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The State relocates me to a foster family who lives in another town. I move to another school and another family.
The worst part about being a boy, I hate everything about it. The clothes, my short haircut, and my name. Every time someone calls me Roscoe, I want to vomit, which I do often. I want to release every vile thing that’s happened to me. To flood the world with the foulness growing in my soul. My foster parents, Benji and Catherine Wells, have no idea how to handle the frequent trips to the toilet to puke. Thus, they decide to lock the bathroom door. “From now on, ask permission before you go to the restroom. This puking thing has to stop.” A fat, demanding, obnoxious oaf, Benji gets off on ballgames, beer, cigarettes, and training everyone in the house to cower at his presence. I’ve already been the recipient of his discipline. I absentmindedly sit down on the toilet, which is forbidden since I’m a male, unaware of the fact that Benji is awake. By the time I hear him coming down the hall, I’m in midstream. The door swings open. “I’ll stand up. I’ll stand. Wait.” I reach down to pull up my blue pajama bottoms. Benji’s hairy arm knocks me to the floor. I lie on the dirty, cold floor like a beaten dog. A seed of hate and rage rumbles below the surface. I’m not sure what happens, but something pierces me deep within. My world will never be the same. I don’t care if I live or die. I jump to my feet, my fists ready to beat the everlasting hell out of the brute standing over me. “Fuck you. Stupid shithead. This is how I use the bathroom. Leave me alone. I don’t want to suck your dick anymore, and you’re not going to make me. I’m gonna tell on you.” I hit him as hard as I can in the nuts. Benji stands in front of me, stunned. My foster mom appears. “Leave Roscoe alone,” she says. I glare at them. “I will tell on both of you. You’re going to have to kill me, or I’ll tell.” ---------------------- Bright and early the next morning, a social worker arrives, intent on taking me to my next foster home. It proves to be better than the last because my foster parents ignore me. Their doing so is perfect. By the time I reach adolescence, I’m an angry young man, determined in making sure no one abuses me again. I snarl at every adult who crossed my path. Most are afraid of me. A spiteful, disrespectful male, I enjoy wearing women’s clothing. Of course, I can’t afford to buy them, so I steal what I need from every department store I enter. Dressing in silk lingerie, I love the feel of the softness pressing against my skin. I spend hours lying in the vacant lot next to the school, fantasizing about dressing in seductive clothes with my long hair flowing behind me. Thoughts of being a gorgeous woman touching my breasts, and having others touch them, are enjoyable. The daydreams always end in a powerful ejaculation. I spend most of my time daydreaming about being a woman. I want to be a woman people admire. To have them look at me and wish they could touch each curve and orifice in my body. Most of all, I want the curse that forever engorges underneath my clothes to be no more. ---------------------- By the time I’m nineteen, the urge grows stronger. I often fantasize about dressing in a woman’s business suit. A cute, short green skirt with white stockings and a low-cut white blouse hugging my large bosom, revealing the crack between my gorgeous tan breasts. I imagine walking seductively into my boss’s office at his law practice. He’d study my sexy hourglass figure. I’d walk toward him with my blonde hair tied in a bun. My boss would snatch the barrette out of my hair, causing it to spill over my shoulders like a waterfall. I’d take my clothes off and press my red-painted lips against his sweaty neck. Then, I would seduce him into having sex with me on his desk, while people waited in the lobby for their appointments. I know nothing about gender identity, just that I’m different from other males. It isn’t about dressing in women’s clothes. I want to be a woman. A strong, internal wish, I realize it isn’t because my mother dressed me in girl’s clothes. I was born this way. I might not be a female on the outside, but someday, I will be. For the time being, I’m caught somewhere in between.
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AuthorKeith Kelly currently lives in Rio Rancho New Mexico. Archives
October 2020
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