• Jen



Mother thinks I am making a mistake, but our planets have completely different orbits. When she was my age she was pregnant with me - she tells me this often. She is sad that I will not be giving her any grandchildren - due to my alternative lifestyle choice. What she fails to realise is, that to my kind, a rhinoplasty is equivalent to the birth of a child. No, not equivalent - more than. When the bandages are removed, I will feel overwhelmed with maternal joy at my new nose. I will care for it like a new-born & I will give it a name. I’m thinking Olivia but I’ve not made up my mind yet. I need to see her first.

Father is dead. Just as well, really - Mother says. Well, she did say - once. She stopped saying it after I threatened to jump under the 14:58 to London Victoria. It was the day after my initial consultation. I don’t remember too much about the day, but I know that it hadn’t gone well. They had refused to do all my procedures at once, and I was positively distraught. Mother’s off-hand comment didn’t upset me particularly, but I reasoned that if I were to jump in front of a train, I should do it at an opportune moment such as that - so as to teach her a valuable life lesson. Not to fuck with me.

My best friend Cassie is worried that this amount of procedures will change me, personality-wise. I am banking on it. Cassie has had procedures too, but not as many. She is a good friend, but she is dim. I have tried to explain to her that I am ever changing. I hold no fixed form, or personality. Each day I awaken anew, with no mourning for the cadaver of my past. I am the Ship Of Theseus, but Cassie is a dinghy & cannot grasp it. But I don’t spend time with Cassie for her knowledge of Greek Philosophy. I like her company. Not only is she fun to bitch with, she is also a good fighter. I once witnessed her bite a chunk out of a man’s shoulder when he tried to touch me up in a Soho bar. It will be useful to have her around on this trip. Especially for the 13 hour plane journey. Unlike myself, she has been to Thailand before, so will be my guide. What’s more, she will be looking after me post-surgery. My recovery lies in her capable (but significantly larger than mine) hands.


Cassie wants us to go sightseeing, but I told her to go without me. I have no interest in Bangkok. I’m here for one reason, and I have a lot to do before my operations. Cassie insists that we have two whole days to enjoy the city, but I plan on spending that time gazing into the hotel room mirrors. I want to really get a good look at my features, from as many angles as possible. It’s not vanity - I just want to remember what I am soon to divorce myself from. When I see the new me I want to have my old self burned into my retinas, so I never forget what I’ve achieved. I could just take a picture, but I don’t allow myself to be photographed at the moment. When my surgeries are complete I will pose for all photos. I will pose nude, and put the pictures on a website for all to see. There will be a separate, private section on the website for paid customers to see my naked body in full 3D (if I can get someone to figure the technology out for me).

Cassie returns to the hotel drunk. She says she’s seen lots of local Ladyboys, and if my surgeon is as good as theirs - I have nothing to worry about. I’m not worried in the least - my surgeon, Dr. Bunma, is the greatest there is. He’s crafted some of the top fashion models working the Paris runways today, and he’s so good that nobody can even tell they used to be boys. Well, I can tell. But I’m not your Average Josephine. As a transsexual, I see things others fail to notice, and can tell a rival transsexual from 200 yards. And yes, we are rivals. If I am ever in the unfortunate situation of being in the same room as one, be it a party - or job interview - or funeral, I must assert myself as the superior creature of my species. It’s Darwinian, and I will not apologise for it.

There are no problems between Cassie and I on account of the fact that she is ugly. And before you think me mean, take into consideration that she would no doubt agree if asked - and she still plans on obtaining further surgeries to amend this. I support her in this, as I am a good friend.

I admire Ladyboys greatly, but I am not one. I dislike the name “Ladyboy” as I don’t think it does them adequate justice. A Ladyboy is a marvel of modern science, and a beauty unrivalled by anything we have in the western world. They are - to my mind - Goddesses, and they should be named as such. When I hear the term “Ladyboy” the image which first jumps to my mind is Anne Widdecombe. Or Janette Krankie. I hope one day to see the Ladyboys unionise, and rename themselves. As to what, it isn’t my place to say. But if pressed, my suggestion would be The Überfrau.


It is the morning of my operations, and I await Dr. Bunma in my disposable gown and compression stockings. We spoke briefly yesterday afternoon via translator, and I was made to feel completely assured. It was explained to me by the good doctor that undergoing so many procedures in one day would bring with it considerable risks, but I laughed them off. The very idea that I would give a care to the well-being of this old vessel is laughable to me. Do your worst, Bunma.

This is a list of the procedures I am having today. Open Rhinoplasty, Tracheal Shave, Forehead Reduction Surgery (in which the forehead is cut open along the scalp and the skin is pulled back to reveal the skull, and pulled back to lower the hairline and more so resemble the authentic female), lip fillers, jawline reduction & breast augmentation (large). You might think it extreme, or possibly even unsafe to undergo this many procedures at once - but I’ll tell you what I told the pig ignorant and frankly spineless surgeons in London - your cowardice & lack of foresight is an embarrassment. It takes people who are willing to push the boundaries of “safety” to set new limits. Also, it was slightly cheaper because you only need to pay the anaesthetist once.

Bunma has entered my room, so I must go.


The following I relay to you from the near future. I sit and type this in the Suvarnabhumi airport, my head and face completely cocooned in gauze, my chest heavy and bound. I feel close to vomiting most hours, and drift in and out of consciousness, so please forgive any lapses in continuity as I attempt to explain the last few days to you. Below, I have attempted to remember as much as I can.


I’ve heard it said that people sometimes experience an “out of body” sensation when under. I did not believe this until I too lifted up above myself, and peered down toward a circle of green-smocked beings cutting me open. I observed as my forehead was pulled clean away from my face - and I can report unreservedly that my skull is the most gorgeous skull I’ve ever seen. One day, it will be displayed in a prominent British museum - I have no doubt about this. I watched, and drifted ghost-like as something resembling a cloth was forcefully pushed down into my throat, so as to collect the blood I would soon start losing after my nose was broken and opened. I felt the ceiling on my back, and the warm hue of the lights on my neck as I witnessed Bunma slice below my breasts and push jellied orbs far into my chest. Here she is, I thought. I marvelled as I was stitched back up, and bandaged. I hid by the doors as I was disconnected and wheeled into the corridor. And then I gripped hard onto a windowsill as the room began suddenly to shake. As the building wobbled back and forth, lights flashed & alarms screeched. Staff began evacuation with patients as boxes fell from the shelves, and I gazed on from down a hall as a nurse pushed me towards the lifts. As tiles began falling from the ceiling, I felt my ethereal form begin it’s journey back down the corridor towards my body, as if pulled by a fishing line. As I rejoined with myself, I heard glass breaking. As I felt sensation enter my nerves, I heard screaming. As I opened my eyes, I heard crashing all around me.


I don’t know what time it was when I woke up - firstly because I was temporarily blind (I don’t know why, I’m not a doctor). Then, when my sight did return to me it took me a while to figure it out because all the lights had gone out in the hospital. I tried to find a clock for what felt like hours, but it might not have been as long as that (like I said, I couldn’t find any clocks - so I couldn’t tell).

My body was in an agony I struggle to describe without unladylike language. I could walk, but only just. It felt like I’d been punched in the tits by a gorilla. I tried to shout for help, but my trachea was freshly shaved and stinging like a cunt. My face was completely fucking numb, except for occasional stabbing pains emanating across my shitting forehead and nose. I was fucked.

I can remember reaching a stairwell, and clinging on to a banister as I descended. I remember tripping over some boxed latex gloves. I remember looking into every ward I passed, and seeing no one at all. I remember thinking thanks a lot Dr. Bunma for evacuating & completely forgetting about me. No, I’ll be fine - don’t even worry about me. I remember thinking that if I ever found my way out of this, I’d be giving Dr. Bunma the worst patient review imaginable.

At some point I found myself outside, but the streets were chaotic. People seemed to be running away from where I was (which I’m used to), so I started moving in that direction as well. I’m not afraid of trends. The ground beneath me shook - or maybe I was still wonky from the anaesthetic, either way I knew I had to get to safety. I wasn’t worried for my life, obviously - I haven’t worried about that thing for years. I was worried about my face. Imagine if it got crushed, or if I passed out. Dr. Bunma gave strict instruction that I am not to rest sideways, in case my nose bends under the pressure & I awaken looking like a wet sandbag.

As I reached the other side of the road, a telephone pole fell down beside me - sending sparks & splinters a little too close for comfort. It occurred to me in that moment, that this might be a last ditch attempt by Mother Nature to stop me from living my best life. For years I have utterly rejected the cards she has dealt me, and now that I have demonstrated by dedication to it through the surgery - she appears to be attempting to take me out. I rejected my own Mother, and damn it I reject Mother Nature as well.

I remember turning around to face the hospital, my surgical gown blowing in the wind, revealing my (frankly perfect) ass. I grabbed onto my tits, to check they were still there more than anything, and I attempted to scream over the cacophony of sirens & primordial rumbles “You’ve lost, do you hear me?! You might as well just give up now, you bitch!” but no sound came out, and my trachea ached. I could taste warm copper, running down at the back of my throat - so I stopped trying to scream. Instead, I focused my thoughts. “Give up now, bitch.” I thought.

And suddenly, she did.


The rest is a bit of a blur. I was taken to another hospital, where I recuperated for a couple of days, and before long Cassie managed to figure out where I was. Apparently, there weren’t many casualties - and no buildings actually fell down (which as I understand it is considered a success as far as earthquakes are concerned).

We are just about to be called to the boarding gate as I write this. Cassie is reading a magazine she bought from the airport shop called Butcher’s Digest, which she claims was the only English language publication available. I didn’t actually know she could read, so I’m pleased for her.

My face and head are still completely wrapped in gauze. My nose is stuffed full of some unknown absorbent material, which I do not mind because airports always smell of cack. I am slightly concerned about passport control though, as I am largely unidentifiable in this condition, but surely they must be trained for this sort of thing?

I read on a transsexual forum once that a set of freshly loaded breasts can burst at high flight altitudes, but Cassie insists this is an urban myth. The only issue with that though, is Cassie also insists that 9/11 was a conspiracy organised by Quakers.

I have to go now, our gate number is being called. You’ll probably next hear from me when I land in Old Blighty, as air plane WiFi seems to be but a placebo.

Arrivederci! Au Revoir! Adios! Auf Wiedersehen!

Oh, and Cassie says “bye”.




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