My Name Is Shari

Sylvia and I married 30 years ago and had a ful and successful life which gave us a son who is now 16. Paul still lives with his mum, who is 48, in the family home in the north of England. I am now living in a crappy flat in a less than desirable part of town. But, I've only myself to blame I suppose, and it was only a matter of time before something had to give. Ok...I'm 54 now, just under six foot and twelve and a half stone. I'm in good shape, and work as a salesexecutive for a catering supply company. I travel a lot. It was nearly ten years ago when I first gave into a nagging doubt I had about who and what I was. We had flown to Paris for Sylvia's birthday, and had done the normal site seeing things. Arc de triomph nottredam etc etc. At threeish we were in a bar and I needed to piss. Sylvia was planning on doing some shopping and I was gonna have a few very expensive beers. She disappeared and i went downstairs to the toilets. I was thinking back to this morning when I had had. The former was by a short passage from the landing, furnished with remarkably well-fitting doors at each end. The room was nearly square, of a good size and lofty, but the walls were unbroken, save by the one entrance, light and air being derived from a skylight, or rather lantern, which occupied the greater part of the roof and was supported by four strong and stout wooden pillars.Further, the walls were thickly padded, while iron rings were let into them at regular distances all round in two rows, one close to the floor and the other about a height of eight feet; from the roof beams dangled rope pulleys in pairs between the pillars, while the two recesses on the entrance side, caused by the projection of the passage into the room, looked as if they had at one time been separated from the rest of the room by bars, almost as if they were cells. So strange indeed was the appearance of the whole room that I asked its history, and was informed that the house had been built as a private.
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