Middle School
I was finally sprung from the hell hole which had imprisoned my body and enslaved my soul, free to attend a public middle school, or junior high school as they were called in that town. It didn't matter that I had little first-hand knowledge of what public school was about. I had been exposed to almost none of the socialization which passes for education in public elementary school and was ignorant beyond belief regarding girls. Back in military school, by contrast, girls were brought in for a dance once a year and were viewed with the same sense of awe and disbelief one would accord a certified alien. I had little knowledge of clothing choices, confounded by undiagnosed red/green color-blindness, which made the constant butt of older junior high kid's hazing. I was on my way to becoming a complete introvert, terrified of speaking to my peers as I was not of their culture and self-conscious as one could ever be. In retrospect, I think I can appreciate how terrifying the outside world must appear to a prisoner who has been incarcerated for decades when he is finally offered parole.
I did manage to find a few friends--acquaintances would be a better word. I did not have a proper home to bring them. I was forbidden to bring them to our apartment and so I had to keep them at arm's length. It was probably best that I did not try to bring anyone over, as I never knew who would be walking in with my mother or if she would be dozing at table with a glass in her hand, having consumed whatever "adult beverage" was her current favorite. It was my job to clean up and turn a completely blind eye to this slice of Americana.
Perhaps it was the over control I lived under or my feeling that I was not experiencing the benefits accorded to the other boys, or (more realistically) a complete inability to understand why girls were not subjected to the forms of control inflicted on me which produced in me a fascination with becoming a girl. It was not the desire to physically and anatomically become female described so vividly and desired so fondly by transsexuals, as I had almost no knowledge of how girls were constructed. Instead my desire was to appear like a girl so that I would treated with the care and respect I saw them continually receiving. Having been instructed in masturbation at military school, I discovered that wearing girls clothing was a very stimulating adjunct. The softness of the fabrics and the trimming, oh the trimming, was completely unlike the clothing I was permitted to wear.
And so I used what little allowance I received and a certain amount of light fingeredness to acquire some items of girls apparel which I would wear while engaging in "self-abuse." A lifetime later, I discovered that the erotic and stimulating sensations derived from wearing girls clothing is a constant in the early lives of cross dressers, and that these sensations diminish dramatically later in life. Nonetheless, I got caught hot handed by my mother during one session of self-pleasuring. After a long harangue, intermixed with a beating which rivaled or even exceeded the ferocity I had witnessed in military school, she packed up my male wardrobe and schoolbooks, packed me, et. al., into cab and shipped me to the hotel where my father lived. I was confused beyond comprehension. First because I did not think I had done anything wrong, second by the shame I was being told I should feel for wearing girls clothes, third because I was being rejected by the only parent I had ever known (even if she was unbelievably abusive) and fourth because I was being sent to live with someone I had never known. I found it a bit curious that he lived a scant three blocks from an apartment my mother had while I was off in military school. Having no knowledge of what to expect, I cowered in a corner in the lobby, awaiting his arrival.
There was no communication between my parents so he really did not know why I had been dropped off on him. Upon his arrival and a, "Hello, I am your son," I moved into his castle, a smallish hotel room, outfitted with an elaborate bar complete with cut crystal glasses and elaborately decorated decanters. Years later I look back and wonder why he needed the decanters since he preferred to drink Irish whiskey, poured straight from the bottle into whatever glass was handy. My father was, like my mother, a well-practiced alcoholic, and a mean drunk at that. (As a result of my parents' alcoholism, contrary to many others who themselves turn to drink, I have chosen not to drink at all.) Many months later and only then because the administrators of the school I was attending became aware that I was no longer living in their district, tossing me out will very little warning, we finally moved to a small apartment and he arranged to have me enrolled in a different school. I was in high school by this time and this new big city school was substantially rougher than my old suburban high school. Having no acquaintances at this new school and being terrified of being viewed as weak, I acted aggressively. The gym coach noticed this and recruited me as a wrestler. While I had some fight in me, I could not focus or direct it and would go out of control endangering both me and my opponents. The same circumstances obtained in my relationships with girls: painfully shy and prone to display emotional and socially self-destructive actions with little warning.
Last Update: 12/28/2003
Web Author: Taffy@Cheerful.Com
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