Author: BlackDire Title: Jesse’s Tale Part: Chapter 1 Summary: The life story of an intersexed girl as she discovers her own sexual identity. Keywords: tg, anal, fist, oral Author’s Note: This story is based on the life of a very dear friend of mine. I am sharing her story with you as she so graciously chose to share it with me. As always, the names of people and some places have been changed to respect anonymity. Additional Note: This is going to be a fairly long tale broken up into several chapters. The first chapter deals with a very young Jesse and subsequently has very little sex in it. I encourage you to read it anyways because I’m very proud of how I captured her story and because it will make the later chapters have more meaning. Jesse’s Tale Chapter 1 By Blackdire I was born in Salt Lake City, UT in November of 1980. My parents are what is sometimes referred to as “Jack-Mormon”, which pretty much means they’re Mormon in the general sense but they don’t spend all their time at temple and they don’t walk around with a pocket edition of the Book of Mormon. My father was a doctor, a general practitioner (or “family medicine” as it was so commonly called) to be specific and my mother was, like a great many Utah wives it seemed, a homemaker. You might expect that since I come from a Mormon family that I’d have a small army of siblings, but my parents were comparatively young and I was their first child. I didn’t have to suffer like so many other families I saw where the parents kept having child after child hoping they finally got a boy. Utah is sort of like China in that respect, although without that whole single-child law thing. Being first was probably part of what saved me, that and my luck at being born in the least backward city in Utah to a man who had at least a passing familiarity with rationality. You see, I was born intersexed. Now, at the time I was labeled as a hermaphrodite, but in modern science that word is no longer being used so casually to refer to anyone who doesn’t fit in a neat little gender box. It specifically refers to individuals with both sets of sex organs to one degree or another. While I may not necessarily look the part, I am biologically, or at least legally, male. At the time of my birth I appeared to be just a normal, healthy baby boy. I was maybe a bit small despite being full-term, but other than that everything was great. I even had the good fortune of not being circumcised, which is a small miracle for an American and even more so in Utah. It wasn’t that my parents were against it (that would be like finding Catholics that were anti-guilt); I think that my dad just didn’t feel comfortable letting our aging OB-GYN do such a delicate operation. Delivering a child was one thing, but using small sharp tools with less than ideal dexterity is something else. Having seen the results of even “good” circumcisions and knowing what I would have had to give up, as well as the potential negative side effects, I thank whatever passes for a god up there every day that I came out intact. My early childhood was comparatively good, I suppose, albeit a little sheltered and overly conservative. It wasn’t until I was about 5 or so that things took a turn for the worse. That was when I started dressing up in my mother’s clothes. Up until then I’d never done anything overly girly, but then again very young children all tend to do pretty much the same stuff --- play with shiny things, build things with blocks, snuggle with stuffed animals, blah blah blah. What do I care whether something is blue or pink? I’d grown up being referred to as a boy, but honestly I’d never thought much about it. It was sort of a meaningless word to me, or at least not any more significant than “tall” or “short” or “blonde.” It wasn’t until I started paying closer attention to adults that I started placing significance on the idea of gender. I would look at people on the street or, even better, on TV and I would see these beautiful women with their curves and soft skin and long, wonderful legs and I wanted to play with them. I wanted to dress in their clothes, to look pretty like them and move like they did, thus I started raiding my mother’s closet when she wasn’t around. The first time my parents caught me I was young enough that they could just dismiss it as harmless experimentation. “He was just confused. He doesn’t know any better.” That was harder to swallow for them when it happened over an over again. I started getting in trouble in kindergarten when I would naturally go sit with the girls when we’d divide ourselves up by gender for a game or something (why is it that it always has to be girls vs. boys?). One day in class my friend Nancy, a cute little brunette with big brown eyes, kissed a boy named Tommy. I remember that we both laughed when he turned beet red and hid his face in his hands in embarrassment. Curious what the kiss had felt like for her, I had turned to the boy next to me, Ryan, and planted a big kiss right on his lips, making sure to close my eyes like they did on TV. I’m sure you can fill in the rest of what happened. There were a bunch of kids shouting, my teacher shouting and sounding both shocked and disgusted at the same time, and then the same exact thing from my principal. My parents were called and when they arrived everyone gave me a stern talking-to about my “inappropriate and obscene behavior.” My mom cried. I was angry because I didn’t understand what the problem was. Nancy had kissed a boy and she wasn’t in trouble, but somehow I was? Everyone kept saying that it was “wrong” for me to kiss a boy but they acted like it was self-evident and obvious. No one explained homosexuality to me or their various silly religious attitudes about it. They simply couldn’t fathom why I would have wanted to do it. I spent the next 8 or so months confused and increasingly stressed both at home and at school. I was constantly worried that I’d do something else that seemed innocuous to me but would bring the wrath of doom down upon me. Ironically, it was my desire to escape all this tension that finally caused the shit to hit the fan. My dad was at work and my mom was at home with me. She’d become an increasingly “hands-off” mother and had managed to thoroughly entwine herself in a web of phone calls relating to some sort of potluck dinner or bake sale. I jumped at the opportunity to do the one thing that always made me feel better: dress up in her clothes. I generally tried on smaller dresses and long tops, things that were more my size (or at least less excessively large) and occasionally teetered around in her heels, but I’d never really done much with her underwear. Seeking to remedy this, I pawed through her drawers and came up with an assortment of bras and panties. I tried several of them on, marveling at the drastic difference between this silky, lacy garments and the simple cotton Underoos that I wore. None of this fit me, of course, but I could cinch them with my hands and look at myself in the mirror, pretending I was a grown-up sexy lady. In particular I loved the feel of the material against the smooth skin of my little ass, as well as the way it gently tickled the sensitive skin of my cock and balls. Further curious, I removed the panties I was wearing and pulled on a pair of black pantyhose. Every inch of my legs tingled with excitement as the nylon slid over them. Once they were on I shuddered briefly at the wonderfully snug feeling I had around my crotch and my little ass cheeks. I felt like I was wrapped up in femininity. It just felt right, more right than anything in my life before. I didn’t want to give that feeling up, so I grabbed my clothes and headed back into my room to enjoy my “new toys” in private. My mom walked in on me 15 minutes later and simply shrieked in horror at what she saw. I was naked on my bed except for a pink bra hanging loosely around my chest and the black pantyhose, on my knees with my chest on the bed and my ass pointing up in the air. With one hand I was caressing my ass and thighs and the other was between my legs, rubbing and tugging on my little package. My eyes were closed and I was moaning softly to myself. “Oh my god! What……What are you DOING?!” Her face was frozen in revulsion. I jumped at the sound of her outburst and tried in vain to cover myself, my pale skin growing bright red in shame and embarrassment. I struggled to think of something to say but my age got the best of me and I started to sob uncontrollably. My mother looked as if she was going to vomit and left the room. I sat there for the longest time, hating myself for wanting to do so many things that just made everyone else mad, and hating whomever or whatever was responsible for making me want those things. After I ran out of tears I simply curled into a ball with my stuffed giraffe and waited patiently for my dad to come home and tell me what a horrible child I was. He never came in that night. I heard shouting from the other room, presumably when Mom told him what happened, and what sounded like a lot of crying. They talked for hours followed by more crying and then it all just got quiet. The silence was probably the thing that scared me most. I don’t know when I fell asleep but I was woken up by my dad the next morning. I had overslept for school but he didn’t say anything about it nor did he act as if he wanted me to get ready. He looked at me, hesitated for a moment, and then grabbed a quilt off of the chair by the door and brought it over to the bed and wrapped it around me. I looked up with him and was nearly bursting with love – I’d done something so bad yet he still loved me enough to wrap me up and hug me – until I realized that he was just covering me up so he didn’t have to look at me. You see, I was still wearing the bra and pantyhose. He told me that I was different, that I was “gay” and that that “made things difficult.” He didn’t actually explain what “gay” meant, but said that it wasn’t my fault that I was the way I was and that while he and Mom still loved me that I “just didn’t fit in here.” He said that someone like me needed special attention and things that they just couldn’t provide. He wouldn’t look me in the eye while he talked. At my father’s urging I got changed and went into the living room to watch cartoons. I could just faintly hear my mother sobbing in my parents’ bedroom. Dad was packing up my clothes and an assortment of my toys. I probably should have been crying or yelling but I was just too numb. I just stared blankly at the TV and felt like I was having a horrible dream. The next day my dad drove me to the airport and we sat at the gate waiting, the cold, rough plastic of the chairs scratching at my thighs. My dad was painfully silent, and I kicked my feet nervously as I held tightly to my stuffed giraffe. After an hour or so the plane Dad had been watching for arrived and I stood there staring at the flood of disembarking passengers. At length a warm-looking young blonde wearing worn, faded jeans and a red tank top broke from the crowd and walked towards us. She stopped when she got to us and my dad managed a muffled “Hi.” She stared coldly at him for a few moments before replying. “Jesus, Darren.” She shook her head slowly. She opened her mouth as if she were going to speak and quickly cut herself off with a wave of her hand. She squatted down onto her heels and turned to me. “Hi there, little one. I’m your cousin Lisa.” She gently touched the tip of my nose and smiled. “That’s a very handsome giraffe you have there, Jesse.” I smiled back. “I’ve been talking with your mother and father and we think you might enjoy coming to stay with me for a while, sort of like a big vacation. I’m sure we could have a lot of fun together, whaddya say?” She smiled again and ran her fingers through my hair. I liked her right away. Something about her just felt safe. “Ok,” I said quietly from behind my giraffe. Her face lit up and she pulled me into a massive hug. Love just dripped off of her. I felt as though I were being rescued. She took my left hand in her right and told me that she’d take me over to where the plane would leave that would take us back to Austin, TX, where she lived. Off we went, Lisa rolling my bags along as she held my hand and talked about what plane rides were like. I only half paid attention as I clung tightly to her warm hand and my giraffe. I turned around to wave to Daddy but he was already gone. He’d left without saying goodbye. I never saw him or my mother again. I enjoy feedback! If you like this story, don’t like this story, or want to discuss activities contained herein, contact me at blackdire@hotmail.com. All stories copyright 2009 by BlackDire.