Magazine Articles - Tinas Diary (2)

Tina's Diary (2)

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It's no surprise to me that, once again, the simplest and most ordinary of daily events become a bit complicated ... a bit different. But then, of course, as a pre-operative transsexual, it's something I'm getting used to...

January 8th Birmingham Airport- Home

Four hours to get through that bloody airport! Met what could have been nice customs man and we got very intimate - no phone number tho', thank God. Can't sit down, so unpacked - wow did that bring back memories!!!!

'Crack'

The sound of the powdered latex glove closing tightly around the wrist of the greysuited customs official ricocheted around the small room like a shot from a Purdey 'express' rifle.
What is it about me, Customs and Excise officials and body-searches? Granted, I am one of those people who always looks guilty, even on those odd occasions when I've forgotten to buy duty-frees, but surely such an intimate investigation is just a tad excessive for being twenty Dunhill International over my limit...

I felt the probing finger flex inside me. Perhaps it was my own fault - I had been in a bit of a daze as I passed through customs, thinking more about my holiday and life back in England than the dangers of officialdom.

Life's a beach...

After braving the hotel residents and the poolside, I had ventured forth and made my way to the nudist section of the resort's fantastic stretch of windswept sand-duned beach. And the terms 'windswept' and 'sandduned' were no exaggeration. Climbing up and down the twenty-foot-high dunes was totally exhausting and, after its fiftieth rendition, humming the theme to Lawrence of Arabia began to lose its attraction. However, after twenty minutes of staggering up hill and down dale, I found myself ensconced at Beach Number 7 (just in front of the evening cruising and dogging section). At last I was able to appreciate the fantastic surroundings, the majestic features and dazzling colours... of hundreds of naked male and female bodies.

Drifting off to sleep as the nearby waves lapped enticingly at the golden sand and the sun beat down on my naked body, I was startled to sense impending danger. I lifted myself up and looked around - presenting a superb target for the pebble that had been tossed in my direction. Eventually the flow of blood was stemmed and, apart from a small cut on my forehead, no damage could be seen. My 'would-be' assailants, a couple from Leyland called Jack and Judy, explained sheepishly that they had merely been trying to get my attention. They were so contrite that I soon found myself at ease and happily accepted their offer to move to one of the many stone 'oases' built on the beach to provide shelter and some privacy. There, it was agreed, they would rub sun-tan oil into my back and I could relax for a while before joining them at their apartments for dinner. In return, I would 'mind' their belongings while they went for a swim in the sea.

To be honest, being pampered in such a fashion was so enjoyable that once again I found myself close to sleep. As I relaxed I answered their questions about myself and the conversation took on an almost hypnotic quality. Judy's massaging became almost sensual as I explained that, to all intents and purposes, my function as a man was virtually obsolete. The circling of her hands became harder and faster as Jack poured more suntan oil on to my back, his conversation faltering as he did so. Then suddenly the oil felt distinctly heavier and it splattered across my back as if from a great height. I felt Judy lean across me and begin to lap languidly at the fluid. I looked up at Jack to see him standing over me, penis in hand, a single translucent milky droplet the lone remains of his recent ejaculation. Judy slowly edged her way up my body until she kissed me gently on the lips. 'I hope that you didn't mind' she murmured softly. Finding that I suddenly had a mouth full of warm salty cum, I merely smiled and ground myself against her body. Sometime later I found myself alone, the coating of sand plastered over my body the sole reminder of the afternoon's encounter. After a bracing dip in the blue Atlantic waters I watched the slowly diminishing numbers of bathers cavorting on the beach.

A night in prospect

As for myself, pleased to be free from the constant battle with my by-now-infamous 'miracle non-slip silicone bra and breastenhancer,' I buried myself into the sand and dreamed of the night's activities to come. Did I mention that most of my evenings had been spent in Playa De Ingles' largest commercial and entertainment centre - the Yumbo Centrum? During the day, about two hundred shops and restaurants did their best to tempt me, but it was in the evening that the Yumbo came alive.

Much like the Canal Street area of Manchester, the Yumbo appeals mostly to the gay community, but is also popular with families, couples and single visitors. About sixty bars open their doors each evening, offering a brazen mixture of karaoke, live acts, cabaret and the Yumbo speciality - drag and transvestite acts of all types. Amid the cacophony, the crane-like silhouette of the 'Skyrider' soared into the night sky, ready to hurl intrepied thrillseekers ever heavenwards.

And so it was, full of expectation, I had first sallied forth to discover the labyrinth of 'dark rooms', 'sauna clubs' and wild stageshows. I made my tentative foray through the pink portals of the Yumbo Centrum on a journey that was to be the first of many such visits during my holiday.

The main square, where public exhibitions and entertainment took place, was absolutely packed. Thick cables snaked across the floor, linking camera-operators with their director. I was intrigued, wondering what hedonistic outpouring warranted such publicity. At the end of the day, the Yumbo was not a seedy place, indeed, of all the commercial centres on the island, it was the Yumbo that had the reputation for being both the safest and the friendliest. Shyly pushing myself through the hordes to the front of the square, I stood rooted to the spot by the spectacle before my eyes. Massive banners proclaimed the 'World Competition for Geriatric Exponents of Pilates'.With ribbons fluttering, a mass of octogenarians went slowly through their routines - each troupe representing a particular country - roared on by their supporters.With alarm I saw the Great Britain team mounting the stage and closed my eyes, half convinced that, had I opened, them I would have seen my mother in a dayglo orange leotard.

Memories, memories...

I made my way to my bar of choice - The Block - and ordered the first of many drinks required to soothe my nerves.

Now, I am no Ingrid Bergman but, 'Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world', The Block was the least likely to receive a transsexual's custom. Heavily established as a leather bar, you'd have needed a hedge-clipper to get through the moustaches to the bar. That said, it had a happy hour (images of the Magic Roundabout and Mr Rusty's moustache circling clock-like on his face), a dark room, and very friendly staff and owner. I often found myself 'locked in' until close at six or seven am, when we would adjourn to the Construction Disco Bar to finish off the day. As each day passed, I noticed that the clientele was changing, and more 'trannies' were in evidence. It transpired that the staff had passed word around that they had a genuine transsexual customer, and had invited all of the girls from the cabaret bars to join me at the end of the evening. Awwww, sweet!

It may have been these thoughts that made me pass, trance-like, through the green channel in the customs shed...

Back to the matter in hand!

It now felt as though I was being fisted.Was the person conducting the body-search part of some weird efficiency drive? And why is it, when you hoped that the 'body connected to the arm-bone, connected to the wrist-bone, connected to the fist' would belong to some Prince Charming who (after washing his hands) would proceed to sweep me off my feet, that the reality, from what little I remembered of the Customs Official, bore an uncanny resemblance to Shrek?

Come to that, the bastard hadn't even looked me in the face. He had just asked a few perfunctory questions and then whisked me off to the examination room. Now there are memorable times when you might find yourself in an interesting position with a relative stranger, unable to recall their eye-colour or, on occasion, even their name. Those dark rooms spring to mind - as does enjoying a spit-roast at some party or other. However, I don't consider being turned inside out by some grey-faced, greysuited man to be one of those occasions.

Eventually, having logged all of my internal organs but found nothing suspicious, he released me, leaving me to limp gingerly out of the airport.

Why does it always rain on me?

Possibly the fact that I am Northern Irish is to blame for the frequency of the stripsearches, but I fear that it is more likely to be my gender dysphoria.

Oh how I wish that I was post-op - or at least time-served enough to have a full gender recognition certificate. But changing gender isn't easy.

I astounded my phlebotomist, by telling her that it wasn't simply a case of chucking down the hormones and having a piece of paper saying that my name was now Tina. Looking back a few years, I can see that as with most things, patience is the key and everything takes time...

September 8th Doctor's appointment-home

Today was the big day - appointment to see doc in pm to discuss my dysphoria. Poor man. Then home, where I will have to tell Mum. Oh my God - how do I tell my boys? Feel like I've been run over and dragged by a Rolls Royce - bruised but elated at eventually travelling in style.

You want to what?!

Well, today was the day - in one way the beginning of my new life but, more importantly, freedom from my old one. There was a long wait to see the doctor - a locum covering for my usual doctor in Lancaster. Eventually my name was called and I made my way into his room. How do you say to a doctor that you are convinced that you were born the wrong gender? Being incredibly firm, I asked him to refer me to a gender psychiatrist to start the ball rolling for gender reassignment. I have never seen anybody go quite so grey quite so quickly. 'But it's Friday afternoon. I do coughs and colds on Friday afternoons'. Stammering his apologies he fled the room. After a few minutes he returned and gave me the cold facts:
- Waiting time to see the initial psychiatrist: six months
- After referral to a gender psychiatrist at a gender unit, I could expect an appointment in a further six months
- A second appointment would be made to see if the subject was suitable for treatment.

I hazarded a guess that this would be after a further six months - and reluctantly he confirmed that that was the case.

The long view

So it takes eighteen months before it is even decided if a transsexual can be treated. Only at this stage is it possible that female hormones could be prescribed. A full genderrecognition certificate will then take a further two years, and at some point after that it may be possible to have sexual reassignment surgery. Like I said ... 'patience'.

But if it's difficult for me, then consider what it was going to be like for my loved ones - family, ex-wife, sons and new partner. How on earth would they take the news?

January 22nd Party at Vic's.

Today I helped do the food for my mate's house-party, and in pm bought required party games. He went to the football - but it gave me time to entertain his female friend who was hosting... Mmmmm. Then met Helen, got hit by lightning bolt - mind you she was fluffing her lines. Missed rest of party - spent night with Helen in Vic's bed. Won prize for prettiest cock - typical

What a day! Because my oldest mate Vic knew that I had been introduced to swinging years before by my father, and had gone on to have an active lifestyle in London, he asked if I would like to attend one that he was arranging.What he actually meant was, could I take him to football, buy party games, set up the video-players, help him to prepare food for thirty, blow up airbeds and collect Vee from the railway station?

Well, he is my oldest friend - we go back nearly forty years and he would do the same for me - so it was a pleasure. Jobs all done on time, the guests began to arrive. Being 'shy', I hovered around in the kitchen, but then guests began to appear at both front and back doors. 'Sod it', I thought, and began to kiss the new entrants on arrival. Suddenly a newcomer at the front door took my eye, so I scampered past other revellers and before we knew it we were in a clinch. That was my first meeting with Helen.

Icebreaking games

The party needed something to lift it, so Vee started one of her favourite party games. Five blindfolded female guests had to recognise which member belonged to which member. Of course, only the mouth could be used on the ten lucky male guests. For some reason I was chosen as one of them (well ok, being best friend of the host helped) and I was led to the stairwell where a fluffer was ensuring that everything was standing proud.

No prizes to guess whose mouth was doing such an excellent job - suffice to say that I nearly missed the competition. However, I did participate, and a female winner was duly announced, having recognised seven of the ten cocks. On the male side, I was awarded the prize for the prettiest cock - the third time that has happened - like I say, unlike some transsexuals I don't hate my cock, I just wish it was on somebody else.

Well, the rest of the party was a blur, ending up with breakfast at Vic's with Vee, Helen and a few other party-goers. Little did I know then that we would see each other almost daily, burning a furrow on the road between Stoke and Lancaster.

Unbelievably, within two weeks a serious-faced Helen took me to one side and said that she had to tell me something. 'There is something you simply have to know,' she said nervously, 'one of my best friends is a transvestite.' Trying hard to keep a straight face, I took a deep breath and, holding her gently by the shoulders, said 'and there is something you simply have to know...'

More episodes from Tina's complicated life in Issue 3...