. The RN obviously knew what was possible so cracked down hard on it while he was there.

He then did 12 years in the Merchant Navy before having to leave. I do wonder whether his experiences at sea were what set his attitude towards me: I don't think he encountered any "heterosexual" transvestites and this may have made him attempt to discourage me from doing it. Never worked, of course.

Penny

Beverly, love your story

I was wondering how much from your personal experience.
My father was a Merchant Seaman and in contrast to you, a bigoted homophobe. You'd think as a senior crew member he'd be tolerant and wiser for it?

Heart to Heart, hand to hand

Beverly,

I've read your work for years, though I've never commented before.

It continually amazes me just how much resonance within my own heart I find reading stories here. And you have certainly touched my heart with this story. The fear is real, the pain of discovery is real. I love the fact that "Skipper" (Barbie's little sister by the way) is able to pass in public, though he doesn't really see it. Isn't that the way most of us are? frightened silly, mouth bone dry, ready to wet our panties yet doing what his (or our) heart commands.

I know this is fiction, but I can't help hope Skipper finds peace.

It's a very good read that had me sobbing at one point in this third chapter. I had intended to read just one chapter. Oops it's now 1:00am and I don't know which I want more. Sleep or another chapter... I hate to wait to see more!

The never to be sufficiently damned computer wouldn't post til this mornig... ARGGH

With respect and admiration,
Hugs~~~~~ Beth

Barbie.

Beverly Taff

I've kept wondering why people kept making wierd references to Barbie. I thought I was going daft!
D'you know I had no idea that Barbie had a little sister, let alone one called Barbie.

You learn summat' new every day!

Thanks for that snippet of info. I'll know now in future.

Beverly Taff.
This is wierd. I haven't changed my password but the site wont dispayl all my thingies at the side like 'Submit Story'!

Based upon the truth? !

Like someone else said, I have been reading your work for years; just finished re reading Spacetran. I do hope that now that you have resumed writing that you continue. Thank you so much.

Khadijah Gwen

Skipper! Chapter 3

It's all to evident that he does care for the girls, and will become their guardian before long.

    Stanman
May Your Light Forever Shine
    Stanman
May Your Light Forever Shine

Thank you for sharing this

Thank you for sharing this great story with us.
Most transvestites are heterosexual.Curious isn't it?

Karen

Thank you for sharing this

Thank you for sharing this great story with us.
Most transvestites are heterosexual.Curious isn't it?

Karen