Gender Dysphoria: How it Feels to Live a Lie

Notes:
clock (verb): to be recognized as transgendered.
cut: [verb] to have genital surgery performed upon an individual
deep stealth: Someone whose trans status is not known by anyone they interact with on a daily basis, esp. a sex partner.
my T: my trans identity, also my history, my legend, my situation, my deal, my function
pass: To be accepted without question or suspicion in your chosen gender.
passing privilege: the belief that those who \"pass\" enjoy greater acceptance in society.
pre-op: haven\'t had vaginoplasty, but plans to
spill my T: to have your identity divulged by someone: \"Someone I used to work with spilled my T at my new job.\"
SRS: sex reassignment surgery: a term for vaginoplasty.
stealth: someone who is accepted as female well enough to live without divulging her trans status.
transition: the process of changing sex. Also used as a verb
unclockable: Describes someone who is accepted without question or suspicion in her chosen gender.

I’m trying to take my time with this story, so different events in Gwen’s life will come with time. Hope you enjoy it!

--Scribbles05
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/the_competition

I apologize to those who had reviewed before the Big Move. If you\'re reading this, please review again.

Disclaimer: Is on the Prologue chapter

Chapter I


The Eiffel Tower, the Great Pyramids, volcanoes, pirate ships, 30ft tall cowboys. No, I didn’t go on some odd trip all over the world. I went to Vegas. I went there and I fell in love. The bright lights, the constant shows, the lively nightclubs, the never ending hotels that competed against one another, trying to create the biggest and all-out best main event centerpieces than the other. I loved Las Vegas, but when I first arrived there, I wasn’t so sure. I was SO unsure, I traveled back to Casa Del Rio (a very small, dusty town thirty minutes outside Vegas) and picked an apartment to live in there, so I could be close to the bus station I arrived there on. Just in case I wanted to go back. Yes, I was so nervous, I was actually considering going back home. I was scared. I’d never been anywhere by myself outside that tiny trailer park in Parker Hills, Florida, since I’d been born. When I ran away, I was fueled on adrenaline- part from the argument my father and I had, and part from being tired of spending years not being able to be who I really was. But I didn’t have that adrenaline once I got to Nevada. So, I needed a good reason to stay. Determination. My sheer, genuine, hard-headed determination to have a better life for myself kept me in Las Vegas.

Six months had passed since arriving and little around me had changed. I was still living in a broke down apartment on the third floor, still broke, and still working at Slim’s Diner. Which by the way, Slim isn’t really a “slim” fellow at all. I, on the other hand, changed significantly. I’ve turned eighteen and am now a woman. And I don’t just mean in the legal sense. I’ve gained weight, I have curves, and I’m now styling my hair in shoulder length brown waves. I’m finally where I need to be now, but with one exception. I haven’t had my SRS. I don’t plan on being a pre-op girl all my life, but moneys tight right now. The total surgery, including the recovery room I’m to stay in for a week, will cost me $5000. I think that’s a whole damn lot for some gatekeeper just to cut me. But that’s what I want. I WILL pass in society as a woman. I WILL.

Another great happening came to my life in Vegas; Carlos Esperanza. Carlos is from Brazil originally, but was raised in this state. I don’t go anywhere except to work, so you can guess where I met him. He’s a towering 6’2”, with tan bronze skin, lean physique, long brown hair that falls just past his ears, full lips, and adorable eyes. To be honest, he dresses like a bum, but the look works for him. You know that he chooses to dress like that, instead of thinking he HAS to dress like that. We’ve been together five and a half months now, and I couldn’t be anymore happier. You’re wondering, “Does he know”? The answer is no, he doesn’t. Carlos doesn’t know “my- T” and he’ll never know. Not from my mouth, anyway. I choose to live –especially after my SRS—a very deep stealth life and intend to keep it that way.

I was serving out burger plates, pie slices, drink refills, rolled eyes—towards those customers who acted like rude bitches--- and on occasion, looks at the big chef clock to see when I would finally be off my shift for the night, when I saw the tall Brazilian walking in the diner and taking a seat at the counter. I was just turning around with two pitchers of beer and tea in my hands when I saw him. “Please tell me it’s time to go.” I asked Carlos.

Carlos looked at his watch and bit his lip. “Almost. Fifteen more minutes until you’re free.”

Disappointed, I blew out air.

“Hey girl! Where’s my refill?!” I heard a man yell a few tables down.

“It’s right here, sir.” I said with a fake smile on my face. Carlos caught my mock friendliness and chuckled. “Jackass.” I murmured under my breath as I walked to table #10. “Here you are, sir. I’m sorry to keep you waiting.”

The old man gave a ‘humph’ as I poured beer into his glass. “You ought to be. You don’t keep a man waiting on his beer, girl.”

*You won’t be waiting on it at all once I bash this pitcher over your head.* I thought, still smiling. “You’re absolutely right.”

Suddenly, the man smiled. Once coming over to his table, I could tell he was three sheets in the wind. It’s just a shame Slim doesn’t have a policy for cutting people off the alcohol. “Say there, I like a girl that doesn’t put up any arguments. Always a ‘yes, sir’ and keep going. Never have to deal with the trouble of having to smack her down a few good times. You’re cute too.” Though he was drunk, his hands were still quick. Quick enough to grab my waist in a tight grip.

“Hey!” I yelled.

“How’s about you come home with me, huh pretty?” The man got up and tried to kiss me.

“Let go!” I screamed as I dropped my pitchers and pushed at his chest. I could feel his hot, drunken breath beating down on me, whispering obscenities in my ear. Just as I looked up to get a glimpse of his sweaty-looking face, a large fist came from the side and crashed into the old man’s jaw.

“Do not touch her!” Carlos yelled to him as the man staggered back into his seat. “Are you okay?” He asked me with a worried look. I nodded. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“What the hell is going on out here?!” We looked behind us and saw a very large man, with a white cook’s cap and matching apron. In his right hand, he was gripping a metal spatula. His first glance was at Carlos. He stared at him angrily. My boyfriend’s look towards Slim was mutual.

“Nothing, Slim.” I said, still a bit startled. “Everything’s fine.” I checked the clock again and saw it was now midnight. “Come on, Carlos. My shift’s over.” I took off my half apron, grabbed my purse from behind the counter, and pulled him out the diner, leaving the man still sitting in his seat, holding his bruised jaw.

“You need to leave that place!” Carlos said –obviously still mad- as he drove me back to my apartment in his beat-up blue pick-up.

“You know I can’t do that.” I responded, still looking out the window into the night.

“Why not?! You can get another job!”

“No other job will give me as many hours as Slim will.”

“Bullshit! You’re eighteen, Gwen! You don’t need to work like a slave! You sure as hell don’t have to take it when those men grope you! This is the forth time this has happened!” That was true. Carlos and I actually met when he protected me from some shithead that smacked my ass at work. The incidents normally happen during the wee hours of my shift, when we only have smelly, drunken perverts dining in, instead of the sweet families we’d get during the day.

“I understand where you are coming from, Carlos, but I need money. And by me getting paid extra for working til midnight, I’ll have even more in my pocket.”

“You could still get paid working somewhere else.” He said as he pulled into the driveway of my apartment complex and shut the truck off.

I turned to face him and placed a hand on his cheek. “You just don’t like Slim.” Carlos rolled his eyes. I don’t really know why Slim and Carlos don’t get along, but whatever “supposedly” happened years ago, is still drawing a wedge between them now.

“I just want you to be safe. What if something happens to you before I can get off work and get you?”

I smiled. “Nothing’s going to happen to me. You’re just being overly dramatic about all this.” I kissed him. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed. And YOU are going to go home and cool off. People say that if you go to bed angry, you’ll have bad dreams.”

Carlos smiled as he kissed my neck and I could feel him run a hand up my thigh. “You let me up to your bedroom, I won’t go to bed angry. I won’t have bad dreams either.”

I was mesmerized by the tricks Carlos’ mouth was doing to my neck, but it wasn’t enough for me to realize where his hand was trying to go. With one hand lost in the long tresses of his dark hair, my other hand grabbed his wrist. Pulling back with a confused look on his face, I then told him, “No, Carlos.”

“Come on, Gwen. We’ve been together now for almost six months.”

“So?”

“What do you mean ‘so’? I want us to have sex.”

“We DO have sex.”

“Oral sex doesn’t count.”

“It does if you’re the one that’s giving it.”

“I want us to do IT. To do the do, knock boots, rock the sheets, bang groins…..”

I covered his mouth with my hand and smiled. “Just stop, Carlos. That’s not romantic talk at all.”

“Come on, Gwen.” He murmured from under my hand.

“Goodnight.” I said as I opened the truck door and hopped out. “I’ll call you.” I shut the door, just as I heard him sigh. I walked inside my apartment building and took the elevator to the third floor. Once I reached room 42C, I grabbed my keys, unlocked the door and walked inside. My apartment isn’t much to look at with monthly payments of only $150, but it’s a place to lay my head, so I deal with the scruffiness. My tv room and kitchen are connected, so I have no room for a dinner table, and the only rooms that are closed in is the bedroom and the adjacent bathroom –which doesn’t have a tub, only a shower stall.

I walked into the kitchen and poked my head in the refrigerator. Half a carton of milk, a pack of hotdogs, butter, leftover chef salad from the diner, and two beers Carlos left here. *I really need to go grocery shopping.* I thought as I popped open a bottle of beer. I know I’m only eighteen and therefore am not allowed to drink alcohol, but this is my place, so if someone so happened to have left a beer in my refrigerator, by golly, I’m gonna drink it.

I hold on to the bottle as I walk to my bedroom. Since I’ve moved to Nevada, every so often, I get a little homesick for mama, Felicia, and Eddie. When I was growing up, someone was always there, making some kind of noise. I believe I’m just not used to the quiet yet, or having the thought of knowing that I’m all alone over here.

After downing half the bottle, I set the beer on the nightstand and walked over to my closet. On the top shelf, I picked up a dark gray shoebox with four rubberbands around it to keep it closed. Sitting on the bed, I took off the rubberbands and opened the box. Inside, were lots of pictures. Pictures of me as a baby, school pictures, and other pictures of me all the way up until the time I ran away. I had wrote mama as soon as I got here and told her I was okay and why I felt I had to leave. She responded a few days later with this box of pictures and a letter saying simply:

Always remember.

I’ve mailed home over six dozen times since then and I’ve never gotten anything back. More than likely father found out about my letters and burned them, or threatened to beat anyone who he found reading them. *sigh* Oh well.

One thing I noticed about my pictures was that I wasn’t happy. Not one of the pictures that I took had a smile on them. Even my siblings had at one time or another smiled for a picture. Surely, I thought I had at least smirked in ONE. I guess not. I REALLY wasn’t happy in my own skin. Now, I see how obvious it was. I looked depressed, miserable, gloomy, and forlorn for fifteen years. I’ll never look that way again. I’m going to have a better life.

After looking through the many pictures for thirty more minutes, I took a whiff of my shirt and frowned. I smelled like grease and peppers. I tied the box up once again and placed it back on the top shelf until another depressing day comes by and I need to coat my homesickness. Walking into my bathroom, I turned the shower on. Waiting for it to warm up, I unzipped a small black container I had beside my sink. Inside were many little bottles of estrogen –custom made with 8mg of testosterone mixed in—progesterone, and packages of small syringes.

Standing before the bathroom mirror, water still warming up in the shower, I opened a package and pulled out a syringe. I grabbed a bottle of estrogen, stuck the needle into the spongy top, and pulled out the desired amount I needed. Pulling down my jeans far enough for me to expose enough of my ass, I pressed the needle into my skin and injected it. Throwing the used needle away, I packed the case back and zipped it up.

I was nervous as hell when I first did this back at home. So nervous I was shaking. Compelled to watch me and make sure I was taking the right dosage, mama thought that my shaking was a sign that I shouldn’t do it. I know she meant well, and hated that she would lose a son, but her comment made me more firm to do it. At the beginning, I started getting night sweats, but now, very rarely do I get them or any of the other menopausal symptoms I’d been informed of i.e. hot flashes, mood swings.

I’ve been on a 28-day cycle with my estrogen meds. Taking a heavy dosage on day 1, ½ the dosage on day 15, then start over again 15 more days later on day 1. That night, I was on day 15, so I only took half. The next day, same time, I’ll take my progesterone in much the same manner.

When I first started my transition, I wasn’t quite satisfied with how quickly my bust was coming in. So, without my mama knowing I started taking progesterone to quicken the process. At the moment, I’m a natural, comfortable, and passable 30C and will soon stop taking the medication and let the estrogen just keep me at the place I am now. Like I mentioned before, there isn’t much of George left in me, except my internal organs…..and one other thing.

I undressed once the water finally warmed up and got in the shower. I grabbed some shampoo—it was cheap but it smelled wonderful—and washed my hair. All the while, I thought about my relationship with Carlos. At 22, Carlos is a very touchy, feely type of man. He LOVES to cuddle. And we do. We wrap up in each other’s arms when watching tv or movies at his place, or hold each other under the sheets when he spends the night at my place. Those nights though, I have to sleep on my stomach. I’ve warned him about how I won’t like for him to play games with me while I’m sleeping, and he promises not to every time, but Carlos is a sneaky something. I’ve smacked his hands a couples times before when he would get too close to “my center”.

I won’t lie to you. I’m aching to have sex him. The last time I had sex that actually involved intercourse was when I had just turned fifteen and went with my mama to one of her girlfriends from out of town’s hotel and had a one-nighter with the woman’s nineteen year old son. I guess you’re seeing a pattern here. I have a fetish for older guys. That’s why I’ve got to get enough money for my surgery. I’m going to explode in sexual frustration and get clocked all at once if I don’t. At the moment, I’ve got just at $3,900 saved up. But some of that goes to bills, groceries, and prescriptions, so I’m struggling to get there.

Once I finished my shower, I dried off, slipped into some underwear and a big blue t-shirt, and blow dried my hair back into it’s dark, wavy locks again. I had considered going to bed after that, but I realized I didn’t have to work tomorrow and my stomach was growling like a pissed off bear. Going back into the kitchen, I grabbed a hotdog, tossed it in the microwave, and waited.

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