Suzy takes on the world - Part Two - Tough Love

Suzy tipped some milk into a saucer for her new kitten, Lucky, who gratefully began lapping it up.

Mum had not been happy when Suzy had brought the stray kitten home "I work my fingers to the bone to put food in your belly and clothes on your back" she had ranted "And how do you thank me?  By bringing home yet another mouth to feed!"

But, as Suzy had known all along, once Mum picked the kitten up and stroked it, she was won over.  She still made a show of grumbling about the costs of food, cat litter and vets' bills, but Suzy knew Lucky had a home for good.

But bringing Lucky home meant that Suzy had had to put off, yet again, telling mum that she need a hundred pounds for the forthcoming school trip to Paris.  God knows when she was going to break the news!

Suzy finished her breakfast and washed up the dishes for herself, her brother Damian (who was the apple of mum's eye and excused all chores) and mum before heading out for the bus.  As she emerged from the main door of Royale Mansions, she noticed a gang of youths hanging about.  One of them wolf-whistled as he saw Suzy in her school uniform.  Suzy flushed and hurried away from the vicinity of the gang as soon as possible.

These gangs ruled the estates and had done for years.  They were made up of unemployed (and Suzy suspected unemployable) young men who considered parts of the vast estate of which Royale Mansions was one small part, as their "territory".  The gangs frequently fought amongst themselves for control of a little bit more of the estate as well as preying on the weak and vulnerable and committing all kinds of crime.

Every so often, a convoy of police vehicles would roar up to the estate, spew out an army of armoured men wielding batons and riot shields, round up a goodly number of suspects, and haul them off to "help the police with their enquiries" as the authorities termed the objective of the operation.  Police crackdowns on the estate were intermittent though, and the gangs more or less had a free hand.

The gangs were mostly male and certainly male-dominated, but there were also girls.  As well as being girlfriends of gang members, girls were useful for smuggling weapons or drugs past the police whereas a young male was almost guaranteed to be searched for such items.

Suzy shuddered.  If she had not been so clever in school she could easily end up like one of those girls, or else lumbered with a platoon of kids by the time she was twenty.  That was the other fate of girls who lived on this estate.

Suzy quickened her pace, anxious to get away from the estate that had the capacity to so destroy lives before they even began.

On the way to school, Suzy could not help but blame the problems of the estate, not to mention the world, on men.  Men ran the gangs, ran criminal organisations, ran the economy, ruled most of the world and indulged in endless conflict in which mainly women and children were the victims. Women still seemed to have little say in how the world was run despite now surpassing males academically, entering the workplace in greater numbers, occupying positions of power and earning more than ever before.  Women were proving that they were better and more compassionate leaders.  But there were still too few of them in positions of power to make any real difference.  In spite of everything, it was still a man's world.  It was all so depressing!

It was Games first thing and Suzy trooped out with the rest of the girls with her form to play hockey.  Suzy found the game tedious and wished that girls were allowed to play football or rugby instead.  The school authorities still laboured under the mistaken belief that girls were too fragile to play "boys' sports".

The game began, and, as it progressed, Suzy became aware that Belinda Fox and her two cronies, Helen Goff and Rosie Doyle, playing on the opposing team, seemed to have it in for her for some reason.  Come to think of it, Rosie had tried to trip Suzy up on the way to the playing field.  Now Suzy found herself tackled by each of the girls, even though the action was happening some distance away.  Finally, Belinda whacked Suzy on the leg with her stick.  Searing pain dominated Suzy's mind, and she collapsed into the mud.

She dimly heard the Games' Mistresses' whistle and sensed that the game had stopped and that the other girls had crowded around her.  Suzy saw the face of the Games Mistress, Miss Pringle, full of concern.  She examined Suzy's leg.

"That's a nasty bruise you're going to have there" she concluded "We'll have to get you to the nurse to check that there are no broken bones!"  She ordered the two biggest girls to help Suzy back to the main school block where she could receive medical attention.

As she hobbled away, she heard Belinda say, in the sweet innocent voice that she was able to put on "Honest Miss, it was an accident!  Tell her, Helen, Rosie, you were there".

"Yeah, that's right, Miss.  An unlucky accident" the two other girls chorused.

Miss Pringle sighed.  She had been on the other side of the field when the incident had happened and so had seen nothing. "Alright.  Just be more careful next time, ok?"

"Yes, Miss.  Sorry Miss" said Belinda in that sweet, sugary voice.

Suzy had to sit in the nurse's room for the next hour and so miss her next lesson.  She wondered why Belinda had suddenly become so implacably hostile towards her.  Normally, Belinda and her friends pretended Suzy didn't exist, but at least they left her alone.  It was a real puzzle.

The nurse had examined Suzy's leg and confirmed that no bones were broken, but that it would hurt for a few days.  Suzy was released in time for the lunch break.  Suzy had her dinner alone, as usual, and then repaired to the toilets to check out her leg.

There was a deep purple bruise on her shin.  If Suzy pulled her socks up to their fullest extent, it would hide it for a while, but eventually the socks would ride down and expose the bruise. Damn!

The main door to the toilets opened to admit Belinda, Rosie and Helen.  Suzy was about to say something colourful to Belinda about what she had done to her leg but thought better of it when she saw Belinda's face, full of hostility.

"Well, well" said Belinda "Found you at last!  Have you been hiding from us?"

"No" Suzy replied "What's going on Belinda?  First you tackle me, then wallop me with a hockey stick..."

"Grab her!" Belinda ordered, by way of answer.  Moments later, Suzy was pinned and helpless in the grasp of two bigger, stronger girls.

Satisfied that Suzy was powerless to resist, Belinda cupped Suzy's face with one hand "I'll tell you what's going on, you little slut, you've been making eyes at Kevin Connor!  My boyfriend!"

"But...I didn't know he had a girlfriend, honest!  And he only asked me to help him with his French!".

Belinda laughed "I'll bet he did!  French kissing!  He's rather good at it, actually, and I know that better than anyone!  So....slut.  If I see you anywhere near him again, you'll be sorry!  Understood?"

Frightened, Suzy nodded.

"Good" said Belinda, releasing Suzy's face.  "Ok, girls, you know what to do with the little tart".

Grinning, Rosie and Helen hauled Suzy into the nearest cubicle.  Suzy tried to resist, but was too weak against the strength of two girls.  They thrust her head down the toilet bowl and flushed the lavatory.  Suzy screamed as the cold water hit her, and with the humilation.

"Let that be a lesson to you" were Belinda's parting words "Stay away from MY boyfriend!".  The three girls departed, leaving a soggy and sobbing Suzy alone in the cubicle.

Once she had composed herself, Suzy looked at herself in the mirror.  Her hair was a mess!  It looked like someone had thrown a bucket a water over her.  Suzy did her best to dry herself off, but her efforts could not hide that she was soaking wet.

She knew she couldn't attend class in the state she was in, so made for the warmth of the school library to dry off.  She managed to make her last class, maths, but remembered that she had to meet Kevin afterwards to help him with his french essay.

In spite of Belinda's warnings, Suzy had made a promise and meant to keep it, so she returned to the library.  Kevin was late and arrived a quarter hour after they had agreed.  He gave her a smile, which made all the trials of Suzy's day suddenly seem worthwhile.  Then he handed her the essay.

Suzy sat down and studied it.  Miss Penchat had written more than Kevin had.  Suzy could imagine the overweight French Mistress furiously scribbling on the essay in her red pen, appalled at the desecration of her native tongue.  The essay really was awful.  Kevin clearly had no talent for French.  Suzy's baby brother, Aaron, probably could have done better.

Suzy gently suggested that they should start again from scratch.  She dictated whilst Kevin wrote.  Occasionally, they had to stop whilst Suzy corrected Kevin execrable attempts at French, but almost an hour and a half later, it was done.

"Perhaps we could go for a drink?  The school cafe should still be open" Suzy suggested hopefully.  Let Belinda Fox be damned!

"Nah, sorry.  Got footie practice.  Thanks for your help though!  Gotta dash!"  Kevin was gone before Suzy could say anything.

Suzy was deflated again. In spite of helping him (rewriting the whole bloody thing more like!) and being nice, Kevin had not shown the slightest interest in her.  In fact, he had been eager to get away from her as soon as he had what he needed.

Life was tough.  Love was tougher.

Suzy takes on the world - Part One - Heart of Gold

Suzy Stanton leapt off the bus, her skirt flying and with her faded brown satchel bumping against her small body.

Ignoring the other passengers who had alighted from the vehicle, mainly old people who she didn't know and other pupils from her school who pretended that she did not exist, Suzy walked determinedly away and in the direction of Royale Mansions, as the Tower block where she lived with her mother and siblings, was ironically called.

Most people just referred to it as "The Dustbin". For the rubbish members of society. For people who had done nothing with their lives and expected handouts from the state.

Suzy's stride slowed as she approached the monumental building, its grey slab-like exterior jutting high into the sky. The sight of this bleak icon of human failure was enough to make any human spirit quail.

As if on cue, a grey, light drizzle broke out, as if to add to the gloom. Suzy steeled herself and made herself pick up her pace. It wasn't Mum's fault that they were forced to live in this dump!

Suzy entered the monolithic edifice by means of a shabby door covered with graffitti. Suzy had no idea what the door's original colour might have been. Suzy ignored the lift. It was never working at the best of times. The gangs on the estate vandalised the lifts quicker than the cash-strapped council could fix them, so they only bothered when enough residents complained.

After an exhausting climb up four sets of stairs, Suzy emerged into a dimly lit corridor with five nearly identical doors studded along each side. Suzy marched along to Flat 415, produced her key from her purse, and opened the door into the one part of the world that belonged to her family.

Well, actually, it belonged to the council, and Mum rented it from them, but as long as the rent was paid no-one bothered them. The tower block was so notorious as festering hole for roaming gangs of young males drugs and violent crime that not even the most hardy door to door caller dared to show their face.

Suzy could hear the news blaring from the telly the instant that she opened the door. This was accompanied by the sound of a baby wailing and the fainter sound of raggae music emanating from the closed door of her older brother's room.

Suzy entered the living room to find her mother gently handling Suzy's baby brother, Aaron, in an attempt to calm him down. It didn't seem to be working, judging from the volume coming from Aaron's vocal chords.

Mum spotted Suzy and immediately brightened "Hello, love. Did you have a good day at school?"

Suzy nodded. It HAD been a good day at school. A very good day. But Suzy did not want to discuss it with her mother. It would just add to her problems.

Mum passed Aaron over to Suzy "Be a love and take baby for me whilst I fix you some tea!". Mum disappeared into the kitchen and the sound of the fridge door and other doors being opened and closed could be heard. Then there was the sound of the microwave.

Suzy sat down and bounced her little brother on her knee. It seemed to help his mood a little and he became calm and quiet, gurgling happily.

Mum came back into the living room and sat down heavily. She looked wan and exhausted :"What a day I've had! First of all, I had to sort out the phone bill. How the hell they can try and charge me so much when I hardly even use my mobile gets me! I had words with "Robert, your friendly customer services representative". I told where he could stick his economy friendly tariff!"

Mum went on in a similar vein about almost every detail of her entire day. The trouble she had had at the laundrette. At the supermarket. The Post Office. Suzy listened to her with a mixture of boredom and sadness.

She loved her mum. More than anyone else in the world. It was not mum's fault that she was reduced to doing three cleaning jobs and claiming benefits to make ends meet. But having to listen to her describing her daily struggles against a world that was (according to her) against her was depressing.

Suzy's sadness was replaced by a surge of anger at her father. Her father, who she loved more than anyone else in the world and for whom Suzy had been his "special little princess", had shown his true colours by running off with another woman whilst Mum was still pregnant with Aaron. Mum had been fighting to keep the family afloat ever since he had suddenly and inexplicably disappeared almost a year ago.

Suzy had tried to keep in contact with her father. She had written to him and phoned him, seeking answers, an explanation as to why he had abandoned those he had once professed to love. Dad had changed his phone number and moved away. Suzy's letter were returned, unopened.

The mystery woman with whom Dad had walked out on his family for was just that. A mystery. The rumour was that he had hooked up with some minor celebrity or rich businesswoman. The wildest rumours linked him with a world famous actress. Suzy didn't know, or care, who the other woman was, only that she had stolen her Dad from her.

Suzy looked up at the section of wall above the mantlepiece. There was a square shaped patch of wallpaper that was slightly brighter in colour than the dingy white surround. That was where Mum and Dad's wedding photo had been ever since Suzy could remember. Until the day after Dad had left. Now, as far as Mum was concerned, Dad was a non-person. There were no photos of him and she never spoke about him. Mum didn't even (as far as Suzy knew at least) chase Dad for maintenance payments that the family needed and were entitled to. Mum had erased Dad out of her life as if he was an old episode of Coronation Street on a videotape.

Suzy ate her tea quietly and watched the news. More trouble in the Middle East. Crime rates in the UK were on the increase again, probably due to the ongoing recession and high unemployment that prevailed. Especially amongst younger and older men. There never seemed to be any happy news!

Suzy's older brother, Damian, emerged from his room and plopped himself down next to Suzy on the sofa. He had already eschewed his school uniform in favour of jeans and a T-Shirt. At fourteen, Damian was already tall. Far taller than Suzy. And had the cockiness and cheek of lads of his age. After ordering Mum to get him some food, Damian picked up the remote control and began flicking through the channels.

Mum brought him his tea on a tray and handed it to him and Damian began to wolf it down. Mum looked at her eldest child affectionately.

"You're growing fast Damian. Before long, you'll be taller than your f.....I mean, me. How did your maths test go this afternoon?"

"I aced it, Mum. Aced it" Damian assured her, between mouthfuls of food "Piece of cake".

Mum ruffled his hair playfully "You're a good boy. Keep up with your schooling and you'll make something of yourself".

Damian grunted and resumed eating.

Suzy gave her brother a sceptical glance and retreated to her room. She would have to wash the dishes later, for that was one of her chores, but for now she had something more pleasant to occupy her thoughts. Her French homework.

For two hours, Suzy was able to lose herself in her schoolwork. For two hours, the rest of the world outside her bedroom door did not exist. Suzy put the finishing touches to her essay, all written in perfect french, before proudly putting it into a folder. Suzy had completed the essay a week early but had been so keen to launch into it.

For the last year, if not longer, History, Biology, Chemistry, Mathematics, Literature, Physics, Geography and French had become her most stalwart friends. French especially was her most favourite topic. Suzy also had to do compulsory modules in Home Economics and Needlework, in which she had no interest, and in Physical Education, which she sometimes loved and hated in equal measure. But even allowing for the fact that she had no real friends at school, Suzy enjoyed school and loved schoolwork.

Suzy put the folder into her satchel (It was actually Mum's old satchel from her own schooldays).  Then she took out a small square of white paper.  It was this piece of paper that could cause Suzy much joy - and her mum much worry.  It seemed amazing to Suzy that a single sheet of paper could be so potentially life changing.  But it was true.

Suzy looked at her door, envisaging her mum either bustling about doing chores or otherwise sitting down watching TV with little Aaron perched on her knee.  Aaron was growing all the time and mum was moaning only the other day about how expensive baby and toddler clothes were.

Suzy put the square of paper back in her satchel.  Let mum enjoy another evening without the worry that Suzy was, unwittingly, about to visit upon her.

The following morning, only ten minutes before Double French, found Suzy studying herself in the girls' toilets.  Suzy stood at five feet and two inches exactly.  She was not small, she reminded herself, she was petite, the more polite word for small.  Suzy had mousy brown hair and plain face out of which two light green eyes beheld the world.

Suzy also had larger hands than were usual for a female of her age and size and dumpy little legs.  Still, this was all she had to work with.  She hitched her skirt up as high as it would go, brushed her hair and tied a white ribbon in it.  Suzy thought that she already looked younger and more vulnerable.  Perfect!

It was time to put her plan, Operation Kevin, into motion.

Suzy sidled into the classroom.  Kevin, a tall, handsome, dark haired boy, was sitting with his mates, laughing and joking about something or other.  To Suzy's intense disappointment, Kevin didn't even seem to notice her.

Suzy wished that she had a compact and lipstick so that she could make an exhibition of herself for Kevin's benefit, but girls her age weren't allowed to carry make up in school, let alone wear any.  Sighing, Suzy concentrated on the lesson.

Mademoiselle Penchat, the French Mistress, who had long ago ceased to be young enough to merit the title of "Mademoiselle", but still insisted on using it, first handed back the last essay that every student had been required to submit.

Mademoiselle Penchat hovered by Suzy's desk and handed her her marked essay with an indulgent smile "Tre bion, mademoiselle!".  Suzy glowed with pride when she saw she had received the maximum number of points possible.

Then Mademoiselle Penchat frowned and spoke softly so that only Suzy could hear"Mademoiselle Stanton, I'm still waiting for your parent's permission slip and cheque for the deposit for our class trip to Paris....."

Suzy almost cursed aloud.  This damned trip!  A fortnight ago, Mademoiselle Penchat had informed the class that she had arranged a weekend trip to Paris, to soak up the ambience and the culture of the French capital.  They would visit the Arc de Triumphe, the Louvre, Notre Dame Cathedral, and, of course, the Eiffel Tower, along with a load of lesser museums and visitor attractions.

Suzy wanted to go with all her heart........but the deposit alone was one hundred pounds!  It would take a further two hundred pounds to pay for the whole trip and accommodation, plus Suzy would need some spending money.  There wouldn't be much change out of five hundred pounds.

Suzy doubted if mum had a fiver on her at the moment.  She would probably have a heart attack if Suzy rolled up to her and asked for five hundred pounds!

Suzy forced herself to look up at Mademoiselle calmly "I'll have the form in by next week" she said "I gave it to my mum, but she must have forgotten about it.  I'll remind her when I get home".

Mademoiselle Penchat beamed again and patted Suzy lightly on the arm "Excellent!  What a wonderful time we will have in gay Paris!".  The large French Mistress whistled "La Marseille" as she wobbled back to her place at the front of the class.

Suzy usually enjoyed French but was deflated that "Operation Kevin" had failed and miserable because she knew she would somehow have to break the news to mum about the Paris trip, and soon, if she was to keep her promise to Mademoiselle Penchat.

That Suzy's performance in class was a little below par than usual was barely noticed.  This was due to Mademoiselle's attention largely being taken up by the boys in the class.  The boys, including Kevin, tended to congregate at the back of the class, were always talking and laughing about something, and, because most of them were rubbish at French, threw ink pellets and other improvised missiles when they thought Mademoiselle Penchat wasn't looking, as a way to amuse themselves.

By the end of the two hour lesson, more than one boy had been given detention, and one other boy was ordered to report to the headmaster's office at the end of class.

Suzy stared at the boys in a mixture of awe and disbelief.  Awe that they had the cheek to flout authority and disbelief that they were wasting their talents indulging in silly pranks.  It seemed to be the same in every class. The girls got their heads down and studied while most of the boys just messed around and disrupted the class.

No wonder that girls were doing so much better in school than boys nowadays.  Suzy was aware of the current trend of the underachievement of boys and the spectacular success of girls in stark contrast.  Every new set of examination results seemed to confirm that the girls were pulling further and further ahead at every level of education, leaving the boys way behind.

Suzy was suddenly very glad that she was a girl.

A weary Mademoiselle Penchat dismissed the class and collapsed heavily into her chair as her pupils filed out.

Suzy hovered in the corridor, re-arranging her bags and checking she had her work book for her next class, Chemistry.  She did.  Relaxing, Suzy closed her satchel.  She heard a cough, looked up, and saw Kevin of all people standing in front of her.

"Hi" he said, in a deep masculine tone "Suzy Stanton, isn't it?"

Startled by Kevin's very sudden interest in her, Suzy nodded.

"I'm Kevin. Kevin Connor".

"I know" Suzy replied, wondering where this was leading.

"Good.  I heard you were a smart girl.  I could use some help with my French essay.  Mademoiselle Penchat said it was so bad that I'd have to write it again.  And you are the star of French Class, are you not".

"Well" said Suzy "I wouldn't go that far, but I seem to be good at French, yes"

"So....will you help me?"

The chance to be around Kevin was too good to miss, so Suzy said "Sure thing!"

They agreed to meet up in the school library the following day, after class.  Kevin turned on his heel and marched off happily.  Suzy almost fainted with happiness.

It was almost dark by the time Suzy got off the bus outside Royale Mansions.  It had been a good day at school. Especially with the prospect of spending time with Kevin tomorrow!  But Suzy still had to tell mum about the expensive French trip.

Suzy walked past a row of trashbins and gasped in shock as she saw a small tabby kitten pathetically trying to claw open a sack of rubbish and mewling.  Suzy's heart went out to the poor little mite. Whoever had abandoned the kitten must have been heartless.  It was just like abandoning a baby.

The kitten looked up hopefully at Suzy with its big saucer-like eyes.  It seem to be saying, without sound, "please help me".  Without hesitation, Suzy scooped the little ball of fur up into her arms.  Mum probably wouldn't be happy at having another mouth to feed, even one as small as the kitten's, but, like Suzy, she had a heart of gold.

"Girlz Rule"

"Girlz Rule" was a TV show that ran from 2019 to 2025.

The show was unique in that it was produced, written and presented by teenage girls. Many of these girls went on to become successful Producers and Directors in later life.

The show dealt with many topics of interest to its target audience of girls and young women, including how to succeed at school and university, building a career and, of course, dating.

But often, the show focused on the growing superiority of girls and the decline of boys.

The show opener always showed a girl dressed in a purple fairy outfit, with a tiara and a wand. A boy is shown beside the girl dressed in a cowboy outfit complete with a hat and wielding a revolver. The girl looks at the boy and waves her wand. For a moment, the screen is a sea of fairy stars. When the stars disappear, the girl is dressed in the cowboy outfit and smiling whilst the boy finds himself in the fairy outfit. He looks less than happy with his transformation.

The caption "Girlz Rule" then appears and hovers above the cross-dressed pair.

Many of the episodes featured girls who had, by fair means or foul, forced a brother or other male relative, into girls' clothes. These included:

"Maid to Serve Me": Janice's brother makes a bet with her. If she loses, she has to be her brother's maid for six months and wear a particularly frilly maid's outfit. But she wins and to her brother's horror she decides as her forfeit that he would become HER maid. And have to wear the humiliating costume he had intended Janice to wear.

Transcript "Hi Girls! My name is Janice. I'd like to introduced you to my big brother. (Raises voice to a bark) Freddie! Come here at once!"

A large boy enters the room. He is dressed in a maid's outfit. The frilled skirt is too short and the ruffles of his panties can clearly be seen. He is also wearing fishnet tights, high heels, a blonde wig and make up, as well as the overly frilly apron and cap.

"Yes, Mistress?" the boy asks dully.

"Smile for a camera like a good little maid!"

The boy forces his coated lips into a smile.

Janice addresses the camera "This is my brother Freddie. As you can see, he has become my maid and a very pretty one he makes too, don't you think? Freddie has to do ANYTHING I tell him for the next five months! He has to wash and iron my clothes, cook me dinner, do all my chores as well as his own and do so with a smile on his face. Isn't that so, Freddie!"

"Yes Mistress" the boy confirms.

The doorbell sounds.

"Ah" says Janice with a smile "That'll be my girlfriends. Well, Freddie, don't keep them waiting! Go and answer the door!"

The boy drops a curtsey in acknowledgement and goes to answer the door. There are howls of girlish laughter.

The scene changes to the swimming pool where Janice and her four friends are reclining on sun loungers, clad in swimsuits and wearing designer sunglasses. Freddie is just finishing putting nail varnish on the last set of toes of the last girl.

Janice inspects his work "Mmmm. Not bad Freddie. You are starting to get good at this!"

Janice turns to the camera "Girls! I strongly recommend that you turn your idiot brothers into maids! Freddie is a far better maid than a brother. And prettier too! Oh, before I go, I have one more little job for Freddie!"

Janice removes a hankie from her bosom and allows it to flutter to the floor "Freddie! Pick that up at once!"

"Yes, Mistress". The boy bends over to retrieve the hankie. His skirt rides up to show off his ruffled panties. The camera pans in so that the screen is filled with Freddie's frilled bottom and the caption "Girlz Rule" appears.

"My Brother becomes a Girl Cheerleader!"

Transcript

A girl hobbles into view on crutches "Hi Girls! I'm Abbi. Usually, I wouldn't have time to do a show like this as my favourite thing to do is cheerleading!"

"But....due to my imbecile of a brother, Josh, and his stupid prank, I broke my leg, so my cheerleading days are on hold. Our cheerleading coach was really miffed at losing her star cheerleader and being a girl short so she decided that as Josh had caused the problem, he would have to take my place!"

The scene shifts to a sportsfield where Abbi is standing next to a large figure dressed in a cheerleader's uniform complete with the tiny skirt and pom poms. The boy's head is down and away from the camera "Meet Josh, the newest member of the cheerleading squad, or, as he is known to the other girls, Josie! Come on Josie, don't go all shy on me! Let's see those moves!"

The boy performs his cheer.

Abbi speaks whilst her brother performs "Josh, or Josie, has to not only wear the same outfit as the other girls, but he also has to shave off all his body hair and use varnish and make up. Just like a girl!"

The scene focuses on Josh's performance and the caption "Girlz Rule" appears.

"My Brother becomes a Bridesmaid!"

A girl appears on the screen "Hi Girls! I am Wanda and this is my brother Luke". The scene shows a tall boy dressed in regular boy's clothes.

"Luke is currently dressed as a boy. Obviously. But a few months ago, he looked very different!"

"The story began six months ago when my uncle Dan decided to re-marry. Uncle Dan, can you come in here please"

There is the sound of running feet and a feminine looking figure dressed in a flowered patterned dress and high heels enters the room. The newcomer has long blonde hair and a made up face"

Wanda takes the woman's hand and pats it gently "This is my Uncle Dan and he is a cross-dresser. He used to do it secretly for years but eventually his former wife heard about it and, quite horribly, divorced him. Uncle Dan then found another woman, who enjoys dressing as a man, who accepted him as he was. She even agreed to allow Uncle Dan to be the bride!"

"Originally, the wedding was meant to be ordinary, except for the switch in the bride and groom roles, so I was slated to be bridesmaid and Luke was to be a pageboy. But, I went to see Uncle Dan and his soon to be wife and made a little suggestion. Wouldn't it be fun if everyone else was cross-dressed as well? They loved the idea!"

Wanda releases her Uncle's hand and take one of Luke's "Luke wasn't very happy at the change, were you Luke?"

The boy shakes his head.

"I mean, what must it be like to be getting used to the idea of being a pageboy and then suddenly being told that you were to be a bridesmaid instead? The gorgeous pink silk bridesmaid's dress with all its bows and lace originally meant for me had to be altered to fit Luke. He didn't much like the dainty lace underwear or the silk stockings or the high heels. And he positively hated having to wear a wig and have his face made up!"

"But.....just look at this!"

A picture of what looks like a girl in bridesmaid's attire flashes onto the screen. The girl is a tall, willowy and rather elegant figure wearing a pink silk dress that is much be-ribboned and adorned with lace and frills. The legs are encased in white silk stockings and the feet made to look dainty by being shod in pink silk high heels. The girl has long auburn hair that has flower decorations in and her features have been prettified by the careful use of make up. The girl carries a bouquet which adds to the image of perfect femininity.

"When I saw Luke all dressed up like that" continues Wanda "I thought, OMG, he looks prettier than me! Just goes to show girls, that we are not only ones who can be made to look pretty!"

Wanda waves her hand towards Luke "It only tool a dress and a bit of make up can turn this boy into a pretty bridesmaid! Just think how we could make our males prettier if we worked on it! I'll leave you with that thought Girls!

Wanda's smiling face fades out, to be replaced by the picture of Luke in the bridesmaids' dress again. The caption "Girlz Rule" is superimposed over it.

"My brother is really my SISTER!"

The scene begins in a suburban home. A little girl in a frock and tights plays with her dolls. Her fair hair is in ringlets and has ribbons tied in.

An older girl appears in the frame and gives a friendly wave "Hi Girls! I'm Gemma and this, believe it or not, is my little brother, Robert!"

Gemma gestures towards the girl-child brushing one of her dolls' hair.

"Mom, Dad and I want to make it clear from the get-go that this is not petticoat punishment or that Robert has in any way been forced into girlhood. The truth is that this is what Robert wants!"

"From a very early age, it became obvious that Robert was not willing to fit into the little boy role. He wanted to play with my dolls, he wanted to wear the same clothes as me and he even wanted to be called Roberta. All attempts to make him do boy things ended with him becoming upset to the point where we feared what he might do to himself".

"A psychologist quickly worked out that Robert had Gender Dysphoria. This means that he believes himself to be a girl and, therefore, wants to do girl stuff instead of the rough and tumble that boys indulge in. The psychologist recommended that we bring Robert up as a girl. In other words, to turn him into Roberta".

It upset Mom a lot to have to go out and buy little girls' clothes and toys for her son. Understandably. But we all got used to the idea. And Roberta is such a dear little girl. She loves her dolls and dressing up and playing with other girls, who all accept her as Roberta. They know, as we now do, that despite the casing that Roberta came in, underneath she is as much a girl as any girl I have ever known. And having a cute little sister is way better than having a brother, let me tell you!"

"So Girls!, if one or perhaps more of your young male relations picks up a doll or asks to try on one of your dresses, why not let him? Perhaps, just like Robert (or Roberta I should say), there is an inner girl inside every boy?"

"Girlz Rule!"

Billy's Birthday Surprise

(Snippet from a woman's weekly magazine)

Have a problem son?

A friend of mine had one of those a few years ago.  Her soon to be fourteen year old son, Billy, had gotten in with the wrong crowd at school.  Usually well behaved and considerate, Billy became a tearaway.  He got into endless trouble over pranks.  In his last misadventure, he got suspended from school for a week for lobbing a stink bomb into the girls' toilets.

His mother was not amused.  What was even worse was Billy's disparaging remarks about girls and especially his sister, Marcia.  He would flex one of his biceps and say that girls were puny and hopeless.  Marcia stood her ground and pointed out that she was doing better in school than him even though she was two years his junior but these episodes were unpleasant and Billy's disrespect for the female sex was growing.

Billy's fourteenth birthday was approaching.  Billy wanted to get one of his ears pierced and have a diamond stud fitted so that he would gain street cred with the gang he was a member of.  He also wanted a denim jacket and a games console.

What he got was very different!

On the appointed day, Billy got up and found his games console at the foot of his bed.  So far, so good, but where was his denim jacket?  His mother explained that she simply hadn't had time to buy it and that she would take him shopping.  Billy went to the shopping mall with his mother and sister.

Instead of entering the menswear store where the denim jacket Billy wanted had been on display in the window, the trio went into the malls most expensive fashion boutique.  Billy was put out as his mother and sister picked through dresses.  This was supposed to be HIS day!

Billy's mother and Marcia decided on a pale pink satin prom dress with very thin straps to show off the wearer's shoulders and back to best advantage.  Billy was confused as the gown selected was too big for Marcia and much to small for his mother.  They then picked out a pair of white lace panties, a suspender belt and white stockings.  A cute little clutch bag and a pair of pale pink high heeled shoes were added.

By this time, Billy was growing bored and insisting they finish up here so that he could have his jacket.  Sighing, his mother put the purchases on her account.  The three shoppers left the boutique and headed to the menswear store.  Billy was made to carry the bags as he kept saying that he was so strong.  Stronger than a mere girl, anyway.

In the menswear store, to Billy's intense irritation, his mother began looking at socks and underwear.  She bought a set and ordered Billy to change into them.  When Billy said he did not need new underthings, his mother took off one of his trainers to reveal a sock with several holes in it.  Conceding defeat, Billy stormed in a huff into the changing cubicle.  He absolutely hated being outdone by a woman, even his own mother.

Billy changed into the new underwear and discovered his outer clothes were gone!  When he poked his head out (for he was practically naked) and demanded his clothes back, his mother and sister handed him the bags from the boutique and told him to get changed into his new dress.

Mother and Marcia had, they told Billy, decided to teach him a lesson he would never forget.  He would be going to the birthday party they were throwing for him wearing that gown.  When Billy predictably refused, it was pointed out to him that he could not stay in that cubicle all day.

With ill grace, Billy allowed his mother to help him into the gown.  But he refused to wear any of the other things.  Or carry a purse of all things!  Billy soon learned that this was a mistake.  Without shoes, his feet would hurt and without stockings his legs would be cold.  Mother purchased the denim jacket and to Billy's dismay passed it to his sister.  He had his pretty gown, he was told, so Marcia must have a gift too.

Soon after leaving the store, Billy had to admit defeat once again and put on the suspender belt, stockings and shoes.  He was ,of course, unused to high heels and clumped along miserably.  This was turning out to be the worst day of his life!

Billy was next taken to a beauty salon where his mother often had things done. His mother had made an appointment for him to get a full body wax, get his ears pierced (both of them!) and fitted with studs, get his eyebrows plucked and get his hair fixed.

The transformation at the end of the long (and for Billy, painful) process was incredible.  Billy made a very pretty and presentable girl, much to his horror and humiliation.  During the depilation process, Marcia took the opportunity to swipe Billy's pants and replace them with the lace panties so that Billy had to wear girls' underwear as well as outerwear.

Billy not only looked like a girl but he smelled like one too, as his body had been liberally sprayed with perfume, to his disgust.

The final part of the alteration was that Billy's face was made up and his nails, all of them, were shaped and painted pink.  He looked as much like a girl as his sister and he knew it!

A picture was taken with mother's digital camera of the boy who had been turned into an almost flawless image of femininity.  Billy even had to submit to carrying his purse, which he loathed as it symbolised for him something that only women and girls did.

The birthday boy was then taken to his party to be shown off.  The guests smirked and giggled in amusement  as "Billie" made his entrance.  The highlight of the party was the presentation of Billy's birthday present.  This was a small and delicate diamond tiara and it was placed on Billy's head.  The tiara enhanced further Billy's prettiness.  Billy was almost in tears at the shame and humiliation.

All his friends from the gang were there, looking at him with disdain.  He would not be welcome in their gang any more!

One of his other friends, Oswald, told him what a stunning girl he made and asked him for a dance.  Billy tried to refuse but his mother insisted.

Finally, Billy's humiliation was over and he was allowed out of the gown and other things once his guests had departed.

Free from the gang which was leading him down the wrong road, Billy became a better boy.  When he tried to jibe his sister or say that women were the weaker sex, his mother and sister only had to point to the photo of Billy the Prom Queen to shut him up.  Any mention of the episode made him blush.  Billy is now sixteen and has reverted to being a kind and considerate young man.

This just goes to show how even a small dose of femininity can turn a bad boy into a good one!

She-nanigans

"My month as a Girl!"

Tony Thorpe, writing for the Sandwich Comprehensive School Magazine. Edited by Lucinda Lawless.

It was all Lucinda's idea. Since becoming Editor of the School Mag a month ago, she's been shaking things up. The mag used to be just a one sheet thing with details of who had been made a prefect or won a 200 metres swimming contest, stuff that merited only a quick glance and than got dumped in the bin.

Lucinda decided to expand the magazine to include things of more interest to the school population and her first brainwave was to write a piece on gender. What if a boy and girl swapped places for a month, the boy going to school as a girl, being treated like a girl and even having to answer to a girl's name, and vice versa?

I thought it was a brilliant idea. Until, that is, Lucinda decided that I should be boy who had to live as a girl! I was horrified. It was a disgusting idea.

But Lucinda pointed out that as she had made me her deputy, and that she would be the girl who swapped to become a boy, I must take part. It still took her some time to convince me and I agreed with great reluctance.

Arrangements had to be made. After all, I couldn't just pitch up to school in a skirt and expect to be accepted as a girl. The teaching staff were told. I would do games with the girls but would change in a seperate area.

The night before I was due to appear at school as a schoolgirl, Lucinda dropped round her uniform and some underwear and picked up my stuff.

All Lucinda would have to do was get her long hair chopped off and get into my uniform. My own change into a girl was more involved. I remember looking at the alien garments lying on my bed and could still not believe I would be wearing them.

Mum took me in hand and insisted that I try the uniform and other things on to see if they fitted. It was highly embarressing to have to put on a pair of frilled knickers and Lucinda's lace trimmed training bra. The blouse buttoned up the wrong way and having to wear a skirt instead of trousers was weird.

At least the frilly underwear was hidden away underneath my outer clothes. Well, almost. The straps of my bra could be seen under the white blouse and the frilled cups were threatening to explode from the blouse, which seemed too tight.

The white patterned socks that I had to put on were alarmingly girlish but, combined with the long grey pleated skirt, at least hid most of my legs. I put my feet into a pair of shiny black shoes. Mary-Janes, Mum called them.

That was not quite the end of my changeover. Mum produced the long blonde wig that Lucinda had included with her uniform and put it on my head. Then she walked me over to the mirror.
I had to admit that the change was amazing. With just some different clothes and a wig, I looked quite a lot like a girl! I cringed with embarressment but I was also very confused. How could I, a boy, suddenly look like a convincing girl?

Mum was satisfied that the uniform fitted perfectly. I had different ideas about that. The blouse seemed too small and keep coming out of the band of my skirt. The wig was hot and itchy. I wanted to get out of these things immediately but Mum said I needed to keep wearing them to get used to them.

She got me to walk about the house dressed as a I was. It was crazy going around dressed as I was. The hem of the skirt kept bouncing against my legs as I walked and my legs felt all exposed without the benefit of trousers. The bra was restrictive and I was aware of it all of the time.

What made it worse was that Dad and my little brother, Max, were home and could of course see me in this get up. They almost split their sides laughing at me. I was on the verge of tears at the humilation and ran out of the room.

I couldn't do this, I decided, and began tearing off the uniform. But Mum intervened, sat me down and told me that I needed to be brave and go through with it. I felt better after our chat. Mum sorted out my appearance and took me back downstairs. There were no laughs or unkind remarks this time. Mum had obviously had words with Dad and Max.

It felt very strange to be sitting watching the telly in a skirt and long blonde hair. Was this really how a girl felt?

I was thankful when it was time for bed and I could escape from those clothes!

At 830 am, Mum dropped me off at the school gates. I gulped as I faced the prospect of facing my classmates dressed in Lucinda's uniform. I picked up my bags and ventured into the school grounds.

A group of sixth form boys, kicking a football around, stopped as I approached and looked at me as I walked past them, my face burning and my head down in an attempt to avoid detection. I had feared that they would clock me right away but it was worse than that.

They actually accepted from my appearance that I was a girl and, not only that, they were checking me out! I was horrified and increased my pace. I was relieved when I got past them. But my relief was short-lived. There were boys everywhere and all of them were checking me out.

For the first time, I had an inkling of what it must be like to be a girl!

I hurried along to the student library where Lucinda and I had arranged to meet up. I was impressed by Lucinda's alteration. She looked like a real boy! Lucinda complimented me on my own appearance and we went into our first class together.

Miss Pritchard, the maths teacher, announced to the class that Lucinda and I were working on a project for the school magazine and had switched gender roles and clothes. There were howls of laughter from the other pupils as we were presented to the class and I suspected that this was far easier for Lucinda than it was for me.

Lucinda, now called "Jack", went to sit with the boys whilst I, enduring the titters of the girls, went to sit amongst them. My new name was Sarah. I took care as I sat and arranged my skirt. It was amazing how quickly I had learned that trick from last night.

Now that the novelty of seeing me and Lucinda dressed as each other had worn off, the pupils seemed to accept the change. Double math passed without further incident but during chemistry I realised that I badly needed to go to the toilet and so had to raise my hand and ask to be excused.

Miss Wright, the chemistry teacher ordered the rest of the class to continue with their studies, and treated me like the girl I had become. She took my hand and marched me out to the girls' loo and practically pushed me inside.

The girls' loos were, of course, forbidden territory to boys, and I felt embaressed to be in there. But I was desperate to go, so putting all thoughts about being a boy in a girls' loo aside, I relieved myself and washed my hands. It was more awkward doing my business in a skirt and being reminded that I was wearing girls' underwear caused me to burn with shame. But it was done and I returned to class.

Lunch was a lonely business. I didn't know any of the girls and so could not sit with one of their groups and I certainly couldn't face my usual boy classmates dressed as I was.

Thankfully, the school day was over. When I got home, I tore off my uniform and hunted for my usual clothes but they were not there. Mum came in and saw me dressed only in my bra and knickers. Embarressed, I grabbed my skirt and used it to shield my near nakedness.

Mum held up a gingham frock on a hanger and told me that this was what I would wear at home from now on. What else would a girl wear, after all? I reluctantly took the frock and put it on. Mum buttoned me up at the back.

The frock, with it's deep lace collar and frilly bits, made me look even more girlish. My legs and arms were more exposed. I had to wear a pair of frilled ankle socks and the shiny mary-janes so that almost all of my long slender legs were on show. Finally, Mum took my wig and managed to tie a ribbon in it.

My face flushed, I went to sit with my Dad and brother but Mum had other ideas. As I was a girl now, I was to help her in the kitchen and with chores. I had to wear a frilly apron and serve my Dad and little brother like a waitress. I then had to do the dishes and Mum got me to do some dusting. Max was sniggering as I went about in my apron, dusting.

When bedtime came, I was exhausted after a day at school, the ordeals I had gone through and then housework. I trudged to my room, only to find Mum waiting there. She directed me to the spare room and opened it up to reveal my new room.

Due to my new status, Mum told me, it was no longer fitting for me to share with my brother. I was getting a room of my own. Max had been gibing me and teasing me, so I was pleased to be getting away from him.

Until I saw the room, that is.

Mum had been busy. She had converted the spare bedroom into a proper girl's room, with pink sheets on the bed and a vanity table. A pink, frilly nightdress lay on the bed and I realised with horror that I would have to wear it.

I found that I couldn't remove my frock without help as the buttons were all at the back. Girls' clothes were insanely hard to get into and get out of! Mum unbuttoned me and I struggled out of the frock, wearing only my underwear. Mum held up my nightdress and I allowed her to put it over my head. I raced to the bathroom in my bare feet, praying that no-one else would see me as I was, brushed my teeth and raced back.

Mum kissed me and left me alone in that overly girlish room. I looked at myself in the mirror. The wig was sitting on a special pedestal, ready for me tomorrow, so I looked like a boy dressed in a pink nightdress and felt utterly ridiculous. Everywhere I looked, I saw girliness.

I now had a greater idea of what it was like to be a girl and already I longed to escape from the constant girlification.

What would tomorrow bring?

Double Games. The two words which prompted horror. I now sat with some of the girls at lunch, who had invited me into their group, aware that in less than half an hour I would have to do games. As one of the girls.

Sighing, I accompanied the other girls to the changing area. I had to change in the Games Mistresses room. I took Lucinda's games kit out of my bag. There was a blue T-Shirt that was indistinguishable from the ones worn by boys, a pair of black pumps and white socks. All gender neutral.

But then there was the short pleated blue skirt and blue knickers. Blushing, I changed into this clobber. The knickers were tight and the elastic bit into my legs and the skirt was so tiny and short that it was almost like not wearing anything at all below the navel.

I emerged and was greeted without comment. The girls were used to having me around already. We were marched out and I flushed as we passed a group of boys heading off to the rugby field. There were a number of wolf whistles and I recalled with shame that I had once wolf whistled the girls when I had still been a boy. The girls giggled, but I was horrified at being accepted as a girl by a bunch of boys.

We spent the next two hours playing netball in the cold. It was less active than the sports that boys played and I was wearing a lot less as a girl, so my legs were freezing. I was on the verge of crying with the cold. And with the shame.

A year ago, one boy caught misbehaving on the sports field had been punished by being made to go and play netball with the girls. I had laughed as loudly as the other boys as the miscreant had been marched off in the direction of the netball court and heard the squeals of laughter from the girls.

But at least he had been allowed to wear shorts and a T-Shirt. I had only the tiniest of skirts that barely covered my knicker line. When I had to jump up to intercept the ball I was constantly aware of my skirt flipping up and exposing my knickers for all to see.

This was a deeply humiliating experience for a boy, I can tell you. The girls, used to all this, took it in their stride. They marched past the boys with dignity, even though they were aware that the boys got a good eyeful of knicker.

Ashamed, I got changed back into my uniform as soon as possible. At least it offered more cover.

At home, I once again had to do girls' chores. Mum took a file to my nails and smartened them up. She took a great interest in my appearance and was enjoying the novelty of having a daughter.

I got through the first week. Double Games had been the worst ordeal for me. Doing Home Economics and Jewellery Making had been easy by comparison. As I had to wear an apron at home, it was no big deal to have to wear one at school. The other lessons were standard subjects like English and Geography and I could wear my "usual' uniform for those. There was the odd remark or wolf whistle, but I was learning to cope with those.

My first weekend came and seemed to offer an escape from girlhood. Or so I thought. On Saturday morning the doorbell rang and there were four girls from my class, all dressed in jeans and T-shirts. Would I like to go shopping? Dressed in my gingham frock, I tried to politely refuse, but Mum insisted and pushed me out of the door.

The girls took me to the shopping mall. I needed a new look, they had decided. So they took me around several girls' outfitting shops and got me to try on dresses and skirts. No jeans or trousers, I noted. They settled on a pretty powder blue top and flower patterned skirt. I pointed out that I had no money but one of the girls had a store card and put the purchases on her account. We hung around the mall, with me feeling silly dressed in girls' things and carrying my frock in a bag.

When I left the girls, they kissed me and said I should come to one of their slumber parties next weekend. Mum liked my new look, even if I didn't!

On Sunday we normally went to church and Max and I went to Sunday school. It was a drag (no pun intended), but Mum insisted. I usually went in my smartest suit and wondered on Sunday morning what I would be wearing.

As usual, Mum had the answer. Her old Sunday school dress! It was made of white silk with a large white bow at the back and had lacy petticoats. There was a pair of white ruffled knickers, a pair of satin white shoes and a wide-brimmed hat to go with the dress.

It was the most girlish thing I had ever seen and I was determined that I was not wearing it!

An hour later and I was in church, wearing the dress and all of the rest of it! I was learning another lesson about being a girl. Girls had to wear what their mothers told them.

I felt foolish mincing into church in my petticoats. What was worse was the knowledge that the dress was so short that my ruffled knickers were on display plus the fact that I looked not only very pretty but more like a little girl than a girl of my own age.

Mum was most attentive to me and insisted on me holding her hand, which made me feel more like a little girl than ever. I think she was really pleased to have me as a girl, even though I was not one. My parents had tried for a girl after Max had been born but there had been no more babies and so Mum had to settle for having two boys so having me as a "girl" must have been like her dream come true I suppose.

I was introduced to the vicar, who looked bewildered (probably because if his memory served our family had two boys and not one boy and a girl) as he gave my hand a dainty shake and then I had to sit amongst the girls at sunday school. Finally, the ordeal was over and I was able to get back into "normal" clothes (in this case a denim mini skirt, pink top and white cardigan with little rosebuds all over it).

Another week at school was endured. Everyone there was now used to seeing me as "Sarah". I had girlfriends instead of my boy pals and I was now getting used to my new clothes. One morning I had donned my schoolgirl's unform without even thinking about it. As though it was entirely natural.

The following weekend was the slumber party at Andrea's house. Mum dropped me off and once inside the house I got changed into my pink silk PJ's. I had to admit that the feel of silk against my skin was good.

I joined the girls and we watched some DVD's. Then Andrea got her make up box out and we had a make up session. Me included. By the time the girls had finished with me, my face was so beautifully made up that I looked as much a girl as the genuine articles.

It was so very confusing to be a boy and to see the face of a pretty girl staring back at him and to realise that it was his own face. I could so easily pass as a girl.

The girls held a beauty pageant. We all paraded about in swimsuits and high heels. I struggled in the high heels and yet I did not feel as embarressed to be wearing a skimpy outfit as I was "one of the girls". I was even declared the winner and crowned with a tiara.

The highlight (for everyone else!) of my time as a girl was for me to be part of the cheerleading squad. I had been going to cheer practice after my second full week as a girl. I had to wear the skimpy cheerleader outfit that showed off my legs and back, learn all of the cheers and wave my pom-poms with pride.

The other cheerleaders looked askance at me when I appeared amongst them, dressed as they were, but accepted me once I showed willingness to learn. My one outing as a cheerleader should have been the most humiliating episode for me. But, in fact, I was by now so used to having to dress and act as a girl that instead of experiencing the usual feelings of shame, I merely shrugged and gave a creditable performance as part of the cheer squad. It was probably an anti-climax for everyone else to see me prancing about with a smile on my face.

Finally, my month as "Sarah" came to an end. I had mixed feelings as I took off my school uniform for the last time. As a boy, I was glad to escape from girl's clothes and the girlification that girls had to put up with. But there was a part of me that would miss wearing dainty underwear, skirts and dresses and being "one of the girls". The girlification had had it's effect on me! My Mum would miss it most and I think that she would have liked it if I stayed as her daughter.

Whatever I decide - to remain completely as a boy or sometimes wish to experience girlhood occasionally- I have learned what it is like to be on both sides of the gender divide and that is knowledge worth having. I can lark about with the boys and talk to them about football and when I start dating girls I will know girl stuff.

By Tony Thorpe (Sometimes Sarah)

When Man becomes Woman: An Update

“When Man becomes Woman: The remarkable journey of Harold Jones. An Update” (Reporter: Lauren Kerslake, Big Planet/Small World Inc). Wednesday 17 October 2016

Back in the summer of 2013, I wrote an article about Harold Jones, a man who, due to an attempt to get himself out of a hole, ended up living as a woman for several years and even went as far as to become a bride!

Three years on, I decided to follow up this story. Since the original article, Harold (or Isobel as he is now officially known) has been released from prison as he had served his sentence for attempted fraud. He is now living with the woman who was for years his secretary and who loves him even though Isobel has had gender reassignment surgery and lives full time as a female.

I went to visit Wendy and Isobel at their home. Home is a modest semi-detached house in surburbia with a garage and a small garden. The door is answered by the lady of the house. Isobel, formerly Harold. Isobel looks every inch the sophisticated older woman and wears a blouse and skirt with a frilled apron. She is even wearing marigolds. I find it astonishing to believe that this woman was once a man and lived as one for most of his life. Isobel is shy, so Wendy takes command.

Wendy is physically bigger than her “wife” and dressed much as I was in the trouser suit favoured by most women today. Wendy invites me in and asks “little wifey” to make tea. Isobel seems relieved to be told what to do and disappears into the kitchen.

Wendy and I sit down and chat. Presently, Isobel produces tea on a salver. Wendy tells Isobel to come and sit beside her, which Isobel does and Wendy takes one of her small hands in her own. The affection and sense of protectiveness she feels for her more delicate and shy spouse is apparent.

Beaming, Wendy tells me that she and Isobel are very happy together in their new life. Once Isobel left prison, they were married a month later and Wendy shows me the wedding pictures. Isobel, fittingly, is the bride in a gorgeous gown whilst Wendy wears a variation of her current outfit. Now they are both retired. Since Isobel (as Harold) got himself into debt and tried to defraud various financial institutions, she has lost all her assets and pensions, but luckily Wendy has a generous pension that is sufficient for them both and now that Wendy is in control of the finances Isobel is only allowed enough money for housekeeping and a very small allowance.

It is clear that Wendy is the “husband” and Isobel the “wife”. At times, Isobel seems uncomfortable with the loss of her old gender and status says Wendy but is coming to terms with it.

Wendy then tells me her story……..

I was born in the same town as Harold and about a month after he was born. My parents weren’t as well off as his and so in addition to the handicap of being born a girl in the middle of the last century my prospects were always limited.

I attended the girls’ school and Harold of course went to the boys. As the schools were right next to each other, I saw Harold often. He was small, weedy boy and hopeless at games and the other boys ragged him mercilessly for this. But he was bright, especially with numbers. I instantly felt affection for him. But I had to look upon him from afar since boys and girls simply did not mix in those days.

Suddenly, school was over and I did not see Harold for a while as he went on to college and then university to become an accountant. It was a lonely time for me. My own career prospects were far more limited than those of Harold. Only a very few bright girls went on to further education in those days and I was not destined to be one of them.

Girls in my position had few choices. Get married or get a job in a shop, factory or office on low wages. Lower than the men certainly. One of my teachers had taken an interest in me and steered me towards a secretarial college. Being a secretary seemed better than serving in a shop or working in a factory and there was really nothing else for a girl with no means in those days.
The secretarial college course was easy and I finished top of the intake. I then got a job with a firm of accountants, initially working in the typing pool but after six months I was promoted to work as secretary to a new accountant.

It was Harold. I was over the moon to see him again. I did all I could to please him and make him notice me.

I was never a girly girl. I resented being put into frocks and skirts as a girl and being made to look pretty. As a secretary, I had to wear the “uniform” of silk blouse, black skirt and stockings and high heels. My hair, make up and nails had to be immaculate, day in and day out.

I secretly hated this but for Harold I went all out. I had my ears pierced and fitted with earrings and even spent all my savings on expensive perfume and clothes. For him, I would conform to the feminine ideal.

Harold noticed all this. He appreciated my dressing up for him and wearing perfume. He asked questions about my clothes and I wondered if he was a secret transvestite as it was unusual for men to show too much interest in ladies’ things.

He would have made a fine woman with his small build and slender legs but back then it would have horrified me if he had come to work in a blouse and skirt, or if he had shown the smallest tendency to be feminine. I wanted him as a man and expected him to be one.

I yearned for Harold to make some sort of sign that he was interested in me for more than dictation and shorthand. But no sign came. Harold moved up in status and my own status and pay were likewise enhanced. I was proud when he was made a partner and I became a partner’s secretary.

Harold was clever and he was a good accountant. Hard working and considerate. I had absolutely no idea that he would finish work and then gamble away his money at that casino. Had I known of it, I might have been able to help him.

Harold phoned in sick one day. It was the only sick day he had ever taken and it surprised me. Then days passed and there was no sign of Harold. I tried to call him at home but there was no answer. Finally, two grim-faced bobbies showed up and said that they had found Harold’s clothes and car on a beach. It looked like he had drowned. I broke down in tears.

Weeks and then months passed and I lived through them in a kind of daze. Eventually, I resigned my job. If I couldn’t work with Harold there was no point. I owned my own semi and the pension I had built up over the years was ample for my needs.

Since Harold had disappeared/died and his mother couldn’t even remember her own name, I took on the business of sorting out Harold’s affairs. I was shocked to learn that he had been heavily in debt. His estate had been left to his sister, Isobel. Harold had made out his will only a few days before he died and had got me to witness it, I recalled.

There was something odd about all of this, I thought. There was a nagging doubt in my mind. I tried to recall fragments of conversation with Harold. Something about his family he had talked to me about years ago but came up blank.

The police came to talk to me. An old Chief Inspector, Barker, who seemed disinterested, and his younger Detective Constable, a girl called Lucy Briggs. She looked like his granddaughter than a colleague but at least she had a spark of initiative and energy that was lacking in her superior. I told them what I could.

The bank took back Harold’s house and I went to clear it out. House clearance had removed all of the furniture so all that was left was post and a few knick knacks. For sentimental reasons, I took a tie pin that I had given Harold as birthday present in happier times. The rest of the knick knacks was junk and so I binned it.

I looked at the post, which had built up quite a bit since Harold had disappeared. Most of it was final demands and threatening letters. I ignored these as the solicitor would have to deal with them. The rest of it was bewildering.

“Angel Fashions: Clothes for the Modern Woman”

“Eve Lingerie: Sexy, feminine lingerie to bring out the inner woman”

And there was more. Letters from several similar companies. All addressed to this Isobel. All demanding payment for goods delivered.

Time was short. The representative from the bank would be along in a minute to formally take possession of the house as Harold had failed to keep up mortgage repayments. I took the post with me, gave the bank rep the keys and left him to it.

That evening, I laid out all of the statements. This Isobel had ordered an entire wardrobe of womans’ clothes, shoes and accessories. The bills came to more than five thousand pounds.
I smelt a rat. I had been to Harold’s house many times over the last few months to deal with his affairs and apart from his mother’s room, there was absolutely no evidence that a woman had been living there. No beauty products, no toiletries, not as much as a woman’s hankerchief.
What the hell was going on here?

The answer came when I went to see Harold’s mother. She had no-one now, poor thing, and her senility was getting worse. It took me half an hour to convince her of who I was. I tried to talk to her about Harold but all she wanted to talk about was her little girl, her dear little girl, Isobel. Where was her little Isobel? She rambled on in the same vein for another hour. It was hopeless. I went tell the nurse I was leaving. I mentioned the patient’s distress.

“Isobel again. That poor woman. She doesn’t even remember that her little girl died more than forty years ago”.

“Isobel’s dead?” I was stunned.

“Yes. I have a copy of the death certificate on Mrs Jones’s file.

I asked the nurse to show me the certificate and she did so. There is was in black and white. Isobel Mary Jones. Born 21 December 1950. Died 11 January 1953”.

There was no Isobel. So who was the Isobel who had been receiving all those clothes?

My brain gave me the answer. Harold. Harold had assumed the identity of his long dead sister to escape from his debts. It was the only answer that made sense.

I had an incongruous image of Harold dressed as a girl secretary and had to stifle the urge to laugh. This was not funny. This was serious.

And, if I was right, it meant that Harold must be alive! My heart leaped for joy.

But I had no way of finding him. I kept the correspondence for a few years and hoped that one day Harold would return.

I spent the next few years in happy retirement. This was interrupted by Lucy Briggs, now a Detective Inspector. She was re-opening the Harold Jones case.

I showed her the correspondence and a copy of Isobel’s death certificate and my theory.

Nobody else knew Harold as I did so it was no surprise that the police had drawn blanks to date.
Lucy took the evidence away with her after giving me a stinging rebuke for not coming forward sooner. She even threatened to report me to the DPP for withholding vital evidence and wasting police time but I shrugged it all off. This resourceful young officer would find Harold. I was sure of it.

And so it came to pass. A few months later, Harold was in a woman’s prison. I immediately went to visit him. He was completely dressed as a woman now and even had breasts. But it was him and that was all that was mattered.

I wore a trouser suit. I had thrown out all of my dresses and skirts after I retired. Harold met me dressed in a pretty white blouse, suede skirt and high heels. He wore make up, earrings and he had long hair that he had styled. He looked very womanly, but he was very embaressed.
He had had to remain dressed like this and to affect womanly behaviour, he had told me, in order to convince the authorities to keep him here. He would die if he ended up in a men’s prison. Especially with those breasts. I told him he made a quite lovely woman.

I eventually prised out of him his misadventures in Antigua. I burst out laughing when I heard he had had to become a bride!

I visited him every month and we became closer. Harold needed someone right now and I was there. His mother had meantime died, which had upset him. In addition, he was coming under pressure from the authorities to accelerate his gender reassignment surgery.

Years ago, I would have been horrified to see Harold dressed as a woman, let alone becoming one full time but now my view was different. The truth was that I was stronger and more masculine than Harold. He made a great looking woman and was adjusting to the feminine role. He would make a lovely wife, I thought.

I convinced Harold to go ahead with the surgery. I would love him regardless. So, he had it done and the authorities were satisfied.

When Isobel was released, she moved in with me. As I had the house and money, I was the master and she (formerly a he) was the mistress and housewife. Isobel was not entirely comfortable with it at first but has come to accept that I am the masculine element and she is the feminine element.

We married as soon as possible. Isobel made a lovely bride. I think she hoped I would be the bride, but I was determined not to wear a dress or assume a feminine role again. That was henceforth Isobel’s position, even though she had once been male. Isobel became the bride and became a little tearful and threw a tantrum but my will prevailed.

We are now husband and wife. Isobel knows that I love her but that her role is as the wife and to obey me as I know best. Isobel is adapting to her new life and is becoming pleasingly meek, shy and submissive. She must conform to the feminine role, as I once had to.

She is, and will remain, my little wifey.

When Man becomes Woman

“When Man becomes Woman: The remarkable journey of Harold Jones” (Reporter: Lauren Kerslake, Big Planet/Small World Inc). Tuesday 25 July 2013.

With some trepidation I steer my car towards the sterile box shaped building. The large sign outside proclaims my destination as “HMWP Douglas”. A burly female prison guard, who has the build of a male rugby player and a no nonsense attitude, puts out a meaty hand to instruct me to stop. The guard, whose badge betrays her identity as Prison Officer Primrose Flowers, orders me to turn off my engine and step out of my sporty mini.

Thoroughly intimidated by the sheer size of the woman warder, who could flatten a slenderly built five foot two girl like me like a gnat without even breaking sweat, I hasten to obey. Two female colleagues inspect my car, opening the boot, glove compartment and even the hood, whilst Ms Flowers lightly frisks me. She demands my visiting order, which I present to her. For what seems like forever, the warder studies the document intently before handing it back to me.

I am marched to Flowers’ booth and made to sign a visitors’ book and a long disclaimer stating that I was aware of the risks of entering part of the prison population and of the punishments to be meted out for trying to smuggle something into the prison or helping a prisoner to escape.

Then, with an air of extreme reluctance, Prison Officer Flowers allows me to climb back into my car and she opens the gate for me. I drive into the labrinyth, with another female officer riding shotgun as my escort.

HMWP Douglas, situated on the Isle of Man, was one of many women’s prisons in the UK. But this one was the only one in the whole country, if not the world, where there was one male inmate and it was for this prisoner that I had travelled hundreds of miles and endured being pawed by the likes of Prison Officer Flowers.

I am relieved of my briefcase, laptop and belt. Had I bothered with any jewellery, I would have had to relinquish those as well but few modern girls nowadays bother with such fripperies and I am a very modern girl. I am also the newest staff reporter on my paper, promoted over the heads of more experienced hacks who doubtless resented being passed over for a girl fresh from university, and I had a lot to prove.

Satisfied that I am not wearing or carrying anything that a prisoner might use as a weapon against other prisoners, guards or maybe themselves, my unsmiling, silent escort leads me to the isolation wing, where my quarry has been a permanent resident since he was admitted into the prison system ten years earlier. I pass a large area where female prisoners are doing weight training, using running machines, playing pool or just standing around talking. The voices drop to almost a whisper at the sight of my escort’s prison uniform and the female inmates look at me and the guard stonily. I note that the women, like their warders, are more masculine than feminine.

My escort crosses to the over side of me, acting as a shield in the case the worst should happen and one of the prisoners decides to attack me. Such incidents are not uncommon. Female prisoners are every bit as aggressive and tough as the males. Maybe even tougher. We are soon past the onlookers without incident.

My escort unlocks a gate and ushers me through into a cold, white corridor, before locking the gate behind us. She then turns the handle of the nearest door, an innocuous brown wooden one, and gestures for me to enter. For the only time, my escort speaks, telling me she will just be outside. Then, she gives me the lightest of shoves and locks the door behind me.

I find suddenly find myself in an environment that could hardly be more different than the cold corridors, steel gates and masculinised guards and prisoners. A lady’s drawing room. It was still a prison cell, of course. There was a steel bunk bed. The top bunk had no mattress or sheets as only one inmate occupied this cell in spite of prison overcrowding. There was also a sink and toilet. But the rest of it, a good two thirds of the available space, had a plush cream white carpet that my flat shoes seemed to sink into even though I weighed next to nothing (I worked out five hours a day, every day) on the floor.

Even disconcerted by the thought of possibly sinking up to my waist, or higher, in the soft carpeting, my natural eye for detail took in a pink chaise longe, a small delicate table on which porcelain cups and saucers rested on a silver tray, a small chair with flowered patterns and a pink and white cupboard on which sat a vase of freshly cut flowers. On the walls were pictures of flowers, cats or elegantly dressed Victorian ladies. It reminded me uncomfortably of my great grandmother’s room when I had been a very small girl. It reeked overpoweringly of traditional femininity.

But even the room seemed less odd than its occupant. A small figure, only barely taller than myself, in a flowery frock, stockings and high heels, got up from the shocking pink chasie longe and tottered towards me. I could see that the long flowing hair had been dyed auburn and that the face was expertly made up. The hand that was extended towards me had painted pink nails and delicate bracelets on the wrist.

This was the inmate I had come to see. The only male in the whole prison and he was more feminine and ladylike than any real woman here. Myself included.

The inmate’s name was Harold Smith. For the first forty five years of his life he had lived a typical male, middle class existence. Then, due to circumstances, Harold Smith suddenly disappeared and was presumed dead. Some years later, it was discovered that Harold had faked his own death in order to claim on a life insurance policy and other monetary payouts with the sole beneficiary being his sister, Isobel, and that Harold had become Isobel and was living as a woman in Antigua. He had even “married” another man. Had it not been for a persistent detective, Harold might have got away with it indefinitely, but he was found out, extradited back to blighty and banged up for fraud.

This is his story………..

I was born on 4 October 1949 to a middle class couple. I was naturally good with maths and figures from an early age and so I became an accountant. I was a good accountant and rose rapidly, becoming a partner at the age of twenty-eight, the youngest partner ever and a record that has yet to be broken or even equalled. For the next fifteen years, I lived a good life. I owned my own house by the time I was forty, bought a new car each year and became respected within my profession.

Then I discovered casinos and that was when my life changed forever. I got into the habit of working a full day and then racing round to the Roulette Casino. At first, it seemed like good fun but gradually I became addicted and began gambling more and more. I got myself into an awful mess. Outwardly affluent, my house and car belonged to the bank, I had a huge overdraft and I owed money all over the place. Going over my finances one night, I realized that I would be bankrupt and homeless before long. I could see no way out, other than stealing money from my clients and even I was not daft enough to do that.

The only assets left to me were a life insurance policy for a million pounds and my pensions, none of which I could access. I was worth more dead than alive I realized. Then it hit me that the only solution was for me to die. Not literally of course. Life was still good, even with the problems I had made for myself. I intended to live. But Harold would have to go and I would have to become someone else.

Faking my own death would be absurdly easy. I would leave a pile of my clothes on a beach and everyone would assume that I had drowned whilst swimming and that the sea had taken my body.

The more taxing problem was who I would become. Becoming my “long lost” twin brother or other male relative wouldn’t work, I realized. I would have to become someone totally different. For this to stand any chance of working, I would have to become female. It was a brilliant plan.

I didn’t even have to invent my female identity as I had had a sister, Isobel. She had her own birth certificate, national insurance number and even passport. But Isobel also had a death certificate for she had died at the age of two. My poor mother had never got over it.

Armed with the documents, over the next few weeks I updated these with the aid of a fellow gambling addict who was adept at forgery and with computers. My mother was still alive, but in a nursing home. I went to see her about once a month. Most of her clothes were still in the house but even I could tell that they were dated. No woman today would wear them and I would look even more outlandish if I wore them on top of impersonating a woman!

Getting hold of female clothes and accessories (for this was 1997 and women at that time still wore skirts, high heels, make up etc) would not be easy. The solution was the internet. Using my fake identity of Isobel, I signed up to the few websites around at that time that catered for ladies fashion, make up, jewellery, shoes and handbags. I ordered a load of stuff in different sizes. The dresses, blouses, skirts, underwear and shoes would come and I would try them on. Whatever didn’t fit or I didn’t like was returned. In a short time, I had a complete wardrobe for my new persona.

By the time I had amassed my new clothes, including a long black wig, my financial situation was reaching critical mass. The bank were sending me letters about my mortgage payments, or lack of them, and I was getting red letters from other creditors. I would have to become Isobel soon.

First, I paid one last visit to my mother. My mother, once a strong minded, competent woman, had in her twilight years descended into senility and no longer recognized me. It was a heartbreaking visit as I knew, due to my own stupidity, that I would never see her again.

The next day, I phoned in sick. I felt a pang as I spoke to Wendy, my devoted and loyal secretary of more than twenty years standing, and knew that I would never see or speak to her again either. Then, I put my suitcase in my car and drove off to the coast.

I found a quiet area of beach. Making sure no one else was around, I quickly changed out of my suit and lay it on the beach, along with my brogues, a set of underpants, my wallet and car keys. I had already shaved my legs, arms and chest and wore a lacy bra, matching knickers, a suspender belt and black stockings. I felt utterly ridiculous but had to make the changeover very quickly. My plan would be ruined if anyone saw me.

I inserted my breast forms into my bra, donned a white silk blouse, black pencil skirt and matching jacket, and stepped into a pair of black high heels. I put on my wig and applied a light make up to my face. I put on a ladies watch and some bangles and applied press on red nails to my fingers. I retrieved my suitcase and handbag from the boot and then turned on my high heels and left Harold Jones behind forever. I was now Isobel Jones, sister and sole heiress of the deceased.

I felt bloody foolish at first. Here I was, all dressed up as a woman in the middle of nowhere. It was humiliating to have to wear feminine clothes and the heels hurt like hell after only a short distance. I stumbled along the road to find a bus stop to get me to the airport. Once I was out of the country and all my policies and pensions were transferred to Isobel’s account, I could empty it and go where I liked and do what I liked.

I walked about half a mile. Luckily my case had wheels but it was odd to be dressed this way and to have to carry a handbag, a definite symbol of womanhood. A car stopped. It was a Aston Martin and it was being driven by a girl. She asked if I wanted a lift. I felt like refusing. I couldn’t risk her discovering I was not a real woman but on the other hand my feet hurt and I was desperate to get to civilization so I put on my best falsetto voice and accepted.

I climbed into the car as best I could whilst wearing a tight skirt and high heels. The girl put her foot down as soon as I was inside and my wigged head hit the headrest with the acceleration. The girl asked me what I was doing and I told her untruthfully that my car had broken down and I had had to abandon it to catch my flight.

The girl was dressed in a T-shirt, jeans and plimsolls. I was dressed in a ladies’ business suit. The juxtaposition was not lost on me.

The girl was chatty and spoke a lot about herself. Thankfully I had to do little more than nod or make an affirmative noise. I was greatly relieved when the car pulled up outside the airport. The girl helped my unload my case, wished me a good flight and then sped off. I took a pair of sunglasses from my handbag and put them on. It would be best if my eyes were hidden, I decided.

I presented my passport and boarding pass with seeming reticence even though I was trembling inside. My plan could still go hideously wrong at any point until I got off the plane in Antigua. The girl at the flight desk glanced at my credentials and handed them back to me without a word. Still struggling with the high heels, I tottered onto the plane and was grateful when the plane took off.

So far, so good.

I found my seat and found that I was sat next to a man of about my own age. I instinctively took a dislike to him. He had that odd aura about him. He looked at me, his eyes taking in my rather slender, stockinged, hairless legs (I did have very good legs), the small feet made dainty by the high heeled shoes, my bottom which was accentuated by the tight skirt I wore, my protruding breasts and my feminized, prettified features covered by a veneer of cosmetics.

Once I sat down, I instinctively pulled my skirt in a futile attempt to hide as much of my legs as possible.

My fellow passenger couldn’t take his eyes off me and I felt like prey. His eyes seemed to study me in every detail. I now had some idea what it was like to be a woman, all vulnerable and on show, subject to the predatory glance of the dominant male. I was about to tell him to look elsewhere, but dared not risk speaking. So I sat in silence while his eyes roamed all over my body.

Finally, the plane landed in Antigua and I was able to escape the predatory eyes. I retrieved my suitcase, got a taxi and checked into the hotel. My home for a few weeks until Harold’s estate was sorted out and I became rich.

It felt very strange to unpack an entirely feminine wardrobe. I had been tempted to wear men’s pants rather than the frilly things women had to wear but I had to convince the hotel staff that I was a woman so it would be knickers going into the laundry basket. There could be no trace of my former masculinity.

I was exhausted and so after a bath I changed into my nightdress, a mass of pink and lace satin, and went to bed. Over the next few days, I stayed in my room as much as possible. The less exposure to other people the better, but I still had to go downstairs, dressed as Isobel in a flowery frock or blouse and skirt ensemble, for meals. It was becoming tiresome having to shave my legs and use make up every day but appearances had to be maintained.

Just over a week later, the local police arrived to see me. The pair, a man and a woman, advised me to sit down as they had some bad news for me. When they told me Harold was missing, I of course acted shocked and upset and asked all the usual questions about how he had died. The woman officer put a comforting arm around me and said that they weren’t sure Harold was dead. He could still be alive, somewhere.

They in turn asked me about when I had last seen Harold (when I looked in the mirror, the mischevious part of me wanted to answer) and how he had been. I told them I had not seen my brother for years. They seemed satisfied and left.

More time passed. By now, I was getting bored of just sitting in my room, so put on a frock and some make up and ventured into the bar area. To my consternation, my fellow passenger from the plane was propping up the bar and his eyes immediately switched from the other barfly he was talking to in a loud voice to my skirted bottom. Clearly plastered, he made some lewd comments about my legs and rear and what he would like to do with me in his hotel room.

I had no idea what to do. A real woman would know. I just stood there, frozen, fearful and appalled. A real damsel in distress.

My white knight was a woman, dressed in a similar way to myself, named Emily, who took me by the arm and steered me towards a group of women. She gave my persecutor a baleful look. Emily introduced me to the other ladies and I had to introduce myself. When they heard of the recent disappearance of my brother, they were sympathetic and comforting.

From that day, I became part of that little sorority. I ate and socialized with these women and they seemed to accept me as one of their own. We went on a shopping trip and entered a ladies’ fashion boutique. Emily spotted a fuschia coloured dress that she thought would be ideal for me and urged me to try it on. I tried to demur, saying my funds were limited until my brother’s estate was settled but Emily bought the dress for me and insisted that I wear it tonight. So, that evening, I had to parade about in that rather gaudy dress. The girls applauded as I gave them a twirl as instructed. I felt hideously embarrassed to be treated like a female model.

Sympathetic to my poverty, the girls lavished other gifts on me of jewellery, perfume and expensive lingerie (which I was thankfully not required to model in public). Before long, I had a complete wardrobe of expensive clothes and lingerie. I felt shame when I had to put on a babydoll and pink silk dressing gown and other frilly, lacy things but had no choice. I had to remain Isobel for a while longer.

Meantime, I was phoning my brother’s solicitor daily, putting on my best female voice to find out when I could expect my money. There were complications, they told me. Since there was no body found, they could not declare Harold dead so the life insurance company were not going to pay out until they found a body and neither was the pension company.

I was in despair as my funds were almost exhausted. The girls rallied round and said they would help but I needed a more permanent solution. The answer was obvious. Like any woman in need of money, I would have to marry!

There was an old man in the hotel, Charlie Farbrook. He was in his eighties and dessicated. But he was rich and he had taken a liking to me and bought me drinks.

I could hardly believe what I was going to have to do. I would have to seduce him. I tarted myself up. I shaved my legs (a seemingly endless chore), sprayed myself with perfume, put on my best lace bra and knickers, that fuschia frock that I hated but which Charlie seemed to like seeing me in. I had my long hair styled, my ears pierced and a pair of crystal earrings inserted (which hurt like hell), made up my face and put on a necklace. A pair of killer heels and a diamond studded handbag finished off the look.

I had to admit that I looked stunning. Living as a woman for several weeks, I had learned many of the tricks of the trade of the seductress. But I was filled with shame at being a man forced to dress up as a woman, perfume his body and even getting his ears pierced in order to get another man to marry him.

Charlie was a pushover. As soon as he saw me, he drooled and within a fortnight he had proposed to me. My finances were so parlous that I had no choice but to accept or face destitution. The girls were thrilled but I suddenly realized that this meant that I would have to get married. As a bride. And then become a wife!

The girls insisted on dragging me to bridal boutiques and I had to try on dress after dress. I had to get in and out of confections of satin, silk and lace with endless flounces, ribbons and petticoats. The girls chose my dress for me and I had to go along with it. It was a white ivory gown, with a lace neck to enhance and show off my breasts, lots of embroidered flowers and bows, masses of petticoats and a delicate lace veil. That was humiliating enough for one born as a man but worse than that even was my bridal lingerie.

I would have to wear a whalebone corset. It was the only way to shoehorn me into the dress. It was the most uncomfortable garment I ever had to wear and I could not bend over in it at all. I also wore white stockings with deep lace tops and for the grande finale my much vaunted pudenda was covered only by a lace thong. The thong was the most painful thing I had to wear, since my most private areas were not built to accommodate it but even worse than the pain was the shame at having to wear such a feminine bit of fluff to please an old man.

On the wedding day, I could hardly believe that, fully attired as a bride, I was struggling down the aisle, holding my skirts up and trying to see where I was going through the lace veil. It was a deeply humiliating experience for a man to be married off as a bride. The ceremony went off alright though and I reflected that at least my money troubles were over. As Mrs Farbrook, I could spend what I liked.

Charlie was far too old for any amorous adventures with me but he appreciated seeing me in my wedding finery. He was besotted with me and gave whatever I liked. I was soon the best dressed lady in town. All of my clothes and jewellery were the envy of other women.

But gradually I realized I was trapped. I was Mrs Farbrook, a kept woman. I had to attend balls and parties with Charlie in evening gowns and high heels and play the woman. This was not what I wanted. To make matters worse, the girls were still around. I couldn’t seem to get away from them. They got me have things done. Electrolysis on my legs and body, hair extensions and finally and most shamefully, breast augmentation. I ended up with a pair of knockers bigger than any woman I had ever met. They were so big, I couldn’t see my lower body or feet and my whole sense of balance had changed.

I was now more like a woman than a man and months and then years of having to play the female turned me into one psychologically. From hating my clothes and underwear, I became addicted to them. I had to have the best dresses, the most exquisite lingerie and designer shoes and handbags. I liked pretty things and had adopted a soft, feminine tone to my voice.

My time as Mrs Farbrook lasted for almost five years. For five years, I was a wife and society hostess.

But it didn’t last. Back in England, a resourceful young detective, Detective Inspector Lucy Briggs, was looking into Harold’s unsolved “death”. Briggs, eager, youthful and determined to make a name for herself, questioned my secretary and other colleagues who had known Harold for years. Briggs checked the records and discovered that Isobel Jones had died as a child many years ago. She found amongst correspondence that had accrued since I left the UK, letters from womens’ clothing companies addressed to Isobel. Briggs also found out about my debts. Putting all this together, the determined DI Briggs worked out what must have happened.

My existence as Mrs Briggs was dramatically ended when the young woman appeared in Antigua and filed charges against Harold Jones for attempted fraud and put in a request for my extradition back to the UK to face trial. The wheels of justice and bureaucracy turn slowly, but they do turn and eventually Briggs had everything in place.

Whilst I was dining with my husband and girlfriends, the police, led by Briggs, descended upon me and arrested me. I tried to insist that it was all a mistake, but to no avail. At the local police station, I was stripped of my feminine finery and my true gender and identity were conclusively confirmed. Not surprisingly, my “husband” and former girlfriends spurned me and cursed me for my deceit.

I was flown back to the UK and convicted. The shame I had felt at impersonating a woman was nothing to the shame I felt when the verdict was handed down. Added to that, my mother had since died, so my shame was magnified. I knew I would never survive in a male prison, so my brief managed to get me incarcerated in a woman’s prison on the grounds that I had been living as a woman for several years and intended to seek gender reassignment.

And I had to go through with the gender reassignment or else be transferred to a man’s prison where a small man with large breasts wouldn’t last long. So, in addition to my boobs, I had to submit to having my most intimate bits converted into the female equivalent so that I became a woman complete. I also changed my name to Isobel to fit my new gender.

My sentence ends in a couple of years and when I leave I will leave as a woman and live out my life as a woman as I am no longer anatomically male and in truth have come so used to femininity that I'm comfortable with it. I have no money of my own, but my devoted secretary, who has visited me in prison every month, has said she will take me in. She told me that she had loved me for years and wanted to marry me, regardless of my gender. Who knows, perhaps I will be a bride again but at least this time I won’t be fooling anyone.

The beginning.