Tranford Tales - Janet and John

Girl becomes boy. Boy meets girl and they fall in love, get married and live happily ever after.

Except it was more complicated than that, and there was quite a lot of unhappiness and it wasn't ever after, though some good came out of it, and it was a romance in the end.

CHAPTER 1

I should have been a boy. Dad had his heart set on a son to carry on the family name, but Mum only managed a daughter and no others. I don't know the details why there was only me. I always felt that he held it against me, and Mum to some extent. That was my first failure.

The family name was extremely unusual, apparently an old aristocratic European one. I never heard of anyone else with it. Dad had two sisters who produced sons with their husband's names, so it had all been down to him.

I won't say what it is, just that I was bullied at school for being Little Miss Janet Strangename.

Not that I was little.

"An ungainly lump," Dad called me once.

My primary school was filled with cute little girls, the secondary school with smart young women.

Plus me.

I was quite good academically. Very good, in fact.

But not top of the class, which was the only thing which would have satisfied Dad. He was rather a scholar, with thousands of books on all sorts of subjects. We didn't have a TV till I was 16, which mean I read a lot and worked hard at the lessons.

I did A level chemistry, biology and physics, and the teachers predicted grade A for each, so I applied for medical school in my five choices on the UCAS form.

In the UK for most degrees if you get the right grades in the right subjects, they will admit you. If I had been applying for chemistry or biology that would have been it.

But not for medicine. It's understandable. There's a lot of competition and it's a long haul, which costs the country a lot more than the fees you pay.

Three universities read my form and rejected me.

Two invited me to interview.

One of them said sorry, but made me an offer for biochemistry.

The other was kinder, and said I had some potential in the medical field, and offered me a degree in nursing.

I was so depressed. If only I had become a doctor, then Dad could have been proud of me at last.

I had failed when I was born, then failed to be a pretty girl, and now had failed again.

I talked it over with Mum and accepted the nursing degree as my firm choice, with biochemistry as insurance.

When the A level results came out, I didn't get all A's so would have been rejected from medical school anyway, but got the grades for nursing. I actually spoke to the professor who had interviewed me. She said she thought I had real potential, but that teachers were usually optimistic in predicting grades, and she felt it had been better to disappoint me then, rather get my hopes up and dash them when the results came out.

"I actually put a note on your file," she said "to consult me before confirming the decision. If you had not quite got the grades for this degree, I would still have recommended admission. If you got all A's then I would have seen if it was possible to transfer you. But I think you'll like this better."

I think she was right. Nursing is not an easy degree, but I saw medical students drop out from their studies with exhaustion, and they must have been miserable.

I passed and became (I think) a good nurse. Not that that impressed Dad, who remembers a time when nurses did not have degrees, just diplomas, and thought I didn't do anything more technical than carry bedpans.

However, both Mum and Dad hoped I could at least marry a doctor.

There was a problem. All the nurses were more attractive than me. In fact, I heard one male patient say to another "here comes the male nurse."

(I told the nurse in charge of the ward, and he got a few unnecessary wakeups for tests in the middle of the night, plus an extra enema.)

The other thing was the fact that I was more attracted to the female doctors than the male ones, and some nurses, of course.

It became clear that there was something different about me. (I had spent some time on psychiatric wards: we try not to say 'wrong' about mental matters.)

CHAPTER 2

I had tests and counselling, and the specialist certified me as having gender dysphoria.

I should have been a boy. In that I agreed with Dad. Just look at me!

In short, I became a male nurse after all!

It took years, but I managed it. I took hormones and eventually was able to grow a beard. I bound my breasts until I finally got them removed, which knocked me rather harder than I expected.

I changed my name and gender officially, and got a new passport with a photograph of me with a beard. Mr John Strangename.

Best of all, I married a nice girl! Her name was Marie. I had fancied her at school, but she was chasing boys, of course. When I reappeared as John, she accepted me as a man, even when I told her I was transgender. In fact, she really liked the new me, almost as much as I did.

Our family was well off and Dad was important in the community (golf club, Rotarians, that sort of thing) so there was a picture of me and my bride in the (very) local news as his son! No mention of my earlier gender error.

We supposed that eventually we might adopt or she could have a sperm donor. It was a traditional church one with the bride in white and the groom in a smart suit. (I was legally a man, and the modern church tries to be inclusive. Plus they need the money.)

Her parents paid for the wedding. Mine bought us a flat.

We were happy.

But not ever after.

I failed as a husband, or rather, we both failed at marriage.

I had a beard and no breasts, but no penis. Phalloplasty is a much more major operation, and wasn't as well developed then.

I made love to her with my hand, my mouth and a strap-on dildo. But after the initial excitement it seemed rather artificial.

And she couldn't make love to my genitals, because that would be admitting I was a woman. We somehow felt obliged to keep up the fiction.

The fiction had worked fine when we were not living together, just meeting romantically and then having all the preparations for the marriage. And it wasn't just about sex. There is much more to a relationship.

As the marriage failed, so did my ability to work. I couldn't be trusted as a nurse, so found myself at home, initially on leave, then unemployed, which did not help my mental health.

We divorced. It was our parents really who came to an appropriate agreement. There were no children; she had found someone else (with a penis) and I was unemployed, so there was no ongoing financial obligation. The flat was still mine.

I went out. I had quite a few friends. Because of my history they were a mixture of medical and gender-diverse people plus their friends. There were some good evenings, often a bit crazy.

But also some bad ones. Mainly on my own.

They say that doctors make the worst patients. I think nurses are pretty bad too.

I knew what all the medications I was taking were for, and read up about alternatives and side-effects, so I think I must have been pretty annoying for the people who were trying to help me with my gender, my depression and a couple of other conditions. Then I was angry with myself when I got home.

Mum wanted me to move back in with them, but that would be an admission of defeat, and anyway Dad made little attempt to disguise his feelings. Disgust predominantly.

Mentally I went down and down. Mostly down.

That's when I made my Hamlet decision. To be or not to be?

Not to be.

It wasn't a cry for help. I knew what I was doing and had been saving up my medication until I had a lethal dose.

I hadn't had a haircut for months, nor trimmed my beard for weeks. I hadn't showered for a while so I looked like a tramp. I fitted in with the unwashed dishes and general mess.

Inside there were two things running in my brain: the miserable, resentful one, and a nurse observing a psychiatric patient. The nurse saw someone deliberately making themselves look pathetic so that others would be sorry they had not treated me better - a foolish act of revenge.

I wrote a letter to my parents telling them that they should call the police and the door would be unlocked. I pulled on jeans and an unwashed top, and took it to the postbox. As I came back the nurse in my head was saying 'you don't have to do this!' I had told patients I understood, but I never really did till now.

I knew it was stupid. Part of me wanted to stop.

But I took the tablets.

CHAPTER 3

I felt awful.

If this was the afterlife, it was hell.

And if I was still alive, then I had failed again.

I opened my eyes but couldn't really see. Then I retched and my gullet burned. A cardboard dish was being held to my chin, and I heard someone call "nurse!"

I lay back in exhaustion, and must have passed out.

"She's coming round," someone said, and I felt a moment's annoyance at the incorrect pronoun, so tried to say "he" but couldn't manage more than a gurgle.

As I got into focus there was a nurse and a doctor that I recognised, to my shame, and someone else behind them.

"If you understand, nod your head," said the doctor and I complied.

I was not yet properly conscious but recognised the standard tests being carried out. In a way it was slightly comforting to have something I knew so well.

As I really came to, I recognised Kelsey, the friend who must have saved me. Not a great friend, more of a friend of a friend. She had borrowed a book and come to return it. When I didn't respond she tried the door and found me. Apparently, I had been sick, so had vomited out some of the medicine, but was in danger of choking to death until she put me in the recovery position, called an ambulance and collected together my medicine containers and the tablets in the vomit to go with me. They had given me gastric lavage, hence the damage to my throat.

She didn't look at her best, because she had stayed at my bedside for nearly two days.

When they confirmed I was out of danger, the nurse persuaded her to go home to shower and change. She came back, and they said she could stay the night in a room kept for relatives.

Next day my parents visited. They hadn't got the letter, but Kelsey had found the number and phoned them. Dad tried to be as non-judgmental as possible, mainly by staying quiet while Mum did the talking. Dad tried to offer Kelsey money, which annoyed her, so she went off with Mum who calmed her down.

Once I was out of danger from the overdose, I was transferred to the psych ward. The one with a keypad lock on the door which was changed every day. I knew that I would try to spot the combination, and they would try to hide it from me. And I would know what the medications were for. And I would know when they were assessing me under the Mental Health act to see if I should be "sectioned" as it's called, which means detained against my will.

As a nurse I had seen how cunning some psych patients can be, to pretend they're fine. Now I understood what it felt like, and yes, I was doing the same.

Kelsey came to visit me every day. I wasn't allowed scissors so she trimmed my beard and snipped the ends of my hair. I said I didn't want to see my parents, but Kelsey would let them know.

Then I knew I wouldn't make another suicide attempt. I couldn't bear how it would affect Kelsey.

Kelsey volunteered to move in with me until the end of the academic year, and brought me jeans and top to go home in.

When we arrived, I felt more ashamed than ever. The flat was spotless. There was still a faint mark on the carpet where some spilled food had been left to rot, but it was cleaner and tidier than it had ever been. All the clothes had been washed.

There was something new. It was a dolls house.

"I hope you don't mind," she said. "It's a little bit of a hobby. Maybe you could help me with it?"

I spotted it at once: therapy. But maybe it was her hobby, and why not? It was very nice of her.

There were fresh vegetables, and she made me a pasta for dinner. Then we had a look at the house. It was actually a shop with living quarters upstairs, and a couple of dolls - a man and a woman - as the shopkeepers, with a little baby in a crib. There was some furniture, but nothing in the shop.

"I haven't decided what sort of shop it is," she said. "I thought if it was a greengrocer, I could make little baskets of fruit and veg, for example."

We ended up moving the little dolls and having a discussion on their behalf. Kelsey had the wife and I had the husband. For some reason they were broad Yorkshire. (On subsequent days they were Cockneys, Scousers, Brummies, Welsh, Scots and Irish. We later broadened our horizons, making them Indian, American, French and German.)

It wasn't very late when we hugged goodnight and went to our bedrooms.

CHAPTER 4

I was having a nightmare, and came to in somebody's arms, stroking my hair and telling me it would be all right. She kissed me on the forehead like Mum used to do, and I snuggled against her chest. Later on, I woke up and felt a warm body next to me so went back to sleep. She didn't sleep with me regularly, just that once.

In the morning, Kelsey was already up and asked me what I wanted for breakfast, so gave me muesli and a cup of tea. Then she made me get up and start doing things. We went out for a walk, both in jeans and pullover, and I told her a bit about my life. We bought some fresh food from the local shop. We discussed the book she had borrowed and did other ordinary things.

That evening, as she was making dinner, I realised something.

"Shouldn't you be at classes?"

"I'm an arts student," she said, with a laugh. "We do hardly any work. Didn't they tell you that at uni?"

That's what people said. In one of the toilets in the Medical Sciences building there was graffiti above the toilet roll saying 'Arts Degrees - please take one' and there were jokes about how few lectures they had. I guessed she could catch up.

She took me to a hobby shop and we bought coloured modelling clay. I insisted on paying.

Together we started to make a display of fruit and vegetables. It was good to have something to concentrate on, and to have a little goal. She said I was better at it than her, and I probably was. Making tiny little apples and bananas, and crates from cardboard was surprisingly satisfying.

We did things together and I pretty much told her my whole life story. Her life was much shorter, of course. She was a lesbian and her parents had been totally accepting. So we discussed the various female celebrities we fancied, which I had never been able to do with my wife!

The week went by, and Kelsey went with me to the first medical appointment, which took nearly half a day, with physiological and mental tests, which seemed to go well.

It was arranged that my meds would be supplied in a week's worth at a time, and Kelsey would keep them in a locked box. She took most of them with her while she went to her classes. It was all stuff I understood from my period in psychiatric nursing. I was ruefully amused that I was now the patient who couldn't be trusted.

I had gone to an old-fashioned school which believed that girls should be able to sew, so I also amused myself by making outfits for the dolls while she was away. I cut up some scarves and other accessories for the cloth. (They had been gifts from me to Marie, and left behind.) The Indian couple with the man bearded in a turban and the woman in a sari was the best. (The turban was glued rather than sewn.) Then I put them both in saris, and we had a good laugh.

One night I was in a bad way, not able to sleep. Kelsey was in bed with me, trying to calm me, hugging and stroking me. Then her hand moved down and started stroking my groin. I lay back and closed my eyes, so she slipped her hand into my pyjama trousers. There was no fingering, just gentle stroking with the whole hand, and I relaxed. It went on and on, until I had a nice warm orgasm - not violent, just overall warm pleasure.

"There," she said. "Now off to sleep. You're safe. I'm here."

In the morning I was embarrassed, but she laughed.

"Nothing to it! Just physiotherapy. It's what I do, when I want to relax. You can do it yourself, next time."

I tried when she was out, but it wasn't the same.

One night we were getting ready for bed when she must have seen something in my face.

"Is something up?" she asked, looking concerned.

"No, nothing," I said, of course.

"Are you sure? You look like you want to say something? What's wrong?"

"It's just what you did the other night..."

I went red and hurried to my bedroom.

A few moments later, she came in, in her nightdress, and I thought how nice she looked.

"Did you want me to do it again?" she said, raising an eyebrow.

"Y-yes please..."

She took off her nightdress and I saw the triangle of hair, and the small but nice breasts. She looked lovely.

"I thought you'd never ask," she said cheerfully, came to the bed and kissed me. We were lying naked side by side.

Then those beautiful feelings started to come, so I reached to do the same to her.

"Not yet," she said. "Just relax and take it."

That was the best advice. I was just in a warm bath of pleasure, then as I came up to the peak she was thrusting in, and it went higher than before, and somehow kept going. I was panting it was so intense.

She was just massaging me gently now, not overstimulating, just prolonging the warm bath, till I felt I could take no more. I didn't have to say anything, she just knew.

Then we cuddled, and I appreciated her young body until she was groaning and arching her back, her face and upper body flushed.

I was laughing and crying with the joy of it and my own stupidity. It took a while for us both to calm down and for me to explain myself.

I would never want to commit suicide while that happiness was still possible in the world.

"What is it, John?" she said.

"It's Janet," replied. "John was a stupid cunt who didn't know what was good for him!"

"A man with periods and no cock!" I added. (The hormones had done some things, but not totally eliminate periods on the dose I was allowed. It would take more serious surgery to do that.)

I got a bit angry, mainly with myself, but at my Dad in particular and (unfairly) at the medics who had done exactly what I begged them to do.

They call it buyer's remorse. Getting what you want and regretting it.

Kelsey was - what? - fifteen years younger than me, and things had changed. It was nowadays no problem for her to be a lesbian. I guess in my day it had been so ingrained in us that it had to be a man to really fall in love with a woman, and I knew I wasn't pretty. To become a man had been the magic solution. Off with the tits! On with the beard! Problem solved!

I shaved off my beard.

"You look so much better," said Kelsey. "I just didn't dare to say so, but it was a bit silly. Actually, you looked like a woman pretending to be a man with a stick-on beard."

It was a shock, but she was probably right. Oh, the burden of self-knowledge!

Robert Burns wrote "O, wad some Power the giftie gie us to see oursels as others see us!"

CHAPTER 5

I stopped taking the hormones, and at the next medical appointment they were removed from my prescription. I wasn't trying to be a man, or a woman for that matter, just my biological self.

With a chest scar which hadn't healed as well as they hoped, and the need to shave every day.

But my sex life was amazing!

I told myself it couldn't last, in fact it shouldn't. I was grateful that she had given up months of her young life. I felt more than anything that she should go and find her own happiness with people her own age.

But I couldn't tell her. Not just yet. It was selfish, I know. But I had had such a hard time, this was a little bit of heaven. No work, no pressure, just a delightful charming young woman living with me. I read more books, I played with a dolls house (we moved on to an ironmonger's - very tricky, but immensely satisfying to create the tiny tools and household objects), and every time she came back from classes I felt a surge of endorphins (the happiness hormones).