Synopsis:

This is a story about life’s regrets and about the transition from a young boy to a grown woman. This is a story about the price each of us has to pay, to be true to our inner selves, and become what we must be.

Story:

 This story remains my
property, and may not be posted on any other website or published without my
written consent. - Nicole Braun

 Chapter One: A
Strange Meeting 

To say that I was nervous at that moment would have been an
understatement. I think every hair on the nap of my neck was standing on end. I
was in panic seeing her standing there in front of me. I could only stare in
astonishment at her, unable to speak. I feared she knew everything. I thought
she had found me out. Knew what I was doing, and why. 

I should have been paying more attention to my
surroundings, but I hadn’t. I had already finished my brunch. I never eat a
breakfast or a lunch, just a brunch. One cup of coffee when I wake up is all I
can take. It takes me a few hours before I am able to eat anything. 
Dinner is the only meal that I take seriously, and I take it very
seriously. Always visiting the very best restaurants available in the towns and
cities that I’m in. My brunch and my dinner are all the meals I need nowadays.
It’s been that way since she left me and I finally stabilized in my new
lifestyle.

 Having finished my brunch I stayed seated at my table
at the open-air café in Miami Beach. I was taking pleasure in the cool
mid-morning sea breeze flowing around my legs and through my hair. I was
savoring the last remnants of a luscious cup of Cuban coffee. My laptop was open
and I was answering emails to my stockbrokers, financial advisors and friends.

 I had felt safe, secure and anonymous at the café.
She was the last person I would have expected to see in Miami Beach. She should
have been back in Denver, far away from me. Yet she was here at my table.

 It seemed like everything was moving in slow motion
until she repeated her request, “Excuse me, I don’t want to disturb you,
but all the other tables are full, so I was wondering if I could sit at your
table.” Holding up shopping bags in both hands as a reason, “My feet
are killing me.”

 Wary and knowing that if she knew what was going on,
that an unsightly clash could not be avoided, I shutdown and closed my laptop. I
than pointed to the empty chair saying guardedly, “The Cuban coffee here is
excellent.” If I was the purpose she was here, it was going to get very
ugly, very rapidly.

 It was the look of delight, which than became visible
on her face, as she sat down, that first hinted to me, that she not only
didn’t know what my plans were, or what I had already done, she did not even
know who I was… her ex-husband.

 Even though it had been only a little over three
years since our divorce, I should have realized, that after all the changes I
had been through, she never could have placed the now me, with the man I had
been than. To tell you the truth, I seriously doubt that my own mother would
have recognized me.

 It was during our conversation that I began to recall
so much of how she really was, before she did to me, what she did.

 It was she, or better said, what she had done, that
led me to my new lifestyle, and to the settling of scores I was planning… my
final step in freeing myself from the anguish and distress she and others had
heaped upon me.

 It was during that first conversation at that Cuban
Coffee shop that I altered my plans. My new plan, what I was going to do, would
insure a far more lasting pain, almost equal to that, what I had suffered at her
hands. She would not only feel the pain of betrayal by someone she loved, she
would feel as much of a loss of self-esteem, as I had felt. 

 Before I go on with on with this story though, I’m
going to have to retrace and explain why I am who I am, and how it all came to
be.

  

Chapter Two: A Little
Boy Not Wanted 

How can one fully describe the life of a child growing up
neglected and abused to someone who has never endured such a life? I don’t
think it can be done. Every time I have tried to explain the whys and
wherefores, there are always the little pieces missing. The little pieces that
made such a big difference.

 People always seemed to think of abuse and neglect in
terms of the scars left behind, the brutal actions taken, but it’s not so.
It’s the everyday supple and constant hammering on the psyche of a child,
which pushes them down so far into denial, that they see their abusers as their
protectors, and their protectors as their abusers.

 It took me years to finally accept the facts as they
really are, to acknowledge that I had been abused and neglected, and to see
their justifications… as nothing more than justifications.

 I began psychiatric counseling shortly after my
divorce, and will remain in counseling for many more years. I recognize that
there will always be imperceptible scars and festering wounds deep in my psyche.
The very fact of “who and what I am” today, physically and mentally, is a
stark reminder of this.

 My only sibling, Tom (4 years older than me)
took after our father. My father Jack is of Austrian/ Italian decent and at
6’2” and 215 lbs (mainly muscle). He had a volume that could not be
overlooked. His Italian heritage gave him that hairy, always with a 5 o’clock
shadow look. His personality was imposing, aggressive and overbearing. He loved
his beer, he loved his women, and he loved his football… and all of them too
much.

 My mother Annette I took after in ways. She is of
Norwegian and German decent of families that had immigrated to the homesteads of
Oklahoma. Her and the women of her family are petite, slender and small
breasted, some times to an extreme. She is somewhat middle-of- the-road amongst
her kinfolk, weighing only 110 lbs at a height of 5’2”. Her skin was what
one would call alabaster. Even though she had raven black hair she could never
tan, but only burn when in the sun. In her youth, her skin had been without
blemish or freckles. She had been very beautiful and graceful.

 Her major problem, and the major reason for the abuse
and neglect that I suffered, was that she was a hypochondriac, and because of
that a drug addict.

 Her personality was what one would call weak and
labile or unstable. She could seem loving and caring one moment and bitter,
angry and brutal the next. You never knew in advance.

 During her lifetime, even in her teens, she had been
in and out of trouble with the police for drug usage, more times than anyone can
remember.

 So between, my mother being in jail or in a “mental
ward” drying out, and my father (and brother) being in jail for
drunkenness and fighting, you could say that my family was dysfunctional.

 I never had to live as “a ward of the state”,
but there were many times that that option had been considered by the
authorities.

 The first justification to my being abused and
neglected was that I was not a wanted member of the family. My brother was “the
son”, the strong manly son that they had always wanted. I was the other
son, the son who had taken the place of the daughter that they should have had. 

  Oh, I
knew that part well! I had it hammered into me so often, far too often, so that
even I accepted their form of reasoning as being the truth. It was told to me in
so many words and shown in so many ways.

 Words spoken were sometimes very direct,
“You may be a part of this family, but that doesn’t mean we have to love or
accept you”, to having my mother point out some woman or girl and say, “She’s
just exactly like the daughter I should have had instead of you.”

 Somehow in my mother’s hypochondriac and
drug-demented mind, she took this “fault of mine”, to an extreme. In
her fantasy world, her daughter would have always been there to take care of
her. All the problems caused by being caught “doctors shopping”,
driving under the influence, all the pain that she suffered, and all the time in
jail or in mental wards would never have happened. I was at fault for that and I
needed to be punished.

 So punished I was...

 Some times I was beaten. Never was I viciously
beaten, but nonetheless, many time I had black and blue marks all over my body

 Most frequently, punishment was enforced by other
means.

 As a small child I spent many nights and days locked
in closets, or slept nights in the cold basement.

 My bedroom consisted of the old and cast off
mismatched furniture of others.

 My clothing was always hand-me-downs, or bought at
the Salvation Army store.

 The first birthday party I ever had, was during the
first year of marriage, to my wife.

 The only time I ever saw the insides of a doctor’s
office, was when I had an uncontrollable asthma attack. I never saw a dentist.

 I was not allowed a social life either in grade
school, junior high or in highschool. Those few friends that I did have were
those asocial geeks and nerds that no one else wanted to be friendly with. After
school I was always required to come home directly and do the housework,
cleaning, cooking and washing clothes. So even they had little to do with me,
but only at school. My family purposely pushed me into the position of socially
being the nerdiest of nerds, unwanted and undesired.

 Yet at the same time my brother always had the best
that they could buy. When he was old enough he was given a car. His teen parties
were wild bashes. Our parents always looked the other way when booze and sex
with wild girls were brought into his parties. “That’s how a real man
should act.”

 My first sexually related encounter was during one of
these parties. Friends of his decided to use my bedroom, and the bed I was
sleeping in (at the time), to fuck their latest slut. It was a three-way,
and they didn’t even stop long enough to kick me out of my bed. I lay there
flabbergasted, watching it the whole time. When it was over the girl left last,
giving me a slobbery wet & salty cum tasting kiss. I was 11 when that
happened. It wasn’t the only, or last time, such happened to me. My bed was
used habitually for such escapades, and seldom did it matter if I was in the
bed, or not.

 The other pretext (and perhaps the most
significant) was how I looked.

 All through grade school and junior high I was the
smallest in my class. Even the most petite girl was at least an inch or two
taller than I was.

 As said, I took after my mother. I had her fine raven
black hair, her alabaster skin, and her fine and feminine facial features.

 To make matters worse, my torso was short and my legs
were long. I had wide hips and a bubble butt, a small waist and thin shoulders.
All the hand-me-down jeans of my brother were always too short in the legs,
tight at the hips, and the belt needed to hold them up, bunched them at the
waist.

 I was very asthmatic, and never could excel at any
sports. In fact, most sports I was not allowed to participate in. The only
physical exercise that I did was the 2-mile walks to and from grade school/
junior high, and later the 3-mile walks to and from highschool. All this seemed
to do was emphasize my long slender legs and my bubble butt.

 My voice? When I squealed people plugged their ears.
Even in highschool I had a high tenor voice. Singing and music were my only
non-academics back than. One of my much-loved pastimes was to sing along with,
and imitate, the female singers on the radio.

 Since getting
my hair cut was an expenditure that didn’t need to be done, most often my hair
was of such a length, that many times I was addressed as Miss… as if I were a
girl. (My mother in hearing this, took malicious pleasure, “rubbing my nose
into” what had happened, or been said.) 

 So in school I was the sissy that almost everyone
picked on. At home I was the boy that should have been a girl.

 There were three shining lights in my childhood. The
illuminations that kept me from wholly giving up, and mentally dying, were my
great aunt Madge, reading, and a neighbor lady named Janice.

 My great aunt Madge was a spinster lady, who during
the summer months, I was sometimes allowed to visit. Those weeks and months
living at her old farmhouse were the very first visions of a sane and peaceful
world that I had ever had. She was the one and only person that I truly felt
gave me unquestioning love.

 She was a kind and gentle soul, who never spoke an
angry word, or laid a hand on anyone, in her whole life. Until the day she died,
and even after that, she always gave more to others, than she received.

 Once I learned how to read, reading opened up worlds
& knowledge, I never could have dreamed existed. During the deepest darkest
times, when I had lost all other hope, the visions created by these books kept
me going. I became fanatical at reading any and every thing I could get my hands
on. Knowledge was, and later became even more so, my sword and defense.

 Even though Aunt Madge and books changed my life
unquestionably, Janice was the one influence to my life that created the
inertial driving force that made me what I am today. Without her, there would be
no me.

 As with so many things, it started out very simply,
very innocently. My mother (when she wasn’t bombed out of her mind) always
took me with her to the neighborhood women’s coffee klatches. She did this
because many of the women were younger mothers with little babies or children.
Since these babies and children were always a bother, I babysat for them during
this time.

 I actually enjoyed these coffee klatches. I liked
tending babies, and the conversations were always interesting. Not the least, I
always did get my fill of cookies, cake and soda pop. Some times a few of the
mothers even gave me a few dollars for my efforts.

 At one such coffee klatch Janice misguidedly asked my
mother, “Do you think your daughter would be able to babysitting for us on
Saturday?”  The laughter at my
mistaken gender sent me red-faced scurrying away to tend the babies.

 That evening my mother informed me that I had a job
that Saturday night, a job that would actually earn me some money.

 

Chapter Three: A
Troubled Time of Change

 Part of the motivation, why my mother allowed that I
take the babysitting job, was that Janice was one of those women (having a
resemblance to the women in our family) that my mother had picked out. To
show me how I should have looked and been. Had I been the daughter, I should
have been.

 Janice was in fact, that very woman that my mother
most often used, as an example, to prove my failings. Janice was good. I was
bad. In my mother’s mind, my being more around Janice, being in her house and
seeing her life, would only rub in deeper the salt into my wounds.

 What happened, my mother could never have foreseen.
My mother’s sole intentions were to punish me. She was not in the slightest
bit interested, in changing me into the fantasy daughter, she had never had. I
doubt, even today, that if she had had that daughter, that she would have been
pleased. Reality can never be, as good as fantasy. Yet, no other person changed,
or formed, me more than did Janice.

 Janice’s home, her husband, her family and her life
were everything my dysfunctional life and family were not. They were a kind,
caring, loving young family, and Janice was an extremely intelligent, and
beautiful woman. Her husband a caring husband, without the machoisms of my
father, and brother. He was a man who took pride, and joy, in his family, and in
his work.     

 My first babysitting job went off without a hitch. My
next babysitting job was already booked, before I left their house that night.
As weeks, months and than years went by, I became a more and more, a constant
figure at their house. I also became less and less, a figure at my own home. I
was spending afternoons after school, and many weekends, helping Janice at their
home, with her housework. I tended the babies, so that she could go out shopping
alone, to have some free time, for herself.

 What was important for my development at that time
was my infatuation for them, as a family. Janice became my role model.

 With them in my life, I finally saw the light shining
at the end of the tunnel, and my mother could do nothing about it. Janice (her
fantasy daughter) was my protector. Janice could do no wrong, and if Janice
wanted me there, I had to be there. Their house became my haven against the
cruelties, of my family, and the outside world.

 Ted became my image of what a real man should be
like. I revolted slowly and totally against the image my father and brother
presented. The mental image I have even today of a father… my father, is the
image of Ted. I haven’t seen him now in years, but many times during these
last years, especially these last two, I wished I had had his strong caring
shoulders to cry on.

 What changed my life forever was Janice. In the
beginning of our relationship Janice represented to me, the image of what a
mother and a wife should be, but she was also my image, my role model, of what a
person, and a feminine woman, should be.

 I would like to say that she took over (in my
mind) the image of my mother, just as Ted became my father figure, but
events happened that kept me from seeing her as such than, and only now, am I
slowly understanding my thoughts concerning her, and how she was essential in
forming me, and who I am today.

 Puberty never hit me strongly. What I first noticed
was of course getting horny and having hardons all the time. It didn’t take me
long to figure out how to masturbate, and it became (after reading) my
most favorite past time.

 Janice had always fascinated me, but now she became
even more for me. Where I idolized her before for her personality, I now
idolized her as a sexual, sensual woman. I was seriously infatuated with her. I
had loved her before as a close friend, but now I was “in love” with
her.

 Yet as a teenager I had also put her on a pedestal
high above me, only attainable in my deepest darkest fantasies. As a physical
woman, she became untouchable, for me.

 Still, within me was such an overpowering desire to
somehow unite, to bind myself, with her, my idol, my best friend, my role model,
and heroine. My desire was sexual in nature, but more than just sexual. My
desire was born of love, but more than love. My desire was born of adoration,
but it was more than adoration.

 What happened, and brought about for me this unity,
began with an act, not uncommon to happen, amongst teenage boys.

 Janice had a woman’s feminine fetish for lingerie
and clothing. This fetish went beyond the natural love women have for clothing.
For Janice clothing was the essence of feminine sensuality and was an essential
part of her sexuality. I have never since seen any woman, with so much and so
many different kinds of feminine lingerie, as Janice had.

 It was not unusual for me, at times to see some of
Janice’s feminine underwear. At home, I had for years been doing everyone’s
laundry. I thought nothing of helping Janice do their laundry.

 But with puberty raging in my loins, it didn’t take
long, for me, to bring her lingerie, into association, with contact to her, and
with women in general.

 After that it was only a step-by-step evolution from
caressing her lingerie and masturbating, to wearing her lingerie and
masturbating for the simple reason of it being women’s lingerie.

 It also didn’t take me long to figure out, that
Janice and I, were more or less, the same sizes. I was in most things, still
smaller than her, but most of her clothes fit. With that knowledge, each and
every babysitting night, alone at their house, became a sexual adventure, into
the pleasures of feminine lingerie.

 It had to come than as it did, a date with fate so
powerful that it almost destroyed me.

 For some time I was no longer satisfied with only
wearing a panty, a bra, a girdle, a slip or a nightgown and jerking off. I
wanted to go all the way. I wanted to fully dress as a woman.

 Once born, this idea transcended desire and lust.
This idea would not leave me, or let me forget, not in my waking moments, not in
my dreams. It governed my thoughts, and even in part, my actions day and night.

 After they left that evening, and I had the babies
soundly asleep in their cribs, I went into their bedroom. My whole body was
shaking with excitement. I was aroused as I had never been before in my whole
life. The thought of dressing fully, not only just in lingerie, but also in a
dress, in shoes, everything that a woman would wear on a night out, had me in an
uncontrollable fever of anticipation.

 Savoring every moment, I choose carefully, each and
every piece of clothing, that I was to wear. I picked a black lace bikini panty
and pushup bra set, a black waist-controlling girdle/garter belt, to hold up my
black silk stockings, a full length black slip with lace around the bottom, top,
and wide lace straps, a black satin evening dress, and a set of 2” open toe
black leather heels, to finish it off.

 Shaking as bad as I was, it took me longer than ever,
to dress, even to the stage of wearing, only the lingerie. Each and every piece
of clothing had to be slipped on, and than in the full-length closet mirror,
admired, and modeled. I was in a fit of ever-increasing sexual anticipation,
beyond knowing, or caring, that there was a world outside of that bedroom.

 Sliding the zipper up the back of the dress, with my
shaking hands, became an almost impossible task, for me. After multiple
attempts, I finally accomplished it, and slipped on the 2” black leather
heels. I stepped than in front of the mirror, with an anticipation of having a
slow and sensual masturbation session.

 It was that young woman staring back at me, who
changed my life forever.

 Staring back at me was the young woman, I should have
been… wasn’t… and never could be.

 It was almost a younger image of my mother, an image
of her, before drugs had taken their toll. 

 Something in me snapped. I couldn’t stand on my
legs any more. They refused to hold me. The room was spinning.

 I don’t know how long I lay there on the floor, in
front of the mirror. Was it minutes? Was it an hour, or more?

 What I do remember is crying, crying tears that would
not stop. I was, I had let myself go into a complete fit of hysteria, and had no
way, no knowledge, of when or how it would, or could, stop.

 Every thing since I could remember, that had been
laid so brutally upon me, raised its evil head now against me. Guilt and
condemnation were evil demons screaming at me.

 I was bad. I was wrong. I was at fault.

 It was the young woman staring at me out of the
mirror that was the truth. She was what should have been.

 I was a lie, a parse, a cruel joke played out by the
hands of fate.

 I lay there sobbing, tears flooding down my cheeks,
but she only stood there silently, showing me no mercy, no sympathy, only
mocking me.

 After what seemed like hours, I ever so slowly gained
control of myself, and rose to begin taking off the dress and lingerie.

 Fearfully, I refused to look again at that haunting
image, of the young woman, in the mirror. I knew I could not take it.

 After they returned, I somehow left their house, and
returned to my own bedroom, and my bed. I have no remembrance of waiting for
them, but only of them returning. I have no remembrance of my walk home.

 My dreams that night were hateful, haunting, mocking
dreams, leaving me restless, and weary the next morning.

 The next few days and nights were the same. For once
in a long time I did not stop off at their house before going home. I could not
bring myself to return to their house, knowing that she, that young woman in the
mirror, was waiting for me.

 Even my mother, my father and brother seemed to have
noticed that something was wrong, and shied away from me. At school, no one
teased, or tormented me. I was living almost alone in my own world. Only my
personal demons were there to torment me.

 Only time seemed to heal the wounds that had been
inflicted. With time, what happened and my reaction, seemed to me, to have been
taken out of proportion. I had over reacted.

 So when Janice called to ask why I had not been
showing up, and than said that they needed me to babysit for them, I returned.

 And so began my first bout with insanity.

 Now, I was addicted to Janice’s clothing, and that
young woman, staring at me from the mirror. Alone, the sensual pleasure of
possessing, and wearing those feminine items of lingerie, wasn’t near enough.
Each time, I rushed into dressing completely enfemme. Giving myself over, more
and more, into the details of doing so, into the intricacies of dressing,
walking, and sitting…being… thinking.

 At times, that image of the young woman in the
mirror, silently mocked me, and I cried hysterically for hours.

 Other times, I masturbated to her in a frenzy of
hate, and lust.

 Than there were times, we shared our moments of
common existence, lovingly together and at peace.

 Still, no matter how the time was spent, those hours
became my life, my existence. Every other moment of my life, every breath I
took, every thing I did, was only there to sustain those few hours each week. Be
those few short hours heaven or hell, nothing else mattered.

 Yet, after months of existing so, I could not take it
any more. Every encounter with that young woman in the mirror, taxed me too
much. My life, outside of those moments, was falling apart.

 I told Janice that I could no longer babysit for
them. They would have to find someone else.

 I put that time behind me as if it had never existed.
No matter how hard it was for me to do, no matter how much it hurt, that young
woman in the mirror… was no more.

 In retrospect, I now see that Janice knew some of
what was going on, what I was going through, how I was inclined, and just let
thing come as they came. Maybe, she should have stepped in, and talked to me
about it. Maybe, things would have changed for the better. Maybe, they would
have changed for the worse. I’ll never know.

 In retrospect, I now understand that a major part of
my first attraction to Janice’s clothing was that she had, and I did not have.
My clothing was always old, drab, mismatched, and used. Her clothing was always
new, exciting and pretty. Her clothing was also the personification of her and
of womanhood.

 In retrospect, I also understand that my mother, had
only used, and magnified, my personality, and my physical features, against me.
She abused and magnified only that, what was already present. If I had been
anyone else, had looked any differently, she never would have, or could have
wanted to, ridicule, and abuse me, as she did.

 Two years later, I graduated from highschool, and
Aunt Madge came to my rescue, and helped pay for my way through college. Between
her help, and some college loans, I was able to move completely away from home,
and have to this day, never gone back. The last time I saw my parents, was two
weeks before my freshman year of college began. Holidays and summer vacations, I
spent visiting Aunt Madge.

 Finally free from my parents, I begin to develop
myself, to my own advantage. I remained a small slight man, with most women
still inches taller than me. But, my years of experiencing the hurt that people
can inflict on one, left me very sensitive, and understanding, to the emotions
of others.

 I still had very few male friends, but women seemed
to be drawn to me. Not in a sexual tense, but I did have more women “good
friends” than any other man on campus. That too, brought those men friends to
me, that I did have. I always had good advice for both sexes, when they had
problems, with their boy or girlfriends. I excelled in my classes, and was able
to help many, who were lagging behind. I was liked by many, and always invited
to parties, when my friends had them. I remember my college time, as one of the
best times, in my life.

  

Chapter Four: Love,
Romance and Marriage 

 My
relationship to Andrea never would have developed as it did, if it were not for
her ex-boyfriends. For the most part, they had been “grade A”, “number
one” assholes. I was just what she, at that time in her life, was looking for. 

Around campus, she wasn’t known as a slut, but she
wasn’t exactly virginal either. Her being a friend of one of my “good
friends”, and having had a few longer counseling sessions before with me,
about her boyfriend problems, I knew that she wasn’t exactly the type that I
would be hitting on. 

 Not that I, actually had a type, I would be hitting
on. It’s not as if I had much choice in the matter. What is a 5’3”, 110
lbs (soaking wet) wispy wippy guy going to have as a type? He’ll be
lucky at getting any. Not that I had ever gotten any. I was a 21year old virgin,
who had yet, to even get a handjob, out of a date.

 Andrea wasn’t a sex bomb, but she definitely
wasn’t a gray mouse either. She had a pretty face, brownish blonde hair. She
stood about an inch taller than me. Carried about a B or C cup, and had pretty
much of an hourglass figure on her. Her hips were fairly wide and her waist was
very small. She didn’t belong to the popular campus crowd, but she wasn’t
completely unknown by them either.

 What held me back, from flirting with her, when she
started hitting on me, was that I knew more about her sex life, than any of the
other men around campus, and more than what she thought I knew.

 Andrea, I knew, had a fairly high libido. She liked
sex a lot. She was also fairly impulsive sexually, and had been involved in a
couple of three-ways at a couple of parties, and also in a couple of zippless
fucks. Not a real slut, but definitely not a virgin.

 Also the main reason I was skeptical about having
anything to do with her was that she had a strong emotional dependency and
attraction to alpha-male types. She had twice that I knew of, dumped steady
boyfriends, for other men that were stronger, more powerful and more assertive
types.

 For me, sex had always been an expression of emotion
with, and towards another person. Sex and relationships were not to be taken
lightly.

 I did worry about Andrea’s higher libido. For me,
even though, DIY handjobs were still a part of my sex life, I didn’t know if I
was capable of keeping up with her.

 It just was, that a relationship with her, for a guy
like me, was just “a kick in the balls, waiting to happen”. I
wasn’t going to go there. Been there, done that, and the t-shirt didn’t fit.

 So for the next few weeks we played cat and mouse.
She was always seeking me out, trying to flirt with me, and I was always
avoiding her, but remaining friendly and cordial to her when we did meet.

 Than one day after our last class, she cornered me, “Why
are you avoiding me? Do I have BO or something?”

 So being brutally honest I told her, “Listen, I
know you’re trying to start something up with me, but I don’t know where you
want this to go, and I don’t know if I want to go there.” She was taken
back, but I continued on, “You’re a very beautiful hot chick, and I am
extremely attracted to you. I think you’re sexy as hell. But I’m me, and I
know my value. So let’s just let it be… and stay friends.”  With that I just turned, and walked away from her.

 That should have been
enough, but it wasn’t. Before I knew it, she was walking beside me,
“You know you’ve disappointed me. I expected more from you. You’re just
like them. I seriously thought, at least you, would be different, and understand
me.”

 I had to stop at that and stare at her, “Who are
them, and how I am just like they?”

 Her eyes rolled for a moment into the back of her
head as she let out a long sigh, “You, them, men, your all the same. I
really, really seriously thought, you were different. You all look at us, and
see just tits and asses.”

 Now she was getting to me, “Oh, so now I’m one
of your cavemen? Well, gee thanks for the compliment. Maybe I should get a sign
made up to wear around my neck, that says that? How about a t-shirt with giant
letters across the front… Caveman? Don’t think anyone would believe it, but
we could try. Maybe it’s you that doesn’t get it…”

  I tried;
I seriously tried to avoid any deepening of our friendship, towards a
relationship. But, our conversation went on and on. We talked. We debated. We
argued. It went on while we were walking through campus. It went on at the
coffee shop on the way back to our dorms. It went on that evening when we went
out together for a pizza. It continued on that whole weekend, until late Sunday
night, when she kissed me goodnight, at the door to my dorm.

 By that time, I sure did feel like I was loosing
ground. Every argument that I thought why the two of us didn’t fit together,
she thought was an argument why we did fit together.

 But, that’s how she always was, and a part of why I
learned to love her.

 I guess what finally caused me to give in, was my
thoughts that if “it” did happen; it wasn’t going to be as if I wouldn’t
notice that it was coming. I do have a very strong intuitive talent at reading
people’s emotions. So, if she started to emotionally move away from me, became
unhappy with me, I would notice it, even before she herself did.

 The other thing was, I had a lot of “good
friends”. Friends that knew everything that went on around campus. So, I had
more than sufficient direct links, into the campus grapevine. Not much happened,
to anyone on campus, without me hearing about it. 

 In the end, I just decided that our relationship was
going to be an adventure, that was just going to happen, and I might as well
enjoy the ride, for as long as it was lasted.

 I gave us three months; I figured that would be the
longest our relationship could last.

 Strangely, I was proven wrong. It was that first
conversation that set off the ground rules, for our behavior towards each other.
No matter what the issue was, we talked, and talked some more. Nothing seemed to
be off limits in our talks. Nothing was too trivial, or too secret. Our talks
pushed us deeper, and deeper into intimacy, and dependency towards each other.

 When my three-month deadline finally hit, we were at
a point, where we needed to see each other daily, sometimes even hourly.
Mornings I would either wake up to my telephone ringing in my ear, or it was the
first thing I reached for after getting up. At noon, in the cafeteria, we
unconsciously gravitated to sitting together. Evenings and weekends found us
again, no matter what we had to do, doing it as a couple.

 My three-month deadline found us also as a known
couple on campus. People spoke of us as Andrea’s boyfriend, or as Conner’s
girlfriend and it was known by all that our relationship wasn’t just one of
those relationships. It was something very serious. People spoke about us always
in the plural tense. Friends started up conversations with me, exactly where
they had left them off, when talking to Andrea. It was obvious that even after
such a short time, our friends could no longer see us as separate entities.

The depth of Andrea and my conversations also set the field
for us when we went sexual. Even from the beginning there was no hesitation. As
divers as we were with our talks, so divers were we in bed. Our intimacy was,
just as in our conversations, completely open, and naturally, secrets had no
place.

My fears that I would be insufficient proved to be
absolutely wrong. Though size can make a difference, I found that I was in that
aspect right in the middle. But as they say, “Size doesn’t matter, it’s
the motion of the ocean that counts.” “It’s the journey not the
destination that matters”, and our journeys were sensuous, amorous, and very
satisfying for both of us; it didn’t matter if it was slow sensuous
lovemaking, or hot monkey sex.

What finally broke down my last barrier of doubt, happened
one Saturday evening, after about six months into our relationship.

We were at one of those parties. Not one of those parties
we had with friends, but a larger social party, that type of a party. It was
hosted at a house of one of the women’s sororities and had a room for the
smorgasbord with various small foods, wines and other drinks, a large room for
dancing, and smaller rooms for just standing around and talking. It was an
invitation only party. Dress was not formal, but it also was not casual. Invited
were mainly students in their junior and senior years, but also professors,
teachers and even a few non-academia from the town proper.

Many couples, even married couples, had been invited, but
the rule of behavior was “mingle”. So mingle we did, sometimes together,
sometimes individually. We chatted in various groups. We danced together, but I
also danced with others, and so did Andrea. Nothing special, we were just
mingling.

The first that I noticed that something was wrong was the
somewhat unusual attention that I was getting from one of the jocks from our
football team. I knew about him. He wasn’t anything big on the team. But he
was a jock. He was an alpha-male type guy.

The attention wasn’t that he was following me around, or
trying to get into conversations with me, it was more as if when he saw me, he
was sizing me up. His whole behavior towards me was a bit standoffish, and
snobbish. It was irritating me. I did know how to place it, but why here and why
now?

So now that he had brought himself to my attention, I was
curious. I started to observe his behavior with others.

It didn’t take me long to see that his mingling always
brought him around to Andrea. He was also dancing with her, more than with
anyone else. He would leave her for shorter times, only to return.

At first glance, Andrea didn’t seem to be paying him any
overtly great consideration. She seemed though friendly towards him, as if she
were enjoying his company, and attention.

It was in closer observation of their body language towards
each other that I began to worry. They were showing attentiveness, and a form of
being connected… a couple’s thing.

Was this “it”? Was this now that what I had foreseen
and tried to avoid, in avoiding Andrea at the start of our relationship?

Though it hurt like hell, and my stomach was cramping into
a knot, feeling like it had been punctured by hundreds of knives and daggers, I
had to know. I had to know now, before I went any deeper into this relationship.
Better to die the one death quickly, than the thousands of small slow deaths
later. I decided to stay back, and see where this was going. If Andrea was going
to do “it”, it might as well be now. I’d give her as much room as
possible, to make her own choice. I would only know, and act accordingly.

That evening was the first time in my life that I wished I
was even smaller than I was. I wished I were so small that I could hide in
Andrea’s purse, and hear every word of their conversation. I was seemingly
stuck, always trying to maintain them in sight, but hidden from them, therefore
always out of hearing distance.

What I did see, did not look so good, but it could have a
completely different meaning. Their close contact during dancing, and the
whispers between them, could be innocent… or not.

There was nothing overtly sexual in the contact between
them, or their mannerisms towards each other, so he could have easily been a
close friend of hers, or even her brother, for that matter. But their mannerisms
could also be of a more getting to know each other, romantic sexual nature.

Without knowing what they were saying to each other, it was
impossible to read out of their behavior, without first reading into their
behavior.

Than I lost them out of my sight, and after about 10
minutes of wandering from room to room, and not finding them, I was getting
frantic.

Just before I turned the corner, in an almost empty
hallway, leading to the bathrooms, I heard Andrea’s voice speaking to someone.

I couldn’t hear every word of what was being said, but
the content was obvious. He was on the make, trying to get Andrea’s phone
number, and a promise for a date. Andrea wasn’t conceding into doing so, but
there was some slight hesitation in her words. She stated her relationship to
me, as a reason. That she was in a serious relationship, with me.

It wasn’t that she was saying “maybe”, it was only
her choice of words that gave the nuance of a hesitation, of a maybe.

Picking up on Andrea’s mentioning of me, he saw his
opportunity and pressed on. He questioned her about what she saw in me. How a
person like me, could be of interest to her. The word “wimp” was used, and
the words “real man” were used.

Their táªte-á -táªte was going just as I feared.

With that though, Andrea’s words became louder, and there
was anger in her voice, “Wimp? Real man? Do you even know what you are
talking about? Do you even have any idea what a real man is?”

 With a stop
for a deep breath, she continued, “Do you even know that he is better in
bed, pleases me more, than any lover I’ve ever had before? Do you even think
that maybe he could be ten times better in bed than you could ever hope to be?
No you don’t, and that’s why I’ve now had enough of this! Now leave me
alone, and let me go to the bathroom.”   

In that moment, I could have shaken the hand of every one
of her asshole ex-boyfriends, in gratitude. Thanks to them, Andrea had had it
with their kind. No matter how dashing, clever and verbose he could be, Andrea
wasn’t going to fall for him. Yes, she had had her moment of weakness. He had
been exactly her type. But, she had stood the trial all alone, and on her own,
she had come out with flying colors… my colors.

She never told me about that part of the evening, but I
guess she didn’t have to. I’m sure he wasn’t the first such episode, or
the last. It was only that episode that I saw, and understood through seeing it,
Andrea’s love for me, and desire to be mine, and that she seriously preferred
me, over others.

If, she would have told me about it, she could not have
explained it, to the extent needed, and that would have only created, an
undercurrent of insecurity, within me, towards her, and our relationship.

With that, fell the last bastion of my uncertainties,
towards our relationship. From that moment on, I fell completely, totally and
without reservation, in love with her. In my mind, our relationship, which had
existed only on a day-to-day basis, now had reason never to cease.

All through my life, with the exceptions of Aunt Madge and
Janice, I had always held in reserve, a certain depth of my emotional
involvement, a protection against the pain and ridicule, I expected from others.
Only those two, I allowed to emotionally enter into that inner most unprotected
sanctum, of my being. Andrea became the third.             

Our last college summer, we spent traveling between her
parents in Denver, and Aunt Madge in Oklahoma. Andrea took to Aunt Madge, like a
duck to water; it was like a meeting of long-lost relatives. I also had little
problems in meeting her parents, brother, and sister.

Autumn of our senior year found us living together as a
couple.

Thanksgiving saw wedding bells. It was not an overly large
wedding at that church in Denver, and only the aging and weakening Aunt Madge
was present from my side of the family. But it was a happy wedding, just big
enough to get loud, but small enough to enjoy everyone there. Even though, it
was a very special moment for Andrea and I, it was also a very special moment
for Aunt Madge and I…

 Christmas saw
us in the early beginning stages of our planning to move to Denver and also our
planning of a family.

Andrea’s New Year’s resolution was the throwing away of
her birth control pills. There had always been a special part of my heart open
to children. I had willingly adapted to babysitting. Even though I could not
imagine my life without my own children, Andrea approached the issue of having
children with fanaticism. The utmost goal in Andrea’s life was having a child.
She saw her fulfillment as a woman in giving birth. All other goals took second
place.

I did not think it was the best of ideas. Not that having
children was a bad idea. Only the timing was bad. We would have to make do, and
do without. We were young, and just starting out.

Oddly, Andrea’s greatest ally, in her desire to have a
child, as soon as possible, was Aunt Madge. Aunt Madge’s only statement to my
financial worries was, “Oh pooh, don’t forget that I’m here too. 
I sure would like to see a fourth generation born before I die.”

At that time, that perplexed me.

First, was the question about seeing a fourth generation
born. The image of a small, and frail, silver-gray haired spinster was the only
image of Aunt Madge that I could remember. I knew that Aunt Madge and I were
related, and I considered her to be my great aunt, but how old was Aunt Madge?
She had never made mention of her age to me.   

The second question was about her being there for the baby
and us.

Aunt Madge had always lived in the old white farmhouse, out
on the homestead, for as long as I could remember. That white house, with shaded
porches front and back, I knew to have been built some time in the 30’s, and
other than having been repaired, it had never been remodeled.

It also wondered me, how the homestead made enough money to
support her. It wasn’t large, and with her obvious age, and even with the help
from a few old ranch-hands that she employed now and than, it could not be
earning much.

Her clothes were old. All her vehicles, that I ever saw,
were always battered, beaten and at least 15 years old. I never saw her buy
furniture. It had always been there, like it was now, ever since I was a small
child. Only her TV, refrigerator, and her telephone were new. She had a new
stove, but cooked on it only in the summer months. Other than that, she would
rather use her old wood-burning stove. Madge never seemed to have, or need,
money.

I firmly believed, that that money, that helped pay my
college, was about all she had. I could not see how Aunt Madge, could help us
out financially. We both loved her dearly, and were both willing to take her in,
if her health needed our care, but other than the money from the sale of the
homestead, I didn’t see any solution there.

End of Part One of Five

Notes:
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