Woman In The Mirror: Chapter 8Woman In The Mirror
 
Chapter 8: A Flight, A New Life
 
Denver in the wintertime can be very depressing. My sessions with my therapist 
were going nowhere. My one-room hole-in-the-wall added only to the total 
atmosphere. 
 
I, myself, didn’t look much better. Since that night I found Andrea in her 
sexual puppy pile, I had let myself go. I still showered and wore clean clothes 
but that was about it. I had to ponder when it was the last time I had had a 
haircut or bought new clothes. 
 
It was then at one of the few meeting I had with one of Aunt Madge’s (now my) 
financial advisors that he asked me why I was still in Denver of all places. He 
himself had flown in from Houston and was very out of sorts with the cold windy 
Denver weather. 
 
His idea appealed to me somehow. I signed over a limited power of attorney to my 
divorce lawyer. Sold my car. I threw most of my clothing away. Put most all my 
personal belongings in storage. Then I got on a plane headed for Miami. 
 
 Once there I bought myself a cherry red Mustang convertible and started to look 
for a place to stay. 
 
Since my bank account now read at around three quarters of a million, I started 
to look into buying something real. I wanted some place to live that made me 
feel good. 
 
I didn’t want too big of a place. I didn’t want involvement. I wanted comfort 
and freedom. Instead of searching, I let be searched. I knew enough about real 
estate from Andrea, to know that I didn’t know enough, to do it on my own. 
 
Talk about dejavue all over. I didn’t give the matter a thought when I called 
what looked like a larger realtor and was assigned to a lady. She could have 
been Andrea’s sister for all it mattered. 
 
She was though, good at her job. In short order, she had figured out what I 
wanted and I was settling into a nice two-bedroom condominium. It had a large 
terrace overlooking the beach with a private harbor not far away. It was in a 
Mediterranean style with terra-cotta tile in the kitchen, living room, and 
flowing out on to the terrace. In addition, the walls of the kitchen, halls, and 
living room were stucco. I decorated the living room in black Italian leather 
and cherry wood furniture. 
 
On the other side of the condo lay a small old styled very upbeat community. 
There were little cafes and shops of all kinds. With my mid-west small town 
background, the diversity of peoples in that town was first perplexing but 
amazing. 
 
My neighbors, to the one side of my place, were a lesbian couple. On the other 
side…  I still haven’t figured it out. Four people (2 male/2 female) lived in 
the two-bedroom place but how they paired up, I don’t know. Seemed like every 
other day it was a different combination… male/male… female/female… male/female… 
it was all there.
 
After I had the condo and had enough furniture in it to live, the next thing on 
my agenda was to get a haircut and new clothes, clothes that fit the climate and 
my hopefully new outlook on life. 
 
I had seen a little hair salon on the route I always took, so that’s where I 
stopped off first. 
 
For some reason, I decide to keep my hair longer. I told the young hair stylist 
that I wanted to let my hair grow longer and needed something that would work. I 
didn’t have the slightest idea how but she said she could do something. 
 
During the time that she was washing my hair, she asked if I wanted a manicure. 
In a moment of splurging and thinking that men have manicures as well, I said, 
“Why not.” Another young woman came to me, so I just sat back and enjoyed being 
pampered. 
  
Well… It was a unisex hairstyle, that’s for sure. Maybe, it would have looked 
manly on a more manly man but on me it looked more “female dykish” than 
anything. It was a longish layer cut just touching my shoulders and taper up, 
covering fully my ears, to bangs over the front. There was a part high on the 
left side and the bangs were long, jagged and hung down past my eyebrows. The 
whole haircut had a jagged, layered appearance. Since I could wear it with the 
bangs forward or brushed to the side, I decided to keep it. It did frame my face 
and give it an even more feminine appearance, nevertheless.
 
My manicure, I didn’t like as much. She had kept the nails as long as they had 
been, only rounding and tapering them oval. What I didn’t like was the lightly 
glossy effect that they had. I thought she should have kept them natural. 
 
Just a bit down the road was an upscale men and women’s boutique. So, that was 
the next stop on my spree. I had decided I was going to get some suits, shirts, 
sweaters and trousers. Jeans I still had enough. 
 
I told the saleslady what I wanted and that I wanted them not only stylish, but 
also comfortable enough for everyday wear. I wanted suits but not stiff business 
suits. For shirts I wanted more mock turtlenecks and fancy t-shirts. She also 
showed me some moccasins styled loafers and I bought one of each color, black, 
dark brown and tan. 
 
I was in there for hours and the mustang was pretty well packed by the time I 
was finished. I’m sure I made her day. When I left the shop, I left my old 
clothes there, wearing one of my all-new jackets, trousers and a mock sweater. 
(It was winter and even a little cool in Florida.) 
 
The jacket and trousers were of cashmere/wool/silk mixture and the mock was 
cashmere/silk. The trousers were what I liked the best. They did fit me a little 
loose around the hips but they were the first pair of trousers I had ever bought 
that did not bunch up in the waist. Strange was only that the zipper fly opened 
to the left instead of to the right. The pants were one of four that I had 
grabbed off one rack and tried on while the saleslady was helping someone else. 
 
Coming back to my condo, was the first time I saw the lesbian couple which lived 
next door to me. The more feminine of the couple was very friendly and waved to 
me, saying hello. 
 
I think I saw her grin and say, “Nice” when she first saw me. The other had then 
glared at her. I remembered speculating if the more feminine one was maybe 
bisexual. I made a mental note to try and make friends with the other one first, 
as I didn’t want to become a point of contention between them. 
 
Later, the more feminine one talked a bit with me over the common wall of our 
terraces. She invited me to go with them to a club that night. 
 
It was an engaging evening, interesting for me since I had never had anything to 
do with lesbians. The two of them and I stayed close friends for a year until 
they broke up and both moved away. I still call, email and write both of them. 
 
Still, even though, and maybe because, I had moved and was living better, the 
Pandorian box that I had opened was more actual than ever before. 
 
I had certainly noticed that my new more feminine hairstyle had made me feel 
better and people acted differently around me. (Yes, I had also figured out that 
the four pairs of trousers from that one rack were women’s trousers.) 
 
Yet, in that first night at the lesbian bar, I had more women hit on me than I 
had ever had in my whole life! 
 
I had stepped out of my usual drab characterization of who I was and people 
seemed to be accepting me more, because of that.
 
Okay, they, in the lesbian bar, had thought I was a woman but even after I 
explained that I wasn’t female, they weren’t offended. They didn’t change in 
their behavior towards me at all. 
 
Much later, my neighbors explained to me, that even they had thought (and for 
quite some time) that I was a boi, an F2M, female to male, transgendered.  
 
I had never given transgenderism much thought. Other then what one sees in 
Hollywood movies, that’s about all I knew. I had seen Sex in the City and Mrs. 
Doubtfire, things like that. That was my idea of what transgenderism was. 
 
It was Jen and Sandy (the lesbian couple) that forced me to start thinking out 
of the box. Questioning my ideals of what I thought was normal and necessary. 
 
Still, it took time and a lot of talks with Jen and Sandy to come to terms with 
me finally looking past my denial of fact, as to who and what I really saw 
myself as. 
 
There were a lot of little baby steps taken, the plucking of eyebrows, the 
wearing of small amounts of lipstick or eye shadow, getting my ears pierced, to 
finally the day I wore a bra and breast forms and went out with them dressed 
enfemme and butch, in a woman’s business suit and a blouse. 
 
Later, I became a “certified lez” (and the designated purse carrier), when we 
went out. After a time, I always went enfemme with them. It got hard not to 
dress female. My eyebrows were plucked. My nails were too long to be a man’s. In 
shorts or a bathing suit, my hairless legs were a dead give-away. While my hair… 
still styled with that layered look, hung well down my back, and couldn’t be 
considered anything but a very feminine hairstyle. 
 
It wasn’t a case of no one taking notice. Have you ever examined how men seem to 
always study women? Have you ever noticed how women observe each other? 
 
Women observe each other constantly, comparing… judging… 
 
Well, and men… They have a natural tendency to always study women… no matter 
what. 
 
Being a woman is being always in the limelight. 
 
Yes, I had been noticed but in the same way, any woman would be noticed and that 
felt so good! 
 
It was scary at first. People would look at me, and I just knew they were 
laughing at me. 
 
It was only when men started to try and flirt with me that I realized why people 
were looking. Realized, how it is natural that women are more looked at and 
studied, more than men. 
 
It was odd and unusual, after having lived most of my life as a male and that of 
an indistinct one at that, to now be noticed so much. 
 
Men are peculiar creatures. 
 
As Conner, I was at best ignored. Otherwise, and then some, I always knew some 
form of ridicule, even if it was unintentional. 
 
As Story, I am fawned over, pampered, but never ignored. 
 
Well, that’s how I perceived it at first. Now unless it gets to be obnoxious or 
I am seeking it, it’s just seems natural. I guess, maybe, if I had been born a 
woman, I wouldn’t even notice or think about it.   
 
Cross-dressing had been fun and games. But, we had reached our limits. What we 
had done felt nice. But, it wasn’t satisfaction for me. It helped me safely try 
out and observe a few aspects of being a woman but that was all. 
 
Between the physical me and the mental me, I was still divided. There was a 
division between mind and body which made anything we did only a play game.
 
The next baby step, I could only take with the help of professionals. The first 
of these steps would be to again go into counseling. This time I needed someone 
more understanding and sympathetic to my intentions.  
 
My problem was that I was that woman in the mirror. However it had happened, I 
had been born with the wrong gender. She was what I should have been and what I 
had to be, to become whole and content with myself and my life. Anything less 
was insufficient. 
 
Playing the part, without the intentions of actually becoming what I needed to 
be, should have been, was only self-abuse. That is why, I perceived the young 
woman in Janice’s mirror, to be mocking me. 
 
It’s a difficult decision to make, to change one’s life so entirely. For many an 
even harder decision than mine was. 
 
I could, of course, question my mother’s and Janice’s influence on me. That I 
had been indoctrinated, into believing, that I would be better off female than 
male. 
 
Still, a lot of how we feel about our selves is dictated by how others feel and 
act towards us. That was the argument that I couldn’t avoid. 
 
In neither gender would I be entirely accepted or functional. 
 
As Conner, I could not have children and neither as Story. 
 
Being Conner, I would always carry the stigma of wimp and being less manly… not 
quite a man. I would always be seen as odd, different, less than… as 
handicapped. Physically, I couldn’t conform to the image society required of a 
man. 
 
As Story, I would be an M2F, a transsexual, and be confronted subtly but 
profoundly by prejudice and intolerance. 
 
My only hope was to become so feminine that those with prejudice would not know. 
It was sad but true. 
 
I did not have to worry about the effect on loved ones or on my occupation to 
consider. 
 
Andrea was history. Aunt Madge was dead. My mother… my father… my brother? Who 
cared? Not me! 
 
Occupation? My checks would be deposited to my bank account monthly… no matter 
what. If one of Aunt Madge’s financial advisors didn’t like what I became… good 
bye, and next one. 
 
It therefore was a question of,  “In which gender would I have less problems, 
and have a richer more fulfilling life?” 
 
I knew I couldn’t transition 100% into being female. There would always be small 
but critical discrepancies. 
 
My physical features were such that as Conner, I would never be accepted but as 
Story, I would have little or no problems. 
 
In fact, since once having stepped over permanently into cross-dressing, people 
seemed more readily to accept me as the person I was. Where Conner was 
tolerated, people seemed to go out of their way to get to know Story. 
 
Morally? As Conner I had been neglected, abused, and ignored most of my whole 
life. Was my destiny to remain so, or was the reasoning behind my suffering that 
I learn, break the circle of abuse, and then transform myself, my life, into a 
being, able to excel, and be accepted? 
 
As such, Conner had two strikes against him, before he even started out. People 
will always judge the outsides of a person, before they look further. There are 
doors that would always remain closed to Conner. 
 
I have always been acutely aware of my looks, and their value. Story was… a 
completely different story. The feminine body of Story would be pleasant to look 
at and conformative to my personality. Rather than alienating, closing people’s 
minds and thoughts towards me, Story’s body would compliment my character, 
insuring people’s interest in my agenda.
 
Fate had not given me money for no reason. Money isn’t self-intending. It’s not 
a goal. It’s a means. If Aunt Madge’s life taught me anything, it was that my 
fortune was in providing serve and help to others. Those that receive the most, 
have the responsibility, to give the most.  
 
It’s nice to think that looks don’t mean much. But, it’s also very naive. Conner 
would be a hindrance. Story would be an asset.    
 
Sex, naturally, was the big question mark. 
 
As Conner I was functional. Didn’t have many available options (okay, more like 
none), but the equipment did work. 
 
What would it be like for Story? Professionals, the Internet, no one could give 
me any assurances, in either direction, to any formative degree. Would I be able 
to enjoy sex after the sex change? 
 
Also, Conner could possibly find a female life-partner, but what could Story? I 
wasn’t gay. Could I become a lesbian? Would a lesbian accept me? 
 
I seriously did want to find a life-partner, could I as Story? 
 
Using only my logic, my conclusion was that as a female, my body/mind functioned 
more fluidly, and socially I was accepted to a far greater degree. 
 
Emotionally, no matter if my body was male or female… my mind, my thinking, my 
emotional makeup, was female.     
 
Therefore, my personal decision was then to attempt to conform as perfectly as I 
could to my feminine persona. Money was not a limiting factor, only reality was. 

 
Sex was just… my biggest anxiety.
 
With Jen and Sandy, I began to seek out and talk to other transgendereds. 
Transsexuals were hard to find. Mostly, what we found were cross-dressers and 
drag queens. They were of little or no help. 
 
The Internet remained my best source of information. Yet, it was only 
information and as long as it stayed only information and not deed, it too 
remained a mockery. 
 
Dr. Johnston became my second counselor. She is an older woman, who once must 
have been very pretty. She is still a pretty woman, even though age has widened 
her hips and given her a little bit of a tummy. One thing that made our 
communications so easy for me was the fact that her image, her aura, was so much 
that of a mother figure. She is professional, open, honest, and straight forward 
and to the point, but compassionate, understanding and motherly. I felt, even in 
the first few minutes, very comfortable with her. 
 
She also had extensive familiarity with transgendereds… pre and post ops… She 
had ample experience with most all such problems that could arise. She had been 
there, done that.  
 
Even though we both knew that our relationship was going to be a long one, with 
my mental issues concerning my childhood always in the background, my intentions 
of seeking SRS/GRS (Sex Reassignment Surgery/Gender Reassignment Surgery) and 
HRT (Hormone Replacement Therapy)… as soon as possible, was the foremost issue I 
wanted to be dealt with. 
 
Still, before anything could be done, a diagnosis of Gender Dysphoria had to be 
concluded. 
 
After having told Dr. Johnston about my sterility, she had appointments made for 
me with a medical specialist. 
 
I was diagnosed as having Klinefelter Syndrome (XXY chromosome structure).
 
 I was also diagnosed with having physically, primary male characteristics (sex 
organs), and secondary female characteristics (body form/ skeletal structure). 
 
One in 500 males born have some form of KS. Most with KS do not have Gender 
Dysphoria, and are typical males, having only male characteristics. But, having, 
simply, a hormonal imbalance. 
 
Yet, those with my variation, or better-said complications, commonly do have 
Gender Dysphoria. 
 
I was not hermaphrodite. That is something else. I had no female sex organs. 
Hermaphrodites also, generally, have either standard XX or XY chromosomes. They 
are only born with some form of latent and non-functioning sex organs, of the 
other gender. Everyone with KS is genetically male, because the Y chromosome 
dominates. It’s the double X chromosome that is the complication. 
 
Still, because of my body/skeletal structure, I could be classified as 
female-pseudo. I had a feminine body and male sex organs. Therefore the purist 
definition of gender dysphoria was not fully applicable.  
 
The next step was a minimum of one year RLT (Real Life Training). Which, I was 
already doing. I dressed female now all the time. Dressing male wasn’t really an 
option anymore. I would have seriously looked like a boi (F2Ms/F2M 
cross-dressers). 
 
Still, living as a woman, is not just dressing like one. 
 
There are so many things to take into consideration… behavior. (That’s a bigger 
one than you would think!) Just think social skills. 
 
How about voice training? 
 
Because of my latent and impaired puberty, my voice had never really dropped 
completely to that of a normal male voice. I was a high tenor or treble. But, do 
you know how much differences there are between the resonance and the 
fluctuations in female and male voices?  How about the monotone qualities of 
male voices, in comparison to female voices?  How about word usage or sentence 
structure? How about articulation? 
 
Also, even though there are real-life exceptions, voice and body usually is a 
matching pair. People expect a certain body type to have a certain voice. Just 
think of how disturbing it is to hear deep bass tones from a male of my small 
stature, or a treble from a 6’5” 250lbs male. 
 
One year is not a long time to readjust. I took every thinkable study class and 
course possible… and then some. 
 
In that year, I was fully occupied in transforming my life and myself over. I 
had little time to think of anything else. 
 
Taking body styling courses and having a body stylist helped me a lot. They were 
very good in helping me find my style and what fit to my body type and 
personality. 
 
I always liked dancing and Andrea was very good at dancing. So, I also enrolled 
in dancing classes, to better learn how to dance and also to learn the feminine 
side of dancing and body portrayal. 
 
I had makeup and hair styling classes, women’s health and social studies, TG 
women’s health courses, and behavioral courses. Speech classes and training took 
up a large portion of my days.  
 
It was like a call from my distant past, when I received the final divorce 
degree in the mail. 
 
Two weeks later, I received then also, a wedding announcement and wedding photo, 
from Andrea, via my divorce lawyer. She had married “him”. Maybe, I should have 
sent them a wedding present? Well, I didn’t. 
 
Where did I ever get the idea that hormone therapy consisted of taking only one 
small pill a day? 
 
My butt hurt, my arms hurt… almost continually… from all the shots! I turn black 
and blue so easily and it stays that way for such a long time! Seriously, how 
are you supposed to wear any decent kind of bathing suit or bikini when you look 
like some sort of needle junky? 
 
I never liked pills. Still don’t like pills. And here I am, stuck for the rest 
of my life… taking pills. There are not only estrogens that need to be taken; 
there are antiandrogens and progestagens. Not only do estrogens need to be added 
into your system, testosterones needs to be controlled and reduced. Whoa if the 
levels aren’t correct!  Oh, yuck! 
 
My moods didn’t change that much… I think. Maybe, that had a lot to do with the 
mental attitude I did have before. 
 
It was my outlook about life and other people, which did though change 
extensively. I’m not sure if that had to do with the hormone therapy or with the 
fact I was now seen as being a female and people reacted to me differently. 
Others, and my, expectations, relating to myself, differed immensely, from 
before.
 
Women I always got along with good or very good. There was only a small change 
in our interactions. I think that was because intuitively some see me now as a 
potential competitor. 
 
It’s men that are my major transition problem. I never got along with men 
before. Not in a good friend sense and never in a sexual sense. I was straight… 
straight… straight, and wimp… wimp… wimp. My interactions with men was always 
limited at best. I avoided them. But now, how can you avoid them? Well, that’s 
for later in the story. I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s just say it is a 
substantial problem… bigger, than I could have ever imagined. 
 
I did fill out nicely from the hormone therapy. I guess, I can’t complain there. 
Skinny twerp to … well, I don’t think I look too bad. (I have been getting 
compliments about having, “Killer legs and a nice ass,” and I do think that they 
are my best assets.) 
 
I always had wider hipbones, so with the hormones, I filled out almost perfectly 
there. 
 
My breasts made it also just short of where I wanted them to be. Having breast 
augmentation surgery was something, I hoped, not to do. They are full enough and 
I have rather large pointy nipples. I’m a size 32B. (Okay, sometimes I’m an A 
cup, bite me.) 
 
It’s kind of amazing, I never thought of my nipples as being anything special or 
interesting. I do like them now. They are beyond question, one of my major 
erogenous zones.
 
Puberty had not given me many classical male characteristics such as eyebrow 
with raised ridge, larger hands and feet, shorter upper arms and thighs, Adam’s 
apple, broader ribcage, and wider jaw. In fact, much of my childhood skeletal 
form had not changed that much. Therefore I am physically, in that aspect, 
nearer to an adult female skeletal structure, than to a male. Near enough, to be 
clinically classified, as having a female skeletal structure.
 
Still I did need some plastic surgery. What I did need was fat cell transfer 
from waist and tummy to butt and hips. 
 
If the changes needed are not too extreme, fat cell transfer is the more natural 
though expensive option. Just like with collagen, there is no guarantee over the 
“if and when”, the stability of the changes created.    
 
I was and still am very happy with the results of the fat cell transfer. My 
waist is as small as it can get. My tummy is not only flat; I have that wide 
hipbones/sunken-in tight abs look. (Okay, I did need to work out too… well a 
lot.)
 
My figure is a little bottom heavy but still easily within limits. I have a 
23-inch waist and am 34 inches around my hips. My only problem is, with my 5foot 
3inches, I’m usually stuck looking for clothes in misses or petite sizes. You 
miss out on a considerable amount of nice clothing. They just don’t make many of 
the more luscious sensual styles in my size. This means also that a lot have to 
be bought to fit my hips, then tailored in at the waist and/or bust. Girls 
usually haven’t developed into my womanlier figure.  
 
If you don’t need vaginoplasty… don’t do it! 
 
It was a very frightening… terrifying time for me. It is an extreme 
psychological stress. 
 
Jen and Sandy had broken up by that time, so that left me alone, with no one to 
be with me, except the doctors and nurses. I was alone… alone… alone. Stressed 
going in, stressed the eight days I was there, and stressed coming out… and no 
one to talk with, or hold my hand. 
 
It has to be done in two parts. After the first part it’s, “Oh yuck, what have I 
done? It looks terrible!” Only after weeks of healing can you go back, and the 
rest of the plastic surgery is done. Then it takes more days…weeks, until you 
finally can see, what you in reality, look like down there. 
 
Then it’s psycho shock time again. It seriously needs some getting use to. 
 
There are a lot of variations on how a vaginoplasty can be done. Some cost less 
than others. I wanted quality and the price was not a question. 
 
Cosmetically my foreskin was used to create my labia minora and therefore the 
inner skin is mucus membrane. Just like that of a born female. 
 
Except for the lacking of mucus membrane in the vagina (which means you don’t 
get wet), there is little or no difference, to that of a born female, to see, 
unless you are gynecologist. 
 
Sexually, I feel, I now have more or better feeling and better orgasms than 
before. They are very different and cannot be compared. It would be like 
comparing apples to oranges. Still, the orgasms last longer. They are like waves 
that slowly crest and then slowly ebb away. Giving you a much more orgasmic 
feeling, before and after. Also, recovery time is a lot… lot less. There’s just 
less worries about performance and timing. You can just let yourself go and 
enjoy. My clitoris is very sensitive (some times too sensitive), and I am also 
responsive to vaginal penetration. Penetration is, mentally, and physically, 
something quite… breathtaking. 
 
Though penetration is a far greater intrusion into my comfort zone, I have found 
that I enjoy sex more now than before. I have fewer worries about my body image 
and how others perceive me. I am far more interested in the erotic of the moment 
and my interactions with my partner, than before. 
 
Bad sex is still… bad sex. Great sex is still… great sex. But before, it seemed 
more that I was seeking release. Release was the goal. Now I seemed to be able 
to just accept sex and intimacy for just what it is not trying to make more or 
less of it. Just accepting the moment. 
 
But, it is considerably more maintenance and care. No matter how good medical 
science has gotten, it still isn’t perfect. Once you’re there that’s a part of 
your body that’s going to need an immense more amount of attention.
 
But, unless it was the wrong thing to do you do get use to it. Nowadays, I can’t 
even remember what it was like before having that thingy hanging down there. 
 
I don’t regret it. It could have gone very, very wrong. But, it was the right 
thing to do for me.
 
Just, if there is any other solution that works for you… go that route.
 
The only regret I do have and this might gross some out, I regret not having 
periods. 
 
I regret not being able to have babies. Not being able to do that is a 
disappointment for me. In a way, I now see clearer, Andrea’s frustration. I 
seriously do feel for her… in that aspect. 
 
But, I’m happy and that’s all that matters. I truly do feel that, “Only my 
gynecologist knows,” and that’s where I wanted to be.