An English Country Garden

By Jules Sandison

Foreword.

There are many ‘firsts’ in the journey of transition a transgender person makes. Part of this is the understanding of who we really are and how that fits with others around us. In this story I share some experiences based on my own journey — blending fact with fiction. Having said that, most of this did happen.

Part 1

I was sent to boarding school at the age of seven, and prepared for a world that disappeared long before I was born. I was given values that would guide me, and prepared with beliefs that were meant to protect me.

Each morning we would go to a church service in the school chapel, and we’d say The Creed. Here’s how it starts:

I believe in God, the Father almighty, creator of heaven and earth.

I believe in Jesus Christ, his only Son, our Lord, who was conceived by the Holy Spirit, born of the Virgin Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died, and was buried; he descended to the dead. On the third day he rose again; he ascended into heaven, he is seated at the right hand of the Father, and he will come to judge the living and the dead.

I was a good boy.

Today I’m wearing a beautiful kilt, some eye makeup and a little lip gloss. My journey was one you may find surprising. I hope you enjoy it.

Julius Braddock.

Part 1.

I didn’t just suddenly become trans in my fifties. It’s a little more complicated than that. I’d like you to join me back in 1993.

You’re going to need some combat boots, and it’s going to be hot. That’s because we’re going to South Africa — more correctly Meadowlands, in Soweto. The township is in revolt. It’s early morning and the sun is pushing through the smoke of burning tires, and the dust that the wind carries off nearby mine dumps.

I’d not slept well that night. I watched the moons glow painting silver shadows on a monochrome nightscape. It was cold, but I was fine. And the day started as it usually does.

I’d got an early call to get into the township to cover the rioting that was expected that morning. There was an ANC funeral scheduled, which meant that the rival IFP faction would likely use the opportunity to lob in a grenade or two. It was routine, though saying so today seems flippant. It was just the way things were going at the time.

Three of us were driving in from Johannesburg. I sat in the rear seat behind Juhan. The highway passes under a couple of bridges as you get into Soweto. We were approaching one of these overpasses, and I said to Juhan, “You fixed the Land Rover up nicely.”

“It cost me another thousand rand,” he said sounding bitter. “That’s everything I made on the Alex stuff last week.”

Juhan was a freelancer, and not on the deal that I got with an agency. I was riding with him and another photographer, Kobus. We often hung together when there was rioting. Between us we managed to cover most of the harder situations and were pretty good at it. Most of the photographers chose who they worked with carefully. You never were quite sure what you might need from your friends. A roll of film? A transfusion?

I should explain that a little. Being ‘good at it’ meant that we’d come back in one piece with something the newspapers or magazines could use. For the freelancers this was a speculative gig, sometimes they did well and sometimes they couldn’t get a sale. I was lucky, being a staffer on an agency. In many situations we’d not work so closely together, but when there was going to be serious trouble it made sense to work in a group, there being plenty of material for everyone.

“That headlight alone cost four hundred to replace,” moaned Juhan as we passed under the bridge. For a moment I thought he was going to ask me to contribute. “I think those buggers think I’m their ticket for life.”

“You want some cash from me,” I ventured. “I can contribute, if you like.”

A moment later the vehicle shuddered, and the windscreen went blank as a breeze block bounced off the bonnet and came through the window, bringing most of the glass with it.

Juhan swerved wildly across the road and into the oncoming lane, which was deserted as no one was travelling that morning unless they had to. We slid to a halt on the grass shoulder. I threw my door open and hurled myself into the ditch by the road. There was the familiar pop pop of shooting about a hundred yards away, on the bridge.

I could hear Kobus groaning. Juhan was already in the ditch a few yards away.

“Dammit, Juhan,” I said. “You’re a goddam bullet magnet.”

“That wasn’t a bullet, it was a breeze block,” he pointed out.

Kobus didn’t sound good.

“We’d better get him out, they’ll be shooting at us in a minute,” said Juhan. He paused a moment and then we both ran to the vehicle together and pulled Kobus from the passenger seat. There was more blood than I expected. As we pulled him from the vehicle the pop pop sounds changed as someone spotted us dragging Kobus to the ditch. We heard the buzz saw hum as the shooter found our range and started peppering shots in our direction. The slap slap slap sound of shots hitting the edges of the ditch sounded a hell of a lot more menacing than what had been happening before.

A round took out the back window of the Land Rover. Another a tire.

“Fuck!” said Juhan. That damned Land Rover was his pride and joy. A shot found the spare tire.

As we sheltered in the ditch, in comparative safety, I looked at Kobus. He’d never been exactly handsome. A breeze block in the face hadn’t done much to improve his looks, though. There was a horrible gash across his forehead, and it was bleeding profusely. I pressed my hand to the wound, but it wouldn’t stop bleeding.

“We gotta get some help,” I said. My hands were shaking, but I didn’t think much about it at the time. Stay focussed.

“If we work our way up here, we’ll be able to make a run for it into that tall grass,” said Juhan as he surveyed the scene. “It’ll give us a bit of cover, and we might be able to make it to those buildings.”

I looked where he was indicating.

“The ones that are burning? Does that really seem like a good idea?” I said doubtfully.

“You got anything better?”

We crawled on our bellies up the ditch, dragging Kobus, now unconscious, behind us. A few more rounds had hit the Land Rover, but while they were shooting the vehicle up, they weren’t shooting at us.

By the time we reached the grass another car had been hit and sprayed with fire. Whoever was doing the shooting wasn’t that interested in us. We broke for the tall grass dragging Kobus between us. A small block house was smouldering, a tire burning nearby releasing clouds of smoke across the road. Between the smoke and the long grass we had enough cover to make it to the block house and get behind it to find shelter.

That’s where we ran into a bit of luck. Sheltering behind the block house was a Buffel armoured car. We’d not been able to see it from the road, and I guessed the snipers by the bridge were unaware that the vehicle and its complement of eight SADF soldiers were there.

We dragged Kobus to the vehicle, and a young white faced officer looked down at us and then climbed down.

“You able to get him out of here?” said Juhan in Afrikaans, nodding at Kobus.

“Journalist?” asked the officer.

“Photographer,” replied Juhan.

The officer went to the rear of the vehicle and talked to one of his men. A moment later he was on the radio and calling in some support and talking about the wounded photographer. One of his men climbed down and started bandaging Kobus’s head, stemming the copious flow of blood.

It seemed to get hotter, and Juhan and I were soaked in sweat from our exertions already. Like us, most of the SADF boys didn’t want to be there. Many just trying to get through this alive. They were young and they were white and most looked frightened. We certainly weren’t sympathising with them, but given enough blood and the prospect that we might be in real trouble, we’d be co-operative with them. After you were there a while, you realised that for their part they were generally ok guys, just caught up in the melee of politics and violence.

The soldiers were well concealed here behind the block house. From his position the officer could guide in a counter strike against the people on the bridge, or even mount it himself with his small force of men.

“There’s a couple of zulu snipers up there,” said the officer.

“No shit,” I replied.

“They’re hitting anything that comes in for the funeral,” he continued. “They’ve got that whole road locked down.”

We coughed as the wind backed and a cloud of tire smoke engulfed us. Juhan looked at the tire ablaze in the distance and I could sense his curiosity.

“Jeez,” I said. “That crap stinks.”

Juhan was carefully moving to get a better look at the burning tire. He climbed on the back of the Buffel, switching out his lens to a three hundred, and focused on the tire a hundred yards away. He seemed fascinated by it.

“Shit,” he said. “The poor sod’s still alive.”

“What are you talking about,” I said, pulling myself up onto the rear of the vehicle to get a better view.

“That’s a necklacing. Someone’s burning up there.” Juhan banged off a couple of frames, and called the officer.

“I think that guy’s alive,” said Juhan staring through the long lens. “Yes, he’s definitely alive.”

Necklacing is a very South African pastime. The victim is usually bound, a tire secured around their neck, and he’s then doused in gasoline. The tire catches fire and things run their course quickly. The victim is usually horrifically disfigured and dies in agony.

“These fuckers are animals,” said the young officer, looking through his binoculars. He seemed at a loss for a moment, then shouted an order to his driver and the other soldiers. He left two to guard the young soldier administering first aid to Kobus, and the other five readied their weapons.

Crouching down in the rear of the armoured truck we felt the Mercedes diesel bark into life and the powerful vehicle jumped forward spitting up dirt from all four massive wheels and then raced up the road. Almost immediately the Buffel was spotted and started taking concentrated fire.

“Jesus,” said the officer. “It’s an ambush. It’s going to get sticky.” Considering the circumstances, he was incredibly calm, and brave.

Inside the rear of the vehicle I heard shot after shot slam into the armoured skin of the Buffel. Some of these were a damned sight heavier weapons than the sniper fire. These were GPMG rounds. This was a set up. Each round hammered the armour and inside it rang like a bell.

Keeping my head down I held on and a moment later the Buffel skidded to a halt. There was some backing and maneuvering, as the driver shifted the vehicle to a position to allow the soldiers to climb down and shelter from the shooting, which was now coming from several directions.

“This doesn’t look so good,” said Juhan. “I mean, it really doesn’t.”

The side door fell open and we saw what we’d come up the road for. There was a man (if that’s what the poor wretch could still be called), tire around his neck, aflame and thrashing about screaming. His legs were tied together, so he couldn’t run far. The burns were all over his upper body, but from the waist down he seemed untouched.

The officer was shouting at his men, and one found an old blanket from his pack, all the time shooting kicking up gravel, and ringing off the Buffel. I gotta say, what happened next took some real guts. The young officer, maybe 23 years old, jumped out of the buffel, and smothered the flames that were engulfing the poor man. He struggled to get the him closer to the vehicle. The shots were hammering into the hull of the Buffel, and the both Juhan and I watched as the officer dragged the poor creature toward the Buffel door. I got a frame or two off as he propped him up and began lifting the man aboard.

I framed up a shot and as the officer and a couple of his men lifted the man, still thrashing and screaming, burned flesh dropping from him in strips. It was horrible, and loud and hot and then, as I framed the shot I watched the back of his head explode and felt the warm wet…

No, I won’t describe it further. I don’t think I need to. If you wonder at my memory and all the detail, it’s easy. You see, I saw it every night for months, and occasionally I still do. And that was over 25 years ago.

Juhan later said that the poor fuck was dead the moment they put that tire around his neck. He was just bait to draw out the SADF unit. He was going to get it all along, and we happened to be in on the thing. Juhan would know, he’d done several years in the SADF before becoming a press photographer.

Kobus never saw another of his pictures in print. He was blinded by the breeze block, so he didn’t see much else either.

+++

There’s a smell of toast coming from the kitchen. It’s mid morning and we’ve got that west coast rain coming in off the Pacific. It’s nearly thirty years later.

I’m dozing, and people are at work. It’s not me being lazy, it’s just that today I don’t feel much like getting out of bed.

Shannon painted my nails last night. I love it when she does that. She has no idea. She does things, and she laughs and is playful, like a child. Not bad for 45. And that body.

As I lie here I’m playing the video in my head of the last twenty four hours. We were in the hot springs, the darkness and the warm water, and the magic of her sensuality, that is anyone’s dream. How did I ever get so lucky?

I can smell her, feel the warmth of her face against mine as she comes back to bed. My god, what is it that makes a woman so magical? And how do some have so much of it!

I can see the sun trying to break through and fall on the folds of the sheet, and the shape of her legs beneath the whiteness. In this state of half wakefulness I can feel her warmth. The scent of her drifts over me and I see in my mind what we did last night.

There was a tenderness in the way she passed me the panties. Her soft touch as she helped pull the stockings up my legs — newly shaved. She helped me into a corset, and she said something about ‘good to have such a tall girlfriend.’

My heart skipped a beat at that. Her soft voice, echoing in my memory, saying things I feel rather than hear. How wonderful that she helps me in the heels. What can I say to her that will ever convey my happiness and gratitude for what she’s doing.

Each beat of my heart is turned to music by the thought of her. In my mind I see her lips, how soft they are as they brush my face, and she touches me with such gentleness.

I could see the dawns glow warming the colours of our skin in the morning light just a few hours ago. I listened to her sleeping breath, and I felt wonderful.

I am relaxed. I am happy. I am safe.

+++

I was prepared for life by well meaning people who told me that love conquered all and that I’d grow up, work hard, marry, have children and we’d all live happily ever after. The only problem was that the world doesn’t work like that.

No one told me that monogamy might not be the answer for everyone. No one told me that sometimes life changes us, and we end up as different people. No one told me that some scars don’t even show up for years.

Then one day I woke up to find the whole world had changed. Things I thought had always been one thing, had been something else all along. One day I woke up and didn’t even recognise myself.

Part 2.

V sx2018 — Portland, OR.

Recently there was an incident. Silly. Ridiculous really.

I was parking my car, and it was just another day. I’d looked for a parking spot, and as I was slowly backing into a space another car came up rapidly behind me. I stopped, thinking the driver might slam into me.

The oncoming car screeched to a halt and I waited. Best just to see what this driver wanted to do. I didn’t have to wait long as the driver started blowing on their horn.

I was tired. I decided to just wait it out, and with a squealing of tires, the SUV pulled out and over took me. I pulled a face as the driver passed, and taking offence the driver swung right and clipped the front of my new car.

I felt a wave of rage rush over me. The other driver pulled over to the roadside as I opened the door and got out to inspect the damage. It was superficial but with the heat of a wave of anger I stormed over to the other car.

Time slowed and I remember the smell hanging in the air. The squealing of the tires had shredded the rubber and it stank. I knew that smell. I shivered at the thought.

The door of the SUV opened and a woman stepped out.

“What the fuck is wrong with you,” I shouted at her. She stood maybe five foot two and a hundred and ten pounds. “Driving like that you’re going to kill someone!” I shouted.

I was overcome with anger and this little squirt of a woman started squeaking about how I shouldn’t have made a face at her. A rage was boiling within me. She looked like a trust fund kid, whose daddy had bought her the SUV. I doubted she’d ever done a days work in her life.

I couldn’t hear what she was saying. Her mouth was moving but I heard nothing. Blood was rushing through my head, and I could hear it like a power hose. All it would take would be a choke hold and a sharp twist and her neck would break under her own weight. Really, it is that easy if you know what you’re doing.

I turned and walked back to my car, my heart racing. I’d had my moment of anger at her. I sat in the car and took a few deep breaths. Someone on the sidewalk was looking at me, and I thought I must be a bit of a sight. I felt so angry and knew I could crack at any moment.

I calmed myself down as best I could and drove on, just wanting to be away from this situation. There was no real damage. I knew I was over reacting, it was just a stupid woman and she’d got me at the wrong moment. The anger within me seemed to boil and froth and look for a place to find focus.

I pulled over to the side of the road and looked and my hands shaking. I could taste the burned rubber smell in my mouth and feel sweat pouring down my back.

“For god’s sake,” I said to myself. “What the hell is wrong with you!”

I waited for a few minutes. I couldn’t drive home like this.

I walked about for a bit and then returned to the car, feeling terribly unsettled. At a complete loss, and feeling ashamed that I was so easily set off I drove aimlessly for a few minutes, then I drove slowly to Shannon, and feeling like a fool I fell into her arms. She didn’t notice, but I was sobbing like a child with my face buried in her shoulder.

How is it that a man can be transformed into such a child? What the hell was wrong with me?

Shannon held me and said a few things, I don’t even remember what. I didn’t tell her about the incident, it just all seemed so foolish and after a while I found myself cooling down, and just feeling the calm of being held in her arms.

And suddenly it was ok. It was just fine.

+++

I started crossdressing regularly shortly after the end of my second marriage. It wasn’t anything particularly dramatic, just the occasional desire to wear something a little different. My mother had died not so long before, and I was increasingly alone in my life. Something drew me to the idea of it one day, and there I was in Walmart buying some panties. I was travelling for work, no longer in the press field, and was staying in a nice anonymous hotel, and so slipping into first some panties and later nylons just felt comfortable and a little exciting.

I remember thinking how it was hard to buy those first panties. Evidently I was a lot more worried about it than the checkout girl. When I got back to the hotel I just slipped into them and sat around feeling relaxed. It was just calming. After I’d dressed I often felt quite ashamed of myself. What would my father say? If I turned up in drag to the house he’d probably drop dead with a heart attack. It could be the perfect crime.

I explored the idea of shame and tried to understand it. Why should something that felt so liberating, make me feel so shameful? It was a puzzle that I couldn’t see through for years.

I wondered if it meant I was gay, but quickly got past that. I tend to think we’re all bisexual to some degree anyway. I can only say my thoughts, I really don’t know the answers, so I wouldn’t want anyone reading this to feel judged — that’s really not my intent. It just felt nice to pull on some silky panties and try to stand in heels. I thought about it later, and gradually began joining the dots together. It felt good to let the feminine side of me have an outlet. Why shouldn’t I?

I live in a liberal west coast city. If I want I can drink a beer in a gay bar, or hang out on a patio somewhere wearing anything I want, and no one is going to be that bothered. All these things I know at a rational level, and yet, there’s a resistance within. Where does that come from?

It comes from those tools I was given with which to go out and make my way in the world. I grew up in a conservative environment in which ‘sex’ or even ‘gender’ were terms that were not really discussed. It wasn’t that they were actually taboo, but they were shameful. This wasn’t a religious thing, it was a societal thing in the social setting from which I grew.

Any discussion of ‘gays’ or ‘queers’ was accompanied by phrases like, “bloody shirt lifters”, or “pooftas” or, and I still don’t quite get this one, “Damned foreigners!” Of course, after years in the media I pretty soon learned that with most of our most upstanding English pillars of society one need only scratch a little under the surface and you’ll find an entire warehouse full of skeletons in their wardrobes.

What I felt as I began to explore crossdressing was something that just helped me feel a little more feminine, which was a part of myself that had not been allowed to find a place or express itself. I enjoyed this feeling of liberation. I certainly wasn’t going to be flouncing around like an over fat turkey on a trampoline, but I was enjoying allowing myself a few freedoms to imagine what it might be like to be more liberal with my clothes, my opinions and my friendships.

Over time I experimented with some sexual adventures which pushed my limits. Some were a little fun, and some were stomach turning mistakes I wish I’d never made — but then isn’t that just part of growing as a person. Try anything once, people say. Sometimes once is more than enough.

I remember answering a Craigslist ad to meet a couple. They were probably the most repulsive people I’ve ever met. I can respect a blood crazed killer, at least he has conviction. Who knows, he may even be killing someone because he feels it’s the right thing to do. But these people, they were scum, trying to fill a void in their life with some facsimile of affection. What they succeeded in doing was nothing less than passing their misguided desires in my direction. Once again, this was just my own experience and I fully understand that some people do find some fulfillment in these dark recesses.

Our liaison was in a cheap studio apartment in the worst part of town, and somehow I’d got swept up in an online exchange, which led to an invitation, and the idea of it seemed fun. The reality of it was revolting. The two people were repellent sad individuals, they smoked crystal meth which wasn’t exactly a good sign, and wanted a third to spice things up. I think if they’d found a coyote it would have been more fitting.

I left having gone through the motions, and sat in a shower for two hours feeling wretched and swearing never to do anything like that again. Of course, it did happen again with others. More than once. Was this some form of self loathing? I was searching for something, but I certainly wasn’t finding it. And how did my gender journey fit in this picture? I’d be the first to say I was horribly confused.

I found the cheap hookups generally disgusting, and demeaning. I know not everyone experiences this. I really don’t mean to sound too judgemental about this, it was just the way I felt. I never really associated those exercises with being trans, though I sometimes made a vague link. I did enjoy one person’s company, who was transgender. If I learned anything it was that even in that cesspool of disappointment there was something to be found, if one looked deep. But it was never really compelling and I soon abandoned it as a waste of time. The only reason that shameful period in my life finds its way into these pages is that you will see later, it is very relevant.

I found that my desire to accept this feminine side of myself was better nurtured in a caring environment. I also began to find that this was clearly not a side of myself I could share with everyone. I learned I would have some friends with whom I’d share this, and others who simply didn’t need to know about it. Perhaps I wasn’t ready to share it, but in many cases they weren’t ready to understand this part of who I am. Over a period I got used to this idea. As new friends came into my life, I might drop some hint, and watch for their interest to be reflected in some look of curiosity. I learned to discretely open that door and see if they’d walk through it.

I became surprised by who was interested in the confusion I felt around gewnder. My first and most reassuring realisation was that many women are realise this is not a clear cut issue. To share in a crossdresser’s journey was something many found intriguing, and sexually exciting. Doubtless many men get sexually turned on dressing (which I suspect gets translated into some behaviour they later come to regret), but a very significant proportion of women, if approached in the right way, are not only curious, they are positively turned on by the idea.

I’ll explain that, but please remember this is just my experience and is not meant with any sense of negative judgement. I found that far from being turned off by the idea, many women seemed to find that crossdressing is a celebration of who they are. It is an absolute case of imitation being the sincerest form of flattery. Some women also enjoy the feeling of being empowered, as the man releases control to their crossdressing partner. The woman has complete control in many cases. She leads the way. It’s not something they need to feel humiliated by, though that in itself can be sexually exciting. Both sides of the equation can enjoy it, if that’s who they are. Either way, I soon learned that far from being difficult there were several women in my life who found the process intriguing, and some who found the same enthusiasm for it that I began to develop.

It didn’t take much to translate this interest into participation. I was always sincere and I approached it with a sense of fun and honesty. By chance, I had fallen into quite a healthy way of enjoying my crossdressing and my explorations of gender. It was based on trust, kindness, honesty and respect.

I remember sitting on the beach and looking at the Pacific, while walking my dog, thinking, how I wish I’d met Shannon earlier. How I wish she’d been there to guide me. I understand now that, even if that had been the case, I probably wouldn’t have been ready for what happened. The way things were to unfold, the universe delivered to me exactly what I needed at the moment I needed it.

As I dressed more, used a little makeup, and gradually found my feminine self

developing I increasingly found it a source of joy rather than shame. I accepted that I was a little out of the ordinary, and even as my third marriage started I found myself treasuring this side of myself as something very separate from my general daily life, but equally important to me. I chose not to be very vocal or demonstrative about it, being at heart a shy person.

When Shannon came into my life, I found someone with whom I could dive into this pool and immerse myself without shame in an exciting and healthy way. A committed lesbian, she enjoyed the joy she saw in me — and also found her own pleasure in our trysts. While these started a little casually, the trust that we shared and a natural emotional compatibility quickly drew us to each other. Shannon once wrote that this is a source of joy and we return to the wives for other joys and other parts of our life. Even though she was ten years my junior Shannon understood so much more than I.

As we grew closer I learned more. I cared more, and slowly began to realise that some of those tools I’d been given to forge my way in the world were hopelessly redundant. I’d been raised to believe in marriage, fidelity and till death do we part. Two marriages down the road you’d think I’d have seen through that. I’m not always a quick learner. I didn’t really give it a lot of thought, caught up in the joy of our polyamorous lifestyle. Why should I try to understand it. It felt wonderful.

Ironically, the joy of my crossdressing, and releasing the feminine side of myself at work, in my writing and even in the bedroom, seemed to contribute to my wife being satisfied and happy. I felt that finding my true nature was making me a better person at every level. And I had Shannon to thank for it. How kind she’d been, leading me into this new world and guiding me. I wouldn’t go as far as to use the word ‘love’ to describe this stage of our connection, but at that time I felt a deep affection for my lesbian teacher. And her ‘lesbian’ status was definitely shifting a little.

I felt like we were separate strands in the same piece of rope. Twined and spliced together we wrapped ourselves together creating something strong and powerful. The honesty of the intimacy was something I don’t think I’d felt with anyone before. Sharing this vulnerable part of my life so freely was something completely unfamiliar to me.

As my journey graduated from the squalid explorations of Craigslist, into something which made me feel wonderful, I began to revisit the idea of shame. It soon dawned on me that as a child I’d left that English Country Garden of values and beliefs that seemed so important, and set out into a world in which they were not only redundant, they were positively self destructive. My challenge was not with my true nature, it was with the tools I’d been given to cope with life. They were entirely inadequate to cope with the question of gender fluidity, or even the idea of self expression in alternative dressing styles. In short, I thought I’d had a parachute, but when I opened that pack up all that was in there was a sheet.

This realisation was quite dramatic. I remember at the time describing it to a friend as though, had I been a tightrope walker, I’d somehow learned that all those times I’d thought there was a safety net there had not been one at all. To be quite honest it made my blood run cold.

Yet, through this entire period I felt a growing love with Shannon, and my safety net was there. I felt my world was beginning to make sense. And so it was that, as I moved forward I began to experience greater confidence. It went far beyond ‘dressing’. This was about me growing as a person. I was connecting with my feminine self — a better self. I was becoming increasingly self assured.

My development left me feeling stronger, happier and more fulfilled. All of which meant that I was entirely unprepared for the events that were about to unfold and take me entirely by surprise.

• ++

Part 3.

Let’s go back to 1994 in South Africa one last time. It’s a different place and situation. Bloemfontein, Orange Free State.

They say Africa gets in your blood. It’s true. I have the recurrent malaria to prove it. But that wasn’t all I was destined to bring back from that most exotic of continents.

There’d been a murder. A five year old little girl had been killed and the circumstances were particularly violent. What I’m about to describe is hard for me, and I suspect it won’t be a lot easier for you, as this was a level of violence that, although I was acclimated to high degrees of violence, I found pushed me beyond my own limits.

A journalist and I had driven down from Jo’burg to find the house, get a few shots and then go and attend the court hearings. As it happened we arrived as the last of the police crime scene guys were packing up. I shot a few pictures discretely, and then, as the last of the police vehicles left, we noticed that there was no one about, we could easily get a few shots through the window.

I walked up to the front of the house, with a reporter named Cathy. We peeked in through the window, and as luck would have it a maid inside happened to see me. She came to the front door and asked if we needed anything more.

I smiled at her, and said ‘We’re nearly done, just need a couple of shots inside.”

She waved us in, clearly thinking that we were with the police. We were white, my hair was short and Cathy looked vaguely official. The maid invited us directly into the freshly examined crime scene. This sort of thing only happens in a press photographers most outrageous dream.

This was the equivalent of a resident of Troy seeing a nice looking Trojan Horse, and deciding it might be a good idea to wheel it into the centre of Troy, and stack all the resident army’s weapons right there.

It’s a lost art — if that is the right word for it — working on a story like this. To cut a long story short we ransacked the place. The crime scene guys were done, so there was no worry about disturbing evidence, and we worked methodically and swiftly.

What follows is absolutely true, and it’s disturbing. I’ll paraphrase in a highlighted box at the end of this section, for those of a delicate nature who can’t stomach what follows. If you are among those, jump forward from here. It’s ok. I don’t blame you.

There was a sideboard in the living room in which we found a file containing details of the man’s previous divorce, in which his former wife detailed allegations of sexual abuse against him. There were police reports of complaints about his behaviour with several children. There were complaints with references to the man being involved with others in sexual games and group activities involving several children. There was an organisational aspect to what was happening here. None of the complaints had been acted on by the police, by the look of things.

We moved through to the child’s bedroom. That’s where things went very bad. Immediately I entered I saw the lifesized imprint of a body on the wall, with blood spatter marks from the head, skidding across the wall. It was a hideous silhouette. Nothing prepared me for it, and like any silhouette it wasn’t what one saw, but what one imagined that made it so terrible. I was shaking with anger and upset and kept shooting for all I was worth.

We looked through the chest of draws in the room, and among the school clothes and kids pyjamas made another gruesome discovery, that haunts me to this day.

In one of the drawers, among the underwear and nylons, was a suspender belt. I looked at it and feeling I was invading someone’s privacy I drew it out of the draw. I know it’s a little incongruous that I should feel that. As I held the suspender belt I realised that unlike the underwear a woman might own, this was quite tiny. It had been cut down and modified. Someone had recreated this piece of lingerie, coloured for excitement and enticement, into a piece a child could wear. I tried to fathom the logic of it. Was it to create the image of the child as a willing sex partner, or even one driven by the idea of sex? Or was it somehow just to package the commoditized idea of sex in a manner appealing just to the man, or woman, that would participate in whatever was being done. I shivered with revulsion. As I rifled the draw, I realised all the lingerie was cut down to the size of a child of 5.

I stared at the flimsy garments and I noticed the stitching was neat and well done. It dawned on me that this was likely the work of a woman. His girlfriend had been in on this. She’d cut down suspender belts, a corset, erotic underwear all to fit a 5 year old girl. Even writing this I feel myself shaking with anger.

If you’re reading this it’s because you are interested in some things which require great honesty and a rare form of integrity. As such I don’t need to feel ashamed when I say that if I am fucked up, it’s for good reason. If I could ‘unsee’ some of these things I wonder if I would.

I’m not particularly smart, but I’ve done a great deal of this sort of work. I’m able to join the dots quickly on a few things. There was nothing simple about this murder. The child had been abused horribly many times, and likely shared. She’d been dressed up and served up on a plate to anyone who was ready to participate. There were a few aspects of the situation that to this day haunt me. It was organised, sordid and well thought out. Somehow the situation had gone bad (how does one quantify bad in these things?) and the man had killed the child.

If you are jumping ahead here’s the summary:

A young girl was murdered. The circumstances made it clear she was part of an organised sex ring and both male and female parents had been complicit. A situation evolved in which the man killed the child.

What Cathy and I found in the house was appalling to anyone and even more so to a parent of two girls. What I saw made me question what possible good there was in the world when an animal like that could exist, even thrive in a community. Could it happen to my little girls? What could be done. How the fuck does one process this shit?

What I saw was an organised and methodical process. I saw control, a systematic process, and I saw the way a child was corrupted into something that ultimately took their life in the most horrible manner. If I could unsee those things I would in a heartbeat.

I asked myself where is God in this picture? Where is right and good and justice? Sure as hell they weren’t in that house in Bloemfontein. I’m not going to go further into this. All that needs to be said is that the episode left me a changed man.

+++

Let’s just relax things for a moment. You’ve come a long way in reading this story. Some of it has not been pleasant. It’s going to get a little easier from here on in. I think I can honestly say that there’s nothing contained in here that’s not pertinent to the story.

We’re getting there. So, now I’d like to take you to a scene that is not so very unusual for someone exploring gender boundaries. Perhaps you’ve even experienced it. You could choose any hotel, but in my case it’s an opulent one. It’s mid afternoon, and I am there with Shannon, it’s 2018 and we’re being playful. Reading between these lines you know that I’ve been dressed up and I’m looking at myself in the mirror.

I have heels, stockings, a nice little pencil skirt and a blouse. I’m wearing an underbust corset and a slightly oversize bra. As I look in the mirror I can see that the bra is a little too high on my chest. Shannon adjusts it for me and looks at me with a look of amusement and mischief. She’s getting off on this as much as I am.

I think part of the appeal for the female partner in this is accepting the trust I’ve placed in her. While I am desperate for this to happen, there’s the sense that ‘she’s doing this to me’. And I’m allowing it, yet she’s steering it and in control. Somehow that makes it a little more acceptable for me.

One way or another it’s happening though. There’s been some wine and there’s a feeling of closeness, and I am putty in her hands. I would do anything she wants. She is statuesque and beautiful. No one in my position can refuse anything. And yet, I feel entirely safe. I am happy beyond imagining.

I’ve been seeing Shannon quite regularly by this time, and we are close. So close, I feel myself drifting into a place where I am a little afraid to lose her. If I’m totally honest about it, that fear prevents me telling her the way I’m feeling about her. Such an open expression of affection could move this relationship into a place that it’s not meant to go. I don’t wish to frighten Shannon off. While I’d like to express my feelings, the fear of loss is greater and wins out. Some words simply don’t need to be said.

There’s been a lot of wine and there’s been a hot tub and the clothes are beautiful, and suddenly I realise, I could do it. I could go out in public. I turn to her, and before the words are even out she knows.

“Let’s go to the bar.” You’ll see I don’t say who said that. I don’t need to. We both did.

Now, let’s just freeze things there for a moment. I want you to consider my background for a moment. I’ve been through a swathe of very dangerous situations in my life. I think it fair to say, I’ve stared death in the face enough times to say I am intimately acquainted with my mortality. I tweak the nose of death and poke him in the eye from time to time, and so far I’m still here. Now, consider this: I have never been more afraid than as we descended eight floors in the elevator, with the certain knowledge that I was to be entering a room full of people dressed as a woman.

I wore a wig Shannon had bought. She knows more about clothes, wigs and makeup than I could ever know, and here I was, tottering on some heels, out of an elevator into what seemed to be a crowded bar. As far as I was concerned it was as though there was a convention taking place in that room. I had to squeeze between the throng crowding in there, and shuffle past hundreds of people, all the time trying not to trip and go sprawling — legs apart and revealing some pink panties — as I made my way hand in trembling hand with my partner.

The reality was that the bar was virtually empty. There were one or two people standing around, and the girl behind the bar, but that was not the way it seemed to me. I might have been on stage at Maddison Square Gardens, in front of thousands of people. Keep in mind that at heart I am a very shy individual. And here I was putting myself through this. Sitting in the corner of a bar, my back to the throng (of about four people), shivering with fear and trying not to look as though I was clutching Shannon’s hand in terror. And I felt wonderful.

I can’t explain it. There was a heightened sensitivity to everything. It was amazing, and beautiful and a moment I would not sacrifice for anything. Here I was, with my Shannon. I felt more alive than I had in 20 years. When we make love later that night it’s more intense than ever. It’s a celebration of our trust and union.

I am completely in love.

+++

It was a few weeks later that Shannon dropped into conversation that she was going to a sex club with one of her friends. It seemed so casual. I’m not really very familiar with such things, so it was a subject that was full of mystery and my imagination — probably poorly informed — and suddenly I didn’t even know who I was talking to.

I pretended I could handle this. I wanted her to share things with me, and I didn’t like the idea of things that we couldn’t share, especially after I’d allowed so much of my own naked honesty into the situation. And why shouldn’t she be able to tell me everything? When one is as close as we’d become, secrets or lies were hardly appropriate any longer.

To put it brutally honestly, after Shannon had been as fiercely intimate as she had with me, being able to share that she had some erotic plans for the evening should not have been so very hard for me. I knew very well she had other lovers, most of which she’d known for years, and yet suddenly I felt horribly unsettled by this idea that she’d be going with a friend to a planned situation in which she’d certainly be participating in things that were the very things we’d shared enthusiastically and with great openness. I felt as though my legs had been sawed away beneath me.

I tried to rationalise it. She’s a grown woman. If she wants to do this sort of thing, I can’t and shouldn’t wish to stop her. I don’t own her. And yet it hurt.

I am pretty sure she sensed my discomfort, but there Shannon was not the sort of person that wanted to be constrained and would fiercely fight her corner to allow herself to make these decisions for herself. She was adept in the language and justifications of polyamory.

“It’s my body. I’ll decide what to do with it.”

The words were not spoken, but they were understood. And it all seemed fair enough, and yet it hurt me horribly.

I am not a jealous person, and I genuinely believe I can accept it if someone else wants to fulfill a need outside of their primary relationship. However, this was hurting me inside like I couldn’t believe. I tried to tell myself that it was just a night. And I tried to let it go. I wondered about being there. Part of me wanted that, though I was not invited, and yet part of me found the idea unpleasant. I didn’t know what to do.

In the end I just tried to smile and put a brave face on it and say, ‘OK’.

Keep in mind it’s not like she needed my permission. And so she went. I think she had a nice time. I think she probably knew exactly what she was doing, it met her expectations, and that was that.

Except it wasn’t.

The following day I busied myself and kept so focussed on things other than Shannon, it was as though she was just a casual acquaintance. The next day it hit me like a train. How could she do something like this? It was so sordid. What could she possibly find of benefit from such things. I felt myself twisting on a hook, and it wouldn’t go away. Her friend would doubtless think me the most prudish fool if she knew of my pain over this, and reinforce Shannons own opinion that this was none of my business, and something I was not invited to. How could that be a problem for me. And yet, it was. It hurt horribly.

I had tried to be honest about things so I resolved to tell her, if she really wanted to do this then I didn’t want anything to do with her.

There are a lot of things wrong with this, I know. And you’ll see as we progress, that I interpreted so much of this poorly, mostly through failing to understand Shannon’s position. However, I met her at a coffee shop, and after a brief and heated conversation ended up storming out and tossing aside many months of friendship, because I felt I could not possibly accept this.

How could she treat me like this, after I’d trusted her with such an intimate part of my life? How could she shut me out of something (that I wasn’t even sure I wanted to be in), just for a night of sordid ‘pleasure’?

And if she really thought that was ok, then she wasn’t the person I thought she was. And so, I left and felt part of my life amputated and devalued for me being a stupid impulsive and trusting fool. My life was suddenly empty.

For the following few days we moved back and forth. She told me I had no right to impose my values on her, and I told her I felt betrayed. I said a few things that came from the wounded schoolboy, rather than the man, and she said a few things that probably came from that fiercely independent girl child she’d once been, rather than the kind and loving woman she’d grown to become. She was not the sort of woman to be owned, manipulated or controlled, and here I was cast in the role of one trying to do just that. All of these things I understood. If it sounds like I’m trying to be soft on her, and myself, it’s true. I know I behaved selfishly, and yet I felt justified. After all, what is loyalty and trust, if it’s not avoiding betrayal, particularly in front of a room full of naked strangers doing similar things.

Eventually Shannon relented, and agreed that she’d refrain from this. She’d only once ever relented when it came to a partner setting up boundaries for her — and that was something she’d come to regret. So I was one heck of an exception. And yet, even being an exception, I felt horrible about this.

To constrain her was not kind. And yet my pain was terrible. And I didn’t even want to be ‘that guy’ that can’t handle this. I didn’t realise something else was in play, even then, that was destroying me from inside. It was a parasite eating away at my core and would not emerge for a few more weeks, but when it did my insides were already rotten and putrefying. If I thought this pain was unpleasant, I had a real surprise in store.

+++

In that English Country Garden of my childhood there was nothing that had prepared me for this. Far away in that reality, people got married and lived happily ever after. There were no sex parties, or fists jammed into other people, or ‘group sex dynamic’. Hell, there was no sexual dynamic at all. There were hinted at ideas and murmured guilty insinuations. There was nothing that helped me cope with what was about to fall on my head like an avalanche.

I should point out that Shannon did have one or two other lovers. I was fine with that, not that she really needed my approval. In fact, my approval was irrelevant. I knew she’d known them for years, and if I was anything I was the newcomer and an interloper. Somehow, that was different, as you’ll see.

I’d met people involved in sex parties before, and while I’d thought them generally a bad idea, I had never really had particularly strong feelings about them one way or another. They were somewhat outside my experience, and so not something I concerned myself with. If I wanted to have sex with more than one partner at a time, I’d want them to be people I knew. People with whom I shared trust. Call me old fashioned, but I’d like to know who is sticking what in my body — or vice versa. Call it a personal preference.

In the work I do today I came across one individual who’d been part of a group of men who were a highly organised sex group. I’ll describe the situation for you and what they did, and you can decide on the morality of it.

These young men would single out women, mostly in a particular mall, and then look for an opportunity to date one. The objective was very simple. Date the girl, get her into bed on the first night, and then never contact her again. If that’s where it ended it would be one thing. Instead, it went further.

The girls details would be shared. Birthday, where she worked, when her lunch hour was, and where she lived. Everyone in the group got the details and the next man in line would, after a couple of days, make a move on her.

Keep in mind, a young woman who had been somewhat taken with an apparently genuine young man who had got her into bed, and then not called the following day, is sure to feel a little insecure. When another comes along, full of enthusiasm and guess what — he’s also an Aries! He also likes horses! It’s a match made in heaven. And so it’s easy to be taken in. And of course, the morning after, he’s gone.

More details are added to the database, and shared. And by the time number three or four or five or whatever comes along the poor girl is so manipulated and controlled she’s ready to do anything to assure herself of her own value, and that’s exactly what these people pray on. It’s almost rape, but not quite. Technically, it’s totally legal. Now, think how you’d feel if that was your daughter, or your sister they drew into their net.

The individual I came across had slept with thirty or forty women in the few months he’d been a member of that group. He was a sad creature and I’m fairly sure had never had a relationship of any value. One wonders what becomes of people like this. I hope my own daughters have been taught how to protect themselves from such scum. However, these people continually adapt, and inveigle their way into peoples lives. They ruin people, the way careless handling ruins the most beautiful object. People are fragile. These people mask their actions with words like ‘liberal behavior’, and arguments that use phrases like ‘exercising sexual freedoms’, and it all sounds so modern and rational. And yet they kill people slowly from the inside.

That old woman who shuffles along the road and doesn’t speak to anyone. Who hurt her and how did she loose her vitality and vibrancy? Whose spell did she fall under as a young woman, and later found they sucked the life from her? Well, it’s people like that who destroy lives. They get away with it because they do it slowly, and they couch it with rational words. They escape detection because it’s good to be modern, and free thinking. Yet being ‘modern’ and ‘free thinking’ is also about being caring and loving. And so they are none of the things they pretend to be. They are scum.

They try to possess, they control, they manipulate.

They are also organised.

+++

Part 4.

“Who’s afraid of the big bad wolf?” goes the children’s song. The three little piggies wouldn’t last long today, I’m sorry to say. They’d be in the bacon slicer faster than you can say ‘I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house down.” There are big bad wolves lurking.

It’s not cool to be the one who see’s the wolf. It’s not cool to be the one who feels fear. Except for the fact that it’s possibly that very fear that keeps you alive. At least, that’s what I think about in those dark times when I’m haunted by some unpleasant memories of Africa in the nineties. My gut feeling saved me more than once.

After Shannon had her sex group experience, and I had reacted pretty badly about it, we’d moved to a place of uneasy acceptance as I’d agreed, ok — I’d work on it. ‘It’ in this case was my reactions to something that simply didn’t feel right. It’s such a small thing, isn’t it?

It just didn’t feel right. Well, get your hard hat and let’s see what happened next.

+++

It so happened that at about this time I was moving apartments. It’s always a stressful time, however the many things that had to be done were certainly keeping me busy. Late one night I found myself in the basement of the apartment building from which I was moving, and there among my daughter’s belongings I came across a box that had found its way into her storage, but was clearly one of my own. As I’d previously mentioned, the press work had come at a high emotional price. Many years of working in Africa had been wonderful, but it’s a sad fact that many marriages that work very well in Africa fail as the couple return to the predictable life we enjoy in the west. In fact, my marriage began to falter and then gradually fell apart some years after returning to the States. In the course of that, many of my belongings were lost, or in the case of my photographs, burned by a passionate ex. A wonderful mother, she certainly did things in style!

Little did I know, my daughter had rescued a small collection of photographs. When I accidently came across them late one night as I was preparing to move things from one storage place to another a remarkable thing happened. I was sitting beneath the naked bulb of a light in the dim storage area at 2 am, sorting things. And there was this box.

I opened it, surprised that a few ten by eights were there. Turning over the first picture I was confronted by an image I had long banished from my mind. There before me was the necklacing of the poor unfortunate wretch in Meadowlands, from so many years before. It was as though I had been punched in the face. I turned a second picture over, much as one turns tarot cards, to reveal the future. Only here was my past. A past I had spent many years pushing from my mind.

In those monochrome tones I could see the horror of that moment once more. The experience was quite extraordinary. In a moment I was transformed. I could smell the tires reek. My mouth almost tasted the smoke and I could feel the hard floor of the Buffel beneath my feet. I make no excuse for what I felt. It was fear, excitement and the tumbling river of adrenaline coursing through my veins. Sweat trickled down my back, and my breath was short. For a moment I thought I was having a heart attack.

In that moment I was transported back to being that twenty six year old, violent and angry young man. Those very qualities that served me so well in the survival of tempestuous times were right back upon me. The feeling came, and I expected it to pass, but as I looked at the images it was as though I had opened a floodgate. I put away the box, but the images would not leave my mind, and instead as I tried to sleep, they rotated in my imagination, filling me with dread. The names of friends long dead came to me. People who didn’t make it back.

It didn’t take me long to realise I’d triggered something. To say I was disrupted is a horrible understatement. Over the next few days I found myself increasingly short tempered, distracted by thoughts of the past, and behaving like the twenty six year old I’d once been. My mind was shaken up and wouldn’t settle. I began to hate myself for my fragile and insecure nature. And yet, it wouldn’t subside.

I leaned on friends, and tried to reconcile myself, but nothing really seemed to help. My wife saw the change. She wondered what I could possibly have done to myself. As the days passed I wondered if I would ever revert to the settled person that I had become over the years. Instead, I was a twenty six year old year old agitator walking around in a fifty five year old’s body. It felt quite surreal, but more than anything else, it felt frightening.

As things settled into this new disrupted reality I gradually found ways to hold things together, but always in the background there remained the short fuse, and the hot burn of anger.

+++

A few weeks later the dam broke. Shannon and I had met for a coffee and as we were leaving she said she’d be meeting a friend for a glass of wine that night. I picked up the lie immediately.

I let it sit for a while. A glass of wine. Such a small thing. Later that evening I messaged her, and with no reply she was acting a little out of character. I think because I was stressed about a few things, my mind went into overdrive. By midnight my messages were going unanswered and I felt desperate. I felt lost, and knew something was amiss. It sounds so pathetic relating it now, but I could feel something was very wrong.

Eventually very late that night Shannon returned my messages and suggested I talk. I was at home at the time and decided to walk my dog on the beach, to give me the opportunity to talk freely with her. My wife, aware that I was distracted, had been tolerant of my quick temper and growing signs of stress.

As I walked the dog on the beach Shannon quickly told me the truth. After all,

from her perspective she’d done nothing wrong. She’d ‘had a glass of wine’ and the situation had become intimate and I really don’t know the details, although my mind was filling in the gaps mercilessly. It’s not unreasonable to think I was creating my own poison and drinking from it deeply, but try as I might I couldn’t help myself.

She told me this was one of the trans people from the sex group she’d attended and immediately I fell back on feelings of fear. In my head I joined the dots. Organised — manipulated — controlled. I could see flashes of situations from my mind like a gruesome projection over the sea as I walked the dog. People listed in a database, information shared, targets marked out, and even the house in Bloemfontein. Had she worn a nice suspender belt, was she prepped and served up like a piece of meat? What was the system in play here? I felt the same rage I’d experienced in Bloemfontein and in those painful moments it all seemed linked together.

“Oh, it’s just a person from the group. It’s nothing. I want to do it.” Her words stung like acid dropped into my heart. She was walking willingly right into it.

I know the easiest way to control someone is to create the illusion that they themselves are making the decisions and lead them deeper into a behaviour. It’s a common way to manipulate people, and while they think their exercising their own power, they’re swept easily into the place the manipulator wishes to take them.

“Really, you’ll learn to like it,” they’ll say, as the chains are gently looped about the person, who often remains blithely unaware that they’re being played. They never realise there’s a data system, that their information is being shared, and it’s what they don’t realise that binds them tighter and tighter, playing on their misplaced trust. Think how that poor child in Bloemfontein had trusted her mother, as she measured her waist for the lingerie that was being adapted.

“It’s just a nice party. You’ll have so much fun,” the words drip like syrup to the young ears. “What a good girl you are. You’re all grown up now!”

My mind poured vitriol into my brain and I twisted and turned and as Shannon slept soundly I walked in misery along that rainy beach in the middle of the night in absolute desperation. My mind played a slideshow of blood spatter, and degradation of my dearest collaborator, as she was turned from my angel to some foul succubus.

As I remember those tortured moments, I realise I have thought about it a lot and played it through from all sides. I didn’t feel sad for myself. The worst of it was that I felt Shannon had been infected by this squalid little group and had fallen under their spell. I felt she’d allowed this sordid group to cheapen her, and become something disgusting, and my pain was for her degradation. My Angel was now something not merely mortal, but repellent. My pain was for her — not my loss.

I’d also say it was not about jealousy. I can attest that, as I knew about her other lovers. Look, if I sound judgemental, I was. I felt she’d broken my trust, and when caught in a lie she’d thrown herself into this filth and reeked of it to the very soul.

Yes, judgemental. And in my eyes in those moments that was my reality. It was desperately painful, and I had nowhere to turn to recover myself. My greatest treasure, so dearly held, had become a filthy rotting corpse of what had once been. And she’d done it willingly, drawn in by her own search for something. I tortured myself with thoughts for the night, and drawing on the support of a friend managed to talk myself off that beach. The thought of stripping and just swimming out toward the horizon had swept through me. I am blessed with a few friends, not many, but a few who know of my gender incongruities and my closeness to Shannon. Thank god they talked me off that beach.

Yet, I couldn’t escape the imaginings. What had happened to my angel? What had happened to my friend and lover?

In a state of complete desperation, I found fitful sleep, only to meet the dawn with new fears. In the night I sent a string of messages telling Shannon of the hurt and betrayal I was feeling, and telling her that if this was ‘trust’ I wanted none of it. In a horrible tirade of pain I asked her if her evening was ‘worth it’. Even now I wonder, and I wrestle with it. Is a moment of ‘something’ — hell, it’s not joy, it’s just fucking — worth losing a treasured connection?

For me it was easy. It was all a case of mistaken identity. I’d thought she was caring, and trusting and spliced into the core of my spirit. In those painful moments, twisting in the wind on the hook of my own pain and tortured imaginings I saw only a corrupted individual who had fallen prey to the organised manipulations of some sad little people who knew nothing of the beautiful love they’d wrecked on the brutal shorelines of their lust.

So easily something built with care and trust and love can be smashed to worthless shards of nothingness, just by a little carelessness. And in that moment, I didn’t realise, it was me that was smashing our love and all that we’d had.

+++

The next few days were a time of horrible self destruction. I see that now. I wanted nothing to do with whoever this person was that I’d so mistakenly placed trust in. I was furious, and it spilled over to others in my life. I am ashamed to say I was screaming internally in a childhood tantrum and could barely control myself most of the time.

How could this person in whom I’d placed so much trust, do this to herself? How could she destroy a once beautiful person and become this vile caricature of womanhood, purporting to support freedoms and personal rights while immersing herself in filth and infecting all around her. How could she do this to us?

My anger seemed to know no limits. Gradually I descended into a dark pit of self pity and it wasn’t until something important happened that I caught myself, and was forced to stand back and take a breath.

I will do my best to explain, and it’s not easy. Would that it were as simple as saying, ‘I made a mistake’. What happened was a pivotal moment and one, like so many others delivered by Shannon, that changed my life.

+++

Shannon asked to meet me in a neighborhood coffee shop. As far as I was concerned this was going to be goodbye. And to that twenty six year old, angry at life and with the smell of burning in his head, it was “Goodbye, fuck off and I wish I’d never met you, bitch!”

Yes, I know that seems a little harsh. As I think of it now, I would never have said such words, but the person I was in that moment was ready to do so. I also, with the benefit of hindsight, realise that what was driving me was a head full of anger, and the realisation that the organised sex group was, in my tortured thoughts, somehow linked to the organised, methodical process of manipulation. It seemed linked to the dead child in Bloemfontein — and I know this sounds far from rational, yet in those moments of terrible agitation these links were forged like the links of some horrible chain — and there was the repellent young man with his friends preying on people in their organised little group, systematically destroying the lives of young women, and my Shannon had played right into their hands. All of these unrelated things all seemed to gel together in some conglomerate of disaster.

With distance it all sounds so unlikely. And yet, with a mind unsettled by those images of the necklacing, and with the insecurities revealed by so many painful associations, I created the most intricate engine with which to torture myself. In some last ditched effort, I went to meet Shannon for what I hoped would be the last time. An end to the pain was all I could think of. Whatever pain the end of the relationship might bring, it could not be as agonising as the pain of watching my Shannon destroy herself.

+++

In the coffee shop I sat and waited. When Shannon showed up she did so looking combative, and beautiful. Her hair like a burning torch ready to ignite my foolishness.

It would be fair to say that I have a short fuse, which I generally control with some effort, but in those days of despair it had become a hair trigger sharpened to a razors edge by the triggers of the past. Shannon on the other hand was slow to anger, but when that anger poured forth God help the poor soul that might be the focus of it. And I was right in the firing line.

Shannon patiently though forcefully explained that she was no one’s angel. Indeed the word Angel was what she’d been called by her father, who’d betrayed and abandoned her. She was not anyone’s Angel — because she was not owned by anyone. No one was ever going to own her, and she’d spent her life finding the strength to own herself and be proud in that independence. She explained that far from betraying me she was simply exercising some of her own desires, just as I did when I wore the clothes of a gender not my own. She had guarded my trust with love and care, and always would.

She told me that if I’d misread something, it was not her error and nor was it meant with any cruel intent. She pointed out that while I had heaped vitriol on her, and placed my words on her as others had in the past, they were my own poison and only reflected my own pain. It was ‘my’ experience that was hurting me, not what she had brought me.

Of course, she was angry and I began to realise that while my pain was real, it was my own. I had no right to give it to her. If there was a betrayal, it was something I had done to myself. As I think back now, with some distance, it seems easy to see how right she was.

I could never own her. Indeed, her freedom and independence were the very things I loved in her most. She also pointed out that in all those moments of my anger it was she who had tried to calm me and tell me that she hadn’t left me at all. It was my anger that heaped gasoline on my own emotions and burned me so horribly.

And she was right.

In those moments the pain of those anguished days seemed to suddenly subside. The feelings ignited by the necklacing images seemed to suddenly release me. That angry fighting young man, faded as though a switch had been flicked off, and the pitiful death of the child in Bloemfontein faded from inside my eyes. Instead tears welled up within me and rolled forth in an outpouring of love that I could hardly show Shannon who I had so desperately wronged with my words and anger, for the shame I felt within. As she stormed off, I sat humbled and feeling like a foolish child.

As I watched her receding steps I felt myself close the gate of The English Country Garden once and for all. The beliefs and tools of my past were finally laid down, and those terrible feelings of disruption and anger faded away.

+++

It was all true. My choices to accept myself as transgender are my own. My choice to share that early part of my journey with a trusted friend, a lover and a partner in passion are my own responsibility. They are mine to give, mine to feel joy with, and at times mine to regret.

If I choose to share these things I do so in kindness. And who ever I chose to share these things with will themselves have their own desires, which make them who they are. As accept myself and continue on this path of transition, they too have the right to choose who they share their own desires with. I must respect that, as they have respected my trust.

It’s not easy. It’s not meant to be. If it didn’t matter, it would be simple. Yet, it does matter, and for that very reason it is a thing of beauty and wonder. It took Shannon, and every step of this tortured journey for me to understand that.

While I had focussed on how much I had trusted Shannon and made myself vulnerable to her, I had overlooked the fact that in her own way she had made herself equally vulnerable to me. I had seen with eyes that were forged in a kiln designed for a very different world, and while that may be true, it is no excuse.

Shannon taught me a valuable lesson not only about my gender, sexuality and erotic

love, but also about life. My own path now is very clear. While I can embrace my transition and benefit from the acceptance shown by others around me, it’s also equally important for me to respect the values of others and to honor them on their journeys, whatever they may be.

Shannon is not well. Everyday she faces the prospect of possibly being wheelchair bound within months. If she choses to explore some things that I find difficult, in the light of her life experience, it’s perfectly reasonable because those options may not even exist in her future. Who am I to deny those desires? If I need to demonstrate my love for her, it is in understanding this.

I own only myself. And if I really want to make the world a better place, it’s only in changing myself that I can do so.

So, where is God in this? I think the answer is that Shannon taught me what I needed to learn. And in the process, she taught me another lesson; forgiveness. It is almost beyond imagining that she could take my abuse, something she’s lived her life fighting against for herself and others and turn it to care and love of the kindest form. God is there in the form of forgiveness and kindness. This angel — not mine, but here to bless me none the less — appeared in the form of a lesbian fellow traveller for an emerging trans person finding their way. No, that’s not the image of an angel of my childhood.

And she continues to guide and share and light my life. She has released Julius of his pain, and Juliet has emerged a happier and more understanding person.

EPILOGUE

In the weeks that followed the events I’ve recounted life didn’t stand still. Shannon sat me down one afternoon and very gently described how she came to get involved with the group. She’d had some bad experiences on an online dating site, and wanting the intimacy of human touch, she talked to her therapist. It so happened that this therapist ran a very discrete and well managed group for people who were exploring a few sexual ideas. Shannon was duly invited to one of their evenings, and without doing much participating, stepped into the slightly uncertain waters of group sex. She did so in a safe environment and one that was run in a caring manner. Several times she later explored those meetings, finding something of what she was looking for. She wasn’t in anyway being groomed or managed — that was the work of my own mind, finding a way to torture me.

It turned out that one of the people at one meeting was someone she knew from outside of that life, and there an existing connection was reformed. Shannon told me these things tenderly and with care, and kindness. She had, in essence, been trying to avoid the unsavory experiences I’d had on Craigslist, only she’d been smarter about it. A woman faces so much more in the way of uncertainty, that the dangerous world of online hookups was something she neither cared for, nor would risk.

So, in the end I learned a great deal about tolerance, and forgiveness. I saw Shannon’s example, lovingly given. I also saw how terribly self destructive my own feelings could be. These feelings were created by me, and only I could take responsibility for them. I could only feel gratitude to Shannon for a lesson lovingly taught.

I look at my foolishness now with embarrassment and shame. That I had imposed myself so cruelly on Shannon will live forever in my mind to remind me not to be so foolish with one who loves me. In conclusion, I’m reminded of words I said to my own children as they started dating and having adult relationships. How much you love someone is really about how much you can forgive them. And Shannon forgave plenty.

Juliette

THE END

I’d love to hear comments and feedback on this story. I first wrote it ten years ago, and it’s since become a snapshot of who I was in those moments. My life has moved forward since then, in some positive ways in — as luck would have it — Shannon remains very much my fellow traveler.

June 2026.

J