Tina's Diary (2)
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It's no surprise to
me that, once
simplest and most ordinary
of daily events become a bit
complicated ... a bit
different. But then, of
course, as a pre-operative
transsexual, it's something
I'm getting used to...
January 8th Birmingham Airport- Home
Four hours to get through
that bloody airport! Met
what could have been nice
customs man and we got
very intimate - no phone
number tho', thank God.
Can't sit down, so unpacked
- wow did that bring back
The sound of the powdered latex glove
closing tightly around the wrist of the greysuited
customs official ricocheted around the
small room like a shot from a Purdey
What is it about me, Customs and
Excise officials and body-searches? Granted,
I am one of those people who always looks
guilty, even on those odd occasions when I've
forgotten to buy duty-frees, but surely such
an intimate investigation is just a tad
excessive for being twenty Dunhill
International over my limit...
I felt the probing finger flex inside me.
Perhaps it was my own fault - I had been in
a bit of a daze as I passed through customs,
thinking more about my holiday and life back
in England than the dangers of officialdom.
Life's a beach...
After braving the hotel residents and the
poolside, I had ventured forth and made my
way to the nudist section of the resort's
fantastic stretch of windswept sand-duned
beach. And the terms 'windswept' and 'sandduned'
were no exaggeration. Climbing up
and down the twenty-foot-high dunes was
totally exhausting and, after its fiftieth
rendition, humming the theme to Lawrence
of Arabia began to lose its attraction.
However, after twenty minutes of staggering
up hill and down dale, I found myself
ensconced at Beach Number 7 (just in front
of the evening cruising and dogging section).
At last I was able to appreciate the
fantastic surroundings, the majestic features
and dazzling colours... of hundreds of naked
male and female bodies.
Drifting off to sleep as the nearby waves
lapped enticingly at the golden sand and the
sun beat down on my naked body, I was
startled to sense impending danger.
I lifted myself up and looked around -
presenting a superb target for the pebble
that had been tossed in my direction.
Eventually the flow of blood was
stemmed and, apart from a small cut on my
forehead, no damage could be seen. My
'would-be' assailants, a couple from Leyland
called Jack and Judy, explained sheepishly
that they had merely been trying to get my
attention. They were so contrite that I
soon found myself at ease and happily
accepted their offer to move to one of
the many stone 'oases' built on the
beach to provide shelter and some
privacy. There, it was agreed, they
would rub sun-tan oil into my back
and I could relax for a while before
joining them at their apartments for
dinner. In return, I would 'mind' their
belongings while they went for a
swim in the sea.
To be honest, being pampered in
such a fashion was so enjoyable that
once again I found myself close to sleep.
As I relaxed I answered their questions
about myself and the conversation took on
an almost hypnotic quality. Judy's massaging
became almost sensual as I explained that,
to all intents and purposes, my function as a
man was virtually obsolete. The circling of
her hands became harder and faster as Jack
poured more suntan oil on to my back,
his conversation faltering as he did so.
Then suddenly the oil felt distinctly
heavier and it splattered across my back
as if from a great height. I felt Judy lean
across me and begin to lap languidly at
the fluid. I looked up at Jack to see him
standing over me, penis in hand, a single
translucent milky droplet the lone
remains of his recent ejaculation.
Judy slowly edged her way up my
body until she kissed me gently on the
lips. 'I hope that you didn't mind' she
murmured softly. Finding that I suddenly
had a mouth full of warm salty cum, I merely
smiled and ground myself against her body.
Sometime later I found myself alone,
the coating of sand plastered over my body
the sole reminder of the afternoon's
encounter. After a bracing dip in the blue
Atlantic waters I watched the slowly
diminishing numbers of bathers
cavorting on the beach.
A night in prospect
As for myself, pleased to be free from the
constant battle with my by-now-infamous
'miracle non-slip silicone bra and breastenhancer,'
I buried myself into the sand and
dreamed of the night's activities to come.
Did I mention that most of my evenings
had been spent in Playa De Ingles' largest
commercial and entertainment centre - the
Yumbo Centrum? During the day, about two
hundred shops and restaurants did their best
to tempt me, but it was in the evening that
the Yumbo came alive.
Much like the Canal Street area of
Manchester, the Yumbo appeals mostly to
the gay community, but is also popular with
families, couples and single visitors.
About sixty bars open their doors each
evening, offering a brazen mixture of
karaoke, live acts, cabaret and the Yumbo
speciality - drag and transvestite acts of all
types. Amid the cacophony, the crane-like
silhouette of the 'Skyrider' soared into the
night sky, ready to hurl intrepied thrillseekers
And so it was, full of expectation, I had
first sallied forth to discover the labyrinth of
'dark rooms', 'sauna clubs' and wild stageshows.
I made my tentative foray through
the pink portals of the Yumbo Centrum on a
journey that was to be the first of many such
visits during my holiday.
The main square, where public
exhibitions and entertainment took place,
was absolutely packed. Thick cables snaked
across the floor, linking camera-operators
with their director. I was intrigued, wondering
what hedonistic outpouring warranted such
publicity. At the end of the day, the Yumbo
was not a seedy place, indeed, of all the
commercial centres on the island, it was the
Yumbo that had the reputation for being
both the safest and the friendliest.
Shyly pushing myself through the
hordes to the front of the square, I stood
rooted to the spot by the spectacle before
my eyes. Massive banners proclaimed the
'World Competition for Geriatric Exponents
of Pilates'.With ribbons fluttering, a mass of
octogenarians went slowly through their
routines - each troupe representing a
particular country - roared on by their
supporters.With alarm I saw the Great
Britain team mounting the stage and closed
my eyes, half convinced that, had I opened,
them I would have seen my mother in a
dayglo orange leotard.
I made my way to my bar of choice - The
Block - and ordered the first of many drinks
required to soothe my nerves.
Now, I am no Ingrid Bergman but, 'Of all
the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the
world', The Block was the least likely to
receive a transsexual's custom. Heavily
established as a leather bar, you'd have
needed a hedge-clipper to get through the
moustaches to the bar. That said, it had a
happy hour (images of the Magic
Roundabout and Mr Rusty's moustache
circling clock-like on his face), a dark room,
and very friendly staff and owner. I often
found myself 'locked in' until close at six or
seven am, when we would adjourn to the
Construction Disco Bar to finish off the day.
As each day passed, I noticed that the
clientele was changing, and more 'trannies'
were in evidence. It transpired that the staff
had passed word around that they had a
genuine transsexual customer, and had
invited all of the girls from the cabaret bars
to join me at the end of the evening.
It may have been these thoughts that
made me pass, trance-like, through the green
channel in the customs shed...
Back to the matter in hand!
It now felt as though I was being fisted.Was
the person conducting the body-search part
of some weird efficiency drive? And why is it,
when you hoped that the 'body connected to
the arm-bone, connected to the wrist-bone,
connected to the fist' would belong to some
Prince Charming who (after washing his
hands) would proceed to sweep me off my
feet, that the reality, from what little I
remembered of the Customs Official, bore an
uncanny resemblance to Shrek?
Come to that, the bastard hadn't even
looked me in the face. He had just asked a
few perfunctory questions and then whisked
me off to the examination room.
Now there are memorable times when
you might find yourself in an interesting
position with a relative stranger, unable to
recall their eye-colour or, on occasion, even
their name. Those dark rooms spring to mind
- as does enjoying a spit-roast at some party
or other. However, I don't consider being
turned inside out by some grey-faced, greysuited
man to be one of those occasions.
Eventually, having logged all of my
internal organs but found nothing suspicious,
he released me, leaving me to limp gingerly
out of the airport.
Why does it always rain on me?
Possibly the fact that I am Northern Irish is
to blame for the frequency of the stripsearches,
but I fear that it is more likely to be
my gender dysphoria.
Oh how I wish that I was post-op - or at
least time-served enough to have a full
gender recognition certificate. But changing
gender isn't easy.
I astounded my phlebotomist, by telling
her that it wasn't simply a case of chucking
down the hormones and having a piece of
paper saying that my name was now Tina.
Looking back a few years, I can see that as
with most things, patience is the key and
everything takes time...
September 8th Doctor's appointment-home
Today was the big day -
appointment to see doc in
pm to discuss my
dysphoria. Poor man.
Then home, where I will
have to tell Mum. Oh
my God - how do I tell my
boys? Feel like I've been
run over and dragged by a
Rolls Royce - bruised but
elated at eventually
travelling in style.
You want to what?!
Well, today was the day - in one way the
beginning of my new life but, more
importantly, freedom from my old one.
There was a long wait to see the doctor
- a locum covering for my usual doctor in
Lancaster. Eventually my name was called
and I made my way into his room. How do
you say to a doctor that you are convinced
that you were born the wrong gender? Being
incredibly firm, I asked him to refer me to a
gender psychiatrist to start the ball rolling
for gender reassignment. I have never seen
anybody go quite so grey quite so quickly.
'But it's Friday afternoon. I do coughs and
colds on Friday afternoons'. Stammering his
apologies he fled the room. After a few
minutes he returned and gave me
the cold facts:
- Waiting time to see
the initial psychiatrist:
- After referral to a gender
psychiatrist at a gender
unit, I could expect an
appointment in a further
- A second appointment
would be made to see if
the subject was suitable
I hazarded a guess that this would be after a
further six months - and reluctantly he
confirmed that that was the case.
The long view
So it takes eighteen months before it is even
decided if a transsexual can be treated. Only
at this stage is it possible that female
hormones could be prescribed. A full genderrecognition
certificate will then take a
further two years, and at some point after
that it may be possible to have sexual
reassignment surgery. Like I said ... 'patience'.
But if it's difficult for me, then consider
what it was going to be like for my loved
ones - family, ex-wife, sons and new partner.
How on earth would they take the news?
January 22nd Party at Vic's.
Today I helped do the food
for my mate's house-party,
and in pm bought required
party games. He went to
the football - but it gave me
time to entertain his female
friend who was hosting...
Mmmmm. Then met
Helen, got hit by lightning
bolt - mind you she was
fluffing her lines. Missed
rest of party - spent night
with Helen in Vic's bed.
Won prize for prettiest
cock - typical
What a day! Because my oldest mate Vic
knew that I had been introduced to swinging
years before by my father, and had gone on
to have an active lifestyle in London, he
asked if I would like to attend one that he
was arranging.What he actually meant was,
could I take him to football, buy party
games, set up the video-players, help him to
prepare food for thirty, blow up airbeds and
collect Vee from the railway station?
Well, he is my oldest friend - we go
back nearly forty years and he would do the
same for me - so it was a pleasure.
Jobs all done on time, the guests began
to arrive. Being 'shy', I hovered around in the
kitchen, but then guests began to appear at
both front and back doors. 'Sod it', I thought,
and began to kiss the new entrants on
arrival. Suddenly a newcomer at the front
door took my eye, so I scampered past other
revellers and before we knew it we were in a
clinch. That was my first meeting with Helen.
The party needed something to lift it, so Vee
started one of her favourite party games.
Five blindfolded female guests had to
recognise which member belonged to which
member. Of course, only the mouth could be
used on the ten lucky male guests. For some
reason I was chosen as one of them (well ok,
being best friend of the host helped) and I
was led to the stairwell where a fluffer was
ensuring that everything was standing proud.
No prizes to guess whose mouth was doing
such an excellent job - suffice to say that I
nearly missed the competition. However,
I did participate, and a female winner was
duly announced, having recognised seven of
the ten cocks. On the male side, I was
awarded the prize for the prettiest cock - the
third time that has happened - like I say,
unlike some transsexuals I don't hate my
cock, I just wish it was on somebody else.
Well, the rest of the party was a blur,
ending up with breakfast at Vic's with Vee,
Helen and a few other party-goers. Little did
I know then that we would see each other
almost daily, burning a furrow on the road
between Stoke and Lancaster.
Unbelievably, within two weeks a
serious-faced Helen took me to one side and
said that she had to tell me something.
'There is something you simply have to
know,' she said nervously, 'one of my best
friends is a transvestite.' Trying hard to
keep a straight face, I took a deep breath
and, holding her gently by the shoulders,
said 'and there is something you simply
have to know...'
More episodes from
Tina's complicated life
in Issue 3...