This is not so much a sex story as a love story with sexy bits and, if you're not into the whole transgender thing, there aren't many of those either.
But I hope you enjoy it anyway.
This is the eighth and final chapter. It won't make any sense at all unless you've read the others.
Enjoy
*****
Time may change me but I can't trace time.
I woke surprisingly early. Andy, my Andy, was still sleeping soundly; gently snoring on the other side of the bed. I needed to use the toilet so, grabbing one of Andy's tee shirts to use as a nightie, I got up out of bed.
And then it struck me. The room was different. The obvious change, the thing that first caught my notice, was that Andy's FHM poster had gone. In its place was a print of the Arnolfini Wedding; a long-time favourite of mine. That made me look closer and, there, next to the bed, was a framed photo of the two of us by which I mean Tiff and Andy, not Tom and Andy. It must have been taken somewhere hot as he was wearing shorts and I was in a bikini that left precious little to the imagination.
I didn't exactly panic but my heart was pumping as I looked around the rest of the room. The dressing table was covered in a mixture of male and female items. Sure, the aftershave and the cufflinks were his but I'm sure the Givenchy perfume, and the hair brush, and the nail varnish, and the lipstick and... and...
I went over to the wardrobe, suspiciously bigger than the one I remembered, and looked inside. Either Andy was a secret cross dresser or...
My bladder wouldn't let me look any further so I went through to the bathroom and did my business.
There were so many questions, so many unknowns. It had been bad enough when I had first found that I could change but this was more, much more. I was having problems taking stock of what was even happening this time. It wasn't just me that had changed; the whole world had changed around me.
As I sat on the toilet I rested my hands on my knees and, there, on the third finger of my left hand....
'Oh my god, I'm engaged!' I screamed internally. 'Where the heck did that come from?'
And that's when the 'new' memories started. I could still remember the dinner party but this time there was another version, a version where, together with our best friends, we were celebrating our engagement. I remembered Jen and Patrick's delight and the bottle of bubbly and the general sense of joy.
Which party had happened? Which party was real?
I finished off and, as I washed my hands, I looked in the mirror. There around my neck was the necklace. There was one thing I had to try. I reached up behind my neck, undid the clip and... and nothing. No dizziness, no sign of a change. Nothing. It was just an ordinary, if rather pretty piece of jewelry.
Still holding the necklace in my hand I went through to what I still thought of as my room. Not any more. It had changed to some sort of cross between a spare room and a study. I opened the desk and, somehow, I just knew where to find the passports. There was Andy's and there, next to it was mine. Tiffany Jane Roberts with that rather fine photo from the time when Andy had insisted that I get my portrait done and the photographer had thrown in a passport photo for free.
And I could remember the incident as clear as anything, as clear as that holiday in the Algarve, the one where I had worn that rather outrageous bikini, the one where we had had so much fun, the one where we had bought that necklace I loved so much.
I went through to the kitchen and put the kettle on. There on the ledge was the usual pile of mail waiting to be put away. One of the items was my payslip. I opened it up and looked at it. Same company, same pitiful wages, the same T. J. Roberts on the address label outside, the same everything except that, when I opened it up, the name of the employee was Tiffany Jane Roberts, not Thomas John Roberts.
