A Fantasy               by: Anne O’Nonymous

 

Life has some strange twists in it. This is just one fantasy strand of a thread, of a life not lived. So, I ask this question: Which is worse: a fantasy that becomes reality, or a reality that is a fantasy?

My name is . . . well, call me Joe Smith. Some time ago, my life took a turn for what was really the better although I did not realize it at the time. I don’t know what my life would have been without her, so if you are out there, somewhere, thanks. Now on to the story!

I was about 11 or 12 at the time, living with my mother, Patricia, and an older sister, Jillian. The area where I lived was a small cul-de-sac off a rural road. Three houses along a paved road, with ours being at the very end. One house had an elderly couple living in it, and the other had been vacant for three months.

When I saw the "For Sale" sign being removed, I was desperately hoping a family with a boy would move in. Then, a few days later, I saw the moving truck pull up and men starting to unload its cargo. Disappointment came when I saw the family moving in: A mother, a girl about my age, and an older, teen-age, girl.

"Hey, mom, someone’s moving into the old Harrison place. Looks like Jill is going to have a new friend," I commented to my mother.

"Yes, I know! I was talking to Ms. Rutledge at the Real Estate office a few days ago. She said they’re from New Jersey. I think her name is Carrolton or Carlton, I’m not sure," his mother replied, "I bet they could use a big, strong man to help them!"

Well, I didn’t fit into either category, but I went over anyway. I introduced myself, asked if I may be of assistance and was quickly put to work.

Now let me describe the people: first, the mother. She was, I’m guessing, about 36 years old, black hair to her waist in one long braid. (Now my hair was shoulder-length at the time, but that was just lack of time to get to a barber.) Her face was one of strength, but not muscular. Something inside her, like she’s seen too much to let anything bother her. Her name was Rebecca Carlton.

The older girl, Cass, was like her mother--friendly but somewhat aloof. I got the distinct feeling neither one really wanted me there. She treated me like I was a nuisance, that I was in her way.

Then there was Nancy! Ahhh! She was my age! She looked like Kim Basinger, only Nancy had black hair (apparently it ran in the family) and emerald green eyes--I could stare for hours into those lovely orbs. You can tell I was deeply, irrevocably, in love. My first love, up to that time, was baseball, now move over Ty Cobb, Babe Ruth--I’ve got a new game to play.

The next few hours, I toted, pushed, pulled, lugged furniture, suitcases, books (Another love of mine--she must have had at least 500 books, Oh Rapture!) and sundry other items. Slowly the empty house became more like a home, filling with chairs, knick-knacks of assorted sizes, cases filling up with writings of Poe, Dickens, Meade, Hawthorne, Plato, Aristotle --authors I knew well. Then there were others: Campbell, Buckland, Crowley.

"OK, let’s stop for awhile and take a break," said Ms. Carlton. It was at that time there was a loud knock at the door. When Cass opened it, there stood mom and Jillian with plates of sandwiches.

"Welcome to the area," mom intoned as she walked in, "my daughter and I thought you could use some food."

There were introductions all around, and, while moms and daughters got to know each better, I made it a point to get to know Nancy.

"So, you’ll be going to Jackson when school starts," I asked, "it’s a very nice school. We don’t have too many problems, except for the sports teams."

""What’s the matter there," Nancy asked.

"The boy’s teams suck, and the girls win most of the trophies. It kind of hurts the masculine pride, don’t you think?"

"Did your mom play sports, I mean why is she interested in a girl’s sports program. Most woman go ballistic when you say ‘girl’s sports.’"

"Mom played basketball, lacrosse, and bowled in college. She wanted to play soccer but needed time for studies! Jillian plays sports in high school, and I think she may go to college on a sports scholarship."

"Wow," Nancy intoned solemnly, "Cass is the same. She plays a lot of different sports--she likes softball mostly. I think Cass and Jillian will be good friends."

In time, the sandwiches were consumed, and the rooms filled-in to perform their various purposes.

Since the fridge was bare, the moms decided to treat us "kids" to dinner at a local restaurant. This was no fast-food deal, but a real home-cooked dinner.

Over the next two weeks, Nancy and I got to know each other very well. It was like she was meant for me. But, I kept getting a nagging feeling in the back of my head that something was wrong and the ceiling would fall in sooner or later, and I would be hurt big time.

It was a Friday, mom and Jill were going shopping for food. I decided to walk over and talk to Nancy, trying to fill her in on the teachers at Jackson. I was met at the door by Ms. Carlton and Cass.

"Hi Joe," said Cass, "Come on in. Nancy is in her room, go on up. We’re going shopping for school clothes.’

"Isn’t Nancy going?" Joe inquired.

"No, she has a headache," Ms. Carlton said, "she doesn’t like shopping anyway."

As the two women left, Joe ambled up the stairs to Nancy’s room. Upon entering, he said, "Hi! Heard you are under the weather!"

"No. I just told them that to get out of shopping. So, how ya doin’?"

Joe looked at her lying in bed. She was wearing a lavender nightie, her jet black hair spread over the pillow. She looked so pretty. He walked over and sat on the edge of her bed. His hands were shaking, and he was sweating. He had never been in her room when she was in her night clothes.

"Great! I thought we could go over a few things about school, you know, the teachers and such," Joe replied, "maybe study a few things."

"Hey, that would be great! I need to know which teachers not to get P.O.ed. Why don’t you get in bed with me," Nancy said with a wink.

"Whoa. In your bed. With you. Your sister would beat the crap out of me, then your mother . . .," Joe started to say.

"Come on, Joe, you can blame me," Nancy said, interrupting his speech, "I won’t let them harm you!"

"Well, OK, if you say so," Joe said as he raised his leg to get on the bed.

"No, silly, in bed with me. See those things over there," Nancy said, pointing to a small pile of clothes on a chair. "I want you to take a bath, use lots of bath salts and perfume, PAT yourself dry, put on the pretty things, and join me here."

Now it seemed things were developing a little too fast for him. He wasn’t ready to be anything more than a friend to Nancy. What if her mother finds him there! His mother, what would she say? He looked at the pile of what were obviously girl’s things: a pink satin training bra, ruffled pink satin panties, a pale mint green nylon nightie, pink bunny slippers, and a pink cotton robe.

He looked at Nancy. She said, "pretty please, with sugar on it," and he just melted. On his way to the bathroom he heard her say, "put your clothes in the wash hamper," and he wondered what he got himself into.

He quickly took a bath (as fast as he normally would, only he washed a little more carefully--don’t want that boy scent now do we), patted himself dry (he usually rubbed, like he was buffing his shoes), found and used the floral-scented powder (another new experience--usually it would be wash, dry and clothed), and put his boy things in the hamper. As he did so, he got the strangest feeling he was giving up something he felt was important to him--his identity in the world. If he wore those girl things, what would that make him. Would he still be a boy, or something not quite a boy or girl. If taking off boy clothes and wearing man clothes made him a man, would taking off boy clothes change him into a girl? No, that’s silly.

Now powdered, first he put on the panties. As he pulled them on, he noticed a reaction in his lower region. There was a part of him that was enjoying the sensation of the feel of satin--he wondered if every boy would react the same way to the feel of satin. It took a few tries to get the training bra on--why were they called training bras, what did they train the boobs or the girls? The lower region responded accordingly. (Yesss, ohhh, yesss!) The nightie was next. His own PJ’s never felt like this, they were flannel in winter, cotton in summer. Its softness and lightness was soooo good. After putting on the slippers and robe, he went to Nancy’s room.

"Oh, you look so cute," Nancy squealed, as she lifted the covers on her bed, "come on over here and join me!"

Joe slipped off the robe and hung it up behind her door, walked over to join her in bed. Taking off the slippers, he pushed them under and got under the covers with her. Soon the two were engaged in talk about school, teachers and books they had read.

After a while, Nancy got out of bed and went over to her bureau, got her comb and hairbrush, and returned to bed.

"Scooch down towards the bottom of the bed a bit," Nancy asked.

When he had done so, Nancy got in back of him and began to brush his long hair. He really was enjoying the sensation of having a very pretty girl brushing and combing his hair.

"I wish I had some time, I’d like to put your hair up in rollers, I’d bet you’d look real cute!"

There it was again, the "c" word. He didn’t know how to react to such a word. It wasn’t "Handsome" or "Attractive" or something masculine. It was cute. He felt like shouting: Boys aren’t cute.

"OK, would you brush my hair for me," Nancy asked him with a big smile, ‘It’s one hundred strokes, but you can do only fifty!"

As Nancy moved around in front of him, he felt a stirring below. He sure hoped he didn’t have an accident, especially like the one he had when he saw Aunt Gladys half-dressed two years ago. He started brushing Nancy’s long jet black tresses, and he felt really good. The brushing instilled a sense of peace in him. He had no idea why that was so.

"Hey, only fifty, don’t enjoy your self too much," Nancy said with a giggle. "I think you are up to two hundred by now!"

"Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize . . ." Joe said.

"Now I owe you fifty strokes," Nancy started to say when there was a noise heard.

"Nancy, we’re back!"

Joe heard the fateful words, then started, "Oh, great. What are we going to do! If she catches me here. Oh my God!" Joe looked at the door as it opened.

"Oh, Joe. Good, you are still here. I don’t like to leave Nancy alone too long," Ms. Carlton said as she entered the room.

"Please, I can explain everything. Don’t blame Nancy for . . . You aren’t mad at me," Joe said in astonishment.

"Joe, put on a robe and slippers, and come downstairs. I have something to tell you and your mother about," Ms. Carlton said as she turned to go down the steps.

Joe sat there, shocked at the recent turn of events. Finally, he got up, donned the robe and slippers, and, with Nancy on one arm, went down to hear his fate.

At the bottom of the steps, he could hear female voices in the kitchen. He and Nancy went back, and, upon entering the kitchen, he heard his sister say, "here comes the little pervert now."

At that, Ms. Carlton reacted with, "If you wish to be welcome in my house in the future, you will apologize to me and your brother immediately!"

"I am sorry Joe, I did not mean any harm to you. Ms. Carlton, I do apologize to you, to Cass, and Nancy. My brother knows I say a lot of things out of hand, and . . .," Jillian tried to make amends for her faux pas but wasn’t succeeding.

"Ms. Carlton, I think she’s right. If you consider how I’m dressed," Joe said sadly.

"OK, it’s time you know the truth," Ms. Carlton announced, "both the girls know, now I think you should too if I want to keep you as friends."

"I was in high school when I met Jack Carlton. He was a very nice guy, shy as they get. He had a smile that was unreal, and I fell hard for him. We dated a few, well three, times. One Friday, he asked me to meet him at his parent’s house. I was driving at that time and Jack still needed a few more lessons to pass his test, so I drove over to his house. When I knocked on the door, his parents let me into the house. Usually he would meet me out on the porch, so meeting his parents was something different. I thought our relationship was getting serious, and I didn’t mind. Then, he came down the stairs. I should have said ‘she’ for that was exactly what I saw, a very attractive eighteen-year-old girl. He said: ‘This is also a part of me, Rebecca. I’m as much a female as a male. If you accept me as a man, you must also accept the female in me. Rebecca, if you want to leave right now, I do understand--I won’t accept it, just understand.’ He told me later about his being a Transvestite and how he started."

"Well, I said we can try dating for awhile, and see how it works out. We got married on my eighteenth birthday, and I never regretted it. Jack was a sensitive person, great with kids. He taught Cass how to hit a baseball, throw like a boy, and hair care. He taught her all about makeup--now there are very few men that can do that. Your boy, Joe, is a lot like Jack and I would like him to visit more often. Of course, I would prefer a ‘Joann’ so what do you think, Joe?"

Joe, Joann, what’s the difference, as long as I get Nancy!

Well, Dear Readers, this is a fantasy, isn’t?

The reality was my parents were called, and a fight almost broke out. I was hauled home and made to wear girl’s clothes and do all the housework until school started. Nancy, my poor Nancy! She was forbidden to see or speak to me again. One month later, she was sent to live with an aunt three states away. She might as well have been sent to Europe.

I dress on occasions. Full regalia from stockings and high-heels to wig. It’s not the same. There’s just no feelings in it, it’s just a habit! I miss her very much.

Yes, I’ve tried to date others, but I gave up on dating because when they learn of what I am, it’s "call me Mistress, you worthless piece of s---," or "you pervert," or "put yourself in the hands of the Lord and you will be cured of this affliction." Other women have said similar things, like "sissy," "fag" and it hurts. It hurts deeply. I want to be accepted, to be loved like anyone else. Is that too much to ask for?

So, here I sit writing this story, wearing a peach knee-length nightgown, black panties. I am alone. And I feel so lonely, so utterly lonely!

 

Annie O

 

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© 2001 by Ann O'Nonymous. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.