Old Hermy’s Never Die
They Simply Smile That Way ……
A blog about ‘stuff’ your grandmother could or would never tell you!
Transsexuals First For The Chop!
Treatments for transsexuals and intersex patients are rumoured to be amongst the first major spending cuts to be introduced by 80% of Primary Care Trusts, when reorganisation and funding restrictions are implemented in 2012 by the Department of Health.
Further limiting support to a group of patients the treatment of which, is mostly inadequate and subject to the National Health Service ‘post code’ lottery. In what is already a second class, piecemeal service for anyone unfortunate enough to be born transsexual or worse still, a hermaphrodite in the United Kingdom?
The treatment of transsexuals and hermaphrodites, if lucky enough to get any in the first place, depends upon individual Primary Care Trusts establishing protocols regarding care pathways for gender reassignment treatment. Because there are no Department of Health guidelines or models of care for the second class, Cinderella specialism of ‘gender dysphoria’ in the National Health Service.
As the Department of Health stated in a recent letter to me:
‘I should explain that the Department of Health has not published guidelines or models of care for gender reassignment surgery. The Department would expect the clinical expertise of all the professionals involved with gender dysphoria to inform the treatment of patients who are affected by this condition.
Protocols for care pathways for treatment are established locally and therefore vary. However, it should be remembered that, as with other services, the length of waiting time may be influenced by both service capacity issues and by the priority attached to the service by commissioners. Urgent cases will continue to be treated faster in accordance with clinical need.’
In other words, medical care for patients will remain a ‘post code’ lottery. With treatment, if you are lucky enough to get any, depending upon the Primary Care Trust in whose area you are fortunate, or more likely, unfortunate enough to live. Allowing right wing, mostly bigoted, trust members to in effect reinvent the wheel and make it up as they go along.
Even the supposedly independent body representing patients interests within the Health Service, for years was chaired by a bigoted, ex-agony aunt, who was the most transphobic woman you are libel to meet outside a McDonalds female toilet.
Little wonder that such a universally hated and despised group of patients and their treatment, will be amongst the first services to be completely abolished or drastically reduced by many Primary Care Trusts in 2012. Especially while the Department of Health continues to refuse to issue national guidelines or models of care for gender reassignment surgery, and the body responsible for representing patient’s interests, remains rampantly transphobic and instinctively hermaphobic in structure and service.
With 80% of Trusts rumoured to be about to drastically cut or limit further treatments for those unfortunate enough to suffer from some form of gender dysphoria, when people believe that at least 1 out of 10 individuals feel that their gender or sex is different to everyone else.
The future for those seeking treatment upon the British National Health Service looks distinctly bleak. In what is rapidly becoming a ‘post code’ lottery no one can win, it could be you but probably wont be. With waiting times extended and the number of care pathways available drastically reduced, if not completely abolished in some areas, as if life were not already difficult enough for transsexuals and hermaphrodites currently seeking surgical intervention through the National Health Service.
Assuming you are lucky enough to get any at all, which in the current economic climate is increasingly unlikely. Thanks to lying Labour’s ‘spend, spend, spend’ irresponsible politics. Who while in power continued to fight against legal rights for transsexuals in the European Courts. And even when they lost a test case, continued to refuse to allow post operative transsexuals the right to change their birth certificates, or have even the most basic and fundamental of human rights in the United Kingdom. One of only three European countries to do this, the other two being Romania and Liechtenstein.
Not that the ultra right wing, bigoted, misogynistic politics of Camaroom’s uncaring Conservatism is any better. Because like fundamentalists around the world, they would prefer to push transsexuals and hermaphrodites off a convenient cliff or suitably high building; rather than give legally enforceable human rights and treatment.
In my own case I have finally been given an appointment to see a Consultant hundreds of miles away, regarding relatively minor surgery (a z-plasty) to open the join in my vagina. One week short of exactly two years after I first tried to speak to my GP about the problems I was experiencing, resulting in not being able to have sexual intercourse or get past the join for four years.
Almost two years for this initial consultation with a surgeon which, if he considers it necessary to operate. A request will then have to go back to the ‘exceptional treatments’ section for funding. Who after another five or six months will eventually decide if I can have the funding for minor surgery that would make such a difference to my life, then what? Another two years on the Consultants surgical list and that is if I am lucky.
All because consecutive governments and the Department of Health, continue to refuse to issue protocols, guidelines and waiting times for the treatment of those suffering from gender dysphoria. No wonder that we get at best a second class, inferior service to the normal's in breach of the European Human Rights Act, if indeed we get any at all from individual Primary Care Trusts.
Only by coming together, by fighting for equal, standardised, national rights for the treatment of intersex conditions. Can we stop the rumoured reductions in treatment by 80% of Primary Care Trusts in the United Kingdom. Treatment that many fought long and hard for on the National Health Service, which those yet to come face losing because of apathy and a willingness to be silenced. Out of fear that even this second class, substantively different service, with many patients having to travel from one end of the country to the other in order to be begrudgingly treat, will be abolished and as in America, only those able to afford treatment privately will get it.
Treatment we should be legally entitled to on the National Health Service, free at the point of delivery. Shame upon you all! Especially the Doctors and ‘care professionals’ who are foremost amongst the Bible thumping, cross carrying homophobes, transphobes and hermaphobes that feel no guilt, shame or personal remorse in blighting our fractured lives and denying equal rights to treatment and medical care, within the National Health Service.
Things have improved medically and technically for intersex patients during the past fifty years. Hopefully no one is being forced to endure the unendurable and go through the medical nightmare without end, which I and many other unfortunates were forced to endure.
When aged fifteen I told the Hull and East Riding Health Authority’s senior psychiatrist, I did not feel happy being a boy and would prefer to be a girl, only to be told in no uncertain terms that:
‘If I got a patient coming to see me, asking to be Nelson. The last thing I would do is arrange for a surgeon to amputate their arm and take out their eye. You are clearly a schizophrenic and with the correct medication and support, there is no reason why you should not live a full and productive life’.
Then forcefully sectioned under the Mental Health Act when I, still only a teenager, became increasingly depressed and suicidal because of this obvious misdiagnosis. From a Doctor who considered homosexuality a crime, transvestism curable with ‘aversion therapy’ (electric shocks) and depression, something you treat with ECT (electro convulsion therapy – when they zapped an individual's brain directly with electricity), or a pre-frontal lobotomy. But these are people who used to burn witches and believe physical illness, to be possession by evil spirits.
Much has been won in the struggle for treatment, while much remains to be done in the ongoing fight for understanding, legal rights and social acceptance. While the struggle to maintain the right to medical treatment, which once did not exist within the National Health Service, will continue, especially in the face of threatened cuts and increasingly biased medical professionals.
Because some of the most bigoted, hateful, spiteful, unsympathetic people I have had the misfortune to meet, have been Doctors and nurses. In particular those of a fundamentalist religious nature, for whom homosexuals, transsexuals and hermaphrodites remain what the Nazi’s called ‘lebensunwerrtes leben’, life unworthy of life.
Until the Department of Health issues national guidelines, or models of care for gender reassignment treatment and surgery. Those suffering from gender dysphoria will continue to get at best, inferior, inadequate, inconsistent treatment with an unfortunate few getting no treatment at all, dependent upon the National Health Services ‘post code’ lottery.
Can Hermaphrodites Orgasm After Surgery?
Unable to speak for all hermaphrodites I can only say that personally, thankfully, the answer to that question is a resounding yes! Because before surgical intervention the only physical intercourse I had from the age of fourteen was sucking someone off, or taking it up the arse from men. Which, once in a while, for something different is all right but all the time, had been mostly uncomfortable, messy and as far as I was concerned, wholly unsatisfactory.
Possessing only undeveloped male genitalia I had never been capable of screwing anything, even a knot in wood. I just thought that it was better than nothing and at least I had a nice hairy chest to cuddle-up on and run my fingers through a tangled matt of hair afterwards. Despite usually feeling as if someone had just detonated a ‘parachute flare’ up my arse and constantly wanted to go to the loo.
Following re-constructive surgery and finally as wholly one sex as I would ever be, in my case I chose to be female if only because from the age of ten or eleven all that I wanted was to be a mummy and have babies. I was fortunate enough to find a man to have intercourse with only weeks after the final major operation. Though in retrospect I think this piece of good fortune and the man involved, actually found me.
Being the first hermaphrodite that Saint James University Hospital performed a colon resection, or Sigmoid Colon as it became known, on. Only the second person to actually have this procedure, the first being a woman with cancer. I suspect the surgeons wanted to know if a hermaphrodite could not only have intercourse without to many problems but more important still, if we could actually orgasm with a Sigmoid Colon.
Making this a practical and successful procedure that could be announced in relevant periodicals – I even got to appear naked in the Nursing Times under the somewhat sexist identity of being a hairdresser from Barnsley, at least Coco Channel was into androgyny in the early eighties. Not that it did a lot for my modelling career because from that point it went rapidly down hill, though I could not think why.
Because a colon resection (Sigmoid Colon) if successful, was to become the radical new treatment, used on hermaphrodites (at least I already had a female pelvis) choosing to become female but with insufficient penile tissue for re-constructive surgery. Until this point in time, the only other available treatment was to take extensive ‘skin grafts’, which usually resulted in considerable scarring.
Making it more difficult if not impossible to find a man and feeling so unfair, when finally you get a body that is not a mix of male and female, yet wholly neither before surgery corrected one of natures most personal of jokes and cruellest of tricks. That of being born with the hidden form of hermaphrodism and not developing sexually as other children but becoming an ‘it’ or ‘that thing’, as I was often referred to.
Though when it came to name calling, wall to wall bullying and harassment, there is not a verbal insult that I have not been called, physical intimidation and assault I have not been subjected to, including having my teeth snapped off! Repeatedly from the age of ten or eleven until now.
Why I do not understand, I never harmed anyone and certainly never asked to be born the way that I was. There was not a single thing that I could do about it, except hopefully one-day find a surgeon who could give me a life, if life it be before the unforgiving Priests of hate and their bloodstained altars. Upon which, would be brutally sacrificed all life unworthy of life (lebensunwertes leben) according to the fantasy God of men in that iconic work of fiction, lies and social control, the Vatican Codex.
Began a most personal, brutal and criminal inquisition to discredit me with constant harassment, bullying, criminal damage and bare-faced lies, which allowed Pope Adolph the Persecutor and his growing legions of intolerant, bigoted, religious lunatics to target me for twenty-eight years based upon nothing but a pack of lies. In that I was a transsexual and therefore a creature destined for the flames of Hell in the next world, constant persecution and injustice, before their secret, kangaroo courts in this world.
Having never found women physically attractive, I had never in my life been to bed with one and had no idea how they orgasmed. Nor had I screwed a man, though I had been to bed with plenty and had them squirt their sperm up my arse and in my mouth – spit don’t swallow!
Which is why my first sexual encounter with a man following surgery was an almost perfect double-blind experiment, I had no idea what to expect physically, had never talked to female friends about orgasm and the physical act of sex. Though I learnt from magazines that the Holy Grail of female sex was the mythical multiple orgasm, I still had no idea what a single orgasm involved physically, or psychologically.
My first experience of sexual intercourse following surgery proved to be a profound disappointment. Despite the fact that the man I went to bed with turned me on and was everything I could want or hope for, being a guitarist with the strongest fingers and tongue I have encountered before, or since. It just proved to be physically uncomfortable and though he clearly orgasm I did not.
I can remember thinking afterwards: ‘And I went through all that just for this!’ Just to dribble someone’s sperm and feel like Jane Wayne after a long and fruitless ride, so get on your horse and drink your milk. At least I preferred this to taking it up the arse, even if it was only marginally less painful and equally as sexually unfulfilling. When it came to the joy of orgasm either as a man or woman, or in my case as an ‘it’, a thing that was neither fish nor fowl.
With a growing sense of disappointment and dissatisfaction, we again had intercourse two nights later. On the this occasion he, being sexually experienced and familiar with natures humourless joke, in that men can orgasm in minutes and have usually finished before the woman has even started. Spent a lot more time before we had intercourse, turning me on and physically arousing me.
Then we tried again with me still not knowing what a female orgasm involved or felt like. This time I was a lot twitchier and physically responsive to the primal rhythms of penetration as a feeling of tightness and discomfort gave way to a sensation of growing warmth somewhere inside me. Before what felt like a battlefield nuclear weapon detonated simultaneously inside my head and pelvis.
With the steady rhythm and motion of penetration becoming faster, accompanied by vocal murmurs, intonations and repeated exclamations of ‘yes … yes … yes’. The growing feeling of pleasure and warmth in my loins exploded into a leg trembling, toe curling, throat-tickling orgasm that appeared in the moment of implosion. To completely melt my brain and in that fraction of a second as everything exploded with a previously unexperienced intensity and clarity, I went all kitten-soft and fluffy.
While my whole being became about a single purpose, taking something of him, his fluids and essences as deep into myself as possible through the involuntary spasming, tensing and relaxing of my genitalia and body. What a trip! My partner, having felt my orgasm and briefly slowed he, now about to orgasm, increased the speed of penetration until ‘wham, bang, thank you mam’.
Unfortunately, still locked together and briefly feeling as if we had become one, I then started to shake, not with the joys of orgasm but what I assumed to be shock and awe. At the complete genius of Derek Eastwood’s brilliant surgical intervention and what hopefully, would become an acceptable if not more expensive treatment for intersex patients, with insufficient penile tissue for successful gender reassignment surgery.
Rather than being forced to suffer the further personal injustice of extensive ‘skin grafts’ and the inevitable scarring caused by this medical procedure. Until a colon resection, now known as a Sigmoid colon, provided a more practical and successful procedure for patients damned by physiology to a medical nightmare, seemingly without end.
Simply because of being unfortunate enough to be born with the hidden form of hermaphrodism, which is a complete nightmare when you have no idea or understanding of what is happening to you and why. Without having to be subjected to systematic misdiagnosis by incompetent, self-serving Doctor’s more interested in protecting their own professional reputations rather than caring for and acting in their patients best interest.
I certainly hope that young hermaphrodites do not have to go through the medical nightmare without end, which I and many others with the hidden form of hermaphrodism were forced to endure at the hands of unaccountable, uncaring Doctor’s.
At least they should now be better able to correctly diagnose this condition, thanks to modern technology, without further compounding the personal and social nightmare of being born both male and female, by suffering decades of misdiagnosis and treatment. Taking whatever chance we might have of a life.
Little wonder that for half my life I did not know what I was and for the other half, could not openly admit or talk about it and face what was to become for me the final taboo. Thanks to decades of repeated misdiagnosis and treatment at the hands of incompetent, uncaring, self-serving Doctor’s, and they wonder why many intersex patients have an abiding dislike and mistrust of Doctor’s!
NHS Computerised Medical Records – Another Disaster Waiting To Happen
The National Health Services expensive, inefficient, insecure, computerised medical records project is nothing but a white elephant, a drain upon increasingly tight budgets and another natural disaster waiting to happen.
This dream or nightmare, depending upon your personal opinion, of computerising all the old paper medical records and allowing direct access to an individuals medical file across the country. When usually computer systems in a single hospital are unable to interface due to hardware/software conflicts and incompatibility is and will, continue to fail patients and the Health Service.
Not just because of the technical difficulties inherent in such a project but due to a fundamental weakness and flaw, in that an individuals old paper records according to rules laid down by the medical Mafia, the very Doctors responsible for these records that:
‘If you consider that information is not accurate you can ask for it to be corrected. If it is some basic administrative detail e.g. date of birth, address, etc this would just be corrected. However, it is not normal practice to alter anything clinical in a health record and any inaccuracy would be dealt with by adding a note to the record. This would be undertaken whether a health professional and patient agreed or disagreed about the inaccuracy’.
In that it was, is not medically qualified people who are involved in a project to computerise individual paper records, simply by scanning the notes into a computer. They, clerks, secretaries and administrative officers were, are responsible for abbreviating, rewriting the patients notes and medical records. Allowing for notes that can not be changed or altered, to be radically changed and altered by non qualified medical staff.
When those annoying misdiagnosis, embarrassing mistakes, fuck-ups, incompetence, and medical contradictions in treatment can be magically removed, covered over, blatantly altered, or conveniently lost at the back of a filing cabinet. Hidden by the unnecessary, over priced, inefficient, modernisation introduced by Nazi lying Labour and its smiling bing, bang, bung, bonus friends, business associates, supporters, co-conspirators and Doctors more concerned with profit and privatisation by the back-door, than patient care.
Who are just following a long ago tarnished hypercritic oath, to act in each other’s best interest. While cosying up to the multinational drug companies with their extensive free-be culture, tax-free in return for prescribing specific drugs and treatments. And they want to put this lot in control of the National Health Service, increasing the unaccountable, God like powers of Doctors whose notes and medical records like the ‘Ten Commandments’ are burnt into stone. Unalterable, unless by themselves and their staff, non-negotiable, unless in their own interest and for their own potential profit.
Who like Judas are willing to sell out all they once believed in for a few pieces of silver, the power to contract services out to friends and their own self interest as men and women beyond question and criticism. Allowed to sit in secret judgement upon each other, within a court motivated by mutual professional interests, respect for its sordid feeding chain and their places within its self-serving hierarchy – shame upon you all!
Because the most prolific serial killer this country ever produced was a GP, which is why he was able to get away with his crimes for years, unquestioned or suspected by his fellow health professionals – I wonder why? Given that they want to remove what few checks and balances there currently are, the National Health Service is not safe in their grasping hands, any more than that of Labour and Conservative politicians.
Something Rotten In The Woodpile Hides!
With a Labour council re-elected in Hull again, it feels as if I have had another four years added to a life sentence. Passed down behind closed doors in the international community’s secret, kangaroo court where politicians can act as judge, jury, and executioner. Not even convicted murderers get as long a sentence as me and I have committed no crime. Other than being the victim of religions deluded, dangerous, demented followers who hear the voice of God inside their heads.
Along with Nazi lying Labour’s ex-Minister for torture and transphobic persecution, Lord Von Munchhousen by proxy syndrome of Presscoat & Sons poisoner's paradise. Former number two in corrupt and corrupting politics that allowed Labour and its Communist inspired ‘cultural revolution’, to make a complete mockery of elected, open, accountable, politics with its ‘Ikea Sofa government’.
Where the kaleidoscope obsessed control freaks talk in tongues of enduring patronage and favour, dreaming again their favourite ‘wet dream’ about suitcases full of unmarked used hundred dollar bills and secret numbered bank accounts.
Fiddling, flipping, and fooling their way into power again under a blinding, confusing cloud of polished, razor blade encrusted spin. In which, lies if told enough times, became the triple ‘AAA’ rated truth of irresponsible, deceitful, self-serving politicians. The steaming sleazeballs, unchanged and unrepentant, still seen being pushed around the gold paved streets of Westminster by giant ‘Bung Beetles’ – same old, same old, for something rotten in the woodpile hides.
Within hours of being elected to run the local council, Nazi lying Labour had again opened their Pandora’s box of secrets. Allowing all manner of strange craft, evil, malevolence, delusion, hatred, transphobia, hermaphobia to come pouring out like an enveloping black goo, putrid and purposeful.
At 6.30 I was woken by the reactivated neighbours from Hell in Hull, the ones hand-picked by Presscoat's son and key members of the local Labour Mafia. For their sociopathic tendencies, willingness to do anything for cash-in-hand harassment to order and ‘gi’ me, gi’ me, gi’ me’ mating call of birds of a feather flocking together, hammering on my bedroom wall, followed by loud music and more banging.
When I went out I was harassed on the street twice and have been subject to ‘white noise’ day and night, bullying, drugging (especially during O’Barmy’s recent state visit), harassment and intimidation ever since – same old, same old, for something very rotten in the Labour woodpile hides.
Because it is the same criminals, committing the same crimes and telling the same lies to justify the unjustifiable, I am a transsexual, a security threat, a terrorist, I can do this, they can do that. Rubbish! Complete and utter rubbish from religious delusional, snake kissing, dangerous, demented, deluded lunatics who hear God talking to them inside their heads. With the bathroom habits of Sloth’s and cunning of half starved Foxes.
Little wonder that I can be harassed and persecutes in the name of man’s fantasy God of men, for being something I am not, accused of threats I did not posse and crimes I did not committee. Unless telling the truth is now a capital crime in the elected dictatorships of the West. Amongst those who talk loudly of freedom and democracy, while in their secret kangaroo courts and military tribunals, like Joseph K in the Trial, no one is allowed to defend themselves or even know of what they stand accused.
After all, I did not have the balls for a successful sex change, did not need breast implants, had a female pelvis, along with all the other contradictions and anomalies. Yet according to Hull NHS (Nazi Health Service) I am a transsexual, when anywhere else people like me are called hermaphrodites.
Which in itself is hell to go through, especially during adolescence, when your genitalia fail to develop as they should and you do not know what the hell is happening or why? Without incompetent Doctors putting me through a nightmare without end and even more suffering by diagnosing me as a schizophrenic, then after over a decade, a transsexual, not a transsexual, a hermaphrodite and throughout all this, a transsexual according to the local Primary Care Trust and its ‘concentration camp’ Doctors.
For half my life I did not know what I was, or why my penis never developed beyond that of a five-year-old. While for the remaining half I was unable to admit what I was, due to the medical nightmare without end. Into which, I was long ago pushed by repeated misdiagnosis – once is bad luck but twice is just incompetence. Because whatever life I may have had, was taken from me by Doctors more interested in their own professional reputations than the warfare of their patients.
The following was first posted on 7th February 2011, and tells how after thirty years I was finally outed and forced again to face what for me had become the final taboo.
The Final Taboo (Part One)
It is strange how after thirty years being ‘outed’ and forced to again face the final taboo, can be personally liberating. For this dark secret that for so long I had dragged around as if a heavy, smothering blanket, hidden beneath personal denial and the conveniences, the wilfulness of the human memory and destructive effects of time. Was finally exposed again to the clear light of day, forced to the surface by a convergence of elemental forces and a cruel interplay of circumstance over which, I had little or no personal choice and control.
But would inevitably by exploited by Baron Von Munchhousen (by proxy syndrome) of Presscoat & Son’s Poisoners Paradise, to its fullest potential and financial benefit, thanks to Postman Pratt (ex Minister for Health), with his black and white sack marked ‘swag’. Along with a ‘posse’ from the Nazi lying Labour party, the dancing puppets in another ‘command performance’ for the followers of the fantasy God of men and their litany of lies.
A final taboo there can be no escaping in the world of men, where size matters and dominance is a way of life for those who would become ‘silver backs’, or ‘top predators’ in the relevant ‘feeding chains’. After all, it was about as personal as you can get, supposedly confidential and something that at the time, I did not cope very well with. Understandable given the trauma and anxiety it created, learning that I did not even have a large enough penis for successful, routine, ‘gender reassignment’ surgery.
That was the point, standing dizzy and alone upon the crumbling edge of the abyss, when I realised just how completely fucked I was, had been all my life. Not even the balls for a ‘sex change’ operation, though on the plus side I did not need the usual ‘breast implants’. Nor did I particularly want to be anything more than a 36C because at the time, there were reports of these implants bursting when people were on-board planes and the silicon, leaking into their bodies.
Needless to say, I had never screwed anything or been to bed with a woman and not just due to physical inadequacy, but because whatever happened when a man saw a woman and that old black magic called love. Drifted upon the breeze with the subtle scents of hormones and theramones, simply did not happen to me.
If I thought life was bad and at times not worth living before this point, laid in my hospital bed thinking what kind of existence am I going to have? Feeling like a primitive single cell amoeba climbing from the primal slime of creation, a thing that was neither fish nor fowl, now utterly dependent upon the skills of the medical teams and whatever solution they could offer.
It had taken thirty years of my life to reach this point, thirty wasted, lost years only for fate to explode a thermo-nuclear device inside my head. Never had life felt so hopeless and pointless, even after aged fifteen, being told there were no treatment facilities for people like me upon the National Health Service and there was nothing anyone could do to help.
Raped, tortured, driven from my home in the middle of the night by a gang of Hell’s Angels, systematically drugged, and poisoned. Physically assaulted, domestic violence, having my teeth snapped off, being constantly harassed by Presscoat's puppets and the archetypal neighbours from Hell, or having my personal and professional reputation completely destroyed by Nazi lying New Labour.
Indomitable indeed is the human spirit, even in the face of complete and utter hopelessness. As I lay recovering from the physical effects of surgery, I started scanning the vacancies page of the Guardian, looking for job opportunities for eunuchs, though I was not able to find a single one.
Unable to face what had, was happening I returned home and told even my closest friends that the operation had not succeeded (but not why) and I would need to return, once I recovered sufficiently for further surgery and whatever solution the medical teams had to offer. My only hope lay with their skills and brilliance, fortunately the surgeon was a genius, which I told him, so there was no need to be completely stressed and terrified, or start thinking about committing suicide.
Though my nursing friends did not help at the time, saying they thought he would use skin grafts to solve the problem. Leaving me thinking what hope would I ever have of finding a man to love, scarred forever by skin grafts. So I bought the largest piece of cannabis I could afford and combined with strong painkillers, got stoned and stayed completely off my head for the eight weeks before the next operation. Hanging as I was at that point in time by the slenderest thread of hope, vibrating taught in the wind, with the edge of the abyss crumbling to dust beneath my feet, because I was fucked, completely fucked.
It was a heavy burden I carried, one I chose to carry alone because of shame, a feeling of personal inadequacy, failure, embarrassment, and fear. Not that I had ever been anything but a bemused interloper in the world of men and their pubescent fantasies, most nights I cried myself to sleep and reluctantly counted off the days to further necessary mutilation. Not that I had any choice on a journey long ago started amidst conflict and confusion, a journey that could have only two possible conclusions, death or re-birth.
There was no getting off the roller-coaster ride until it ended, no hope but that of further surgery and the great unknown into which, I had once reluctantly stepped. This was a secret I could trust no one to keep but the medical teams and my GP. A last taboo from the world of men that had cursed and blighted my life, when in all honesty I had about as much use for a penis as would a fish for a bicycle.
Non of which, was helped by the fact I was about to start the second year of a degree and the head of department, simply did not approve of my sort drifting around like a bad smell. Fortunately the next operation was scheduled during the summer break, allowing a few weeks for me to recover before we were due to return.
The arrival of a telegram four day’s before surgery was scheduled; asking if I would call the ward did little for my tension and stress levels. Expecting to be told it had been cancelled, I was surprised when they asked if I would go into the hospital immediately and I mean next train immediately.
Being late afternoon before I received the telegram and contacted them, I agreed to get the four o’clock milk train the next morning and for reasons I was yet to fully understand, they meant first train. Physically shaking with apprehension and fear bordering upon terror, I spent the rest of the day in a daze getting my hospital bag together, telling friends what was about to happen and making sure someone could water my plants and feed the cats.
As if already dead I returned white faced and shaking with apprehension to face whatever that fate, inconsiderate as always, had to offer. Frantic as a fly trapped in hardening amber, my growing anxieties about extensive skin grafts and the resultant scarring proved to be unfounded. Genius that Mister Eastwood the surgeon was, he being way to clever for anything as crude as skin grafts.
The procedure they intended to perform had only been used once before at the hospital upon a woman with cancer. This was to be the first time that they had used it upon someone of mixed gender, a third gender of those with both male and female sexual characteristics.
Still not scheduled until the end of the week, I first had to undergo a lengthy and at times uncomfortable period of preparation. Before the two consultant surgeons who would perform the operation, could work their combined magic and give back to me some hope of a life, in particular a sex life. Because though I was not physically attracted to women, fortunately it was not the same with men and I wanted nothing more, than to fuck until we could hardly walk, before love started to complicate an already complicated situation.
Thankfully the medical teams, with the odd exception of those who carried the cross of hatred and intolerance around their necks like a blunt instrument, were brilliant. From the cleaners, nursing staff, Doctors and Consultants they were just completely professional and you knew what ever they did, would be by the book and to the highest standards. But that was Saint James University Hospital, or Jimmy’s, as it was known locally.
The day before surgery, the Consultant and his eager, enthusiastic entourage had come into my room. When he ran his finger from one side of my lower abdomen to the other explaining they intended to make a small cut, just below the bikini line he kept stressing.
At the time I remember thinking he meant a small cut two or three inches somewhere along that line. But no, he meant from one side of the lower abdomen to the other, just below the bikini line. Because when I eventually came around for the first time from what had been a lengthy procedure involving two consultant surgeons, I felt like a dead chicken that had been gutted alive, with more tubes coming from me than there are on the London underground.
The moment that I regained consciousness with a young Houseman at the side of my bed, he said: "We have taken your appendix out as well". Having thanked him with all the enthusiasm and gratitude I could muster under the circumstances, I lay thinking: ‘As well as what?’
It was immediately obvious even to my limited perceptions as I drifted into and out of consciousness, partly because of the tubes and the way I felt physically, this operation had been far more invasive and extensive than the first. So weak did I feel, it was impossible to even move myself higher onto the pillows, two nurses had to pull me. Nor was I to be allowed solid food for the first week, while every few hours night and day, someone came to draw off the contents of my stomach through a ‘riles tube’, using what looked like an unfeasible large hypodermic without a needle.
Which upon one occasion exploded, sending its contents all over a nurse and myself. Of course we had to laugh but at the time it appeared to trigger the most inconvenient LSD flashback I have experienced, before or after. Having cleaned up the mess I had again fallen asleep, only to wake sometime later to see growing cracks on the walls and ceiling of my room. At first I was convinced there had been a nuclear attack or war, in the confusion and panic I had been forgotten about.
Though the truth was some two weeks earlier, I had been given a tab of LSD for my birthday. Not that I would ever take LSD now, or recommend that anyone else take it but at the time, it had been a wholly therapeutic experience, allowing me to step outside myself and laugh about something that most of the time did not feel the least bit amusing. Eventually I again fell asleep and the world did not, had not ended for anyone but me.
With the dizzying, drug dulled passage of time and removal of the tubes I began to feel more hopeful and optimistic that I had been pulled, still barely alive from the burning car wreak of my life. Only with the withdrawal of pain relief some day’s after the surgery, because certain organs were not yet functioning as they should, did I again experience a sense of hopelessness due to chronic pain and discomfort.
The analgesics having being stopped mid-morning, I managed to go until the early hours of the following day. When crying with pain and unable to sleep, the on-call Doctor allowed the nurses to give me an injection and once again I fell out of control into oblivion’s welcoming blackness. Only to become aware of my surroundings the following morning, with the slurp of stomach contents being drawn away by a nurse.
Fortunately, one by one my various organs began to work, all be it sporadically and excruciatingly painfully at first. So that with the passage of each milestone upon the road to eventual recovery and removal of potential complications and there physical consequences. I again returned, yet still a shadow, to the world of those blessed with being born normal, the ordinary men and women.
The Joe the plumber and Jane the nurse occupants of consumerism’s crystal palaces and pleasure domes. The mad men’s fantasy’s of war and peace before the chrome and glass temples of the military and industrial complex and glossy new lies of the spinning men, the hollow men, the changelings and tricksters, masquerading as sincere politicians, while behind clever prosthetics, cold reptilian blood flowed.
Life goes on. Slowly I began to recover and was eventually discharged from hospital, returning home a stranger to myself and my cat’s, who at first did not even appear to recognise me. It was to be a few weeks before I could even go out though fate, inconsiderate as ever, was yet to throw one final knife into my back. After so many weeks I was instructed to perform what the hospital called dilating, this involved pushing what I suppose was a large dildo into myself, before eventually being able to have intercourse.
Unfortunately, when I tried to do this, it was not possible. With what solid ground I had finally found beneath my feet crumbling away, I completely freaked out, thinking not again. Having telephoned the hospital to explain I was unable to dilate they, understanding of my stress and panic, re-admitted me a few days later and performed one final, relatively minor operation. Explaining that there was nothing to worry about, it was only where they had joined two parts together that had become constricted.
Then it was a question of trying the procedure again in a few weeks, fortunately this time it worked and I began to count down the weeks before I could have sexual intercourse. When fate finally smiled upon me and I found the perfect teacher, a mature man and classical guitarist with the strongest fingers and tongue I have encountered before or since.
My first experience proved to be a disappointment, he orgasmed but I did not. Which left me thinking ‘and I went through all this just for that’. Not until the second occasion a few nights later did I finally orgasm for the first time, a real leg trembler that turned my brain to mush leaving me completely hooked and searching for the Holy Grail of sex, multiple orgasm.
They Simply Smile That Way ……
A blog about ‘stuff’ your grandmother could or would never tell you!
Transsexuals First For The Chop!
Treatments for transsexuals and intersex patients are rumoured to be amongst the first major spending cuts to be introduced by 80% of Primary Care Trusts, when reorganisation and funding restrictions are implemented in 2012 by the Department of Health.
Further limiting support to a group of patients the treatment of which, is mostly inadequate and subject to the National Health Service ‘post code’ lottery. In what is already a second class, piecemeal service for anyone unfortunate enough to be born transsexual or worse still, a hermaphrodite in the United Kingdom?
The treatment of transsexuals and hermaphrodites, if lucky enough to get any in the first place, depends upon individual Primary Care Trusts establishing protocols regarding care pathways for gender reassignment treatment. Because there are no Department of Health guidelines or models of care for the second class, Cinderella specialism of ‘gender dysphoria’ in the National Health Service.
As the Department of Health stated in a recent letter to me:
‘I should explain that the Department of Health has not published guidelines or models of care for gender reassignment surgery. The Department would expect the clinical expertise of all the professionals involved with gender dysphoria to inform the treatment of patients who are affected by this condition.
Protocols for care pathways for treatment are established locally and therefore vary. However, it should be remembered that, as with other services, the length of waiting time may be influenced by both service capacity issues and by the priority attached to the service by commissioners. Urgent cases will continue to be treated faster in accordance with clinical need.’
In other words, medical care for patients will remain a ‘post code’ lottery. With treatment, if you are lucky enough to get any, depending upon the Primary Care Trust in whose area you are fortunate, or more likely, unfortunate enough to live. Allowing right wing, mostly bigoted, trust members to in effect reinvent the wheel and make it up as they go along.
Even the supposedly independent body representing patients interests within the Health Service, for years was chaired by a bigoted, ex-agony aunt, who was the most transphobic woman you are libel to meet outside a McDonalds female toilet.
Little wonder that such a universally hated and despised group of patients and their treatment, will be amongst the first services to be completely abolished or drastically reduced by many Primary Care Trusts in 2012. Especially while the Department of Health continues to refuse to issue national guidelines or models of care for gender reassignment surgery, and the body responsible for representing patient’s interests, remains rampantly transphobic and instinctively hermaphobic in structure and service.
With 80% of Trusts rumoured to be about to drastically cut or limit further treatments for those unfortunate enough to suffer from some form of gender dysphoria, when people believe that at least 1 out of 10 individuals feel that their gender or sex is different to everyone else.
The future for those seeking treatment upon the British National Health Service looks distinctly bleak. In what is rapidly becoming a ‘post code’ lottery no one can win, it could be you but probably wont be. With waiting times extended and the number of care pathways available drastically reduced, if not completely abolished in some areas, as if life were not already difficult enough for transsexuals and hermaphrodites currently seeking surgical intervention through the National Health Service.
Assuming you are lucky enough to get any at all, which in the current economic climate is increasingly unlikely. Thanks to lying Labour’s ‘spend, spend, spend’ irresponsible politics. Who while in power continued to fight against legal rights for transsexuals in the European Courts. And even when they lost a test case, continued to refuse to allow post operative transsexuals the right to change their birth certificates, or have even the most basic and fundamental of human rights in the United Kingdom. One of only three European countries to do this, the other two being Romania and Liechtenstein.
Not that the ultra right wing, bigoted, misogynistic politics of Camaroom’s uncaring Conservatism is any better. Because like fundamentalists around the world, they would prefer to push transsexuals and hermaphrodites off a convenient cliff or suitably high building; rather than give legally enforceable human rights and treatment.
In my own case I have finally been given an appointment to see a Consultant hundreds of miles away, regarding relatively minor surgery (a z-plasty) to open the join in my vagina. One week short of exactly two years after I first tried to speak to my GP about the problems I was experiencing, resulting in not being able to have sexual intercourse or get past the join for four years.
Almost two years for this initial consultation with a surgeon which, if he considers it necessary to operate. A request will then have to go back to the ‘exceptional treatments’ section for funding. Who after another five or six months will eventually decide if I can have the funding for minor surgery that would make such a difference to my life, then what? Another two years on the Consultants surgical list and that is if I am lucky.
All because consecutive governments and the Department of Health, continue to refuse to issue protocols, guidelines and waiting times for the treatment of those suffering from gender dysphoria. No wonder that we get at best a second class, inferior service to the normal's in breach of the European Human Rights Act, if indeed we get any at all from individual Primary Care Trusts.
Only by coming together, by fighting for equal, standardised, national rights for the treatment of intersex conditions. Can we stop the rumoured reductions in treatment by 80% of Primary Care Trusts in the United Kingdom. Treatment that many fought long and hard for on the National Health Service, which those yet to come face losing because of apathy and a willingness to be silenced. Out of fear that even this second class, substantively different service, with many patients having to travel from one end of the country to the other in order to be begrudgingly treat, will be abolished and as in America, only those able to afford treatment privately will get it.
Treatment we should be legally entitled to on the National Health Service, free at the point of delivery. Shame upon you all! Especially the Doctors and ‘care professionals’ who are foremost amongst the Bible thumping, cross carrying homophobes, transphobes and hermaphobes that feel no guilt, shame or personal remorse in blighting our fractured lives and denying equal rights to treatment and medical care, within the National Health Service.
Things have improved medically and technically for intersex patients during the past fifty years. Hopefully no one is being forced to endure the unendurable and go through the medical nightmare without end, which I and many other unfortunates were forced to endure.
When aged fifteen I told the Hull and East Riding Health Authority’s senior psychiatrist, I did not feel happy being a boy and would prefer to be a girl, only to be told in no uncertain terms that:
‘If I got a patient coming to see me, asking to be Nelson. The last thing I would do is arrange for a surgeon to amputate their arm and take out their eye. You are clearly a schizophrenic and with the correct medication and support, there is no reason why you should not live a full and productive life’.
Then forcefully sectioned under the Mental Health Act when I, still only a teenager, became increasingly depressed and suicidal because of this obvious misdiagnosis. From a Doctor who considered homosexuality a crime, transvestism curable with ‘aversion therapy’ (electric shocks) and depression, something you treat with ECT (electro convulsion therapy – when they zapped an individual's brain directly with electricity), or a pre-frontal lobotomy. But these are people who used to burn witches and believe physical illness, to be possession by evil spirits.
Much has been won in the struggle for treatment, while much remains to be done in the ongoing fight for understanding, legal rights and social acceptance. While the struggle to maintain the right to medical treatment, which once did not exist within the National Health Service, will continue, especially in the face of threatened cuts and increasingly biased medical professionals.
Because some of the most bigoted, hateful, spiteful, unsympathetic people I have had the misfortune to meet, have been Doctors and nurses. In particular those of a fundamentalist religious nature, for whom homosexuals, transsexuals and hermaphrodites remain what the Nazi’s called ‘lebensunwerrtes leben’, life unworthy of life.
Until the Department of Health issues national guidelines, or models of care for gender reassignment treatment and surgery. Those suffering from gender dysphoria will continue to get at best, inferior, inadequate, inconsistent treatment with an unfortunate few getting no treatment at all, dependent upon the National Health Services ‘post code’ lottery.
Can Hermaphrodites Orgasm After Surgery?
Unable to speak for all hermaphrodites I can only say that personally, thankfully, the answer to that question is a resounding yes! Because before surgical intervention the only physical intercourse I had from the age of fourteen was sucking someone off, or taking it up the arse from men. Which, once in a while, for something different is all right but all the time, had been mostly uncomfortable, messy and as far as I was concerned, wholly unsatisfactory.
Possessing only undeveloped male genitalia I had never been capable of screwing anything, even a knot in wood. I just thought that it was better than nothing and at least I had a nice hairy chest to cuddle-up on and run my fingers through a tangled matt of hair afterwards. Despite usually feeling as if someone had just detonated a ‘parachute flare’ up my arse and constantly wanted to go to the loo.
Following re-constructive surgery and finally as wholly one sex as I would ever be, in my case I chose to be female if only because from the age of ten or eleven all that I wanted was to be a mummy and have babies. I was fortunate enough to find a man to have intercourse with only weeks after the final major operation. Though in retrospect I think this piece of good fortune and the man involved, actually found me.
Being the first hermaphrodite that Saint James University Hospital performed a colon resection, or Sigmoid Colon as it became known, on. Only the second person to actually have this procedure, the first being a woman with cancer. I suspect the surgeons wanted to know if a hermaphrodite could not only have intercourse without to many problems but more important still, if we could actually orgasm with a Sigmoid Colon.
Making this a practical and successful procedure that could be announced in relevant periodicals – I even got to appear naked in the Nursing Times under the somewhat sexist identity of being a hairdresser from Barnsley, at least Coco Channel was into androgyny in the early eighties. Not that it did a lot for my modelling career because from that point it went rapidly down hill, though I could not think why.
Because a colon resection (Sigmoid Colon) if successful, was to become the radical new treatment, used on hermaphrodites (at least I already had a female pelvis) choosing to become female but with insufficient penile tissue for re-constructive surgery. Until this point in time, the only other available treatment was to take extensive ‘skin grafts’, which usually resulted in considerable scarring.
Making it more difficult if not impossible to find a man and feeling so unfair, when finally you get a body that is not a mix of male and female, yet wholly neither before surgery corrected one of natures most personal of jokes and cruellest of tricks. That of being born with the hidden form of hermaphrodism and not developing sexually as other children but becoming an ‘it’ or ‘that thing’, as I was often referred to.
Though when it came to name calling, wall to wall bullying and harassment, there is not a verbal insult that I have not been called, physical intimidation and assault I have not been subjected to, including having my teeth snapped off! Repeatedly from the age of ten or eleven until now.
Why I do not understand, I never harmed anyone and certainly never asked to be born the way that I was. There was not a single thing that I could do about it, except hopefully one-day find a surgeon who could give me a life, if life it be before the unforgiving Priests of hate and their bloodstained altars. Upon which, would be brutally sacrificed all life unworthy of life (lebensunwertes leben) according to the fantasy God of men in that iconic work of fiction, lies and social control, the Vatican Codex.
Began a most personal, brutal and criminal inquisition to discredit me with constant harassment, bullying, criminal damage and bare-faced lies, which allowed Pope Adolph the Persecutor and his growing legions of intolerant, bigoted, religious lunatics to target me for twenty-eight years based upon nothing but a pack of lies. In that I was a transsexual and therefore a creature destined for the flames of Hell in the next world, constant persecution and injustice, before their secret, kangaroo courts in this world.
Having never found women physically attractive, I had never in my life been to bed with one and had no idea how they orgasmed. Nor had I screwed a man, though I had been to bed with plenty and had them squirt their sperm up my arse and in my mouth – spit don’t swallow!
Which is why my first sexual encounter with a man following surgery was an almost perfect double-blind experiment, I had no idea what to expect physically, had never talked to female friends about orgasm and the physical act of sex. Though I learnt from magazines that the Holy Grail of female sex was the mythical multiple orgasm, I still had no idea what a single orgasm involved physically, or psychologically.
My first experience of sexual intercourse following surgery proved to be a profound disappointment. Despite the fact that the man I went to bed with turned me on and was everything I could want or hope for, being a guitarist with the strongest fingers and tongue I have encountered before, or since. It just proved to be physically uncomfortable and though he clearly orgasm I did not.
I can remember thinking afterwards: ‘And I went through all that just for this!’ Just to dribble someone’s sperm and feel like Jane Wayne after a long and fruitless ride, so get on your horse and drink your milk. At least I preferred this to taking it up the arse, even if it was only marginally less painful and equally as sexually unfulfilling. When it came to the joy of orgasm either as a man or woman, or in my case as an ‘it’, a thing that was neither fish nor fowl.
With a growing sense of disappointment and dissatisfaction, we again had intercourse two nights later. On the this occasion he, being sexually experienced and familiar with natures humourless joke, in that men can orgasm in minutes and have usually finished before the woman has even started. Spent a lot more time before we had intercourse, turning me on and physically arousing me.
Then we tried again with me still not knowing what a female orgasm involved or felt like. This time I was a lot twitchier and physically responsive to the primal rhythms of penetration as a feeling of tightness and discomfort gave way to a sensation of growing warmth somewhere inside me. Before what felt like a battlefield nuclear weapon detonated simultaneously inside my head and pelvis.
With the steady rhythm and motion of penetration becoming faster, accompanied by vocal murmurs, intonations and repeated exclamations of ‘yes … yes … yes’. The growing feeling of pleasure and warmth in my loins exploded into a leg trembling, toe curling, throat-tickling orgasm that appeared in the moment of implosion. To completely melt my brain and in that fraction of a second as everything exploded with a previously unexperienced intensity and clarity, I went all kitten-soft and fluffy.
While my whole being became about a single purpose, taking something of him, his fluids and essences as deep into myself as possible through the involuntary spasming, tensing and relaxing of my genitalia and body. What a trip! My partner, having felt my orgasm and briefly slowed he, now about to orgasm, increased the speed of penetration until ‘wham, bang, thank you mam’.
Unfortunately, still locked together and briefly feeling as if we had become one, I then started to shake, not with the joys of orgasm but what I assumed to be shock and awe. At the complete genius of Derek Eastwood’s brilliant surgical intervention and what hopefully, would become an acceptable if not more expensive treatment for intersex patients, with insufficient penile tissue for successful gender reassignment surgery.
Rather than being forced to suffer the further personal injustice of extensive ‘skin grafts’ and the inevitable scarring caused by this medical procedure. Until a colon resection, now known as a Sigmoid colon, provided a more practical and successful procedure for patients damned by physiology to a medical nightmare, seemingly without end.
Simply because of being unfortunate enough to be born with the hidden form of hermaphrodism, which is a complete nightmare when you have no idea or understanding of what is happening to you and why. Without having to be subjected to systematic misdiagnosis by incompetent, self-serving Doctor’s more interested in protecting their own professional reputations rather than caring for and acting in their patients best interest.
I certainly hope that young hermaphrodites do not have to go through the medical nightmare without end, which I and many others with the hidden form of hermaphrodism were forced to endure at the hands of unaccountable, uncaring Doctor’s.
At least they should now be better able to correctly diagnose this condition, thanks to modern technology, without further compounding the personal and social nightmare of being born both male and female, by suffering decades of misdiagnosis and treatment. Taking whatever chance we might have of a life.
Little wonder that for half my life I did not know what I was and for the other half, could not openly admit or talk about it and face what was to become for me the final taboo. Thanks to decades of repeated misdiagnosis and treatment at the hands of incompetent, uncaring, self-serving Doctor’s, and they wonder why many intersex patients have an abiding dislike and mistrust of Doctor’s!
NHS Computerised Medical Records – Another Disaster Waiting To Happen
The National Health Services expensive, inefficient, insecure, computerised medical records project is nothing but a white elephant, a drain upon increasingly tight budgets and another natural disaster waiting to happen.
This dream or nightmare, depending upon your personal opinion, of computerising all the old paper medical records and allowing direct access to an individuals medical file across the country. When usually computer systems in a single hospital are unable to interface due to hardware/software conflicts and incompatibility is and will, continue to fail patients and the Health Service.
Not just because of the technical difficulties inherent in such a project but due to a fundamental weakness and flaw, in that an individuals old paper records according to rules laid down by the medical Mafia, the very Doctors responsible for these records that:
‘If you consider that information is not accurate you can ask for it to be corrected. If it is some basic administrative detail e.g. date of birth, address, etc this would just be corrected. However, it is not normal practice to alter anything clinical in a health record and any inaccuracy would be dealt with by adding a note to the record. This would be undertaken whether a health professional and patient agreed or disagreed about the inaccuracy’.
In that it was, is not medically qualified people who are involved in a project to computerise individual paper records, simply by scanning the notes into a computer. They, clerks, secretaries and administrative officers were, are responsible for abbreviating, rewriting the patients notes and medical records. Allowing for notes that can not be changed or altered, to be radically changed and altered by non qualified medical staff.
When those annoying misdiagnosis, embarrassing mistakes, fuck-ups, incompetence, and medical contradictions in treatment can be magically removed, covered over, blatantly altered, or conveniently lost at the back of a filing cabinet. Hidden by the unnecessary, over priced, inefficient, modernisation introduced by Nazi lying Labour and its smiling bing, bang, bung, bonus friends, business associates, supporters, co-conspirators and Doctors more concerned with profit and privatisation by the back-door, than patient care.
Who are just following a long ago tarnished hypercritic oath, to act in each other’s best interest. While cosying up to the multinational drug companies with their extensive free-be culture, tax-free in return for prescribing specific drugs and treatments. And they want to put this lot in control of the National Health Service, increasing the unaccountable, God like powers of Doctors whose notes and medical records like the ‘Ten Commandments’ are burnt into stone. Unalterable, unless by themselves and their staff, non-negotiable, unless in their own interest and for their own potential profit.
Who like Judas are willing to sell out all they once believed in for a few pieces of silver, the power to contract services out to friends and their own self interest as men and women beyond question and criticism. Allowed to sit in secret judgement upon each other, within a court motivated by mutual professional interests, respect for its sordid feeding chain and their places within its self-serving hierarchy – shame upon you all!
Because the most prolific serial killer this country ever produced was a GP, which is why he was able to get away with his crimes for years, unquestioned or suspected by his fellow health professionals – I wonder why? Given that they want to remove what few checks and balances there currently are, the National Health Service is not safe in their grasping hands, any more than that of Labour and Conservative politicians.
Something Rotten In The Woodpile Hides!
With a Labour council re-elected in Hull again, it feels as if I have had another four years added to a life sentence. Passed down behind closed doors in the international community’s secret, kangaroo court where politicians can act as judge, jury, and executioner. Not even convicted murderers get as long a sentence as me and I have committed no crime. Other than being the victim of religions deluded, dangerous, demented followers who hear the voice of God inside their heads.
Along with Nazi lying Labour’s ex-Minister for torture and transphobic persecution, Lord Von Munchhousen by proxy syndrome of Presscoat & Sons poisoner's paradise. Former number two in corrupt and corrupting politics that allowed Labour and its Communist inspired ‘cultural revolution’, to make a complete mockery of elected, open, accountable, politics with its ‘Ikea Sofa government’.
Where the kaleidoscope obsessed control freaks talk in tongues of enduring patronage and favour, dreaming again their favourite ‘wet dream’ about suitcases full of unmarked used hundred dollar bills and secret numbered bank accounts.
Fiddling, flipping, and fooling their way into power again under a blinding, confusing cloud of polished, razor blade encrusted spin. In which, lies if told enough times, became the triple ‘AAA’ rated truth of irresponsible, deceitful, self-serving politicians. The steaming sleazeballs, unchanged and unrepentant, still seen being pushed around the gold paved streets of Westminster by giant ‘Bung Beetles’ – same old, same old, for something rotten in the woodpile hides.
Within hours of being elected to run the local council, Nazi lying Labour had again opened their Pandora’s box of secrets. Allowing all manner of strange craft, evil, malevolence, delusion, hatred, transphobia, hermaphobia to come pouring out like an enveloping black goo, putrid and purposeful.
At 6.30 I was woken by the reactivated neighbours from Hell in Hull, the ones hand-picked by Presscoat's son and key members of the local Labour Mafia. For their sociopathic tendencies, willingness to do anything for cash-in-hand harassment to order and ‘gi’ me, gi’ me, gi’ me’ mating call of birds of a feather flocking together, hammering on my bedroom wall, followed by loud music and more banging.
When I went out I was harassed on the street twice and have been subject to ‘white noise’ day and night, bullying, drugging (especially during O’Barmy’s recent state visit), harassment and intimidation ever since – same old, same old, for something very rotten in the Labour woodpile hides.
Because it is the same criminals, committing the same crimes and telling the same lies to justify the unjustifiable, I am a transsexual, a security threat, a terrorist, I can do this, they can do that. Rubbish! Complete and utter rubbish from religious delusional, snake kissing, dangerous, demented, deluded lunatics who hear God talking to them inside their heads. With the bathroom habits of Sloth’s and cunning of half starved Foxes.
Little wonder that I can be harassed and persecutes in the name of man’s fantasy God of men, for being something I am not, accused of threats I did not posse and crimes I did not committee. Unless telling the truth is now a capital crime in the elected dictatorships of the West. Amongst those who talk loudly of freedom and democracy, while in their secret kangaroo courts and military tribunals, like Joseph K in the Trial, no one is allowed to defend themselves or even know of what they stand accused.
After all, I did not have the balls for a successful sex change, did not need breast implants, had a female pelvis, along with all the other contradictions and anomalies. Yet according to Hull NHS (Nazi Health Service) I am a transsexual, when anywhere else people like me are called hermaphrodites.
Which in itself is hell to go through, especially during adolescence, when your genitalia fail to develop as they should and you do not know what the hell is happening or why? Without incompetent Doctors putting me through a nightmare without end and even more suffering by diagnosing me as a schizophrenic, then after over a decade, a transsexual, not a transsexual, a hermaphrodite and throughout all this, a transsexual according to the local Primary Care Trust and its ‘concentration camp’ Doctors.
For half my life I did not know what I was, or why my penis never developed beyond that of a five-year-old. While for the remaining half I was unable to admit what I was, due to the medical nightmare without end. Into which, I was long ago pushed by repeated misdiagnosis – once is bad luck but twice is just incompetence. Because whatever life I may have had, was taken from me by Doctors more interested in their own professional reputations than the warfare of their patients.
The following was first posted on 7th February 2011, and tells how after thirty years I was finally outed and forced again to face what for me had become the final taboo.
The Final Taboo (Part One)
It is strange how after thirty years being ‘outed’ and forced to again face the final taboo, can be personally liberating. For this dark secret that for so long I had dragged around as if a heavy, smothering blanket, hidden beneath personal denial and the conveniences, the wilfulness of the human memory and destructive effects of time. Was finally exposed again to the clear light of day, forced to the surface by a convergence of elemental forces and a cruel interplay of circumstance over which, I had little or no personal choice and control.
But would inevitably by exploited by Baron Von Munchhousen (by proxy syndrome) of Presscoat & Son’s Poisoners Paradise, to its fullest potential and financial benefit, thanks to Postman Pratt (ex Minister for Health), with his black and white sack marked ‘swag’. Along with a ‘posse’ from the Nazi lying Labour party, the dancing puppets in another ‘command performance’ for the followers of the fantasy God of men and their litany of lies.
A final taboo there can be no escaping in the world of men, where size matters and dominance is a way of life for those who would become ‘silver backs’, or ‘top predators’ in the relevant ‘feeding chains’. After all, it was about as personal as you can get, supposedly confidential and something that at the time, I did not cope very well with. Understandable given the trauma and anxiety it created, learning that I did not even have a large enough penis for successful, routine, ‘gender reassignment’ surgery.
That was the point, standing dizzy and alone upon the crumbling edge of the abyss, when I realised just how completely fucked I was, had been all my life. Not even the balls for a ‘sex change’ operation, though on the plus side I did not need the usual ‘breast implants’. Nor did I particularly want to be anything more than a 36C because at the time, there were reports of these implants bursting when people were on-board planes and the silicon, leaking into their bodies.
Needless to say, I had never screwed anything or been to bed with a woman and not just due to physical inadequacy, but because whatever happened when a man saw a woman and that old black magic called love. Drifted upon the breeze with the subtle scents of hormones and theramones, simply did not happen to me.
If I thought life was bad and at times not worth living before this point, laid in my hospital bed thinking what kind of existence am I going to have? Feeling like a primitive single cell amoeba climbing from the primal slime of creation, a thing that was neither fish nor fowl, now utterly dependent upon the skills of the medical teams and whatever solution they could offer.
It had taken thirty years of my life to reach this point, thirty wasted, lost years only for fate to explode a thermo-nuclear device inside my head. Never had life felt so hopeless and pointless, even after aged fifteen, being told there were no treatment facilities for people like me upon the National Health Service and there was nothing anyone could do to help.
Raped, tortured, driven from my home in the middle of the night by a gang of Hell’s Angels, systematically drugged, and poisoned. Physically assaulted, domestic violence, having my teeth snapped off, being constantly harassed by Presscoat's puppets and the archetypal neighbours from Hell, or having my personal and professional reputation completely destroyed by Nazi lying New Labour.
Indomitable indeed is the human spirit, even in the face of complete and utter hopelessness. As I lay recovering from the physical effects of surgery, I started scanning the vacancies page of the Guardian, looking for job opportunities for eunuchs, though I was not able to find a single one.
Unable to face what had, was happening I returned home and told even my closest friends that the operation had not succeeded (but not why) and I would need to return, once I recovered sufficiently for further surgery and whatever solution the medical teams had to offer. My only hope lay with their skills and brilliance, fortunately the surgeon was a genius, which I told him, so there was no need to be completely stressed and terrified, or start thinking about committing suicide.
Though my nursing friends did not help at the time, saying they thought he would use skin grafts to solve the problem. Leaving me thinking what hope would I ever have of finding a man to love, scarred forever by skin grafts. So I bought the largest piece of cannabis I could afford and combined with strong painkillers, got stoned and stayed completely off my head for the eight weeks before the next operation. Hanging as I was at that point in time by the slenderest thread of hope, vibrating taught in the wind, with the edge of the abyss crumbling to dust beneath my feet, because I was fucked, completely fucked.
It was a heavy burden I carried, one I chose to carry alone because of shame, a feeling of personal inadequacy, failure, embarrassment, and fear. Not that I had ever been anything but a bemused interloper in the world of men and their pubescent fantasies, most nights I cried myself to sleep and reluctantly counted off the days to further necessary mutilation. Not that I had any choice on a journey long ago started amidst conflict and confusion, a journey that could have only two possible conclusions, death or re-birth.
There was no getting off the roller-coaster ride until it ended, no hope but that of further surgery and the great unknown into which, I had once reluctantly stepped. This was a secret I could trust no one to keep but the medical teams and my GP. A last taboo from the world of men that had cursed and blighted my life, when in all honesty I had about as much use for a penis as would a fish for a bicycle.
Non of which, was helped by the fact I was about to start the second year of a degree and the head of department, simply did not approve of my sort drifting around like a bad smell. Fortunately the next operation was scheduled during the summer break, allowing a few weeks for me to recover before we were due to return.
The arrival of a telegram four day’s before surgery was scheduled; asking if I would call the ward did little for my tension and stress levels. Expecting to be told it had been cancelled, I was surprised when they asked if I would go into the hospital immediately and I mean next train immediately.
Being late afternoon before I received the telegram and contacted them, I agreed to get the four o’clock milk train the next morning and for reasons I was yet to fully understand, they meant first train. Physically shaking with apprehension and fear bordering upon terror, I spent the rest of the day in a daze getting my hospital bag together, telling friends what was about to happen and making sure someone could water my plants and feed the cats.
As if already dead I returned white faced and shaking with apprehension to face whatever that fate, inconsiderate as always, had to offer. Frantic as a fly trapped in hardening amber, my growing anxieties about extensive skin grafts and the resultant scarring proved to be unfounded. Genius that Mister Eastwood the surgeon was, he being way to clever for anything as crude as skin grafts.
The procedure they intended to perform had only been used once before at the hospital upon a woman with cancer. This was to be the first time that they had used it upon someone of mixed gender, a third gender of those with both male and female sexual characteristics.
Still not scheduled until the end of the week, I first had to undergo a lengthy and at times uncomfortable period of preparation. Before the two consultant surgeons who would perform the operation, could work their combined magic and give back to me some hope of a life, in particular a sex life. Because though I was not physically attracted to women, fortunately it was not the same with men and I wanted nothing more, than to fuck until we could hardly walk, before love started to complicate an already complicated situation.
Thankfully the medical teams, with the odd exception of those who carried the cross of hatred and intolerance around their necks like a blunt instrument, were brilliant. From the cleaners, nursing staff, Doctors and Consultants they were just completely professional and you knew what ever they did, would be by the book and to the highest standards. But that was Saint James University Hospital, or Jimmy’s, as it was known locally.
The day before surgery, the Consultant and his eager, enthusiastic entourage had come into my room. When he ran his finger from one side of my lower abdomen to the other explaining they intended to make a small cut, just below the bikini line he kept stressing.
At the time I remember thinking he meant a small cut two or three inches somewhere along that line. But no, he meant from one side of the lower abdomen to the other, just below the bikini line. Because when I eventually came around for the first time from what had been a lengthy procedure involving two consultant surgeons, I felt like a dead chicken that had been gutted alive, with more tubes coming from me than there are on the London underground.
The moment that I regained consciousness with a young Houseman at the side of my bed, he said: "We have taken your appendix out as well". Having thanked him with all the enthusiasm and gratitude I could muster under the circumstances, I lay thinking: ‘As well as what?’
It was immediately obvious even to my limited perceptions as I drifted into and out of consciousness, partly because of the tubes and the way I felt physically, this operation had been far more invasive and extensive than the first. So weak did I feel, it was impossible to even move myself higher onto the pillows, two nurses had to pull me. Nor was I to be allowed solid food for the first week, while every few hours night and day, someone came to draw off the contents of my stomach through a ‘riles tube’, using what looked like an unfeasible large hypodermic without a needle.
Which upon one occasion exploded, sending its contents all over a nurse and myself. Of course we had to laugh but at the time it appeared to trigger the most inconvenient LSD flashback I have experienced, before or after. Having cleaned up the mess I had again fallen asleep, only to wake sometime later to see growing cracks on the walls and ceiling of my room. At first I was convinced there had been a nuclear attack or war, in the confusion and panic I had been forgotten about.
Though the truth was some two weeks earlier, I had been given a tab of LSD for my birthday. Not that I would ever take LSD now, or recommend that anyone else take it but at the time, it had been a wholly therapeutic experience, allowing me to step outside myself and laugh about something that most of the time did not feel the least bit amusing. Eventually I again fell asleep and the world did not, had not ended for anyone but me.
With the dizzying, drug dulled passage of time and removal of the tubes I began to feel more hopeful and optimistic that I had been pulled, still barely alive from the burning car wreak of my life. Only with the withdrawal of pain relief some day’s after the surgery, because certain organs were not yet functioning as they should, did I again experience a sense of hopelessness due to chronic pain and discomfort.
The analgesics having being stopped mid-morning, I managed to go until the early hours of the following day. When crying with pain and unable to sleep, the on-call Doctor allowed the nurses to give me an injection and once again I fell out of control into oblivion’s welcoming blackness. Only to become aware of my surroundings the following morning, with the slurp of stomach contents being drawn away by a nurse.
Fortunately, one by one my various organs began to work, all be it sporadically and excruciatingly painfully at first. So that with the passage of each milestone upon the road to eventual recovery and removal of potential complications and there physical consequences. I again returned, yet still a shadow, to the world of those blessed with being born normal, the ordinary men and women.
The Joe the plumber and Jane the nurse occupants of consumerism’s crystal palaces and pleasure domes. The mad men’s fantasy’s of war and peace before the chrome and glass temples of the military and industrial complex and glossy new lies of the spinning men, the hollow men, the changelings and tricksters, masquerading as sincere politicians, while behind clever prosthetics, cold reptilian blood flowed.
Life goes on. Slowly I began to recover and was eventually discharged from hospital, returning home a stranger to myself and my cat’s, who at first did not even appear to recognise me. It was to be a few weeks before I could even go out though fate, inconsiderate as ever, was yet to throw one final knife into my back. After so many weeks I was instructed to perform what the hospital called dilating, this involved pushing what I suppose was a large dildo into myself, before eventually being able to have intercourse.
Unfortunately, when I tried to do this, it was not possible. With what solid ground I had finally found beneath my feet crumbling away, I completely freaked out, thinking not again. Having telephoned the hospital to explain I was unable to dilate they, understanding of my stress and panic, re-admitted me a few days later and performed one final, relatively minor operation. Explaining that there was nothing to worry about, it was only where they had joined two parts together that had become constricted.
Then it was a question of trying the procedure again in a few weeks, fortunately this time it worked and I began to count down the weeks before I could have sexual intercourse. When fate finally smiled upon me and I found the perfect teacher, a mature man and classical guitarist with the strongest fingers and tongue I have encountered before or since.
My first experience proved to be a disappointment, he orgasmed but I did not. Which left me thinking ‘and I went through all this just for that’. Not until the second occasion a few nights later did I finally orgasm for the first time, a real leg trembler that turned my brain to mush leaving me completely hooked and searching for the Holy Grail of sex, multiple orgasm.
‘In a time of universal deception, telling the truth is a revolutionary act.’
George Orwell.
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