B is for Bethany

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The End of an Era.
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BethanyJ
BethanyJ
463 Followers

***

A series of stories with TG themes which I hope will be of interest to those who like women, or would like to be a woman. Which includes me!

***

NB. There was clearly never going to be a Part 2. But .....

***

No, this isn't the story of how I started out as a TV. It's the tale of the end. Of how I hung up my high heels - metaphorically, actually I binned them. Really. And the other stuff. The final purge. And for once, unlike all the other stories I've written which mix fact and fantasy - this one is totally true. If I miss out a few names and locations, if I just stick to the real facts I can tell the tale as it happened. My actual last days as a transvestite. Well, having just reached the start of my second half-century, and after the events of the past few years, it all had to finish. Once and for all.

How did it start? Well, briefly, like most other TVs I suppose. Dressing in Mum's stuff as a teenager. Occasionally in my wife's clothes after Carol and I got married. And then, low-key for over twenty years, totally in the closet. I actually went out of the house 'dressed' four times in all those years, always after dark, always very carefully.

Once to an ATM in Halesowen at 1. 30 am, once to stroll down the dimly-lit Hagley Road for about 100 yards as about 1. 00am, and in fact to get my one and only wolf-whistle from a coach-load of football fans stopped at the lights as I went past. That time in too short a mini-skirt. And twice just for a drive and a walk in deserted streets after midnight, once in Dudley, once in Lye. Always when Carol was away at her mother's and I was alone for the night. Four times in twenty years. Not much of a tranny, was I?

Until about three years ago, that is. When, for reasons I won't reveal, I 'came out' to my wife, in circumstances liable to render her less critical of my activities. Let's just leave it at that. She 'accepted' my dressing with some limitations, she had to really, though again I won't say why. And for a period of about four months we had some bedroom 'TV-fun' together. At which point the 'fun' was just beginning to get a bit heavy. We both had our doubts about where we were heading.

And at that time we had a major change in our lives together. Again, let's just say a family-related change at home which meant the TV stuff had to end. No longer could I put on a wig and make-up and a dress and walk round the house in high heels prior to bed. Suddenly, it had to end. We purged. I didn't want the few items of female clothing we'd bought for me being discovered. Everything went in the bin.

Except it didn't. A few months ago, when we had a night in on our own for the first time in several weeks, Carol revealed to me that she'd kept a few items and had hidden them in the loft. She hadn't told me at all. For well over two years, she had kept hidden three of my 'dressing-up' items, the three most expensive. The wig, of course, the same reddish-coloured shoulder-length wig which has featured in so many of my fictional tales. Like many T-writers I've borrowed from reality in almost every one of my fantasies, where clothes, outings, locations are concerned. Names too, though only in a limited sense, that one.

She'd also kept my basque, the second-most-expensive item I'd bought, from the same shop in Handsworth as the wig. The one I've usually called 'Transform' in my stories though readers in the UK will know that's not quite the name of the shop. The basque is a classic tranny item, black, silky, boned to give the right shape to a male wearer, and with pull-straps at the back to sque-e-e-eze the flesh appropriately.

And shoes. My favourite tranny shoes, yet again from 'Transform'. £49. 99, reduced from £69.99 because of a small blemish on one heel, a mark I'd very successfully covered up with black shoe polish. Easy really. The classic tranny style shoes, black patent high heels , 6 inches high indeed, with ankle straps and small gold buckles. 'Stephanie' style indeed, named I think after the owner of the shop chain.

So Carol had kept these three items, the only ones I'd bought from that specialist shop, the most expensive items I'd ever purchased. All the other stuff, cheap bras and panties and stockings and tights and make-up and false nails and so on, we had slung. Like I said, the big final purge.

It was when I was getting a suitcase down from the loft for her a few weeks ago that she suggested I may care to bring them down and finally throw them away. Expensive or not, they were not going to be used again, were they? Indeed not. I did get the bag down and hid it somewhere different, in one of my clothes drawers behind my own undies. Underwear, that is, not lingerie.

The reason I was getting the case was for Carol to begin packing for her visit to her mother the following weekend. Yes, I know, I've used that excuse before in my tales too, wife going away for two or three days, usually to mother's, and me taking the chance to dress up. And the reason I used the device? Obviously, because it had happened. All four of the outings I'd had were when Carol was away staying with her mother. And I have to admit, given the co-incidence of her visit away and my having in my possession my last tranny items, the thought came into my mind, again.

OK, like I said, just into my sixth decade, I knew any sort of serious tranny-ism was behind me. Indeed I'd had my 'golden period', with Carol's slight involvement and co-operation, a few years earlier. Only three months of it but - well - that's another story. If I do ever tell that one I'll have to change some names. But this one, it really did happen this way.

It was Carol's visit which thrust the thought, the rather naughty thought, into my mind. Naughty because, after three years of not dressing, of living a different but extremely happy life as a family, I knew this would have to be secret. Back in the closet. I was wary of actually doing it but I convinced myself it would be OK. Just for one night, one evening rather, and then those last three items would be heading bin-wards.

I wasn't due to be going with Carol this time, I was working the Friday and she'd managed to take it off. She was due to travel down to the south-east on the Friday morning, visit relatives in the area Saturday and then Sunday morning, then head back on the Sunday afternoon. Initially I'd just said 'yes' to that suggestion, thinking I'd fill my time by gardening, maybe going into Birmingham, just taking my time and relaxing really. But as soon as THE idea popped into my head I had things to do. I wasn't going to buy much stuff at all - basically I planned to wear Carol's clothes, those which fitted me anyway.

I knew she still had, at the back of the wardrobe somewhere, a suit I'd worn before. She'd bought it cheap once when she'd briefly gone up to a 12. As a 12/14 'woman' I'd been able to squeeze into it, I knew I could do that again for one more time. A stretchy sweater, probably either the white or blue ribbed, if she wasn't taking them both with her that was. And earrings, something else I'm always keen on, I remembered they hadn't all been 'purged'. She had at least two older pairs of clips in her top drawer, one or the other would do fine.

In fact all I needed was panties and false finger-nails. That was all. I could do the rest from her stuff with the minimum of fuss. So the day before she was due to go away I called in at 'Superdrug' on my way home in the evening, hoping as I always had when I'd had to make that sort of purchase before, that I'd get a dopy assistant who just scanned but didn't look. Except I had to buy some leg-wear of course, I'd decided not to wear Carol's. So I got one pair of black tights and one pair of black stockings. I'd decide which to wear later.

Oh, and a thong. I'd always worn black panties, sort-of lacy, but in the Pound Shop in town I found thongs, more popular now than a few years ago, for £1. Bargain. So I got two. Both black. Both my size in slightly different designs. And, I thought as I drove home, that was that. All catered for. And for a total investment of about £10, half of which was for the nails. OK, if I was just dressing, maybe going for a short late-night drive, the coloured longer nails were not necessary. But I knew I'd feel better, more 'female', wearing them.

On that Friday morning I headed off to work in Carol's old Fiesta, she was taking my bigger, more decent, car for her own journey. Also because she may well end up ferrying elderly relatives around, it was a much more comfortable car. Carol's Fiesta is six years old, but more than adequate as a second car. And for my purposes that weekend it would do me fine.

At work, the old jitters returned. I remembered them, from the few times I'd done this secretly in the past. But all that had been over three years ago. I hoped I could do as good a job this time, in transforming my body into that of a woman. I'd always liked to think I'd look about thirty-five, OK, a bit older now, I'd be targeting about forty. That would do me. Sure, I'd have liked to look twenty-five but this really was real life, not fantasy.

Strange, even thinking about it now, I can remember almost every detail. It was memorable though, it's probably still so clear in my mind because I was thinking so much about it. I knew this really was going to be the last time, the end of 'Bethany Jacques'.

I started the change-over just after seven after getting home a little early and having a snack. I was nervous, I always was when 'dressing' and this was no different. I was expecting Carol to ring to tell me she'd got there OK, and she did just before nine. Thank goodness video-phones aren't here quite yet. As I answered I was wearing the thong and the basque, I'd done all my facial make-up using Carol's own tubes and blocks, I knew I could get away with that. Yes, she'd got there OK, Mum-in-law sent her love, all that sort of thing. After she'd rung off I finished my dressing, electing to wear the tights for simplicity instead of the stockings and putting on the skirt and sweater and wig before finishing off with shoes, a few jewellery items and the stick-on false nails. With one of Carol's bags over my shoulder I was ready.

I'd got a few items in my bag - just in case - though I was desperately hoping nothing of that kind would be needed. And I'd planned my outing and the route for my walk. I drove quickly and carefully into town, it was late enough, after closing time for most of the pubs, and parked by the council offices. Yes, I know, that's the car park featured in another of my fantasies, it does exist. Though the Ladies' loos, the scene of my 'first fuck' in that story, doesn't exist. And it's not by a river, it's by a park. My route was clear in my mind, a 400 yard square. Through the car park, along a side street, down the High Street (!) and then along a narrow lane back to the car. As in all my stories though, I sat there in the car first. I took a few deep breaths. And I opened the car door.

Along the length of the car park I just enjoyed revisiting the TV experience. It was dark, obviously, though there were two biggish lamp standards along the length of the car park. And only one other car there, a Peugeot. I'd parked about 20 yards from it, far enough just in case there was someone sat in it, waiting for his wife maybe, but it was empty. That first stage of the renewing of life as a TV, it was lovely. Just lovely. My pulse has racing, my heart really was thumping hard.

All the classic TV sensations, the senses and feelings we all love so much, they all came flooding back as I walked that first 100 yards. The walking itself, truly a sensual experience in tights and high heels. I'd had a problem with the shoes, I hadn't dared wear my own TV heels, my pride and joy, my black shiny 6" stilettos. So I'd had to squeeze my feet into an older pair of Carol's. They had strappy heels, a little difficult to walk in but I knew I could manage well enough. Less than three inch heels though, pity.

But it was my intention, on that occasion, at that time of night and in those conditions, to 'pass'. Everything I'd done in preparation had been with that in mind. Quite heavy on the make-up, not too far with the clothing and the shoes and so on. The wig, I think, was a big help, covering much, framing my face attractively I hoped. The hands would have been a bit of a give-away, there was not too much I could do there but the nails and the three rings gave a quick impression, in the dark at least I hoped, of femininity. And overall, at least viewed from a distance, I know the figure looked good. I'd done up the basque as tight as ever and padded my bra a bit. For a TV my age in my situation I was thrilled with the result.

So as I strolled along the length of the car park- well - I felt great! Well you do, don't you? Those gorgeous sensations, you know the ones, the delectable very-slight swish between the legs as my nylon-clad thighs slid against each other as I walked. The slight breeze on the usually-trouser-covered legs, of course. The feeling of completeness, of something being just right as my weighted-down 'boobs' - actually water-filled balloons tied tight - jostled and bounced just a little with the jarring of each step. Not much clickety-click sound, very little by way of an echo in that car park but then you can't have everything, can you? And the total combined bliss of swinging hair and earrings, stroking the sides of my face as I walked. Heaven!

There was absolutely nobody around to share my delight, nobody to show off to but I just didn't care. I hadn't done this for well over two years and this was going to be the last time. I was determined to enjoy myself, to get the most out of every aspect of the experience. I'd not had anything to drink before I'd come out, not wanting in any way to impair my senses, but I had a G and T ready on the table for my return. As I got to the end of the car park I still had three-quarters of my trip to go.

Just by the end of that car park there is a small patch of greenery. It's an area of shrubs beside a small group of steps up the street and a medium-sized park bench, probably for people even older than me who've just struggled up the steps. I sat down. I crossed my legs. Of course I did. I needed some respite then, not because I'd had trouble on those steps, I just needed to carry out each and every stage of what until then had been a fantasy. Ok so I'd only spent a few days planning but I knew just what I wanted, needed, to do.

I opened my bag, carefully, and took out my pack of cigarettes. Another feature of my fantasies, though I gave up a few years ago - when our family situation changed. But for this outing I was going to go backwards in that sense. In a tobacconist's in Brum I'd bought the one pack of very long cigarettes, VS120s, the sort of long ones you see fetish TVs with. I slid one out carefully and lit it, sitting there for a few minutes enjoying the experience, being able to see my long-nailed fingers holding the cigarette in the glow of the street light. Then I got up, straightened my skirt, and headed off down the street.

OK, now I really was 'in public' although there weren't any people around. I hoped to see somebody, or rather to be seen. OK, so I don't make the most glam woman in the world but I thought I looked pretty good. Yes, I'm vain. The male me isn't massively handsome, I admit that, I really think I made a more attractive woman than a man. When I was just over half-way down the street, a couple of cars turned into it and drove, straight towards me and past. I wondered if that thrill was going to have to do. But then, and don't ask me why, a Severn-Trent Water van drove past me from behind and pulled up just by the junction in front of me, about thirty yards ahead. And two men got out.

I truly did hesitate a little. Of course, they hadn't just stopped because they'd seen me. Of course not. They just couldn't have stopped because they had seen, in the van lights, a rear view of the gorgeous figure and legs of an attractive woman walking along in front of the van. No. They hadn't. As they jumped down from the van, quite nimbly, one of them bent down and hooked some sort of tool into a drain cover on the pavement and pulled it up. I really hadn't a choice. I had to walk past them. The man on the floor looked up and noticed me. He stood and held out a hand.

"Come on love," was all he said.

I reached out and held the cuff of his overall as I stepped carefully round the edge of the raised cover. Now, I said I could remember every single detail of that outing, well, I can't.

I THINK I just muttered a quiet 'Thank you' as I let go of his arm and turned to carry on.

But I really am not so sure. If I did it was a very quiet mutter, that would be all. I just carried on. Later I wondered just what they'd seen. Or indeed if the other man had seen anything at all. But the one who helped me past the hole, I'm sure he didn't see a middle-aged TV. He saw a woman. Otherwise, I'm sure he'd have said something, called out maybe, certainly he'd have reacted in some way, made it known that I'd been 'read'. But he didn't. He didn't shout out 'fucking pansy' or 'dirty tranny' or anything like that. I didn't even get a wolf-whistle, not that I'd really expected it.

As I reached the second corner, leading onto the actual High Street, I knew that my final 'experience' was half-way through. Two sides on the square traversed successfully. I'd resolved before I started not to do anything silly like drive on from there to Edgbaston or even into Brum. This somewhat-limited outing was to be my last. I could manage this and still stay 'in the closet', at least as far as this weekend was concerned. In Birmingham - who knows? Risky.

OK, I can do 'risky', but not TOO risky. I turned and began to walk down the street. My brief encounter with the 'Water Men' had satisfied one question any TV is always asking him/herself. Will I pass? Well, like I said earlier, in that situation and in those conditions, yes. I walked a little more confidently, something of a spring in my step.

And now, on the main street, in the full glare of the streetlights I realised I was so much more exposed. Within twenty yards I passed the betting shop, the newsagents, the gift shop, the hairdressers. As I walked on enjoying even more the thrill of the experience, maybe seven or eight cars passed me in both directions, mostly doing about thirty, one or two going faster than they should. And as I passed a charity shop I glimpsed to my left. There is a street lamp right outside, the shop itself is dark at night, and I could see very clearly indeed my full reflection. Here I was being exactly who I wanted to be, a smartly dressed lower-middle-age business woman or similar, my jacket open so I could just catch sight of the bulge of my breasts and - I was delighted to see - my large-ish clip earrings glinted in the reflected light from the street lamp.

I realised my minute or two in the spotlight, so to speak, was beginning to come to an end. In fact, thinking about it, that stretch along the High Street isn't 100 yards, the circuit I was following is not really exactly a square. That section is about 60 yards maybe and I was coming to the end of it. Several yards further on from the charity shop I turned right again, this time into a very narrow side-street leading back to the car park. I was rather disappointed, I'd not actually 'interacted' with anybody in the whole sixty yards except maybe via the cars driving past.

And then, just as I turned, a car hooted. Just briefly. And given that there was absolutely nobody else around and absolutely no other reason to sound a horn I was pretty sure why. He'd probably not got a good look at the figure turning the corner, maybe he'd just seen a flash of skirt or leg. But he hooted. I'm sure it was at me.

BethanyJ
BethanyJ
463 Followers