by Stan Mason
‘What do you mean?’
Butch stared at him directly. ‘Think of it. You’re the first man ever to give birth to a child. Your body is male. Apart from the effect it’ll have on the child for the rest of its life, what effect will it have on our relationship?’
Bitch pursed his lips thoughtfully. He had no idea what the answers were to such questions. Only time would tell. But one thing was certain. His partner clearly resented the fact that he was going to give birth to a child. That much was obvious.
Over the months that followed, a number of significant changes took place. Bitch began to suffer from high blood-pressure which meant that he was admitted regularly into hospital for days on end until the level became regulated on a lower scale. During this period, his hair grew longer until he didn’t need to wear a wig any more, his brown hair reaching down to his shoulders making him look very feminine. His face narrowed somewhat to give him a softer, more attractive appearance, his limbs began to slim while the area around his pelvic girdle expanded. His breasts became much larger and the shape of his body became more feminine each month. In fact, when he wore make-up, female clothing and high-heeled shoes, no one would take him for anything but a woman. Eventually, his walking gait became extremely feminine and his voice pitched slightly higher to resemble that of a woman. It seemed that his body had finally made up its mind what it intended to be. Indeed, a simple surgical operation to remove his male organs would transform him into practically a complete woman.
While this was happening, a number of rumours began to do the rounds about him. People began to believe that he had been a woman all the time trying to make profit from pretending that she was a man and had become pregnant. There were many folk in the world who relished publicity to fill their small insignificant lives and, in their minds, Bitch Carter was one of them. Who did she think she was fooling by claiming she was a man and had become pregnant? Such a development was impossible... the whole world knew it. Therefore it had to be a publicity stunt! It had to be!
After carrying the child for nearly nine months, Bitch began to suffer sharp pains in his abdomen.
‘I think I’m getting contractions,’ he complained to his partner. ‘You’d better take me to hospital.’
Butch managed to get him into the back seat of their car and drove him there as fast as he could. The local Press reporter was standing outside with a photographer and a number of pictures were taken of Bitch being placed on a stretcher and carried into the building. He was taken to a private ward where a doctor examined him without delay.
‘I want the operation to remove my male parts after I’ve given birth,’ demanded Bitch after the examination. ‘I want to be a complete woman and you can do that at the same time you perform the Caesarian operation. Would you mind?’
‘We’ll see about that,’ replied the doctor.
He lay on the bed holding the gas and air tube which he used occasionally as the pain increased. Then, when he felt it was too much to bear, he called for the nurse by pressing the emergency button stating that it was time for the child to be born. They rushed him into the operating theatre and the anaesthetist quickly put him to sleep. Thereafter the operation took place which resulted in the birth of a baby boy. When Bitch recovered his senses, he found himself back in the private ward.
‘What is it?’ he asked urgently.
‘Oh, it’s a beautiful baby boy,’ informed the nurse smiling at him. ‘He’s absolutely gorgeous!’
‘Is he’s all right? All his fingers and toes?’
‘Yes, he’s got all his fingers and toes,’ replied the woman laughingly.
‘And what about the other operation... to make me a woman?’
‘They did that after the birth,’ the nurse told him. ‘You can relax. You are now a complete woman.’
‘Fantastic!’ exclaimed Bitch breathing a sigh of relief. ‘Absolutely fantastic!’
Despite the trauma of the two operations, his condition was not critical. He was allowed to leave the hospital five days later although he still felt rather sore and experienced some degree of pain. However, the nurse had given him two containers of tablets to ease his discomfort. On the fifth day, he returned home with the baby and looked on it lovingly as he placed it in a cot which Butch had bought a week earlier.
‘Well, what do you think?’ he asked jubilantly, staring at his partner.
Without speaking, Butch went into the bedroom and emerged shortly with a packed suitcase which he rested on the floor. ‘I’ve got some bad news for you,’ he said almost apologetically. ‘I know this is a bad time but I’ve got to do it now.’
‘Do what?’ asked Bitch looking at the suitcase with alarm.
‘I’m leaving you, Bitch.’ There was silence as though a thunderclap had just split the air.
‘You’re doing what? What about the baby? It’s your baby as well you know.’
‘It’s no use, Bitch. Look at you. You’re a whole woman now. Your hair, your face, your body, your breasts, everything. A whole woman.’
‘Well I can’t help that,’ retorted his partner. ‘Anyway, I’m the female side of this relationship, aren’t I?’
‘That may be so but I’m gay and it’s always been my wish to live with a man. But you’re not a man, you’re a woman. If I’d wanted to live with a woman I’d have done so in the first place. That’s why I’m going.’
And he picked the suitcase and left!
The Street Entertainer
In the year 1885, the city of Florence took on a velour of brilliance. It was absolutely magnificent in tone and in colour which attracted many tourists. Most of its staggering riches could be found in the heart of the city in and around the famous Piazza del Duomo. The square itself comprised the lofty cathedral, Santa Maria del Fiore, the second largest church in the world after St. Peter’s in Rome, boasting an exterior faced with white, green and red marble which made it a stupendous example of excellent Tuscan Gothic architecture. Next to the cathedral stood Giotto’s fourteenth century Capanile rising to a height of two hundred and ninety two feet, claiming to be the most beautiful bell tower in the world. After climbing its four hundred and fourteen steps, one could stare at a superb view of the whole city. Across the square from the cathedral the famous Baptistery of San Giovanni had been erected. It took Lorenzo Ghiberti, the Italian goldsmith and sculptor, twenty seven years ot complete the panels of the East Door in matchless bronze to be renamed by Michelangelo as the Gate of Paradise. The North Door representing Christ and the Evangelists was also Ghiberti’s work, while the South door was sculpted by Andrea Pisano. Behind the cathedral, the Museo dell’Opera del Duomo contained a wealth of treasures which attracted many visitors from far and wide. However, the Piazza del Duomo was only one famous place in the city. There were so many exciting features to see such as the Ponte Vecchio, spanning the River Arno, the Palazzo Pitti with its vast halls and salons, the Palazzo Vecchio, the old palace, the Church of Santa Trinita, the Medici-Ricardi Palace, and many others.
But to start from the very beginning, Henri Beaucaire was an itinerant street entertainer who had never been beyond the boundaries of his home country, France. Throughout the countryside, people knew him generally as a juggler but that was really only a part of his act. He had been born and bred in a tiny village near the Loire valley with a family of six brothers and five sisters. His father had been an ordinary peasant working the fields for a farmer for very little pay. Subsequently, the family had always been extremely poor and it was not surprising that all the children left home by the time they reached the age of twenty to find work more suitable to their talents and for better wages. Beaucaire was no exception to the rule. He had followed in the footsteps of his siblings but, instead of going to a main town or city to find work for reasonable pay and at the same time learn a useful trade, he had decided on the outdoor life as a street entertainer. His inte
lligence was low and juggling was the sort of work which amused him greatly. In fact he went much further than any of his brothers and sisters, travelling far and wide to end up eventually in Florence in Italy. It was his normal routine each summer and autumn to travel along the highways and by-ways in southern France enjoying the warm Mediterranean climate until he arrived at the next village or a town. As soon as he got there, he would start to perform, carrying out his tricks for just a few sous thrown into his cloth cap on the ground. Indeed, as the villages and towns he visited were extremely poor themselves, he was lucky to get anything at all. But he understood hardship and was grateful for the few coins received. Occasionally, when his cloth cap remained empty, someone would invite him into their home to share their dinner with him. It was usually rabbit stew but it was hot and tasty. After all, it wasn’t only the money which Beaucaire desired. Being slightly infantile in mind, it was his greatest pleasure to watch the faces of the children, bringing to their lives a small element of happiness even though it was merely a temporary respite from the harsh, wicked life they were all forced to suffer.
It was a period during which there was very little entertainment in France except for those who were wealthy enough to afford to go to the affluent nightclubs which were so popular in the major cities. Most people in villages and small towns simply stayed at home and drank whatever they produced from their home-made stills however ugly the taste. It was a fairly miserable life for the majority but then one can only make the best of what is available.
In time, Beaucaire became quite well known throughout the countryside as ‘The Little Juggler’. Indeed, little he was raising himself up to a grand height of five feet almost on his toes. His body was appallingly thin resembling the scarecrow which often confronted him on the farms that he passed. He had a shock of tousled black hair which was starting to bald at the temples, had grown a moustache which curled up at the ends and he stared at his public through large black eyes which seemed ready to pop out of their sockets at the slightest pressure. Beaucaire was not an attractive person to say the least. Worse still, he had one foot slightly longer than the other but this maladjustment didn’t interfere with his performance, mainly showing itself in a slight limp when he walked. His clothes were terribly shabby and, sometimes, when he entered a village a widow would produce some old clothes left by her dead husband which she gave to him. He wasn’t averse to wearing such apparel despite the fact that its owner had died. Quite the contrary. He followed the old adage that needs must when the Devil drives. If it wasn’t going to be used again, he was delighted to receive it. Alternatively, where one of the women showed him an element of sympathy, she would patch up his clothes for him so that he could continue his endless journey with grace. As far as his act was concerned, his stock in trade was a worn square of blue carpet, some old knives and plates, and six shining balls, all of which he treasured greatly. However, despite his good intentions to bring pleasure to people by his actions, his repertoire was totally flawed. He always began by telling a number of old jokes but they were really third-rate chestnuts that everyone had heard before which held little amusement for his audience. They began with a few ‘Knock-Knock’ anecdotes.
‘Knock, knock!’ he would call out in his shrill voice.
‘Who’s there?’ the children would all respond eagerly.
‘Isabel,’ he would reply in a most casual manner.
‘Isabel who?’ came the response from the happy crowd.
‘Is a bell really necessary on an old bicycle?’
They had heard the old joke so many times before that most of the crowd didn’t even bother to smile, let alone laugh. However, nothing seemed to deter him and he always started his act off with that joke regardless. One would have thought that, as a professional juggler, he would make up for the poor jokes with a brilliant performance of prestidigitation. However this was not the case at all. His skill at best was quite mediocre. His juggling was just about passable. The manner in which he threw and caught the plates and knives was hardly commendable although he never failed to win applause with his last act which was the climax of his one-man show. For this he stood on his head and kept the six shining balls in the air with his feet. Afterwards, he would catch them, spring to his toes, smile lovably at the crowd of onlookers who had gathered, collecting the few coins they had placed in his battered hat, before pressing on to the next village or town. He never cared much for riches of fame, not that either would ever come his way. Needless, to say, he only just made enough money to keep himself alive with regard to food and victuals. There was never any more to pay for any kind of comfort throughout the cold winter months. He paid no rent to a landlord because he couldn’t afford it. So he slept in barns and haystacks throughout the summer months, often under a starlit sky. Beaucaire never thought very much about the future. The present was difficult enough and he had to enjoy each day as it arrived. After all, the seasons came and went with unenviable regularity each year. According to his doctrine, one simply needed to survive. Yet despite realising that his life was unusual, to say the least, he enjoyed it greatly and his temperament was such that he was willing to suffer half a year of hardship for half a year of joy. Indeed, he was bent on pleasing himself without impinging on the life of any other human being.
One fine summer, he worked his way through the south eastern perimeter of France into Italy. He was not terribly patriotic by any means. It didn’t trouble him with regard to the location where he performed. As far as he was concerned, the world was his oyster and it was up to him to make the most of it. He had covered quite a wide circuit of villages and towns in southern France and rather than return to go on the same circuit again he felt it was time to search for pastures new. As it happened, he was passing a farm one day when he saw a man loading up a wagon with furniture. He was well aware that farmers always used the same furniture. On enquiring, he learned that the man had just sold his farm and was about to travel south-east to Florence with his wife to join the rest of his family who had settled there. After a brief discussion, he hitch-hiked a lift to accompany the man and his wife on the journey. When they arrived in Florence, he looked around and, as usual, became more than optimistic about his prospects. At last he had found his El Dorado... the legendary kingdom rich in precious jewels. Here was a city... not a town or a village... but a whole city where he could perform day in day out to thousands upon thousands of people. From his point of view, it was an Aladdin’s cave! After looking around for a while, he made his way to the popular Piazza del Duomo and laid out his small square of worn carpet on the cobblestones. He could not have been any happier. It was fantastic! Hosts of people passed by every day either on their way to work or to view the art treasures in the museums. He considered that he was in the right place at the right time, believing that he might be lucky enough to make a fortune in this place! Instead of performing in front of a few dozen people, he would do his act in front of hundreds of them! To his dismay, however, although many people did stop to watch him perform, most of the Italians were exceedingly poor. Many of them could only make ends meet for themselves. The rest were extremely mean with their loose change. In their opinion, their hard-earned coins were far better left in their own pockets than being donated to a foreign street entertainer busking in the main square.
Nonetheless, Beaucaire did reasonably well during the summer months especially from contributions by the tourists. He earned enough to buy some basic food each day, which mainly consisted of bread and fish and, more often than not, the takings would reach into a bottle or two of wine. At night, he slept in a corner of the square, covering his body as best he could with his small square of worn carpet. The temperature was relatively high in the summer time and there was no need to pay rent for a room in which to sleep which he could ill afford anyway. Life for the little Frenchman was modest as it always had been but he was euphoric about being able to perform in the square each day. Although his act still consi
sted of poor jokes and mediocre juggling it was, after all, the only thing he knew... the only thing he could do!
Life continued in this vein for a few months and then the seasons changed. As Summer passed into Autumn, which was soon left behind, the cold bit hard into the flesh during the early morning and late evening causing everyone to shiver and move on quickly across the square. They no longer had time to stand and stare at a street entertainer as the fangs of Winter closed in tightly. Beaucaire was not a saver. He spent everything he earned. Therefore, at a time when he most needed money for food, he suddenly found himself destitute. He soon realised that not only was he beginning to starve but his nightly place of rest began to freeze at night. Subsequently, his tiny square of worn carpet was of little use any more. He was seriously in danger of dying from hypothermia.
One morning at the end of January, a local policeman was doing his rounds in the square when he came across the street entertainer laying stiffly against a wall in the corner. At first, he thought the man was dead but on further examination he realised the juggler was still alive albeit seriously ill. It was patently clear that he had insufficient money to pay for a doctor and, as he was a Frenchman, the Florentine hospital would be most reluctant to accept him as a non-paying patient... especially if his condition meant that he needed long-term treatment. After some consideration, the policeman came to his own conclusion as to how to rid the city of the unfortunate Frenchman. During his tour of duty, he found a man with a wagon who intended to travel to Assisi, some eighty-five miles south of Florence, that morning. After speaking with him briefly, the wagon was brought into the square and, together, they loaded the little Frenchman on to the back of it. Without delay, the horse-drawn vehicle left the square and the street entertainer was carried out of the city together with his belongings. Out of sight, out of mind. It was as though he had never existed. Certainly, when Spring arrived the following year, no one would even care to remember he had been in the city.
