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Mitch L

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My real name was Michelle, but I knew as early as 1st grade that I wanted to be a boy when I grew up… #g2M #TG

I found out when the girls wanted me to come play with them, but I took 1 look at the boys, and they had a ball. Literally, and one said “PUNK!”

He hit a little boy in the back of his head, because he wasn’t paying attention, so he fell down. (He wasn’t calling him a Punk. He yelled “PUNK!” because that’s the sound the ball makes, when it bounces off a little boy’s head. Onomatopoeia, like pointing your finger, and saying “Pew Pew” to pretend it’s a gun.) They weren’t even playing dodgeball, but he hit his face on the ground, and got a bloody nose.

So, I got to run over and play doctor. “Are you okay?” Or nurse, if you’d prefer.

“Gnoh!” He cried, and sputtered, but at least the tears, and salty snot watered the blood down, when it turned to gore.

“Here,” I wiped it up with my skirt, “Let me help you up.” Because I didn’t have anything else handy, but “Uh! You’re heavy.”

“Thangz. I dink I broge my gnoze.”

“Hah ha ha!” The bullies laughed at him, but those were the exact same boys that wouldn’t let me play ball with them, because I looked like a girl.

I got him to the office to see the nurse, and then I waited for him until lunch was over. (We didn’t have Recess. We just had lunch, but you could go out to the playground if you finished eating early, and you wanted to.)

Then, he didn’t want to talk to me, let alone play with me, because I was a 1st grader. I just wanted a friend, a boy, but not a boyfriend. Because I was 6, and he was too old to play with “Girls.” Either that or he was just embarrassed, because a 1st grader came to his rescue. I don’t know, I never got a chance to ask him, because he avoided me. Specifically, because he recognized me.

“Girls, ew!” Cooties, even though they didn’t use the word cooties any more. That was more of a grandmother thing, but the same basic message. “Girls are gross.” Yeah, I got that. It made me feel gross too, but I didn’t really get a friend for a couple more years, and that had to wait until summer. In the meantime, my mom got me into Little League Soccer, because that was a good excuse to kick a ball around.

With girls, which didn’t matter, because I didn’t get the Girls are Gross talk in the clubhouse. I never even found the clubhouse, but I sure could imagine the [No Girls Allowed] sign on the door, if they even had one. I’m not even sure they had a treehouse, let alone a door, but if they did, I knew I wasn’t invited.

So, I played soccer with the girls, and that was cool, because they’re jocks, too. No jock straps, but at least we could talk sports, in between girl talk. It hadn’t really started being about boys (If you like you can look up the Bechdel Test. It’s not like girls don’t talk about boys. It’s just that girls can talk about something other than boys, if a man isn’t writing all their dialog.)

Then, Trevor caught me playing in the creek. I had my shoes off, and my pants rolled up, so I could stand in the water, and pretend to fish.

“What are you doing?”

“Fishing.”

“There’s no fish in there.”

“I know.” I held up the stick to show him the yarn I tied to the end. “It’s okay, because I don’t have any bait, either.”

“Ooh, I have an idea.” He showed me how to dig up worms, to tie one to the other end, since I didn’t have a hook to stick it on. So, we drowned the worm, and untied it, to dig up another worm, and drown that one.

Okay, you ever heard the expression “He wouldn’t hurt a fly?” Well, I wasn’t the kinda boy that would never hurt a fly. I wasn’t the kind of boy that fried ants with a magnifying glass, and pulled the legs off of spider, just to make them suffer, but it’s a worm, or a fly. I’m sure they can feel pain, but they’re literal bait animals for bottom feeders. I seriously doubt that they have enough brain cells to wonder “Why are you doing this to me?” most of them just wiggled out of the knot, and floated off. Maybe to make it to shore before they froze, and drowned, if that makes you feel any better.

I wasn’t really acting out, I just wanted to play the kinds of games I liked to play. The kinds of games boys like to play, because I don’t like cooking, cleaning, and taking care of baby dolls. I guess somebody read me Tom Sawyer, or Huckleberry Finn (I honestly can’t remember which is which) at some point, but that was just the sort of thing I could play alone, until I made a friend.

Trevor helped me break the Boy Barrier at the park, though. “We’re gonna play kickball, you wanna come?”

“Yeah!” We ran off to the playground, where they already picked teams, and then we got the predictable: “Ew, no. What’s she doing here?”

“I wanna play kickball!”

“Girls don’t play kickball.”

“Oh yeah? Wanna bet!” I finally got them to let me try out. Then, I got a “Not bad, for a girl.”

Yeah right. Not only could I kick the hell out of the ball, but I could kick it right where I wanted it to go. I could run around the bases pretty fast too, because I didn’t have to dribble a soccer ball at the same time.

I only had to kick the ball once. I didn’t have to pass it to anyone, I just had to kick it away from everyone on the other team. Let alone avoid the other girls, juke around them, get close enough, and kick it past the goalie.

After 2 years of Soccer, Kickball was a breeze. So, that was pretty much childhood, I went through a “Tomboy” phase, but I only had 1 real friend. Trevor, he called me “The coolest girl ever!” I took that as a compliment, because that ment he liked me. As a friend, but the rest of the kids I knew were team-mates, at best.

The boys “Let me play” kickball, if they wanted to win. Mostly because I was the only one that could Punk Jeremy, but he wasn’t the boy that punked the other boy on the playground. I still don’t know his name, because he was 5 years older. So he moved onto middle school before I started 2nd grade, and either dropped out, or went to college before I became a freshman.

I got real good between girl’s soccer, and boy’s kickball. So, it wasn’t long before I started aiming for Jeremy. He was the best “Pitcher,” (It’s really more like a Bowler, but that’s cricket, and nobody plays cricket in America.) Most boys couldn’t even kick his fastball, but once I started hitting him with it, he started rolling it slower. So, he could put his arms up, and block his face before I kicked it right at him.

Not at his head, I wasn’t accurate enough to even hit him every time, but I could get close, and the second baseman didn’t even want to stand behind him. Often enough for him to hesitate, and save the pepper for someone who couldn’t kick it right back at him, before he could cover his face. Sometimes, I just hit him in the chest, and knocked the wind out of him.

So, they started calling me “Sporty Spice.” We had a “Scary, Ginger, Posh, and Baby” that didn’t mind being called Baby because that ment she looked like Emma without the boobs, so it was a compliment. Not that I hung out with any of them, or even bothered learning any of their real names, because they were fashion girls, and I was a soccer jock. That’s just what they called us, because the Spice Girls were on the radio, but Boys, and Girls called me “Sporty,” because that’s all they really knew about me.

I liked sports, Soccer, Kickball, Tetherball, 4square, Dodgeball, and Teeball, until they trusted me with a bat. A softball bat, but it wasn’t sexual until I was old enough to have some idea what any of that stuff ment. I was aware of puppydog tails, because I played with boys all summer, and they brought sports bottles. Which means they always had a bush nearby to pee behind, standing up. Trevor never peed in front of me, he turned his back, but it didn’t take too long to figure out what boys used their flies for.

I crossdressed, but it wasn’t like a male transvestite. Because it’s okay for girls to wear pants, a teeshirt, and a ballcap. I just had to tie my hair up to keep it out of the way, but then I started playing boy alone at home. Which was mostly trying to pee standing up in the toilet, then putting the seat down to hide the pee stains on the rim, because it’s not easy to pee standing up, without a penis.

Call it penis envy, but I hadn’t even heard of Boners yet. It was just a Pisser, and boys were lucky they had pissers. So, they didn’t have to drop their pants, and pop a squat behind the bush. Then, that started to change in 6th grade when I started puberty.

More than a little late it turns out, because I didn’t have a whole lot of body fat. I knew girls in 4th grade that started wearing bras when they were 9. I wasn’t anorexic, or anything. I was just extremely active, I didn’t even watch what I ate. Honestly, I ate like a pig, because I burned so much fat, and calories I was hungry all the time, but I didn’t gain any weight.

It was a nightmare, because I was already starting to have the Dick Dream. Just peeing standing up, but I even wet my bed, because I started dreaming about it before I learned how to control my bladder, in my sleep. “Huh!”

Then, I woke up, and thought I wet myself. Then, I pulled down the covers to find out it wasn’t pee, and then I started screaming because, well. Okay, just try to imagine waking up in the morning, and instead of finding morning wood, you find a bloody gash where you balls are supposed to be.

Mom, and dad came in, dad brought my softball bat, and then they saw the bloody mess, so mom had a talk with me. I can’t even begin to describe how terrifying that talk is for me, and boys like me. I told Trevor years later, and other guys in therapy, after we grew up about the nightmare I woke up to that morning.

Dreaming about pissing, standing up, then waking up to a bloody gash between my legs. I knew that, some of that stuff, from the locker room. The girl’s locker room, from playing soccer, with girls. Some of whom were old enough to use tampons, and maxi pads, so at some point someone asked “What’s that?”

“Oh, it’s for my period.”

“Ew!” but then you get the bad news that you’re going to start becoming a young woman. Here, let me get out the big book of girl parts. The Tanner stage chart, and since you won’t have to worry about boys for a few years, we’re just going to leave out all that stuff about vessicles, and testes.

I couldn’t stop crying the whole time, and mom didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know what the problem was, and honestly neither did I, but I guess I avoided thinking about the point where I wasn’t going to be given a choice. I managed to put it off, a couple few years by burning off any bodyfat. I had abs, and honestly fantastic Obliques just from kicking balls so much. Those were my best sports, pretty much anything where I got to run, and kick a ball, where do you want it?

I know, but the symbolism of kicking balls was lost on me, until later. I kicked the hell out of balls, better than anyone I knew. I was the ball kicking master. We’re just talking kickballs, and soccer balls. I was the team captain, you know when you line up, and the boys take turns picking teams?

Yeah, well I went from being the last one to get picked because I was the girl, to being the second one that got to pick, after Jeremy. Because me, and Jeremy on the same team was an automatic win. Nobody else could even kick his balls, and nobody, not even him could throw it so I couldn’t kick it wherever I wanted.

So, I didn’t want to grow up, at all. Honestly, I was the best girl in school. The second best kid in school, because nobody gave a fuck about fashion, except for a handful of girls, who nobody else could stand, because they were all mean, and fucking hateful.

The next stage was sports-bras. I never really had that much to worry about, because no matter how many pushups I did, my chest just seemed to get fatter, and fatter. I hadn’t even heard of binders yet, but sports bras? Yeah, I was the motherfucking Sporty Spice, so I never even got training bras. I went right to sports bras from childhood, and those flattened me enough, for a while.

My grades crashed, and burned, but at least I put off puberty late enough in the year to test out, and graduate the 6th grade. Trevor was already ahead of me in middle school, but we’re best friends, so we’re inseparable. He even skipped his finals, “To be with you.”

“What?”

“I just missed you, so I skipped the last week of school so I could get held back.” When I told him that I barely squeaked bye in D for Dishonor roll. It wasn’t my finals, I tested out, I just couldn’t concentrate on schoolwork. I was too busy distracting myself with sports to even bother with homework, I didn’t even take books home with me, in a rush to grab my bat.

“Huh,” He sighed, and looked away. Turned away head first, and mumbled, “I love you.” With a shrug.

“Oh,” I didn’t know what to say. That was another thing I just avoided thinking about, but of course it was obvious. As inevitable as puberty, at some point I was going to have to face Trevor’s feelings for me. As a girl.

“Huh, I have to tell you something.” I looked around. “Not here, we have to go somewhere, no one else can hear me.”

“I know, you’re gay.”

“No? I.” Shook my head. “Do I come off as gay?”

He laughed, and I couldn’t admit how much that hurt my feelings. “Well,” he counted on his fingers, “Softball, boxer shorts.”

“How do you know I wear boxers?”

“Because I’m in your room all the time, and it’s not like you ever clean them up.”

“Oh yeah.” Not even worried that he might go through my underwear, any more than dad worried about me being alone with him in my room, because it’s Trevor for Christ’s sake. He’d known me since I was 8, and he was 10. (Besides, mom, and dad had a sneaking suspicion that I swung the other way, too. Because Softball, Ponytail, Boxer Shorts…) He was like my big brother, and my only friend, “I’m just not prepared for all these. Feelings.” I don’t even know what to call them, because I suppressed my feelings, too. Because, “Huh, I’m a boy.”

“Oh,” he shook his head, and stopped.

“I know, this makes things complicated, and I’m sorry I lied, but if that makes things gay, then.”

He hugged me. “Oh gosh. That makes so much sense!”

“It does?” I don’t know what to do with my arms either, because I’m not a hugger.

“Yeah,” he let me go, and hit his head. With the heel of his palm. “Duh, I should have known, all along.” He shook his head, “My sister just kept calling you dyke, and lesbo.”

Oh yeah, and Posh Spice? She fucking hated me. Always, it got even worse when she changed her name to Victoria Beckham. So, she got together with the other Spice Girls, and started rumors about me being a lesbo behind my back. So, I avoided her as much as possible, but her big brother always came out to see me, so that wasn’t as much of a problem.

“Huh, well.” I shook my head, “Don’t listen to her. I love you too, I just had to tell you first. It’s okay if we go out, but only as boyfriend.” I tapped my chest, “And boyfriend.” I tapped his.

“Deal, but not out in public.”

“Of course not out in public. You ever seen Boys Don’t Cry?”

“By the Cure?”

“No the movie.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Well, I won’t spoil the ending, but let me tell you. It’s not a happy ending.” To say the least.
You’d have to wait for Million Dollar Baby to find one that ends on more of a downer.

;

Trevor (Bt)

Okay, I guess the first question is “Is it gay?” My answer is I don’t care. She’s a boy, he always was, I met him as a Tomboy, when I just thought he was the coolest girl ever. No confusion, none of that “Ew, girls are gross” bullshit, I just looked forward to telling people I knew her when she got to the Olympics.

I took her out to play kickball, because I’d seen her play soccer. I never missed a game, and I even hung out for Practice, just to cheer her on. I know the pronouns are confusing, but let me just tell you the truth about that:

It doesn’t really matter to him. Ask, don’t assume, I’m sure there are transgender people that are easily offended by being misgendered, but honestly? It’s really fucking petty when you can be arrested for going in the “Wrong” bathroom, and punished by going to the “Right” prison, to get gangraped to death.

Sorry, not what you came to read? Well, I was already on that page, before that whole bathroom scare. Try to weigh your fears of a transvestite in the girl’s room against being the only woman in a man’s prison, because she literally didn’t have a pot to piss in. When it turns to “Smear the queer” who do you think is going to be it? I know, let’s make her go to the men’s room, because nothing bad could happen to a girl in the men’s room if she has a penis, right? So, that’s the choice for “Shemales:” Risk going to the men’s room, or risk going to the Men’s Prison, for going in the girl’s room.

I’m not bragging that I saved his life. Murder is the second most common cause of death for transpeople, only after Suicide. So try to think of that before you blame the victims, and come up with nightmare stories to justify your transphobia, because you can just ignore transmen. They can’t ignore straight guys. Straight women, lesbians, or gay men. They can’t even ignore transwomen. Cait Jenner, now name one transman. Google’s right there, if you want to take the time to look one up, but it could take a while…

Okay, so at some point we had sex. We had to get the downer stuff out of the way so we could have a happy ending, but we had to figure it out. There’s no guide for this, everyone thought he was a Lesbian FFS. He didn’t even want to have a vagina to begin with, so what’s he supposed to do with one, if there’s not a dick in the picture?

Eat it like a lesbian? She doesn’t even want to look at one, so real quick, just imagine some guy waving his limp dick in your face. Yeah, pretty much the same reaction. “Ew, gross. Girls are gross.”

So, that just leaves plan A: Fuck him like a girl. I’m not even going to consider that, because I love him too much to rape him. Plan B: Fuck him like a gay man. “No.”

I took no for an answer, and moved on.

“Okay, how about blowjobs?”

“Okay!” Try to find a teenage boy who’ll say no to that! (Gay or straight.) So, he kept his pants on, unzipped the fly, and stuck his hand down his underwear. Stuck his thumb out, and made a fist for his balls.

“You want me to suck your.” Thumb, I pointed, “That?”

“Huh, come here.” I’m sorry, but I still can’t look at him, and not see Michelle. My little sister Michelle, ever since my real little sister turned into Posh Spice, and hated everyone out of jealousy. I know, this isn’t about her, but she’s my little sister, and she came out that way, because she hated my boyfriend so much.

Even before we became boyfriends, the Butcher he became, the femmier she got, until she assembled the rest of the Spice Girls just to push him out. “No lesbos allowed” in their little schoolgirl fashionista club. Fucking Nazi. I mean that, my sister literally became a neo-nazi, out of her transphobia.

Would it help if I gave you her real name? Okay, Karen. I shit you not.

“Huh!” I’m going to chalk it up to performance anxiety the first time, but all that shit with every kid I knew, telling me I never had a chance, because I was in love with a lesbian sure as shit didn’t help.

“Awool!” He just turned, and stuck his tongue in my mouth. Definitely nothing like I ever imagined, beating off, but I was definitely a full fledged teenager. Young, and full of cum, definitely not hung, but beating off to get rid of every erection. Too many times a day to count.

He got my zipper down, somehow with his hand still down his pants, rubbing his thumb up and down, but I knew that. It was supposed to be his dick. I even wondered how he was supposed to compensate for that, but I can’t help a little internalized homophobia just from the boy’s room.

“Huh!” He hooked his thumb in my tighty witeys, and let me breathe. Looking down, and I just watched the look of concentration on her face. It helped, same face, he’s got high cheekbones, and deep cheeks, because he’s so skinny for a boy. “Fuck,” he got frustrated, “How do you guys deal with these fucking flies?”

“In my underpants?” I moved to help him, but he shook his head.

“No, let me figure this out, is that it?” I squirmed around, just to help him find mister softy, but that made it possible for him to fish it out.

“Oh!” She looked up.

I almost said sorry, but she grinned and kissed me. “It’s beautiful!”

I know, I’m supposed to think of him as a boy, and I even started getting used to it, pretty much right away. That’s just hanging out with my buddy, my best friend, but my boyfriend? If he’s going to suck me off, I have to get it up, and keep it up.

Even as a girl (Or closet boy) I can’t remember her ever saying anything is beautiful before.
Awesome, badass, epic… Never beautiful, or cute. He’d make a face if anyone (Usually a girl) called anything cute. Who’s the cutest boy?

Of course, I hung out with the soccer team. Honestly I had a decent shot with every one of them if I wanted, but I didn’t, because I was already in love.

She giggled? Shaking his hips back and forth, to make it flop, and roll over her thumb, and rub it up, and down. Wiggling it.

“Huh, you just want to sword fight?”

“Oh,” she looked up, and grinned. Blushing so hard, her lips looked plump, and almost red. “No, you better lay down on the bed, and take your pants off?”

I barely got them unbuttoned, and pulled them down before he pushed me back, and dove head first in my lap.

“Oh!”

“SCHERP!” It slipped out loudly, but she just pushed it back up with her thumb, and switched hands. Kissed the tip, but then sucked it in, so it shot in, and started pulling it back out. So it stretched, but then she sucked it back in again, and pushed up my shirt. She didn’t have to hold it any more, and before long, it pumped full of blood. So she didn’t have to suck it so it stretched, she went down, and started bobbing her head so it fucked in and out.

“Oh fuck I’m NGH!” I couldn’t finish that, but honestly. There’s no reason to announce that you’re cuming. Once it hit her tongue, she pulled out to just the tip, and rubbed it in between spurts to swallow every drop as fast as it came out.

“Snh!” She sat back, and slapped her lips. “Huh!”

“How’s it taste?”

She blinked and shook her head. “I don’t know,” she thought, then closed her eyes, and smiled. “Huh! Like nothing else on Earth. Huh, better than I ever could imagine. Oh, thank you!” She didn’t jump me again, but she hugged me hard enough to feel her sports bra, though both our shirts.

“Yeah,” I just patted his back. “Any time.” I didn’t know what else to say, but I didn’t think that was a self fulfilling promise. Of course, he couldn’t get enough of sucking dick, and it didn’t take me long to start feeling gay, and liking it.

I didn’t just start sucking his thumb, and imagining he had a dick. I started eating it, at home. I don’t know why I wasted it before, I just wiped it up with toilet paper, or washed it down the sink. He’s right, it’s delicious, and it just tastes like jizz. I know, jizz tastes like jizz, and nothing else. It’s delicious, okay?

I was getting sucked off, 2 or 3 times a day, every day. I beat off every once in a while, but honestly didn’t have to as much. I didn’t want to waste it, but also hade to change the pronouns back, to brag about it to my friends.

“What do you even see in her, man?”

“What are you kidding? Never mind, scratch that. You’re right, no other guy could ever possibly want her, so I get her all to myself.”

“No seriously, man. She’s probably licking it up with the soccer team right now.”

I laughed, “You wish! What’s with you guys, and lesbians, anyhow? Like you could spot a real one, after you’re so wrong about Mitch. Ell.”

“Bitch L. With a capital L.” Okay, tell a bunch of 13 year olds you’re getting sucked off, 2, or 3 times a day. Every day, and even if they believe you, they’ll act like they don’t believe you.

They’re not just jealous. They’re fucking ignorant, but what are you gonna do? If I run into them, any of them, boy or girl, I’m going to hear about it.

“What’s with you, and Bitch L?”

“Let me guess, you thought she was a Lesbian?”

“Yeah, but you’re her beard, so what? You expect to believe you made her straight?”

“Yeah,” as long as nobody knew we’re boyfriend, and boyfriend. He’s the top, easily, and if that makes me the bottom? Okay, when he started buttfucking me with his thumb, that was even more incentive to hide that he was a man. a gay man, and I was the bottom. Here, I’m not ashamed to say that I can take it like a man, and he hits my P spot every time.

“Whatever. I don’t care either way, but you’re trying to tell me. Her boyfriend that she’s totally 100% gay?” Shake my head. “Yeah right, okay. Show me 1 girl she’s actually been with, and I might believe that she was bi-curious.” I held up 1 finger. “Once.” Lucky for me, al the real girls were to afraid of him to even joke about actually having sex with him, but I knew for sure that would never happen.

Of course not. He doesn’t hate girls, but he sure as hell doesn’t like pussy enough to look at one.

Believe it or not, it’s the truth.

;

Author

Based on some true stories. Cut, shuffled together, and dealt out again into different hands. Technically, there is Therapist/Patient confidentiality attached to a lot of it, if I told anyone’s actual story, without permission.

Not if I weave them together into a bunch of fictional stories, though. Some of this is mine, based on things I experienced at the time. When I was that age, and some of it is based on friends’. Those aren’t my secrets to tell, either.

But some of it is based on people I met when I became a therapist. I just can’t say which is which. It’s not my closet. Just because I happened to have the keys once doesn’t mean that I can invite you in for them.

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