A Transgender take on Human Reproduction
My interviews with brothers Bertie and Lionel Cooper.
From my book Where Babies Come From — a collection of interviews where I asked people:
1 How did you learn the facts of life?
2 What facts were they?
The setting for these two interviews was a Piers Luxon Bespoke party in the Cotswolds. Bertie and Lionel were waiters. I was the floor show, as Madame Galina Ballet Star Galactica.
Bertie, 20, was sporty, gorgeous of jaw, wearing black jeans so tight his balls were easily visible squished one or either side of the great divide.
Bertie
‘Aged eleven, biology, we were sat down two to a desk to watch a video of a family of nudists, all coming out of their bedrooms one at a time. The film would pause itself for you to see all their bits with a voice-over elaborating. The real actors faded to cartoon characters for the, What went where… details, including helpful cross-sections of thrusting.
The teacher, Mr Simmons, later distributed condoms for us to fit correctly over cucumbers and carrots. He gave detentions to anyone who made a water balloon. He so didn’t want to listen to what I had to contribute.
I’d started on sex early. I was raised around sex and fun, turned on by lots of shit. I was a Mowgli and a hawk eye; very free and frisky.
I lost my virginity during a threesome on an upturned boat in Cyprus. I got me, Sonny and Sophie going at everything I’d seen up till then.
Though we three really had nothing to offer.
Little nuggets.
We were six and a half.’
Lionel, 17, wore light make up and a black, lace stock instead of a bow tie.
(Bertie clearly tries hard to be Lionel’s ally. Lionel’s response to this is mainly grateful, sometimes exasperated.)
Lionel
‘I remember one time my granny — mum’s mum — defending me from my dad. I missed whatever it was he said, but I heard granny answering that I was just peevish. I know Bertie sees our childhood as being all free and easy. And possibly it was for him, but it wasn’t for me. Nobody’s fault, just what it was.
I read a lot. And was young getting onto dystopian fiction. The Hunger Games where no kid is excused on account of their gender. I might be reinventing understanding that as a concept — applying it to me. But from very young I didn’t think I should be a boy. Certainly not a boy like Bertie. Not that I resented him as an older brother — we’ve always been really close, actually.
When Bertie had Sex Ed lessons, he set himself up as an expert for the teacher to call upon as needed.
Obviously…
Mr Simmons told him. “We know about your trip to wherever at whatever tender age, Albert. Pipe down.”
Mum had been called in to see the head after Miss Caterham read Bertie’s essay, My Summer Holiday.
Bertie said he wondered when my year came to do Sex Ed lessons what I would make of them.
The lessons were the bog standard, What swells up to go into what gets wet…
I could feel my penis wanting to turn in on itself. Not the fear of there being teeth down there — I’ve read about that — just totally against the whole penetration aspect.
And not that at the time I was wanting to have the female experience. That followed later.
I absolutely wish I menstruated. I feel I have a woman’s psyche. I want to give birth. Nurture.
Nowadays, Dad grins and bears it over my dressing like this. Mum was half-heartedly giving off the idea she was comfortable with our girly chats, so I stopped us having them.
Bertie’s also very frank with me that women aren’t as a species automatically happier than men. We have an aunt that’s super-morose. He says I could still be unhappy once I’ve transitioned. But will support any decision I make.
I’m now of age and can look into hormone therapy, get things moving. Bertie says in the interim we’ll go and live in some Scandi commune where it’s all free and easy.
I hope, through scientific developments, research, whatever, that I’ll at some point be able to give birth.’
