I decided to write this to try to make sense of why I
feel the way I do and why I have such a strong feminine side. To maybe help
find a cured (if cure is the right word), regardless of what this cure and /or
treatment may be. I am not sure if what I say here could be considered reasons
or contributing factors responsible for my feminine identity. I feel though I
have to do something to try to save whatever life I have left.
I was born on Saturday, January 31, nineteen sixty
something (winking) in New York City. My father was an immigrant from Spain
that had only recently obtained citizenship after being an illegal for several
years. My dad was the disciplinarian in the house. He had a stern personality
and did not hesitate to hit my brother and me with a belt if he thought it was
necessary. Though I don’t think I would ever hit a child the way he hit us,
I’ve come to forgive him because of his tough childhood and adolescence. I
guess you can’t be a perfect parent if you grew up without a mom and left your house
at fifteen as he did. My dad did always make sure we were taken care of and
always had the best, and for this, he worked very hard. I remember him teaching
me to whistle at the pretty girls walking down the street but our bonding
experience had a lot to be desired. There was something I did not understand,
he would always be very attentive, affectionate and loving to my girl cousins
that would come and visit but hardly ever showed us the same affection. I was
convinced he liked them better. At the same time he would make me think that
girls were some kind of inferior being by saying things, in a derogatory tone,
like: “…don’t cry, crying is for girls” or making certain we knew he was the
boss in the house and my mom was expected to do the specific stereotypical
domestic chores of a woman. We never heard him say he loved or was proud of us
until we were adults. He never showed any confidence in us. Though I loved my
father with all my heart and I miss him dearly, during my adolescent years, we
never saw eye to eye and were always butting heads on several topics,
specifically the way he treated my mom. He never did hit her but, believe me,
there are other ways to make a person feel inferior and not loved.
I worked with my dad for a short while but it was impossible
to put up with him. In his mind no one could do things better that him and if
it wasn’t his idea it was a bad idea.
My mother was a U.S. citizen from a small town in the
south west of Puerto Rico, famous for their award winning coffee. I loved my
mom more than words can describe. She was a funny, vibrant, kind and loving
woman that everybody in the neighborhood adored. Mom was our protector from dad
or the ‘go to person’ if we needed something. I am certain I don’t remember her
agreeing with dad on the -...Don’t cry, crying is for girls issue - she was the
reason I looked up to women and couldn’t understand what was wrong with being a
girl in the first place. Unlike my dad people enjoyed being around my mom. Apart from her sense of humor, everyone loved
the way she cooked. She had an un-exhausting energy displayed when she packed
lunches for all of our friends in the neighborhood and took us to the pool in
Astoria Park for a picnic on hot summer days. My mom had no problem saying she
loved us, in fact, sometimes it was annoying (smiling). I sometimes would help
my mom around the house, as a matter of fact, my limited cooking skills I
learned from her. I could always depend on her if I needed someone to talk to.
She would give me her best advice but never judge me.
For the first nine years of my life I lived in Queens New
York. When I was about five we moved from Jackson Heights to a two bedroom
apartment in Astoria where my father had obtained a part time “super” job in a
rent control building that came with an attractively low rent. Dad wouldn’t
have to quit his dependable union job which provided us with excellent health
insurance. It was in this building where I would acquire some lifelong
friendships. It was also in this building where I first succumbed to the strong
desire and need to feel what it’s like to indulge in what is normally reserved
for the female gender, as in lingerie and makeup. My first memory I was about
six or seven. A cousin of my mom’s came from Puerto Rico to stay with us. Since
she was a young lady and we lived in a two bedroom apartment my brother and I
shared a pullout sofa bed in the living room and our room was given to our
guest for privacy. One day my mom and her cousin went out shopping and my
brother wasn’t home. My father was in the living room watching TV and half
asleep. I took this opportunity and entered my room where our guest was staying
and going through her things. I recall trying on her lipstick and a pair of her
nylon stockings (they were big in the ‘60’s), it was a gratifying and
exhilarating experience to say the least and the beginning to a lifelong
pursuit. I remember hiding under the bed when I heard my mom and her cousin
coming home. I don’t recall how I got out of that one, but somehow I did.
As a young boy I didn’t quite understand this behavior. I
now know that over the years it has developed and progressed into something
that has drastically affected my life and must be addressed. I want to believe
that my parents didn’t know or they simply didn’t know how to deal with it. I
believe that though it would be detrimental to me, my parents chose to ignore
it and hoped it would go away. There is a possibility that they did try to help
me, but without psychiatric expertise it would be an uphill battle.
When I was in the second grade, I didn’t know why but I
now suspect that, because of my aggressive behavior, the inability to stay
focused or because of the way I related to female classmates and teachers, the
school recommended I see a psychiatrist. I don’t remember how many visits I
underwent. I do remember my parents telling me that the doctor said that the
teachers were crazier than me. I always ask myself, did they simply refuse to
accept the diagnosis because of their lack of understanding? When I moved up to
the 3rd grade I was assigned to a special classroom with two
teachers for 9 kids. Shortly into the 3rd grade, both my brother and
I were taken out of schools and sent to Spain to a catholic boarding
school. I believe now this move was
probably my parents attempt to help me.
I was nine years old when we were sent to Spain to live
in a boarding school. It would be approximately seven years before returning to
the United States to the same apartment in Queens, NY.
At the time, Spain
was a country that embraced corporal punishment to an extent that today, it
would be considered felony child abuse in this country. I saw my parents maybe
for 5 months out of the whole time I was there. I was terribly sad and
depressed for the first year and cried myself to sleep in more than one
occasion. The school we were attending was coed. Though I displayed a tough
personality, was in the wrestling team and soccer team, my secret desire to
explore femininity didn’t go away and resurfaced once again. Though I was
attracted to females I secretly wanted to be like them, I felt I had more to
admire in their gender that I had to admire in my own. A girl could be gentle,
sensitive and didn’t have to hide her emotions.
They were colorful and much more expressive than boys
Once I found a tube of lipstick and kept it. I tried it
on and it made feel good about myself, kind of relieved. Another time I stole a
pair of pantyhose form a desk drawer and wore them to class under my pants.
These are only a few of the things I did to indulge my need to feel like a
girl. I knew this behavior was socially unacceptable so I did my best to keep it
secret. Though I found myself sexually
attracted to women, I fantasized that my female teachers, in fact any adult
woman, would dismissed this attraction as silly and were there to teach me to
accept my femininity and how to act accordingly. I began looking at women as
role models and would secretly mimic them. I envied everything about them. How
they carried themselves and socialized. They way they dressed and groomed
themselves. I suppose that like any young adolescent girl I wanted to wear high
heels and lipstick, I wanted to be pretty.
Sometimes I was allowed to spend a few days at my aunt’s
house (my father’s sister). I believe that she either knew or suspected my
secret. I remember one time she made me try on a girl’s bathing suit on the
pretense that she was fixing it for her daughter. It made me feel good, but in
an attempt to keep my secret, I protested until she agreed to let me take it
off.
Still in Spain, at age thirteen or fourteen I began to
experiment with masturbation. At the time my most common fantasy was
visualizing a beautiful woman forcing me to serve her. She would instruct me to
dress like her, kiss her feet and perform sexual acts on her for long periods
of time. Though I never was attracted to boys, eventually the fantasy evolved
into a woman teaching me, by example, how to perform sexually as a woman. After
ejaculation though, I felt ashamed, embarrassed and scared. I would do my best
to suppress these fantasies and hoped they would go away. But as time would
tell they only progress and evolved.
My first sexual experience was with a prostitute in
Puerto Rico, I was sixteen. Though exciting it wasn’t a very memorable
experience.
At age seventeen I inadvertently had sex with a man for
the first time. I had a gay cousin that use to come visit my mom often with his
boyfriend. They were both in their mid to late twenties. Having socially
unacceptable fantasies of my own, I felt I had no right to judge them. So I
thought I would play the cool cousin that understood and accepted them. One
time, on a Friday night, they invited me to go to a dance club with them to
have a drink. Though hesitant, I didn’t want to appear to be a prude. After a
little convincing from them, I agreed to go.
On the way there
they confessed to me that we were going to a gay club. I felt very
uncomfortable but hid my feelings; after all, I was supposed to be the cool
cousin. Once there, they lit up a marijuana cigarette, convinced me to smoke
and bought me several drinks. I was feeling a little loose when a man came up
to me and asked me to dance. I nervously laughed and declined. Between my
cousin and his boyfriend suggesting it was just a dance, no harm would be done
and the way I felt, I agreed. It was an awkward and uncomfortable feeling.
After the dance I gathered all the will I had and convinced my cousin to leave.
In the car they suggested I stay at their house because he didn’t want my mom
to see me in my condition. When we arrived they lit up another funny cigarette
and shared it with me. We had more drinks and talked for what seemed like
hours, I eventually confided in them my secret.
At some point they began to make out in front of me. They
took off their clothes and proceeded to have sex on the pullout sofa bed while
I sat there in front of them on a living room chair. They invited me to join
them. I felt cornered and confused so I told them that I couldn’t do that
unless I had a picture of a woman doing it and I was dressed like a woman. My
cousin, seemingly upset, got up, went to his room and returned with a pair of
high heel shoes, a tube of lipstick and a pornographic magazine. In what seemed
like a demanding tone, he told me to put the shoes on. He grabbed me by my
cheeks and applied lipstick to my lips. He turned to a page on the magazine
where a woman was engaged in fellatio. In a friendlier but stern voice he told
me to get on the bed look at the woman on the picture and try doing that to his
boyfriend. I hesitated but felt almost forced to comply with his request. I
looked at the pictures and fantasized about the woman ordering me to do as she
does. I began to feel excited.
I don’t know why
but it made me feel good that he was enjoying what I was doing. I continued
until he was finished.
I remember the next morning I was ashamed and disgusted.
I went to the bathroom and vomited for several minutes. I threatened my cousin.
I told him what I did was a mistake and if he ever told anyone I would kill
him. I never spent another night in their house.
My fantasies remained the same as before that experience.
I hid them and felt that I could control them to a point by repressing them as
often as possible. I lead my life acting like a tough guy. I got stereotypical
tough guy jobs i.e.: police officer, truck driver etc. I dated girls every
chance I got, I did enjoy their company. I secretly still had to fantasize
about being forced to sexually serve them and dressed like a girl in order to
have sex with them. I did manage to keep these fantasies to myself for a long
time. However, except for my two eventual marriages, none of my relationships
ever lasted long.
When I was 26 years old I secretly started building a
feminine wardrobe. I would buy makeup, clothes and especially high heel shoes
through mail order catalogs. I would have them delivered to a post office box I
set up.
In a pornographic publication I found transsexuals
advertising their services. They had pictures posted on the ads and some of
them were really beautiful. Before long I incorporated them into my fantasies.
I began fantasizing that they were teaching me to be a woman and forcing me to
accept my femininity. I decided I had to meet one. Maybe I could learn about
myself through them. After all, how could they possibly judge me? One day I
gathered all the courage I could and called one of the ads. She was really
friendly and we arranged for a meeting at her place. I didn’t want to hide my
secret with her, so I made sure I shaved my body and I wore pantyhose and a bra
under my clothes. When I arrived at her place I was impressed at how attractive
she was. She was talking to a girlfriend that was visiting her and suggested I
go in her bedroom and wait. Within a minute or so she entered the room and
asked me what I liked. I acted like an embarrassed and speechless school girl.
She took charged and ordered me to take my clothes off. When she discovered
what I was wearing underneath she started laughing, opened the bedroom door and
allowed her still present girlfriend to see me like that. I was embarrassed
beyond belief but totally helpless. She told her girlfriend she’ll call her
later and closed the bedroom door. She took off her clothes except for her sexy
high heel shoes and her panties. She assumed a dominant role and forced me to
have sex with her as a girl. I’ll avoid
further graphic details, but I will say that I complied with all off her orders
and it was extremely pleasurable. At the end she said: “well, how do you like
being a girl?” “Fun huh?”
I had many more similar experiences while carrying a
normal male life on an everyday basis. I always managed to keep my secret life
secret. At age thirty I met this incredibly beautiful topless dancer. We had a
lot in common and enjoyed each other’s company. After dating for a while we became
engaged. I realized that though it may end our relationship, I had to confess
to her the truth about myself. To my surprised, she found it kinky and it
didn’t deter her at all. I thought this was it. I would be able to have a
normal life while keeping my secret in the bedroom. She taught me about makeup,
dressing and things like being brand conscious. We had great sex because I was
able to be myself and dress in my preferred gender. We would fulfill each
other’s fantasies. She would call me and order me to dress up all pretty. She demanded I wear makeup, a pretty dress
and heels so we could go out to the clubs. She would teach me how to walk and
act feminine and I was simply expected to follow her lead. The relationship
ended in divorce after three years when I discovered she cheated on me. I was
devastated but we did remain friends for a long time.
I returned to my
old ways. Seeking out transsexuals for acceptance, I met a pretty one in a club
I patronized. After seeing each other in the club a couple of times and hours
of conversation, she learned about me. I confess to her that I secretly envied
her gorgeous breast. She smile and said: “anyone can get these honey” One time
after several drinks she invited me to her house. Once there, she asked me into
her room to show me her wardrobe. She insisted I try on one of her tight
fitting dresses that had a leopard print design she also had me put on a pair
of high heel pumps. I did, she complemented me on the way I looked. It felt
good to me to be complemented. Before I knew it we were kissing and feeling
each other up. She suggested I take some pills. I asked her what they were and
she told me they were hormones. I immediately refused. She insisted and assured
me there is nothing to worry about because breasts don’t grow overnight.
However, the thought of what I was taking and her being so insisting, excited
me. She had me sit down in front of her and had me inhale something from a
small bottle which I later learn was a type of amyl nitrite commonly used in the
gay community for its aphrodisiac effect. After inhaling this product I became
unexplainably and extremely excited. She laughed at me, exposed herself in
front of my face and ordered me to open my mouth. She forcibly grabbed me by my
hair and ordered me to satisfy her. Because of the inhaler, my excitement was
beyond explanation. I labored like a pro. I occasionally would look up at her
sinisterly smiling face for approval and compliments on the job I was
doing. I felt I could not get enough; I
closed my eyes in extreme passion and anxiously waited for her to finish in my
willing mouth. I remember occasionally looking at pictures of famous female
movie stars on her bedroom wall and fantasizing they were encouraging me to
submit to my feminine desires. It was this transsexual that, in the pretense of
the (teacher/ student relationship we had), convince me to start taking
hormones in a regular basis. She taught me how to inject them and became my
supplier. She was probably the one person that, for the first time, made me
feel and treated me like a real woman.
(To be continued…)
