Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Sorry, gonna have to pad this one out, but you understand she's a very
private person...

   Maud {b-F Trans/mono.  As told to Ruth mostly in the back corner of
group, and on her Bauhaus couch in her living room, the night they met.}

   Well, the cliche is "I always felt different," it's like "Confused" for
bisexuals.  Uh, I always was different, nobody other than the
schoolteachers had probably ever even heard of Armenia before my father saw
the drugstore was for sale, and thought of it as an opportunity.  We might
have passed through, even as far as Denver, I don't know where we're
headded, I barely remember the place we lived before that.  I don't
remember what was playing, either.  It didn't occur to me.  Probably
thought to put it on top 40, this never really got that much airplay, but
whatever.

   We had music on in the store all day, dad was up taking his afternoon
nap, and I got to run the register.  Boring.  Gwen came up to the counter,
but didn't say anything, just blushed, and looked down while I rang up her
panty-liners.  I didn't write her a receipt.  I saw the top of the bathroom
door swing open, climbed up on the stool behind the counter, and waited. 
She ran back out soon, and the door dinged again on her way out.  I went in
there, thinking about what she done.  Her skirt swinging behind her.  The
green wrapper in the trash, tore open but stuffed.  The little pillow,
scented, that smell.  Folded in thirds, and stuck closed by the adhesive
strip.

   "Hm," Not bloody.  A streak of red, but bright, fresh, soaked in
completely.  I don't know why I took it, kept it, just put in my pocket.  I
didn't do anything about it, was not even aware of my own underwear, or
anything in it.  I knew what bathrooms were for, what I did in them, but we
must have been about 9, and I didn't know anything about anything.

   I had never changed a diaper, unaware that adults even had hair.  Pee,
poot, wash, go back out to the rest of my life.  However, I suppose this
was my first clue of female anatomy.  It was a vertical line, right down
the middle, a little tapered to points at the ends.  A by then dry red
line. It didn't smell metallic, bloody, I vaguely remember sleeping with it
under my pillow.  I wore it in my tighty-whiteys until it started to stink.

   My mother used them as well, and I took hers out of the trash can by the
toilet upstairs.  She folded hers up, but didn't put them in the wrapping
from the next one I didn't even rub with them, I just wore them, in my
underwear.  Every day, but I started taking them from the store, and hid
them.  I didn't even know why I did it at the time, there was no thought
behind it, but it felt comfortable, feeling them comforted me.  I remember
thinking "Like a hug." It made me think about her, I didn't do anything, or
even feel anything I recognized, but I thought about her, feeling it, in my
underpants.

   "Hey Gwen," I caught up with her after school, we know everyone in town.
There's a street, with our store, some other stuff, railroad tracks, silos,
and some country roads out from that.  Semi-rural, tornado alley.  I knew
where the closest hill was, miles from in "Town."

   "What kind of name is,"

   "Mavris?" Everyone asked at some point, I'm not sure that's when she
did.

   "Armenian." I nodded, "For Maurice." A lot of the boys called it a
girl's name.  She eventually became my first friend.  "You're growing up?"
I asked her what that felt like.

   I sat down.  "Well you're a boy, but for girls, I ain't done a lot, but
so far it's pretty gross."

   "I'magine." or something likeat.  I wasn't always so urbane'.

   "I'm just glad it's over." Huh?  "This month." Pretty conservative
school, and state for that matter, no Health class, I hadn't had any Talks
yet.  Actually, this may very well have been my first.  "That's the worst
part." I hugged her, she looked like she needed a hug.  She didn't cry, but
she sighed.  "Thanks," She sat back up.

   "What for?"

   "I don't know, but thanks anyway." She got up, and walked off.

   She came back later.  Not that same day, but she found me at work,
helped me finished stocking cases on the shelves and everything so I'd
finish sooner.

   "What's it like being Armenian?" Not sure when we started holding hands.
That afternoon.

   "I'm American.  Well, I was born in Barcelona Spain, but I don't
remember it that well.  You're Christian?" She nodded, "Well, what's it
feel like to be Christian?"

   "You're not?"

   "My Papa says back in Vanadzor you're Russian Orthodox, or Greek
Orthodox, there was an Antiochian Orthodox minority in the middle, that's
in Syria, how well do you know the bible?  Paul left for Rome from Antioch.
So yeah, I guess I'm from there, but I don't believe in all those gods, and
wars, and stuff."

   "There's no Orthodox church round here, so we're Baptist."

   "I know," only church not technically in city-limits, it was about a
town over to the closest Catholics.  "I've also got some Turkish, and Gypsy
blood, you know your geneology?" Most of that town was mixed British Isles,
she was pale, and brown, no freckles, as tan as she ever got.  I didn't get
much sun, nor really care for the outdoors, but I liked walking with her.
We didn't even talk, or think about anything beyond holding hands, but the
sun went down, I remember watching it.  It would likely take me months, but
I bet I could paint it.  Over fields, not yet that grown, I believe those
were going to be Corn, at a later season.  It was beautiful, and that's
about all I cared about.

   Mystery Dance (bG Nude Piss Hemo Virg Hyme NS.)

   We watched eachother pee, and that's when she saw it in my underwear.  A
clean one, I stopped using dirty ones after Mama caught me digging in the
trashcan next to the toilet after she left one.  I got a good talking to,
and I'm sure she never thought about it again.  She was peripherally
involved, so let me describe her.  Controlling, Modest, Uptight, and
Proper. You know denial?"

   "Not really."

   "Exactly, so any way.  She kept a tidy house, or the floor above the
shop, you could have Saran Wrapped it then, and unwrap it now, probably
still in pristine condition.

   I saw her cut, and she saw it.  It behaved.  Not much to see, I think I
heard a "Hm," out of her.  I peed, and dabbed it on the pad.  She asked
about it, so I told her that ever since I knew she was hurting, I wanted to
feel some of it with her.  She told me that she wasn't hurting any more,
though.  We pulled up our clothes by then, I had to hold her hands so she
could squat behind hers without getting them wet.  Now I understood the
blood pattern better.  It was a sunday, I remember watching the steeple
from my window across the street field, and graveyard until they let out.
We went for a walk, she wore shorts.  I saw her underwear too, but it was
like hm, there's her underwear.

   About the next month, she started feeling gross again, and she told me
about her problem.  This was maybe her 5th, or sixth mense, and it always
lasted a day or two longer for the last of it to leak out.  I believe the
phrase at the time was "Not so fresh?" ~Massengil.  So, she wanted to make
the holes she felt down there bigger, but it hurt too much when she tried.
Now, she wanted me to do it before she started bleeding again.  Now, let me
tell you that in conservative families, not all of them, but certainly
these two, they generally burn those bridges when they get to them.  She
knew to get pantyliners, spent her allowance, didn't even consult her
mother.  I assume she was conceived under the covers with the lights off,
the interior, and exterior doors locked, preferably on a moonless night,
missionary and they held their breaths the whole time, which I knew nothing
about at the time.  I decided to think about it, and she ran home.

   So, I asked Mama, and it turned out to be just the trick, she broke out
Our Bodies Ourselves, and then never spoke about it again.  Whenever I
didn't know a word, she told me to look it up.  She had a library in the
3rd bedroom.  She came back, the next morning, and woke me up.  So, we
dropped down from the sign out front, and ran off somewhere, it was light,
but not very warm.  Into a field, she insisted, took off her pants, but I
said it was too dirty, so I put her off all day, and told her I would that
night.  And thought about it.  We had kissed by then.  Not all the time,
but quick smacks, and long awkward lips together waiting to feel anything.
Lots of blushing, not a whole lot actually said.  We were both still 9. 
So, I grabbed some stuff, and I took her in the restroom where there was at
least a tile floor.  I washed it real good myself, not much sound got out,
and all the way upstairs, either.

   I used a new pair of kitchen gloves.  Completely dry, but I didn't
consider lubrication.  Mama showed me the book, took it with her, and I
didn't find it yet.  She pretty much took care of the home, and was
hypervigilant.  She didn't scream, but I knew it hurt.  Knew it would, and
it would bleed.  I pulled my finger right back out, and bandaged her with a
fresh sterile pantyliner.  There wasn't a single sexual thing about it.  I
hadn't even been aware of an erection, at that point in my life.  However,
therafter we talked about it a lot, and I knew at least slightly more than
her.  Also that I was not physically ready, nor capable of it.  So, it was
all in future tense, but discussed.  Which was whenever we could be alone
together, which was pretty much whenever we could.

   We also played together, and I didn't consciously enjoy the fact that
none of it was competitive violent, destructive games.  Not even hide, and
seek, we'd go shopping, go 'Home' and cook, eat, have tea, dinner parties,
change diapers, put them to bed, or listen to music/sing.  A lot of
new-wave on back then, on the top-40 station.  Tranzistors were big, man!
In some city somewhere, never heard of them.  Dolls, and then Dressup.  At
some point I started growing, and even passed her, being a boy, of sorts. I
wanted to stop growing, bigger than her, during this whole cross-dressing
phase.  My voice started changing, and I learned not to make it crack.  The
falsetto until even that started getting higher, I swear we're best friends
for years before I got an erection in her presence.  We did most of this at
her house, mind you, when nobody else was around, because Mama always
caught us.  She tried on my clothes, and made her voice gruff, to play the
dad sometimes too.

   I was a doctor, usually.  She played nurse too, not like "Heloo nurse!"
but we treated sick dolls a lot, or I came home from the hospital to tell
her all about all the lives I saved.

   Miracle Man {Bf Cons}

   We also played "Mommies, and Daddys." That's what they do at night, when
they close the door, and turn off the lights, all the dolls in bed, and
turned away.  Even on TV, we're talking bra on under the nightie separate
beds days.  Pulled sheets over some chairs because she didn't have a 4
poster, thank goodness neither of us thought of candles.  I guess we're
both about 12 the first time we managed to get tab A into slot B.  Neither
of us climaxed, but by then she was curious what it felt like.  I didn't
like it, and lost my erection.  Didn't think to lie about climaxing.

   I found mom's stash, now in the old country she was a nurse, never got
the schooling to practice medicine here, basically quit aside from
household injuries, but still had some of her books.  Including an
up-to-date PDR, with the drug cultures of the 60s, and seventies, in case
she found pills in my room.  Encyclopedia subscription too, I never kept
any sort of diary.  Nothing even more pornographic than Our bodies
Ourselves, unless you count Gray's Anatomy.

   She knew what we're doing, mind you, when she caught me buying condoms
she stopped letting me work in the shop.  Slept with the door open so I
couldn't sneak downstairs.  Whenever I dropped down from the sign out front
I had to stay the night, because she wouldn't leave a key out there, or let
me in.  She couldn't stop us all the time, but with these first sexual
experiences I started asking questions about how it felt.  Having someone
inside you, or an inside to have something in.  That really was my fantasy
at the time, especially at night, trying to sleep, or waking up with the
dream memory.  Having a hole in me, being hollow, bleeding, ultimately
having a child come out of there, while never having had a there to begin
with.

   Having some experience with normal anatomical curiosity, incidentally
her Baptist family was a lot more understanding about us having sex than
Mama.  They took me to church, tried to save me, but didn't chase me out of
the yard with a shotgun.  That should tell you something about stereotypes,
her Father came around when I told him we used protection.  He patted my
back, he kicked me out, but he patted my back on the way out.  They liked
me.

   She understood me, as much as anyone at the time.  The fact that I
wanted to be pretty, and hated boys too.  Always did, didn't know why,
avoided them whenever possible.  My daddy made it easy, he was
available-neglectful, but a distant workaholic.  She didn't like playing
the daddy, but she did because I like being Mama.  Not like my Mama, but a
cool mama, that let her kids get away with something every once in a while,
and slept.  More like Gwens' mom.  I'll call her that, since I'd never
think to call Mama that.

   She quickly discovered a few things: 1) I am not at all squeemish about
menstral fluids, 2) Internal massage really helps with the discomfort, and
3) some piston action helps get all that mess out.  So, we generally stuck
to actual sex during the few days she needed it.  I don't remember how many
months it took, but I became more comfortable with these duties, enough to
stay erect, and I had my first orgasm this way.  At this point let me say
that I do not expect human understanding for my attractions, much less what
got me off.  It did come as somewhat of a shock, I didn't like it at first.
I thought I broke something, remember it hurting, we didn't do anything
like that again for almost a month, and then it didn't even happen again. I
was too afraid it would, I suppose.  We stopped with the condoms, once I
realized that phase is eliminating anything that might be fertilized.

   It was over a year before I became aware of the nightmares.  Stabbing
her, her blood all over my front, no screams, or even movement from her,
until I realized she was dead, and she went cold around me.  It must have
lingered, subconsciously, but it got to the point that I couldn't get it up
any more, or stand her when she smelled like that.  We fought a lot, I even
started smoking, though I had such a fantastic sense of smell as a child,
and at some point we broke up.  However, that was when the other kids my
age were also growing up, and it's amazing who you don't notice for years,
when you're both painfully shy.  I was working in the store again, and Jake
of all people caught me around back.  By the trashcans, we had to load them
up ourselves, and haul them off, because our blip on a back county road
didn't have any sort of collection, and it was cheaper than hiring someone
from the nearest landfill.

   Sneaky Feelings {mm Gays Tv.}

   Jake was a bit of a bully.  Not the biggest one, so he tended to pick on
the littler boys.  He was older, and bigger'n me.  Also homophobic, and
while I don't tend to stereotype, I will point out that Denial is a thing.
Though we don't like to admit it.  Chalk it up to environment, but in
breadbasket highschools, some of the most popular insults were about
sexuality.  He was pretty hateful about it, though, he'd get right in your
ear, and say "You like it faggot?" At least he did to me, because
eventually, I admitted it.  He stopped, humped my butt, laughed and called
me "Fag" again, but he came back.  Knew right where to find me, and didn't
want to talk in the store.  We were the only ones still in there, so we
stood in the back by the cooler, and freezer.  He asked, "Are you really?"

   "Gay?" I guessed, "Maybe." I told him how I was with a girl, but it
didn't feel right.  It wasn't just then, but shortly thereafter I decided
"One of us has to be the girl." I'd never even heard of a boy wanting to be
a girl, just "Gay," and that it was bad, so we kept it secret.  He stopped
bullying me, turned out he was actually very caring and romantic when he
got over hating himself, but it didn't happen overnight.  Unfortunately, we
had to learn Anal without anything to go by, so it all hurt me more than it
hurt him.  I tried it first, thinking about him by myself, and how he felt
frotting my buttocks, but it was scary, and painful, and took a while to
learn.  I did learn to enjoy it, until I gave up sexuality entirely.  The
problem was I had no idea what my problem was, and all people talked about
remotely close was about sex.  It wasn't bliss for me.  But he didn't want
to hurt me, he was gentle, and loving, and learned not to eventually.

   He made me feel pretty, and I must admit I was.  We got into heavy
metal, he's a big Iron Maiden fan, so I could grow my hair out.  This
picture, in the plates section of my autobiography was when I was still
growing it out, I wasn't really going for the Beetles look.  At the time,
it was more the closeness of it, the affection, and the thought of having
him inside me than any erotic pleasure.  We made love, he kissed me, and
held me, and I loved the way his hips, and legs felt wrapped around behind
me.  More than I ever did making Gwen feel good.

   So, I was gay, or I felt secure enough in that identity until I knew
better.  Unfortunately, the big box moved in, undercut us, and ran Papa out
of business, so he sold out, and packed us up to move on.  To a city, with
a significant underground community, which I was becoming old enough to
appreciate.  Underage, for a few years, but I hustled, had sugar daddies,
discovered drag, and music, and culture, then met my first Tranny.  I hate
that word, mind you.  Not as bad as Shemale, ugh!  But they're ignorant
times, I wasn't the only one.

   I was also dangerously anorexic.  I mean fainting from malnutrition to
stop growing.  I don't come from a large family, thank goodness I stopped
at least reasonably petite, but the lightbulb finally went on, when I
realized that wanting to be a woman was actually an option on the table. 
Then I found a doctor who was able to make my dreams become somewhat true.
I thought I loved him, which was just what he wanted, and he was delighted
to have such a willing little bottom of a tranny come live with him.  Now
you know why I hate that word.  He was a subtle abuser, overlapped with the
swinger, BDSM, queer, and semi-prostitution/pornographic communities, and a
rather expert manipulator.  Fortunately not so sadistic, he found I didn't
like pain, and never physically hurt me either, but he put me down.  Way
down deep into submission, where I scarcely existed except to serve him.

   And I started acting out.  I dredged up all the nastiest kinks I could
from the repressed subconscious, started getting pantyliners again, and
cutting myself, to soil them.  Castration play, and fantasies.  I guess as
cries for help go, staggering into the clinic with bloody fingers, thighs,
a self inflicted incision in my scrotum, and the gonads discarded down the
stormdrain out back was a bit too severe.  They got me help, locked him up
for far more than just what he did to me, and even set up a trust for my
medical costs.  After I recovered, I was able to continue my hormones, and
even attend college a couple years late on a medical scholarship.  I tried
sex, and dating after that, but it didn't work any better than before,
often much worse with flashbacks, and I specialized in Psychiatry for
various reasons:

   1) Self diagnosis, I was able to eventually decide that my identity was
about Gender, not sex.  Not that hetero/homo means anything to someone
who's neither completely male, nor female.  Bisexual is technically hetero,
even with a man and woman at the same time, I would have to find another
feman to be gay with.  That didn't work much better.  I was capable of sex,
fully, a few times, but mostly my track-record had been dismal failures
even under ideal circumstances, and I don't even know how reversable it
would be after so many years.

   2) A baseline understanding of Cis/straight...
   ;