Like a Virgin

My name is Victoria.

I'm fifty two years old.

I'm a virgin.

For the second time.

Life is weird when you are trans.

---

Being a virgin was bad enough the first time round, you'd think the second time would be a breeze wouldn't you?  Here's me with a brand new vagina, custom made, tight and ready for action.  Take me honey, I'm all yours.  Oh yeah babe... Yeah...  That's it...  Right there...  Oh my God...  OH MY GOD!!  Yesssssssssss...........

Yeah, I wish.  It didn't work out like that, did it?  As a guy I had a large potential dating pool, though I only dipped my toe in it.  Hard to date when you despise your own body.  As a trans woman with a penis I had novelty value.  Finding someone who wanted to meet to fuck me was easy online, someone who was willing to risk being seen in public with me less so but still surprisingly common.  Now, post op?  I'm a tall plain looking woman with a pussy that needs artificial lubrication.  What do I have to offer that you can't get better from a 'real' woman.  Not a bloody thing.

Still, one must persevere.  This virginity thing won't go away on it's own.  I have a bright sparkling personality (honest I do, stop laughing at the back there, I can hear you).  I sign up to Tinder, OkCupid and Plenty of Fish. I get loads of likes and a surprising number of matches too.  Now, all is not rosy in the garden.  Some of them can't read or don't bother to.  I check they know I'm trans and they disappear.  Some are romance scams.  Some just want to ask damn fool questions like 'what size of tits did you choose?'.  Pardon me Sir, I grew these puppies myself.  Cheeky bugger.  A lot never message or don't reply when I message first.  But, hey, got to expect a good few assholes, am I right or am I right?

Despite all this I make some progress.  I even have a date with one guy, which is kind of fun.  At the end of a day of museums and art galleries we kiss at a bus stop like a couple of teenagers.  Pardon me while I blush at the memory.  He wants me to visit him at his home the following weekend, stay over, make love.  Virginity problem solved you would think.  But there is no chemistry, no spark, no feeling that he might be the one, so I call it off in as nice a way as possible.

Turns out losing my virginity again isn't just a case of finding someone willing to have me, I need it to be with the right person.  Someone I like enough to give this once in a lifetime gift to, albeit for the second time.  The odds against me rise sharply.

Then I match with her.  The pictures on her profile are beautiful.  Mesmerising.  That smile.  Those eyes.  She lives a bit further away than I'd like, but who cares?  This could be the one.

---

I usually wait for the other person to message first but I can't let this one slip away so easily.  I write a message, consider it before pressing send, delete it, try again.  The fourth attempt seems good, very casual, basically a 'hi' with a compliment about one of her profile pictures that isn't about her looks, can't come across as desperate or pervy (that can wait till we meet...).  She replies!

I follow up with a joke, got to keep the conversation going.  She laughs, says say's she's going out for a walk by the sea.  I tell her to wrap up warm.  I put the phone down with a smile on my face.

---

Her next message comes two days later, she's found someone else, she's leaving Tinder.  I console myself with the thought that at least she let me know.  I reply wishing her the best.

The next day she is back.

---

Things didn't work out as she had hoped.  We're exchanging messages again.  She's in Edinburgh tomorrow, she suggests we meet for a coffee but I'll be at work when she's through here.  She says some other time then.  I'm telling her she's beautiful.  She puts up some more pictures, one really appeals to me.  It's her, from behind, standing on a beach looking out over the sea.  It moves me.  I try to express how it makes me feel in a message to her.  Things change.  A trickle of messages a day turns into a flood, words pouring out of both of us.  There's a definite connection now.  She says we have to meet.

I send her a couple of short stories I wrote.  This is a big step for me given the personal nature of the tales I write.  I get a positive reaction.  This is going so well.  I think I'm falling in love.

But she's still in love with a trans man she used to know.  She tells me she's going on a date with another man she met on Tinder.  I wish it was me so bad it hurts, but I still genuinely hope it goes well for her.  I search my feelings, trying to work out what's going on inside me.  I realise that I'm not ever going to be good enough for her so if I can't make her happy then I want her to find the right person who can.  Why do I have to be so fucking selfless?

---

Her date wasn't ideal.  I feel a mixture of disappointment for her and hope for myself.  I feel guilty for the hope, even though I know I don't have a chance I still hope I might have a chance.  Hope is a terrible thing sometimes, ask Pandora.

She meets another man.

---

This date goes well.  She enthuses about him.  I enthuse back.  We arrange to meet.  She lets me know it's not a date.  I appreciate the honesty and I'm not surprised, but it still hurts.  Still, she hasn't met me yet.  Bright sparkling personality, remember.  She'll fall for me.

---

We meet in Lush, amongst bright colours and exotic aromas.  I recognise her from her profile picture and approach her.  We go to get a coffee, talking non stop on the way.  We're like two lifelong friends, not virtual strangers to each other.  It's hard to believe I didn't know she existed less than two weeks ago.  She's so beautiful in person, so full of life and the joy of living, she almost glows.  Time passes so fast.  We talk about anything and everything.  I see her onto her bus home and watch as it pulls away.  Yeah, I've fallen in love, big time.

---

We message daily and arrange another not-a-date.  Though she hasn't spelled it out she clearly isn't attracted to me.  We have such a deep connection, so fast, too fast maybe, perfect but for that one thing.  I want to hold her, kiss her, feel her warmth against me, her skin on my skin.  But I'll settle for her company.  I'm like a love struck teenager, crushing like crazy.

She goes on other dates, messages other men.  She talks about them, I encourage her, it doesn't hurt me to do this somehow.  I'm still confused about how I am being, I search my soul for answers.  This can't be normal.

---

Our next not-a-date is cancelled.  A change in circumstances is going to leave her homeless for a few days before she goes to stay with friends, she has to spend her time finding somewhere to live rather than waste it visiting me.  I offer to have her come stay with me to cover the gap.  She says yes.

I meet her off her bus, bring her home to my bedsit.  We go out for a meal.  We talk constantly, non stop chatter, smiling, laughing.  We aren't having alcohol but I'm drunk on love.  Back home, up late, listening to music, talking, talking, talking.   Having a drink together.  Stealing glances at her face when she isn't looking.  My heart glowing.  Time to sleep, she takes the chair bed.  I lie in the dark, hands behind my head, staring up at a ceiling I can't see and thinking about her.  Smiling as I drift off happily to sleep. 

---

I'm working the next day so she has the place to herself.  Back home that night it's the same again, music, talk, a little alcohol, stolen glances.  I eventually look at the clock and am surprised to see it's after two in the morning.  Time flies when you are in love.

---

I have Sunday off and we go for a walk.  We take the riverside path, at points it narrows and I can't help staring at her perfectly rounded backside.  I'm only human after all.  The way she walks, the way beams of sunlight through the trees catch her hair, she's an angel.  Life has never felt this good, never could again without her in it.  Back home I order in pizza for us both.  We have a few drinks then an early night.

---

Day four and I'm back at work.  I can't stop smiling all day.  I talk about her to my colleagues, they must be bored of hearing her name but I don't care, I can't help it.  Back home she greets me like we were a couple, but she's only joking, worst luck.  She's sitting knitting but stops and pours me a drink.  This is how I want the rest of my life to be, me and her.  We haven't even kissed, I know she isn't attracted to me, I don't care, just having her near is all that matters.  I've fallen for her so bad.

She's leaving the next day and I'll be working then.  This is the last opportunity for anything to happen.  I reach out and put my hand on her shoulder...

She turns to face me and we lean in towards each other.  Our lips meet, both of us smiling.  It's a soft kiss, lingering, gentle and contented, and feels like it lasts forever...

She jumps when my hand touches her shoulder and I snatch my hand back guiltily, apologising.  I imagine I can hear the sound of my heart breaking just a little, a hairline crack marring the surface.  We play each other music videos, we talk, laugh, drink.  One of us cries inside.  We still haven't run out of things to say.  I doubt we ever could.  We stay up till three this time then I have to catch a couple of hours of sleep before it's time to get ready for work.  We hug and then I'm out the door.  When I come back from work my home is dark and deserted.  Life is back to normal but it will never be the same again.

---

She's left me some gifts.  A tarot card reading.  A page from a colouring in book.  A poem about our friendship.  A box of clitoris Allsorts.  Little stickers dotted around my home.  I feel empty inside, I ache for her, for what we never had.

The next few days we message each other.  I come to terms with things, examine my life.  I love her, want her, but it's never going to be returned.  I can live with that, and I can take pleasure in her happiness elsewhere with others.  I can.  I know I can.

I also realise my hopes of making someone overlook my physical short comings through my fantastic personality are unlikely to be realised.  I'm not going to find anyone I connect with the way we connected.  I need to look for love among my own people, the broken, the desperate and the damned.

---

I'm fifty two years old.

It's my birthday next month.

I'm going to be a fifty three year old virgin.

I'm cool with that.

Bad Romance

"Hey, hen!  Yer dick's hingin' oot"

The driver yells at me as he drives by in the opposite direction.  I do not look down to check.  I know my dick is tucked safely between my thighs, held in place by the home made gaff google showed me how to make.  It is my new best friend, we go everywhere together.  I turn and give the driver a one fingered salute, hoping he sees it in his rear view mirror.  Just one more drive by shouting to add to the list.

His words do not bother me.  Today I am invulnerable.  Today I am unbreakable.  Today I am going to get laid for the first time as a woman. so today the dickheads and haters of the world can kiss my tranny ass.

---

I have arranged to meet a man I got talking to in an online chat room.  This is my third attempt to hook up with someone from there.  The first guy was a no show and the second drove me to a local tranny night then had an 'emergency' call and had to leave.  Yeah, right.  He did hand me a twenty pound note for drinks and a taxi home, so I counted it as a win.

This one, Steve, seems really sweet.  We chatted a few times online before arranging our encounter tonight.  He's coming to my place, a one bedroom flat just off Edinburgh's Grassmarket.

---

When I get home I go through my wardrobe, trying to choose something that will send the right signals.  The PVC micro mini is too whoreish, though I am really tempted to go for it.  Jeans, which are my usual attire, might get in the way of wandering hands and I like the idea of fingers sliding up my thigh under a skirt.  So, a denim mini it is, that's one thing sorted.  For the top I settle on a burgundy velvet Goth top I bought from a charity shop.  It's a bit tight but that helps it show my new grown breasts off to perfection.

Stocking or tights?  It has to be stockings, that's a no brainer.  A pair of black holdups.

For lingerie it is a lacy black bra and panties set.  I have been saving them for a special occasion and tonight seems to fit that definition.  The gaff will get a night off, it is neither black nor lacy nor particularly attractive looking to be honest.

Knee boots will finish off the look.  I'm beginning to wonder if I have a bit of a boot fetish.  Twenty three pairs isn't excessive, is it?

---

I give my home a thorough clean, thinking about the coming night with my hand halfway round the U bend of the toilet.  This strikes me as strangely appropriate and I have a fit of giggles.

---

I soak for ages in a hot bath, day dreaming about what might happen and playing with my nipples.  I reluctantly stop and wash myself, paying extra attention to my anus.  I have got to get it pristine, it's expecting a visitor for the first time.  I wonder if it is supposed to be cleaned inside as well.  I tentatively try but it's uncomfortable so I stop.  God, I hope it feels better tonight.

I sit on the edge of the bath with my feet in the water.  I carefully shave my lower legs, well, I try to be careful. The water takes on a pinkish tinge.  I stand to do my thighs and ass.  No cuts there fortunately.

I wrap a towel around me and sit on the edge of the bath having a smoke.  I run my hand over my chin and upper lip.  Smooth but not smooth enough.  I stub the cigarette out and shave at the sink.  Better.

---

Back in the bedroom I blow dry my hair and run an epilator over my chest, wincing.  Hardly any hair grows there these days but I need it completely smooth tonight.  A quick spray of deoderant and I'm ready to get dressed.  I pull the panties up carefully reaching round to pull my dick and ball sack back between my legs as I do so.  Everything seems tucked in properly.  I put my  bra on next.  I can get by without additional padding now, they are growing nicely.  I adjust my boobs in the cups to make them sit nicely and give me a decent cleavage.  Hopefully indecent too.

Pulling stockings on never fails to make me feel sexy.  It's an expensive pair with a lovely sheen.  I admire the resulting look in the mirror, surprised by how good I look from the neck down.

I sit and do my makeup.  I can do foundation and lipstick fine but I am hopeless when it comes to my eyes.  I mess up the eye shadow a couple of times before I get a result I am happy with.  The mascara is easier though my eyes are stinging by the time I am done.

---

I check the time and see I don't have long till he arrives.  I dress quickly, the feeling of the skirt sliding over the stockings as I slip into it is divine.  I pull the top over my head carefully so as not to make a mess of my makeup and adjust my boobs again to display what I have to best advantage.

I brush my hair and tie it back in a high ponytail then sit on the edge of the bed, slip my feet into the boots and zip them up.  Yeah, I have a boot fetish, just the act of zipping them up has turned me on.

I go and look at myself in the mirror again, turning my body to see it from different angles.  I nod at at my reflection and blow myself a kiss. I'd fuck me. I grin and wink at myself.

---

I put on the lamps in the living room then turn off the ceiling light.  It feels cosier this way, more conducive to romance.  Plus it helps hide any mistakes I have made with my makeup. 

I get myself a Bacardi and Coke and put a CD on to listen to while I wait.  I sip my drink and think over what he has told me about himself.

He's 38, so a bit older than me.  He claims to be trans but unable to transition due to his circumstances.  That could be true, or he could be a crossdresser who doesn't like to admit it.  I don't really care either way.  I'm in no position to get judgemental.  He wants to dress when he gets here, fair enough.

I think about making love for the first time as a woman.  Okay, I am missing one essential hole but, as Meatloaf put it, two out of three ain't bad.

I get a call on my mobile.  It's him.  He better not be calling to cancel.

He isn't, he wants to know if I have a pair of stockings he can borrow.  No way.  I suggest he try a convenience store or garage on his way here.  He doesn't sound very happy about it but says he will try.  Was that mean of me I wonder?

I pour another drink and wait.  I'm getting nervous now but the alcohol helps.  I consider how crazy you have to be to give a complete stranger your phone number and address and invite them round.  If I carry on like this I deserve to be a homicide statistic, I really do.  But it's not easy finding someone to go on a regular date with, someone who would be willing to be seen in public with you, when you are trans.

The intercom buzzes.

---

I let him into the building and wait at the open door while he climbs the stairs.  He comes into sight and he isn't what I expected.  In my mind's eye he was an Adonis, rugged good looks, tall and dark.  He's short, maybe 5' 7", and a bit on the chubby side.  He looks like he hasn't shaved for a week.  Still, at least he isn't balding.

He seems to react better to how I look, which is a relief.  I am sort of hoping for a kiss at the door, on the cheek obviously.  But no, he sticks his hand out and after a moment's hesitation I respond.  I think I hide my disappointment well.

I turn and he follows me to the living room, closing the front door behind him.

---

I sit at one end of the sofa, expecting him to join me.  He disappoints me again by taking the armchair instead.  This really isn't going as I had hoped.  I crave to be held, kissed, to have his hands tentatively explore me.  Hard to do that from across the room.

I sip my drink, the music covering our silence.  I remember my manners and offer him a drink but he declines.  We share some more uncomfortable silence.  I open my mouth to speak but he beats me to it.

"Where's your bathroom?"

I tell him and he rises from his seat.

"Better go and get ready."

He exits the room, leaving me alone with my music, my drink and my thoughts.

---

He takes forever.  I finish my drink and pour another one. I hope he is shaving,  God, I hope he is shaving.

---

He returns.  I look him over, trying desperately to keep my face expressionless.  He walks unsteadily into the room on 6" heels, which I have to say impresses me.  I bought a pair once and they were agony to wear sitting down, never mind trying to walk in the damn things.

His stockings look cheap and do not disguise the thick curly leg hair beneath.  I see he went with a PVC mini.  I am so glad I didn't.  He wears a white blouse with a black bra showing through it, more dark curly hair visible where it opens at his chest.  The worlds hairiest forearms are also on show.

The face, oh my God the face.  Imagine a chimpanzee with badly applied lipstick and eye shadow.  Actually, scrub that thought, chimpanzees have less facial hair.

To top it off is a cheap nylon wig, clearly purchased from a joke shop.  

On the bright side I don't have to worry about getting an involuntary erection tonight.

We all start somewhere, we all have to learn through out mistakes, but come on, it isn't rocket science, have a shave at least.

Then I notice he is holding an unreasonably large vibrator in one hand.  I cross my legs tightly.

---

He waves the vibrator in my direction like a pink lightsaber and asks me to get mine.  Why he assumes I have one I don't know, but I do as it happens.  I go get it from the back of my underwear drawer.  It is small, slim and white and so far unused.  I bought the smallest one they sold on the basis of where it had to go.

He is sitting on the sofa when I return and I sit beside him.  I move in to kiss him despite the beard but he moves his head away.  What the fuck?

He opens his other hand to reveal the remains of a little blue pill and asks me if I would like half a Viagra.  I am gobsmacked.  Why would I want or need an erection?  I'm female, honest I am.  What part of transsexual didn't he understand?

I decline and it is his turn to look disappointed.  He sets the half pill on the table.  I assume he already took the other half while he was getting changed in the bathroom.  He hikes his skirt up and I see my assumption was correct.

He is about 5" long but worryingly thick.  There's no unpleasant odour so he knows how to wash himself at least, thank God.

Okay, I know what to do in this situation, I've rehearsed it in my mind many times.  My fingers go around the base of his shaft as my head lowers and my mouth goes over the head.  If I concentrate on nothing but this part of his body I can get through this.  Focus Vicki, focus.  My hand starts wanking him slowly as I try to figure out exactly what to do with my mouth.

Lips in contact, check.  Teeth not, check.  Tongue indecisive, damn.  I try licking round the head and exploring the hole in the tip.  Oh, that works.  I feel a thrill of excitement pass through me.  He does not really taste of anything other than faintly of soap.  I feel snail trails forming in my knickers.

His hands push me none too gently off him.  Once again, what the fuck?

I feel hurt and look at him for some indication of what I did wrong but find none.  He tells me to lie on my back at my end of the sofa and he does the same at his.  He takes his knickers off and inserts the large pink vibrator into his anus.  He tells me to do the same with mine.

I pull the gusset of my panties aside and wet a winger on my free hand.  I use it to lubricate my ass hole, which is not being cooperative.  It has the assertiveness I lack, it at least tries to say no.  I force myself to relax and with a little effort get most of the vibrator inside.  The stretching burns a bit but I am confident I haven't torn anything.  I rotate the base of the vibrator and it starts to buzz.

I try to enjoy the sensation but I can't.  Having an extra from a porn parody of Planet of the Apes facing me doesn't help.  Also I find having something inserted up my back passage feels very like having something pressing to get out in the opposite direction and that is not the most comfortable of feelings.

I am now instructed to slide myself lower on the sofa, bringing my rear end closer to him.  He does the same and presses the end of his vibrator against mine.  His copious ass hair tickles me, which is not a pleasant sensation.  I close my eyes and try to imagine that I am anywhere else but here.

He bumps himself repeatedly against me and I wonder what happens if he hammers my vibe completely inside me.  I have visons of trying to explain this to a doctor at Accident and Emergency.  I suppose it would become an amusing anecdote for them to tell at dinner parties or whatever doctors do in their spare time.  This train of thought does not assist my vain attempts to relax and enjoy the situation.  I doubt anything could, to be honest, this is a complete nightmare.  I had wanted to be held and kissed and made love to.  This is not love.  But he is here in my home and I am condemned to endure this by my lack of assertiveness. It is not as if I can get up and walk out.

I feel him move away from me and open my eyes,  He has removed his vibrator and placed it on the table.  I do likewise, relieved.  He tells me to get on my knees and I suggest it might be better in the bedroom.

---

We move through there and I slip my knickers off.  Hiking my skirt up I kneel on the edge of the bed, upper body supported by one of my elbows, head resting on the forearm.  My free hand is cupping my genitals to keep them hidden.  I feel relieved as I hear a condom packet being torn open.  He moves to stand behind me and pauses.  Then he spits on me.

At the risk of repeating myself, what the fuck?  Talk about adding insult to impending anal injury.  I feel him rubbing his saliva into my hole.  Okay, I know why he did it, but spitting on me?  There have to be more respectful ways surely.

He presses against me and forces himself in.  I fight my instinct to resist, lets just get through this Vicki, be brave.  He starts thrusting.  I try to get into rhythm with him whilst also trying not to be pushed across the bed and off the other side, head first onto the floor.  It is almost pleasant, almost,  I think I could get off on this if it was with anyone else.

Then he slaps my ass.

My eyes widen.  Do people actually do that outside of porn?  Isn't that assault?  If he does that again I'll make him wish he hadn't.  He does it again.  I do nothing.

We carry on like this for a while, thrusting, slapping, trying not to hit the floor head first.  Eventually I feel him tense and jerk within me.  He pulls out and I fart.  In the circumstances I do not feel the need to apologise. 

He asks me to do him now.  I'm still kneeling on the bed with my head down but I crane my neck to look at him.

"No."

He looks confused and disappointed.  This makes me feel good, now he knows what it feels like.  I explain that I am transsexual.  I do not like or want my male bits.  I do not use my male bits, just the unisex parts.  He hesitates and I fear he is going to argue but intead he shrugs and excuses himself to go to the bathroom.

---

I remain in the same position, head down, bottom up, dazed by how the night has gone.  Where were my kisses, my hugs?  Was I not worth even the smallest show of affection?  Was I no more than a hole to be used as others pleased?  Was this to be my future?

I finally summon the willpower to stand and adjust my clothing, trying to look decent once more.  I sit on the edge of the bed.  Maybe he likes his foreplay after?  Perhaps the kisses and cuddles come now?  I look down at my untouched boobs, my proudest asset.  What a waste.  I so want to be held, to feel another's arms around me.  It is going to happen, I know it.  I smile.

He appears in the doorway holding his phone.  He is dressed as a guy again.

"I have to go, it's an emergency."

I look at him in disbelief.  Partly it is because I do not for one second think there is any emergency but mostly I can't believe he would go like this.  I am so naive.  I should have known this was coming.

I follow him into the living room where he collects his vibrator and Viagra.  I express polite concern about his 'emergency' and he gives noncommittal replies.  I walk him to the front door and he shuffles out avoiding eye contact.  The door closes behind him and I lock it before turning and leaning my back against it.  I sink to the floor, sitting there like an abandoned rag doll.  He came and went.  Shot his load and pissed off.  What a cunt.

I rise and make my way to the bathroom.  The condom floats accusingly in the toilet pan. I fish it out and pop it in the bin with a shudder.  I strip and have a scalding hot shower, washing every trace of him from my body.

---

Feeling much better now I wrap a towel around myself and return to the living room.  My vibrator gets cleaned and put back in the drawer.  The table gets some anti bacterial spray and a good wipe down.  I sit and sip at my drink.  I pull the laptop over and sign in.

The next one will be better, I know he will.  After all, how could anyone be worse?

The CD is still playing.  Brass in Pocket comes on.  I sing along quietly with Chrissie Hynde.

"I'm special, so special, I gotta have some of your attention, give it to me"

A solitary tear runs down my cheek leaving a lonely glistening trail in its wake.

Intercity Odyssey

God, I hate teenagers.

I push the shopping cart along the pavement, one wheel doing the obligatory wobble.  It is piled high with the bags that contain all my worldly possessions. a trans bag lady passing through a city that is synonymous with isolation.

Coventry is a wart on the arsehole of the universe.  I hate this city, with its soulless architecture and dead eyed youth.  I am leaving today for the Athens of the North, going home and not a moment too soon.  I came here nine months ago in search of work, finding a position in the accounts department of a major international courier.  My search for accommodation was less successful.  I rented a single room in a house of multiple occupancy where I grew mushrooms on the walls whenever it rained.  It rained a lot in Coventry.

I had to leave.  Work was pleasant enough but the nights and endless weekends were dungeons of loneliness that I could neither endure nor escape from.  The only people I knew were my co-workers and none of them seemed eager to be seen in the company of a six foot tall trans woman outside of work.  There was no obvious prejudice but my paranoia more than compensated for its absence.

I had handed in my notice after one particularly bad weekend watching water run down the wall across from my bed while contemplating playing noughts and crosses on my forearm with a Stanley knife.  I had completed the two vertical lines when I decided enough was enough  and wrote my letter of resignation instead.  Two weeks later and I was going home to Edinburgh.

I had left my room half an hour earlier, laden down with two large duffel bags and four smaller holdalls.  I struggled under the weight of them and was also regretting not having worn flat shoes.  I was debating with myself the merits of searching my bags for more appropriate footwear at the kerbside when I spotted the abandoned shopping cart on some waste ground.  Problem solved.

---

I wait on the platform surrounded by bags, waiting for the train to Birmingham where I will make my connection to Edinburgh.  I feel relaxed now, the hardest part of my journey is over. I push a loose strand of hair aside, tucking it behind my ear, and sip from a bottle of Coke.  I smile to myself, home soon.

I glance around as I hear footsteps and my shoulders stiffen.  Two teenage girls have joined me on the platform and are whispering to each other and looking at me.  I think I hear "ladyboy" and I turn my back on them, my face flushing.  I feel my ears burn as the blood rushes to them and I wonder if their red glow looks like a pair of brake lights from behind.

I have a phobia of teenagers.  They are big enough to be dangerous without the maturity or self awareness to control it.  These ones may be harmless but how can I tell?

A  voice behind me says "excuse me" and I reluctantly turn to face her.  Here we go again.

"Do you know when the London train is due?"

It is 'the test'.  One of them has been dared to get me to speak, hoping to hear a deep masculine voice to confirm their suspicions.  Been there, done that, bought more than enough t shirts, thank you very much.

I force a smile, not to be friendly but because it helps with the voice.  I feel my vocal chords stretch as I shift them into gear for my best female voice and answer her question.  She thanks me but looks disappointed, mission failed, no conclusive evidence exposed.  She returns to her friend and they go  into a huddle.  I turn away again but keep an eye on their reflection in the glass covering of a notice board.    I see that they are still firing glances in my direction.

My train arrives and I manage to get my bags on board without too much difficulty.  I stack them on the luggage racks and take a seat facing the platform.  The girls are staring at me through the window, more openly now as though the glass barrier renders them invisible.  The train doors close and I settle back in my seat. Goodbye Coventry, I wish I could say it had been a pleasure.  The train starts to move and I smile at the girls on the platform and flip them the bird.

---

I stare out of the window, seeing nothing.  My mind is miles and years away, back when it all started.

My first night out as me, inappropriately dressed in knee boots, denim mini and leather jacket.  It was so much about the clothes back then, a typical rookie mistake.  Going out looking like a hooker is a not uncommon error for the newly emerged transsexual.  I had it in spades.

I recall walking past a couple of drunks sitting on the pavement, each with a two litre bottle of  Strongbow clutched in their grimy hands. Their words were clear as I strutted past them.

"She's tall."

"She must be one of them supermodels."

Glowing with pride I walked on, not considering how blurred their vision must have been until much later.  I took out a cigarette and lit up, inhaling deeply then examining the lipstick ring that had appeared on the filter.  I had been so nervous leaving the house but now I knew that I would be fine.

Then I walked past the teenagers.

They were sitting on a wall and their heads turned as one to follow me.  They clearly recognised me for what I was, and cries of "tranny", "shemale", "ladyboy" and "she's got a dick" pursued me down the road like heart seeking missiles.  I was terrified as I expected words to be followed by blows but I couldn't run.  I literally could not  run, not on my first time out in four inch stilettos.

I walked as fast as I could, wobbling on my heels a couple of times to the accompaniment of gales of laughter from behind me.  I made my way home, head down, all too conscious of the unwanted tail between my legs.

---

I make my way unsteadily to the toilet on the train, avoiding eye contact with the other passengers.  I enter and lock the door behind me, lowering my jeans and sitting.  I am aware of a faint odour, as if I have been smuggling a fish supper in my knickers.  That's something no one warns you about when you transition, how hormones effect your natural scent.  Apparently it works in the opposite way for trans men too.  Pussies that smell of balls, balls that smell of pussy.  

Returning to my seat I once more gaze out of the window, houses passing by, fields, houses again, closer and closer to Birmingham and my train connection to home. We pass through a tunnel and the view is replaced with my reflection.  I wonder yet again how messed up my anatomy must be for my face to be my Achilles heel.  Makeup only does so much and I would be the first to admit I am no expert at applying it.  From certain angles I am passable and I turn my head to try and capture them.  I used to always wish that I had been born a girl but I increasingly find moments when I am grateful I was born trans for the perspective it gives me.  Sure, life is more challenging this way but I am naturally competitive. 

We emerge from the tunnel and approach New Street Station.  I move my bags to the doors and toss them out onto the platform as soon as the train stops.  The platform is deep underground but that won't be a problem.  I find a platform attendant and ask where the elevators are.  It turns out they don't have any.

Oh.

---

I move my bags to the foot of the stairs and look up at them.  Three flights with landings in between them.  They are wide, so I won't have to worry about blocking other people going up and down.  I hoist two bags onto each shoulder and take a duffel bag in each hand.  They seem to have gained weight since Coventry, perhaps Birmingham has stronger gravity?

I mount the first step, then the second.  Step follows step, agonisingly slowly, my arms and shoulders aching. I reach the first landing eventually and have to set the bags down and lean against the rail, hands shaking from the effort.  I look at the remaining flights of stairs.  No way.  But I have to.

I decide to try a different approach to the problem.  I take two bags up to the next landing and leave them there, returning for two more and then two more again.  This time it is my thighs that burn.  The summit is in reach so I make one last push.  By the third trip my legs are shaking so much that I miss a step and teeter for what feels like an eternity, my life flashing before my eyes as I anticipate a bumpy, painful, bone breaking return to the platform below.  I finally recover my balance somehow and make it to the top with my luggage.  Checking my watch I see it took me over twenty minutes to climb those stairs but I still have half an hour until the Edinburgh train is due so I sit on the biggest of my bags and rest for a moment.

I am in a long corridor  with numbered stairs leading down off it to the various platforms below, platform one at one end, platform twenty two at the other. At the midpoint is an board listing arrivals and departures so I reluctantly drape myself in bags and stagger along to read it.

My toes are hurting and I wish I'd worn my Nikes instead of these boots.  Vanity won out over common sense, because they do give me legs to die for.  Legs, my secret weapon.  Never mind the face, keep your eyes on those pins.  But, damn it, my feet hurt.

I see that I need to be on platform nineteen so I shuffle off in that direction.  I carry the bags down two at a time to each landing until I reach the platform, exhausted but relieved.  I sit on the largest bag again and check my watch.  I made it with ten minutes to spare.The worst is past, it took forever to move my bags between platforms but now I only need to lift them onto the train and I am home free.  Edinburgh will be easy, off the train, luggage trolley, taxi rank.

The worst is past.

---

I look at the people around me.  Three teenage boys are nearby, just my luck. I keep my head down and my eyes focused on the edge of the platform as I wait.

An announcement comes over the station Tannoy. 

"Platform alteration.  The one oh five for Edinburgh will now depart from platform one, would passengers for the one oh five to Edinburgh please make their way to platform one where the train is now arriving."

Time stops.  If this were a movie the camera would crash zoom in on my eyes as my world collapses.

The edge of the platform takes a new significance, but a pointless one as there is no incoming train to jump in front of.  No, that's on platform one at the other end of the station, isn't it?  My gaze turns to the stairs, an unclimbable mountain.  I look at my bags.  I think of my ticket, non transferable, it is this train or nothing for I have no money for another ticket.  I know in the pit of my stomach that my life has just ended here on platform nineteen of Birmingham New Street station.

Someone says something to me.  I look up and see the three teenage boys standing there.

"Pardon?"

"I said, excuse me Miss, do you know where platform one is?"

I smile.  

"Grab a bag each and follow me, I’ll show you"

God, I love teenagers.