My gaze wandered slowly and carefully over the tables on the grass between the cafe and the beach. I could hear the waves shifting the shingle some fifty yards away, today a gentle, soothing noise. He wasn’t there, but then I had come early on purpose so that I would be first. I went inside the cafe, ordered and paid for a long black with some milk on the side and carried the tray out to one of the tables at the edge of the grass.

If this didn’t work out I wanted to be able to get away quickly with as little fuss as possible. I sat in the shade of the big umbrella planted through a hole in the middle of the table. For a change it was sunny and warm, with a gentle breeze, not like the usual Brighton summer at all.

I stirred in some sugar and a little milk. Then, distractedly I sipped the coffee and noted the lipstick smear on the lip of the cup, so I got out a tissue and blotted my lips, inspecting the result in the mirror of my compact. Sharks were circling in the soup inside my stomach, trying to devour the enormous butterflies circling just above them, and the soup was bubbling too. I was so nervous because I really wanted this to go well. I’d had a few too many disappointments of late and hoped that I'd seen the last of them for a while.

Fingers trembling a little I took a cigarette from the packet of B&H in my bag, fumbled a bit with my lighter and lit it, puffing nervously. I don't smoke much but I definitely needed one now. While I dragged the smoke into my lungs and felt the tobacco buzz that I craved I reflected on why I was here.

I was here to meet a man who had once been my best friend....that was assuming he turned up. Our friendship had begun on our first day at high school. We had gone to different primary schools and lived on opposite sides of the town, so we had never met before, but since we had both passed the 11-plus exam here we were at Hove County Grammar School for Boys. I remember looking at this little kid, black-haired and olive-skinned, much shorter than me, with a cocky swagger when he walked. He might have been small but it didn’t seem to bother him. He had grinned up at me and said:

“I’m Geoff. What’s your name, skinny?”

I should have been insulted, but the way he said it was friendly, not hostile, and I needed friends because I didn't know anyone else there.

“John,” I replied, and then we were telling each other where we lived and which primary we had gone to. Both of us liked football and followed The Albion even though they were hopeless and would never get promoted, and we both biked. I never knew what it was and I was not game to ask, but he seemed to like me and I liked him right back. All these years later I smiled inwardly at how odd we must have looked then, a beanpole and a dwarf.

I found out as time went by that he was a tough little bugger. He could out-fight kids twice his size. There was no give in him and he was incredibly fast. Mind you, he’d had lots of practice at home with three older brothers to stand up to. Mostly he managed to talk his way out of trouble with a combination of cheeky charm and a smooth tongue. I wasn’t too surprised to learn that he was part gypsy, which gave him even more kudos in my young eyes.

I was, as you may have gathered, a skinny only child, severely lacking in social development. My advantage was a pretty good brain, unfortunately coupled with a mouth that was way too smart for its own good and didn’t know when to shut up. So it was me that was always getting into trouble and him who ended up saving my bacon, even though I was much bigger than him, well, taller at least.

We went all the way through high school together, best friends, even when we fought occasionally, as best friends sometimes do. We had no secrets from each other, except for my one big secret that I had dared not tell anyone, even him. We hung out together after school, and as we got a bit older, went to the coffee bars which were the thing in those days, and hunted girls. At least, he did. My ever-so-smart mouth always seemed to fail me when I needed it.

He was the most amazing Lothario you ever saw. In spite of being short (he never topped 5 feet 5 inches) he could pull the birds like nobody you ever saw. His dark good looks and curly hair, coupled with that Romany charm and his smooth tongue, brought those girls in like fish on a line, and I just trailed in his wake, sometimes picking up the leftovers if I was lucky.

He liked them with pretty faces and big boobs and no brains to speak of. They melted in his arms, and gave him whatever he wanted, although,to be fair,if you asked him how he had made out, he just gave you that big shit-eating smile and said a gentleman never told. The prick. But I could only envy him the success that the easy charm brought with it.

He could be dangerous to be around too. If he was in the mood he was a real practical joker. I remembered one time when we were sitting in a coffee bar and a guy a little older than us was sitting minding his own business, reading a newspaper at an adjacent seat. Just for fun Geoff set fire to the bottom of the paper and laughed himself sick when the poor man jumped up and down trying to extinguish the flames. I got blamed and was going to get hammered until he confessed, and with his usual charm got the guy to see the funny side of it after promising to buy him a new paper and another cup of coffee. He sent me to get the paper while he got the coffee!

I had last seen him when we were both 17. He left school a little before me, after finishing fifth form, and got an apprenticeship on the railways in quantity surveying, which took him to Ashford, a railway district centre 70 miles away where he lived in digs. I stayed on at school to get my A-levels, but ended up leaving not too long after in a fit of teenage rebellion, and some months later my life took a turn in a totally different direction, which is why I am sitting here now dressed as I am, in a Mary Quant design, my auburn hair long, brushing my shoulders, face lightly made up, and flat shoes so that I won’t tower over him too much if he actually shows up.

My name is Suzie now. I started living as the girl I wanted to be six years ago. The secret that I never dared to share with Geoff, or anyone else, was my conviction that I was a girl, which began to take an ever-stronger hold on me from about the age of 11. It would probably have remained an unfulfilled dream except for the love of my life, Lucy, who recognised the real me inside me and encouraged and nurtured me until I completed my mental and physical metamorphosis into womanhood. Although I’ll never be a complete girl I am now as close as someone who was born male can ever be and I am content with my life.

I completed my physical make-over with a couple of operations in Singapore, of all places, about nine months ago. I know you’ll be curious. Yes, I’ve tried out the new plumbing, and, yes, it all works. I was worried before that it would not be as good as having a penis, even though that last piece of my male gear hadn’t actually worked for a couple of years before my final change.

I didn’t need to. Yes, it’s different, but in many ways not that different, just nicer and neater and the feelings are more intense and you can keep on going. The only problem I have is that I don’t really like men that way. Probably disappoint the surgeon that I don’t get the full appreciation of his skills. Oh well, I suppose you can’t have everything.

He’s late....maybe he won’t come. I decided to have one more coffee and if he’s still not here when I've finished, then bugger him. Just another line through another name in the address book. The way things are going I won’t need an address book any more anyway. One of the downsides of being transsexual is that suddenly an awful lot of people don’t want to know you.

The main reason I was here, back in my home town after six years, was to try and make peace with my parents. I had written to them three times, trying to explain what I had done and why. I had phoned them too. Each time the receiver slammed down in my ear, so I thought I’d give it one last try and went to see them. I guess by then I knew it would be a disaster, and it was. My mother wept and said I had murdered her son. I suppose in a way she had a point. My father just called me a fucking pervert as he nearly threw me out of the door.

I had written to Geoff too, told him what I had done, enclosed a picture, and proposed this meeting. He hadn’t replied.

He couldn't actually, because I deliberately omitted a return address. He was my last chance to salvage something from this trip into the past. Maybe he didn’t get it...couldn’t make it....didn’t want to...

All of a sudden there he was. He hadn’t changed at all; well, a little older, of course, but still the same old Geoff, walking with the same old swagger, swarthy complexion and black curly hair and handsome face....why hadn't I realised how good-looking he was before?.... making him look quite a bit like Tony Curtis. He was coming straight towards me. I raised a hand and gave him a timid little wave. He didn't react.

Oh, Christ! What would he think? I was suddenly terrified. I really, really wanted this to work.

He reached the table, pulled out a chair and sat, all without saying a word. He stared at me, his gaze stopping at my boobs for a few seconds. He spoke.

“Bloody Hell. You never did do things by halves, did you?”

I stared back.At least he'd not called me any rude names.

“Get your eyes off of my boobs, you randy little bastard.”

He laughed.

“Well, your mouth hasn’t changed, at least.”

“It IS still me in here. Only the outside is different. What do you think? Are we OK?”

“Well, apart from the fact that you’re fucking gorgeous and I’m getting a hard on just sitting here looking at you.....”

I couldn't help laughing.

“You always knew how to sweet-talk the girls, didn’t you? What I meant was, can you accept me this way? Can you deal with it?”

He leaned forward, put a hand over one of mine, and said the nicest words I’ve ever heard.

“What are friends for?”

The End (For Now)