The Doctor Who Helped Me Become the Woman I Was

I’m fifty-one now, but what I’m going to tell happened when I was thirty-nine. For almost my whole life I was, to the outside world, a man like any other: work, routine, a family that suspected nothing. Inside, it was something else entirely. I spent my nights connected to the internet looking for people to talk to, especially men, to give air to that part of me that had spent years locked away.

I lived like that for a long time. More than once I even had to moderate the transvestite room in a chat, watching strangers appear and disappear, only wanting a little while and nothing more. It was one of those late nights when I came across Adrián, a family doctor from another province. He was different from the rest: kind, attentive, someone who listened to me without asking for anything in return.

At last, a man who didn’t see me as a sex moment.

We spent months meeting in the chat almost every night. I told him my worries, what I dreamed of becoming, everything I never dared to say out loud anywhere else. He told me about his day at the clinic, his difficult patients, the exhaustion of on-call shifts. Little by little, those conversations became the only thing I looked forward to all day.

One day we moved on to video calls. I wanted him to see me, even though my hands were trembling with shame. I turned on the camera without showing my face, just my body: my outfits, the wigs, the clothes I kept hidden in a locked suitcase. He liked me. He told me so with a naturalness that left me floating for days.

—For body hair and voice there are tricks —he explained one of those nights—. But for the chest there are no miracles. That only comes from hormones.

I kept that sentence like someone keeps a promise.

***

We’d been talking every day for more than a year when he was offered a partnership in a clinic in a neighboring city, less than an hour from where I lived. He told me he was going to accept, that it was an opportunity he couldn’t pass up. I nodded at the screen with a silly smile, excited by just one thought: at last I’d have him close.

A few weeks later I invented an excuse. I told him I had a mild pain in my knee, something that wouldn’t quite go away. We talked about it for several days until he suggested I come see him at the clinic. I froze. Letting myself be seen in person, in broad daylight, was exactly what scared me most.

—I can’t —I wrote—. You’d see me as something I’m not. I’m not ready to go into a waiting room dressed like this.

—There won’t be anyone there —he replied a while later—. I’ll give you an appointment outside visiting hours. I’ll open the door, you come in, and you change in the bathroom by the entrance. No one but me will see you.

I spent two full days driving myself crazy. I do it, I don’t do it. My head told me it was madness and my body kept pushing me toward the door.

***

The agreed afternoon I parked the car a street away and let him know. I got to the entrance, opened it, and locked it from the inside. The only light on nearby was in the bathroom. I told myself it was stupid, that I should leave. But while I kept repeating that, I was already putting on the dress, already fixing the wig, already touching up my makeup in the mirror.

I came out wearing heels. They clacked outrageously on that waxed floor, in that empty corridor. There was only light at the end, in an office. I reached the door and, head down, said hello.

He greeted me as if we didn’t know each other at all. I sat down in front of his desk, dying of embarrassment, without lifting my eyes.

—Where exactly does it hurt? —he asked, with the exact tone of any ordinary doctor.

And that farce, instead of making me uncomfortable, relaxed me. He was treating me like a patient, like a woman. He opened a file under my female name, asked me a couple of questions and, when he finished, let me go back to the bathroom. I wiped my face as best I could and drove home euphoric. Not because of my knee. Because of me. Because I had spent a whole hour existing as who I truly was.

***

He gave me an appointment for the following week. I counted the days, the hours, the minutes. The second visit went the same way, except this time he asked for a blood test. I let him do it without hesitation; he was my doctor. Two days later he wrote me: everything perfect, but come back to the clinic again.

That afternoon I arrived different. I didn’t lower my head. I held his gaze as I sat down.

—I’m surprised by how much trust you have in me —he said, watching me—. You haven’t even asked what the blood test was for.

—You’re the doctor —I replied—. If you asked for it, there must be a reason.

—It was to see whether your body could start hormones. And it can. If you want to, of course.

I was left breathless. I asked him how something like that was done without needing to identify myself, without papers in my real name.

—I’ll note it in your women’s file, as a hormonal deficiency —he explained—. The clinic’s gynecologist passes me the samples. But you’ll have to let me monitor you, with regular blood tests. No improvising.

I looked at him. He smiled at me. And I, with my heart in my throat, asked him when we were starting.

***

—First of all —he said, getting up—, let me check your chest.

I said yes without thinking. He was the first man who touched me there. He clearly enjoyed doing it, and far from embarrassing me, it turned me on in a way I hadn’t known before. He carefully unfastened the top, slowly moved the fabric aside and bared my breasts, still small, sensitive, the nipples hard from pure reflex. He took them in both hands, weighed them, pressed them lightly with his thumbs, and a gasp escaped me because the contact shot through me from one end to the other. He pinched one nipple softly and both of us laughed, but he didn’t let go. The laughter faded and something else took its place, something thick, suspended in the air of the office. He bent his head and ran his tongue over one, slowly, as if he wanted to taste all of my skin. I shivered, feeling the warm saliva on the tip, and he smiled when he noticed it. He licked me again, alternating brief sucking with caresses at the base of my breasts, and I arched on the exam table, breathing faster, my groin beginning to dampen beneath my underwear.

We talked a long time about how to do it: fast or slow. I chose the fast route, the riskiest, the one that would give results sooner. He gave me progesterone and estrogen capsules, samples that had clearly been given to the gynecologist. The schedule was one every three days, but we decided to start the first week with one every two.

A few days later I went back. He examined me and reassured me: the dizziness I’d told him about was normal. He drew blood again. The next day, his message: everything was fine. The following week, the same. Then he suggested increasing to one capsule a day of each.

I had no doubts. That week was hard, I was dizzy all the time, at home they noticed I was strange, I walked around half absent. But I didn’t complain. Every checkup came back clean, and I kept going.

***

After two months my nipples hurt unbearably. Clothing bothered me, the sheet, any touch. And then I started feeling them grow. That filled me with a happiness that’s hard to explain. At one of the checkups he palpated them carefully. He parted the fabric of the bra, brushed the areola with his fingertips and barely sank his fingers into the round, taut flesh, as if checking a ripe fruit. I moaned softly, because every pressure sent a sweet jolt from my chest to my belly. He bent down again and licked both nipples in turn, first one until it shone with saliva, then the other, sucking them with an obscene patience that made me press my thighs against the edge of the table. He let go of one hand to slide down my stomach, feeling my waist, my navel, the ever softer curve of my hips. When he came back up, he found me soaked between the legs and smiled as if he’d known it from the start.

—What pain —I whispered.

—They’re turning out so beautiful —he replied.

That afternoon he didn’t limit himself to exploring them. He laid me all the way back, opened my legs calmly and returned his mouth to my breasts, licking and sucking while with his other hand he rubbed over my panties, right where my desire was already throbbing. I writhed, gripping the sheet, feeling how each suck left me softer and hotter. The air in the office felt insufficient. He unbuttoned my skirt, lifted it to my waist and pulled my underwear down just enough to touch me better, brushing my opening with two fingers before sliding them in slowly, checking how wet I was. I felt the weight of his breathing on my skin and, when he started moving his fingers inside me, pleasure shot straight to my head. It hurt, yes, but I didn’t care at all.

We reached the fifth month of daily hormones. My body was taking everything in astonishingly well. The blood tests were perfect: there was barely any testosterone left in me, and my groin had no function beyond urinating. They were, literally, the lab results of a woman. That fascinated him and made him a little uneasy, fearing something might be slipping past him, but the tests always proved him right.

He was obsessed with my chest. In the sixth month, during an ordinary checkup, mine released a few drops of milk. He went mad with excitement. They hadn’t grown much —they barely filled an A cup—, but at last they were real breasts, not fat. He started buying me clothes. The body hair had practically vanished and my mane was already natural hair. At home, meanwhile, the atmosphere grew tenser every day; no one understood what was happening to me.

***

At the ninth month it happened. My doctor kissed me in the middle of an appointment, and I kissed him back with all the hunger I’d been holding in. On that exam table I lost my virginity. It was impulsive, direct, no detours. He lifted the skirt of the dress, turned me around to have me facing away, moved aside the underwear and entered me. Before doing it, he spread my buttocks wide with his hand, found my wet opening and rubbed the head of his cock against it, once, twice, three times, until my legs shook. Then he pushed in slowly, giving me time to feel how he opened me, how the thick head forced its way through and filled me with a burning pressure that tore a muffled moan from me. He held me by the waist while he kept going, centimeter by centimeter, until he was buried inside me. The initial pain made me clench my teeth, but it was immediately mixed with a deeper sensation, a brutal current running through my body every time he moved. He started fucking me with short, firm thrusts, taking the air out of me with each stroke. My face was buried in the table, my hands tense, my cunt soaked and open around his cock. He grabbed my ass with one hand and with the other pulled at my breast, squeezing it until milk came out again, sticking to my skin and his. When he changed the angle and drove deeper, almost all the way in, I felt a flash of pleasure so intense my legs went weak. Then he tilted my hips a little and fucked me slower, heavier, forcing me to feel every sway, every brush of his pubis against my clit, every slap of his balls against my thighs. And when he finished, with one last thrust and a squeeze on my breasts that ran through me from head to toe, I was left stunned, wrecked with pleasure on the table.

I let myself fall face down, feeling him withdraw slowly, his kisses on my neck and cheek. We stayed like that a long while, without talking. I was happy. I had wanted him since the very first message. I felt my chest wet: that squeeze had woken them and they’d let out a little more milk.

He sat up and helped me to my feet. He kissed me again, and again, repeating how beautiful I was, how much of a woman I was. I listened to him sitting there, still trembling, not needing anything else in the world.

—We need to see each other more often —he asked me.

—I can’t —I replied—. I have a job, I have a family.

***

The next morning he called me. The clinic’s receptionist was leaving and the job was mine if I wanted it. I had already started, on my own, the divorce proceedings. I said yes. I would even end up making some money.

From then on we saw each other every day. I was the first to arrive and the last to leave. The manager kept my situation secret, and for everyone there I was always Sira, with no further explanation. We went out to dinner and I was never anything else. His friends became my friends. In time I officially changed my name and sex, and ended up becoming his wife.

Today, so many years later, my blood tests still come back completely female. And I’m still, at last and forever, the woman that doctor saw before anyone else.