Trans-formations

[Deleted]

They sat at the desk, quietly.  A tear was rolling down his cheek, leaving a trail of darkness behind it, drawing a line down towards the deep frown on his mouth. 

Not much was left, for him.  For who he was, who he wanted to be. 

Caught.

The nightmare of married hiding had caught up to him.   She was supposed to be away that night, the house was supposed to be his, alone, shades drawn, rooms darkened to hide the features he did not want to see. 

He wiped at his face, sitting there.  Staring into space.  He wasnt dressed right to do it yet, he still was as she found him, in a black miniskirt and top that he had managed to sneak out of forgotten clothes that we supposed to have gone to the thrift shop.  The lingerie felt good, it always did, he liked the look of it, it made him feel like he was who he felt he was, a she, that suppressed passion allowed to escape like steam from a teakettle when the water began to boil deep inside it.

She was mad, she had stormed out of the house, in a rage, shock, disbelief, anger.  He had told her he had given it up before he had married, but it never worked.  So he hid it from her, so many years.  His face now was etched with the chiseled lines of stress, those lines the craftsmen of pain had carefully laid in there, the pain of hiding, the pain of pretending there was only one side to his nature.  The pain of punishing his she feelings.  Well, she had been caught.

There was a bottle downstairs, one his wife occassionally used, he had given up drinking long ago, when it no longer dulled the pain.   Maybe he should go get it.  Maybe he should go get the shotgun that was hidden under the bed, a solution to any invader that chose to come into the house uninvited.  But one had come in, didnt they.  One got into the house, and into his mind.  He wanted her gone.  Maybe the gun could do that for him, end it.

Pain.  That was all he saw.  Pain, and eyes with tears, tears he never shed, men dont cry.

The computer.  It was there, staring at him.  He wondered if anyone else had gone through this.  Never had he felt so alone.  He really did not want to die, but he did not want to live either.  He just wanted it to stop.  Maybe he could distract himself, find one of those dirty movies.  He flipped open the case, turned it on, let it start moving towards his search engines, the ones he tried to hide from his wife.

He looked into the mirror in his room.   A mans face and a womans eyes looking back.  Hair where it wasnt supposed to be, a caricature of self, a gender superimposed over another one, a fake, an act, a master act, now exposed.  The image in the mirror stared back at him.  It looked ghastly, the makeup he had snuck from his wifes dresser was smeared everywhere, the poorly done eyes looking like some teenagers first attempt at entering the competing hell of middle school.

He glanced back at the screen, it was ready.  I wonder how long he was lost in thought, staring at that face in the mirror, the one he did not think was him, the one that did not make sense anymore.   He didnt even know who it was.

So, thinking of his shotgun, thinking of the wine bottle, the one that was for special occasions when his wife wanted to loosten up and get laid... another tear.  A groan of deep pain from the soul.  He started to get up to get the gun and the wine.

But it was like a hand kept him where he was, caused him to freeze, in that moment of time.  He could not get up, he could not go out, he was frozen.  There was nobody to call, there was nothing left to do, there was no escape, it seems he could no longer outrun the woman inside him, even though part of him knew he was not a girl. 

Crap, what was that anyway.  Not a girl not a guy either.  Not a crossdresser.  What the hell was he?

He stared at the search engine and typed it in.  Trans.  Too much came back.   Trans what?  Wait, maybe androgyne or something.

He threw a couple searches.  He saw the big sites, the transsexual sites, but he didnt think that fit at all.

What was this little one.  What the heck is a nonbinary... it says transfolks.  TransFolks sounded friendly enough.  Maybe something was in there to see.

The mouse arrow began to move to its mark, a target he did not know was there for him, a fateful momen awaited.

And it began....


Your turn.  Write as you wish.  There will be more.... other folks.... not just this moment of time for this fictional character, who is bound to have been real...

[Deleted]

I sat quietly crying at my desk, head down, trying to hide it from the other kids in the school, my eye smarting from the fist that had hit it. Driven by those big boys, the ones that laugh whenever I come in the room.

The cat calls and the whistles and the stupid faggot talk, the name calling. Why cant they just leave me alone?

Its not fair. Just because I cross my legs funny, just because my face looks like a girl sometimes.

Shit they cant tell if I am a guy or a girl anyway, they get all confused.

I'm gunna read again. I dont know what to tell mom though, and dad. Dad is gunna wonder if I did anything, I am too ashamed, I dont want him to know. I guess I have to say something dumb, like i got elbowed playing football or something.

Those darned people. I wanna just beat the crap out of them... .I'll show them.... I fix them.....

Im gunna be important, and then they will know.

Sheeesh.

But hey, what ... I look in the mirror and i see what.... it looks good, it looks... sexy?

I cant get a date the girls dont want me and I am not gay so even if a guy was interested I cant do that....ewwww....

I wonder if that girl with the big boobs would have a sandwich or something. She is so pretty. I wish I looked like that kinda, I wonder how it feels to be her?

I gotta go home. I dunno what to do I dont have anyone to talk to about it. I wonder where I could go? Maybe on line?

....and it began...

[Deleted]

It's everyone. Stay on storyline please...

More will come.

[Deleted]

A contribution from those who are born with female genitals would be most welcome. And any other contributions. Don't worry about if it's any good. It's not about that. It's about fictional writing of the reality that we are trans.

[Deleted]

He sat at his table in the cafeteria with the other kids playing around him. A lot of noise, exuberance. He was quiet, he was shy. He kept looking at the table, then peaking out. When he decided it was ok, he started looking at the other kids. Comparing.

He looked at his lunch box.  There were pictures of football umpires on it, showing what the signals meant.   Something hard for the 6 year old to figure out, but the family thought it was a great lunch box for the boy, and other boys liked it too.  But he just didn't understand it.  He flipped up the little flap. The metal box opened slowly to reveal the lunch his mom had carefully and lovingly packed for him. A small thermos of chocalate milk, nice and hot, was there, and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, sometimes it was delicious egg salad, smelling of the mayo she used, a special mommy smell. And there was the hated metro-cal.

Metro-cal, the can of it, with the little can opener that would release the high nutricianal contents that tasted icky into his little throat. He was too little, even then. There had been so many miscarrages, ten or fifteen, they had lost count of them. No babies, for this family that desired one so badly, a son, or a daughter. But they had found a cure, the wonderdrug given that would raise moms hormones into the stratosphere, the docs know it cannot cross the placenta.

But they did not know did they? No really.

He swallowed a bit of the metalic tasting metrocal and grabbed his sandwich with his small hands, hands that did not look like the other boys. Drinking the liquid designed to cure the slight girlish body he carried, the fine bone structure that he was born into.

He looked up and saw the boys and girls. He was already reading at the sixth grade level, but was learning to write his letters now, it was hard, he hated drawing the letters. He liked the smell of the paper though, the blue ink smelled good on it. The big fat pencils smelled good too, he would sharpen them, another smell. And he would read, and read, and withdraw.

He looked at the other kids.

He was different. He cried too much. He couldnt play right.

He was alone. Born different, not fitting in, not feeling like a boy, not feeling like a girl. Not fitting in. Not being them.

He would hug his fuzzy white kitten stuffed animal tightly tonight, take his unravelling bunny into bed and carefully put it to sleep on the pillow beside him. He would read some more, and then dream the nightmares of falling from the sky.

He wondered if anyone else felt like they were alone in a crowd.

And it started.