This story was written at the suggestion of an online friend (who has since been converted into a flesh-and-blood friend). I sent it to a old friend as a way of coming out to her.

We have written old-fashioned snail-mail letters to each other for many years, and we are still writing to each other. She is a very dear and trusted friend and continues to be such.

I include the story here for your enjoyment!

---

Laura, my bessie friend from New Zealand, well, she’s lived in New Zealand with her rather dishy half-mauri boyfriend for over fifteen years. She usually fits me in for a day when she comes back to see family and friends. Laura only manages to get back every few years since it’s costly and needs a few weeks over here to make it worthwhile, and whilst she has lost touch with many of her other friends over the years, we’ve kept in touch – all because I wrote her a letter that was timed in such a way that it was on the door mat when they arrived at their new home after a spot of traveling. We’ve exchanged letters every few months ever since. Way back, I gave her the nickname of “Larry”, which is what I call her to everyone including her face. Nobody else calls her that, it’s just our thing!  

We were in Bath because that was where she spent her university days, and it’s not too inconvenient for me to get to from Southampton nor for her to get to from Clevedon, where she stays when she comes back to the UK. It was her childhood home and where her dad and his wife still live. We often meet in Clevedon because it’s a special place for me too, but since we’d done Clevedon the last time she was over, we decided to do Bath this year.  

We bought bread, cheese, and some cured meats from Waitrose by the Pultney Bridge and walked across the bridge to the little park by the weir. We found a quiet spot and I set down the picnic blanket. After eating there was, for the first time, an awkward silence. Now, this is unusual, since I tell Larry pretty much everything that happens in my life – and sometimes in excruciating detail. As a result, she was there with me when I held my mother’s hand as she passed away, she was with me in intensive care when I was afraid that Ant would die of pneumonia and sepsis (he has had sepsis twice and nearly died on both occasions). This silence was because I’d only alluded to something in my recent letters. She knew there was something I needed to say and was waiting now for me to find the words. She is a very patient listener.  

The silence did become more than a little uncomfortable before I finally broke it; “Larry, you remember in my last letter I said that Ant and I were having some difficulties? I know I said that neither of us were having an affair.”  

“Yes,” she said gently, “you wrote the word ‘sex’ with a reference to Miranda Heart. I worried, I always do, but there’s nothing I can do from over there, just be somebody you can talk to, and I care about you.”  

I paused again, trying to find the words, trying to find a way to say what I wanted to say. In some respects, there was absolutely no need for me to tell her anything, except that I always had since we’d become friends when working together. Back then, there’d been louder, bigger personalities, but I was drawn to Larry’s calm way. We were very different in so many ways, but somehow remained friends – I think honesty and authenticity has been important.  

“Larry, I once told somebody that I’m a ‘vanilla gay’, meaning that I was just a plain guy who was attracted to other guys; it came up because we were talking about non-binary and all the new ways that gender and sexuality can be expressed. That’s not quite true..”  

“Are you bi or something?” There was element of more than just curiosity in her eye; I thought I knew what assumption her mind had leapt to.  

“No, I’m not bi. I’m only attracted to men.” That was it: she’d been afraid for a second that the reason I’d stayed in touch with her was because I carried a torch for her. “You know trans men and women?” She nodded, and a different light went on in her head, but there was also another look of fear. “Wow. This is really hard to explain,” I started to breathe heavily, the anxiety building.  

Laura smiled kindly and simply said “it’s ok, I am listening, you can tell me anything.” So now she assumed that I was going to tell her that I was a woman. I began again “ok, well, I think a trans person is somebody born into the wrong body – like a man born in a woman’s body or vice versa.” She nodded. Where do I go from here, I wondered? “Ok – uh – in some cultures there’s a third gender.” She tilted her head and said hesitantly “I thought that just meant gay?”. “Yeah, I think in some cultures it does, but it others it means something else, a kind of in-between gender; we don’t talk about it much – no I don’t mean ‘intersex’, that’s somebody with no clear physical gender, like they might have XY chromosomes, but don’t have any visible genitalia. I mean, I was born a physical male, but what I was born with was too much for me.”  

At this point she smiled. Larry might appear prudish sometimes, but her mind can be as filthy as anybody’s! I smiled back; I appreciated the break and I found it encouraging.  

“I don’t mean that I was born with a giant penis!” We both laughed, although nervously, “I have the regular three elements in my trousers, but two of them shouldn’t be there. Not for me, anyway.” This drew an astonished look, “I’m not sure I understand.” She said, clearly confused, but not appearing unduly uncomfortable.  

I listened to the sound of the water cascading over the dam and the children playing out of sight in the maze. In the distance I could hear the clatter of China and glass and the subdued chatter of lunchtime diners. I regathered my courage – “I know I don’t have to tell you anything, but you’re my friend and I’ve told you everything for years and it just feels wrong not telling you what’s been troubling me and keeping me awake and coming between Ant and me” I spewed the last sentence, not pausing for breath, “Larry, I’m going to have my balls removed, they don’t belong on my body, they don’t feel like me, I want them gone!”  

“So, what you’re telling me it’s that you have some kind of dysmorphia?” She finally said after what had seemed like an eternity. “How long have you felt this way?” I could see what I took to be compassion on her face. “I’m not completely certain, maybe all my life, but it certainly came into focus at university when I heard about eunuchs and the castration of slaves. I used to think I was abnormal, because I would get really turned on by the idea, so it felt like some kind of kink or fetish, but it doesn’t go away – it’s always on my mind and by some of the standard tests, it’s not a kink it is a dysmorphia and people actually do things about it.”  

Her expression became more intense as she asked, “what kind of things?”. Now this was going to be awkward, but perhaps details could be spared here, “some guys are so desperate to have their bodies the way they feel they should be, that they sort of take matters into their own hands, either by themselves or by another person who does amateur surgery, sometimes without anaesthetic because they are that desperate and determined; I’m afraid that I have kinda tried that, but I’ve not gone through with it. Some manage to go for surgical options, but that means traveling abroad because ‘eunuch’ isn’t recognised as a gender in the UK. I do feel pretty desperate myself sometimes, but I do have some support and some good friends that I’ve made along the way. Ant kind of gets it now, but I think it makes him sad. He said he likes my … balls”. The shyness that I usually feel when talking about this was beginning to reassert itself; I didn’t know how much longer I would be able to talk for.  

She sat quietly, digesting what is said before asking “What are you going to do?” Which, of course, is the real question.  

“I did try to reach out to the NHS, but as I said, they couldn’t help. I am trying to save to go abroad, there’s a clinic in Mexico that would sort me out. Ant has always wanted to go to Mexico.” I didn’t want to tell her about the other ways it could happen, the crazy things that men do to kill their testicles so that they could get them removed professionally.  

We sat listening to the sound of the water a while as the sun moved westward. I could see Larry thinking and wondered what was going on in her mind. Did anything I said make any sense to her? Would she accept me?  

I didn’t have to wait long; she stood up and took my hand raising me up and put her arms around me.  

“Thank you for telling me. Please be safe. And you really can tell me anything.” These were the words she said – and those were the very words that I needed to hear. Of course, I wasn’t about to tell all of my gruesome sexual fantasies and my colourful list of kinks, but I could tell her anything important. I could trust her: she was my friend.  

“Time for tea and cake?” She asked. It was after three now and she knew my family tradition of travelling the world looking for places for a nice cuppa tea and a bit of cake. “There’s a good place just down the other side of the bridge; it’s still on this side of the river.” And so we went, honouring one of my family traditions that I share with all of my friends.