Old Hermy's Never Die ... They Simply Smile That Way

Old Hermy’s Never Die
They Simply Smile That Way ……

A monthly blog about ‘stuff’ your grandmother could or would never tell you!
Do hermaphrodites have legal rights?
Throughout contemporary history hermaphrodites have been forced to conform to the two sex reality imposed by the Vatican Codex, which states implicitly that God created only male and female. Physicians and lawyers became responsible through examination of the hermaphrodite body, for determining the sex that predominated and an individuals legal gender.

Though in Roman culture, individuals had the power to ‘choose’ a sex through sexual preference and activity, they would then be expected to remain in that sex for the rest of their lives. Because as with contemporary law, there was no category or legal rights for hermaphrodites and those with an intersex condition, they were either male or female.

While the determination of an individuals sex was important not just when it came to marriage, property and inheritance. But in determining if sexual activity was sodomy, punishable with either the death penalty or hard labour. Or legally acceptable and in accordance with God’s commandments as stated in the Vatican Codex.

Law like religion, remains an instrument for the mutual reciprocation of male dominance (even in a so-called gender neutral society), of legitimising existing power structures and above all else, money, individual worth in this world and the next.

This is the battle-ground upon which, congenital greed and psychotic ‘control freakery’ are played out, by those privileged enough to be able to buy justice in this life and salvation in the next. For those who are inherently superior because of sex and social worth, in the either/or lottery of an unreality where only two sexes prevail, two social possibilities exist.

Despite scientific evidence that chromosonaly there are five sexes*, while physically, genital combinations and abnormalities in the human form add to the overall number** of possible sexes. Making a mockery of the two sex tyranny, technological totalitarianism and a dead religion continue to impose upon human possibility and evolution.

By denying hermaphrodites legal recognition and social rights unless they conform to the role expectations of male or female, through non-consensual or consensual surgical procedures. Many performed for purely cosmetic reasons, especially upon those with the open form of hermaphrodism, diagnosed at birth and treat shortly afterwards for what is a non medical emergency. Denying those involved the fundamental human right as hermaphrodites, to determine their own sex, rather than have it imposed by over enthusiastic urologists and well meaning but deluded medical professionals.

It is inconceivable and utterly shameful that at the start of the twenty-first century, a significant minority who through no choice of their own are born to be bullied and tyrannised, into becoming either male or female by the medical profession and society. Continue to be denied legal recognition and rights in contemporary societies, to be oppressed by the limited and limiting religious delusion that God created only male and female.

When all else should be drowned in a horse-trough at birth or surgically altered, made perfect and normal, if normal it be. Because the truth is we are never going to be normal, despite all the surgery and treatment we are always going to be hermaphrodites. Freaks of nature forced to spend our lives conforming to stereotypical sex roles and expectations.

Denying to ourselves and the world what we are and always will be, different and proud not to be wholly one sex or another but something more. Who without legal rights will continue to be damned, tyrannised, ethnically cleansed from decent, God fearing society and its brutal two sex tyranny.

Women have legal rights, homosexuals, ethnic minorities, even transsexuals have legal rights but not hermaphrodites. We remain a contradiction of form that has no choice but to conform, to become something we are not, normal. At least while the legal profession continue to deny the existence of hermaphrodites, a legal concept, which according to historians disappeared without trace from English law towards the end of the 18^th century.***

Part of the post industrial perfection of scientific rationalism and religious fundamentalism that had no place for the imperfections and abnormalities, nature produced with unfailing regularity. Ethnically cleansed from legal statutes, damned and denied by the Priests of hate, it fell to the medical profession to become normality’s guardians and the fundamentalist storm-troopers of a two sex reality.

Responsible for upholding the illusions and delusions of a species that acknowledged only two possible sexes, two shared realties that in many respects might as well be from completely different species, with women being from Venus and men from Mars.

As for me, I must have been from Alpha Century and like a ‘trickster’, forced to exist socially through deception and self-denial without legal recognition and rights as a hermaphrodite. A thing that having crawled from the primal slime, would be stamped to death and swept under a convenient carpet simply for daring to have been born.

Because the politicians and their co-conspirators in criminality, the Law Lords, and lackey lawyers, would have you believe that at the start of the twenty-first century. We live in what they laughingly call a ‘gender neutral’ society with equal rights for all but hermaphrodites, a word that non dare speak and minority that throughout history.

Have been little more than a foot-note to the growing lists of those ethnically cleansed from the shared social history of a two sex tyranny, and the mad monsters controlling the military and industrial complex. Pulling upon the almost invisible strings that bind the puppets and automatons (the normals), through a collective consciousness with its shared delusions and unquestionable lies.

A ‘gender neutral’ society! Clearly the majority have not lived as women in this so-called ‘gender neutral’ society, where little if anything has changed since the heady days of feminism. When women marry they still sacrifice their birth name to become 'goods and chattel’, not men. Look up and you will see the glass ceiling slowly becoming lower and lower. Because only a man, a smug, self-satisfied man, would ever say we live in a ‘gender neutral’ society.

Where hermaphrodites do not have or deserve legal recognition and rights, not when the medical profession can continue to surgically alter and modify all imperfection, all physical abnormality. Making it normal and perfect in constant denial of the fundamental truth, there is no such thing as normal and perfect in nature, only infinite possibility, constant evolution, adaptation, and alteration.

Hermaphrodites continue to be born despite the legal and medical professions assertion that there is no such thing, apart from as some mythical creature from pre-scientific rationalism’s convenient, cosmetically altered histories. That is why most live life’s of silent desperation, worrying about talking in our sleep and are forced to deny even to ourselves, what we were and are, different.

Part male and part female but wholly neither, whose history, culture and identity were sacrificed under the surgeons knife in the constant struggle to make perfect all imperfection in the fantasy, advertising potential of a global market they call existence, if existence it be. For the compliant sleep-walkers, the normals, the living dead that like grey shadows drift unquestioningly through life, if life it be.

Because personally, I think it must be really boring to be normal. I am proud to be different, proud to be a hermaphrodite without legal recognition and rights in contemporary society. Proud that I did not even have the balls for a successful sex change operation.

To long have hermaphrodites been denied a history, a culture, a personal identity, legal rights and the chance to simply be what we are beyond the two sex tyranny and ethnic cleansing of the medical profession. To long have we existed like freaks, medical curiosities in a fair-ground ‘hall of cracked, distorting mirrors’ wanting only what we can never have, normality, personal acceptance and forgiveness for the unforgivable crime of being born hermaphrodites.

To long have we gone silent and accepting into the operating theatres and consulting rooms, suffering mutilation, pain, and personal trauma in search of social acceptance. To long have hermaphrodites been marginalized and regarded as things to be denied, damned and destroyed by the normals for the convenience of a two sex reality.

To long have hermaphrodites been denied legal and social rights in contravention of national and international laws. To long have hermaphrodites, many born ‘Holy Innocents’ without the sin of sex, been damned by the Priests of hate and their male God of men; Lord of a dead and decaying religion incapable of changing, of evolving and like the dinosaurs, destined for inevitable extinction.

To long have hermaphrodites been ethnically cleansed from this world and it’s collective consciousness, its shared reality, and social structures. To long …

The Sigmoid Colon – a thirty year retrospective
It was thirty years ago when I had the privilege of becoming the first intersex patient in the UK, to have what eventually became known as a Sigmoid Colon procedure performed at Saint James University hospital.

Not that I had much of a choice at the time, having gone into hospital believing I was a transsexual about to have sex change surgery. Only to learn that I was what they called a hermaphrodite, who did not even have a large enough penis for successful surgery and was, to use the technical term, proper fucked.

Not surprisingly I went into complete denial about being a hermaphrodite and concentrated upon simply surviving the considerable traumas of surgery. Because it was either face the inevitable scarring from skin grafts, or willingly become the first intersex patient in the UK for a new procedure the surgeon wanted to try. Despite being told of the potential complications and dangers that such surgery involved, I chose as I would now, to have what became known as a Sigmoid Colon. This is were they use sections of colon to fill in the missing parts.

Fortunately the procedure worked and I was not only able to have intercourse for the first time in my life but experience the leg trembling joys of orgasm. Though as the years went inexorably by, I did start to suffer a few personal difficulties. Which, as the owner of a shiny new, show-room ready Sigmoid Colon, I think it worth being aware of, rather than make the same mistakes and face the same difficulties that I and others have experienced.

These being:

(i) HRT (hormone replacement therapy) – That old chestnut again! As an old hermy I can not stress enough the importance of hormone replacement therapy (HRT), be that oestrogen or testosterone. Because you, like most of us, with the inevitable passage of the years will become complacent about the importance of HRT, especially if you have no gonads of your own – remember you should expect to be on HRT all your life.


Sure, at first you will notice no real changes or consequences and like me, start to think that you do not need it, so why bother? But be warned changes are occurring slowly, unnoticed in your body. Changes that can have devastating consequences upon your quality of life in later years. Resulting in the lose of your sex drive or libido and bone density, along with a whole range of debilitating, chronic conditions.

Be your poison testosterone or oestrogen, neglect HRT at your peril and don’t say you were not warned. I was but still neglected to use HRT as prescribed and in later years began to experience the consequences, now I take it as recommended.

(ii) Intercourse – Like those of us given the Sigmoid Colon treatment by the National Health Service, you no doubt suffered from undeveloped genitalia. I had a penis the size of a five year old in my late twenties, larger than some but smaller than most.

So do not get hung-up over your inevitable penis envy, it is a natural condition given what you, what we all went through as children and in adolescence. That is why I always went for the big ones, the ‘silver backs’ and alpha males because you can’t beat a bit of big cock – nice!


For me the join and first three inches made from my genitalia were always problematic, it could by very uncomfortable with a large penis but pain and pleasure are often closely linked within the brains pleasure centres, according to that well known misogynist Freud. Just relax and enjoy it, given what you, what we all went through from birth, it is small consolation for having been born to be bullied.

(iii) Fuck Points – By ‘fuck points’ I do not mean the prize in a television game show, these are points were during intercourse your partner will penetrate up to. This will inevitable result in some degree of trauma to internal tissue, causing it to slowly swell and seal off; making it difficult, if not impossible, dependent on the frequency of trauma, to get past.

Should you have not been using a condom, sperm along with gung and mucus can in effect become permanently entombed behind this seal like the things in a tomb. Like HRT the consequences of these ‘fuck points’ may not at first become apparent but non the less, they can be as detrimental to your health and sex life.

Usually it will not become apparent until you change your partner, though if you stay with the same person it should not be a problem. When, if larger, they will try to penetrate past the ‘fuck point’, only for it to spasm and having closed tighter, in effect try to force out the penis trying to get past it.

Personally I had a number of partners and as the years went on, though I did not notice at the time. Because of previous ‘fuck points’, I appeared to be penetrated less and less deeply. Which for me physically was less and less satisfactory, it was like layers of rock strata up there, one layer forming on top of the last through a process of deposition and tissue trauma.

That is why I would recommend running a vibrator, or dilator past the ‘fuck point’ on a regular basis, just to stop a blockage from forming and trapping sperm and gung behind it. Otherwise you could end up like me, so full of sperm and gung; it makes your abdomen become swollen.

While slowly, almost unnoticed, you will be penetrated less and less deeply. Until inevitably intercourse becomes no longer a pleasure but an uncomfortable, unsatisfying experience for all involved. Because you would not believe the amount of sperm that gets shoved up there over the years, some my dribble out but most actually goes up. Especially the tighter the join and first few inches made from your undeveloped genitalia, the stronger the capillary action.


My final advice to you is do not end up being driven frigid, or stop dilating for any long period of time. Assuming that because you have been sexually active for decades, things will still be in working order after years of abstinence and personal neglect – IT WILL NOT!


Especially if the surgeons used what penile tissue there was for re-constructive surgery and to form the first two or three inches of the vagina, onto which was then joined the missing section of colon. Where these sections are joined you get what is called ‘scare tissue’ and the major problem with ‘scare tissue’, is the fact that it does not stretch.


Unless you regularly keep this join open, it will start to constrict until it becomes impossible to get anything larger than a pencil past it. Go frigid and neglect regular sex, or dilation at your
peril!

(iv) Lubrication – As you will see from the promotional material, your shiny new Sigmoid Colon is said to be self-cleaning (only if you stop ‘fuck points’ from developing) and self lubricating. While the constant vaginal discharge you now live with can be inconvenient and mess up your underwear, it will lessen after about twenty years and as you get older, it may become essential to rely up KY (other brands of vaginal lubricant are available).

Though even after surgery, when at my most promiscuous, I still found it helpful to use a pessary before intercourse, especially if a dedicated night fucking until dawn washed like a luminous stain across the eastern sky and unable to walk, we fell into a hot, sticky but contented sleep.

Never underestimate the importance of adequate lubrication, even the normals need to use it at times, especially in later life. So never be ashamed to use extra lubrication of necessary, a passery used before intercourse is more discrete, unless you and your partner are into strawberry flavoured lubricant – yum, yum.

(v) Related health problems – Whether others with a Sigmoid Colon suffered from this problem or not, I do not know. But personally I began to experience colon related illnesses such as inflammation and bleeding.

Of course this may not be directly related to having parts of my colon removed and used for other purposes. Many people who have never had a Sigmoid Colon suffer from a range of other problems and illnesses. So it could just be that I would have suffered these problems, regardless of the surgery.

(v) Conclusions – Faced with the same situation and circumstances, insufficient penile tissue for a successful sex change. The only solution to which, was either extensive scarring from skin grafts or to have a ‘Sigmoid Colon’? Would I make the same choice knowing what I do now and having experienced what I have? Damned right I would because it worked for me, I had a sex life and experienced the joy of orgasm.

Having spent twenty-five years of my life as nothing, devoid of sex drive or libido it quite literally saved my life. Pulling me from the multiple motorway smash existence became for me. Though had I the choice of penile tissue or Sigmoid Colon, personally I would go for the penile inversion. If only because they do not experience the difficulties and problems, especially with the join and first section but they were lucky and had the best of both worlds.

While I was nothing, a sexless, bemused spectator, an interloper in the world of the normals neither fish nor fowl. To be ethnically cleansed, along with all the other hermaphrodites. Shame on you all!

Hypocrisy, discrimination and hermaphobia in the NHS (Nazi Health Service)

Hypocrisy
Hypocritical are those upon the front-line, ethnically cleansing hermaphrodites from good, God fearing society’s around the world. Those who continue to deny the existence of anything other than religions two sex tyranny, as God created only male and female. Anything else must be the work of the Devil and Satan’s spawn.

Those who perform non-consensual surgery upon any born with one of the open forms of hermaphrodism, who force individuals that are neither wholly male or female, to deny to themselves and the world what they are, to become something they are not and never will be.

For the convenience of the normals and their limiting two sex reality, hermaphrodites continue to be ethnically cleansed in the most insidious manner, to live life as a lie for the convenience of others. Who might be disturbed, or upset by this ‘life unworthy of life’.

Denied, destroyed, and damned for being born different, the hypocrisy of the medical profession knows no bounds. Because having forced hermaphrodites to become either male or female, they then continue to treat us as freaks, never allowing us to forget this fact by forcing patients who may require treatment for complications relating to previous surgery. To go through a different, second class health care system. By having to apply to ‘exceptional treatment’ panels for funding in order to have even minor surgery, usually performed at the other end of the country.

Which as I can tell you from personal experience, can take six months for them to make a decision before even getting onto the waiting list. No one else has to do this and it is clearly discriminatory and hypocritical. After all, the medical profession insists that intersex patients become male or female. Only when we do, they hypocritically impose a different, second class health care system upon us.

Refusing equal, consistent care through discriminatory practices and standards for those, who in their cold steely eyes, will never be normal, never really male or female. But remain freaks and laboratory animals to be experimented upon, interesting curiosity’s whose existence continues to be denied. Whose history, culture and personal identity have been systematically, ethnically cleansed throughout history. In the name of medical perfection and the one true God.

If the medical profession do not have the common human decency to treat us equally as either men or women, even after the personal trauma’s of extensive surgery. What hope do we have in a society dominated by greed and the illusions of perfection for the normals? Those born completely male or female!

Other than to make people aware of the hypocrisy and sanctimonious shit, regarding the systematic ethnic cleansing of hermaphrodites from decent, God fearing societies. But that is what happens when the snake kissers, the happy clappy, intolerant ‘storm troopers’ and Priests of scientific rationalism can completely remove any recognition, or legal rights for
hermaphrodites from the law at the end of the 18^th century.***

Shame upon you! Hypocrites and sanctimonious shits that you are.

To long have we gone compliant, willing, silent, into the gas chambers of obscurity and sterile operating theatres in the name of normality. To long have we been ethnically cleansed from the social histories of contemporary societies. To long have we been damned and denied the right to exist as hermaphrodites. To long have we hidden in the shadows, apologising for our own existence beyond the collective certainty of a two sex tyranny.

To long have we willingly become what we are not, so as not to question or upset the God given two sex tyranny, technological totalitarianism imposes upon all at the moment of birth – blue blanket or pink blanket? To long have we been compliant in appeasing the delusions of the normals. Hypocritical indeed are those upon the front-line in a war against difference and imperfection, ethnically cleansing hermaphrodites from all good, God fearing society’s around the world.

Discrimination

Actions speak louder than words and nothing exemplifies more the inherent, long standing discrimination that hermaphrodites and intersex patient’s face with the National Health Service. Than those I have unfortunately experienced not only half a century ago but recently, having by this point lived three quarters of my life as a woman, a second class citizen in this so-called ‘gender neutral’ society – you are taking the piss, aren’t you? Because the first casualty of recession and economic depression, is ‘gender neutrality’ in the war of the sexes.

Only to be constantly treat as a freak, to be discriminated against when requiring even minor surgery. Normals do not have to apply to ‘exceptional treatment’ panels for the funding to receive treatment. Normals do not have to wait months for bureaucrats and Doctors to allow them the funding, before they can even get on the waiting lists for an appointment to see a surgeon.

Normals do not have to travel half way across the country to see one of the dwindling numbers of urologists that have treat hermaphrodites. Normals do not have to spend two years trying to get minor treatment that would make such a different to their life. Normals do not have to wait a year to see a Consultant, only to have the appointment cancelled just weeks before it was due, because the surgeon involved has retired and they have to go to the back of the waiting list.

Normals do not have to spend fifteen years trying to get treatment as I unfortunately did when younger. At least while hermaphrodites continue to be discriminated against simply for being born different, when transsexuals had to live only one year in their chosen sex and I had to live years without hope of help or treatment. Due to being a hermaphrodite without the balls for a sex change operation.

If you are fortunate enough to receive treatment, it will be radically different to the normals, to even transsexuals. Possibly performed non-consentualy shortly after birth, or only after years, decades of trying to get help for the closed or hidden form - if you are not happy and wish to be reassigned to a different sex.

So institutionalised and routine is the discrimination against hermaphrodites within the National Health Service, it is considered normal, acceptable practice against individuals denied legal acknowledgement, rights and recognition socially, medically and personally.

No one bothers to complain, speak out, or acknowledge individuals who through no fault of their own are born different. Born to be bullied into conforming to the two sex tyranny of technological totalitarianism. Forced to deny the truth of what they, what we are to society and ourselves by becoming something we will never really be, wholly male or female. By living life as a lie, accepting the daily discrimination, and post code lottery treatment we receive as inevitable, routine and acceptable.

Hermaphobia

Because that is what it is - hermaphobia!

Rooted in history and tradition, denied legal recognition and rights from the 18^th century*** onwards. This is ethnic cleansing in its most insidious form, lies and denial that reach back through history, a religious inquisition that became part of the collective consciousness and two sex tyranny of the normals.

Which denies and damn’s the existence of hermaphrodites, who remain legally and socially nothing but mythical creatures, neither fish nor fowl, without legal rights unless they live a lie and conform to the two sex tyranny that passes for normal.

All who frighten and disturb the fragile web of lies that is the fundamental basis of contemporary society and the medical model of disability. When all can be cured, made perfect and whole in an imperfect world. Where the most evangelical of hermaphobes remain the Priests and Doctors, ever eager to call in the urologist at the first opportunity.

A medical nightmare most definitely without end!
Damned are those unfortunate to be cursed with the consequences of repeated medical misdiagnosis at the hands of incompetent, unquestionable Doctors and their familiars. Those hiding still amongst the lengthening shadows of ‘concentration camp’ Europe and the shiny new Nazi’s, blessed with the benefits of unelected accountability as they voted for each other’s silent conspiracy and the biblical certainty of mans God.

The great architect of secret handshakes and mutual reciprocation onboard the ‘gravy train’, travelling first class into the growing ‘heart of darkness’. Where they made it up as they went along, losing razor-blade encrusted spin and enough spittle to float a nuclear aircraft carrier the size of their selfish egos.

At least those who suffered at the hands of the ‘concentration camp’ Doctors of Death, who remain amongst the most inhuman, monstrous creatures to come slithering and sliding from the primal slim of post industrialised Western Europe, eventually got justice of a kind.

Even the victims and relatives of Britains most prolific serial killer, a Doctor, got justice of a kind and personal closure. But no those of us unfortunate enough to be repeatedly misdiagnosed and mistreat. Those who like me had whatever chance of a life and happiness I might have had, destroyed by the curse of inconsistency and incompetence.

This metamorphosed into a medical nightmare most definitely without end, hope of justice and closure in this life. Or the next, if the Priests of hate and Pope Adolph the Persecutor are to be believed – especially if like me you are ‘life unworthy of life’.

Just being born different, a hermaphrodite is to be born without legal recognition and rights, because according to British law there are no such things as hermaphrodites – only men and women (read do hermaphrodites have legal rights).

Just being born different was to be born to be bullied, harassed, abused, damned, denied, isolated, and alienated by the two sex tyranny of male and female. Imposed upon all through social expectation and personal assumption.

Just being born different was like a slow motion, motorway, multiple smash that there is no escaping. While all the Doctors ever did for me from the age of eight, was make the horror of not knowing what I was, or why I felt the way I did a million times harder to cope with.

Turning what should have been a blessing, a chance to explore the infinite possibility of the human condition. To discover the full possibility of self and sexuality, into a medical nightmare most definitely without end. For all like me, who were repeatedly failed by hypocritical, sanctimonious, unaccountable Doctors with repeated misdiagnosis and treatment.

Even after it should have become obviouse what I was, when the country’s leading authority upon transsexuals refused to treat me for not being a transsexual. Especially after the trauma of surgery and the fact that I did not even have the balls for a successful sex change operation, did not need breast implants yet according the psychiatrists in the local Health Authority, I was and will remain a transsexual.

This from a man who did not know the difference between ‘I can’t believe its not butter’ and butter, or a transsexual from a hermaphrodite. Because anywhere but in the local Health Authority, someone without the balls for a successful sex change operation, their own breasts, and all the other shit, would have been called a hermaphrodite and not a transsexual.

Still, it was fifty years ago and the poor man was still trained to regard homosexuality as a criminal offence. Transsexualism was something he probably once read a Sunday colour supplement magazine article on and they, along with that legally non existent species, the hermaphrodite, went in the rubbish bin marked ‘gas chamber’.

As if being born a hermaphrodite was not personal nightmare enough when you don’t know what is happening and why. Made all the worse by societies two sex tyranny, the medical professions inconsistency and inaccuracy of diagnosis, along with the hypocrisy of religious delusional, with their ‘Mafia’, male protection racket in this world and the next.

Not that I would receive any relevant treatment, counselling or help from the local Heath Authority. From the point were, having already been diagnosed and treat as a schizophrenic, depressive (something to do with being misdiagnosed as a schizophrenic). Transvestite (at least a psychiatrist finally noticed I did not have a sex drive and I did try it but preferred to take my clothes off to have sex rather than put them on).

I was then diagnosed as a transsexual and encouraged to live as a woman. Despite there
being no treatment available through the National Health Service for freaks like me. Those born with apparently normal, perfectly formed genitalia that for various reasons, does not go on to develop as it should throughout the child’s life. For those unfortunates who were born to be bullied and forever cast beyond all hope of normality, because fates fickle finger having writ moves on.

At least I am now proud to be abnormal, happy to be different and as for the so-called two sex, two chromosome normality of male and female. That must be so boring and normal, it is like a living death for the ‘face back’, ‘me pod’, high definition clones of La La Land, with their virtual lives and genetically modified remote control fingers.

I found but a brief period of hope and optimism beyond the thickening shroud, the medical nightmare most definitely without end. Finally a psychiatrist had diagnoses me as being what I first thought I was years ago, a confused and frightened transsexual. What luck! Just as I was in the process of beginning to transition from male to fame, the countries first ‘gender identity unit’ opened at Charring Cross Hospital in London, under Doctor Randell the countries leading authority upon transsexuals.

Not only that, I managed to get an appointment to see him, thinking that at long last my personal nightmare was all but at an end. Do my year as a woman and snip, snip, no more micro penis. Little did I know, the medical nightmare most definitely without end, for me at least, had not yet even begun to blow me empty like a pricked egg.

Especially while my father and family Doctor remained determined that I would become a man, regardless of the consequences to my personal happiness and sanity. Having already been forced to take steroids/testosterone for two years against my wishes, despite having long ago explained that I did not feel happy as a boy.

I do not think that I have ever felt so depressed, suicidal, fat, hairy and male. Except for my genitalia, which did not develop and a sex drive that remained non existent. Leaving me feeling like an alien, a stranger in a strange land damned to remain a holy innocent, without medical intervention and surgical reconstruction.

Forever dead from the waist down it was a personal nightmare, from which there would be no escape, no happy ending or normal life, beyond the personal lies the medical profession, the two sex tyranny makes those born different tell. In the unending struggle for normality and social acceptance, when we must deny the truth to even ourselves, before the cracked and distorting mirrors life is played out in front of.

It felt like having the world fall from beneath your feet, like having a scaffolding post thrust into your abdomen while a thundering herd of Wildebeests moved across the barren, dusty spaces of my mind. With my mouth moving as though that of a fish gasping but no sound, no ill conceived words coming out as I internalised Doctor Randells surprise announcement that: ‘I will not treat you.’ I finally managed to ask ‘Why?’ to which his reply: ‘I do not think that you are a transsexual.’ Before being asked to close the door on my way out.

It felt as if being gutted alive with an ice cold, razor sharp knife. It was as one more dead than alive, a dazed survivor from a devastating cataclysm, destroying all I hoped and dreamt in the secret places of my fractured being. What was the point in starting to live full time as a woman, what was the point of anything without hope? Something to hold onto as the earth and everything that I once thought solid and certain, dropped from beneath my feet.

Leaving only a gnawing emptiness to consume me as the scaffolding post came out of my back, leaving me impaled and lifeless upon the consequences of this most unexpected of failures. So what was I according to the country’s leading expert upon transsexualism, the bloody Easter Bunny?

Whatever I was, he would never tell me. Little wonder I went on an alcohol and drugs bender that delayed my transitioning for some months. At least until an endocrinologist from the Withington Hospital in Manchester, finally prescribed oestrogen and suddenly I began to feel normal, physically and psychologically.

What I did not know at the time, was the fact that I had just walked into the middle of some classic professional empire building. With the team from Charring Cross under Randell, arguing with another teaching hospital who said that transsexualism had a physical cause that had as yet not been discovered. While Randell and his team at Charring Cross were saying that it was a purely psychological condition.

Consequently, it was not just that the Health Authority’s second most senior psychiatrist misdiagnosed me as a transsexual, it was that I did not fit the purely psychological model of transsexualism’ with my big hips and physical abnormalities common to hermaphrodites. But the fact that I did not have the balls for a successful sex change operation. This was to lead to the local Heath Authority abandoning me and from that point to this day, not giving any support or treatment.

Because a transsexual I had been diagnosed and a transsexual I would remain, according to the Hull and East Riding Health Authority. Determined as ever to brush embarrassing, repeated misdiagnosis under a convenient carpet in order to protect the professional reputation and standing of its senior consultants. Regardless of the consequences it had upon their patients treatment and lives.

Essentially this was nothing but good old hermaphobia, insistent as ever that there are only two sexes, male and female. Because according to organised religion, everything else was destined for the flames of Hell whose fuel is said to be stones and all ‘life unworthy of life’ according to the word of God. Allowing the most hermaphobic of Doctors to discriminate against hermaphrodites.

Transsexuals had to live only one year in their chosen sex before getting treatment, I had to live in it for years. Because of hermaphobic discrimination and the fact that I did not have sufficient penile tissue for a successful sex change. If that is not blatant discrimination by the Health Service against someone unfortunate enough to be born a hermaphrodite, I do not know what is.

Though at that point in time I still did not know what I was, let alone why my genitalia failed to develop as other children’s had. That I would not discover until I was admitted into hospital for surgery, when finally I learnt the truth about my fractured form and condition and promptly went into complete denial. Not that I knew what a hermaphrodite was, let alone admit it to even myself at that point in time.

TO BE CONTINUED

Notes

*Fausto-Sterling
**See Iain Morland ‘Why five sexes are not enough’ (2007)
*** ‘The Disappearance of the Hermaphrodite from Western Law: Some Consequences for the Methodology of Legal Anthropology’ Douglas Brooker

References

‘Sex Changes’? Paradigm Shifts in ‘Sex’ and ‘Gender’ Following the Gender Recognition Act?’ Stephen Whittle and Lewis Turner
‘Social Theory and Law’ Brooker et al
The Gender Recognition Act 2004

To read further extracts from a profiler’s casebook, ‘The Distressing Case Of The Missing Girls’, part two ‘Mutually Assured Distraction’ click on the following link: https://ser101@wordpress.com/
　
　
　

　
　

　
　
　
　
　

　
　
　
　　
　
　
　





　
　

　
　

　
　
　
　

　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　

Old Hermy's Never Die ... They Simply Smile That Way

Old Hermy’s Never Die

They Simply Smile That Way ……

A monthly blog about ‘stuff’ your grandmother could or would never tell you!
Do Hermaphrodites Care About Birth Certificates?
To be born into modern society’s monochromatic world of male and female, may be correct and acceptable for the majority of live births. But this is a tyranny of conformity imposed by man’s religion, policed by well meaning but deluded Doctors thinking themselves like unto God’s. Able to impose a sex upon those born with ambiguous or abnormal genitalia, without the child’s knowledge or consent, often shortly after birth.

A belief reinforced by the hypercritic oath and ‘medical model of disability’, when from the start of their training. Doctors are taught to believe that the patient is the problem, whose abnormality, or disability needs curing. While all patients are incapable of making decisions about their own lives and need qualified medical professionals to look after them. Because ultimately they can never be as equal socially and personally as a non-disabled person.

At least those born with the closed or hidden form of hermaphrodism, escape the social condemnation of difference and medical conformity at or shortly after birth. Only to be imprisoned by the sexual monochrome of male and female based upon assumed genital sex at birth, while often possessing undeveloped internal organs and the characteristics of a different sex.

In a world where nature is constantly more powerful than all the learnt consequences of nurture. Where sex is not bound by the laws of either/or, the monochromatic possibility of a species possessing only two sexes but a mix and match of genetic, hormonal and physical possibility. Beyond the limiting, consistent definitions of chromosomal, hormonal, psychological and physical sex used to define, to deny, to limit human potential and possibility from the very moment of birth as being either male or female.

For hermaphrodites born with either the open (easy to diagnose) or closed (more difficult to diagnose, especially sixty years ago) form. No matter what sex is assigned at birth it will not be true or accurate, because we are part male and part female, yet wholly neither sex.
Beyond the single sex potentials and possibilities society, in particular the medical profession, imposes upon those gifted or cursed (dependent upon your personal opinion) with being something more. A proto human, a hermaphrodite born to this world without the sins of sex.

Destined to live without sex drive (male) or libido (female) inside society’s inescapable prison, chained to the expectations, the conformity of being either male or female, while possessing the ability to be something more. Something greater than the various elements comprising male and female, something that transcends the human limitations of being born only one sex.
In a world were men and women, because of social patterning and expectations, might as well be completely different species, from different but parallel realties, in different universes of the ever-expanding multiverse.

Speaking personally, knowing that whatever it says upon my birth certificate will not be true. Just a medical imposition and social conformity to the limited, limiting two sex world of those not gifted, blessed with the diversity and difference of the human condition in all its potential forms and sexuality’s.

I do not care whether it says male or female because in totality I was born neither, yet both and ultimately something more than the either/or the Priests and medical profession continue to impose upon their parishioners and patients.

After decades of hiding this, the final taboo, I am proud to have been born different. Privileged to have lived the first third of my life being raised as male, when my perfectly formed genitalia failed to develop any larger than those of a five-year-old. Without the compulsions and confusions of sex drive or libido I became as nothing, the alone with the alone.

Lost to the contradictions and anomalies of becoming, I am eternally grateful to Derek Eastwood and his colleagues for giving me a libido, sex life, and the wonder, the possibility of love. Despite the social injustices, inequalities and inferiority’s, living the next two thirds of my life as a woman brought. Chained to Frauds penis envy by personal inadequacy for the rest of my life, just for wanting to have babies and be a mummy.

Though forever resentful and disappointed by the repeated misdiagnosis and treatment of Doctors, who literally put me through a medical nightmare seemingly without end. Having first missed a chance to diagnose my condition aged eight, when during an outpatient visit to the local children’s hospital, now recovering from an almost fatal bout of pneumonia and pleurisy.

My mother first voiced her concerns about my behaviour and penis to a Doctor, who having asked me to drop my trousers told her that everything was fine and there was nothing to worry about. Which I remember to this day because usually at an outpatient’s appointment they would tap my chest, listen to my lungs and ask me to breathe deeply. This was the first and only time one asked me to drop my trousers and examined my genitalia.

What her concerns about my penis were, I do not know to this day but that all-important first opportunity to diagnose correctly my condition, had been missed after a cursory examination by a chest specialist.

Well, it was not all right and there was actually lots to worry about, given the pathological secrecy of the medical profession regarding hermaphrodism and the inconsistency of its diagnosis and treatment around the country, especially with the closed or hidden form.

At least I was only forced to live twenty-four years as a sex I did not want to be, some people, especially those born with the open form, are compelled to live all their lives being a sex chosen for them by interfering, over enthusiastic Doctors. When they should have been allowed to develop and explore the possibilities. Deciding for themselves the sex they wished to spend their adult lives as, having explored all the options and spoken to others suffering from their particular form of hermaphrodism.

What is a birth certificate but a piece of paper and a whole world, a whole life of socio/sexual expectation? Limiting further the potential for human development, the evolutions of form because it is not being born a hermaphrodite that is sad, negative, a medical nightmare seemingly without end. But the way that the medical profession, religion and society limit through conformity and denial. Those born both partly male and partly female, those free from the sins of sex, filled with the wonder and possibility of human form and experience in all its variations and evolutions.

Doctors, leave those kids alone, if they can urinate and have functioning kidneys it is not a medial emergency. Let them, let us explore the possibility and decide for ourselves the sex we wish to be, if anyone is happy as an untreated hermaphrodite, that is fine to.

It is forced medical intervention and repeated misdiagnosis that makes us sad, depressed, resentful of the medical nightmare seemingly without end, into which misguided, well meaning but incompetent Doctors cast hermaphrodites.

Birth certificates! I used mine as toilet paper, what did you do with yours?

Why All The Medical Secrecy And Deception About Hermaphrodism?
What is it about the word hermaphrodite that makes the average Doctors brain short circuit and over-load? Leaving apparently sane, decent human beings to believe themselves like unto Gods. Able to chose a child’s sex shortly after birth, without consultation or consideration to the possible consequences in later life.

Eager to make perfect all physical imperfections and sexual anomalies in the image of a species comprised of only two sexes; an either/or tyranny and conformity, imposed, limiting from birth to death the human condition and possibility in all its possible forms and variations.

If your are a Doctor or medical student, try saying the word slowly, while breaking it down into its constituent parts – her-maph-rodite. There! The world has not changed, civilisation has not crumbled back into a primal chaos, and there is absolutely no reason to start panicking, or trying to justify the unjustifiable. Your patient’s heads have not exploded, nor have they become semi-divine psychotic, inhuman monsters.

So why all the secrecy and subterfuge when it comes to treating hermaphrodites, especially the open form. Who inevitably fall victim to over-enthusiastic, well meaning but misguided Doctors. Despite the fact that in the majority of cases this is not a medical emergency but should be a personal choice when the time is right.

At least those born with the closed or hidden form of hermaphrodism were spared this untimely imposition of sex by the followers of the medical model of disability. Only for our perfectly formed external genitalia not to develop as and when it should.

Like a slow motion multiple road smash, it just goes on getting worse and worse, a nightmare seemingly without end, especially sixty years ago during the ‘dark ages’ of treatment for intersex patients by the British National Health Service. When diagnosis of those with the closed or hidden form before puberty was non-existent and not that good afterwards.

My mother first mentioned her concerns that there was something wrong with me or my genitalia, to a Doctor at the local children’s hospital when I was eight years old. After a cursory examination the Doctor, a chest consultant, said everything was fine and that there was nothing to worry about. Wrong!

Personally it took me until the age of ten, before I knew what sex I felt happiest being. When I started wanting to have babies and be a mummy. Aged twelve or thirteen I heard through the more vicarious elements of the media, about men who had changed their sex. Being young and stupid I thought that if I could change my sex, I would be able to have babies but of course you can’t.

Let’s try saying that word one more time, shall we? That is it – her-maph-rodite. Because like it or not nature is not perfect, some people are born imperfect, some part male and part female. Though when it comes to determining the sex of those with the open form. They and they alone should discover for themselves, which sex they wish to become, if indeed any.

While for those with the closed or hidden form, constant misdiagnosis from an early age and not understanding what is happening or why, just compounds the medical nightmare seemingly without end of those born with perfectly formed genitalia that failed to develop as and how they should, especially decades ago. Because they to should be allowed to discover for themselves, which if any sex they may wish to live their adult lives as, while there may be those happy to
remain as untreated hermaphrodites, just so long as they make this choice for themselves.

If only the medical profession and its social expectation that sex is an either/or possibility of male and female, could acknowledge that in the real world that is not always true. Either physically in the case of hermaphrodites or psychologically as with transsexuals.

This is the most personal of all journeys and self-discovery, only the medical profession and social expectations of sex and sexuality, make what is a privileged, learning experience. Into a medical nightmare seemingly without end for those sad freaks, scared and traumatised because of unnecessary surgery or repeated misdiagnosis from an early age.

Once hermaphrodites were worshiped and revered, no one is asking for that. Just that the medical profession and society accept not all people are born wholly male or female. While allowing hermaphrodites to discover their chosen sex for themselves, having touched their own soul or spirit, because like it or not, none of us are ever going to be normal males or females, much as this may upset the God-like tendencies of Doctors.

Explore the infinite possibility of the human condition, become yourself, yourself. It is a privileged journey fate has cast us all on, learn, grow, become, explore, and above all, accept. Be proud to be different, to transcend the limitations of human possibility and experience, becoming all you possibly can in this short life.

Why is the average Doctor more than willing to tell a patient that they are a diagnosed schizophrenic, transvestite, and transsexual. But when it came to the top expert at the countries only gender identity unit in the country, refusing to treat me because he did not think that I was a transsexual. Though as for why and what he thought I was other than the Easter Bunny. Doctor Randell would never say, why?

Did he think I would rush out and throw myself under the first train to pull into Charring Cross tube station? I almost did that anyway, it was only the fact that I managed to convince myself it was part of a test they put everyone through, which actually stopped me.

Of course it was not a test and as this realisation slowly dawned, I resolved to become the perfect transsexual, because if I ever got a second chance at surgery, I was not going to blow it again. Six years I spent supporting people who, having done their year were going down to Charring Cross for surgery. When I was not a transsexual but a hermaphrodite, without even the balls for a successful sex change operation.

Being a hermaphrodite with either the open or closed form is personally traumatic enough, without Doctors turning it into a medical nightmare without end. They certainly know how to help people!

The National Health Service Complaints Procedure – Not Fit For Purpose!
Life for a hermaphrodite born with the hidden or closed form sixty years ago was to be condemned to a living hell. Death by degrees made into a medical nightmare seemingly without end, when aged eight I was first examined by a Doctor at the local children’s hospital.
That was the first chance the medical profession had to correctly diagnose and help with my condition. Because by the age of ten or eleven I was barking mad, wanting to have babies and become a mummy. Having heard about men changing sex I thought if I did that, I could be a mummy, not that aged twelve I knew what sex even was.

At least I thought I now knew what I was, a transsexual and wanted in life, a sex change operation. Only to discover from a psychiatrist aged fifteen that I was, according to him, a schizophrenic, who with the correct medication and support should be able to lead a full and productive life. Wrong!

Eight years of being treat as a schizophrenic before being incorrectly diagnosed by other psychiatrists as a manic-depressive, transvestite, and transsexual. Wrong! Which is what I thought I was aged around twelve – at least for the first time the medical profession started to encourage me to live as a woman. Even though at this point in time there were absolutely no treatment facilities on the British National Health Service.

I was in the process of transitioning from living as male to female, when Doctor Randell started the country’s first ‘gender identity unit’ at Charring Cross Hospital in London. How lucky was that? Having received an appointment to see him I thought completion, do my year and surgery at last. Only to be refused treatment from the country’s leading expert, because he did not think that I was a transsexual. Right!

Unfortunately, despite writing to him every year around the date of that first and only appointment, to say I had just lived another year as a women. He would never help, or even tell me why he thought I was not a transsexual. Six years I spent learning to become the perfect transsexual, thinking if I ever get a second chance at surgery, I am not going to blow it again. Wrong!

Having eventually found a surgeon at Saint James University hospital in Leeds who said he could help me, I then go into hospital only to learn that I do not have the balls for a successful sex change operation and am apparently, what they called a hermaphrodite. Right!

Assuming that the Hull National Health Service would have been informed by Doctor Randell, he would not treat me as in his professional opinion I was not a transsexual, or that the surgeons at Saint James. Would have written to someone in the local health authority, if only my GP, to explain what surgical procedures they had performed and why.

It came as a complete shock to learn that according to my medical records, I was a transsexual. All be it the only one I have encountered that did not have the balls for a sex change, did not need breast implants and had all the other anomalies and abnormalities I did.

Having finally recovered from the shock, confusion, and personal anger, especially after the hell, the medical nightmare seemingly without end, Doctors and the medical profession put me through from the age of eight with their incompetence and repeated misdiagnosis. I naturally complained to the local Health Authority, only to have my complaint blocked and dismissed in a most amateurish, shameful and insensitive manner, by bureaucrats and Doctors with pound signs in eyes and possible litigation in mind.

If only someone had examined my complaint, acknowledging me for what I was, providing consistency of treatment and said sorry for repeated misdiagnosis from the age of eight, that would have been fine, I would have been happy but oh no! They became defensive, confrontational and about as helpful and supportive as a squashed hedgehog in the middle of a motorway, middle of the summer bank holiday get away for the lemmings.

All I wanted was acknowledgement of what I actually was, along with some consistency of diagnosis and treatment. Instead and despite the support of the Independent Complaints and Conciliation Service (ICAS) who were excellent, very helpful. The local Health Authority came on like ostriches with heads firmly in buckets of sand, hoping that thanks to freshly polished bullshit and the usual medical flimflam, I would give up and go away.

Grateful and obedient to them for putting me through the personal hell of a medical nightmare, seemingly without end, of taking what chance of a life that I might have had due to incompetence, repeated misdiagnosis and systematic administrative failures, as forming their wagons into a circle. They continued to protect each other’s backs, in accordance with their Hippocratic oath and God-like professional infallibility.

Leaving me with two courses of action, either take my complaint to the Health Service Independent Ombudsman, or find a solicitor willing to take my case on a no win, no fee basis. Out of growing cynicism, especially after my recent experience of the Health Service ‘complaints procedure’, which if my personal experiences are anything to go by, is NOT FIT FOR PURPOSE!

Of having various Doctors compound the considerable personal hell of being born a hermaphrodite with the closed or hidden form, for the past sixty years. Giving Hatcher, Ratsinger, Bear, Clintin, Presscoat, Brush, O’Barmy, religious fundamentalists et al, the opportunity to persecute me for the past twenty-eight years for being something that I was, am not, a transsexual; based upon nothing but a pack of lies from beginning to end.

I have decided to go the solicitor route in the hope of getting justice against the medical Mafia’s repeated injustice and insensitivity. Not for the money but in the hope of getting an accurate, consistent diagnosis and treatment for the first time in my life from the Hull National Health Service, along with whatever legal rights I may have as a hermaphrodite.

Not that I expect to find a solicitor locally willing to take my case against the Health Authority, which is either cynicism or more than likely, a decade spent as an officer of the Humberside Law Centre. Knowing intimately how the profession operates locally and who pulls the almost invisible strings that bind professionally and personally. Within Labours fortress Hull and Baron Von Munchhousen (by proxy) syndrome’s own personal fiefdom, at the heart of the Kingdom of the Living Dead.

Hermaphrodism – Curse Or Blessing?
Having no personal experience of being born with the open form, when I refer to hermaphrodism – curse or blessing? I can only speak from the perspective of an individual born with the closed or hidden form of hermaphrodism. Which though essentially individual forms of the same condition, have radically different life experiences due to the ease, or difficulty of diagnosis, especially decades ago.

When you could still smell the smoke from the recent witch burnings and antibiotics were the new magic bullet, saving humanity from the ravages of infections in a hospital close to you.

At least those of us born with the closed or hidden form, escaped the over enthusiasm of well meaning but deluded Doctors pretending to be God. Only to go through our own particular medical nightmare, seemingly without end, when our genitalia failed to develop as and when they should.

By which point age ten or eleven, I knew for certain the sex I wanted to be for the rest of my life, though not the reasons I felt the way that I did. At least my own particular journey between the sexes had finally begun, even if it was to take decades of repeated misdiagnosis and treatment. Before I finally understood why my genitalia had not developed and what I actually was, a hermaphrodite without even the balls for a successful sex change operation.

Escaping the early attentions of the medical profession proved to be a blessing, in that I got the chance to discover for myself the sex I wanted to spend my adult life as. Only for the blessing to became the curse of repeated misdiagnosis and a medical nightmare, seemingly without end. Because if men were from Mar’s and women from Venus, then I was from Alpha Century – freaky!

I am assuming that most hermaphrodites that did not know what sex they wished to be, the sex of their spirit and soul regardless of genitalia and the hormonal trauma. Of being partly male and partly female but wholly neither, by the age of ten, having displayed strange or aberrant behaviour for most of their lives.

Would certainly know that something was radically wrong, other than always having a smaller penis than other's in their age group, when puberty like a car with a flat battery failed to start the motor. To turn the damaged cogs and gears that became either sex drive or libido.

While to be born different was to be born to be bullied, to be an outsider stood alone in the most distant corner of the playground. This was the curse that society and everyday social interaction made life into, for those born with the closed or hidden form of hermaphrodism. Those as yet denied knowledge or understanding of why they felt and thought as they did.

Puberty is a traumatic time, even for those fortunate enough to be born with the sexual characteristics of only one sex. But for an undiagnosed hermaphrodite it is a complete nightmare, a personal horror, a growing feeling of shame and awareness of the inherent inferiority and difference, which inevitable results in secrecy and personal denial.

It is not size that matters but what you do with it; well the truth is that the average hermaphrodite has not got a clue what to do with their undeveloped genitalia. Other than have it reconstructed because of being both blessed and cursed by not having either sex drive or libido. Sexually it is like being nothing and completely dead below the waist, with a perfectly formed penis that did not develop much larger than that of the average five-year-old.

Little wonder those with the closed or hidden form, especially while it remains undiagnosed; develop massive inferiority complexes, feelings of personal inadequacy over this, the final taboo. Along with a growing sense of personal responsibility and failure, of being forever an outsider, a creature that is neither fish nor fowl but life unworthy of life!

It is the limitations of a two sex species, which makes hermaphrodism into a curse for there are few crueller than children to difference. While the ‘peer group’ security of puberty and its unfolding expectations was denied to me, to most hermaphrodites when like a car with a flat battery, the motor failed to start as it should and when everyone else’s did.

Making me into a bemused spectator to the collective though immature madness of their sexual awakening, all I saw were the increasingly complex interactions and consequences of something, something strange and alien beyond my personal understanding, or experience.

A secret world that I could not find a way into, inhabited by aliens and monsters whose secrets, those of all born with the biological sins of sex, I could not even begin to understand or share. Even before the Doctors cast me into a medical nightmare seemingly without end. Along with all the other damaged or unwanted individuals, thrown onto the steaming rubbish heaps bounding decent, God fearing societies and the shared hopes, the dreams of the button pushers and lever pullers. Whose two sex reality imprisoned the possibility, the evolution of humanity.

Cast out onto lives scrape-heap before it had even begun for me, by the first of many misdiagnoses. Schizophrenic! In reality it meant that my chances of getting a job, let alone have a career were no better than zero. Little wonder that I increasingly turned to drink and drugs, especially LSD, as a form of personal escape from in effect being dead, paralysed from the waist down; blessed as one of God’s holy innocents, free from the sins of sex at birth and until my mid-twenties.

Blessed with the opportunity to explore, to search for understanding and knowledge, to discover the infinite complexities of personal possibility, far from the familiar, secure shores of normal sexuality. Where are washed the driftwood, the flotsam and jetsam of sexual need, want, lust but above all, the familiarity. The security of sexual experience and expectations of those born only one of two possible sexes, those fortunate to have been born normal.

Because like all born a hermaphrodite, despite the best efforts of the surgeons I was never going to be normal and the sooner I accepted that, the better. Though it may have taken decades, I did finally learn to be proud to be born different, rather than feeling constantly inferior and personally ashamed. Grateful for the blessings of hermaphrodism that allowed me to remain innocent and beyond sexual sin, until my mid-twenty’s.

Privileged to have explored the spaces between the sexes, the unmapped worlds of possibility and personal potential, to transcend the physical limitations of sex and become something more than the sum total of its parts. A proto human in which the forces of nature are ever stronger than those of nurture, where imitation, incorporation and compliance are the invisible prisons holding the human spirit.

Limiting through expectation and anticipation the transcendent aspect of being, the possibility of form and function beyond the invisible walls all are imprisoned by from birth. When wrapped in pink or blue blanket, the possibilities of life are mapped, the expectations set forever like concrete by birth sex and the economic worth of male and female in contemporary society. Leaving only the fossilised footsteps of those travelling the path least travelled, as witness to their passing.

On a good day it is a blessing and I feel privileged to have been born forever different, without even the balls for a successful sex change operation. What a ride! Blessed to have been treat by brilliant surgeons, thanks to whom I not only developed a libido and knew for the first time in my life the destructive power of love and personal corruption’s of lust.

Blessed to finally experience the joys of orgasm thanks to the thousands of pounds spend on treating me by Saint James University Hospital and Leeds (NHS), thank you for the exceptional treatment. Blessed to have lived a third of my life as a boy, though in all honesty I do not to this day have a single clue what all that boy stuff was about. And two thirds of my life as a woman, paid less for doing the same job as a man and with less worth than a healthy camel, or donkey in some societies.

A thing in a world of things created for man’s pleasure according to their command and inherent social superiority. Blessed that I got to burn my bra and received a good feminist education. Blessed to become a ‘Female Eunuch’ whose life is forever blighted by penis envy and a love of big cocks.

Blessed to live in a society and time when hermaphrodites with the closed or hidden form, despite repeated misdiagnosis, can be freed from the sexual nothingness of being and know the comforts of libido and sexual intercourse. Blessed not to have suffered the indignity of extensive skin grafts, previously the only treatment for intersex patients with insufficient penile tissue for successful reassignment as women.

Blessed to be the first to have a Sigmoid colon in the UK, this at the time was being publicised as a new, effective treatment for intersex patients. Blessed that it worked for me as I hope it worked for you without to many long-term complications. Blessed that someone had my best interest at heart and were willing to treat me for what I was, a rebel without a cause and hermaphrodite without the balls for successful surgery.

Blessed that I lived long enough to finally feel pride about being a hermaphrodite, a ‘thing’, and an ‘it’ with life long penis envy and constant vaginal discharge. Blessed to have found personal contentment and happiness, despite exiting stage left in my thirty’s mumbling ‘vanity, vanity, all is vanity’ and going east in search of something more satisfying than the overt materialism of the west.

Blessed to have found myself, amidst the personal confusions of being born partly male and partly female – as it said above the entrance to the temple at Delphi – know they self. Blessed to have been born to be bullied because what does not destroy me only makes me stronger.

Every journey begins with a single step, every life a single cell. Become all you are capable of becoming and forget the bad days, when it feels like a curse, a medical nightmare seemingly without end. Be proud to have been born different, you are blessed with experiencing sexual transcendence and the possibility of becoming something more, a proto human and the first of your kind to be seen upon the earth.


The Final Taboo – The Final Word
Admittedly, after all the surgery I was at first a little promiscuous but hey, I was making up for lost time and is that not what all second year students did, have lots of sex and party? Especially after the final occasion when I had gone to bed with a man before surgery, who the second I took my clothes off, had an asthma attack and I mean a bad attack. So bad we slept with the lights on so I could wake up every hour just to make sure he was still breathing, needless to say, nothing remotely sexual happened.

While for obvious reasons I did not relish the idea of having to explain to the police what a person of mixed gender such as myself, was doing with a dead man in their bed. At the time he completely freaked me out and I hope I did not scare him for life. We should have kept to the bird watching because he was never the same with me again; at least I can laugh about it all now.

Life goes on. Eventually I became more selective, while trying to repay my debt to society and the Health Service in particular, for literally saving my life – what a ride! Only to become caught up in the First Gulf War, having by this point converted to Islam, become a Sufi, a follower of Ibn Arabia and learnt classical Arabic. What can I say that has not already been said better? Other than I came out of the six-week air campaign well ‘wobbly’, feeling like a criminal and mass murderer.

Though the full consequences of this death and destruction upon an industrial scale, would not wake from the silences of memory for years, where they lay suppressed, forgotten and festering under thickening layers of relative normality. If you can call spending twenty years involved in the forensic profiling of child murderers, serial killings, and terrorist attacks normal.

Because eventually it made me sexually frigid and was to drive me mad on the afternoon that a double murderer was found guilty of crimes I, as a small part of the many teams within a team that is a modern criminal investigation, helped to profile eighteen months earlier. When I burst into tears and subsequently cried my heart out for thirty or forty minutes, before I could begin to compose myself, every time it was mentioned.

So bad did this become, I was no use to myself let alone another investigation. I took a year out to deal with all the post traumatic stress, only to never go back to profiling with the exception of one final case. While the best I was ever to become, having built a growing reputation locally, then nationally and internationally.

Nazi lying Labour was already involved in a long-term act of targeting and revenge against the only gazelle in a lion’s enclosure. When as part of my responsibilities as an officer of a law centre, I informed a ‘local government audit officer’ about allegations, along with reports of criminal activities and abuse of office. That would result in the local Labour Council being put on special measures and having to lose the next local election, or be taken to court on mass.

The only other person, who knew what I was about to say, the centre’s co-ordinator would receive the customary pieces of Judas silver and a job with the local council for life. Upon that fateful day when I learnt that he already knew and given the questions he asked me, when I went into our conference room and asked: "Do you know, really know what is going on in this city?" I was already a dead thing walking shaky and hesitant from the moment of impact.

He already knew so there was no need for me to sacrifice my professional and personal reputation and eventually, the Law Centre out of a misguided sense of civic duty and personal morality. The rest as they say, is history with the Vatican and a mad, bad collection of those talking in tongues the language of Christian fundamentalism. Going on to persecute and harass me for thirty years for being something I was not, a transsexual, shame on you all!

But most of what Margaret Hatcher and Cardinal Ratsinger (soon to become Pope Adolph The Persecutor), Brush, Clintin, Brush, Bear, Presscoat, Brawn and O’Barmy et al peddled as truth, was nothing but a complete pack of lies from beginning to end. In that they could make me work or not work, without even knowing how I worked, or the fact I was what the medical profession call an hermaphrodite and not a transsexual.

Not that I would expect any different from Bear and Presscoat, they were just being their usual incompetent, lying, demented selves as laughing insanely, they turned their cardboard kaleidoscopes and made it up as they went along.

Frigid, mad and suffering from the effects of multiple post traumatic shock it would take seven years of personal Hell and the writing of four books. Before the various marsh gasses eventually bubbled and blopped through memories brackish, stagnant water. Seven long and lonely years before I could regain my trust in men, enough to even think about having sexual intercourse again.

Seven years of existential nausea, when I withdrew from the world and even myself, not trusting nor daring to open myself to another living being, least of all a man. When all I ever profiled was the sadist and sickest that men could do. Mostly but not always to women and children, non of the many forensic profiles that I helped to work, involved a woman and the phenomena of the female suicide bomber was something I had yet to encounter. But get through the swirling vapours and poisonous gases I eventually did.

Seven years before I got my libido back and sex became a potential for pleasure, only to discover that my own body had again become traitor to my hopes and desires, at the very moment I emerged from the caves darkness. Blinking, confused, dazed into the clear light of a new day. It was impossible to get a penis beyond the point where all those years ago, they had joined together two pieces of my Heath Robinson insides and I was again proper fucked. Or would have been, had it not been for the join, which became traitor to my sexual needs and desires.

Baron Von Munchhousen (by proxy syndrome) of Presscoat & Son’s Poisoners Paradise and his ageing criminal conspiracy of silence, must have thought all their Christmases had come at once. Because to date I have been trying for almost two years to get what is relatively minor surgery, a ‘z’ plaste that would make such a difference to my life. So far without any success or progress, while the initial frustration has given way to depression.

With the Christian hordes and followers of the anti-Christ, the enduring fantasy God of men more intent upon saving wealth and power than souls. Sensing blood, have gone for the kill – sod not being able to have a television because some pratt keeps cutting the aerial cable - sod not being able to grow anything in my garden without it being pulled up or poisoned – sod the fact that most of my post goes missing - sod the demented and dangerous rodents in the rats palace who are about as useful as a bag of melted ice cubes – sod the white noise, drugging, poisoning, harassment, physical assaults and criminal damage – sod the giant ‘bung beetles’ pushing another lying sleazeball politician around Westminster’s gold paved streets – sod the neighbours from hell, the harpy constantly screeching: ‘Give me, give me, give me – sod Nazi lying Labours gangs of feral children and compliant Council Officials – sod the lot of you, because all it takes for evil to prosper is for good men and women to remain silent

Now it is personal and would get even more personal once the local Heath Authority, one of the nineteen worse performing and from my experience the most homophobic, transphobic, hermaphobic in the country. Finally got my medical records from Saint James, I would be immediately ‘outed’ for being even stranger than a transsexual, because when it came to gender reassignment, I did not even have the balls for successful, routine, sex change surgery.

Not that life in Brawns ‘broken Britain’ under those ConDem (ed) by convenience and connivance, was to be any better for me than under Nazi lying New Labour. In many respects it is worse, especially the sleep depravation and white noise, because it is like going instantly back in time to the worse days of Margaret Hatcher. With breeze-block in handbag, her attentive Chingford Suede Heads and Cardinal Ratsinger on hand, as they started this aspect of what is called ‘targeting’.

When Hatcher asked the Chancellor of a local university. If they could find some way to stop me working without having to resort to murder, a way that had the added advantage of being used to discredit me, if I made the fundamental mistake of telling anyone else about what was happening and why.

Which I did not for over two decades, at least until just before the start of the Second Gulf War, when having refused to go to war based upon nothing but lies and deception. In that Iraq had weapons and stockpiles of weapons of mass destruction, ready to launch against British bases upon the Island of Cyprus within thirty minutes of the order being given.

Because after my experiences of the First Gulf War, I knew what I was talking about and this was nothing more than Saddam Hussun being hoisted by his own patard. During the military and industrial complexes next profitable ‘pretext’ war against oil rich country’s and the CIA’s old friend and puppet, the Sunnis champion against the spread of Shi dominance.

Having worked with a colleague for over ten years, I finally made the fundamental mistake of telling them about the ‘targeting’ and how bad it had been, since I refused to support or take part in a Second Gulf War. With person or persons unknown coming into my home and smashing things when I was out, the neighbours from Hell blocking off taxi’s and standing outside my home shouting threats and abuse, the constant drugging and white noise. By the end of the next day, it was all around the charity sector that I had gone mad and did not know what I was doing – bing, bang, bung, bonus.

The years of persistent ‘targeting’ had finally paid off when I eventually discredited myself – detain, discredit and destroy being the long term game plan for the Catholics, Christian fundamentalists, Jews and certain Arabs. All that now remained was to destroy me, having firstly ‘outed’ me as being a hermaphrodite, a thing neither fish nor fowl, both partly male and partly female but wholly neither.

Following which, the level of ‘targeting’ went into the party foam politics of those demented, desperate and determined to spin again lies into truth, lead into gold and enduring freedom and democracy into elected despotism. All spin without substance, from mad men and maniacs with one eye larger then the other. Who believed they heard the voice of God talking to them inside their heads, saying invade Iraq and destroy the homosexuals, transsexuals and hermaphrodites, all damned to the flames of Hell whose fuel are stones and men.

Not until I had been raped, subjected to domestic violence and the insidious way male bullies destroy your self-confidence and create an imaginary dependence, based upon the fact that it would never ever happen again. Treat with considerably less respect and with fewer rights than a camel, subjected to the sexual controls, exploitation, and expectation men have put upon women from the dawn of history. Not until I lived with the inequality and patronising garbage that came from having more balls than brains. Did I fully understand for the first time the liberation theology of ‘The Female Eunuch’?

Because for me, normality was just a dream that I would never know in this world. Little wonder at the time I used to think that if there was indeed a God, he (sic) must really have had it in for me and was just a bastard, a complete bastard who was probably nothing but a frustrated Freudian empiricists. As for penis envy, I admit to that, which is why I probably like the ‘silver backs’ and men with big ones, the real throat ticklers.

While thanks to Nazi lying Labour and its concentration camp Doctors, I have just waited over three months for a decision on whether the Trust will give me the funding to see a surgeon, with experience of the procedure I need. Over three months when I was told it would take a month for them to consider my application for funding and I am no closer to getting treatment on the health service than when I started, now almost two years ago – bing, bang, bung, bonus.

Life is not getting better for me, under Cameraroom101 it is getting worse and worse. But all it ever takes for evil to thrive and prosper is that good men and women remain silent. A silence that over the past thirty years has been deafening, especially from the demented and dangerous rodents in the rats palace (Westminster), where there are clearly no good men or women, just steaming sleazeballs and those living off the fat of a system firmly rooted in the seventeenth century.

Though started all those years ago by Hatcher and Ratsinger, nothing could have prepared me for the malevolence, hatred, criminality, and pack of lies from beginning to end. That came from Nazi lying Labour, in particular Tony Bear (evil incarnate) and John Presscoat (playground bully), lies they are still selling to the stupid and gullible, crimes they and their friends are still committing in the name of national security. Lies that allowed them to persecute me for thirty years for being something I am not, a transsexual. Because had I been, then I would not be having the problems I now have.

Having kept this secret for decades because of a misguided sense of shame, inferiority, shock, confusion and embarrassment, at least I can now hold my head high and say with pride, I did not even have the balls for a sex change operation. So sod the lot of you, there is not one good man or woman amongst you who will tell the truth, not one. For something very rotten in the woodpile hides.

To read further extracts from a profiler’s casebook, ‘The Distressing Case Of The Missing Girls’

click on the following link: https://ser101@wordpress.com/
　



　
　

　
　

　
　
　
　

　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　

Old Hermy's Never Die ... They Simply Smile That Way

Old Hermy’s Never Die
They Simply Smile That Way ……

A blog about ‘stuff’ your grandmother could or would never tell you!

Do Hermaphrodites Have A Sex Drive (Male) And Libido (Female)?

There are generally two acknowledged forms of true hermaphrodism in humans, referred to as either the open, easier to diagnose at birth, and the closed or hidden form. This is when a child is born with perfectly formed genitalia, usually a penis, which then does not develop as it should throughout their life. Due to the presence of flashes or streaks as they are called medically, these being undeveloped internal organs, predominantly but not necessarily ovaries.

Consequently, when I refer to the concept of either a sex drive (M) or a libido (F) in hermaphrodism, having only experience of the closed or hidden form, I do not know if this is true for those suffering from the open type. Whose life experience due to the ease of diagnosis, usually at birth, is probably different to that of an individual with the closed or hidden form?

Which is generally not physically apparent, until puberty turns its faulted mechanism and like a candle flame going out in the wind, nothing happens other than the wax, spitting with remembrance and primal longing, growing colder and solidifying in the darkness of pubescent conflict, physical contradictions and personal confusions.

The majority of individuals suffering from the nightmare of the hidden or closed form of true hermaphrodism, will have become very aware of a difference. A mismatch of emotions and dreams long before puberty starts the wanker, winker sexuality of males more balls than brains, the hunter/fishermen of genetic, physical and social dominance beyond the security and comforts of trees and their monkey nests.

A growing disquiet about the social expectations of sex and that most personal awareness of self, the soul, like an alien, a stranger in a strange land unable to walk the walk and talk the talk. Whose immediate surroundings become yet more distant, increasingly unfamiliar and threatening to those born to be different, forever alone with the alone in the protection conflict and confusion deny to the growing self, through social expectation and peer pressure.

Always a small and sickly child, a brief but intense dance with death aged eight when seriously ill with pneumonia and pleurisy, I was not expected at one point to survive the night but survive I did. Branded with deaths cold, bony hand, I was forever changed. Somehow less substantial and sure, a long period in hospital and of convalescing further separated me from those of my supposed sex and age.

While like a spectre I drifted slowly onwards towards that moment of personal destruction, when by the age of ten or eleven, still not knowing what I was, other than different mentally and physically. Or having experienced the impending train wreak that was puberty and its sacred right of passage. Being left bruised, blooded, broken and dazed in the mangled wreckage of all that should have been shiny and new to the world of men and their meanings, their needs and expectations as dominant sex of the dominant species. To evolve from the pools of primal protoplasm, amidst the mathematics of structure in the world of shadows, ilm i mithril, the world of material matter.

All my life I had preferred playing girls games with girls, loved nothing more than dressing-up and putting on make-up. If only because before the age of innocence was washed away by floods of hormones and the physical conclusion they bestowed upon the human body. Their forming dreams and desires were my forming dreams and desires, before libido and lust complicated still further an already complicated situation.

I may not have known what I was and why, but I knew exactly what I wanted. To play with dolls and not guns, to one day have babies and be a mummy. While in the daily struggle to be something that I was not, had no apparent empathy and understanding of, social expectations set like an uncomfortable exo-skeleton all around my fractured form.

I became a pretty, camp, little boy and the natural victim of every bully between then and now. This would be a battle I could never win, a pretence I acted out like a wounded animal before having been mortally injured at birth, crawling away to die again, within the soci/sexual expectations of an alien society.

While others of my age had the personal security of a forming libido, or the sex drive of rutting stags bestowed upon them by an ever-ticking biological clock. Whose alarm, set for puberty, having woken all they might one day become. Long ago having started their race, leaving me alone and increasingly confused at the start-line, patiently waiting for things to happen that never did, for my personal alarm, faulted in the moment of construction, to go off, for my penis to grow and testicles to drop.

Finding both comfort and confusion from the fact that I was probably just a late developer – long ago damaged and damned to personal inadequacy and inferiority because of always having a smaller, though perfectly formed penis, than the other boys.

Denied the benefits of either libido or sex drive at puberty, it was for me like an insubstantial mist, the consequences there to be seen all around but reach out to touch it and there is nothing, nothing substantial or sure upon which to build or depend.

Not until my mid twenties did I have anything remotely resembling a functioning libido, yes I may have preferred men, I occasionally sucked someone off or took it up the arse. But it was usually as a passive victim of circumstance as it unfolded about me and beyond control. Like a praying mantis held motionless with expectation and hunger, before effortlessly consuming its latest victim with all the ease and cunning of a serial killer. It was something that I felt no real pleasure or excitement from and for. At best I thought it was better than nothing, having never screwed or wanted to screw anything in my life.

So the answer to the question, do hermaphrodites with the closed or hidden form have a sex drive (m) or libido (f)? From personal experience, is no they do not. It felt as if the male and female elements of physiology, in constant conflict and contradiction, cancelled out each other and like matter and antimatter mixing. Destroyed everything in the touching, the joining of a yin and yan that can never be balanced, never be whole without medical intervention and the destruction of one set of sexual characteristics.

Neither fish nor fowl this was to become a ‘thing’, an ‘it’ existing beyond the certainties of male and female. Life unworthy of life in the social gene pools, an outsider beyond the parade, the charade of personal sexuality and its clever evolutionary consequences. When men do and women are but damaged individuals with penis envy, according to Sigmund Freud.

Perhaps that is why to this day, now an old hermaphrodite; I still like big ones and the bigger the better. In order to compensate for a life long feeling of inadequacy and congenital inferiority – damn that penis envy crap. I just like a good throat tickler and big plate of meat and two veg because size matters and everything else is just excuse and platitude.

Not until my breasts developed did I actually have anything resembling a functioning libido. But that is what I thought treatment was all about for hermaphrodites born with the closed or hidden form, giving those denied a libido and sex life, a libido and the ability to physically have sexual intercourse in their chosen gender.

My libido grew in direct proportion to the size of my breast, thanks to the oestrogen tablets I was prescribed, providing my body with sufficient hormones to develop those all important secondary sexual characteristics for the first time. Because I gradually became weak at the knees in the presence of male beauty, despite the fact I would inevitably have to sit them down and explain that there was something I thought they should know, I was a man, well that is what it said upon my birth certificate.

Sorry to those I damaged, I just could not help it because when love and lust come calling, there is nothing that you can do except fling open the door and say come in. Not one would have anything to do with me after that, though nothing but their personal perception of me changed, I was still the same person they had once thought me to be. I suppose it must have hurt their male pride and questioned their personal sexual certainties, to think that they could be beguiled and deceived by a ‘thing’, an ‘it’, life forever unworthy of life in the company of normal, God fearing men and women.

Like all hermaphrodites I did not ask to be born the way that I was, which in itself is a personal nightmare, especially with the closed or hidden form when you do not know what is happening and why. Without being cast into a medical nightmare seemingly without end, by repeated misdiagnosis because once is just bad luck but twice, well that is nothing short of incompetent.
I certainly hope young hermaphrodites are still not being put through hell by the medical profession, the way many of us were in the days before scans. Because what many of us experienced in their caring, God-like hands, was criminal. Most people would not treat a dog the way they did some of us, it was simply another form of torture, the appalling denial of human rights and civil liberties for all considered to be life unworthy of life.

Before religions gold plated alters and unending litany of lies, were unleashed like a plague upon an unsuspecting people, which is just as destructive to the social fabric of civilisation as war. May God forgive them because I will not, until for the first time in my life I get justice for the injustices they heaped upon me like a growing pile of stones.

At least I finally found Derek Eastwood, a genius of a plastic surgeon who along with the staff at Saint James University Hospital in Leeds, remain the only ones to treat me for being what I was and had my best interest at heart. For that one ray of hope and their common human decency, I remain eternally grateful. Because they not only gave to me the chance of a libido and sex life, they gave the joys of orgasm and possibility of love, which is priceless.

They alone remain above criticism and complaint, thank you, thank you for your treatment and care; you literally saved my life. Giving hope, where previously there was only hopelessness and growing despair. It worked, it actually worked and hermaphrodites can not only have a libido, they can also orgasm, make a fine cup of tea and perfect chocolate fudge cake. Prise the Lord and pass the scalpels, miracles are possible, even in an uncaring profession like medicine.

Without even the balls for a successful sex change operation, neither fish nor fowl but a combination of male and female potential. Each cancelling the other out as like matter and anti-matter, oil and water they could not mix. Could not form a coherent whole, except through a fusion of forms and potential into another form.

I was helped, if not completely cured thanks to the benefits of hormones and reconstructive surgery, because if the treatment of hermaphrodites with the hidden or closed form is to be successful, then beyond surgery alone it requires the creation of a libido. Something lost to many suffering this variation of hermaphrodism long before the further confusions of birth sex, damned many to a medical nightmare seemingly without hope or end.

Lebensunwerts Leben (Life Unworthy of Life)

Why have transsexuals become the contemporary ‘lebensunwertes leben’ in western societies? To be discriminated against, harassed, hated and assaulted by the irrational ghost in the machine, the disdain, dislike, prejudice and fear of anything and everything different to the dominant social groups and there personal sexual expectations.

Denied and damned from the gold painted pulpits by the Priests of hate, despised by those hypnotised by vacuous vicars, the congregations of brain-dead, undead, talking in tongues and kissing serpents, those able to dominate through eternal, unquestioned damnation. For whom transsexuals are the new Jews. To be rounded up, branded, bullied and transported in rusty cattle-trucks to the Fourth Reich’s shiny new gas-chambers and borderless ‘concentration camps’.

What is their problem? If someone does not feel totally one sex, or wants to become a different sex physically. Why should it cause so much excitement and hatred in otherwise decent, caring human beings? Is it because those forever outside the sexual norms and conventions, threaten the fragile security of a self locked into the expectations of a species acknowledging only two possible sexes, male and female?

When physically and psychologically there is a third sex, a mix and match of genetic possibility, encompassing every combination of male and female. Men born with a penis and ovaries, women with a penis, people who feel themselves to be women trapped inside a man’s body.

Because this is evolution in the process of evolving, genetics moulding from possibility, species and forms previously unknown within the swarming primal gene pools of human potential. Every possible fault and abnormality in the human gene sequence, every adaptation and combination that throughout the evolutionary process succeeded or failed, providing the quantum leap, that chance adaptation. Which helped to make clever, vicious monkeys into the dominant species – quicker, faster and smarter, success was ultimately the final judge of evolutionary dominance and dominion in existences many and varied, interconnected feeding-chains.

Vaginal Cream – Is It Good Or Bad For Hermaphrodites?

Having personally used a variety of vaginal creams as my main source of hormone replacement therapy (HRT) for decades, I can see that there are both benefits, especially when sexually active and major drawbacks. In that after decades using these creams I began to show signs of prolonged oestrogen deficiency.

Indicating that either the level of oestrogen in the cream was to low, or I was unable to absorb sufficient hormones even when using it according to the manufactures instructions? If you use this as your main form of HRT, beware of the possible long-term consequences of to low a dosage.

On the plus side, it does appear to help with mucus secretion and create a perfect environment, with the correct ph for the shoals of sperm to struggle up. Don’t assume that it just dribbles out, it does not. They are resilient little blighters, when it comes to the single minded primal determination to procreate.

Some of the sperm and gunge I got out had been up there for years, and was very rancid and infected. So make sure you do not allow it to accumulate like layers of rock strata, deep and dark in the places least travelled.

How do you keep yours clean?

Currently I am using HRT in the form of patches, with my body more than able to absorb a set daily dosage. If I am fortunate enough to start having regular intercourse again, I will probably ask if I can go back on the cream – just to make sure that I have the right ph level in my fish tank. Though given absorption difficulties with the cream alone, I might consider splitting HRT between cream and patches.

Does anyone else have long term experience with vaginal cream?

Is State Torture The Political Equivalent Of Domestic Violence?
State torture and targeting are the political equivalent of domestic violence and sexual oppression, inside the west’s illusion of freedom, democracy, collective government, accountable politicians and the modern media’s technological totalitarianism. Which becomes the collective hearts and minds of an organism created for a single purpose, to consume all that was not ‘it’.

Motivated by usury and gain, this was a symbiosis of personal greed and social need. A usury of delusion born of possession and sexual dominance upon the military and industrial complexes, sterile production lines and in the level four secure biological laboratories.

Where plague and pestilence are fashioned into shiny new toys for the Generals to salivate over, with kill ratios large than a golf handicap. Bringing tears to the eyes of any God fearing Christian Fundamentalist with a cocaine hard on and viagra headache, pulsating with fading potency and promise inside a deflating reality, a parallel existence penetrating with primal rhythm and a potential to procreate prolifically in pursuit of personal perfection.

Bullied from birth for being different, a freak, a ‘thing’, ‘it’ and all the other verbal abuses their intolerant, bigoted minds could create like ill-formed lumps of shit. Beyond the consequences of chance when it could have been them, could have been you born to be different, a victim of physical contradiction, imperfection, and personal confusion.

Born to become something inhuman and forever threatening, without sex drive (male) or libido (female) it was like being nothing. An emptiness of potential bound by the cobwebs of failed mechanisms and processes. A Holy Innocent fed a piece at a time to the hunting packs of ecclesiastical wolves in sheep’s clothing.

Crucified and persecuted for being ‘life unworthy of life’, according to the stormtroppers Codex. Preached and proclaimed against by those damned with the sin of sex from birth. Those more balls than brains inside the dominant feeding-chains, the genetic evolutions of form and potential in the world of material matter.

Where to be nothing, devoid of sex drive or libido, is a burden that with the passage of years becomes at times unbearable, a crushing weight absorbing even possibility and social acceptance. Like Peter Pan forever lost to the innocence of pre-pubescent psychology in an abstract world, a parallel reality that is Nazi lying Labour’s very own ‘Never, Never Land’.

Held without reference or understanding by physical failure and social expectations, beyond the hope of being a late developer, an eternal innocent unpolluted, uncorrupted by the animal lusts of sexuality. Absolved from the dominance and superiority of male physiology, or life long consequences of female fertility and physical inferiority, in a world of things to be dominated and possessed by the laws of ownership and power.
The End Is Neigh!

After over six months of pain, bleeding, tears and an inability to do anything physically without exacerbating both pain and bleeding, the end is finally neigh! Hopefully before the week is out, because thanks to my extended programme of self-harm, I have been able to physically force open the join, eventually getting one of Ann Summers (other brands are available) finest past.

In fact, I have all but run out of vibrator and still have an inch or two yet to re-open. What continues to surprise me was/is the amount of gunge and sperm there was/is past the final fuck point. I always assumed it dribbled out dead but happy, oh no! When I orgasmed my genitalia spasmed, taking the sperm as deep into myself as possible. So most went up and not down.

Something that I will have to be a little more careful about, if I ever find an old boy in rude health, to fuck with again. They are determined little blighters those sperm, who it belonged to I have no idea but what amazed me, was the way it surrounded little pellets of ovestin cream and appeared to burrow into it on mass – freaky!

At least the surgeons gave me a big one to compensate for my penis, no bigger than that of a five year old boy, according to consultants who saw the photographs taken after they put me under the first time. Knowing before I did about the consequences of life long inferiority and penis envy, in that I would inevitably prefer big ones on men, and the bigger the better! How right they were.

It has been a long and lonely road without the help of relatively minor surgery, a ten-minute procedure at the most, more a circumnavigation of the world against the prevailing political weather systems. Where spin five miles wide is sent swirling around the oxygenless atmosphere of contemporary sleaze-ball politics, for those more reptile than human.

Those touched by the delusions of the anti-Christ, the religious fundamentalists and their gangs of glue sniffing, feral children, hunting again in packs upon the wasteland of contemporary western politics, urban society. Amongst the ‘spinning men’, the ‘flipping’, ‘fiddling’, ‘filibustering men’, now forever above the rule of law and beyond the consequences of incarceration for their conspiracies, treason’s or collective crimes against humanity and their own people.

I must stress, yet again, if you have a ‘sigmoid colon’ do not assume, having been sexually active for decades. That you can stop having intercourse, stop dilating and having completely neglected yourself for years. Things will still be in working order and fully functional, if and when you find yourself able to have intercourse with someone again. THEY WILL NOT!

It costs thousands for the National Health Service to give hermaphrodites a libido and sex life. Because without it we were nothing, a growing black hole where there should have been either sex drive or libido. At least for me it worked from the moment my breasts developed and I had a libido for the first time in my life.

When with an excited shake of my breasts I could beguile and my libido like a child in a candy shop, ran wild and free. Because even before surgery I kept falling in love with men and there was not a thing that I could do about it. Except eventually tell them, once things started to get physical, I was a man. At least that is what it said upon my birth certificate.

Living as a nothing, a ‘thing’, an ‘it’ was not easy and I for one just felt increasingly depressed at having no sex drive, libido or sex life. Without the treatment offered by the modern medical miracle of libido, orgasm and intercourse I was close to ending my life, before I found Derek Eastwood and the unit at Saint James.

They not only saved my life, they gave me a life of sorts, certainly, more than fate gave to me at birth. They gave me the chance of libido, love and experience of sexual intercourse. Which was, is completely mind blowing, brain melting, leg trembling, toe curling, muscle spasming beyond imagination and human endurance.

Because it worked for me, just as I hope it worked for others born hermaphrodites. Though I am sure that not all born with the closed or hidden form, chose as I did to become female. Was treatment successful for you, did it give you a sex drive?

Either way, I hope you found some personal happiness, contentment, and harmony beyond the spaces between. Beyond the personal physical consequences of being born partly male and partly female, yet wholly neither. All any of us can do, is to play the hand that fate dealt to us, to the best of our ability. Even if the medical nightmare into which we were cast, as a consequence of repeated misdiagnosis and mistreatment, continues without hope or end in this world and the next.

For the music of life in all its forms goes on and on and on and … shine on you crazy diamonds and make sure you are well lubricated, wet as a swamp, hot as hell, unwashed and somewhat slightly dazed. It worked for me and at least I had a life of sorts, especially a sex life that without surgical intervention and modern medicine. I could, would never have known as an ‘it’, a ‘thing’, lebensunwertes leben (life unworthy of life), according to the new Master Race of a global Fourth Reich.

The Final Taboo (Part Two)



That look upon the surgeons face when he first examined me over a year ago, the one I misinterpreted as pity because he knew I had never screwed anyone in my life and why. Was indeed pity but not because of my past non-existent sex life, other than taking it up the arse from time to time?

It was due to the knowledge that I did not have a large enough penis for successful, routine, re-constructive and reassignment surgery. When they peel the penis like a ripe banana and use it to create a vagina. That was why as soon as I was prepared for surgery, they had a medical photographer document my external contradictions and abnormalities, to be kept along with detailed case notes. Explaining and showing through before and after snaps, I was not a transsexual as I believed and had struggled twenty years to find treatment for.

But was in fact a hermaphrodite, which was why I did not need the usual breast implants after re-constructive surgery. At that point I was not initially concerned with what label they hung at the end of my hospital bed, what concerned me more as I struggled to recover, was the fact that I was probably going to spend the rest of my life as a eunuch.

In the days following that brief moment of ecstasy and blissful happiness, believing the transformation of forms now complete and I forever more a woman of sorts. That organ beyond my fathoming, identified by medical professionals who were shown the photographs of my penis as being one belonging to a five year old boy - I was twenty-nine at the time - now forever gone only the dream, over inflated and extended, had burst.

I was in a state of complete shock and growing denial, for twenty years I believed myself to be a transsexual and was eventually offered treatment for that condition. Only to discover I did not have the balls for a sex change operation. I was not even a transsexual but a hermaphrodite and the only thing I knew about that was it meant a creature, or in my case a person, who was both partly male and partly female and consequently, wholly neither. Like a worm that can only multiply through division into a perfect replica of itself. My expectations and personal understanding of who and what I was, now rendered completely useless.

Though in the days following this devastating turn of events, confused, frightened and alone, there was talk of further surgery once I had recovered sufficiently, to again return to the windowless room of my half birth. As for how the surgeon might yet stop what felt like falling down a bottomless well, no one actually said and reading between the lines, I suspect not even the surgeon yet knew.

Washed like a single cell amoeba from the primal protoplasm, this should have been when I told the truth about not having the balls for sex change surgery and being a hermaphrodite, not as I and others believed for two decades, a transsexual. Unfortunately at that point I was already looking down the barrel of fates loaded weapon. Feeling confused and frightened all I wanted to do was crawl home, shut myself away; lick my wounds and cry.

It was just another label that the medical profession attached to patients, so that like dogs and their owners, they automatically took upon themselves certain characteristics and expectations. For most of my life I had struggled towards this moment, when freed from the curse that had blighted it. I might know some happiness, some degree of personal harmony and contentment.

Only for my body to play one last, cruel trick by frustrating all I might have been because I did not have the balls for a sex change operation. Not that gender reassignment surgery was like a Mister Universe competition but size still mattered, if there was to be any hope of a sex life.

As if one long ago destroyed, forlorn and hopeless I returned to my home a eunuch, who for all I knew, would never be anything but a eunuch. I could not yet face what was happening myself, let alone explain this to anyone else. So I kept my own council, even with my closest friends and fell into denial and feelings of personal inadequacy again.

This being that last thing I expected to happen, I was understandably all over the place and at times liable to turn upon good friends trying to help. It felt like I had been pulled from a twenty-year nightmare, into one even deeper and darker as the consequences hardened all around my fractured form. Rather than explain what I could not yet cope with, or face what I was currently unable to face, my natural instinct closed tight about itself as if a touched anemone. I wanted only to deny it to myself, for the wilfulness of convenience and comforts of familiarity.

So I did what any sane person in my insane position, falling ever faster down a bottomless well into God knows what, would have done. I purchased the largest piece of cannabis resin I could afford with my student grant and yes, we used to get grants to study in the olden days. Before economic extremism and inherent greed bankrupt the banks and cost every man, woman and child in the country two hundred thousand pounds of debt.

With nothing to show for it but rising unemployment, austerity, cut-backs and hard times for all but the fortunate few and their familiars. The things they became behind closed doors and far away from the media’s sycophantic, uncritical gaze as they looped reality into cast iron certainty, repeated like the current exclusive footage of the next breaking story, for the piranha of human possibility to strip to the bone.

Combining the cannabis resin with strong painkillers, I proceeded to get completely off my head from shortly waking in the early hours of the morning in pain, both physically and emotionally. To crying myself to sleep listening to the John Peel show, trying to feel positive about something other than being fucked, completely fucked.

For only in the spaces between, where dreams and fears mingled in the confusions of the subconscious, where the shape-shifters and changelings mock and contradict the fractures in reality, violent enough to disturb their equilibrium, was there escape of sorts. Struggling to recover sufficiently to do again the normal, everyday things of life, clean, wash, go to the shops; despite the consequences of fall, of recovering sufficiently to face more surgery and whatever solution the consultant and his team could offer.

But above the confusion and growing personal denial, I knew this to be my only hope of life, if life it was. As I fell ever faster into the echoing blackness, the only certainty being that I would eventually hit the bottom with a sickening crash. Until that inevitability, all I could do was wave and flap my arms, hoping to slow the fall, or magically hover in denial of my fractured destiny; floating effortlessly above the unfolding consequences of life and the truth of my condition. For the lies that others, the politicians and Priests of hate cast over me as if a shroud, were already starting to set into the fabric of time and space like reinforced concrete.

An alternative reality created for the conveniences of power politics and rampant control-freakery, orchestrated by religions shared delusions and madness, regarding the historically accurate, fantasy God of men created in their own image and imperfections. Vibrating with the testosterones of destruction and damnation, buzzing in their blood like a hive of bees, with shared songs and dances of social dominance, I was and the second I returned home would remain forever, in the eyes of those around, a transsexual.

If only they knew, if only I had been able to talk about this most personal human inadequacy. Not that I had known adequacy or normality from the age of ten, nor from the ways things looked, would I ever be anything but a freak, neither fish nor fowl, a primitive mutation and immediate evolutionary dead-end.

If only I had not been forced to concentrate upon and prepare for more surgery and the further consequences of this most personal of failures, not even man enough to change my sex. There was a strange, almost poetic irony to it all but mostly I felt frightened, confused and utterly alone in the slow day’s of physical recovery.

Not that my nursing friends helped the stress and anxiety, when I asked how they thought he might solve the problem? Most said he would probably take skin grafts. What hope I had of finding love diminished in direct proportion to the scarring from skin grafts. It felt so unfair, I had just got my new body and it looked good, very good at least until I was scared with skin grafts. If there was a God of some kind, they really had it in for me!

Whatever chance I had of finally facing the truth about myself, of holding my head high and being loud and proud about not having a large enough penis for successful surgery. Or being something stranger than the transsexual I and others believed myself to be, a hermaphrodite, was slowly fading away. When I looked the word up in Roget’s Thesaurus it said: ‘eunuch, castrato; no-man; gelding, capon, bullock, steer, neuter, it; free-martin, hermaphrodite’.Not exactly something I felt comfortable about facing, let alone admit to friends and the world as being. At least with the lies setting all around like a heavy, uncomfortable exoskeleton, they thought I had balls but shit happens. Consequently I would need further surgery, once I had recovered sufficiently to play for broke. Returning to face whatever hope and solution the medical teams as Saint James University Hospital had to offer.

Even if that meant the terror of skin grafts and resultant scarring to my body, because finally it was my body and not that of a strange freak of nature, part male and part female but forever wholly neither. Cursed by forces beyond my control, for crimes I did not committee. Damned by the Priests of hate and religious fundamentalism of every kind, just for being a freak of nature; denied even a successful sex change operation by my own body and the consequences of physiology, I had never felt so empty, depressed and frightened in my whole life.

Compounded by confusion, increasing feelings of personal inadequacy and failure, I sought refuge in the comforts and familiarities of the past. Thinking hermaphrodite or transsexual, what does it matter? They are just labels, social conveniences that bound together through expectation and anticipation, limitations upon individuality and personal freedom, imprisoning with invisible walls, its shared delusions and restless dreams.

Whatever hope I had of a relatively normal life, the opportunity to marry, adopt children, change my birth certificate, and have legally enforceable rights. Was slipping beyond my reach, stolen away a hope at a time by the skin of lies, already smothering silently and effectively. Simply because, thinking me a transsexual, I was already damned in the eyes of the state and its bog eyed, mad eyed guardians of histories illusions and lies, the Priests of hate and those not already mad, they had driven mad. The inherently bad seeking justification and absolution in God, for the most horrendous crimes of torture and murder.

Of course at the time, now decades ago, no one told me that hermaphrodites had rights, could marry and adopt children. I just thought as with being transsexual, you had no rights and became a thing, existing in the shadows beyond normal society, an outsider. Damned and denied unto death and beyond for being ‘life unworthy of life’, the destruction of which, was a sacred duty and mercy.

It felt like dying every day when I woke to the half-light of the early hours. Emptiness where once there was a stomach, gnawed away by a pack of cornered rats. Some days I cried, some days I cried most of the day. Some days I felt numb and empty as if all I had once been, had drained away leaving a fading form, a freak of nature damned by the consequences of birth and the curses secret workings.

The only fortunate element to this whole sorry affair was that it happened during the long summer holidays. So there were a few weeks for me to recover before I started my second year, even if the next operation did not happen until early September. Because of my mental state, which like a see-saw was up and down, there was no way I could concentrate upon the recommended reading. Only in the doubtful comforts of sleep did I find the possibility of escape, of unbroken dreams playing ‘happy endings’ to crowded emotions.

But even here lurked the monsters, the formless fears and faults of a fractured reality; the brittle truths about the cruel game fate played all about my frantic struggles. To find conclusion and personal harmony for the first time in my nightmare of a life and if I was very lucky, love and some degree of happiness. Not that life had a ‘happy ending’ for people like me, for the cruel forces of fate had not yet finished with me.

Lying in sleeps dusty crevices and dark corners, hide the few remaining memories and hopes of happiness, life had begrudgingly bestowed upon me. Before the moment of fall began and the silences of blackness echoed all around, mocking and condemning that which I might have become. Leaving me to come to terms with being something stranger than a transsexual, something even less than a ‘eunuch, castrato; no-man; gelding, capon, bullock, steer, neuter, it; free-martin and finally in Roget’s, hermaphrodite.

The final taboo from which, I could find no escape even in changing my sex. Because as in life, size mattered and during those final years of trying desperately to be something I did not have it in my heart and loins to be. Just going into a male toilet was a nightmare, I would usually try to wait until it was empty, or if possible go into a cubical. If faced with the predicament of being forced to pee in public, I would try to stretch what I had to make it appear larger, or hide it. So the real man stood next to me, could not do what all men did, glance down and compare the size of their genitalia, or hold unspoken competitions to see who could piss the highest.

It just added to my feelings off shame, inferiority, and personal inadequacy. I felt like an impostor in their violent, aggressive, testosterone fuelled world. I felt like a stranger in a strange land, the language, custom and puberty’s ‘rights of passage’ had passed me by and just to make matters infinitely worse, I knew that even with a change of sex, I still would never have children of my own.

Life finally began to improve for me, following a visit to a consultant endocrinologist in Manchester, who agreed to start prescribing oestrogen. From the very start it felt right and I took to it like a duck to water. Experiencing puberty in my twenties, when my breasts began to develop so quickly, I had planned to start living fully as a woman six months after starting oestrogen. But before then, had to wear waistcoats and think how can I hide them?

Which at first felt tender, occasionally painful as they started to grow, pulling upon muscles and tissue in a way they never had before. I even bought my first training bra before beginning to live full-time and forever more as a woman, only could not wear it, because it made them look even larger.

At the time, I just thought that I was one of the lucky transsexuals. I blossomed and by the point when I had re-constructive surgery, was fortunate enough not to need usual breast implants. Whether puberty was uncomfortable and at times painful as it was when my body changed and my breasts started to develop, for boys when their testicles dropped I will never know. Though many of the transsexuals that I spoke with, had taken oestrogen for years with little or no breast development.

How lucky was I, or so I thought, the truth was there were medical reasons for this, not the least my micro penis, which I ironically called ‘Wee Willey’ from the point when the other boys started to outgrow and outgun me. Shooting puberty like silver bullets with eruptions of bubbling, fishy tasting sperm, at least I got to take it in the face and up the arse.

Barking mad by the age of ten or eleven, when as if from nowhere I wanted to play with dolls, nurturing and caring for them as I would my own children. I already felt happier in the girl’s world, rather than the hunter/fisherman and boosters boy the world expected me to be. Where all this came from and why it happened I was never to discover, even after years of individual and group therapy.

Little wonder that as an effeminate, camp schoolboy, I was bullied mercilessly, constantly by the other boys. Especially when the first flushes of testosterone made their balls pop and suddenly they understood what this boy/girl stuff was all about, sex. By this point as a confused teenager I thought that I knew what I was, thanks to more vicarious elements of the media, a transsexual and what I wanted, a sex change operation.For me girls were just friends and competition with all the advantages, when it came to getting boys. Never did I find one sexually exciting, go to bed with one or fantasise as I jerked myself off imagining giving them ‘one’ and being a man. My fantasies, even the pre-pubescent ones, were not their fantasies. My dreams were not their dreams because something, something hard-wired into my brain had gone wrong. It was being a girl, been fucked by them that I dreamed about when alone in bed. Because all I ever wanted as the playground bullies made me cry again, was to be a normal little girl.

Life was already a spectator sport for me, long before I was finally diagnosed as being a hermaphrodite and from the way things were looking, would remain forever a spectator sport, a half life, half lived. Though just how bad this life of sorts would get by being made into a loveless, barren hell by lies, lies and damned lies from demented, deluded, dangerous politicians, the Priests of hate and their congregations of snake kissers. I could not yet even begin to imagine in the slow days of physical recovery, days filled with the consequences of failure and the formless fear of not knowing how. Or even if, the medical teams could solve the problem of not having had a large enough penis for successful surgery.

There were times, lonely, black times, when I felt the only real solution was to committee suicide. There were times when I already felt myself to be dead, my life having ended long ago in the cold, windy corner of the playground where the bullies gathered. There were times when I clung with growing desperation to the slenderest thread of hope that even yet; I may be pulled alive from my car-wreck of a life. Saved in the very moment of fall by the surgeon and his medical teams.

Even if that were to mean extensive skin grafts, because there was to be no getting off the roller-coaster ride once it had started. No alternative but for me to play for broke, to face with courage and dignity whatever solution, whatever treatment they might yet offer. At least they had my best interests at heart and knew the truth about what I was.

If I thought life was bad enough for me as I struggled to recover, in order to face again whatever hope and help there might yet be for me in this world. I could not even begin to imagine the nightmares and horrors, elected politicians and seemingly sane, responsible men would unleash against me in the decades yet to come.

For fates fickle finger had yet to write upon the blank pages of possibility, the dark clouds already gathering. Were soon to unleash a storm that would devistate my life, my professional and personal reputation, my hopes, my dreams and growing understanding, relationship to contemporary freedom and democracy gone wrong. Very wrong because of politics growing criminal tendency and the demented, deluded and dangerous to whom God spoke directly the secret words of power and control freakery.

A litany of collection plate theology and spiritual protection for those who could afford to buy their way into heaven. Those who reflected and reinforced the fantasy white God of white men, men who could best lie before the high definition excuses of those who thought themselves above the law; with their secret courts and funny handshakes. Because just when you think life can get no worse and fate has finally finished with you, it gets worse and worse and you learn fate has not even started to untangle the knots holding each struggle, each attempt to break free of its tangled consequences.

Conclusion

I certainly hope that diagnosis and treatment for young hermaphrodites is better today than during the wacky, wild, frontier days of treatment for intersex conditions upon the health service decades ago. It took twenty nine long, horrendous years for anyone to diagnose and treat me for being a hermaphrodite, with undeveloped internal organs and a penis the size of a five year old boy, perfectly formed but of no practical use.

Especially when it came to having the balls for a routine sex change operation because the bottom line was, fucked if I did and fucked if I did not. Unfortunately during my teenage years I developed a huge inferiority complex and just felt wholly inadequate physically. Little wonder at the time I was so prickly about the size of my genitalia (one of the classic symptoms of hermaphrodism). Or why just for once in my life, I wanted people to think I had balls, if only for a sex change operation.

Such were the all consuming consequences of this, the final taboo as far as I was concerned. Thankfully, once I stopped trying to live as a man in readiness for surgery, it was no longer a problem and in some respects a decided advantage. I could wear tight jeans and not look as if I had a penis.

Given the financial cuts to the National Health Service, my worry is that young hermaphrodites today will just be given a cyanide capsule and told to go for a long holiday to Switzerland. Even thirty years ago it was not cheap for the health service to give hermaphrodites a sex life of some kind.

But at the time I had no hesitation, or qualms, about becoming a human guinea pig for a new technique they wanted to try on a hermaphrodite. In order to offer a practical surgical solution to the treatment of hermaphrodites with insufficient penis tissue for re-constructive and reassignment surgery, without having to resort to extensive skin grafts and the resultant physical scarring. I signed the consent forms agreeing to the procedure relieved beyond imagination, thinking the surgeon was a genius.

They even pushed it in certain specialist medical periodicals, with pictures of me in my altar identity as a hairdresser from Barnsley. A bit of sexual stereotyping there, I may have been a hermaphrodite but that did not mean I did not have a brain. Whether the procedure was used upon other hermaphrodites with the same lack of tissue for routine surgery, I do not know.

Or whether it proved to expensive, needing the involvement of other consultant surgeons and a longer stay in hospital. I would be interested to hear how hermaphrodites with insufficient penile tissue are treat thirty years later, is diagnosis still hit and miss, or better than in the olden days, before scans and intersex treatment units? Do hermaphrodites have the right to marry and adopt children? Or do hermaphrodites remain a medical after-thought, a reluctance practised in some shed next to the gas chamber?

‘In a time of universal deception, telling the truth is a revolutionary act.’

George Orwell.

　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　As if my eventual diagnosis and treatment at Jimmy’s were not traumatic enough, coming as it did after a twenty-nine year nightmare, twenty years of that diagnosed and treat as something I was not. When at the age of ten or eleven, for no apparent reason I started to want to be a mummy and have babies. Barking mad by the age of eleven, it was two or three years later that I started to hear about men changing their sex, thinking at the time that must be what I was, a transsexual.

Until aged fifteen when I first saw a psychiatrist and was promptly diagnosed as being a schizophrenic. Not until my late teens was I eventually diagnosed incorrectly a second time, this time as a transsexual. After all, this started for me fifty-nine years ago, virtually the dark ages when it came to treatment of intersex conditions, especially on the health service in the United Kingdom.

By my early twenties I was living as a woman, in the hope I would eventually get surgery on the health service because a gender identity unit had now opened in London. Where the consultant Doctor Randall, hate at first site unfortunately, did not believe I was a transsexual and refused to treat me. Ironically he was right but I did not know that at the time, any more than I understood that the symptomatology and experience of a hermaphrodite and that of a transsexual are radically different. Of course had he examined me physically and not mentally, he should have known I was a hermaphrodite and why, which I now know and understand but did not at the time.

After that most disastrous of consultations, it was to be another six years without hope before a surgeon established a unit in Leeds to treat intersex conditions, where I was examined physically for the first time. Because the surgeon knew there and then I was not a transsexual but a true hermaphrodite, which I always consider as falling into two kinds. The lucky ones being the open kind, those who at birth have clearly observable physical abnormalities and consequently receive treatment for the condition, all be it in most cases without the child’s knowledge or consent.

Then you have the ones like me, ones I regard as hidden or closed hermaphrodites that at birth appear to have perfectly normal genitalia, perfectly formed. That does not develop as it should throughout the individual's life due to undiscovered combinations of internal organs, in my case a small penis and what the surgical teams called undeveloped internal organs.

Just before the first operation, with me out cold the hospital photographed my genitalia and the other physical anomalies for my case notes. When shown to other consultants they identified my penis as that of a five-year-old boy – I was twenty-nine at the time. At least after finally being diagnosed correctly as a hermaphrodite and treat surgically, I understood why my penis never developed and I started to feel the way I did; not because of some psychological problem or trauma but because of physiology.

Twenty nine years to be finally diagnosed and treat as a hermaphrodite only to be targeted, harassed and destroyed for another thirty years for being something I was not, something that was a misdiagnosis. But such are the powers of lies and spin, for a few years even I began to believe it myself.

The moment that I returned home from the hospital that first time the lie was becoming a form of truth, a heavy steel net cast over me in the moment of escape by the Priests of hate and Crusader armies of Christian fundamentalists. For whom I was and would remain as long as I could draw breath, ‘life unworthy of life’ to be condemned to the gas chambers and flames of Hell, whose fuel are stones and men.

The truth was, having gone into hospital for gender reassignment surgery, expecting the long struggle for treatment soon to be over, completed as I scrambled only slightly blooded and broken over the wall of paradise. With a new centre of gravity and life, hopefully touched, blessed with love and lots of sex because in the first twenty nine years, I had never screwed anyone or anything, I had never even been to bed with a woman.

But I just thought that was the way that life went, some people had a large penis and were hung like prize bulls, other’s like me, had a small penis that did not hang at all. As for being sexually aroused by girls and later women that just did not happen, the engine driving the sexual instinct coughed and spluttered only to never successfully start. It was men that eventually turned me on.

Even puberty appeared to pass me by, while those of my age masturbated to pubescent fantasy’s and page three day dreams, all I wanted was to be a woman being fucked by them.

At the time it felt like having a tactical, battlefield nuclear weapon detonated inside my brain, devastating the world all around, laying flat the personal perceptions, the painstaking social constructs of self and individual identity. Leaving only a shattered wasteland, devoid of familiar, recognisable structures and a once vibrant inner world, peopled by a lifetime of dreams, hope’s, nightmares and fears.

Constructed as if rock strata a layer at a time; past present and future folding the layers into continents and mountains, washes of emotion gouging out valleys, running to stagnation and absorption upon the fertile flood planes of the imagination. Without reference points and familiar gravity’s, the centre would not hold and all fell apart.

Not as I told my closest friends upon returning home following the first operation, the surgery had not succeeded due to a failure of the blood supply. Which it had, some ten hours after coming around from the anaesthetic, happy beyond imagination this thing, this small thing that had blighted my life and was about as much us to me as a bicycle to a fish, now gone forever.

For this failure had not been due to the medical teams at Saint James University Hospital, or even shit that from time to time happens, usually when you least expect it. The truth was it failed, because I did not have a large enough penis for successful, routine, sex change surgery.

Not if I was to have anything resembling a sex life following reassignment because to slip into medical speak, there was not enough tissue to work with and I was fucked, completely fucked.