Bullied and Brutalized
I entered high school under extreme duress. After barely surviving my stint in a Catholic middle school, I was newly sentenced to an even more conservative Catholic prep school. I was banished there because mom and dad suspected that I had quite possibly sold my soul to Satan. Perhaps the Franciscan friars and priests could save me from certain damnation, they reasoned. My god, if they had only known that I was having homosexual relations with some of the boys in my neighborhood they would have spontaneously combusted. All my parents knew, however, was that I was becoming a somewhat snarly and disrespectful teenager.
My crippling gender confusion hung over me like a cloud. The intensity of the emotional pain was reinforced each day when I was forced to wear slacks, a blazer, and a necktie to school. There were so many days when I would muse about hanging myself by that goddamn tie. Suicidal thoughts were indeed floating through my mind back then, but I had neither the plan nor the means to take my own life. I simply wished I had never been born. I imagined that death would be the only way to finally find peace.
By this time my cross-dressing activity had become more frequent and much more urgent. I began dressing like a girl before servicing some of the neighborhood boys. How I wished I could have gone to school dressed according to my real gender! Unfortunately I was bound to the drab male uniform proscribed for me.
My high school was an all-male institution without a female on staff or in the student body. This was both a good thing and a bad thing. It was good insofar as I wasn't taunted by the presence of girls dressed in their skirts, sweaters, sexy shoes and makeup. It was bad because I had no female acquaintances in my small world. There were no girls with whom I could more easily relate.
At about this time I was discovering new and wonderful things about my sexuality. I easily found both boys and girls attractive and longed to kiss and make out with both sexes. I should qualify this, however. I only wanted to be with another sex partner if I was given the freedom to be the female that I longed to be. Dressing en femme while giving blow jobs to guys changed the entire nature of the experience. I was finally finding emotional satisfaction when I was having sex as Stephani (as opposed to Edward, the name that appears on my birth certificate). I was horny for boys and their wonderful equipment--but only as the girl to their boy. The same held true for girls. One day I came across a Playboy magazine that featured some incredibly sexy women. I remember hungering to kiss their lips and feel their soft bodies against mine--girl-on-girl.
By the age of 13, I was absolutely certain I was a girl deep down inside. I was equally sure that I was bisexual. And I was painfully aware that these feelings were intensely confusing and scary.
My last post to this blog ended with my being outed by a high school senior who had been blackmailing me in order to coerce me to take him anally. When I wouldn't submit to his desire, he began telling anyone and everyone that I was a "gay cocksucker." This quickly became my reputation in my neighborhood. Fortunately, I attended a different high school than he and so his campaign to smear me did not easily reach my prep school classmates. I lived, however, with the constant fear that someone would find out. I really wasn't emotionally prepared to peek out of the closet quite yet. I just wanted to fit in and I certainly didn't want to be the object of homophobic teasing.
In that first year of high school words like "gayboy" and "faggot" were being tossed around all the time in an attempt to humiliate others. I suspected a few things about these boys who bullied others with these terms. First of all, they probably had no clear understanding of what it meant to be gay. Second, I was absolutely positive that some of the most vociferous name-callers were probably latent homosexuals themselves. And third, I'm certain that many of my classmates would have intellectually imploded and spontaneously combusted if they ever had to wrap their minds around my own transgenderhood.
Now the first few weeks of my freshman year went fairly smoothly. I was deliberate in my attempts to stay under the radar. For example, I went so far as to change my speaking voice to a less effeminate tone. God forgive me, I even pretended to care about sports and hunting. Come October, though, the dreaded PE class started meeting. I was forced to change into my gym clothes in the boy's locker room. Ordinarily, this would not have been a big deal. It's not like I was wearing lacy panties or silk stockings under my drabwear. The real problem was my gynecomastia, that endocrine abnormality wherein adolescent boys develop fleshy breasts. As I might have mentioned in an earlier post, this was not altogether problematic for me. Instead, having perky titties was a sort of confirmation, in my mind, that I really was a girl.
But I certainly could have lived without the hateful attention and cruel taunts from classmates who nicknamed me "mama tits." The assumption was that I must be gay and from that point forward, I was both ostracized and bullied. Things got really bad when rumors of my pre-high school blow jobs hit the gossip wire.
From that point forward, things spiraled rapidly downward. A low point occurred one afternoon, when I was forcibly dragged into the boys locker room by a gang of jocks who thought it would be fun to molest me. Holding me down, they started thrusting their dicks into my face. Another attacker sodomized me, forcing a souvenir (miniature) baseball bat into my virgin ass. I apparently passed out while they were assaulting me. When I came to, my face was covered in sticky cum and bruises on my face and torso. Blood was flowing from my rectum.
Interestingly enough, my most vivid memory of that terrible experience was of me washing the blood out of my underwear so that my mother wouldn't find out. It was a shame thing. I had immediately fallen back on Catholic guilt and I assumed that I somehow invited the rape. I was, I figured, nothing more than a homosexual whore.
This level of self-loathing would ultimately lead to a dramatic and compulsive proclivity for sex with any girl that I could bed. If I was fucking girls, then no one could accuse me of being a "fag."
So next time out, I will be telling the story of my teen-aged sex frenzy which led to a sizzling, summer-long affair with an older woman. This woman, by the way, just happened to be a self-described "fag hag" who introduced me to some of the most exquisite drag queens.
If I haven't scared you off by now, I really hope to see you again.
Love,
Stephani 💗
My crippling gender confusion hung over me like a cloud. The intensity of the emotional pain was reinforced each day when I was forced to wear slacks, a blazer, and a necktie to school. There were so many days when I would muse about hanging myself by that goddamn tie. Suicidal thoughts were indeed floating through my mind back then, but I had neither the plan nor the means to take my own life. I simply wished I had never been born. I imagined that death would be the only way to finally find peace.
By this time my cross-dressing activity had become more frequent and much more urgent. I began dressing like a girl before servicing some of the neighborhood boys. How I wished I could have gone to school dressed according to my real gender! Unfortunately I was bound to the drab male uniform proscribed for me.
My high school was an all-male institution without a female on staff or in the student body. This was both a good thing and a bad thing. It was good insofar as I wasn't taunted by the presence of girls dressed in their skirts, sweaters, sexy shoes and makeup. It was bad because I had no female acquaintances in my small world. There were no girls with whom I could more easily relate.
At about this time I was discovering new and wonderful things about my sexuality. I easily found both boys and girls attractive and longed to kiss and make out with both sexes. I should qualify this, however. I only wanted to be with another sex partner if I was given the freedom to be the female that I longed to be. Dressing en femme while giving blow jobs to guys changed the entire nature of the experience. I was finally finding emotional satisfaction when I was having sex as Stephani (as opposed to Edward, the name that appears on my birth certificate). I was horny for boys and their wonderful equipment--but only as the girl to their boy. The same held true for girls. One day I came across a Playboy magazine that featured some incredibly sexy women. I remember hungering to kiss their lips and feel their soft bodies against mine--girl-on-girl.
By the age of 13, I was absolutely certain I was a girl deep down inside. I was equally sure that I was bisexual. And I was painfully aware that these feelings were intensely confusing and scary.
+++
My last post to this blog ended with my being outed by a high school senior who had been blackmailing me in order to coerce me to take him anally. When I wouldn't submit to his desire, he began telling anyone and everyone that I was a "gay cocksucker." This quickly became my reputation in my neighborhood. Fortunately, I attended a different high school than he and so his campaign to smear me did not easily reach my prep school classmates. I lived, however, with the constant fear that someone would find out. I really wasn't emotionally prepared to peek out of the closet quite yet. I just wanted to fit in and I certainly didn't want to be the object of homophobic teasing.
In that first year of high school words like "gayboy" and "faggot" were being tossed around all the time in an attempt to humiliate others. I suspected a few things about these boys who bullied others with these terms. First of all, they probably had no clear understanding of what it meant to be gay. Second, I was absolutely positive that some of the most vociferous name-callers were probably latent homosexuals themselves. And third, I'm certain that many of my classmates would have intellectually imploded and spontaneously combusted if they ever had to wrap their minds around my own transgenderhood.
Now the first few weeks of my freshman year went fairly smoothly. I was deliberate in my attempts to stay under the radar. For example, I went so far as to change my speaking voice to a less effeminate tone. God forgive me, I even pretended to care about sports and hunting. Come October, though, the dreaded PE class started meeting. I was forced to change into my gym clothes in the boy's locker room. Ordinarily, this would not have been a big deal. It's not like I was wearing lacy panties or silk stockings under my drabwear. The real problem was my gynecomastia, that endocrine abnormality wherein adolescent boys develop fleshy breasts. As I might have mentioned in an earlier post, this was not altogether problematic for me. Instead, having perky titties was a sort of confirmation, in my mind, that I really was a girl.
But I certainly could have lived without the hateful attention and cruel taunts from classmates who nicknamed me "mama tits." The assumption was that I must be gay and from that point forward, I was both ostracized and bullied. Things got really bad when rumors of my pre-high school blow jobs hit the gossip wire.
From that point forward, things spiraled rapidly downward. A low point occurred one afternoon, when I was forcibly dragged into the boys locker room by a gang of jocks who thought it would be fun to molest me. Holding me down, they started thrusting their dicks into my face. Another attacker sodomized me, forcing a souvenir (miniature) baseball bat into my virgin ass. I apparently passed out while they were assaulting me. When I came to, my face was covered in sticky cum and bruises on my face and torso. Blood was flowing from my rectum.
Interestingly enough, my most vivid memory of that terrible experience was of me washing the blood out of my underwear so that my mother wouldn't find out. It was a shame thing. I had immediately fallen back on Catholic guilt and I assumed that I somehow invited the rape. I was, I figured, nothing more than a homosexual whore.
This level of self-loathing would ultimately lead to a dramatic and compulsive proclivity for sex with any girl that I could bed. If I was fucking girls, then no one could accuse me of being a "fag."
So next time out, I will be telling the story of my teen-aged sex frenzy which led to a sizzling, summer-long affair with an older woman. This woman, by the way, just happened to be a self-described "fag hag" who introduced me to some of the most exquisite drag queens.
If I haven't scared you off by now, I really hope to see you again.
Love,
Stephani 💗
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