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Waiting to Happen... By Lucy Lord I remember the day I started turning into a girl well. It was early April and, lying in bed with the early-morning sun streaming in through my window, I opened my eyes ready for another day. Something was wrong. I couldn't put my finger on it properly - a tightness in my groin, a prickly sensation on my skin and a warm, bubbly feeling over my chest. In those early days I didn't see anything especially to worry about - unusual aches and pains come and go across the course of a lifetime and few have any long-term effect. However, once in a while one of these nagging sensations can turn out to be truly life-changing and the sufferer will always ruefully look back on the time when preventative action could have been taken; my doctor would later inform me that more could have been done to prevent the changes in my body had I been to see him on that late-Spring morning. Regrets, regrets, regrets... Looking back on it now I can only wonder what would have become had my life taken its intended route. I was 17 when the changes hit me, in the first year of my 'A'-Levels and with everything in my favour. Popular and a high achiever at school, I was gratified at the high turnout for my funeral. The headmistress, Miss Crane was in tears, and I felt the briefest stir in my groin when my sister told me that Kate Howells, beautiful Kate, reciprocated the emotion. It is a well-documented phenomenon, of course, that people who have lost a leg can fool themselves into believing they still have sensation in the extremity. My doctor assured me that the experience was no more than a manifestation of this. Still, I live in hope that the changes that beset me so suddenly could reverse themselves just as unexpectedly. A history period, thirty-five minutes in, and I felt faint. The teacher, whose name I have long-since forgotten, fixed me with a glare, instructed me to pay attention or stop wasting his time. I was losing weight, never particularly heavy at any time in my life, but quickly becoming gaunt. More than anything I was becoming weak, no stomach for food, and my muscles, patiently built-up in a scandalously expensive gym, were wasting away. My Mother, in particular, was worried about me, heaping my plate with food that I could not force down and sitting me down for constant talks, worrying that work or personal problems were responsible for my condition. No such sympathy from the nameless history teacher. I was drifting, lost in a semi-coherent dream world. Didn't notice him coming towards me, lifting the book he was holding, slamming it down on the desk: 'Rodgers! Pay attention!' I jerked backwards, shocked into lucidity. My chair teetered; fell, launching me into the desk behind and its startled occupant. Lying there I stared at the ceiling, thought briefly about counting the damp patches, vomited. Waking up in a sterile hospital bed, my first view of Roger, as I came to know him. Strange that my surname and his Christian should be the same. It was the first link in the chain that would come to bind us together. He frowned down at me, called me 'young man', said we 'had a problem'. Miss Crane, the headmistress, was there too looking concerned. She told me that my Mother was on her way - when she arrived, Miss Crane left. Later my Dad turned up too, although he was very distant and there was a strange look in his eye when he talked to me. The hospital wanted to keep me for observation; when he left for the night he insisted that we shook hands before saying 'good night son' and looking over his shoulder at me as he walked off, like he'd never see me again and wanted to remember every detail. Turned out that they thought I was dying - people had been whispering the word 'anorexia' about me, and my aunt especially had got my mum so worked out that she was hardly expecting me to last the night. Doctor Roger Whitley came to sit by my bed on the second day. They didn't know why I was fainting, they said, but he had his own suspicions. Had I been experiencing hot flushes, he asked. I wouldn't have put that name to them myself but, yes, I had. How tall was I? Six foot Two, I told him. Was I aware, he asked, that I had lost almost two inches in height? I stayed in the hospital for a week and didn't go back to my old school. My death was announced to them at an assembly two months later, although most people knew that something was up - friends weren't allowed to visit my sick-bed for obvious reasons, but I had spoken to Robbie Collins a week before my 'death' on the phone and he remarked at how well I sounded (although he didn't recognise my voice at first). Conspiracy theorists went wild at the school for a few weeks after my funeral. A lot of people from my year had been at the 'funeral' and many remarked that something had not been right. Considering my coffin had been filled with stones this was not a surprise. My sister, Elise, was subjected to a lot of awkward questions for a while. In the end the whole family moved to the other side of the country, my sister forbidden to talk to her former friends. If the truth had come out, of course, the media spotlight of the world would have fallen at our front door. The move led to severe rows between my sister and parents. She didn't understand why she had to move away from her home and her friends because of 'that bitch'. Doctor Whitley, Roger, sat by my hospital bed. The results of my blood test were in. Pulling up a chair, he looked me straight in the eyes and began to speak. I interrupted before he had a chance. 'Am I dying?' My voice sounded hollow and soulless. The resigned depression of my mother had rubbed off on me somewhat by this stage and I just wanted to know for sure, so I could plan whatever time was left to me. 'Joseph,' (did I mention that my name is Joseph?) he said, 'you're not dying. In fact the blood test has come back perfectly normal.' Normal. That one word gave me hope, gave me my life back. For a second I was Joseph Rodgers again. Joseph Rodgers kicking a football. Joseph Rodgers getting drunk with friends at a nightclub, kissing girls, stumbling home, living a life. 'Normal, except...' (And my world fell apart)... 'The levels of oestrogen in your blood are many times higher than we would expect in a boy of your age. The symptoms you are experiencing are a direct result of this influx of hormones.' There were other chemicals in there too, he told me, things he'd never seen before. The effects they were having on me, causing my whole frame to shrink, to become more feminine, had never been encountered before. What was more; the chemicals were being produced by my own body. I was doing this to myself. (He looked reproachfully at my stomach). The rapid weight loss was due to the sudden influx of oestrogen, he said. The projected path that the hormones would take unchecked would see my weight levels balance out, although the fat would be redistributed around my chest and hips. Did I understand what he was saying? Yes, no... what was he saying? Was I turning into a girl? 'Can't you do anything?' I asked. 'We've already started,' Roger replied. 'We started pumping you with testosterone the moment that the tests came back. You should notice that the effects of the oestrogen will begin to slow down in the next few days. However, I have to stress that we simply don't know what the effects of these chemicals in your body will have. Some of them are completely new to medical science... if it was just the oestrogen then I would be a lot happier. You should also realise that you have already undergone a lot of changes, some of which may not be reversible. You've been with us a week - in that time you've lost over three inches in height. Your skin has softened and our projection is that breast matter will begin to form within a few days. There are also some problems with your reproductive system. The concentration of chemicals you have received over the last few weeks will almost certainly leave you infertile.' I was reeling, simply couldn't take it all in. Roger went into the next room and gave my parents the same news. When my mother came in she was crying. Sitting down by my bed, she took my hand and kept whispering 'my boy, my beautiful boy'. My father stood behind her, staring into space. After a few minutes he whirled round and walked out of the room. 'I want to go home', I whispered, looking at my Mother with wide eyes. Roger objected, of course. He wanted me kept under close observation. I got the feeling he was secretly very excited - something like this could ensure his own immortality. Eventually he agreed to my return home though. My parents insisted that news of my condition stayed inside the hospital and nobody else be told. The discretion of the NHS cannot be criticised - in the three years since these events happened I have not been contacted by anyone, press or otherwise, about my situation. I put it wholly down to the humanity of Roger, Doctor Whitley, that I haven't lived the last few years as a guinea pig in some secret government lab somewhere. The doctor provided my parents with the concentrated hormones I had to ingest, to rub into myself, to insert. The battle for my gender, he said, would be won or lost in the next few weeks. Lying at home, in my own bed, but not my own body. The hormone treatment was failing. It was early June, less than two months since the onset of my symptoms. My chest was sore, my nipples doubled in size. My hips had widened, my butt feeling strangely round beneath me. My skin was softer, paler, almost translucent. Even my face had changed; the person looking at me in the mirror was a stranger now. My eyes seemed bigger, my lips fuller, my skull had seemingly re- arranged itself. I looked like a girl. My voice was no longer my own. It was higher, girlish. My father could no longer bear to speak to me, until I took to conversing in a husky whisper. Still, when he was in my room he never knew which way to look, particularly when the twin mounds of my breasts began protruding through my pyjama top. Roger came daily. He would look at me pityingly, talking to me softly about football results and music, taking my temperature and blood samples from my arm. He would disappear into the next room with my parents for long sincere talks after which my Mum would stand in the doorway gazing at me whilst I feigned sleep. Only on one occasion did I hear anything of the conversation from the next room - my father screaming, 'He is not a girl, he is my son!' The worst day of my life came on the 23rd of June. I woke early with a full bladder, feeling light-headed. I staggered towards the bathroom, feeling the tight swing of my forming rosebud breasts beneath the thin cotton of my pyjama top. My cock had noticeably shrunk in the last month or so - I hadn't had an erection in over a fortnight - and I had to sit down to urinate. Nothing happened. I was pushing but there was nothing there. Then, suddenly, I felt the rush of my bladder opening but I was not passing water. The most unbelievable pressure in my groin... I sunk to the floor, screaming in my new girl's voice... the ripping of skin... the blessed relief of the liquid gush between my legs... my Father knocking frantically at the door, hurling himself against it, knocking it down... my tiny, shrunken cock floating in a pool of piss and blood in front of my face... blackness... Back in hospital, the same bed, the same doctor looking over me. Forced smile, how are we feeling today? Good. Invigorated. Full of life. I feel great. What am I doing back here? Stifled sobs from behind the doctor's back, the room hidden from view by the genial mound of his stomach. Mum? 'Joseph, we need a talk when you feel up to it.' 'Now, I feel up to it now. I told you, I feel great.' 'Later Joseph. You've had a major shock. Rest a while; we'll talk again tomorrow.' 'But...' A sting in my arm, blackness descending that I could no longer fight. Fading in and out. Brief, nightmarish images that would come to replay themselves over and over in my mind... needles going into my arms, swabs from inside my mouth and, once, a gloved finger probing the crevice between my legs. Later somebody was speaking to me, holding my hand. I don't know how long they'd been there for. If I concentrated I could hear the words... 'You'll always be our son, don't think we don't love you any less, we'll get through this together...' I later found out that they had scooped my poor withered cock and balls up from that messy bathroom floor, bought them to the hospital, me blood smeared, wrapped in a blanket, carried by my father, as light as a feather. My sex was thrown away after a cursory examination; withered, useless, a lifeless husk. I sometimes think about my little twig of manhood, stowed away in some medical waste dumping ground, sharing a secure polythene bag with swabs, bandages, liposuction fat and a dead foetus. Roger came to see me later in the day, once I'd finally recovered from the effects of the tranquilliser and the fit of hysterics I had suffered upon regaining full consciousness and memory. I was calm, my parents on either side of me, holding my hands. They had already been told, accepted the facts. It would take me many years to do the same. I had, said Roger, matter-of-factly the body of a perfectly normal mid-to-late Teenage girl. Externally and internally. I was perfectly capable of becoming pregnant. No vestige of my previous masculinity retained. Later now, after time to think. I sat up in bed, clad only in a flimsy hospital gown. My bedclothes were pulled up to my chin. 'What about a sex change?' Roger looked sombre. 'It is an option Joseph. But you have to realise that the prognosis would not be good. You have to realise that you are a biological female. You would never be able to have children...' 'I don't care...' 'Let me finish. The process would be extremely drawn out. You would go under an intensive course of male hormones - which, I should point out, we have no guarantee would work when you take into account our previous failures at slowing your initial change.' 'But it has to be worth a try.' 'After that you would have various operations. To remove your breasts for a start. Later we would remove a roll of fat from your arm or your buttock and use it to fashion a rudimentary penis. You'd be able to urinate through it, but not a lot else. In order for you to attain an erection we'd implant a small subcutaneous device under the skin of the penis that you could operate. To be honest it's all pretty ineffective. You'd be a sort of half-breed, neither male nor female. This is an option. Is it what you want?' 'Is there an alternative?' I asked, holding back the tears. 'I've discussed this with your parents. We've all decided it would be the best thing in the short-term. With your permission I'd like to proceed.' I gave a little nod, so he continued. 'There's no reason for you to be here anymore. You've regained a bit of weight and all your blood tests have come back completely normal. Physically, as you know, you are a completely normal seventeen or eighteen year old girl. I know that's not easy for you to hear, but I'm a doctor and giving people bad news is part of the job. What I'm suggesting is this. Go home, give it a few weeks, see how you adjust. Don't run head long into a decision yet.' What could I do but agree? So that is how I, Joseph Rodgers, two weeks before my eighteenth birthday, came to be standing in front of the full length mirror in my Mother's bedroom wearing only knickers and bra. My boobs had been steadily growing in the last month and, my Mother informed me as she measured my chest, were up to a C-cup. They looked rather strange, jutting stridently out from my otherwise skinny body. I could no longer easily cross my arms against my chest, as had always been my habit, so they dangled rather awkwardly by my sides. Mum had been out shopping for me earlier that day after taking all my measurements with a forced jolliness that neither of us felt. I couldn't come with her of course; my features had changed, but not unrecognisably. As far as my friends knew I was lying at deaths door, in quarantine from a mystery illness. She bought sparingly, several pairs of knickers, a few bras, trousers, a long skirt, a pair of tights and several tops. Also a plastic bottle of Nair. 'After all,' she said with a tired smile, 'If we're going to do this we might as well do it properly.' My chest and face had long since stopped sprouting hair but the rest of my body was still fairly covered, although the hairs had become finer and lighter in tone. In the privacy of the bathroom I smeared the viscous blue liquid over my legs, groin and armpits, wrinkling my nose at the strange smell. The fifteen minutes that followed seemed to last a lifetime and, when I got in the shower, I watched in bemusement as the hair simply fell away, leaving my legs and armpits as smooth as the day I was born. The black cotton knickers slid up my silky legs and over the sensitive lips of my sex, fitting snugly around my groin. Nothing like the baggy boxer shorts I had always been used to. Predictably, I had trouble with the bra, but eventually fastened it behind my back. There was nobody else in the house. Dad was at work, Elise enjoying (unbeknownst to her) her final few weeks at school. I wandered from the bathroom to my Mother's bedroom. She was sitting at her dresser, effecting nonchalance. When she saw me she gasped, despite herself. The last vestige of her son had been taken from her. I had a chance to look at myself in the mirror whilst she fussed around me. My dark hair, although it had not been cut in the last three months, was dishevelled but not overlong. It was the only part of me that held any resemblance to the boy I had been. My large brown eyes stared back at me. I had shrunk to not much more than five foot seven. The proud breasts barely restrained by the simple black bra, ever so slightly too small, the tapered chest, wide hips, the long smooth legs finished with delicate feet... surely this wasn't me. My Mother spotted my self-appraisal and ventured a shy smile. It was like she was speaking to a stranger. 'You know Jo, you're very beautiful. A lot of girls would kill for legs like yours.' She was trying, but her words were like knife-thrusts through my heart. I felt the bile rising in my throat but stayed still through a superhuman effort. I stepped into the black polyester trousers she was holding out for me, pulled them up around my waist, having to breathe in to get the zip fastened. My tight little bottom stuck out jauntily from my mirror image and I looked for all the world like the sulkiest, poutiest model. The look on my own face disgusted me the most and I felt the directionless tides of desolate violence well up inside me. I pushed my Mother away from me and hurled the stool she had been sitting on at the mirror, smashing it. Ignoring the sobbing form of my Mother draped indecorously on her bed, I ran from the room loathing the bounce of my tits that threatened to throw me off balance. Slamming the door of my bedroom behind me I ripped off the clothes, throwing them outside, before collapsing naked on my own bed, my sobs echoing those of my Mother. The wilderness years. A new identity was created for me, birth certificate in the name of Joanne Rodgers, social security number, passport. If history ever had cause to remember me it would be as a girl. I had little input in the organisation of my own funeral. Both my parents and Roger decided that the feigning of my death was desirable to give me the best chance at a new life. It seemed right to have a funeral, I suppose. To all intents and purposes Joseph Rodgers was dead; the old 'me' would never have spent the day of his funeral curled up on the sofa gazing soullessly at Nickelodeon - watching would have been too strong a word. When my family decided later that we should move away to ensure our continued privacy I merely accepted it. Roger came to say goodbye to me. I received him in the Living Room, boxes stacked around us in preparation for the move. Although he knew my body more intimately than any other living person I was wearing my old boys clothes, baggy jumper to hide my chest and a pair of jeans. I had to punch a new hole in my belt to make them stay up around my tiny waist. Other items of femininity were sadly unavoidable. I found, much to my chagrin, that bras were essential for comfort. My old underwear was also impracticable for obvious reasons. I wore cotton panties and, as I found out, panty liners were equally crucial. My new genitals seemed ridiculous, cumbersome, dirty somehow. Roger had warned me about these problems, called it the transitional process and told me I would get used to it. Big words from someone blessed with the convenience of a cock between his legs. Periods were the worst problem; I had my first about six weeks after the awful day when I literally pissed my cock off in the bathroom. The concept of going inside myself to insert tampons was horrible, still something I can't get used to. I have to remind myself that it is something over half the world's population does regularly and, hence, not a big deal. It is the little things that we all take for granted that seem so menial until we get to do them; like driving a car, or sex. Roger was apologising. His tone of voice almost shocked me out of my lethargy. 'We tried all we could. It was so frustrating. I could see you slipping away in front of me; it was like you were dying. Your whole body was shifting in front of my eyes and there was nothing I could do. If only we'd caught it earlier. I suppose something like this was always going to happen eventually. You hear of so many weird things happening in the world, I guess somebody had this sort of thing coming. Bad luck on you I suppose. It happens in nature, you know that Joseph?' There was no reply necessary; he was talking to himself, lost in thought. 'You hear about rivers where there are too many female fish and half of them turn into males. Maybe that's what happened to you Joseph, eh? Too many boys at your school, Mother Nature unhappy? Or maybe you lived to close to a nuclear power plant, or else not close enough? Been in any chemical spills you didn't tell me about, Joseph? No, don't answer... I'm sorry; I'm annoyed with myself. There was no reason, no cause, if only I knew, if only I fucking knew.' He had sworn. That one word, the only time his aura of utter professionalism had fallen away. For the first time I recognised his complete impotence to help me in any way. I almost fell sorry for him. All his knowledge, all his training and here I was, this pitiful boy/girl curled up in front of him, trying to hide my bosom under a baggy jumper. And him, with the knowledge of his failure and the realisation that if the same symptoms hit someone else then the same inevitable outcome would befall him. An abomination of nature, a halfling. The last support he offered me, that of a counsellor, left me in a deep, dark depression. Even in this last duty to me, he had failed. The next day we moved to Somerset and I never saw him again. Suicide? I thought about it, came through it. The love of my parents sustained me. Even Elise, so bitter at her own upheaval, gave me all her support. She quickly made new friends, urged me to go out with her. I did very little. Moped around in my boys clothes, hid my chest. I started my 'A'-Levels over again, worked from home under the tutorage of a middle-aged lady, Miss Gainsborough. She told my Mother what an 'introverted young lady' I was, 'so pretty', 'would benefit from socialising with her own age group'. I went out on average once a fortnight during the football season, to Bristol City home games with my Dad. I wrapped up warmly even for the temperate games, no flesh below my neck and my large boobs obscured by chunky pullovers. My own beloved Ipswich Town peaked, fell away. Years passed. By the end of last year my Mother, in particular, had had enough. She sat down with me, told me to stop wallowing, to get on with my life. How could I? What did she understand? This wasn't me, this delicate-featured, big-breasted girl with long legs and a flat stomach, my own dream girl, who I woke up to every morning. Even my shadow had tits. An epiphany. Only a few short months ago, this. My Mother wanted me to 'snap out of it' and so I did. I rode that bloke, dry-fucked him, right there by the side of the pool whilst she watched in disbelief. Teenage rebellion? I don't think so. I'm no longer teenaged for a start, although I have still so much to learn I may as well be fifteen again. But I'm coming along. It was something that had to be done, my first step to redemption. We were on holiday, in Majorca. My Father had scraped the money together for us all to go, on my Mother's insistence that it would be good for me. She had no idea just how good, neither did I. At first I refused to go. They persuaded me, of course. It was early in the season, but I was still horribly overheated in my thick jumper. If I hadn't removed it I'd never have survived the fortnight, so, reluctantly, my boobs made their first public appearance in almost two years. I wore a green crop top, borrowed from my sister. Again, a little too small as Elise was somewhat less well endowed. But it was all that was to hand, and so I bottled up my shame at appearing thus in front of my family. Everybody else in the holiday camp could sod off. I didn't know them, had no wish to. My armpits had to be shaved again, to ward off strange looks and, at my Mother's insistence; my legs went the same way 'in case I wanted to go for a swim'. Prophetic. I first saw Paul as we were walking into the holiday resort Dad had booked, for the first time. It was early evening. The asphalt had been heated by the sun all day and was painful to walk on, even through my sandals. As the porter showed us to our apartment we drew mildly interested glances from the other guests. Mostly British, they took great interest in new arrivals, which were few and far between owing to the earliness of the season. One guest held his gaze longer than others. As soon as I made eye contact I realised his interest in me. Looking back on it, even from a distance of only three months, I wonder why. I must have looked a state, in my too-small crop top and baggy jeans, my hair uncut in over two years hanging unkempt around my ears. Yet still, there was the eye contact. I had become used to wandering eyes at the football matches I had attended with my Father, learned to ignore them. This was different, hungry, wandering over the exposed flesh of my bosom, down to my legs and then, piercingly, back into my eyes. I wanted him to leave me alone, yet part of me screamed 'fuck him, don't be intimidated'. So I stared back. He was a bit older than me, well built, close cropped black, curly hair. Slightly dark skin, I wondered if he was Jewish, or even a local. He sat with three other lads who were evidently English. Loud, boisterous, ugly. Skin peeling off red-raw noses. I held his gaze for, perhaps, five seconds, keeping my face neutral. Found I wasn't angry anymore. It felt like something had snapped inside my mind - I wasn't revolted by his interest in me. I didn't fancy him, I knew that. Despite my body I still regarded myself as a straight male. However, part of me wanted to do something, make some sort of statement, stop caring about my shitty situation just for a second, maybe make people sit up and take notice, stop tip-toeing around me like I was an invalid, turning respectfully away when I was in any position to give away any aspect of my femininity. Stop being always so mindful of my fucking feelings. Mum had packed me a swimsuit, more in hope than expectation. It was a black one- piece, as always slightly too small for me. Mum was useless at buying me clothes. I would have to take charge of that myself when we got home. My mind was racing, I felt light-headed and I was out in the warm mid-evening Majorcan air before I realised what I was doing. My parents and Elise had gone out to the pool over an hour ago, taking my non-participation for granted. It was this, admittedly justified, rejection that prolonged my aggressive mood. Realising how little my swimsuit left to the imagination, but not caring, I sauntered to the poolside. The waggle of my hips that had so disgusted me before was now enthralling. The black Lycra was cut very high on my leg, for reasons that escaped me, and I was thankful that my Mother had insisted I removed my body hair before we came. I'm sure she hadn't envisioned me looking like this. I strode past my parent's sun loungers without a word, jumped into the pool. I wish I could have seen their reaction, especially my Dad's. They must have done a comical double take or something. The boy I had noticed earlier was there, at the deep end. Probably hadn't left since I had seen him earlier that evening. I swam confidently out to him. He saw me coming, stopped the horseplay with his friends, looked mildly bemused. 'Hi.' 'Hi.' 'I saw you earlier when I came in. My name's Jo.' He must have known it was his lucky day. His demeanour switched from bewilderment to full-on charm offensive. His ugly friends, obviously well accustomed to his attention being diverted from them, quickly shrank into the background. As we talked I heard occasional suggestive remarks aimed at my back from one or other. 'The uglier they are the louder they shout.' said Paul, by way of an apology. There was more to it though. I knew his sort from my former life. He would say anything, do anything, if it meant he would get his way with a pretty girl. I wondered how far I could push him. We were still in the water, holding onto the edge of the pool at the deep end, oblivious to the shouts and splashing of small children around us. After a little while he moved closer to me, until his chest was almost touching the twin mounds of my boobs, nipples clearly visible beneath the wet material. When he kissed me it wasn't exactly unexpected. What I found truly surprising was that I kissed him back. My parents were watching, of course. They didn't mention it later, even after we had hauled our sopping carcasses out of the water and lain by the side of the pool, moving our bodies slowly against each other in a grotesque parody of intercourse as we talked in the gathering dusk. He was quite an interesting person, too smooth and cocksure to have been my friend in my past life, but good company when he was trying to get more than the quick squeeze of my breast that I had allowed him. He was British, a London boy, utterly enticing. Several hours passed in this way; it became cold and we agreed to call it a night. A last lingering kiss, an arrangement to meet tomorrow, and he was gone. Lying in bed, in the room shared with my sister. She was asleep when I got in. I had kissed girls before, but this was completely different, more submissive. I had tried to take the lead but he had beat me down, dictating the pace with his greater physical strength, reaching the depths of my throat with his tongue. As I drifted off to sleep my last waking thought was 'sod it, why not?' He knocked on the door of our chalet as we were sitting down to breakfast. My parents greeted him civilly; they had made no mention of our embarrassing performance yesterday, for which I was glad. He was taking me to a beach, twenty minutes from the hotel complex. I hadn't told my parents this; they gave each other quizzical looks but said nothing. Elise had lent me a bikini after a bit of pestering. My mind was set on this course of action and I needed to look as good as I possibly could. It felt strange wandering around in little more than panties and bra, so I added a diaphanous sarong that afforded me a little more modesty. My parents, again, remained silent when they saw my costume, whilst Paul could hardly keep his tongue in his mouth. As we walked away from the apartment, Paul with his arm round my waist and his hand on my bottom, I heard my parent's raised voices carried through the still, hot air. We had sex, of course, on the deserted cove he led us to. His friends disappeared as if by magic, whilst he laid me down and did the business. It was pretty unsexy looking back on it. He had his hand behind my back one-second as we kissed, then, suddenly, my bikini top was lying beside us. Although I had been expecting the move I was still surprised by its practiced fluidity. He took my hard, dark nipple in his mouth as I lay there like a rag doll, trying not to think about what was happening, wanting it to be over. I was yet to learn that some participation was necessary from my end but, as first experiences go, I'm sure there have been worse. Paul didn't seem to mind. After eight or nine minutes of frenzied thrusting he came, over-noisily. A hoarse cheer came from the middle-distance - the over- dramatic ejaculation hadn't been for my benefit. I hastily re-arranged myself, waded out into the sea to clean up a bit, hoped there were no incriminating stains on the bikini bottoms. The rest of the day passed un-eventfully. Paul was an inattentive host, spending most of his time with his mates in the water. I lay on a beach towel reading a book and feeling half-disgusted, half-elated. The next day Paul's apartment was empty. I was unsurprised that he hadn't bothered to say goodbye. In all honesty I was pleased he had gone. I had no interest in him now, I had used him up, discarded him, no matter what he thought. The rest of the holiday passed uneventfully, only I had changed. I was twenty years old, but I had already been three different people. Jo the slut was born. Call it overcompensation, say something in my mind had broken, think what you will. I don't care about anyone or anything, not anymore. I experimented, built up a new wardrobe in weeks. Fishnet tights, short rubber skirts, corsets, peephole bras, thongs, stockings, basques, bustiers, knee-length boots, g-strings, bright red lipstick, heavy mascara, flavoured condoms, quick shag behind the nightclub, heavy drinking, heavy hangovers. This was my world now. I tormented my family, wandered around the house in skimpy satin chemises, brought boys home to spend the night. On one occasion I took one of my conquests home for Sunday dinner, unexpectedly. Afterwards we sat around in the Living Room making small talk. I sat on the boys lap, wiggling my arse against his crotch occasionally to preserve the sensation of his erection pressed against my silky skirt. My family watched in desperation as I touched rock bottom, gradually hauled myself out of it, levelled out, came to my senses. So this is it, the fourth 'Me'. We've had Joseph, then the three Jo's - Sulky, Slutty and now Moderate. If we were four different people it would be the teenybopper band from heaven. We're bang up to date. I passed my 'A'-Levels, although things looked a bit dodgy in those wild couple of months. The next step is university - I've got an unconditional offer to study law at Exeter after strings were pulled by friends in high places. I have a feeling that Roger's hand was at work, although I can't prove it and have no wish to speak to him again. The next three years should be interesting. Although my dress sense has also regained some semblance of sanity I still veer towards low-cut tops and short skirts. Why not? I know what men find attractive (after all, I used to be one) and enough of my old self remains to know that I make a bloody attractive girl. I don't have any hang-ups about my body. After all, I didn't ask for it, so it may as well be pretty damn near to perfection. Okay, perhaps I'm going overboard, but let's put it this way, I will never be lonely if I don't want to be. My Mum asked me if I was bitter about what happened to me. The answer can only be 'no, not any more'. After all, what's the point? I have a family that love me, all the help and support I can get. I have full use of my senses, of my body. In degrees of life-changing experiences, this could have been a whole lot worse. I'm alive, I'm reasonably happy, I'm a girl. But so what? As Roger said, it was bound to happen to somebody eventually... END