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About the author:
‘Terri’ Peterson, was born August 19th, 1969, and spent what she referred to as ‘a miserably failed experiment in tyranny’ at a typical secondary school, where she was bullied relentlessly and made fun of.
She left with no regrets, a handful of qualifications for a career in banking, and bitter memories of time spent being the object of ridicule by her peers.
Being myopic, gauche, skinny and flat-chested, sporting a head of rich auburn hair, made her a daily target for abuse, which she escaped by becoming immersed in the fantasy world of writing short stories.
In 1987, she met and married, Simon Peterson and, in 1989 gave birth to her first daughter, Veronica. Erin, her second, followed in 1991, forcing her to put her career on hold and concentrate on being a full time mother.
Juggling a workload around earning money to keep a roof over their heads, she put together the semi-autobiographical story of a woman whose life mimicked that of her own.
The character Suzy Pym was born and a first novel, ‘Plaything’ written.
What inspired you to write your book?
I found that a lot of people in the Trans community were complaining that they were under-represented in fiction, and so I researched cross-dressing and feminisation, interviewed quite a lot of trans people, and "Danni" was written as a result. Oh, and it's free to download on Friday December 13th 2019 – Enjoy.
Here is a short sample from the book:
When I tell people that I didn’t know I was gay until I was eighteen, they think I’m either a liar, or a bit slow on the uptake. They’ll call it weird, strange, or downright queer, if you’ll pardon the pun – but they don’t realise they’ve done it. I never considered my sexuality at all up until then, never put myself in a box, or applied a label.
I went out with girls, had two long-term girlfriends; if six months, and fourteen months, can be considered long term? Yes, I had sex with both of them, but it was always mechanical, dull, and I think they could tell that my heart, and hard-on, weren’t really in it – even though I was up to my balls in vagina. I put it down to inexperience, a lack of biological savoir faire, shrugged my shoulders, and sort of ignored it, but hoped it would improve. Of course, it never did. Eventually, Chloe, my last girlfriend, was the one who suggested maybe I was more interested in boys than girls, but not in any unkind way.
At that age, the word “gay” is bandied about in lots of ways; mostly derogatory. This music is gay, that video is gay, and oh, you’re so gay, for example. I know that the gay community is currently reclaiming words like queer, in much the same way as blacks are taking control of the n-word, and maybe faggot will eventually be elevated to acceptable common usage. I know homosexuality is too much of a mouthful – in more ways than one – but then, so is ejaculate, I suppose.
Chloe is a petite blonde bombshell, with curves in all the right places, and I was envied by a lot of my peers for having her on my arm, and in my bed. Of course, none of them knew that we weren’t getting down and dirty on a regular basis. Anyway, one day, when Chloe and I are in my bed, after trying, yet again, to do the do, and to make Mister Happy really happy, keep dancing until the end of the party but, as usual, he lets his head droop, his stamina falters, and then it’s game over.
‘I’m sorry,’ I mutter for about the hundredth time.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ she says and, so far, I haven’t really worried about it at all. She pulls my anxious head around on the pillow to face her, and looks into my eyes,
‘Don’t bite my head off, Dan, but, ah, have you ever considered the possibility you might be gay?’
I didn’t bite her head off, or react badly to the idea, other than frowning at the suggestion, thinking about it for a second, and shrugging my shoulders,
‘Not really, why?’ I ask.
She looks concerned for me, forces a smile to her lips that I know is forced, but presses on,
‘I just wondered, that’s all. I mean, do you ever find yourself looking at guys and thinking, you know? Maybe, like, in the shower or anything?’
‘Not that I recall.’
Obviously, that isn’t true, because most teens spend a lot of their time checking out the opposition’s equipment; comparing it for length, girth, and whether or not they’ve a forest of pubic hair, or if they’ve opted to shave. I was as guilty of that sin as anyone else, although I have to admit that since my revelation with Tom, I’m not really that bothered about how it looks before we get down to the nitty-gritty, but more the way it moves. Sometimes a great oak from a little acorn will grow.
I don’t realise this, but she’s mulling things over, and in the back of her devious mind, she’s coming up with a plan; a way to solve the mystery of my sexual preferences once and for all.
I’d never met her cousin, Tom, and I didn’t know he was gay either and so, when we’re introduced at a party, I pump his hand, try to make my grip firmer than his in that macho competitive way we men like to, and grin inanely.
‘Hi, Tom, I’m Dan, Chloe’s boyfriend.’
‘Hi, Dan, I’m Tom. Chloe’s told me all about you.’
He’s telling the truth. Chloe has told Tom all about me, including the facts regarding my regular failure to put a smile on her lips, and a shiver between her hips. She has updated him on my limp dick syndrome, and she’s asked him to put on his Father Dowling disguise, and investigate the matter further. Of course, she hasn’t bothered telling me about it. I’m only her boyfriend, after all. Well, maybe her ex-boyfriend-to-be, to be precise, but she hasn’t told me about that either. That’s a surprise she’s laid on for me later in the evening, but not quite as big as the one Tom has for me.
The music gradually cranks higher, as does the muted conversation to be heard above it, food is consumed as if it may be rationed the following day, and alcohol hasn’t a prayer, whether it’s in bottles or cans; it’s an endangered species tonight.
Chloe flits in and out of a kitchen on gossamer wings, with a glass of white wine in one hand, and a cigarette in the other. I’m chilling by a window, chatting to a couple of friends from school. It’s pretty boring stuff; homework, teachers, girls, and who’s made it into the cricket, rugby or football teams this term. I’m gradually mellowing on a six pack of Bud, summoning the courage to help myself to a glass of vodka – I don’t do shots, they taste vile; and don’t even mention Jägerbombs.
Chloe beckons me into the hallway, out of the crush in the lounge, and out of earshot of the party animals. Her firm ripe tits press me against really abysmal wallpaper as her hips bump mine. Her hands are on my chest, and I’m expecting her to tilt her head and luscious lips to kiss me, but she has other ideas,
‘Look, Dan, I know this is going to be a bolt out of the blue, and the last thing you want to hear at a party, but I think it’s best if we call it quits, but remain friends from now on, eh?’
‘Really?’ I say, as though she’s pulling an April Fool stunt in the middle of June.
‘Well, the way things are, I just don’t see any future for us, do you?’
I have to be honest.
Mister Happy isn’t happy, and neither is she, but she has at least had the decency to think this through, and try to let me down as gently as possible, even though I’m not sure about the remaining friends thing.
‘Hmm, I s’pose you’re right.’
She smiles, lips pressed together in a thin line,
‘I’m always right, Dan, I’m a woman.’