Let me tell this straight.
I am a transgender male; transgender because I have a woman living inside of me.
Yes, I know. I don't fit the current schema of reality. Most people don't go around saying they have an entirely different identity thriving inside them. And if they do, we call them names. Historical names like: insane, possessed, hysterical, and or a dash of schizophrenic.
But those who launch such arrows, do so defensively. Such attackers have gone through a goodly amount of time learning, memorizing schemes about this material reality. Who am I to challenge their metaphysical perspectives? Who am I to claim an immaterial acquaintance living within me?
At an early age, I naturally gravitated to the "female" role when rustling around with my friends. I was perpetually Robin to my cousin's Batman. I was mentally Ginger to Toby's, a seven year old schoolyard chum back at St. Joseph's Catholic School--Professor character when we pretended to be stars on Gilligan's Island. Although I was supposed to be Gilligan, I internally heard Ginger talking to me. I could feel her curves on me, I could feel her feminine purr in my head.
I was only six.
And already a tranny.
I came to know Isabel when she quietly asserted herself over my body. Exploring the garage of one of my father's newest of new homes (he moved a lot, and got married a lot), I found an open box of women's clothing. Putting my fingers on my stepmother's pantyhose, Isabel made me put my arms inside the silky legs. I blushed for the feeling of the hose.
"What are you doing?" Barbara, my stepmother, blurted out as she caught me. She saw the garage door open, and was doing a cursory inspection, like all good stepmothers do. Her spider-thin eyebrows climbing above her blue eyelids, a suspicious light flared up in her eyes. Her was a little faggot in the making.
I am a transgender male; transgender because I have a woman living inside of me.
Yes, I know. I don't fit the current schema of reality. Most people don't go around saying they have an entirely different identity thriving inside them. And if they do, we call them names. Historical names like: insane, possessed, hysterical, and or a dash of schizophrenic.
But those who launch such arrows, do so defensively. Such attackers have gone through a goodly amount of time learning, memorizing schemes about this material reality. Who am I to challenge their metaphysical perspectives? Who am I to claim an immaterial acquaintance living within me?
At an early age, I naturally gravitated to the "female" role when rustling around with my friends. I was perpetually Robin to my cousin's Batman. I was mentally Ginger to Toby's, a seven year old schoolyard chum back at St. Joseph's Catholic School--Professor character when we pretended to be stars on Gilligan's Island. Although I was supposed to be Gilligan, I internally heard Ginger talking to me. I could feel her curves on me, I could feel her feminine purr in my head.
I was only six.
And already a tranny.
I came to know Isabel when she quietly asserted herself over my body. Exploring the garage of one of my father's newest of new homes (he moved a lot, and got married a lot), I found an open box of women's clothing. Putting my fingers on my stepmother's pantyhose, Isabel made me put my arms inside the silky legs. I blushed for the feeling of the hose.
"What are you doing?" Barbara, my stepmother, blurted out as she caught me. She saw the garage door open, and was doing a cursory inspection, like all good stepmothers do. Her spider-thin eyebrows climbing above her blue eyelids, a suspicious light flared up in her eyes. Her was a little faggot in the making.
