From nostrumo@nienor.IN-Berlin.DE Wed Mar 19 09:47:23 1997
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From: nostrumo@nienor.IN-Berlin.DE (Nostrumo)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.stories.tg
Subject: NEW TG: Being Jenny by Princess Pervette (1/2)
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Date: 19 Mar 1997 14:47:23 GMT
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Hi.
This is the tale of a young child how it felt and what it will
become.
As ever I DIDN'T write this story and haven't any claim on it. If
you have some usefull hints or some good coments, your mail is then
welcome. Flames, you know, they will be piped to /dev/null.
If you are an author and wish to remain anonymouns or just try to
avoid the replies to your work. I offer you the chance of posting your
stories and collecting the response for you. This offer only stands for
story postings and for nothing else.
Enjoy the story.
Ciao
Nostrumo
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> cut here with a sharp knife <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<
Being Jenny
by Princess Pervette
I have seen a lot of stories about boys being feminized by their
mothers, or occasionally by their aunts. And I've even read a few
about men being feminized by their wives. These stories are okay,
but for someone who actually was brought up as a girl, they don't
ring true. So I'm writing this account, in the hope that people
can see what it's really like when a boy is brought up as a girl.
You won't find any coercion here; I was a willing--no, an eager--
subject, as I think must always be the case when this happens in
real life. And I'm afraid you won't find much sex, either.
1.
My life changed from hell to heaven when I was seven years old.
I was a little kid, and weak, and not aggressive; and the other boys picked
on me unmercifully. School was hell for me, and even my own neighborhood
was hell. I used to come home in tears almost every day, until finally I
couldn't take it any more and rarely left our house except for school, which
was unavoidable. For companionship, I played with a neighbor girl instead
of boys.
That Summer, we were about to move to a different town, and one evening my
mother sat me down and asked me the question that was going to change my
life.
She was embarrassed, and very ill at ease, and it took her a long time to
get to the point. But here, in essence, is what she said: "Jimmy, you've
had such a terrible time living here, and I've felt so sorry for you.. If I
had a nickel for every time you've come home in tears, we would be able to
*buy* our new place. And I've been trying to figure out some way of
protecting you or for keeping this from happening. I've only been able to
think of one possibility."
She hesitated. Then, "You used to play with Sally next door until they
moved. Do you remember...the day you were playing with Sally and she put
you in one of her dresses?"
"Oh, Mom, that was her idea! I never...."
"No, there's no problem. Yes, I caught the two of you, both of you in
dresses and playing with...what was it? Her tea set? Yes. But you know,
what I remember about that afternoon was not so much your embarrassment when
you saw me watching you, but how peaceful and contented you were before you
saw me. Yes, you were upset because I was watching you, but I had been
watching you for almost five minutes, and up until the moment you saw me you
just seemed.... Well, I can't remember a time when you looked so serene."
"Well, we were sort of...." I trailed off, at a loss for the right word.
"Relaxed? At ease together? I thought you were. I liked watching the two
of you. You seemed so calm and happy, the only time you've ever been happy
except when you were home here with me. And...I don't know, I've been
thinking about this, but still it sounds so crazy when I mention it, but...I
wonder...have you ever wondered what it would be like living as a girl?"
I had, as a matter of fact. I'd better explain this, so you don't get the
wrong impression. I didn't dislike being a boy. I didn't dislike having a
boy's body. At seven, I still had only the vaguest notion of the physical
difference between boys and girls, but if I had known more, I would have
wanted to keep those boy parts, at least back then.
But I hated the life I had to live as a boy. We never talked about
"sex-role stereotypes" in those days, but if we had, that's what I would
have objected to. The insane, compulsive machismo. The nearly constant
violence. The disdain for every kind of activity except athletics. The
strong back; the weak mind.
And yes, sometimes, on really bad days, I would go to bed and pray, "O God,
please make me into a girl." But I was praying for relief from the masculine
stereotyping and abuse that tormented me, not for a different body. Not
back then. It wasn't so much not being a boy as not having to live as a
boy. That would change later on, as I'll relate, but that's how it was
then.
Okay; now we've got that straightened out, I'll get back to my story. In
answer to Mom's question I said, Yes, I had thought of it and sometimes
wished for it.
"It's been so awful that sometimes in my prayers I've asked God to turn me
into a girl," I told her.
Her eyes widened. "When you put on Sally's clothes, did you like them?"
I nodded.
"You've put on some of my underwear once or twice, too, haven't you? I
could tell. Did you like that?"
I should say that, ever since my father died, Mom and I had been very close.
Most boys would have been petrified if they had been putting on panties on
the sly and their moms had confronted them like that. But we were always on
such easy terms, I simply said,
"Yes, they felt good. I just hope I didn't disturb them too much."
"Nothing but a few pieces out of place, Dear. But here's what I'm driving
at. We're moving away, to a place where nobody knows you. So it's a place
where you could make a fresh start, if you wanted to. A really fresh start.
And I've wondered whether this might be a good time for you to live as my
daughter instead of my son. It would solve so many of your problems.
"You know I love you, Jimmy, and I love you for who and what you are. But I
can't stand seeing you miserable. Maybe if I could turn you into a girl--if
I could grant that prayer of yours--I don't mean for good, I mean just
temporarily, just for a few years, those years when boyhood is so
nasty--maybe you would grow up into a happier person afterward. Not scarred
for the rest of your life by all that nastiness. And I do so want you to be
happy."
You see what I meant about a change from hell to heaven. It took me no time
at all to make up my mind; I had made it up while she was talking to me
about the possibility. I said Yes, and I think she saw the light in my eyes
when I did so.
But she was cautious. "I think you should try for a couple of weeks, or
maybe a month, starting now, before we go," she said, "so you can see what
it's like. I won't want you to do this if you don't like it. But I can get
you a dress to try wearing, something that will really fit you. It's
Summer; you don't have to go to school; you hardly ever go outside anyway.
So maybe you could just try dressing as a girl, around the house, until we
move. In fact, that will give you two opportunities to change your mind,
the first one when we move. If you think you like it, then we can finish
out the month after we've moved and then make up our minds about whether
you'll continue. And if you decide you don't like it...well, we'll hope you
find nicer boys in our new place."
The idea had caught on in my mind. I was half listening to her and half
contemplating the new possibilities her proposal had opened up. And the
more I thought about it, the better I liked it. In fact, I was surprised to
realize how much it appealed to me. Mom was being so careful not to
pressure me; but I was sure I would like it, and my only regret was that I
wouldn't be able to dress up as a girl right away, right that evening, but
would have to wait until to-morrow for Mom to get something for me to wear.
I thought about this some more when I went to bed, before going to sleep.
This was going a genuine adventure, I realized. This wasn't just *playing*
at being a girl, the way I might play at being a policeman or a pirate or an
airplane pilot. This was going to be real, doing something with my life,
experimenting with it. And it wasn't just something in my own mind; dresses
and panties (panties! ...gosh!) were things that had an objective,
material existence out there. They weren't even costumes. They were real
clothes, and I was going to wear them.
What would I call myself? As a girl I'd have to be something other than
Jimmy. I lay in bed, considering the possibilities. I wanted something
that sounded frilly and feminine. Not just plain Mary or Martha.
Cheryl?...Madeline?...Stacey? The girl in school who wore the prettiest
dresses was named Lorelei. H'mm, how about Lorelei, in honor of the pretty
dresses I was going to wear? Nope. Too risky. Suppose we bumped into each
other some time...I could just hear Mom saying, "Lorelei, this is Lorelei."
Too silly. Finally I had it: Somebody (was it our teacher in school?) had
told a story about a sad ballerina named Giselle. (I had somehow missed the
crucial point that Giselle was the name of the character, not of the dancer
herself.) I pictured myself in tights and a tutu with the name Giselle.
That was it. I would be the Sad Ballerina Giselle.
The next day Mom came back from shopping with an armload of packages. She
had obviously gotten more than just one dress. I was beside myself with
excitement. THIS WAS IT!!! My escape into femininity was at hand. And
sure enough, instead of taking the packages into her room, as she would have
done ordinarily, she took them into my room, and we unwrapped them there.
Little girls' panties. A little top (I was still too young for a bra).
Little white and pink ankle socks. A skirt. Some blouses. Another skirt.
A yellow dress trimmed with white lace. And a pair of little girl's shoes.
Slowly, my hands trembling with excitement, I put the things on. I chose
the yellow dress for my debut as a girl. Boys wore their hair fairly long
in those days, so Mom only had to comb it back and put a yellow ribbon in
it. Finally she was done fussing over me, and I looked in the mirror. I
thought I made a pretty convincing girl, as long as the person looking at me
had never seen me as a boy.
Mom gave me a little kiss. "My little girl!" she exclaimed. "What's your
new name, dear?"
I hesitated. Suddenly, "Giselle" seemed ludicrously exotic for the simple,
pretty American girl I had become.
"Well, come on, sweetheart. Surely you've thought of a name for yourself.
You can't go on being Jimmy, now, can you?"
I didn't have a name to fall back on. Finally, my hands behind my back, my
eyes downcast, in a tiny voice--a little girl's voice, if I had realized
it--I whispered, "Giselle," and turned red as a beet.
One of the reasons I love Mom so was that she never laughed at me. And even
then, with this absurd answer, which, even now, I'm embarrassed to remember,
she didn't laugh.
"That's a lovely name, dear," she said, "and if that's the name you want to
take, then we'll do that. But you must remember you're an American girl,
not a European one, and people may find you a little more...well,
convincing...if you have a plain American name."
"No, Mom," I replied. "Giselle was a dumb idea. Let me think about it some
more." I had no idea what I would come up with.
"All right," Mom answered. "For the time being, I'm going to call you
Jenny, which is pretty close to Jimmy. And once you've settled on a name
you want, we'll change it then."
As it turned out, I never did think of a better name. In fact, I was too
busy being a girl to worry about details like names, so from that day, the
20th of July, I was Jenny. Jimmy Taylor had been born on the 14th of
December, but Jenny was born on July 20, and from then on I thought of July
20 as my birthday. That fact alone should have been enough to tell me I was
going to be a girl for keeps.
2.
On my first full day as a girl, I woke up early--about 6 AM--and then,
remembering what I was to do that day, I was too excited to go back to sleep
again. I hadn't felt like this the times Sally would put me in a dress when
we played together. This was going to be different; this wasn't going to be
just playing at being a girl. I kept watching the clock as it inched toward
eight, my usual hour for getting up.
At seven thirty I couldn't wait any longer. I got up, took off my pajamas,
and then looked over the modest assortment of things Mom had gotten me.
Should I choose these panties, or those? What a luxury, what a delight,
actually to have the choice, actually to be allowed, and in fact expected,
to put on panties! I chose a pink pair.
This was to a month's trial, to see how I liked living as a girl. But as I
put on the panties--oh, gosh! how soft they felt! how smooth on my
legs!--I knew that, for me, the trial was already over. If this was what it
was like to wear dresses, I was all set to wear nothing else for the rest of
my life. Just then I remembered how I had once prayed for this moment, and
on a sudden impulse I dropped to my knees, still with only my panties on,
and folded my hands. "Thank you, God," I said. "Thank you for making me a
girl."
(Years later, a wonderful Jewish girl who was my dearest friend told me that
every orthodox Jewish man thanked God every day for being born a man instead
of a woman. I said, "You'd never have caught me doing that!")
I chose a light blue blouse and a plain denim skirt. I thought Mom would be
pleased that I had selected matching colors and that I had not picked
anything too dressy for day wear.
I put on a pair of ankle socks and the shoes. Then I looked at myself in
the mirror. It seemed to me that I looked a little less convincing than I
had the night before.
There was still half an hour to go before breakfast, so I spent the time
rearranging my dresser drawers, pushing my regular boy's socks and underwear
out of the way and putting in the girls' things Mom had gotten me. Then I
did the same in my closet. As I hung up the other skirt Mom had gotten me,
I realized that I was going to need skirt hangers. For the time being, I
just folded the skirt over an ordinary hanger and carefully hung it up.
Mom was pleased when she saw me at breakfast already dressed as a girl. She
gave me a light kiss and said, "How's my pretty daughter this morning?"
My heart leapt up. "Your daughter is feeling just great, Mom!" I answered
with a hug and a kiss.
Breakfast was filled with happy talk about my new life. I told her how good
I had felt getting dressed that morning, how impatient I had been to begin,
and how I had spent the extra time putting away my girls' things and hanging
up my new dress and skirt.
"You actually put your own clothes away?" she exclaimed. "You've never done
that before! If I'm not going to have to pick up after you the way I used
to have to pick up after Jimmy, I'm never going to let you change back!"
But after breakfast we settled down to work, and I began to learn how much
more there was to being a girl than just wearing a dress. The first lesson
was walking--how to walk like a girl. Smaller steps. Weight less heavily
on the heel with each step.
"When you're old enough to wear heels, Dear, you're going to have to learn
to put toe and heel down almost together. So you might as well get ready
for that right now."
As I walked back and forth across the living room floor, I thought about
wearing high heels. And that made me think about wearing nylons, too. What
a terrific adventure this was going to be!
Next came sitting down. How to approach a chair. How to sit down in it.
How to smooth my skirt so it wouldn't get wrinkled. How to cross my legs so
men couldn't see up it.
"The real test is going to be how you look when you aren't wearing a dress,"
she pointed out. "Suppose you put on blue jeans and a T shirt, with
sneakers. Girls wear things like that. When people see you that way, are
they going to think you're a boy or a girl? You can't fall back on your
clothes then. You have to move like a girl; you have to act like a girl;
you have to think like a girl. If you just wear dresses, you're only being
a girl on the outside. If you don't want to be caught, you must be a girl
from the inside out."
"Now run, Dear. Start in the kitchen and run all the way out to the foyer."
I set off at a run. Mom stopped me.
"Not that way, Jenny. That's the way a boy runs, pumping your arms back and
forth. Hold your elbows in and your hands out--" she demonstrated "--and
keep your balance by waving your forearms from side to side. Your elbows
should be almost still as you run."
As she explained this, images of all the girls I had ever seen running
sprang to mind and I realized she was right. It was tricky, running that
way, and it felt completely different. This was going to take work.
"Now, Jenny, here's your homework," she said. "I want you to practice
walking, running, sitting down, and standing up. Do that for at least an
hour this afternoon. And every time you sit down, here or in your room,
remember you're a girl and remember how I told you to do it. Okay?"
It was just about as okay as anything could get. I saw how much more there
was to being a girl than just the clothes, and I realized that the more
deeply I managed to feminize myself, the better it would be. I sauntered
around all day, trying to remember all the details about holding myself and
moving.
3.
So that's how it started. I think back now and bless the memory of those
bully boys who, unknowingly, pushed me into being a girl. Mom had planned
on a month's trial, but it wasn't going to take a month. I knew this was
what I wanted the very first day.
This kind of thing works only when the chemistry is right. I realize now
that Mom had secretly hoped for a little girl instead of a little boy. And,
at some deep-seated, unrecognized level, I wanted to be a girl, too. It had
been more than just the bullying by the other boys; that had only been a
trigger. So once the possibility was opened up to us by circumstance, it
was inevitable that we would do what we did; we snapped into our respective
roles like a couple of magnets brought together.
When my dad had died, he had left a pretty good estate. We weren't rich by
any means, but as long as we were careful and lived on a modest scale, Mom
didn't have to work. And that was the key to the second part of her plan.
"I'd like to keep you out of school altogether, Jenny," she said one
morning, "so you can keep on being a girl. I can do that provided I teach
you myself. It's known as homeschooling, and I've been reading up on it.
So IF you'll be a serious pupil, and IF you work hard and don't fool around,
and IF you don't whine when you have to study boring things, and IF you
don't try to take advantage of me, then you won't have to go to school at
all, at least not until high school and maybe not even then."
Not having to go to school...! I had been dreading school. A month's trial
was all very well, I had thought, but I hadn't been able to see how I could
go back to school as a girl. Now Mom, wonderful wonderful darling Mom, had
found a way that I didn't have to go back at all. All those IFs...if she
had told me I would have to work in the salt mines in order to avoid school,
I would have jumped at the chance.
She went on. "It will mean extra work for me, teaching you as well as doing
housework. So I'm going to ask you to help with the housework while we do
this. I'll try to pick girly chores for you to do, the things you would
have been doing all along if you had been born a girl. Those can be part of
your training."
Once we had moved, Mom made the formal arrangements for home- schooling, and
the day they were complete we had a celebration. It was another milestone
in my life as a girl. I had already started living full time as a girl, but
this was the point when we decided the trial was a success--well before the
month was over--and that I decided was going to keep on being a girl, at
least through grade school.
We spent mornings and afternoons on schoolwork. I worked hard, because that
was the price of freedom. It was either that or having to go to school as a
boy. But in addition, Mom discovered that she loved teaching me, because,
she said, she was learning so much herself. Some things, like reading,
writing, and arithmetic, one uses all the time, but other subjects, like
history and geography, tend to fade with time, and Mom loved learning these
subjects anew and in greater depth than when she had been a girl. And her
own enjoyment showed in her teaching and made me enjoy them, too.
Part of what she was supposed to teach me was some kind of performing art,
and for this she chose singing and dancing. She wanted me to be able to
dance like a girl, and she thought dance training would help me learn to
move like a girl in other ways (although, under Mom's vigilance, I was
beginning to be good at that anyway).
She had an ulterior motive in having me sing, too: she wanted me to develop
a girl's voice if I could. It's true that the difference is more in
mannerisms and vocabulary than in pitch and she wanted to get a feminine way
of speaking firmly in place as soon as possible. But she thought that
singing would make me conscious of how I used my voice and get me into the
habit of controlling it. She thought it would be good for me to start this
early, before my voice changed.
My vocabulary changed, too, because girls use different words for many
things. For example, I decided right away that from now on Mom was going to
be Mummy, and I never again called her Mom.
Mummy decided that my handwriting should be more feminine, too. This was a
tough job, and we labored over it for months, because young boys don't have
as good control over their fingers as young girls have, and my writing was
sloppy. Mummy wanted it to be neat and rounded, with little circles over
the i's instead of dots. I hated this work, but I kept at it, because I was
beginning to appreciate that the secret of feminizing myself was going to be
lots of tiny details.
I had a sort of dirty blonde hair, and as Jenny gradually began to take over
from Jimmy, we let it grow to shoulder length, and Mummy started teaching me
how to take care of it. Among my pictures from that time is a portrait of
me in long hair with little ribbons on either side.
Mummy wanted a photographic record of this entire project. "If you keep on
being a girl, you're going to want these pictures so you'll remember how you
started out and how you looked then. And if you don't keep on, I'm going to
want these pictures as a way of remembering the sweet little game we played
for a while."
I already knew in my heart that, however sweet, this was no game, and it was
going to last longer than a while.
I remember when Mummy took that picture, because I was so pleased when it
came out. It showed nothing but my head and shoulders, so although I was
wearing a dress when she took it, you could only see a touch of flowered
fabric and a lacy collar.
But even so, I look like a girl in the picture. There is something about
the face. I think the way I thought about myself was showing in my eyes.
By the time she took that picture I was already thinking of myself as a girl
all the time. It was only when I took baths (I had given up showering as
too mannish) and when I put on my panties in the morning that I was reminded
that I was, biologically, a boy.
And those reminders, I should say, began to grow irksome. My little penis
and balls reminded me of rough cotton underwear and rough boy clothes I used
to have to wear and, above all, of the terrible life I had led as a boy.
And as the years passed, I came to think of them as the things that were
preventing me from achieving complete girlhood.
Mummy's schooling continued through all the grades. It was a happy time.
By her example, she taught me to love learning and to regard our studies as
a treat. And having seen the products of our public schools, I think the
instruction I got from Mummy was far superior. So often she would find out
what course materials they were using in the public schools, look at them,
shudder, and go off and find better ones herself.
And her schooling in girlhood continued, too, but at a reduced level, since
it was getting to be second nature to me. After a year of training, she
judged that I could safely go out, and we would take walks together
afternoons. That gave me a chance to observe other girls my age, study how
they behaved, and adopt some of what I saw myself. When I was ten, I
started running errands for her-- getting some of the groceries and taking
things to the cleaners.
4.
Those were years of happiness and contentment. But when I reached the age
of 12, a new threat loomed on the horizon: Puberty.
Mom had explained to me about sex. With her usual thoroughness she had
gotten books from the library for me to read, but most of the information
came from her. I found out about babies, and about what men did to beget
them.
My first thought was how much I would like to be a mother. Mummy didn't
laugh when I told her this, bless her. But she did explain that it was
impossible, and she took me back to the books and the anatomical drawings to
show me why it was.
I wasn't satisfied. I might never be able to be a mother, but I had no
interest whatever in being a father. By this time I felt so completely at
ease as a girl (a rather pretty girl, I might add, which helped a great
deal) that I had come unconsciously to assume that I was going to be a girl
for the rest of my life. The thought that I would grow a beard and that my
penis would start to get bigger filled me with dismay. I didn't want a
bigger penis; I wanted breasts.
The more I thought about this, the more upsetting it was, and I started to
brood over it. Life in those years was so sunny and happy that I used to go
about the house singing quietly as I did my studying and my housework. But
now, under this new threat, I was more subdued days, and Mummy must have
noticed that. And sometimes at night I would cry into my pillow at the
thought that my life as a girl would come to an end. One evening after
dinner, Mummy found me silently weeping over my books.
"What's the matter, Dear?" she asked me. She seemed almost as distressed as
I was.
Having to say it out loud was too much, and I started to bawl. Finally, I
got it out: "I don't want to have to stop being a girl. I don't want to be
a father. I don't want to be a husband. And I don't want to grow a beard.
If I can't be a mother, can't I just be an old maid?"
I smile, remembering the poor little girl-boy who said that he wanted to be
an old maid, but, as always, Mummy refused to laugh at me.
"But, Dear, you were only going live as a girl temporarily, so you wouldn't
have to deal with other boys. It's bound to come to an end sooner or later.
What are you going to do in high school?"
"I don't want to go to high school," I said, sniffling. "Not if I have to
be a boy. I hate boys. I hate the idea of being a boy. I don't want to be
Jimmy, I want to be Jenny. Jimmy's *dead!*" I started to cry uncontrollably
again. "Four...years of happiness," I wept, "...four years of being your
little girl...and now...THIS!"
I pointed between my legs. "I wish that had never been there. I wish it
would just...shrink, or drop off, and leave me in peace."
By this time Mummy was weeping, too. But she calmed down before I did, and
she said, "It's not going to go away, Jenny. But...well, let me see whether
there's anything we can do. I don't want to hold out any promises,
but...well, let me just see."
I didn't know what she meant. But Mummy was the one sure thing in my life,
the one person who could heal all my wounds and solve all my problems. She
would think of something. She always did. Clinging to that hope, I stopped
crying and managed to get to sleep.
Two weeks later, Mummy announced that we were going to see a doctor. The
doctor was in a different town, and we had to take the bus to get there.
During the trip, Mummy was very mysterious; she didn't say anything about
where we were going or why. But she had the air of someone with a happy
secret, not a guilty secret.
When we got there, the doctor turned out to be a woman. "Dr Madison, this
is Jenny," Mummy said when we were seated in her office.
Dr Madison--not her real name--was a middle-aged, gray-haired woman. She
had bedside manner in spades; I took one look at her and liked her from that
moment. She was warm and pleasant and inspired immediate confidence. It
struck me that this was the one other person on earth I wouldn't mind
knowing about Jimmy.
That was good, because she started asking me about Jimmy right away.
Gradually, very gently, she got me to tell her the same story I've told you:
about my miserable boyhood, about the experiment we had tried, about how
successful it had been, about how deeply I loved being a girl.
"Jenny's having to face manhood now," Mummy put in, "and she's distraught.
I found her the week before last crying her eyes out, and she said she
wished she wouldn't have to be a man. That's why I came to see you."
Dr Madison looked straight at me. She intended her remarks for my mother,
but she talked to me; this was typical of the way she treated her patients:
with respect as well as kindness. And she never once called me Jimmy.
"Jenny, I don't know whether we can do much. Your body is going to produce
hormones, chemicals that affect the way you grow and the way your body
develops. Those will be male hormones and you will grow up to be a boy,
just as your mother's told you.
"Now, it's true that there is a procedure called hormone replacement
therapy. It means taking pills that replace the male hormones so that their
bodies become more like women's. In your case, because you would be
starting before adolescence the female hormones in the pills would make you
develop as a girl instead of a boy. Do you understand me?"
Understand her!! My heart was pounding. Mummy had done it again, pulled
off one of her miracles, like the miracle of making me a girl, the miracle
of schooling me at home. And now she had found this wonderful doctor. It
must have shown in my eyes.
"But there's a problem, Jenny. You are still a minor, and the law doesn't
look kindly on people interfering with the natural development of minors.
There are laws that regulate just how much we can do, and some of those laws
would apply even if your mother gave her permission."
"You mean the law wouldn't let you give me those pills? You mean," --I
fought savagely to keep the tears back--"the law could condemn me to live a
life that I hate? You mean the law would deliberately make me miserable?
What kind of hateful law is that?
"I want those pills, Dr Madison, those...hormones. I am NOT going to let
the law or anybody else make me into a boy. If you won't do it, I'll get a
knife and *cut them off,* I swear I will!"
Mummy was aghast. "You don't know what you're saying, Jenny!"
"Perhaps she does know," Dr Madison replied. "Children often see much more
clearly than we give them credit for. And boys have been known to mutilate
themselves when they were in Jenny's position."
She went on. "All right. We won't give up right away, Jenny. But whatever
we do, we mustn't act in ignorance. So first, I want to give you a complete
physical examination, and I want to give you a battery of tests to analyze
your body chemistry as well as we can. Then we can decide what, if
anything, we can do, and try to lay out a course of action. Therapy, if we
can manage it. And I want you to see a psychiatrist, so all of us will know
just how deep-seated your feelings are. Because if we did go outside the
law--I'm not saying we will, but if somehow, let's say, those pills were
just to happen to fall into your mother's hands--their effects would be
irreversible. You think now that that's what you want, don't you?"
"Irreversible...you mean, once you've changed me I can't change back?"
"That's right."
"I *know* that's what I want. I'm a girl now, and my body's threatening to
change me back. That's why I was crying. I don't want to be changed back.
I want you to fix me so I can't ever change back."
"That's what you think now," Dr Madison continued. "I need to be assured
that that's what you'll think after puberty. That's a big change in your
life, and we will need to know what to expect and how to deal with it."
Now she turned to Mummy. "If we did this, it would be, frankly, an
experiment. I'm very reluctant to do anything to your daughter. Tampering
with young people's bodies is tampering with their lives. In any case, I
have no intention of doing anything until I have the test results back and
an evaluation from the psychiatrist. Then we'll see.
"There's another detail. Usually we require that a patient live full time
as a girl for a year before we take any action. For someone Jenny's age, I
would want longer than that. But you say she has been living full time for
four years, so I think that may do. I'll know better once I've heard from
the psychiatrist."
In spite of Dr Madison's cautions and repeated warnings, I left her office
walking on air.
Dr Madison took care of the physical checkup that afternoon, except for the
hormone assays, which were going to be carried out by a lab. But I had to
stay in town for the interviews with the psychiatrist. There were two of
these, the second a day after the first. The shrink took me through my
childhood and my life before and after I started dressing. He wanted to
know when my father had died (when I was four), how well I had known him
(not very well), how well I remembered him (just a face now), what my
relations with Mummy were like (wonderful in every way), what my relations
with other boys had been like (uniformly disastrous), and so on. Not
surprisingly, we talked a long time about my life as a girl. He had me
stand and walk around and sit down, and I silently blessed Mummy for the
training she had given me.
The third day found us back in Dr Madison's office. "The psychiatrist
thinks you would be a safe bet," she reported, "so the question that remains
is how your system would react to HRT."
"HRT?" I asked. "What's that?"
"Hormone replacement therapy," she said, "the treatment I outlined Monday.
Your tests indicate hormone levels that are normal for a pre-adolescent boy.
That suggests that if we intervene now, we should be able to sidetrack
altogether the male puberty process that would normally start in a year or
less and give you a girl's puberty instead."
I can't tell you how happy this made me. Then there was the question of how
the proper hormones could be made available for me. To protect the people
who helped me at this crucial time, I'm not going to give the details here;
let's just say that Dr Madison recommended a course of action that worked.
I was on my way! Dr Madison gave me my first shot of hormones as an
injection, saying, "You don't know what I'm doing or who did this to you."
I've never liked needles, and giving the blood sample for the tests had been
a torment, but I actually looked forward to being stabbed by Dr Madison's
needle full of hormones, I was so keen on my transformation. Then she gave
Mummy a list of the different kinds of pills I would be taking from then on,
together with instructions for using them.
5.
I'll tell you right now that the experiment (if that's what it was) with the
hormones was a success. I may have been imagining things, but it seemed to
me that the hormones started working right away. I've since read that it
takes a week or two, so this may just have been wishful thinking, but I
could swear my nipples began to get sensitive the very next day, and I
thought I detected some breast growth a couple of days after that.
Then Mummy came up with the logical solution: every Sunday night before
bedtime, she passed a tape measure around my breasts and recorded the
measurement, both after I had inhaled and after I had exhaled. A month or
so later it occurred to us to include other measurements as well--height,
waist, and especially hips. I still have those figures, and I can see the
way I gradually developed into a real girl over the next three or four
years. I grew breasts, slowly, instead of a beard; my hips widened out
naturally; my voice never changed; and although my penis didn't shrink away
to nothing, the way I had hoped it would, at least it didn't show any
unwelcome signs of growth.
That was another of the good periods in my life. Just as my body began to
develop as a woman's body, I was also of an age to start dressing as a woman
instead of a little girl. For my thirteenth birthday Mummy gave me my first
garter belt and my first nylons. I felt so grown up putting on nylons! At
first, I wore them with everything--dresses, skirts, even under jeans.
I wonder, do genetic girls appreciate their clothes as I did? Do they take
the same pleasure in silky, delicate underwear, in fluffy, frilly dresses,
in colorful fabrics, in ribbons and lace? Or is wearing those wonderful
things just part of the day's work to them? For me it was a sensual
delight, and getting dressed every morning was a celebration of the clothes
I put on and of my growing femininity. I still don't take these lovely
things for granted.
I remember once Mummy found a record of a song from an old musical comedy.
The song was "I enjoy being a girl." She bought it and brought it home as a
joke for both of us. We laughed, but that song spoke to me. I learned it
off by heart, and sometimes when I was getting dressed, or maybe just doing
1
From nostrumo@nienor.IN-Berlin.DE Wed Mar 19 09:47:36 1997
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From: nostrumo@nienor.IN-Berlin.DE (Nostrumo)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.stories.tg
Subject: NEW TG: Being Jenny by Princess Pervette (2/2)
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
Date: 19 Mar 1997 14:47:36 GMT
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Hi.
This is the tale of a young child how it felt and what it will
become.
As ever I DIDN'T write this story and haven't any claim on it. If
you have some usefull hints or some good coments, your mail is then
welcome. Flames, you know, they will be piped to /dev/null.
If you are an author and wish to remain anonymouns or just try to
avoid the replies to your work. I offer you the chance of posting your
stories and collecting the response for you. This offer only stands for
story postings and for nothing else.
Enjoy the story.
Ciao
Nostrumo
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> cut here with a sharp knife <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<
2___Being_Jenny______________________________________by_Princess_Pervette_
homework or tidying up our apartment, I would sing it softly to myself, "I
adore being a girl."
Yes, I did wear jeans and a T-shirt occasionally, and sneakers, and, thanks
to Mummy's careful tutelage, I was as fully a girl in those as I was in any
dress. But the dresses were so lovely...! And the fabrics themselves...has
anybody ever noticed how nice and feminine their names are? I used to get
dreamy just thinking of their names
...cashmere...chambray...chenille...cretonne...lame'...organdy...
pique'...velvet...satin...tulle...tarlatan. And taffeta! ...what ordinary,
"normal" man ever has the opportunity, the good fortune to wear taffeta?
The poor sap would probably be embarrassed to tears.
It was the same with makeup. Mummy had to restrain me here because, like
most young girls, I tended to overdo it. But I would sit at my vanity (yes,
Jenny had a vanity in her room now) and imagine myself like the lovely
Myrrhina in a poem my mother used to quote, who sat at her vanity With
eyelids closed as soft as the breeze That flows through gold flowers on the
incense trees. The only problem was that when I closed my eyes, I couldn't
see the effect of the eye shadow I had put on.
The hormones had another effect on me: I started noticing boys. I had
never had any even remotely gay tendencies before that, and although I'll
never know for sure, I don't think I would have if I had had to grow up as a
boy. But now I was turning into a thoroughly heterosexual girl, and
suddenly I began to notice things about boys, things I liked to look at.
Their lean flanks. Their arms. Their shoulders. Their butts. The little
lump--and sometimes not so little--in the front of their jeans. The denim
tended to wear in that spot, and as a result that interesting area was
always graced by a little highlight. And I liked to watch the slight
unconscious swagger that that lump seemed to put into their walk, on every
one of them, even the wimpiest--so different from my own feminine walk,
which by now was second nature.
The plan was for Mummy to continue homeschooling me until my junior year in
high school, but my development went faster than Dr Madison had anticipated,
and I started going to the public high school in my sophomore year. The
first thing we found out was that I was in advanced standing in nearly every
subject. Don't tell me home- schooling doesn't work! By this time also,
Mummy's lawyer had managed to get my birth certificate and other records
changed from James (male) to Jennifer (female). He regarded this procedure
with prim and stiff-lipped disapproval, but Mummy could be very emphatic
when her mind was made up, and he ended up having to carry out our wishes.
With me in high school and no more homeschooling to do, Mummy took a job.
The medical bills had been high and we had had to retrench; Mummy's
administrative skills soon had her earning a nice salary and we were living
better than ever before.
In high school, I started dating boys. I was delighted not to be a boy
myself, but nevertheless I found the creatures fascinating. I liked the
hardness of their bodies and the way they looked at me. I liked kissing
them, and I liked to watch their lips when they talked. I liked another
kind of hardness, too, as I found out the first time I put my hand inside a
boy's pants. I couldn't let him into my pants, of course, because of what
he'd find there (rats!), but I fell back on the old time-of-the-month excuse
and had a grand time giving him a blow job--my first ever. A penis was a
splendid thing, I decided, as long as it wasn't on my body.
6.
I finished high school as Jenny, and I started college as Jenny. I applied
for, and got, a scholarship that was generous enough that we would actually
be able to get some money ahead. And then, the first Summer after my
eighteenth birthday, I told Mummy I wanted to finish the job.
"What do you mean, Dear?" she asked. I think she knew.
"I mean I want surgery. I don't need these things--" I pointed between my
legs--"I don't like them, and I want to get rid of them. I want to be a
woman, not a chick with a dick."
After a phone conference with Dr Madison, I took the bus to see her and we
talked. I said that I wished she could have done this right away when I was
still a boy. She said it would have been out of the question at that age
and that the hormones had been a risky enough proposition.
"But I'm eighteen now," I said. "I'm legally an adult and I'm past my
adolescence."
"You're past most of it," she corrected. But she had no strong objection.
"Do you want me to do the surgery?"
"Yes, Dr Madison, I want you especially. It isn't just because you're the
top surgeon in this field, although that's important, of course. It isn't
just because you're a woman and that it would mean a lot to me to have such
an operation performed by a woman. But you're a friend, someone who has
already saved my life once, and you're the one person I would trust."
She consented, and we scheduled a tentative date: July 20, which would now
be Jenny's birthday in yet another way.
"There's one request I have. Can you do the surgery under a local
anaesthetic? I would like you to do that and rig a mirror. I want to watch
the operation. I want the satisfaction of seeing you cut them off."
She gave me a surprised look. "No, Jenny, I'm afraid I can't do that. You
have to be out cold, under general anesthesia. And you know, it isn't just
a matter of taking a scissors and going snip- snip-snip. It's a very long
and very complicated operation. I not only have to remove things; I have to
give you a vagina as well, and there's a lot of...well, heavy construction,
and rewiring...that has to be done."
I was sorry to hear this. I had had my heart set on watching myself
being...castrated, I guess I should say. I asked her whether she could at
least videotape the operation, and she got a little huffy and said this
wasn't just a fun thing for home movies. So I let the matter drop. I did
cajole her into giving me an advance look at the operating room, however,
although only a glimpse through a window. I saw the operating table and the
stirrups above it, and I thought, with a thrill, "MY legs are going to be in
those stirrups!"
My last memory before the surgery was riding down the hall on my gurney to
the operating room, caroling out at the top of my voice, "I enjoy being a
girl!"
7.
After the operation, Dr Madison reminded me of my request to watch. "I
couldn't arrange that, as I explained. But I understand why you wanted
that. So I saved your testicles and what's left of your penis, if you want
to see them now."
"No," I told her--rather brusquely, I'm afraid. "I'm sorry you bothered. I
spent all my life seeing them. I'm sick of seeing them. I wanted to see
them come off, but I don't want to see them again. Ever. Throw them in the
garbage. That's all they're fit for."
That was a year and a half ago. Things went pretty smoothly after the
surgery. And dilation was, after a couple of painful experiences right at
the beginning, a dream. Another advantage of being a TS: having to stick a
dildo up your vagina, under doctor's orders! I've never heard of a doctor
ordering a man to play with his penis on a regular basis.
I had my first man--oops, no; that's not the way to put it--I was had by my
first man about six months ago.. It was only our second date, but he was
urgent, and I thought, why not? Am I an easy lay? Jenny round-heels? I
suppose I am; if all the other men in my life turn out to be as much fun as
he was, I'm sure I will be.
****
So that's my story. I never dedicated it when I started writing it; let me
dedicate it now. To my three dearest friends in the world: Mummy, Dr
Madison, and my nice, new, pretty vagina.
Princess Pervette
February, 1997