CHAPTER 5 -- November

I don't think it ever occurred to my brothers that there might be any reason not to tell everyone about what the doctor had told us. I survived the first day after we met with the doctor only because the word hadn't really gotten around yet. The second day, I could hear the whispers and see the pointing and smirks from the minute I got on the bus. Soon, the bolder guys would make open taunts, like, "sissy, you're a sissy girl now," or "why aren't you wearing a dress, stupid?" I was able to sort of ignore them during my classes. Gym class, of course, was another story.

It started the minute I got into the locker room to change for gym. "Hey, girlie, whacha doing in the boys locker room?" "Isn't your name Martina now?" I raced through changing and hustled into the gym. I didn't even take time to put on my gym shoes before going in. In the shower, after gym, it was much, much worse. Tom Prescott started by getting everyone to look at my crotch, then trying to grab it. Several of his buddies tried to, too, but I punched them. Or tried to, anyway -- they had no trouble avoiding my punches. But at least they kept their distance, sort of. I didn't really wash and just sort of wiped the water off with my towel before jumping into my clothes and rushing out of the locker room. I swore to myself I'd never go in there again.

The next day, the whispers and taunts continued. I was starting to get used to it, or at least inured. When I was supposed to go to gym class, I took my books to the library. Mrs. Tomlinson, the librarian, was very strict about quiet, so I didn't need to worry about people bothering me there. I expected trouble, but nobody said anything. I went to all my other classes as usual, but went to the library during gym class. After a week of this, I got called to the office. They told me I had to start going to gym class. I told them, no way in Hell, They said I'd get an F. I said I didn't care. And that was that. Afterwards I though: I should have done this years ago.

By now, my penis was completely gone and my crotch didn't look a lot different from a girl's. At least, if the pictures on the web were any guide; it's not like I'd ever had seen any girls naked in real life. I also noticed that my hips were wider, so my pants were really tight there. On the other hand, they were now a few inches too long. The worst part, though, was that the pants legs rubbed on my thighs and it was driving me crazy. It was a mix of feeling turned on and hurting. My crotch and thighs were very sensitive now. If I lay in bed and gently tickled and stroked down there, I got really, really turned on. I finally got my mother to pay for some new pants, shorter and wider, and it helped a little, but not that much.

At home, things weren't easy, either. My dad was mostly interested in suing the hospital, the doctor, and the University. He didn't want to think about what I was going through. My mom would barely look at me. And my brothers thought that my predicament was the funniest thing that ever happened and were forever making jokes at my expense. They were always threatening to come into the bathroom when I was on the toilet or taking a shower, though fortunately they never did.

The bathroom was a problem at school, too. I had to sit down even to pee and a lot of the boys, if they were in the bathroom when I was, they'd pull themselves up and look over the partition at me. I complained to the assistant principal and he said he couldn't do anything unless he caught somebody doing it. That just told those boys exactly what to do to stay out of trouble. They'd post a lookout as soon as I went in. I asked whether I could use some bathroom other than the boys' bathroom. The teachers didn't want me in the teachers' bathrooms and the popular girls decided to claim they would be afraid to use the girls' bathroom if I could use it and got their mothers and their friends' mothers to complain, even before I asked. I hadn't even suggested it yet. I asked about the handicapped bathroom, but they said it had been converted into a supply closet because they never had handicapped kids, and besides, I wasn't handicapped. So I tried to hold it in as much as possible.

The doctor had recommended counselling for me. First, my parents had me go to the school psychologist, but she was useless. I didn't have any of the problems she'd been trained for, so she simply talked to me as if I had one of them. I'd talk about the bathroom problem and she'd offer me studying advice. Or suggest I have a talk with my parents. Then my parents sent me to a shrink that the school social worker recommended. He was worse. He spent the first session asking about whether I had the hots for my mom and seemed to think my transformation was because deep down inside I really wanted to be a girl. The second session, he tried to get me to take my clothes off so he could "accurately assess" my problem. I decided there wasn't ever going to be a third session.

Not everyone was trying to make my life miserable. My fellow "losers" would sometimes secretly warn me and help me hide if they saw the bullies coming, but if they got caught, they'd catch it, too. And some of the "uglies" -- that's what they called the girls on the bottom of the social heap -- would sometimes come over when no one was looking and tell me they thought it was really awful and unfair what was happening to me, but they couldn't do much because they were afraid of the popular girls. I couldn't blame them.