Boys don’t cry

Contrary to popular belief, boys on hormone therapy can cry quite a bit. They cry over Pampers commercials on TV. They leak relentless salty tears from a barren, barren, empty womb! They sob, my darlings, and write letters to very bad men just out of penitentiaries who look quite handsome in their internet photos. They weep and piddle and wail.

Boys, in the process of becoming women, seem to cry quite a fair amount of the time. I, of course, was more or less immune to this particular failing. I’d say I’ve always been more of a stiff upper whip type of person, wouldn’t you?

At any rate, ducklings, you know that the process of becoming a fabulously luscious woman such as myself takes a fair amount of time. I spent two years in “counselling” at the gender clinic with Dr Pervenstein before I even began any of my surgeries. I also dressed as a woman and lived my life as a woman despite the presence of my unfortunate ultra-manly appendages.

Getting the makeup right was a big feat in itself. Honestly, I wasn’t used to makeup that was meant to work in daylight! Wasn’t one supposed to apply liberally with a trowel or other garden implement and then step out boldly onto the stage? Makeup? Daylight? I hate to admit it, but I had not a clue.

There were a few areas of my utterly awesome transformation that were challenging, I must admit. To become a real woman, one must develop one’s own personal style. At first I tended to fluctuate between dowdy dowager and Surrey slut, until I got it just exactly right and achieved my current state of perfection.

There was a lot to learn, and it was very different from being dressed in my nighttime persona of Ms Pussy Whip. Real women, I discovered much to my chagrin, are often not wearing any makeup at all. Nothing! Nada! Naked face! How are they hiding their stubble?

During this transformative period of my ultra glamorous life, I was quite concerned with stubble. That’s right my darlings, your Mistress Rosamond was truly the hirsute beast. I was covered in the wretched stuff from bush to brows and spent a great deal of time and energy undergoing a variety of removal techniques.

I found laser hair removal to be the most successful method. Apart from spending a day or two after each treatment with the lingering odour of crematorium wafting through the air about me, it worked spectacularly.

I tried electrolysis with less than perfect results. The bungling oaf of a technician inserted the needle incorrectly one day. I shrieked in terror and positively fled the salon. Those slips with the needle can leave the most tres tragique pockmarks on one’s peaches and cream complexion.

All during this time, I was spending every spare cent on hair removal and women’s clothing, going twice a week to the gender clinic, performing my many hair and beauty miracles, and having quite a bit of fun in the boyduoir, if you know what I mean. I wasn’t all that terribly interested in using the wiener, but I was definitely enjoying the bun fairly regularly.

One thing that I do want to pass on to all of you doting readers and adoring fans of mine out there is this: please, please, always tell your dates if you are a she-male. That’s right, pets, before you kiss, tell. Believe me, I know from experience what a heap of trouble a girl can get into by leading a man astray in this particular way.

Oh, all right then, you might as well know, if you must. At one point in my transition, the old hormones really kicked in. I had an uncharacteristic lapse of personal strength and self-control. I needed a man!

I know, I know, it’s incredibly difficult for you to believe, but I honestly felt quite desperate. I developed a taste for bad boys and I couldn’t leave them alone. Nowadays, of course, I would simply give them a brisk paddling and send them on their way, but in those days, I wanted them to be my daddies!

One of the problems I ran into was knowing when exactly to tell them about the true state of the equipment in the lower level of the gymnasium. If I led them to believe that I was all woman, as I so truly wanted to be, then they were in for a bit of a shocker when we got down to business. I learned that this was not necessarily such a good idea. Some bad boys can become extremely mad boys when they don’t find what they’re looking for on a panty raid.

I have to say it again for your own personal safety. Always tell before you kiss. I have spoken. No one wants to find your lifeless, half-transformed body out in the alley because some he-man got a weenie surprise.

Real butch men can have the oddest reactions when they find themselves in bed with something they weren’t expecting. Be careful if you can’t be good, that’s my motto.

And now, my dearest blossoms of love, I must be off! I’ve got a cellulite symposium to attend this weekend which should prove to be just rippling with excitement.

Ta ta for now. Kiss, kiss and love, love! Remember, beauty is often only skin deep, and always in the eyes of the beerholder.