Swan Song

by Ann O'Nonymous

 

Trying to gather my thoughts, I looked around at the assembled group: there was Mom, my older sister Peg, her friend Sandra; seated together on the couch. Aunt Jill, cousins Dani and Tina ensconced in somewhat comfortable chairs, each lounging as best as they could. Then there was Mrs. Nixon, our neighbor, carrying a tray with an offering of coffee, tea, and cookies. Lastly, Miss Diane Rodgers, Beautician and owner of "The Sweet Beauty." These were the parties responsible for my present "condition."

Me? Just call me – oh, what to call me: does pansy, sissy, queer ring a bell. If not, try limp-wristed, lisping, faggot slut. Or, maybe Prissy, Missy, Lulu Belle will ring your chimes. Then again, what's in a name? Everything – it denotes gender, status, sometimes even social standing. Ancient peoples had private and public names, as they believed that you could be "bewitched" if your real name was known. Once, in a long-ago, seemingly distant past, I had a man's name. Russell Thomas! Yeah, now that's a real man's name.

Once, I had a room with model planes (flew some of them, but only once), action figures (funny, I really liked "Storm" from the X-Men), the usual books (one 3-tiered bookcase with Nancy Drew, Hardy Boys and Classic Comics) and a few model cars. I enjoyed reclining on my bed, reading Miss Drew's adventures and listening to some Classical Music. Odd, but I knew I was a boy, maybe a little different, but a boy growing into a man! Now, it's "cute Boy Band posters, adorable stuffed kittens, and Barbies" for company. I've got a perfectly lovely vanity (Perfect name for it, doncha think!) in a heavenly French Provincial style with matching furniture. There were gorgeous lace curtains on the windows; lamps with oodles of lace on the shades; delicious drawers of all kinds of panties, bras; other feminine goodies hanging up in my closets – yuck!

So, here I stand looking at these . . . t-h-e-s-e w-o-m-e-n . . . my tormenters, my mentors in femininity . . . trying to form the words on just what they did to (not for, never will I allow myself to say for) me. How do I tell them what is, has happened; what I am feeling, and/or the lack of it.

Okay, if you're wondering what I did to deserve my "petticoating" (That's the name for it, isn't it – or, maybe it should be "Let's make [fill in the blank] a Queer."), here's the reason in a nutshell. In April, pop ran off with a woman from work – seems he got her preggies (oops, pregnant) and did the wrong (right?) thing. Mom blew her stack, threatened to go after him and do excessive bodily harm – something short of castration, I suppose. She decided to settle for a D-i-v-o-r-c-e, got a huge chunk of change as a settlement and swore off men for life! That's when the fit hit the shan . . . oops, mom.

I mean, I stayed away from altercations, got good marks (A+'s mostly) in school, didn't much care for sports, but when I started getting unnecessary "vitamins," wow. It raised my suspicions, and a check on the good ole Internet at the local library ("Em, I have this piece on the pharmaceutical industry . . .) – an Estrogen compound . . . gee, what do you know about that! And they are such pretty pills, too.

At the beginning of summer vacation, I was packed up and off to Aunt Jill, mom's two-year-older sister. She got into the act. When I arrived there, she pulled a missing suitcase routine, and I wound up in Dani's dresses and Tina's panties. (Oh, before I go further, on weekends and holidays during May and part of June, mom already had me in panties, slips and heels at home. "These will keep you away from those hoodlums you hang out with," was mom's words.)

School? Hoodlums? My only friends were the Janitor that I occasionally assisted, Mrs. Conover, a Math Teacher I washed blackboards for, and Jeffrey Martin – in reality, he was more interested in Sandra.

While I was there, I thought Aunt Jill would never do anything like that to me – boy, was I off the beam there! Dani set me up on a date with a local lothario that she absolutely detested (Can you say "blow job," boys and girls?); it was DAMN NEAR RAPE! Dani and Tina convinced Aunt Jill that I was the one who initiated the whole thing!

"Looks like our little sweetheart is finally getting interested in boys," Aunt Jill stated smugly, adding, "Next time dear, remember to carry a Trojan or two! You know how forgetful boys can be."

I didn't want a "next time." I tried to hide as much as possible the whole time I was there – I mean, I did laundry, vacuumed, ironed, cooked (or learned about how not to burn things – same difference) and, in general, avoided my cousins and good ole Auntie.

Geez, I remember getting off that bus, the driver saying 'miss this' and 'miss that' to me; mom picking me up, the hug and kiss a girl would receive, then the question: "At Aunt Jill's, did you see any cute boys you like?" All I wanted was to get home to my boy's room, but that was not to happen. It was while I was away that Mom had it changed

After three days back home, mom sent me to a previously made beauty appointment at "The Sweet Beauty." Can you guess what happened? In case not, I fell asleep and got a full body waxing, plucked and shaped eyebrows, hair extensions (at home, all the sharp instruments seem to have vanished), pedicure and acrylic nails (she also, helpfully, attached a 34B breast form using a six-month glue – I didn't think they even made such stuff). Walked in almost a boy, walked out almost completely (except for those little trinkets men carry) a woman.

Now thru all this, Peg seemed to stay on the sidelines. I've been known to be wrong. A double date proved that – she and her boyfriend, Jack (High School Fullback, if you must know), and me and . . . and . . . yes Jeffrey, happy now? (At least no fooling in the back seat this time.)

Well, they're waiting for me to say something, and what I feel like saying is, "What the fuck were you damn Bitches trying to do to me?" But, that's someone else's style – not mine.

I got up, walked around the room looking each person in the eye as I put my thoughts into words. Unfortunately, as I spoke my voice rose in pitch and got louder and louder as the words tumbled forth in a torrential downpour:

"If you're wondering why I asked you here today, it's because in two weeks school starts its fall semester. I want to know one thing: What am I? Am I something you're ashamed of? So much so that I have to be dressed as a girl: walk, talk, and act as if I've been one all my life. Is that the only way I can be acceptable to you ladies. Do you need to or want to destroy what masculinity I possess? Please, give me any reasonable answer. I've minded my manners, been polite, and never put down any female. Does it really threaten any of you so much.

"Or is there something else: do any of you feel that I've never been man enough? What do I need to do as proof? I tried the best I know how to be a man any one of you would be proud to call 'husband.' Do I really need some extra-large physical attraction, that maybe I don't possess at this time, to be called a 'real man.' Did you look at me and think 'Sissy' because of that, and decided to help nature out a little.

"Please! Please, just what am I – I feel . . . I feel I'm no longer a male, and not a female. I'm just a something that lives here, something to be taken advantage of – a date for one of sis's boyfriends, a maid to do laundry, a freakin' joke to be laughed at and humiliated for someone else's pleasure? Is that what all of you think of me.

"Should I get down on my knees and apologize to all present because I'm only a little boy that thinks he's going to be a man; that you here have a different future in mind for me. Should I say, 'I'm so sorry in thinking that, as a man or woman, I was free to chose my own destiny without consulting all of you first.'

"When I used to get up in the morning, I could look in the mirror and see me – my mental image. Now, I look and don't see 'me.' The mirror shows a teenaged girl, and inside I'm still a boy trying to grow into manhood. The 'what is there' is some thing I can't comprehend because it doesn't conform to that image; one I grew up with. I don't know who it is – am I the real 'me,' or is it that reflection."

I was about this time that I reached where mom was sitting. Looking her in the eye, I almost snarled:

"Mom, you couldn't get to pop to castrate him, so is that what you are planning to do to me?" Sarcastically I added, "Oh, I don't mean to imply you'd actually do such a thing – but this" (I waved my hands over the blouse, skirt, hose and heels I was wearing) "is almost the same thing. Each day, there is a little less of 'me' and more of your creation."

It was at this point that I reached into my handbag, grasped the instrument firmly and pulled it out – I watched as mom let out a tiny yelp. I dropped the Bowie knife in her lap, saying: "Since you hate my maleness so damn much, here—why don't you finish off the job you started!"

 

[My Swan Song – Ann O'Nonymous]

  

  

  

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