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I chopped off my willy!

I was hacked off with being a bloke, literally...


Published by: Kirsty English and Laura Hinton
Published on: 15 September 2011

My toes were squished up underneath themselves as I forced my feet into the most beautiful pair of five-inch heels. But, as hard as I tried, they just weren't big enough.
Slumping on to the sofa, my hairy toes glared back at me in protest. Let's face it, they were never going to fit - blokes weren't supposed to wear high heels.
‘Or women's clothing,' I sighed, looking down at the leather skirt and red velvet top I was wearing. But I loved the feel of the soft, silky material against my skin. Suddenly, I heard the front door go.
Jumping up, I tried hiding myself behind a couple of cushions, but it was too late.
My wife Linda appeared at the living room door. ‘Well,' she said. ‘I wasn't expecting this!'i
‘I-I...' I stammered, searching for an explanation. But there was only one. I was a 27-year-old man who loved dressing in women's clothing. A man who'd kept it secret from his wife, until now.
‘I-I'm sorry,' I said, feeling totally humiliated. She was going to go mad. How could she ever understand that the man she loved liked raiding her wardrobe?
Standing there though, a smile slowly crept across her face. ‘It's okay,' she said slowly. ‘Did you think I hadn't noticed you'd been raiding my make-up?'
‘Err, well, ummm...' I didn't know what to say.
‘I've noticed smears of foundation on your neck a couple of times, too,' she added.
I was speechless, never thought she'd be so open-minded.
We'd been married a year, but I'd been cross-dressing ever since childhood.
Even as a boy, my best friend Graham had been a cover - it was his sister Coral I'd really liked hanging round with, raiding her dressing-up box.
There was nothing better than the thrill I got from pulling on a skirt, and zipping myself into it. I felt empowered, applying lippy and dressing in luxurious, soft fabrics.
Of course, even I knew it wasn't something other blokes did, so I was shocked by Linda's reaction.
‘This really doesn't bother you?' I worried, as she handed me her blusher a week later.
‘It would be cruel for me to try and stop you,' she shrugged. ‘Now, I was thinking about popping into town and getting you a couple of outfits.'
For the next seven years, things were great, but then something started to niggle away in the pit of my stomach. I didn't love Linda like a husband should.
I wanted more and more to dress as a woman, and simply didn't have any manly urges.
‘You deserve a proper husband,' I told her. ‘Someone who can satisfy you.'
‘It does feel like I've lost my husband and gained a friend,' she admitted to me.
‘You've made me happy, I have to do the same for you,' I said.
Linda and me split up, but we kept my cross-dressing from our daughter Jodie.
Aged 17, it wasn't fair for her to try to understand this.
But then I slipped up. ‘Dad, is that red nail varnish on your toes?' she giggled one day.
‘Erm, yes,' I said.
‘And why would that be?' she asked, in that way only kids can. I knew then she was mature enough to understand. Jodie had inherited her mum's laid-back attitude, and wasn't bothered at all.
Soon, I didn't just want to dress like a woman, I wanted to be one. I felt torn, depressed and trapped in a body that wasn't mine.
But those thoughts terrified me, so I rebelled. Over the next few years, I had tattoes put on my arm, and grew a moustache. Even remarried in an attempt to feel more masculine.
Yet I felt like a fake. I was just pretending to live like a man... like I was pretending to live like a woman. I was lost and, when my second marriage fell apart, stupidly I turned to booze.
By day I was Andy, a council public response officer in scruffy overalls.
At night, I'd down five pints of Stella and become Kirsty - the name I'd wanted to call Jodie when she was born - wearing nail varnish and eyeliner. But I was tormenting myself with all this make-believe.
To the outside world I was a bloke, but inside I was desperate to be a woman. Sitting applying blusher one evening, I stopped and stared at my reflection. Dropping the brush, I began to cry.
‘I'm pathetic,' I sobbed, tears splashing off my leather skirt. ‘There's only one thing for it.'
I had to be a proper woman. I'd give anything to be one.
Stumbling to my feet, I drunkenly made my way downstairs. I knew just what I was looking for - my toolbox. There it was in the kitchen. And inside it was the Stanley knife I wanted...
I headed back upstairs to the dull grey bedroom I'd always dreamed of turning into a pink oasis. Slumped on to a chair, I took another gulp of Stella.
‘It'll numb the pain,' I snorted.
Then I lifted my skirt, and pulled aside my beautiful lacy white knickers. Instead of smooth, feminine lines, there was the awkward bulge of my privates.
They disgusted me.
Stanley knife in one hand, I grabbed hold of my penis with the other, took a deep breath and stabbed the knife straight in.
Pain ripped through my body but, as if in a trance, I kept going, hacking away at my penis. It felt like I was massacring a plate of raw sausages.
My white knickers were soaked in blood spurting from my mutilated bits and gushing down my legs. My willy hung on by barely a thread of skin.
It was only then it hit me. I was giving myself a DIY sex change.
Finally grasping the enormity of what I was doing, I realised I'd die if I didn't stop the bleeding.
One hand clutching my stabbed penis to try to stem the blood flow, I dialled 999. ‘Ambulance, please,' I gasped, suddenly sober, the pain hitting me like a sledgehammer. ‘I've tried cutting off my bits.'
I was rushed to East Surrey Hospital and, over the next hour, had a dozen stitches to reattach my manhood.
But that was the last thing I wanted. As I lay there, I felt numb.
‘Cut it off,' I begged. ‘I don't want to be a man.'
‘We can't,' the doctor told me. ‘And we can only discharge you if you promise to get help.'
It was obvious that's what I needed, and I'd do anything to find out why I felt the desperate urge to be a woman. ‘I promise,' I said.
A couple of weeks later, I saw a psychiatrist and was diagnosed with gender dysphoria - a icondition where a man or woman feel they belong to the wrong gender. ‘Hearing that is a relief,' I sobbed. ‘At last I know I'm not a freak.'
It was like I finally had permission to become a woman. So, I changed my name to Kirsty, started dressing like a woman and taking female hormones.
I even told my 89-year-old dad.
‘I'm going to live as a woman,'
I told him nervously, wringing my varnished hands.
‘Well, you've made a good job of it,' he winked.
Again, I was taken aback by how open-minded he was. Everyone's been wonderful, and that can only help me when I undergo my sex change operation next year.
It might sound crazy, but my DIY sex change fixed all my problems.

Linda Woodhouse, 43, said: ‘Andy's cross-dressing never bothered me. We'd have stayed married, but somewhere along the line the passion went. We're still friends, and I've always supported his desire to be a woman.'


Kirsty Cass, 49, Crawley, West Sussex