“There they go,“ I muttered to no one in particular, “baggy fucking t-shirts, formless trackies and bloody horrible dirty trainers. It’s disgusting.”

I could almost cry.

The school run and its procession of drab figures slouch pass my ground floor window twice a day, each time it's like a stab to the heart. The little ones are running and laughing, playing tag, shouting to unseen friends or generally enthralled at another bright sunny day.

Their parents? Slagging off such-and-such to another likeminded fashion conscious - not - acquaintance or glued to their phones inspecting the latest gossip bollocks from so-called friends.

Fuck it, I am crying.

For you see I had the great misfortune to be born male. At my age, there was little chance that in my pre-teen years my parents, let alone the medical fraternity, would have given me the chance to REALLY be the person I know I am inside. In these more enlightened days, parents are condemned by bigoted idiots when they recognise their little offspring are not quite as English society dictates.

They can confidently take the incredibly brave decision to let little Jonny or Katy grow-up with all the love, understanding and help they can muster to be the person that nature has cruelly denied. It's not that tricky to recognise your child doesn’t fit the mould, it really isn’t, but so many turn a blind eye thinking they will “grow out of it” or even worse look for a ‘cure’. The result? A life of tragedy. Plain and simple.

We have all seen the programmes on the TV. I’m sure you have from time to time? You know the ones, where the production company has chosen to single out a kid that has been allowed to explore their feelings despite being born with meat and two veg between their legs? And I must apologise straight away, my rants are purely from my perspective and the pain is just too deep.

Yes, I can appreciate why someone born a genetic female knows in their heart they are meant to be male, I have to as that would make me as bad as the bloody red necks who throw their cider cans at the telly. I’m truly sorry. I don’t wish to offend. But I’m bitter. And in terrible pain.

Not physical, although my damn joints are seizing up from too many years of neglect and a preference for strawberry trifle. Its mentally, probably the worst type of pain as there is no escape, 24/7/365 you exist in a state of perpetual limbo. Why? Because I’m stupid. And a coward.

I live alone, which you can probably guess.

I steal my eyes back to the parade. How dare you! I silently scream at the shapeless zombies outside; you can’t even see your kid balancing down the kerb with his out-stretched arms! They drive too fast down here for god's sake. Look, please! I even bang on the window, but of course, when they glance in my direction with predictable uncomprehending stares, they simply return to their iPhone screens just as quickly - my nets securely protecting my modesty.

A tear escapes and drops to the new carpet, joining so many of its brethren.

I live in perpetual twilight you see. Not daring to expose my rooms to the beautiful day outside for fear of ridicule and the pitchforks again. Oh, the housing association had been SO understanding the last two times, but they have made it pretty clear that I will not be allowed to move again unless I can manage to sort out an exchange. Fat chance. I was plonked on one of the worst estates in the area, I had to vacate the last place overnight and this was all there was available. Who the hell would willingly swap to come here?

This time I had to be moved to the other side of the city as my so-called neighbours had been that bad. And it wasn’t my fault! The nosy bitch next door had used the DHL parcel as an excuse to knock and barring a reply at the front had just let herself in through the back door. Like a fool, I had popped the cat out and forgot to lock it after. We hadn’t heard a thing. Well you don’t expect the local headcase to suddenly appear in your bedroom doorway, do you?

“What the FUCK!” was the first words I’d heard.

And despite the badly scripted porn films on xHamster, it didn’t turn out that well. I was enjoying some special time you see with my occasional-friend, her cock embedded in my mouth, clearly enjoying the attention I was giving going by her delighted moans. Stockinged legs, balanced over my shoulders, were rubbing my cheeks deliciously as I sucked the life out of her rod while pumping her tight pussy; the whimpers, unfortunately, serving to mask the not too quiet entry of the wicked-witch-of-the-west.

Meanwhile, my free hand was alternating between frantically rubbing my own lace encased member or stroking my sexy fishnets. It actually transpired that she had been standing there for 14.38 mins (when I had nervously checked the vid later) rubbing herself through stained Adidas trackies and pulling faces that will haunt me for the rest of my life. I must have hit the right keys going by the drool but that was until she was joined by her cohort and quickly realised, via the two remaining rattling brain cells in her skull, that her rep was in serious jeopardy.

They both had plenty to say.

“What the bloody fuck!”

“Fuck!”

“Shit, you dirty pervs!”

“Fucking pervs!”

“Disgusting fat pigs!”

“Fucking-bum-bandits!”

“I love the colour of those knickers!” but that may have just slipped out.

Poor Sally. She is a lovely girl but a little highly strung. Her cum hit the back of my mouth before I’d had an inkling she was close, making me cough violently and fall sideways. In the process, she’d toppled over backwards landing in a cramped heap on the wall side of the bed, displaying her beautiful suspender outlined posterior to the startled onlookers. If that wasn’t bad enough, the butt plug that had miraculously stayed in place, decided at that very moment to break free and shoot across the room, bouncing off the lead torch bearer’s ample chest.

Then the shit really got crazy.

Sally and I laugh about it now, well I think she does, I was blocked and deleted that night so it’s hard to tell. Damm shame really as her sissy-gasms were a delight to behold! Oh well. Her replacement can apparently do amazing things with a hairbrush so it’s all good.

And there goes the last of them, knuckles dragging along the ground as her junior school daughter screams obscenities at a passing teacher. Nice. And these guys are going to be entrusted to pay for my pension? They can barely count for god's sake. I turn away from the window, my twice-daily justification for the world’s plight dispersing to stained-magnolia terraced flats and overgrown semis.

Smoothing down my latest purchase, I head to the kitchen for a brew. A glimpse in the corner of my eye stops me in my tracks, yes I have mirrors everywhere. Sue me. And yes I look hot! Well in my rose-tinted eyesight at any rate. A girl sees what she wants to see, that’s unless you are prepping for a night out and then NOTHING works! This doesn’t go with that, that eyeshadow looks too slutty, blonde or brunet, heels or flats, plugged or commando? And to make it even more complex, lace or sheer, hold-ups or stockings, red, black or shocking pink, falsies or forms? The list is endless!

Guys just don’t understand; you give yourselves a quick rubdown with a manky flannel, fling on any old shit rescued from the laundry basket, apply a quick squirt of supermarket-own deodorant, pull-on foul-smelling footwear and fall out the door. That’s why I like girls. All girls. Well apart from the ones that troop past each day looking like they have raided the men’s section at Primark.

And that’s my issue. They squander their birthright! Ladies, you are so lucky! Yes, I understand you have to put up with men and their shitty treatment of you for thousands of years. But its changing. I have seen it first-hand on my degree course.

Ok. Let’s get this clear now, I might be the wrong side of middle age, but my brain is as sharp as always. Sharper if truth be told as it hasn’t been dulled by the likes of bloody social media apps. I’m doing a degree and doing it rather well thank you!

But one of the effects of being older than the bleeding lecturer is not talking shit. We matures see the world for what it is and these kids, sorry, young aspiring adults at seventeen, actually listen when I pipe up. No one has ever listened to me. It's unnerving. But on the quiet the lads question me. For all their worldly-wise views, they are still as scared of approaching possible suitors as I was at their age.

But I didn’t have to face being roasted on Facebook, or Instagram or whatever the hell they are using if I had gotten it wrong. The result, long dark nights tucked up in a shared student house scared silly about uttering a word. So I tell them to be nice, be respectful and above all else listen. If you want to share your life with someone your needs mean nothing, you give your all to that person and if you can’t they are not the one for you. It works. Usually.

But then you get the odd quiet one. They listen, but don’t join in. They sit in the shadows trying desperately not to be seen. They are the ones my heart goes out to. That’s was me. Is me. And sometimes they taste rather nice too.

Sorry. Where was I? Oh yes, squandering ladies. What do I mean by birthright? Well, it's pretty shallow to be truthful, you can wear what you like, where you like and look however gorgeous you want to!  No-one throws obscenities as you tottle pass on heels, no-one gives you a second glance when you have spent HOURS getting the shading right on your eyes, you don’t get pulled up on the size of your hands no matter how garish the nails and you definitely don’t have to hide your neck with lace chokers.

You are beautiful by birth! Don’t let the idiots put you down. Don’t hide within shapeless, nasty clothes. Wear pretty dresses, they are still comfortable. A quick splash of lipstick takes no time at all. Shoes don’t have to be ugly! I just don’t understand what has happened. Even a change to warmer weather doesn’t bring out the colours; blacks, greys and stained football shirts rule the day. It’s heart-breaking. I’m forced to wear junk, that comes with the male territory and I hate it!

I’m sorry, I keep crying like a rejected teenager. It's these tablets. Mostly. My chest is tender, and I shed a tear at the smallest thing. On the plus side that horrid 5 o’clock shadow is becoming a 10 o’clock one and my dresses no longer hang like that have been draped over a stolen mannequin from Burtons. All is looking good. Especially me. Tea, I was making tea while she gets ready! Mmm, one last twirl in the mirror. Click the kettle on. Was it one or two sweeteners she takes?

An embarrassed cough from behind triggers my well-practised twirl to good effect. The short black-lace skater lifting above my stocking tops as a well-rehearsed rebalancing on my four-inch sandals prevents me from having to reach out in mortal panic. You must get that just right or you’ll face plant the floor tiles girlfriend. Been there done that.

The vision in front of me made me gasp aloud. Simon, I mean Simone, stood framed by the glow from the hallway, her hair a glorious tumble of curls right to her waist. Her body. Oh my god, her body was to die for. She’d chosen to forgo the dress I had laid out for her, instead, she proudly displayed that luscious form as nature intended, well how nature should have bloody intended.

She wore the stunning pink satin basque I had bought especially, her golden skin contrasting with the dainty pink bows and stunning stockings that her perfect legs were made for. The white lace looked remarkable against her, so much better than on me! That’s why I had chosen royal blue for my ensemble, YouTube to the rescue again. Her small feet balanced daintily on two-inch heels, she was new and nervous and not too adventurous as yet. But her makeup looked like a pro had stopped by! All I could do was sigh, and I think, lick my lips.

She clicked forward across the kitchen, her beaming smile a testament to my good work. All the quiet ones really need is a little encouragement, a knowing nod, the faintest touch on the thigh to check for suspenders through jeans, looking out for the tiniest patch of missed foundation or something as simple as noticing a coy downward look when discussing how short the skirt was on that passing student.

My smile matched hers as I gently pulled her towards me and taking that first kiss, our lipsticks tasting like heaven. But to my surprise, her expertly manicured hand prised mine from her waist and placed it firmly on the large hard erection that had escaped her lace panties.

“Time for lesson four, I think,” she cooed into my ear, taking a nibble in the process, “take me to bed.”

Oh yes, I was definitely doing my part for equality.