Hi. I’m Joy, and this is a true story. I’ve changed some names to protect those who didn’t know better or who didn’t care, but the circumstances described are true.
I have to explain a few things first, so you don’t come into this story thinking that this story is going to be what it is not. I’m not transitioning over to full female all the time. I’m not gay, and I’m not ashamed or humiliated with who and what I am.
At least, not anymore. I used to be. I was worried that I was a freak, that I was evil, that I was someone that everyone would hate if they found out about me and my depravity. It’s what I was told would happen by example and by indirect means. But it’s someone who I am and always have been.
I’d like to say that there was one event that made me this way. All I can say is that I have always felt this way, like a girl in a boy’s body.
Don’t get me wrong, part of me likes being a boy, but there is a part that is just as strong that likes being a girl too. If I had my perfect universe, I’d be able to morph back and forth between male and female, and I’d be rich so I could afford all the things I need for both bodies.
See, if I had one complaint about the current crop of stories out there, it would be the rampant riches that are normally displayed. Lawyers, doctors, Captains of Industry, high powered executives mean that it’s easy to get the things that the characters want, since it’s only a matter of throwing money at it.
So, my story:
I can’t remember a time when I didn’t want to be a girl. I have some memories of being young and looking at the frilly dresses and wanting them on. I couldn’t understand why I couldn’t have ruffles and flounces too. I got talked out of having pink as a favorite color and into blue.
I guess I was lucky, I got some things that were girls. My mother had a pair of zip-up boots that were lined nicely for winter wear, and I got to wear them whenever I wanted to. I was about 8 and I remember it being summer and having those on under my jeans. It made walking on the sewer-pipe bridge over our creek really hazardous, but it was worth it to have them on.
I also remember finding a glove that was meant to be for a cowgirl’s outfit. I remember wanting a real cowgirl’s outfit, skirt, boots, top, goves and hat, for myself. I remember my grandmother who made clothes being over at our house for a while. I vividly remember writing a note for her asking for a full set of cowgirl clothes for my birthday, as long as she hid it in a cowboy’s outfit to keep my parents from freaking out.
I gave that note to my young cousin and asking her to give it to my grandmother when they got back to her house. I also remember being mortally embarrased when I saw her giving that note to my grandmother while sitting in my living room.
I got talked to because I snatched that note out of my grandmother’s hand before she opened it. I was told that I was rude and that I should do that again. I had already destroyed the note.
Later I remember being on vacation with my family at my aunt’s house in Mobile Al. We had dome many hours of swimming in the Gulf of Mexico, and I got to see my aunt in her one piece swiming suit. It was beautiful.
Late that night I tried it on in the bathroom where she had hung it up to dry. And from then on, I wore it for about an hour or so each night late at night.
I don’t think that there was a time from then on when I would be over at someone’s house where there were girl’s clothes that I didn’t try something on. Prom dress, dressy dress, swimsuit, skirts or whatever. I do know that there are many girls who wound up with a dress that had a split seam or a messed up zipper. Much to my shame.
I know I ruined many of my sister’s clothes. It was a real curse being the oldest and the only boy, and my nearest sister was 7 years my junior. That meant that absolutely nothing she had would come close to fitting me. And many ballet outfits or dance costumes were broken.
There was only one incident that could be counted as anything near being positive. My maternial grandmother was selling a bunch of old clothes in a yard sale, and one of the outfits was a majorette uniform with all kinds of silver sequins on it. I tried five times to get it, and couldn’t figure out how.
Finally I asked for it, praying that it wouldn’t be a big deal. And my grandmother got it off the rack, took me back to her room and helped me try it on. To that point I was in heaven. Then she screached “Oh, he’s so CUTE!” which brought my mother and aunt with squeals of delight. I was mortified and didn’t show my face for the rest of the day. I snatched the beauty of that outfit off as fast as I could and climbed into the closet and hid.
I even outgrew my mother’s clothes. She only had a very few things that could fit, and I had long since failed to be able to put on her size 7 shoes, but I could force myself into her 1950′s swimsuit. You know, the ugly one that had that pannel in the front which was supposed to be modest?
That’s how I had my first orgasm.
I lived in terror that one day I would be found out. My father was always talking about how I had to be a man, and how I had to tough it out, how I shouldn’t wear my heart on my sleeve and how men didn’t cry. I was told every day that what I was could never be good enough. My mother depended on me as a male and the head of the household after my parents divorced. So I had to stay as a male when every part of me wanted to be in frills and lace.
I had done everything I could to squash these impulses, but I couldn’t. Apparently it was bad enough that once my mother caught me in the bathtub removing some long hairs that had somehow gotten wrapped around my penis, and she thought that I was attempting to castrate myself. She freaked.
So I was scared to tell my parents. So when I had grabbed my mother’s swim suit and hidden it in my room, and I would wear it to sleep in occasionally, I was really paranoid about it.
It was very late at night, about 1 AM or so. I had been talking to the overnight DJ on the radio and I was getting ready for bed. I had her swimsuit on and was laying down, rubbing myself through the material. Then I heard my mother on the stairs.
Heart in my mouth and knowing I was about to be beaten to death, or shamed to a point of suicide, I snatched the suit off as fast as I could. Which was JUST enough stimulation to start the inevitable reaction.
My penis started pumping and I came all over the place. It was in my face, my hair, on my bed, on my hands and everything. I had no clue what had happened and thought I had broken something. I was mortified that my mother would come in and find me with all this all over me and then that she would see the suit and absolutely kill me.
And my shame burned very hot.
So I snuck and stole. I wasn’t proud of it, but I took things from relatives or from strangers. Once even from a store. I didn’t know how to be open about what I wanted and needed to be. I told my mother once, and it was a disaster.
It was around the time I was 15 and very confused about my sexuality. I knew I liked girls and that I wanted to have sex with them, but at the same time I wanted their clothes. I wanted to be in their pants, literally. I had friends who were girls, but none that were male.
I had always been told that I could discuss anything with my parents. Yeah, right. I tried. I couldn’t tell Dad, mainly because of the “be a man” speaches he gave me all the time, but I went to Mom. I talked to her about this and what I was feeling.
Her response? “It’s because you want to have sex with girls, not that you want to be a girl. Ignore it and it will go away.” Then she sent me to a shrink.
Looking back with 20/20 hindsight, I had a perfect opportunity to talk about this with the doctor. But I chickened out. I didn’t tell him about what I was feeling or what I wanted. I never spoke to him about this transvestism because if my mother rejected me, what would this stranger do? Mothers were supposed to love you no matter what. So a stranger would ridicule and heap humiliation and shame upon me.
At the time I was Mormon, so that didn’t help. Talks about chastity and controling your animal urges, more lessons on being a good man and father, when all I wanted was to wear a bra and panties. Homosexuality wasn’t talked about in the Mormon church, and this wasn’t even whispered as a possibility.
I got along as best as I could, working my backside off to prevent anyone from finding out. I looked at lingere catalogs, cut the swimwear sections out of the catalogs, studied the dresses in the magazines. I took Home Economics and Parenting, both with a 20 to 1 ratio of girls to boys. I was raised as a girl, may as well act as one.
See, I am the only male in a family of 4 children. Myself, and three sisters, Sally, Pam and Sue. Mom had the philosophy that skills around the house were needed by anyone, and that learning how to iron your own clothes and wash them as well as cook and clean would be a good thing to know when I finally left the nest and got on my own. And she was right. But the problem was that for the most part, I got the domestic side of things and the girlie lessons. I understood female anatomy, I went to Tupperware parties, Mary Kay parties, I sold Avon for a bit, I attended a party where purses and wallets were sold at a workplace. I was learning how to be a proper housewife.
With no father there to help me learn the male side of things, I felt my female part taking over. I couldn’t help it. Most nights I slept with a longline bra on, with light stays and hook and eye closures up the front. It felt right.
I used to pray at night, every night to be turned into a girl so I would be over this torture. I had been told that God was benevolant and that He loved us and that He would never torture us. Therefore I couldn’t understand why I didn’t wake up with female parts. I wanted them, I needed them. I knew I was a girl.
I would put my mother’s makeup on. I got pretty good at it. Sally caught me at it once and she helped me take it off when Mom came home unexpectedly. I still didn’t know what was going on.
Still no girlfriend. I had no clue about how to relate to girls. I didn’t want to have sex with them, I wanted to examine their bodies for fit of their bra and how things were shaped. I loved women’s fashion. I tried to be with girls, or even women, I really did. I was affectionate, had a couple short term girlfriends who were turned off by my desperation. Nearly raped one girl in the hallway of Summer School in a desperate attempt to be a man. It didn’t work though.
Not able to express my male sexual needs, not able to be the girl I knew I was, I was a morass of pain and unexpressed need.
Then I went to the Army. What a mistake that was.
I was able to buy female clothing for the first time. Walk into the PX, pick up a leotard and walk to the front of the store, pull out my wallet and pay for it. Simple, right? Not when you expect to wear it.
See, there’s a thing called “fit”. If it doesn’t then wearing the lycra and spandex is torture. And unfortunately I didn’t have a clue how to check for fit in girl’s things.
See, men don’t try clothes on in the store. We go to the rack, find a pair of pants we like, check the size and compare that with the mental numbers we have of what our size was last time we did this. If it’s too big, you use a belt to cinch it in hard, and if it’s too small, you suck in your gut and diet for a while. No problem.
But girls, they have all kinds of special measurments. Men buy a shirt that is Small, Medium, Large or Extra Large and don’t worry about anything else, except maybe the neck size. Women have the sizes ranging from 2 to 22 or so, in even numbers. Then there is the bust size, the neck size, the wrist size, the sleeve lenght, the waist size and the torso length. That leaves the average man so confused that they can’t figure out how to buy clothes for girls.
Now take the average male of the species, tell him that he has to know all those sizes without being able to ask anyone to help him find out what those sizes are, and you get a formula for a lot of wasted money. Added to that the purchase/take home/try on/too embarrased to take back for another blouse cycle and there’s a lot of hit or miss there.
And god help you if you are a male who is browsing in the lingere section of the store. You get looked at like you are a pervert or something and basically stared out of there. I used to keep a cheep ring I bought in my pocket so I could slip it on my left ring finger and say it was for my wife.
If things had gone on like that for any longer than 23 years I might have had to kill myself to stop the pain. But luckily I was able to find a wonderful woman who not only understood, but who encouraged me in my crossdressing. She helped me from day one. She helped me pick out bras and panties, stockings and hose, helped me find my shoe size in women’s shoes, introduced me to my first pair of heels. She was larger than is fashionable, so many of the things that were too small for her she let me try on, and I was able to wear skirts and a blouse for the first time ever.
I was still terrified, but when she kissed me while I was wearing makeup, I nearly cried.
Over time I was able to get my courage up more and actually start going out in my girl’s clothes. Unfortunately for me I was never able to pass without comment. And I got some really bad ones occasionally.
One retail store that sold remaindered clothes for a massive discount was a favorite stop for my girls stuff. I was able to purchase things and take them home, since now I knew most of my sizes. It was still very hit or miss since the sizing info changed from maker to maker, and I didn’t know it, but I loved being able to go in there and walk out with a dress or a nightgown.
That stopped one day when one of the salespeople hurled an insult at me. I pretended not to hear it, but I left soon after and never went back.
But I could and did still walk outside with my clothes on. By this time I had a child and I was a housewife, literally. I was the stay at home and my wife worked. I thought this would be the life I could live and die comfortably in. I assumed everyone thought that the baby was mine, and she was, just not in that way.
There were times when I would hold my daughter to my breast and let her suck when she wanted something in her mouth, but wasn’t hungry. It made me feel like a woman and a mother.
Then one night I was nearly attacked and raped by a drunk.
I was out walking, about 11 PM through the local shopping mall. There weren’t that many people around, but the road nearby was a well traveled one. I had my purse, a skirt on, my peach fitted blouse, my hair was done up and fixes in a bow in the back, and I had makeup on. I was looking in the window of the local head shop looking at some of the leather restraints and I heard a car drive up behind me.
A drunken voice offered me a ride. I ignored it and started walking to the lighted area of the building. The car crept along and kept making “hey mama” kind of comments. I slipped my hand into my purse to ready the knife I had there, just in case. He apparently saw that and started hurling curses about how I was being a stuck up bitch and a fucker and thinking I was all high and mighty because I was white and a girl and he’d show me a thing or two….
The police driving by scared him off. I went home quickly and shook for hours.
There were other incidents. Like when my wife and I were buying my corset, my first. It was custom made by a guy in a store that catered to transvestites. He was supposedly the best. $300 for this, custom made to order and delivered in two weeks. Got there and no corset. He threw it together and while I was trying it on, another customer of his who was simply using the taylor services offered came down and started ranting and raving about the poor quality of work this taylor did. He made some cutting remarks and then threw an insult at me about his faggot girlfriends. I always wished I had stood up to that bully.
We fell on hard times, had trouble finding a place to sleep, much less being able to dress as I wanted to. The dressing and the exploration of that part of myself fell to the wayside totally. Several years passed.
The impulse has never gone away. It has only been recently that I have been able to explore it again. But I fail at that too. I’m not dressing all the time, nor even part of the time. Occasionally is more like it. That part of me is still around, still gets expressed in various ways with my wife, and I still clean somewhat and try to keep the house neat.
That is unless I’m depressed. Then I don’t want to do anything. And I’ve been out of a job for about a year and a half. No offers, occasional temp jobs, not nearly enough money to make ends meet. I feel horribly guilty when I buy a bra or some panties because mine are dead from being worn for years and years. I don’t fit my clothes anymore. A couple skirts, one blouse, stockings and shoes. That’s it. My makeup is dead, all dried up, I have no haircare products or hair to use it on (since I have to have short hair for the professional look). My corset is dead, and I’m not sewing my clothes anymore. To make matters worse, years of shaving have made my hair on my body thicker and darker. I can’t go a day without shaving.
All I have now is fantasy. I look at stories, read manga, watch Sailor Moon and Bleach and Tokyo Mew Mew and dream. Heck, I even found myself watching Rainbow Bright the other day and dreaming about being a girl again. I have Barbies I don’t play with, and now I’m 40 and the sterotypical old guy wierdo transvestite.
I apply for jobs as me, apply for jobs as Joy, and I still don’t get them. Heck, I applied for a maid’s job in a hotel, and that was a no-go. I wonder why?
My dreams and flights of fancy are wonderful. I can be a girl with all the plumbing (yes, I would go through the worst cramps, bloating and PMS immaginable if I could have all the parts. I’d trade places with ANY girl on the planet for that), orgasm twenty times a day, feel a penis inside me, instead of having to walk carefully to not have my penis get squashed between my legs. I could have all the clothes I want, and I look beautiful in them.
I roleplay a lot. In most, I’m a girl, a woman. I play online as a she, and I’ve been told that I play the best female for a guy that many have ever seen. I was so happy with that.
I want to go to a prom as Joy. Long gown, gloves, updo hair, makeup, corsage and so on. I got to wear a formal once at a party and I loved it. My wife was in a tuxeedo, and you should have seen how the people in the Tux store looked at her when she wanted a tux.
Now I’m only living through stories. I can be Cinderella, I can be Beauty. I can have corsets, and change my gown five times a day with a maid to help me. I don’t have to worry about money. I can have someone take care of me. I can be a kept woman.
Almost any price is worth that.
Hell, if I could wear my heels out sometime while going to the grocery store, I’d be a happy girl.
The impulse never goes away. You can bury it, you can deny it, you can be macho and do everything you can to cover it, but it never goes away. It’s who you are. May as well give in.
And the purpose of this is not to upset anyone. The stories really DO help. They reawake that part of me and make me dream again. So don’t stop writing them. Don’t stop sharing them. I love reading them.
Just not the humiliation and abuse ones? Please? They cause me to flashback too badly.