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.
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.
This story remains my
property, and may not be posted on any other website or published without my
written consent. - Nicole Braun
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.
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.
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.
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
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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.
This story remains my property, and may not be posted
on any other website or published without my written consent. -
Nicole Braun
Our move to Denver did not see Andrea pregnant as
planned.
Finding a job for me had been hard at first. But
than, Aunt Madge had helped along again, with a phone number, to an old
acquaintance, of hers. Even though he was retired, within a few days, and him
making a few calls to people, he set me up with my first job interview. It was
with one of the many oil companies in the Denver area. It wasn’t a top job,
but the pay was quite a bit higher, than our pessimistical expectations, had
been. So financially, even with Andrea not looking for employment, we weren’t
off to a bad start.
Now with a good job under my belt, and some more help
with odds and ends from Andrea’s family, we were able to get into an
apartment, that was actually livable, and not your standard
newlywed-just-out-of-college place. We got into a subdivision of multiplexes;
where there were a lot of more progressive upscale families, and couples.
The jump-start into a good neighborhood helped us get
into the swing of things, and with my good paying job, money did have to be
watched, but it wasn’t a big issue. With a little budgeting, we were able to
see a little bit of the nightlife of Denver, and even invited over at times
friends, neighbors and some of my collages to dinner or for a small party. It
seemed like in no time, we were celebrating our first anniversary.
Andrea was still not pregnant though. It was not as
if we weren’t trying. We were trying still, even after being married for a
year, quite a bit, and than some. Not that it was intentional trying; it’s
just the way we were. We enjoyed our sex together, and being close together, as
much as possible.
It was than a few weeks after our first anniversary
that I begin to notice a slight change in Andrea’s behavior. I’m still not
even sure that at that time, Andrea, herself knew the why of her changing
behavior. Maybe at that time, she only sub-conscientiously felt the frustration
and disappointment. But, as time went by, it seemed to grow, and begin to eat at
her, more and more.
Seeing her frustrations, I offered, asked to talk,
with her, time and time again. But, she always avoided speaking about what was
eating at her, until one day she told me that she had made a doctor’s
appointment for me. It was to have a sperm sample taken.
Even though Andrea jokingly offered to go with me…
to give me a helping hand, I went to the appointment alone. With the sperm
sample, they also took some blood and urine samples.
When it came time to return to the doctor for the
results, Andrea went with me.
The results were devastating. For all it was worth, I
was not sterile, but my sperm count was so low, that I might as well as have
been.
The
doctor also stated that my testosterone level was too low, and my estrogen level
was too high. There was a possibility of a Klinefelter syndrome (abnormal two
X and one Y chromosome structure) or a congenital adrenal hyperplasia (which
causes a too high production of estrogen, and a too low testosterone production,
in males). Either of which, could cause a delayed or impaired development
during puberty, and therefore also a permanent inability to produce sperm, in
any sufficient quantity.
He pointed out my mostly ambiguous body, facial
features and my height, inquiring if my family doctor had not tested my
testosterone and estrogen levels in my early teens. It was obvious, that my
physical development had been impaired during puberty. He said that at that age,
there were medical means available, but now the situation could no longer be
corrected.
He asked if I was having any sexual problems such as
ED. This I negated, therefore he replied that if I had a comfortably active sex
life, and had no other problems (I was as healthy as a horse), he would
not (at that time) recommend therapy, to increase my testosterone level.
There were definite and unwanted possible side effects to the therapy.
Naturally, I was distraught, but during this time I
did notice that Andrea had said nothing. After the initial statement about my
sperm count from the doctor, she did nothing but stare directly ahead. At no
time did she show any form of a changing facial expression. Her expression was
neither of shock, anger or anything else I could surmise. It was almost
expressionless.
We left there, and the drive home, was in silence. At
home nothing changed either. Andrea went about her business seemingly as if the
doctors meeting had not happened. Only, the naturally fluid conversation between
us was not there, and her facial expression still had not changed, from that, of
when she was in the doctor’s office.
I was having a hard enough time coming to grips
everything, and Andrea’s behavior was not helping me any. If she would have
cried or screamed. If she would have yelled at me, we could have fought or
argued, but none of that was happening. She would answer me if I asked her
something simple, but if I said anything about what had been spoken by the
doctor, she only sternly answered, “Not yet.”
The rest of the week continued on along the same
lines. I was barely functioning. So on Friday, I had to blow off some steam. For
the first time in my life, I got stark raving fall-down drunk.
It wasn’t intentional on my part. After dinner, the
silence in the house was getting on my nerves, so much that I took out a bottle
of Jack Daniel’s, left over from our last party, and made a coke and whiskey.
One drink followed the other, and before I knew it, I was drinking shots pure,
and the bottle had a serious dent in it.
Andrea knew in generalities about my childhood. But
there were many things, that even with the extreme intimacy that we had, I had
not told her. I know, I babbled a lot that night. I’m still not sure of
everything I did babble. I know I got screaming mad, thinking about how much my
life could have been changed, how much ridicule and abuse I would not have had
to suffer. If only my parents had been less dysfunctional, and had had the
consideration enough, to at least taken me once to a doctor to be tested,
everything would have been different.
Some time in the early morning hours, I woke up with
my head lying over the toilet bowl. My head felt like it had been hammered by a
jackhammer. It felt like I could still hear that jackhammer somewhere out in the
neighboring streets. I took a couple of aspirin and crawled into my side of the
bed. Andrea was asleep on the other side, her back to me.
The next morning I didn’t get up until in the
afternoon. Andrea wasn’t there. She only came back much later wearing jeans, a
jacket and hiking boots. She said she had been out hiking in the woods and
thinking. She started to cry, and I held her to me. She kept saying over and
over, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry” and “I didn’t know, I
didn’t know.”
We spent the rest of that day and long into the night
than crying, cuddling, holding each other and talking, lots of talking.
We talked about our options, but in the clear light
of reality, most were beyond our means, and the chances of even their success,
were very slim. It did seem to help
and calm us, so we talked about looking into all the options we could.
Our relationship had changed though, somehow
intangibly. It never was the same again. Every time I tried to seek out that
close intimacy we had before, it was like a fata morgana, always there, but
always out of reach.
A few weeks after the visit to doctor’s office,
Andrea enrolled in realtor’s classes. We
hadn’t discussed this, but we had discussed a few times, about Andrea now
looking for work. It did come as a surprise to me that she decided to try real
estate. But, if it made her happy, and she enjoyed it, it made me happy.
It did seem unusual to come home and find her not
there. She had passed her exams easily, and found employment, almost without
looking. Her hours always varied. Sometimes, she would have little to do, and
other days she wouldn’t get home until some time after seven in the evening.
Saturdays were also no longer our time alone. At times, when her customers
couldn’t get off during the week, she was forced into showing them houses, on
Saturdays.
Her business ventures also pushed us into socializing
more, with people we normally would not be socializing with. This involved a lot
more invitations to parties, and also dining out in the evenings.
Andrea also spent a considerable amount more on her
wardrobe than she had before. Her side of the closet was in months overflowing
into the guestroom closet and dresser drawers.
Slowly, and because of Andrea’s newfound
independence, our relationship was again and continually changing.
At first, Andrea would tell me in detail every little
bit of what was going on in her days. She met (naturally) quite a few
people, and I found it interesting to hear about them, and what Andrea thought
of them.
This did not stay that way, and after Andrea had been
working for around a quarter of a year, I heard little of what was going on. It
was getting to the point, where I had to finally express concern over not
knowing her whereabouts one evening, as it was close to ten o’clock before she
got home. I told her that I was worried about something happening to her.
I was beginning to feel that her odd hours were
driving a wedge between us, and it didn’t seem as though Andrea was concerned
about this, or wanting to make amends for it.
About four months after Andrea started working as a
real estate agent, Aunt Madge moved into a senior community residence apartment
in her hometown. Since Andrea was new to her job, she could not take time off,
but I took a week off, and drove to her, to see what was going on.
I was
surprised at how much Aunt Madge seemed to have aged since the last time I had
seen her. There was a certain aura of transparency about her. As if she were
there, but not there. Her mind seemed clear and she was not senile, but she
seemed to be distant, as if her thoughts were in a distant time. She was getting
very frail and having now a hard time walking. It was obvious, why her friends
at her church had persuaded her into finally closing down the farm, and moving
into town. There was no way that she could continue living out there in the
country, and drive into town for her needs.
While I was there, her lawyer filled me in on some of
the details. The farmhouse had been shut down, and left. It was so old and in
disrepair that it wasn’t worth the time and trouble to fix up. All her
furniture and her car had either been sold, or given away. She had only taken
with her into the new apartment, what she needed and her personal items. The
land had been leased out to a neighboring ranch. So it was taken care of.
He also told me not to worry, that no matter how Aunt
Madge’s health continued, she would be taken care of. Money was not a problem,
and there were more than enough town’s people willing to take care of her.
Maybe it was my being away from Andrea for a full
week that I noticed so easily the changes in her. It seemed to strike me as if
her job had now reached a point where it entirely dominated her every waking
minute.
The next month saw her coming home evenings later and
later, more and more often. There were nights when I was asleep when she came
home. She was gone so much, that by that time, I had seemingly taken over all of
the household chores. It seemed like only on Sundays that she was in the house
for more than just sleeping, showering and changing her clothes.
At the first Saturday that she came home from showing
people houses, showered and changed clothes than left, we had a big argument
that lasted beyond the next Saturday. There she was also dressed obviously for
another social dinner party, alone, without me. The atmosphere between us had
now taken on a frosty tone.
Our sex
life during these months was still there, but it too was different.
I naturally felt insecure about how the doctor’s
visit and Andrea’s job had changed us. Yet our sex life had been wonderful
before, and I was seemingly dependent on having sex with Andrea. It was an
integral part of our shared intimacy.
What caused me though considerable trepidation was
the change in Andrea’s attitude, towards sex with me. At times, she seemed to
passively accept the sex. She enjoyed it, but did not take any active role in
it. At other times, she became aggressive and dominating, almost masculine in
her behavior, forcing me into a completely feminine and passive role. It was
always one extreme, or the other. Intimacy and shared lovemaking seemed not to
exist for her anymore. Because of the lack of intimacy, and lack of tenderness
involved, it was frustrating, and demeaning for me. Even though I cannot
remember a strong decrease in the frequency, our sex life seemed minimal. It was
there, but without emotion.
My
college estimate of three months had been wrong by about two years and three
months. I’ll never know the exact date of when she first disregarded her
marriage vow of fidelity. All I’ll ever know is how I found out.
I will always remember that day clearly. It was a
Wednesday. I had returned from work, and found Andrea, already come and gone
again.
She had been in a hurry, showered and changed, than
left in an obvious rush. Her clothes were left strewn around the bedroom floor.
She must have also changed purses, because the one
she normally uses was sitting perched open on the dresser.
As I was picking up the clothes that she had left on
the floor in her hast, I bumped into her purse and knocked it over. Everything
fell out of it.
When I went to pick up the stuff and put it back in
her purse, I found a packet of partially used birth control pills, and a package
of condoms, four of which were missing.
I stayed up that night until after two o’clock in
the morning. Andrea had still not come home, so I left the packet of pills and
the condoms on the kitchen table, where she had to see them when she came in. I
slept, but I did not sleep well.
The next morning when I got up they were gone. Andrea
was in bed sleeping. I called in sick at work. I sat at the kitchen table
drinking coffee. Later I heard the shower run, and Andrea getting dressed. I
still sat and waited.
A few minutes later Andrea came rushing into the
kitchen apparently in a hurry, “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be
at work?”
All I could say was, “Don’t you think we need
to talk?”
She gave me an impatient and angry look, “I
don’t have time for that right now. I’m late for an appointment.”
She turned and walked to the front door. There
she stopped for a moment, before turning back to me. Staring somewhere over my
shoulder, and off into the distance, she sighed, “Anyway, I haven’t
decided yet what I want to do, so there’s no need to talk.” With that
she walked out the door.
Ever since I had found the birth control pills, and
the partially used package of condoms, I felt numb. I kept thinking that I
should feel something more, maybe rage, anger or hurt, but I was only numb.
I knew now that she was cheating on me, why wasn’t
I reacting? Maybe it was because I could not seem to conclude a thought.
Whenever I tried to think about what I had found, one thought seemed to lead to
another thought, than to another though, and so on. I could never come to a
conclusion. It was also like this was happening to me, and not to me, but rather
to some other person.
I sat there drinking coffee until my cup was
finished. Than I got up and called my office saying that I would not be in on
Friday either. The only person that I was close enough to, to be able to talk
with, about something like this, was Aunt Madge. I packed some clothes in a bag.
I left a note on the table saying where I was going, than left.
I never got to talk to Aunt Madge. On the way down, I
started to think about how she would react. I could not do this to her. Better I
keep what I knew, what was going on, to myself. I stopped, and spent an almost
sleepless night, at a motel, in a small town, off of highway 287.
That Friday morning, after finally getting a couple
of hours sleep, I decided to force Andrea into talking with me. Maybe we needed
consoling. Maybe we needed to just talk, and clear the air. Maybe, it wasn’t
as bad, as I thought, it was. Maybe, she did love me, but had some reason why
she was cheating on me. Maybe, there was something we could do, to get things
back in line. I didn’t want to lose Andrea. I loved her too deeply. I needed
her. I depended on her. She was my one and only, the love of my life. Without
her… I could not think.
I spent my time traveling very slowly, and trying to
think clearly. I stopped off a couple of times, to breathe some fresh air, or to
get a cup of coffee.
I arrived home at around six o’clock in the
evening. I dropped my bag at the front door, and went looking for Andrea. Andrea
was not there.
I realized that I had not eaten anything that day. So
thinking Andrea would not be home early; I decided to go eat at a café, not far
from us.
I returned at about half past nine, and there were
lights on in the living room, and in the bedroom. Andrea was home.
When I opened the door, I almost stumbled over my own
bag I had left there. Lying on the living room floor were two pair of women’s
heels, and two pair of men’s shoes. Draped over the couch were various
clothing articles from obviously multiple persons of both sexes. On the living
room table, and on the kitchen table, were four empty glasses, and a half full
wine bottle. No one was in the living room, or in the kitchen. Down the hallway,
I could see that the bedroom door was open, and I walked towards it.
Standing at the bedroom door, I could see Andrea, and
another woman, locked in a 69 position, with Andrea on top. Behind each of the
women, was a man fucking them. The men were not wearing condoms. I could see the
mixture of cum and Andrea’s juices squelching out from between the man’s
cock and Andrea’s sex lips, as he fucked into her.
No one had noticed me. I stumbled back into the
living room, and out the door. I got into my car, and started driving. I had no
idea where.
They say that when someone is injured badly, that one
goes into shock, and cannot feel pain at first. I don’t think that is true. I
think one feels pain, only can’t fathom the pain, or the extent of the pain.
I made it maybe two blocks before I abruptly vomited all
over the car dash, the windshield, and myself. The last few days had finally
caught up to me. My head was throbbing it ached so badly. I was crying, and had
been crying for some time, but only than realized, that I was doing so.
I don’t know how long I sat there, but I was driving
again. I didn’t know where.
I stopped at a park-and-ride parking area on the I-25 north
of town. I felt the need to vomit again. I got out of the car and made it over
to a grassy area, before I emptied my stomach again, and again.
After there was nothing left in my stomach but bile, I got
up and walked to the top of a bridge crossing the freeway. I stood there
watching the semis zooming underneath me in the darkness. Watching those big
truck come screaming out of the darkness, than under me, and back into the
darkness, I though of how easy it would be for me to step out beyond the
guardrail of the bridge, and into the front of one of those massive trucks.
Death would be painful, but short in coming.
I wanted to do it, but than I didn’t. I walked back to my
car and sat down on the ground watching the traffic zooming by me. I questioned
myself, asking now after what had happened, everything that had happened in my
life, what reason I had not to do it.
After debating with myself, I got up once more, and walked
to the bridge, and stared down.
I didn’t have it in me. I walked away. I crawled onto the
back seat of my car, and slept the sleep of the exhausted, until the early
morning sunlight, and the cold, woke me.
Still exhausted, and not knowing where to go, I drove back
to the apartment. When I entered the apartment, I noticed that my bag was no
longer sitting by the door. In the
bedroom Andrea was awake, and changing the sheets on the bed. When she saw me,
she only blankly stared at me.
Seeing Andrea holding those crusted and cum soaked sheets,
I turned and made it only to the bathroom sink, before emptying my stomach of
its bile, once again.
Andrea was now standing at the bathroom door, watching me.
Her face was still blank and expressionless.
Exhausted, I moved past her, and into the guestroom, where
I fell on the bed, and slept.
It’s easy in retrospect, to say what one should have
done, or not done. But, when you have your mind set, and you’re deeply
involved, not wanting to give up on something of great value to you, sometimes
you push things, or accept what shouldn’t be, even though you know better.
Again I
didn’t sleep long. My rest had been interrupted by a nightmare. In the
nightmare, I jumped off of a bridge, and into an oncoming truck. I awoke just
before the truck hit me.
Even though I was coated in sweat, mentally I did not care.
My whole attitude in waking was still of exhaustion, but also of lethargy.
Nothing mattered to me anymore.
Not having the strength, or will, to do anything, I just
lay there, staring at the ceiling.
Time pasted until I took notice of Andrea standing in the
doorsill staring at me. All my thoughts, in seeing her, were just of the
awareness that she had just finished her shower. Nothing of the past hours, or
thoughts of the future were on my mind. Just that that person standing in the
doorway I knew. It was Andrea, and she was dressed in a bathrobe, and her hair
was wet, therefore she had just finished taking a shower. I thought nothing else
in seeing her. I felt nothing else in seeing her. Everything else was blank.
The first words she spoke were, “Guess maybe we should
talk.” Than she paused, “You saw last night didn’t you?”
I only
continued to stare wordlessly back at her.
After a while, a slight nervousness begin to appear in her
facial expression, as she continued, “It’s nothing serious… We’re
only friends… It’s just sex… nothing more… They’re all married… They
all have their own families.” She
stammered out the last, than dropped her eyes from mine.
Remembering slowly last night and what had happened before,
I asked, perplexed, and wondering, “And the condoms?”
Her head jerk a little, but she did not look at me. Not
saying anything for a long time, “Those are for with others.”
Pondering over the magnitude, of what she had just stated,
I asked, “Are you doing this for some kind of revenge? Do you hate me?”
Her answer was first quick, “Maybe.” Than she
paused for a moment, “No, I don’t think so… I’m not sure. I don’t
know. You did hurt me a lot, you know.”
After that she got a very sad, tearful look on her face, “No
I don’t hate you. I still love you, just as much as ever. That’s the
problem. I wish I could just hate you, and let it go at that. I can’t do that.
I just can’t.”
Just pondering the thought, because it seemed logical, I
asked, “What if I were to cheat on you?”
There her eyes snapped back to mine. There was fire in them
when she angrily answered me, “Conner, don’t be foolish.”
“I love you because of your personality and how
understanding and caring you are. I fell in love with you because I felt you
were the best of both worlds. You had the softer caring touch of a woman. Some
times making love to you was like making love to another woman.”
“You even seemed to think like us. At times, in
talking with you, I felt I was talking to my best girl friend.”
“But, you were a man, and I could have sex with you
like with a man. I could live with you, and have a family, like I could with a
man.”
“Take a look at yourself. Take a good look. Some times
I think you look so feminine… too feminine.
“Didn’t the doctor say that too?”
“Do you know, that people have asked me, if you’re
gay?”
“Maybe your mother was right. Maybe you should have
been born a girl.”
“Other people don’t know how you are. They only see
how you look. They don’t know you like I do.”
“How many women have you ever had?”
Waving her arm in the direction of the window, “Go
ahead and go to bars. See if you can pick up anyone. What woman is going to have
anything to do with you?” Than with a snort and a sneer, “ All
you’ll be able to get is a hooker… or a queer.”
It looked as if she was going to continue, but she stopped.
She turned her head to the side, as if trying to calm herself, and get her
thoughts back under control.
At one point, she almost turned and walked away from the
door, but thought better of it.
She sighed sadly, “Conner, I didn’t want this talk
to go this way. I know you’re hurt, and I’m sorry that you are.”
“But, I’m having troubles coming to grips with your
sterility. I need to work this out my own way. I told you that I didn’t know
what I wanted to do, and I still don’t know what I want.”
“Just please give me time, and don’t do anything
rash. Maybe, there’s still a chance for us. I just don’t know.”
“I’ll tell you first, what I decide, as soon as I
have decided.”
“I won’t hurt you any more than I have to.”
After saying that, she turned and walked away.
I went back to staring at
the ceiling, but some time or another I nodded off to sleep.
Again, I woke up a short
time later, having dreamt that I was falling. Falling in front of an oncoming
semi. Waking, I could still hear the screaming of the air horn, and the squeal
of the tires.
Again, I was drenched in
sweat, and automatically got up to take a shower.
After the shower, and
without thinking, I wrapped the towel around my waist, and went towards the main
bedroom, to get dressed. I stopped though at the doorway, and could go no
further. I was unable to force myself to go past that door. My body began to
shake, and I was beginning to feel sick to the stomach again.
Within reach, was the bag
I had taken with me, to visit Aunt Madge. With a lunge, I grab the bag, and
rushed to the guest room to dress. The thought of enter the main bedroom, was
too sickening, for me.
Coming into the living
room, I could see that Andrea had stayed home. She was in the kitchen cooking
dinner. She was making a big affair of it. She had the table already set. There
were candles ready to be lit. Wine goblets sitting next to the plates.
Seeing me she smiled, “You’re
right on time. Dinner will be ready in a few minutes. Go ahead, and sit in the
living room, and rest some more. I’ll call you, when it’s ready.”
I went into the living
room, and sat, in the dark, staring at the wall. It didn’t matter any more.
Nothing mattered anymore.
I couldn’t eat much at
dinner. It should have tasted good, and I should have been hungry. Everything
tasted like cardboard.
Andrea tried to make
simple conversation, but I couldn’t really concentrate on what she was saying.
Whatever was said, what use did it make? It was all just words. I answered her,
as best I could.
After the meal, Andrea
stood up, and walked over to me. First than did I notice that she wasn’t
wearing, what she would normally wear around the house, but had on a very
pretty, sexy dress, that I had never seen before. I remember wondering why she
would be going out so late in the evening.
Coming around the table,
and standing beside me, Andrea took my hand in hers. At her touch, I felt the
hairs on my body rise. My stomach twisted.
Pulling me up from my
chair, she almost whispered, “Come, I’ll make it up to you. I’ll
show you that everything is still okay. No one has taken anything from you.
I’m still here.”
She led me into the
hallway, and towards the bedroom. At the bedroom door, I stopped and tore my
hand from hers. She turned, “What’s wrong?”
I couldn’t tell her, how much that bedroom repulsed me. How every time
I looked into that room, and saw that bed, I saw also that scene of her, and
those others.
When she went to wrap her
arms around my neck, her lips coming closer to mine, my stomach revolted. I tore
her arms from around me, and dived towards the bathroom.
I just barely made it,
before I brought dinner back up. My head was pounding, and everything around me
was spinning. The cold porcelain of the toilet bowl felt comforting, and I was
relieved to be away from the bedroom, and Andrea.
Andrea came into the
bathroom, and knelt down beside me. She put her arm around my shoulder; “Please
don’t do this to me.” The closeness, and
contact to her, set my stomach off again. Only bile rose this time, burning my
throat in passing.
Jerking away from her,
and pressing myself as far away from her, as I could, “Why are you
doing this to me? Don’t you know, how you are hurting me? Looking down at the floor, no longer able to see her, without feel
sick, “Why don’t you just kill me, and put me out of my misery?
People don’t even treat animals, as cruel as you are, to me.” Than in a whisper, “Go, just go, and leave me alone.”
Andrea stood for a
moment, than again said, “Please, don’t do this to me.” A few minutes later, she left the bathroom, and I could hear her
crying. Next, the bedroom door slammed shut.
It took me another
quarter of an hour of crying, before I too got up, and left the bathroom. I went
into the guest room, closed the door, took off my clothes, and slipped between
the sheets.
During that night, I
awoke twice falling, and hearing again, the howl of an air horn, and screeching
of tires.
The next day, I stayed as
much as I could, behind the closed guestroom door. I only came out, when I knew
that Andrea was not moving around in the apartment. It seemed Andrea was doing
the same.
That next week, I did not
go to work, but stayed home. I didn’t have to stay in the guest room, hiding
from Andrea. On none of the weekdays, did she come home, before midnight. On
Wednesday, she didn’t come home at all. She left again Friday evening, and
only came back Sunday, late in the afternoon. Saturday, when I emptied the
kitchen garbage, I found an empty box of condoms.
During that week, I
emptied the master bedroom of all my clothes, and possessions, taking all of
Andrea’s from the guest room, and putting them, in her room. I didn’t do
this until Saturday, and than it still took a lot of will power, to enter that
room, and not get sick.
Most nights that week, I
still had the nightmares, about the bridge, and the semi trucks, but the next
Monday, I felt good enough, to go back to work.
So began the time, of Andrea’s and my co-existence.
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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.
This story remains my property, and may
not be posted on any other website or published without my written consent. -
Nicole Braun
Those first few
weeks after these events Andrea and I avoided each other as much as possible.
Each of us lived only for ourselves. Each did what we had to do. Each cooked our
own meals, washed our own clothes, and lived our own lives. We only spoke to
each other when absolutely needed.
Weekdays Andrea
continued on as she had, coming home no earlier than eleven o’clock at night.
Fridays, she would pack a bag and leave until late Sunday afternoon.
So did her weeks go
until three or four weeks later, on a Saturday evening, she returned
unexpectedly at nine o’clock. She seemed rattled, as if something had happened
and shook her up. She went into her room and stayed there almost all through
Sunday. Sunday, I could hear her making and getting numerous calls on her
cellphone.
Monday, Tuesday,
and Wednesday, she was at home when I came home. She cooked dinner for the both
of us. Monday, and Tuesday, she tried to make conversation with me, as we ate.
On Wednesday, I took my plate to my room, eating at the desk in there.
Thursday, she did
not get home until 3am, but on Friday, she had cooked dinner again. Instead of
risking conversation, I again left for my room.
That night, when I
was watching television, she came in, and sat down next to me. Saturday, I went
out and bought a small TV for my room.
Saturday, evening
she went out, but had returned by eleven.
Another two or
three weeks went by much the same. Andrea was home and cooking dinner when I got
home. Only on Thursdays, did she not come home, until early in the mornings, or
not at all.
It had been almost
eight weeks since I found out about Andrea’s infidelity, when one night I woke
up because I could not move. I awoke finding Andrea’s arms and legs wrapped
around me. My stomach retched and I jumped out of bed waking Andrea in the
process. I didn’t have to be sick, but I was shaking and in a sweat.
Without saying a
word Andrea returned to her own bed, but I could not bring myself to go back to
my bed, knowing that Andrea had been there. The next day, I changed the sheets
on the bed.
Three days later, I
awoke again in the middle of the night, to find Andrea spooned next to me. This
time I slipped quietly out of the bed, and slept on the couch.
The next three
nights were the same, and I stopped changing the linen every time.
The
next night, when waking again to find Andrea in bed with me, I started to get
up, but Andrea grabbed my arm. “Please stay,”
she begged. I lay stiffly back down, and with time fell back to sleep, until…
I woke with a start, having dreamt about jumping from the bridge again.
The next week
continued on much the same. Each night, I would go to bed alone, only to find
Andrea having slipped in at some time during the night. I gave up trying to
leave and sleep on the couch.
That week, Andrea
began to make an even greater effort, to come into closer contact with me. She
even went so far as to call me at work, telling me she was going shopping and
wanting to know if I wanted anything, or wanted her to cook anything special for
dinner. That call was the first time Andrea had called me at work, in over six
months. With all that she was doing, it was obvious that Andrea was making a
serious attempt at making amends.
Yet, Thursday, she
stilled went out, and did not come home until some time Friday.
The
next week, she was still as attentive as possible.
Tuesday and
Wednesday, a few minutes after I went to bed, she climbed into bed with me. She
said she needed some cuddling.
On Thursday, she
didn’t go out, and it was cuddling again at bedtime.
Friday evening,
while I was lying on my bed watching TV, she came in and lay next to me and
watched.
Saturday, she left
during the morning to do shopping, and again in the afternoon to show someone a
house. She was back though within about an hour.
Saturday evening,
she wanted us to go out for dinner. I declined and told her, that if she wanted
to go out, she could go out by herself. She stayed home, and showed no anger or
disappointment over what I had said.
That night and
every night the next week, she either came to my bed a few minutes after me, or
was in bed when I came to bed. There were no sexual overtures made, she only
cuddled. I always stayed as inoffensive, but passive as I could.
That Thursday, she
did not go out again.
Friday,
when we went to bed she started to do more than just cuddle. She started to kiss
me on the neck, than on the cheek, than on the lips. I stayed passive, not
saying a word, or doing anything. With one hand she caressed my chest and
stomach before slipping under the top of my t-shirt, to continue caressing me.
As she continued to
give me small kisses and nibbles on my neck, her hand slid down into the front
of my pajama bottoms. “I want to do this, please,”
she whispered as I attempted to rise.
I lay back than
passively, letting her for the moment. Wary of where she wanted this to go. I
didn’t want this, but I wasn’t going to stop her. I wasn’t going to help
her, or enjoy it either. I decide to just lie there, and do nothing.
I didn’t know I
had it in me anymore. I hadn’t felt any sexual desire, since that night of
seeing her with her playmates.
After stroking me
for a longer time, she slipped the covers down, my pajama bottoms down. Sitting
on my legs, she lowered her head towards my now hard penis. Just before she took
me in her mouth, she looked up at me, “This is just for you.”
Even
though she gave her best, it took her a long time. When I finally did come, I
came but was crying. I had felt passion, but I had also felt pain in my heart,
and sorrow. I had not enjoyed it. I felt as if I had again been used.
She crawled back up
to lay next to me, pulling the covers over us. She turned and snuggled herself
into me, whispering, “I love you. I’ve always loved you, and I always
will love you.”
That night, I had
the most vivid of dreams about jumping off of the bridge into an oncoming truck,
that I had ever had. This time I had not awakened just before the semi hit. I
awoke feeling the truck smashing into my body, tearing me into pieces. I awoke
screaming out my pain.
Shaking and crying,
I couldn’t coherently explain to Andrea my nightmare. Andrea than held me, “Shhh,
it was only a bad dream. I’m here now. I’ll always be here for you. It’s
over now. It’s all over. We’ll get back together. I know it hurts still, but
it’s over now. I know it will take time, but I’m back to stay.” She
stayed holding me tightly, crooning soft comforting words, until I slept a
fitful sleep.
The next day,
Saturday, I was up early, and went hiking in the woods. I had to think, and
think alone, where no one, or nothing would bother me. Did she really mean what
she had said last night? Was she serious? What did I feel? Could I forgive her?
What would our marriage be like, with all those memories haunting us? I didn’t
know, I seriously didn’t know.
Even after my legs
were weary, I had come to no better conclusion, than just to wait, and see how
things worked out. So I returned home, to find Andrea humming a tune, the
apartment spotlessly clean, and dinner cooking on the stove.
The weeks went by,
and even though I remained skeptical, we were making slow progress.
One night, after
Andrea had stroked me hard, she got on top of me, and she made love to a still
passive me.
It didn’t stay
that way. She slowly wore me down to the point of finally returning her kisses
and caresses. Our lovemaking was than, lying side-by-side, facing each other,
and at all times gentle and tender. We didn’t have sex any more; we made slow
gentle love, which sometimes took hours.
I was slowly
beginning to come out of my shell, when Andrea asked me one Friday, if we
couldn’t go out to eat. I gave in.
The dinner was
nice, but I did feel uncomfortable when people would greet Andrea. Even though
all were couples, and some of them older couples, I kept wondering if she had
had sex with them too. I couldn’t keep those questions out of my mind. The
image of Andrea on the bed with those others, had not been directly in my
thoughts for a while, but now it was again. The people were all friendly towards
me, and not overtly friendly towards Andrea, so I decided that it was just my
over jealous mind, playing tricks on me.
I was cautious over
the outcome of the evening, but Andrea was in good spirits as we drove home.
Saturday, Andrea
again begged that we go out to dinner, “Please, it’s my treat
tonight. Didn’t you enjoy it last night? Oh come on, you need to get out
more.” So we went.
This
dinner club had a bar with a room for dancing next to the dining area. After we
had eaten, Andrea dragged me into that room, and we sat at the bar, because all
the tables were full.
After we had our
drinks, we danced some. This was a dance place for dances like fox trot, samba,
tango or slow fox. For the next hour, we danced some, than rested and had a
drink, than danced some more.
At one time, Andrea
went off to the ladies room. After about 20 minutes, she wasn’t back, so I
began to wonder and worry. I got up and started to go in the direction of the
restrooms.
Before I got there,
I saw her off in a dark corner, talking to a man. He was a tall, well-built,
dark haired man… just Andrea’s type. Andrea was leaning against the wall,
and he was directly in front of her, with his hands on her hips, their crotches
pressed together. His face was only inches away from her. Her hands were both on
his shoulders, and she was smiling up at him. It was obvious, that they had been
lovers… and most likely still were.
From the attention she was giving him, I would have had to
walk directly up to her, before she would even notice me. So that’s what I
did. I walked up to them, and asked Andrea, if she would introduce us.
He only turned, and
looked down at me, as if I were a disturbance. It was obvious, that he had no
idea who I was.
Andrea first had a
wide-eyed stunned look on her face, than turned crimson red, while trying to
push him back from her.
I just turned and
walked out of the place, and to the car. Andrea was right behind me.
In the car, Andrea
tired to explain, that he was just someone she knew, and that he had been away
on vacation, and just come back. He had been telling her about his vacation,
that was all.
I stopped the car
along side the road, so I could see her reaction, “You’ve fucked him
haven’t you?”
Again, she turned a
vivid red, as her eyes dropped down to her hands.
Still staring at
her, watching her reactions intently, “And you’re going to fuck him
again, aren’t you?”
With
tears in her eyes, but her voice too loud to be honest, “Conner,
don’t think that! I love you and only you. Yes, I did, and only once have sex
with him, but that’s over now. That time is over. Please believe me. Don’t
pull away from me again. I can’t take that, please, oh please Conner. I need
you.”
That night, I
turned my back on Andrea, when she came to my bed. She did not climb in, but
went to hers.
Sunday was quiet
around the house. We avoided speaking much.
Monday, Andrea told
me she had a meeting Tuesday evening. It would keep her late. She might not be
in before nine o’clock.
Tuesday, Andrea
didn’t get home until after midnight. She went directly to her own room.
Wednesday evening,
Andrea was home, but she was acting nervous, as if she was contemplating
something. That night she did come to my bed, and we cuddled and kissed before
sleeping.
Thursday, when I
got home, Andrea was sitting at the kitchen table, with a very sad and pensive
look, “Conner, I’ve got to do this. I can’t just let this go. I
know I said it was all over. I thought it was over, I honestly did. I’m going
to go out with him Saturday night. I have to talk with him.”
I couldn’t
believe this, “Andrea if you go out with him on Saturday, I won’t be
here when you come back. I won’t come back, no matter what you say, or do.
It’ll be over between us. I can’t take this again. It’ll kill me.”
Andrea’s face had an utter look of disbelief on it, as if
this, she had in no way, anticipated, “Conner, it’s not that way.
We’re only going to talk. That’s all. Even if there is something between us,
I won’t do anything. I’ll come back here so we can first talk. Don’t leave
me yet, please.”
“No
Andrea, you either love me, or you love him. I’m not going to accept, that you
stay with me, only because he doesn’t want you enough,”
with that I walked back out the door, and went to a restaurant, to eat and
think.
Coming back to the
apartment, Andrea was sitting in the darkened living room. Her eyes were red, as
if she had been crying. She looked up at me as if she wanted to say something.
As if she hoped that we would talk.
I walked past her
and went to my room. I closed the door, and locked it, before climbing into bed.
A half an hour
later, the doorknob jiggled. Andrea wanted to come to me, but I wasn’t going
to allow that to happen. Now was the time for her to think, and decide. After
that, and by her actions, I would do what I must do.
I didn’t know
what I could possible have for a life without her. But, with her, my only
option, in the long run, would be the bridge. That was no option.
It took me a long
time to fall asleep, and when I did, I had a different dream about the bridge
and the semi truck.
I dreamt, I was standing again at the top of the bridge, a
semi truck was coming in the distance, and I knew that just before it passed
under me, I would jump.
As the truck was
getting closer, I saw out of the corner of my eye, a movement. I turned to look,
and there stood a girl. It was the young woman, I had seem so many years ago,
staring back at me, out of Janice’s bedroom mirror.
This time, there
was no scorn, or mockery, in her eyes. They were eyes, which showed kindness,
caring and concern. They showed love. She was holding out one hand to me.
Beckoning me to come to her. Extending that hand for me to take.
Some time during
that dream, I awoke. It was as if I was awake, but still in the dream until it
was completed.
The dream had been
so real. It was as if it had actually happened.
It stopped though,
before I could react. I knew I had two options. I could jump off the bridge and
to my death, or I could take her hand and go with her.
But, where would I
go with her? What did she want with me? I had no idea what she wanted from me,
or where she wanted to take me. What I did know… no, felt from the deepest
corner of my soul, was, that she had my best interests at heart. That she cared
for me, more than any other person in the world could. I needed only to take
those steps, from where I was, to her.
Friday after work, I first stopped at a restaurant to eat.
Than I went to my room to sort out things, and begin packing. Andrea had cooked
a meal, but I wanted to give her as much distance and quiet time as possible. I
also wanted her to see, that I meant business. She was not going to be able to
talk me out of leaving, if she went to him.
Saturday morning, I
finished my packing and left the house. I went walking in a park. Than ate at a
restaurant. Leaving at eight o’clock.
Andrea wasn’t
there when I returned home. I waited another hour, than packed everything into
my car. It was ten o’clock when I pulled out of the subdivision.
I drove to a Motel
8, and spend that Sunday there.
Both Saturday and
Sunday nights, I again had the dream of standing on the bridge. Again the young
woman from the mirror was also there, holding her hand out to me. Those dreams
helped to calm me considerably. Yet confused me, because I didn’t know how to
get to her. I knew I had to do something, before I could hold her hand, and be
with her. I didn’t know what.
Monday, I was at work, but made an appointment, to see a
divorce lawyer on Wednesday. After work I found a motel that was cheaper, and
rented by the week, or month. It wasn’t much, but it was clean and had a clean
bed, shower and toilet. That was all I needed.
I also had her name
taken off of my bank account and my one credit card. Andrea had her own banking
account anyway. My paycheck went to my account, hers went to her account, and we
only had each other’s names on the accounts, in case something happened.
Andrea was served
the divorce papers one week later. Since we had little, and I had already taken
what I needed, it was a no-fault divorce petition. I didn’t care to prove to
anyone that Andrea had committed adultery. I already knew that. That was
sufficient.
About two week
after Andrea had been served the divorce papers, was than the first I heard from
her. My lawyer had received a call from her. She had received a call from Aunt
Madge’s lawyer. He was looking for me. It was serious.
I called Aunt
Madge’s lawyer and he told me to come as quickly as I could. Aunt Madge was in
the hospital, and it did not look as if she would make it. She was dieing.
I told my boss what
was happening. On the way, I picked up some clothes from my room and drove,
stopping only three times for gas.
It was sometime
late at night, early morning, when I finally got to the hospital. One look at
the sleeping Aunt Madge was enough for me to see, that she was leaving me
forever.
She lived for
another two days. All of that time she was in and out of awareness, but never
had a completely clear mind. At times she spoke to me as if I were still very
young. Than she spoke to me as if speaking to another man, a man she loved and
lost. In the end she died in her sleep.
It was during those
next few days, before her burial and after, that I finally found out all about
who actually Aunt Madge was, and that she had not only cared for my future, but
for a lot of other people’s.
Aunt Madge had been
born in 1922. She was my mother’s great aunt.
She had married the
neighbor farm boy. They had grown up together and promised to marry each other
when she was 12. At the age of 18 she had married him.
Since both had been
only children, and their parents were aging, they combined the two ranches
together.
Dec. 8,1941 found
her husband joining the Army. June 6,1944 found Aunt Madge a widow, her
husband’s body, one of those many floating in the waters off of the Normandy
beaches.
Aunt Madge, and her
aging parents, and in-laws, fought a losing battle, to maintain the ranch,
without her husband, until in 1952, oil was found on the property.
Aunt Madge kept the
farm operating, until only she was left, than she leased out almost all of the
land, to neighbors. Most all the land, for miles around, that I had always
thought as belonging to neighbors, had belonged to Aunt Madge.
Financially, Aunt
Madge was worth millions. Each month brought in a five-digit check, from the oil
companies.
Though
Aunt Madge had over twenty million dollars in bank assets at the time of her
death, that was only part of the revenue, she had taken in during that time.
Most all of what she took in, in oil revenue, went directly out to charities.
In Aunt Madge’s
will, the charities got most all of the money that was in the bank. I got
$600,000 in cash (after taxes), plus, I inherited the land, and therefore also
the revenue from the oil wells.
Even though Aunt
Madge’s financial advisors controlled most all the operations dealing with the
money, the first thing I did in returning to Denver, was quit my job. It made no
sense to keep on working there. The only reason I had worked there was for
money, and now I had enough.
Since I had
received the money after the legal separation with Andrea, Andrea had no rights
to any other settlement, from the divorce. Even though she was informed of Aunt
Madge’s death, she had not been at the funeral, nor sent a card, or flowers.
We saw no reason to even inform her, of the will. It was none of her business.
I don’t know who
I missed more, Aunt Madge or Andrea. What I did know, is, that now, I was alone
in the world. Other than for my money, no one cared the slightest about me. Aunt
Madge’s death, and the divorce pending with Andrea, put me into a deep
depression.
I was at a complete
loss, as to what I should be doing with my life. I was entirely disappointed,
with everything around me.
Having money is not
everything. If you don’t have goals, and reasons, money is pretty much
worthless. Money is there to buy things, and create lifestyles to enjoy. But, I
had nothing to enjoy. Here I was with over half a million sitting in the bank,
and I was still living in my dingy, pay-by-the-week motel room.
I had no idea, how
I could change, or what I could change, so as to at least, find some
satisfaction within my life. I needed help and someone else’s opinions. I
could not see a solution to my problems. That’s when I first started seeing a
therapist.
He was only a few
inches taller than me, but a lot older. All the times I saw him, he always had
on some sort of brown suit, and a white shirt. I never saw him in anything but
brown. Being older, and sitting as much as he did, he was over weight and
carried his excess baggage around the middle. What I saw of his arms and legs
seemed to be too thin for his body. The top of his head was bald, and the sides
always seemed a little bit shaggy and disheveled. He made a good attempt at
being very academic, and succeeded most of the time. He reminded me of many of
my teachers in college.
Since I had nothing
better to do with my time, we started out with three sessions a week. It took
also quite a few session of him only listening, until we were at a level, where
we could begin discussions. Early on I had refused his offer of
anti-depressants. I’ve never been one to use medications, unless it was
absolutely required.
Working out the
problems of my childhood seemed too great of a problem, and anyway, the most
important aspect of my visits was to stabilize my life, sufficiently enough, to
begin having desires and goals. We could than at a later date, work through
these problems.
One of the major
issues, that we always seem to touch on, but skirt around, was my problem with
how I saw myself and how others saw me. Why their views of me was such a cause
of disturbance to me.
I could never seem
to give him a satisfactory explanation, of what my self-image was, nor could I
explain, how I wanted people to see me. No matter what I said, it was, even for
me, too vague.
All I could
explain, was that it was other people’s view of me, and that created attitude
in them towards me, which always seemed to be, the cause of much of my problems.
It was that, my thinking about myself, and their views of me, were out of sync
with each other. Yet I couldn’t explain how, or why.
Also, no matter how
we talked about issues, the issue of contentment, with myself, was getting
nowhere.
It was than at the
end of one session, that he asked me to do something. He asked me to think about
those times in my life, where I had been content and happy, and to examine them.
He asked me to pick
out that single moment in my life, where I felt I was the most content and
happy… that I had ever been. Than to think and examine, why this event had
made me feel that way.
He told me that we
often suppress emotions, desires and feelings, because we feel they do not
conform, to our image of our planned lives and goals. He said that in attempting
to succeed in our goals, we suppress and deny, that what would have given us,
happy and contented lives. That it is often, not other people who hurt us so
much, as that we ourselves are responsible, for our own unhappiness and
discontentment.
That had been on a
Thursday session, I spent all of Friday and Saturday, thinking again about my
college days, with Andrea. I couldn’t seem to pick out one single moment that
I thought stood out above the others. They were all as good a time as the other,
and in hindsight of my upcoming divorce, my memories of them seemed tainted.
Lying in bed
Saturday evening was depressing. I was terribly disappointed in this venture of
his. It was going nowhere. Yes, I had had good times with Andrea, but she was a
part of the problem. She was no longer with me. Nothing that centered on her was
going to be a solution. She was out of the picture.
Early Sunday
morning, I had again one of those dreams about the bridge. Like the other
dreams, where the young woman in the mirror was present, they were dreams, but
not dreams. I seemed awake during them. I was wide-awake, when they were over.
In this dream I was again standing on top of the bridge,
watching the truck racing towards me. This time though, the young woman from the
mirror was standing now only a few feet from me. She had a soft gentle smile on
her face. Her eyes spoke only of love. There was no more worry, or concern, in
them.
Emotionally, the
thundering semi held no fear for me anymore. It was as if I had reached a
turning point. Looking at her, I felt contentment in my heart, a complete
satisfaction with the moment.
She somehow seemed
to embody perfection and more. From her seemed to radiate an aura of
naturalness, a fact of being that could not be questioned. A feeling that
encompassed the sun rising in the morning, the blooming of flowers in the
springtime, the naturalness of life itself.
I
wanted to explain my feelings to her, but I could not find the words. So, the
dream ended there. Leaving me wondering why, the reasoning for the dream.
That Monday’s
session with my therapist was a worthless session. It seemed, more and more,
that we were only going around and around in circles.
Driving
back to my motel room, it hit me. I knew now exactly that one moment in my life,
where I had felt far beyond any other moment, contentment and happiness with
myself. It was that one moment where I felt my body, my soul, and my mind, for
once, completely in tune.
It
didn’t make sense though. That moment wasn’t going to help me either. That
moment was about as far away from reality, as any further moments with Andrea.
Thinking about that
moment, as a goal for my life, was ridiculous and impossible. That moment, in
itself, was a falsification… a lie.
That
moment had been one of those times, while I was babysitting for Janice. It was
in the final time, when I had, each time after they left, rushed into dressing
fully enfemme.
Not having any
plan, I had just taken almost the first things I grasped, to wear. I wasn’t
dressed in any sexy, sensual lingerie or dress. I had put on a simple bra, full
brief panties, a slip, and a flowery summer dress.
I
had spent the rest of the evening dressed that way, doing nothing special, but
spending time feeding one of the babies a bottle, watching television… nothing
out of the ordinary. What had made that moment so special was the feeling of the
complete naturalness of my actions, within myself. I was being and doing,
exactly that what deep inside me, I was intended to do and be.
It made absolutely
no sense! It was all wrong, and the reason why, the image of the young woman in
the mirror had mocked me so cruelly, so often. Even though I maybe should have
been, I wasn’t, and never could be her.
“I am a
man. Albeit, a weak, wimpy, pretty much a worthless example of a man, who
can’t even have children, but a man, nether less.”
“All this monkey business about “should have
been a female” was only because of my mother’s psychotic fantasy, and the
fact of my size and shape.”
“God Damn
It! I am a man! Why is it that every time people do accept me, every time I feel
comfortable with myself, I’m considered to be acting like a female? Why
can’t I just be me?”
The whole thought
process was depressing me, “I don’t want to be a woman. I’m not
gay. I’ve never even looked at a man. I like women and being around women. I
like sex with women. I just want to be myself, and have people accept me for me.
What so wrong with that?”
It seemed though,
once the thought became fact; it was like a Pandorian box. “But who am
I? What do I feel deep inside me? Is it that some people, see something in me,
that I don’t see?”
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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.
This story remains my property, and may
not be posted on any other website or published without my written consent. -
Nicole Braun
Denver in the
wintertime can be very depressing. My sessions with my therapist were going
nowhere. My one-room hole-in-the-wall added only to the total atmosphere.
I, myself, didn’t
look much better. Since that night I found Andrea, in her sexual puppy pile, I
had let myself go. I still showered, and wore clean clothes, but that was about
it. I had to ponder, when it was the last time, I had had a haircut, or bought
new clothes.
It was than at one
of the few meeting I had with one of Aunt Madge’s (now my)
financial advisors, that he asked me why I was still in Denver of all places. He
himself had flown in from Houston, and was very out of sorts, with the cold
windy Denver weather.
His idea appealed
to me somehow. I signed over a limited power of attorney to my divorce lawyer.
Sold my car. I threw most of my clothing away. Put most all my personal
belongings in storage. Than I got on a plane headed for Miami.
Once there I bought myself a cherry red Mustang convertible,
and started to look for a place to stay.
Since my bank
account now read at around three quarters of a million, I started to look into
buying something real. I wanted some place to live… that made me feel good.
I didn’t want too
big of a place. I didn’t want involvement. I wanted comfort and freedom.
Instead of searching, I let be searched. I knew enough about real estate from
Andrea, to know, that I didn’t know enough, to do it on my own.
Talk about dejavue
all over. I didn’t give the matter a thought when I called what looked like a
larger realtor and was assigned to a lady. She could have been Andrea’s sister
for all it mattered.
She was though,
good at her job. In short order, she had figured out what I wanted, and I was
settling into a nice two-bedroom condo. It had a large terrace overlooking the
beach with a private harbor not far away. It was in a Mediterranean style, with
terra-cotta tile in the kitchen, living room and flowing out on to the terrace.
Also the walls of the kitchen, halls, and living room were of stucco. I
decorated the living room in black Italian leather and cherry wood furniture.
On the other side
of the condo lay a small old styled very upbeat community. There were little
cafes and shops of all kinds. With my mid-west small town background, the
diversity of peoples in that town was first perplexing, but amazing.
My neighbors, to
the one side of my place, were a lesbian couple. On the other side…
I still haven’t figured it out. Four people (2 male/2 female) lived in
the two-bedroom place, but how they paired up, I don’t know. Seemed like every
other day it was a different combination… male/male… female/female…
male/female… it was all there.
After I had the
condo, and had enough furniture in it to live, the next thing on my agenda was
to get a haircut and new clothes, clothes that fit the climate, and my hopefully
new outlook on life.
I had seen a little
hair salon on the route I always took, so that’s where I stopped off first.
For some reason, I
decide to keep my hair longer. I told the young hair stylist that I wanted to
let my hair grow longer and needed something that would work. I didn’t have
the slightest idea how, but she said she could do something.
During the time
that she was washing my hair, she asked if I wanted a manicure. In a moment of
splurging, and thinking that men have manicures as well, I said, “Why
not.” Another young woman came to me, so I
just sat back and enjoyed being pampered.
Well… It was a unisex hairstyle, that’s for sure. Maybe,
it would have looked manly on a more manly man, but on me it looked more dykish,
than anything. It was a longish layer cut just touching my shoulders and taper
up, covering fully my ears, to bangs over the front. There was a part high on
the left side, and the bangs were long, jagged and hung down past my eyebrows.
The whole haircut had a jagged, layered appearance. Since I could wear it with
the bangs forward, or brushed to the side, I decided to keep it. It did frame my
face, and give it an even more feminine appearance, nevertheless.
My manicure, I
didn’t like as much. She had kept the nails as long as they had been; only
rounding and tapering them oval. What I didn’t like was the light glossy
effect that they had. I thought she should have kept them natural.
Just a bit down the
road was an upscale men and women’s boutique, so that was the next stop on my
spree. I had decided I was going to get some suits, shirts, sweaters and
trousers. Jeans I still had enough.
I told the
saleslady what I wanted, and that I wanted them not only stylish, but also
comfortable enough for everyday wear. I wanted suits, but not stiff business
suits. For shirts I wanted more mock turtlenecks and fancy t-shirts. She also
showed me some moccasins styled loafers and I bought one of each color, black,
dark brown and tan.
I was in there for
hours, and the mustang was pretty well packed by the time I was finished. I’m
sure I made her day. When I left the shop, I left my old clothes there, wearing
one of my all-new jackets, trousers and a mock sweater. (It was winter, and even
a little cool in Florida.)
The jacket and
trousers were of cashmere/wool/silk mixture and the mock was cashmere/silk. The
trousers were what I liked the best. They did fit me a little loose around the
hips, but they were the first pair of trousers I had ever bought, that did not
bunch up in the waist. Strange was only that the zipper fly opened to the left
instead of to the right. The pants were one of four that I had grabbed off of
one rack, and tried on, while the saleslady was helping, someone else.
Coming back to my
condo, was the first time, I saw the lesbian couple, which lived next door to
me. The more feminine of the couple was very friendly, and waved to me, saying
hello.
I think I saw her
grin and say, “Nice” when she first
saw me. The other had than glared at her. I remembered speculating if the more
feminine one was maybe bisexual. I made a mental note to try and make friends
with the other one first, as I didn’t want to become a point of contention
between them.
Later, the more
feminine one talked a bit with me, over the common wall of our terraces. She
invited me to go with them, to a club that night.
It was an engaging
evening, interesting for me, since I had never had anything to do with lesbians.
The two of them and I, stayed close friends for a year, until they broke up, and
both moved away. I still call, email and write both of them.
Still, even though,
and maybe because, I had moved, and was living better, the Pandorian box that I
had opened, was more actual than ever before.
I had certainly
noticed that my new more feminine hairstyle had made me feel better, and people
acted differently around me. (Yes, I had also figured out that the four pairs of
trousers from that one rack were women’s trousers.)
Yet, in that first
night at the lesbian bar, I had more women hit on me, than I had ever had in my
whole life!
I had stepped out
of my usual drab characterization, of who I was, and people seemed to be
accepting me more, because of that.
Okay, they, in the
lesbian bar, had thought I was a woman, but even after I explained that I
wasn’t female, they weren’t offended. They didn’t change in their behavior
towards me at all.
Much later, it was
my neighbors that explained to me, that even they had thought, for quite some
time, that I was a boi… a F2M, female to male, transgendered.
I
had never given transgenderism much thought. Other than what one sees in
Hollywood movies, that’s about all I knew. I had seen Sex in the City and Mrs.
Doubtfire, things like that. That was my idea of what transgenderism was.
It was Jen and
Sandy (the lesbian couple) that forced me
to start thinking out of the box. Questioning my ideals of what I thought was
normal and necessary.
Still, it took
time, and a lot of talks with Jen and Sandy, to come to terms, with me finally
looking past my denial of fact, as to who and what I really saw myself as.
There were a lot of
little baby steps taken, the plucking of eyebrows, the wearing of small amounts
of lipstick or eye shadow, getting my ears pierced, to finally the day I wore a
bra and breast forms and went out with them dressed enfemme and butch, in a
woman’s business suit and a blouse.
Later, I was a
certified lez (and the designated purse carrier),
when we went out. After a time, I always went enfemme with them. It got hard not
to dress female. My eyebrows were plucked. My nails were too long to be a
man’s. In shorts or a bathing suit, my hairless legs were a dead give-away.
While my hair… still styled with that layered look, hung well down my back,
and couldn’t be considered anything but, a very feminine hairstyle.
It wasn’t a case
of no one taking notice. Have you ever examined how men seem to always study
women? Have you ever noticed how women observe each other?
Women observe each
other constantly, comparing… judging…
Well, and men…
They have a natural tendency to always study women… no matter what.
Being a woman is
being always in the limelight.
Yes, I had been
noticed, but as a woman would be noticed, and that felt so good!
It was scary at
first. People would look at me, and I just knew they were laughing at me.
It was only when
men started to try and flirt with me, that I realized why people were looking.
Realized, how it is natural that women are more looked at and studied, more than
men.
It was odd and
unusual, after having lived most of my life as a male, and that of an indistinct
one at that, to now be noticed so much.
Men are peculiar
creatures.
As Conner, I was,
at best ignored. Otherwise, and than some, I always knew some form of ridicule,
even if it was unintentional.
As Story, I am
fawned over, pampered, but never ignored.
Well, that’s how
I perceived it at first. Now unless it gets to be obnoxious, or I am seeking it,
it’s just seems natural. I guess, maybe, if I had been born a woman, I
wouldn’t even notice, or think about it.
Cross-dressing
had been fun and games. But, we had reached our limits. What we had done felt
nice. But, it wasn’t satisfaction for me. It helped me safely try out and
observe a few aspects of being a woman, but that was all.
Between the
physical me and the mental me, I was still divided. There was a division between
mind and body, which made anything we did, only a play game.
The next baby step,
I could only take, with the help of professionals. The first of these steps
would be, to again go into counseling. This time I needed someone more
understanding and sympathetic to my intentions.
My
problem was, that I was that woman in the mirror. However it had happened, I had
been born with the wrong gender. She was what I should have been, and what I had
to be, to become whole and content with myself, and my life. Anything less was
insufficient.
Playing the part,
without the intentions of actually becoming what I needed to be, should have
been, was only self-abuse. That is why, I perceived the young woman in
Janice’s mirror, to be mocking me.
It’s a difficult
decision to make, to change one’s life so entirely. For many an even harder
decision than mine was.
I could, of course,
question my mother’s and Janice’s influence on me. That I had been
indoctrinated, into believing, that I would be better off female than male.
Still, a lot of how
we feel about our selves, is dictated by how others feel and act towards us.
That was the argument that I couldn’t avoid.
In neither gender
would I be entirely accepted or functional.
As Conner I could
not have children, and neither as Story.
Being Conner, I
would always carry the stigma of wimp and being less manly… not quite a man. I
would always be seen as odd, different, less than… as handicapped. Physically
I couldn’t conform to the image society required of a man.
As Story I would be
a M2F, a transsexual, and be confronted subtly but profoundly by prejudice and
intolerance.
My only hope was to
become so feminine that those that were prejudice, would not know. It was sad,
but true.
I did not have to
worry about the effect on loved ones, or on my occupation, to consider.
Andrea was history.
Aunt Madge was dead. My mother… my father… my brother? Who cared? Not me!
Occupation? My
checks would be deposited to my bank account monthly… no matter what. If one
of Aunt Madge’s financial advisors didn’t like what I became… good bye,
and next one.
It therefore was a
question of, “In which
gender would I have less problems, and have a richer more fulfilling life?”
I knew I couldn’t
transition 100% into being female. There would always be small but critical
discrepancies.
My physical
features were such that as Conner I would never be socially accepted, but as
Story, I would have little, or no problems.
In fact, since once
having stepped over permanently into cross-dressing, people seemed more readily
to accept me as the person I was. Where Conner was tolerated, people seemed to
go out of their way, to get to know Story.
Morally? As Conner
I had been neglected, abused, and ignored most of my whole life. Was my destiny,
to remain so? Or, was the reasoning behind my suffering, that I learn, break the
circle of abuse, and than transform myself, my life, into a being, able to
excel, and be accepted. Using this to help others, that suffered the same abuse
and neglect, as I had?
As such, Conner had
two strikes against him. Before he even started out. People will always judge
the outsides of a person, before they look further. There are doors that would
always remain closed, to Conner.
I have always been
acutely aware of my looks, and their value. Story was… a completely different
story. The feminine body of Story would be pleasant to look at, and conformative
to my personality. Rather than alienating, closing people’s minds, and
thoughts towards me, Story’s body would compliment my character, insuring
people’s interest in my agenda.
Fate had not given
me money for no reason. Money isn’t self-intending. It’s not a goal. It’s
a means. If Aunt Madge’s life taught me anything, it was that my fortune was
in providing serve and help to others. Those that receive the most, have the
responsibility, to give the most.
It’s
nice to think that looks don’t mean much. But, it’s also very naive. Conner
would be a hindrance. Story would be an asset.
Sex,
naturally, was the big question mark.
As Conner I was
functional. Didn’t have many available options (okay, more like none), but the
equipment did work.
What would it be
like for Story? Professionals, the Internet, no one could give me any
assurances, in either direction, to any formative degree. Would I be able to
enjoy sex after the sex change?
Also, Conner could
possibly find a female life-partner, but what could Story? I wasn’t gay. Could
I become a lesbian? Would a lesbian accept me?
I seriously did
want to find a life-partner, could I as Story?
Using only my
logic, my conclusion was that as a female, my body/mind functioned more fluidly,
and socially I was accepted to a far greater degree.
Emotionally, no
matter if my body was male or female… my mind, my thinking, my emotional
makeup, was female.
So,
my personal decision was than to attempt to conform as perfectly as I could to
my feminine persona. Money was not a limiting factor, only reality was.
Sex was just… my
biggest anxiety.
With Jen and Sandy,
I began to seek out and talk to other transgendereds. Transsexuals were hard to
find. Mostly, what we found were cross-dressers and drag queens. They were of
little or no help.
The Internet
remained my best source of information. Yet it was only information, and as long
as it stayed only information, and not deed, it too remained a mockery.
Dr. Johnston became
my second counselor. She is an older woman, who once must have been very pretty.
She is still a pretty woman, even though age has widened her hips and given her
a little bit of a tummy. One thing that made our communications so easy for me
was the fact that her image, her aura, was so much that of a mother figure. She
is professional, open, honest, and straight forward and to the point, but
compassionate, understanding and motherly. I felt, even in the first few
minutes, very comfortable with her.
She also had
extensive familiarity with transgendereds… pre and post ops… She had ample
experience with most all such problems that could arise. She had been there,
done that.
Even
though we both knew that our relationship was going to be a long one, with my
mental issues concerning my childhood always in the background, my intentions of
seeking SRS/GRS (Sex Reassignment Surgery/Gender Reassignment Surgery) and HRT
(Hormone Replacement Therapy)… as soon as possible, was the foremost issue I
wanted to be dealt with.
Still, before
anything could be done, a diagnosis of Gender Dysphoria had to be concluded.
After having told
Dr. Johnston about my sterility, she had appointments made for me with a medical
specialist.
I was diagnosed as
having Klinefelter syndrome (XXY chromosome structure).
I
was also diagnosed with having physically, primary male characteristics (sex
organs), and secondary female characteristics (body form/ skeletal structure).
One in 500 males
born have some form of KS. Most with KS do not have Gender Dysphoria, and are
typical males, having only male characteristics. But, having, simply, a hormonal
imbalance.
Yet, those with my
variation, or better-said complications, commonly do have Gender Dysphoria.
I was not
hermaphrodite. That is something else. I had no female sex organs.
Hermaphrodites also, generally, have either standard XX or XY chromosomes. They
are only born with some form of latent and non-functioning sex organs, of the
other gender. Everyone with KS is genetically male, because the Y chromosome
dominates. It’s the double X chromosome that is the complication.
Still, because of
my body/skeletal structure, I could be classified as female-pseudo. I had a
feminine body and male sex organs. Therefore the purist definition of gender
dysphoria was not fully applicable.
The
next step was a minimum of one year RLT (Real Life Training). Which, I was
already doing. I dressed female now all the time. Dressing male wasn’t really
an option anymore. I would have seriously looked like a boi (F2Ms/F2M
cross-dressers).
Still, living as a
woman, is not just dressing like one.
There are so many
things to take into consideration… behavior. (That’s a bigger one than you
would think!) Just think social skills.
How about voice
training?
Because of my
latent and impaired puberty, my voice had
never really dropped completely to that of a normal male voice. I was a high
tenor or treble. But, do you know how much differences there are between the
resonance and the fluctuations in female and male voices? How about the monotone qualities of male voices, in
comparison to female voices? How
about word usage or sentence structure? How about articulation?
Also, even though
there are real-life exceptions, voice and body usually is a matching pair.
People expect a certain body type to have a certain voice. Just think of how
disturbing it is to hear deep bass tones from a male of my small stature, or a
treble from a 6’5” 250lbs male.
One year is not a
long time to readjust. I took every thinkable study class and course possible…
and than some.
In that year, I was
fully occupied in transforming my life and myself over. I had little time to
think of anything else.
Taking body styling
courses, and having a body stylist, helped me a lot. They were very good in
helping me find my style, and what fit to my body type and personality.
I always liked
dancing, and Andrea was very good at dancing. So, I also enrolled in dancing
classes, to better learn how to dance, and also to learn the feminine side of
dancing and body portrayal.
I had makeup and
hair styling classes, women’s health and social studies, TG women’s health
courses, and behavioral courses. Speech classes, and training, took up a large
portion of my days.
It
was like a call from my distant past, when I received the final divorce degree,
in the mail.
Two weeks later, I
received than also, a wedding announcement and wedding photo, from Andrea, via
my divorce lawyer. She had married “him”. Maybe, I should have sent them a
wedding present? Well, I didn’t.
Where did I ever
get the idea that hormone therapy consisted of taking only one small pill a day?
My butt hurt, my
arms hurt… almost continually… from all the shots! I turn black and blue so
easily, and it stays that way, for such a long time! Seriously, how are you
supposed to wear any decent kind of bathing suit or bikini, when you look like
some sort of needle junky?
I never liked
pills. Still don’t like pills. And here I am, stuck for the rest of my life…
taking pills. There are not only estrogens that need to be taken; there are
antiandrogens and progestagens. Not only do estrogens need to be added into your
system, testosterones needs to be controlled and reduced. Whoa if the levels
aren’t correct! Oh, yuck!
My moods didn’t
change that much… I think. Maybe, that had a lot to do with the mental
attitude, I did have before.
It was my outlook
about life and other people, which did though change extensively. I’m not sure
if that had to do with the hormone therapy, or with the fact I was now seen as
being a female, and people reacted to me differently. Others, and my,
expectations, relating to myself, differed immensely, from before.
Women, I always got
along with good, or very good. There was only a small change in our
interactions. I think that was because, intuitively, some see me now, as a
potential competitor.
It’s men that are
my major transition problem. I never got along with men before. Not in a good
friend or buddy sense, and never in a sexual sense. I was straight…
straight… straight, and wimp… wimp… wimp. My interactions with men, was
always limited at best. I avoided them. But now, how can you avoid them? Well,
that’s for later in the story. I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s just say
it is a substantial problem… bigger, than I could have ever imagined.
I did fill out
nicely from the hormone therapy. I guess, I can’t complain there. Skinny twerp
to … well, I don’t think I look too bad. (I have been getting compliments,
about having, “Killer legs and a nice ass,”
and I do think that they are my best assets.)
I always had wider
hipbones, so with the hormones, I filled out almost perfectly there.
My breasts made it
also just short of where I wanted them to be. Having breast augmentation surgery
was something, I hoped, not to do. They are full enough, and I have rather large
pointy nipples. I’m a size 32B. (Okay, sometimes I’m an A cup, bite
me.)
It’s kind of
amazing, I never thought of my nipples as being anything special or interesting.
I do like them now. They are beyond question, one of my major erogenous zones.
Puberty had not
given me many classical male characteristics such as eyebrow with raised ridge,
larger hands and feet, shorter upper arms and thighs, Adam’s apple, broader
ribcage, and wider jaw. In fact, much of my childhood skeletal form had not
changed that much. Therefore I am physically, in that aspect, nearer to an adult
female skeletal structure, than to a male. Near enough, to be clinically
classified, as having a female skeletal structure.
Still I did need
some plastic surgery. What I did need was fat cell transfer from waist and tummy
to butt and hips.
If the changes
needed, are not too extreme, fat cell transfer is the more natural, though
expensive option. Just like with collagen, there is no guarantee over the if and
when, the stability of the changes created.
I
was and still am very happy with the results of the fat cell transfer. My waist
is as small as it can get. My tummy is not only flat; I have that wide
hipbones/sunken-in tight abs look. (Okay, I did need to work out too… well a
lot.)
My figure is a
little bottom heavy, but, still easily within limits. I have a 23-inch waist and
am 34 inches around my hips. My only problem is, with my 5foot 3inches, I’m
usually stuck looking for clothes in misses or petite sizes. You miss out on a
considerable amount of nice clothing. They just don’t make many of the more
luscious sensual styles in my size. This means also that a lot have to be bought
to fit my hips, than tailored in at the waist and/or bust. Girls usually
haven’t developed into my womanlier figure.
If
you don’t need vaginoplasty… don’t do it!
It was a very
frightening… terrifying time for me. It is an extreme psychological stress.
Jen and Sandy had
broken up by that time, so that left me alone, with no one to be with me, except
the doctors and nurses. I was alone… alone… alone. Stressed going in,
stressed the eight days I was there, and stressed coming out… and no one to
talk with, or hold my hand.
It has to be done
in two parts. After the first part it’s, “Oh yuck, what have I done?
It looks terrible!” Only after weeks of healing can you go back, and the rest of the plastic
surgery is done. Than it takes more days…weeks, until you finally can see,
what you in reality, look like down there.
Than it’s psycho
shock time again. It seriously needs some getting use to.
There are a lot of
variations on how a vaginoplasty can be done. Some cost less than others, I
wanted quality, and the price was not a question.
Cosmetically my
foreskin was used to create my labia minora, and therefore the inner skin is
mucus membrane, just like that of a born female.
Except for the
lacking of mucus membrane in the vagina (which means you don’t get wet), there
is little or no difference, to that of a born female, to see, unless you are
gynecologist.
Sexually, I feel, I
now have more, or better feeling, and better orgasms than before. They are very
different, and cannot be compared. It would be, like comparing apples to
oranges. Still, the orgasms last longer. They are like waves that slowly crest
and than slowly ebb away. Giving you a much more orgasmic feeling, before, and
after. Also, recovery time is a lot… lot less. There’s just less worries
about performance and timing. You can just let yourself go, and enjoy. My
clitoris is very sensitive (some times too sensitive), and I am also responsive
to vaginal penetration. Penetration is, mentally, and physically, something
quite… breathtaking.
Though penetration
is a far greater intrusion into my comfort zone, I have found, that I enjoy sex
more now, than before. I have fewer worries about my body image, and how others
perceive me. I am far more interested in the erotic of the moment, and my
interactions with my partner, than before.
Bad sex is still…
bad sex. Great sex is still… great sex. But before, it seemed more that I was
seeking release. Release was the goal. Now I seemed to be able to just accept
sex and intimacy, for just what it is, not trying to make more, or less of it.
Just accepting the moment.
But, it is
considerably more maintenance and care. No matter how good medical science has
gotten, it still isn’t perfect. Once you’re there, that’s a part of your
body, that’s going to need an immense more amount of attention.
But, unless it was
the wrong thing to do, you do get use to it. Nowadays, I can’t even remember
what it was like before, having that thingy hanging down there.
I don’t regret
it. It could have gone very, very wrong. But, it was the right thing to do, for
me.
Just, if there is
any other solution, that works for you… go that route.
The only regret I
do have, and this might gross some out, I regret not having periods.
I regret not being
able to have babies. Not being able to do that is a disappointment for me. In a
way, I now see clearer, Andrea’s frustration. I seriously do feel for her…
in that aspect.
But, I’m
happy, and that’s all that matters. I truly do feel that, “Only my
gynecologist knows,” and that’s where I wanted to be.
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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
Nine: From The Frying Pan Into The Fire
I never, ever, could have imagined, that men could be such huge problems.
Before, I never gave them much thought.
During my cross-dressing time, I went out with Jen and Sandy. Most often it was to lesbian localities. When we did go out elsewhere, I didn’t seem to notice that extreme amount more attention from men.
Once I started going out alone, it was a completely different story.
The thing is, even if you are a lesbian, and not interested sexually in men, they cannot be excluded from your life. Men themselves, from their nature, do not allow this to happen. It’s a part of their whole social/dating/sexual outlook on life. They, from nature, are the aggressors, the hunters.
You can’t stay home all the time. You can’t avoid them. You have to deal with them, especially if you’re single.
During my recovery time, I had to stay down. I didn’t feel like doing much, anyway. Once everything was healed. I had a severe case of cabin fever. I just needed to get out amongst people!
How people reacted towards me, was also, for me at that time, a major ego boost… just what I needed.
Maybe, that’s what got me in trouble.
As a male, other than with Andrea, I had only dated a few times. My experiences were even in that aspect, limited at best, and all in the wrong direct.
I was so naive. The learning curve, that natural born women have, concerning men, is… longer and more extensive, has more volume.
Mine was like null and void. I did not have the depth of knowledge, to know truly, be aware of, the effect I had on men. What to do, or what not to do. How my body language would be evaluated.
What made it worse, was that Jen and Sandy, who could have helped me along, were gone.
I did have Dr. Johnston, and she had pointed out that this would be an issue. What I don’t know is if we, or just I, had underestimated how great of an issue it would be, or if she wasn’t completely upfront with me, about what life changes I was going to undergo. That in fact, I have to learn, one-step-at-a-time, as events unfolded.
My healing process had pretty well been done and gone, when I started to seriously get into clothing fetishes. I seemed to weekly go from one fetish to another. One week it would be shoes. (Do you know how much a pair of Jimmy Choo or Prada’s cost?) Another week would be panties. (I just love string bikinis.) The week after that… skirts… than dresses… than bras… than…
Now I have almost my whole guest bedroom closet stacked full of shoes and clothes, not to speak of my bedroom closet! I had to have custom made closets built, in both bedrooms. Janice would be totally jealous.
Anyway…
I was out shopping, and saw this absolutely fabulous, fiery red, salsa halter-dress, with deep cleavage, an extremely low back (and I mean extremely low), and a high-low skirt bottom. It was hot…hot…hot, and I love anything Latin!
The saleswoman and I had been gabbing, while I had been shopping, for at least a good hour, when I saw that dress. It was a, “Oh my God, I’ve got to have,” moment. Wearing it was almost orgasmic.
She said, “A dress like this demands to be worn dancing”, and she started to tell me about this place her husband and her go dancing. I was dying of jealousy. We ended up making a date that Saturday, for me to go with them.
That night I felt so naughty. You can’t wear a bra with that dress, so everything else I had on, was a tiny black lace string-bikini panty, a pair of black leather three-inch heel Jimmy Choo’s (with corset like lacing), and a tight black satin half-inch wide band collar, that has a diamond brochette, in the middle.
No, nothing sexual happened that night, other than that it was my first straight night out, in I-don’t-know-how-long. Plus, I did get a few kisses on the cheek and two on the lips… and… while dancing, a lot of (well, you know whats) rubbed against my tummy.
The kisses and boner rubs didn’t bother me like I thought they would. It all felt natural. I guess I was just so much into dancing, with so many good dancing partners, that I didn’t give it a thought.
It was a good transitional experience. Even though I was aware that the men I danced with had other intentions than just dancing, I had not felt pressured in any way. I was asked on 3 dates, and asked if I wanted to get some fresh air at least a good dozen (or more) times.
I declined all, but twice, of going out on a patio, for fresh air. Neither gentleman got touchy, even though both did use the moment, to try and get my telephone number.
What did happen was that I became addicted to going out dancing. I wanted more… and more.
Late that night, after returning home, while sitting on my terrace, I did have a long heart-to-heart talk with my soul, my emotions (guilt being one of them), a full moon and the ocean waves. We all came to the conclusion that there was nothing wrong in my behavior. Just so long as I didn’t step over any boundaries, everything was okay. If a man kisses me, than that doesn’t make me gay. Anyway, they kissed me, not me them.
Dr. Johnston and I did have than a new topic of discussion. Her major remark was, “Enjoy, but you are still psychologically, at a too early of a development. So, just remember to keep your legs together. That’s all I ask.”
Now that was shocking! “What is she thinking? What was she telling me? No way! I am not going to go there! I am totally, and unquestionably, heterosexual! That is not going to happen!”
Friday and Saturday nights, I started going out dancing than. If I could find another girl to go with me, than that was good. If I didn’t, than I stayed closer to home, and out of clubs I didn’t know so well.
Later on, I got in with a really nice group of people, so Wednesdays were added. Some of these people were even sport or competition dancers.
I was though pushing my boundaries, which I had set, after that first night out. I can’t exactly say when it began. Only, when I noticed, that I had gone, over my said limits.
I had, by that time, have quite a few numbers, belonging to men, on my cellphone.
It wasn’t unusual to kiss a good friend, a little more, or a little more often, than just good night.
I guess I was becoming a bit of a tease, maybe a little more, than just a bit of a tease. For me, it was a power thing. It was a feel good thing, a popularity thing. Someone desired me. That was new to me, and it was like a drug addiction. I dressed to tease. I danced to tease, and I flirted to tease.
I didn’t think much of it. I would kiss a single guy, just the same as I would a husband of one of my friends. They all knew it. They all did it. No one thought anything of it. No one hid it from anyone. I even kissed a few of the women, wives and singles. No biggie… no problem.
The night I realized I had stepped over the line... actually started the night before.
Scott and I had been dirty dancing since Friday night, and it was now late Saturday night. We weren’t doing any real necking, or petting. It was only getting a little bit out of hand, mostly just on the dance floor.
We were also doing four out of five dances with each other. He was a single guy, and I was a single girl, so what? If anyone was taking notice, that things went a bit further than normal, that we were dancing more with each other than with the others, it was noticed more in a positive tense. More than one of the married women in our group, pulled me aside, to tell me how nice a guy, they thought he was.
He had long wanted to test drive my Mustang. It’s a Shelby GT500. So a real... guy thing. So while we were out for fresh air, I handed him the keys. He drove, and I sat in the passenger seat.
When we got back to the parking lot, he had to park the car a little ways away. We sat there talking for a while.
One thing led to another, and I was wondering, how I was going to get out of, the mess I was in, and cursing that I had worn a dress, where I could not wear a bra. Things were getting out of hand quickly, and I had no idea, how I could politely put a stop to it. (How do you?)
It came even worse when he tried to slide his fingers underneath the crotch of my panties. I grabbed his hand and whispered, “Wrong time.” (At least I was thinking that fast.) That did stop him in that direction. But, by that time, the top of my dress was pretty well off.
I’m not going to say that I was not aroused. That would not be truthful. My mind was saying one thing, and my body another, and my body was talking louder, and faster than my mind.
I had had my arms around his neck when he pulled away from me for a moment. He took my hands and kissed them. Than he seemed to just lay them in his lap and raised his hands back to my face, and returned kissing me. I felt something that wasn’t trouser cloth, and pulled back. “This is going way too far. What am I going to do now?” was all I could think. He took one of my hands and wrapped it around his cock, “Please” he implored, “Just this, nothing more, please.”
At that moment, it didn’t seem too wrong, or unusual. It was a good way to stop things from going further, and get us back into the club.
Let’s just say, I had another deep heart-to-heart talk with the moon and the ocean waves when I got home that night.
Dr. Johnston also had some crisis management to do. Her advice was, just to do, or not do, what I felt I liked doing, or not. “But, remember to keep you legs together girl, you’re not ready.”
I just kept my thoughts to myself. “Like, no way doctor! That is not going to happen!” I wasn’t going to argue with her. I knew what I was doing, and what I wanted.
It was though, another Pandorian box. Once opened, the results that it had, could not be revoked. The line that I had once drawn in the sand, I kept having to redraw, as I retreated, from my once so solid stance.
It was a power emotion that kept me going.
It was also a strong emotional desire to conform and belong. Even though, or maybe because, these people were all straights and considered me to be nothing other than a naturally born female, I, emotionally felt, I needed to continue. I was accepted, and that was just one of the costs, of being accepted. Had I not already worked hard to be finally accepted, for what I am? Why back out now?
The two of us never went to a boyfriend and girlfriend stage. Maybe, he wanted to, but that was just too weird for me to accept. That was too gay. I would accept sexual involvement, but not emotional. I let him know, that I did like him, but I was going to stay single, and open to the field.
It did get to the point of where I could no longer continually use the, “Wrong time” excuse with men. I refused to go all-the-way, but did allow more to happen. I was dry down there though. That could make for problems. I, of course, didn’t want to have to explain anything, neither about any operations, or anything else. I started using just enough pheromones and lubricant to seem naturally wet. It also made it a lot easier on me, if it did go so far. There’s nothing worse than having someone try to push his or her fingers into you, when you’re dry. It hurts.
Yes, that’s correct, his or her fingers. The she, was a part of a married couple. I was skeptical about what she intended, her being married, until she told me that her husband knew, or would be told, and not only didn’t mind, he approved.
I had to put a stop to it, when she suggested a ménage de trio. That was a hard one to say no to. I told her, “Maybe, at some later date.” She didn’t push it; we’re still friends, and still cuddle and kiss.
Justin came into the group about that time.
He stands 6’ 2”, and weights around 180lbs… of pure sensual brawny muscle. Staying in top form is one of his passions.
He is divorced. His wife was too interested in her occupation. She left him for higher jobs, in bigger cities.
He has a son, and a daughter. They live with his mother. Justin would like that they live with him. But, him being single, and they are three and five, they are too young to be alone. He does visit the children as much, as possible.
Justin was special though… well for me. I don’t know exactly what his appeal was or is. We just seemed to understand each other so well. Often, we intuitively knew what the other was thinking, or feeling. Our talks were always very interesting, and he is a good dancer and conversationalist.
He was the first man I ever went on a date with. The group seemed to recognize the two of us as a couple. Only our size differences got a few puns directed at us. He was the tallest, and I was the smallest of our group.
He took me to meet his parents and his children. We took the children to Disneyland, to parks and had picnics at the beach. The children lived with me, while his parents once went on vacation. We all spent Christmas and Easter together. I was invited to the children’s birthday parties. The times with him and his children were beautiful, and…
I use to tease him saying, “If I ever want to get serious with a man, you’ll be the first man I call.” I had told him that I was a lesbian, and could not seriously contemplate having a male life-partner.
His answer was always the same, “You’ve got my home, business and cell numbers. If you still can’t reach me, just call mom or dad.”
One very hot summers evening after dancing, we didn’t seem to want to have things end. He had picked me up. We had gone to dinner, and than to the club, to be with the rest of the group.
Afterwards, the two of us got the idea of going down to the beach, and wading in the cooler waters. It was well after midnight, and the beach was secluded, a little off of the beaten track.
Justin had taken a blanket with him. So after wading in the water, we lay down to talk and cuddle. Things took their course. We had been there, before. We were not treading on new territory. I had even gone down on him, to completion, before. (Like I said, I had continually been redrawing new lines in the sand.)
Things seemed to be taking a little different twist though. Usually after a longer period of petting and necking he needed release. He didn’t seem to want this, and he wouldn’t give me mine either. My panties had long since been discarded, and I had already attempted to go down on him once. He had pulled me back up.
He was on top of me. We looked into each other’s eyes. He’s eyes were questioning. I smiled. I held his face in my hands and pulled him back down to kiss me. Than I felt him enter, penetrate me.
As excited as I was, I was still amazed. I couldn’t remember ever having felt that way before. It was so encompassing, so demanding, knowing, feeling, him inside of me. Sex had never been that way, so strong, so over powering. It took my breath away, that first moment of penetration, I was open-mouthed gasping, and I didn’t seem to be able to get my breath back until it was over. I wrapped my legs around him, wanting to pull him into me as far, and as much, as I could. I don’t know if I came once, continually, or multiple times. I have no idea how long he lasted.
What happened happened afterwards.
It took me a long time to come down from my high. We lay quietly for a while, not saying much. He tried to talk, but I was starting to have guilt feelings about what had happened. What was happening between us. This was something I had never intended to happen.
More so, I realized how deeply and emotionally Justin was getting involved in me. Justin wanted a loving wife for himself, and mother for his children. A woman that would be with him, and stand by him. I was to Justin no different, than Andrea had been to Conner. Now I was Andrea. I was the one playing games with people’s lives.
This was getting far too serious. I wanted to just go home. The night was over. It had ended. I needed time to think.
In the car, almost to my house, I had this flashback of being Conner, the Conner in college, before Andrea, before my sex change, and ages before Justin. Conner would have never had sex with a man. I had just done the unthinkable, the unacceptable, and the forgivable.
I started crying. Not hysterical tears, but only slow sorrowful tears. They just rolled quietly down my cheeks. They were the tears of having gone somewhere, done something, and now could never return to what I had been before.
When we got to my place, Justin saw them, and tenderly asked why, what was wrong. I could see the guilty emotions playing on his face. He felt he had done something wrong. “Justin, no, please, you did nothing wrong. It was beautiful. It’s me. I can’t.”
I couldn’t explain. I couldn’t say anything that would explain. Nothing in my mind was making sense. I jumped out of his car, and ran for the door of my condo.
In my condo, I walked out on the terrace needing to think. The moon and the ocean waves would not listen, or talk to me. All that I could feel was, Justin’s semen dripping down my leg.
Sunday found me no better off. Justin called, but I didn’t answer. I didn’t know what to say.
Later, one of the married women from the group called, and I answered. She tried to talk to me, but I ended up only crying more. She came over than. She is a medical doctor, and gave me a sleeping pill. I told her, I would be seeing my therapist in the morning.
I think Dr. Johnston knew something was wrong, the first second, I stepped into her office.
When I told her, she was harsh, but she explained some things to me.
Initially, we are all bisexual at birth. It’s a part of our genetic social instincts. Without them we would be asocial animals, unable to live together in any form of a community.
Yet, we have not only instinctual behavior, but also learned behavior. Therefore we differ. As we grow older, and sexual desire and expression develops within each of us, so does sexual orientation.
She showed me Kinsey’s graph on bisexuality, with heterosexual on one end of the graph, and homosexual on the other end. Everything else is some form of bisexuality.
Conner was heterosexual because he thought he needed to be. Between his size, and his conflict with his gender dysphoria, Conner suppressed any and all forms of non-heterosexual behavior… because it made him less manly, than he already was.
Story though, no longer needs to suppress any such behavior. In fact, socially, Story lives in a heterosexual environment, where she needs to act contrary to her historical (Conner) behavior. Story is female.
My learned behavior therefore did not fit with my reality. My reality was that I was female. That heterosexual behavior, which I was conditioned to accept as normal behavior, now had turned 180 degrees on me. Two parts of my assumed and learned behavior were in direct conflict with each other.
She told me, that the best solution to the problem was a slow evolutionary change, within my mental image of my sexual self. Change and adaptation is a normal occurrence. We all do it, all the time.
Yet, I had been too egocentrical and too involved in the simple self-gratification of my ego, to slow down, and let myself adapt. I had pushed the teasing, and than not kept my legs together.
Now I had a conflict, but that in it self was not all bad. Conflict can cause a reevaluation, and therefore also change and adaptation. What mattered now, was how I was going to proceed, and adapted, or not. It was up to me. Somewhere in the mixed up emotions of mine, was my real sexuality.
She said, “Obviously, you are bisexual. Otherwise, why were you involving yourself willingly with both males and females? Think on that.”
I stayed at home all that week thinking. I didn’t go out on Wednesday like I normally would. When Justin called I told him that I was thinking. I told him that I had issues and problems, which I had to work through. He was not at fault for any of them. He had done nothing wrong.
Saturday I knew I had to do something. I went back to the club, hoping Justin would be there. I had not wanted to make a date with him. That was too formal. We would be together for too long of a time. That would allow for discussion and debate.
He was there waiting, and saw me, the moment I walked in. I told him I wanted to talk with him. We went out and took a walk.
I didn’t tell him everything. I didn’t want to hurt him, any more than I already had.
I told him that I had had an abusive childhood. I did not tell him any details.
I told him that I had loved someone deeply, too deeply, and had been hurt very badly. It was the reason I had moved to Florida.
I told him that I also had relationship issues with men. That I could have sex with men, only so long as I disassociated the sex, from emotional involvement.
Looking up directly into his eyes, reaching up and holding his cheeks in my hands, I said, “I can’t do that with you Justin. I’m sorry. If I am near you, if we are together, it hurts me too much. I can’t, please believe me. I can’t be around you anymore. It hurts too much to see you, to know you’re near.”
I hurriedly walked away and got into my car. I left him standing there, not giving him a chance to answer.
It was better that way. I would hurt him a little, only so he wouldn’t be hurt, a lot.
When he later called, I did not answer.
His last voice mail was harsh, “You never gave me a chance to say anything. I wanted to understand. I wanted to try and understand. You just walked away. That hurt the worst. You didn’t want my understanding. You intentionally didn’t give me a chance at understanding. Why you did walked away? Damn it, why?”
Avoiding the issues concerning my transexuality, and the conflict of truthfulness and prejudice, that Justin had unknowingly thrown me into; I went through a cycle of sordid short affairs, and one-night stands. Trying to find my own true sexuality, and someone who would love me, for myself. I stayed away from, I avoided, the club, Justin, and my friends.
It was than that I had to return to Denver on business. Since I was going to be there for a while, I went and rented one of those short-term furnished apartments that companies have for their traveling management personal.
It was at a club, than in Denver, that “he”, started coming on to me. Yes, that he, Robert, Andrea’s new husband. Of course he had no idea who I was. He had only seen me once. I doubted very much, that he could have made a correlation, between Conner and Story.
It started out as a perverse desire to know what Andrea saw in him. I did not know if they were still married. I just wanted to see what kind of a person he was, and if he was that good of a fuck.
He wasn’t that good in either category. He wasn’t bad either, but in comparison, he didn’t stand a chance against a man like Justin. It made me angry that Andrea left me for him.
On a lark, I hired a private investigator, to find out if they were still married, and as much details as he could get about them.
Yes, they were still married, and no, they still had no children. Andrea had not been successful with me, nor with him.
It seriously got my goat that he was cheating on Andrea with me. He was even trying to pull the wool over my eyes, playing the lonely single guy spiel… that he was falling for me, that we were a-serious-thing.
It was than that I decided to have my little game with him and my revenge on Andrea. He would have his big affair, than I would throw it in their faces. Let Andrea see him as the leach he was, and let her feel the pain of knowing her beloved spouse is a cheater. Just like she had done to me.
A week later, I flew back to Miami, and was sitting at that Cuban Café having my brunch when Andrea found me.
She didn’t have the slightest inkling that I was me... her ex-husband.
She had been to a realtor’s convention in Miami. That’s why she was there. Having finished the convention, she was spending time, a few days, doing some shopping.
After we had chatted for a while, I offered to drive her around, and even take her to a few nicer places for some excitement… dinner, dancing and such.
We were getting along incredibly well. We talked, chatted, and gabbed, going from one shop to another. It was actually fun being with her and seeing her again. It was so strange, how easily we had slipped back into our college day’s mode.
It was during our conversations those two days that I changed my plan of attack, and why.
Andrea had not changed much at all. She still had her breeder mentality, and was showing her disappointment, in by now, not having children. She was beginning to blame it on Robert, “We have been trying ever since we got married, and he still hasn’t got me pregnant!”
It was so obvious to me. No matter what the reasoning behind Robert’s cheating on her, it was only a matter of time, before she did to him, what she had done to me. Andrea had learned nothing.
Her only chance in changing, in becoming a better person, was to have her whole attitude, rubbed soundly in her face. Only if she had to stare self-doubt directly in the face could she understand, and learn. She had to learn that she too, could be at fault.
The day before Andrea found me at that café, I had a session with Dr. Johnston. She had been angry with me about my one-nighters, and was peeved about what I told her about Robert, Andrea and my doings.
I was feeling guilty about the whole revenge idea, and was considering dropping it when Andrea came up to me.
Her having said what she had, I changed my plan, and now had a real reason for continuing on.
So I told Andrea that I too was from Denver. Than I told her in the most vivid terms I could, about this great, fantastic boyfriend I had there, and how serious we were. (Well, he did say something to that extent! I wasn’t completely lying.)
When I brought her to the airport, Andrea was exhilarated over how well we had gotten along, over such a short time, “You know, I haven’t been able to talk to anyone as well, and as closely, as I have with you, since my college days. I do hope that we stay in contact, and that you call me as soon you get back to Denver. I would really like to meet that incredible boyfriend of yours.”
I promised her I would… and both promises I would keep.
I had to say that though with melancholy. I knew who, that person she had communicated so fantastically with, had been. Sorry Andrea, but you never know what you’ve lost, till it’s gone.
When I got back to Denver, Andrea and I met up. We started spending about every one of her lunch hours chattering away. It was fun, and I found that I missed this Andrea, the Andrea who had been such a close friend. It was sad. But, what had to be, had to be. Andrea had to learn.
Robert I saw about 3 to 4 times a week than. I let the affair get hot and heavy. I also took a risk, and made sure that a few condoms broke. I made sure Robert was aware, that I was worried about the broken condoms, that I couldn’t go on the pill, and was mid-cycle.
About three weeks after I got back, I let the first hammer fall. At a lunch date, I told Andrea that I was pregnant, and now very worried about how my boyfriend would take the news. I asked her, to ask Robert, how I should approach my boyfriend about the subject.
The next lunch date Andrea said that her husband offered to talk with me. We made a dinner date. So we three could talk.
Now was the time for me to win my Oscar. I just had to make this work, or all my effort would be for nothing. I decided on simplicity. It wasn’t about revenge anymore. Gloating over revenge wasn’t why I was doing it anyway. Revenge hurts the avenger just as much or more than the victim. I had to hit, than walk away, never looking back. Andrea had to work this out herself.
I waited until I was sure they were seated, before I walked into the restaurant.
It was working perfectly. Robert was sitting with his back to me. Neither of them had seen me yet. They were reading menus.
Just before I got to their table, Andrea noticed me. She perked up and started to introduce me to Robert.
I turned towards him and with a friendly smile on my face, held out my hand. As he looked up, I dropped the hand and the smile. Looking shocked, I whispered, but loud enough for Andrea to hear, “Nooo!”
With as good of a stunned, shocked and shaken look as I could muster, raising one hand and trembling fingers to my lips, I turned to Andrea and again in a louder questioning voice, “Oh nooo!” (I was so scared and nervous, that I was shaking, almost crying, anyway.)
I turned, and ran out the door of the restaurant.
As I opened the door, I heard a loud slap, as Andrea screamed at Robert, “You Asshole!”
I don’t think it took a full minute to be in and out of the restaurant, and my part of the affair was over.
Then, I was on my way to the airport. My cellphone that Robert and Andrea knew, I had already cancelled. Andrea didn’t know where I lived in Florida. The car was a rental. The Denver apartment had an oil company name on the lease. That company would tell them nothing without my approval. It too was a dead end.
In that moment, I had done everything I could do for Andrea.
Robert was not my problem. He had made his bed, now let him sleep in it.
I did it though, not only for Andrea, I did it for Conner. His life had been harsh and bitter. Now Conner could rest in peace. His life had died in those last moments at the restaurant. He was no more.
Still, I would always hold a piece of him alive within me. But, I was the young woman in the mirror.
Notes:
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