Author: BlackDire
Title: Jesse’s Tale
Part: Chapter 1
Summary: The life story of an intersexed girl as she discovers
her own sexual identity.
Keywords: tg, anal, fist, oral

Author’s Note:  This story is based on the life of a very dear
friend of mine.  I am sharing her story with you as she so
graciously chose to share it with me.  As always, the names of
people and some places have been changed to respect anonymity.

Additional Note:  This is going to be a fairly long tale broken
up into several chapters.  The first chapter deals with a very
young Jesse and subsequently has very little sex in it.  I
encourage you to read it anyways because I’m very proud of how I
captured her story and because it will make the later chapters
have more meaning.

Jesse’s Tale Chapter 1

By Blackdire


	I was born in Salt Lake City, UT in November of 1980.  My
parents are what is sometimes referred to as “Jack-Mormon”, which
pretty much means they’re Mormon in the general sense but they
don’t spend all their time at temple and they don’t walk around
with a pocket edition of the Book of Mormon.  My father was a
doctor, a general practitioner (or “family medicine” as it was so
commonly called) to be specific and my mother was, like a great
many Utah wives it seemed, a homemaker.

	You might expect that since I come from a Mormon family that I’d
have a small army of siblings, but my parents were comparatively
young and I was their first child.  I didn’t have to suffer like
so many other families I saw where the parents kept having child
after child hoping they finally got a boy.  Utah is sort of like
China in that respect, although without that whole single-child
law thing.

	Being first was probably part of what saved me, that and my luck
at being born in the least backward city in Utah to a man who had
at least a passing familiarity with rationality.  You see, I was
born intersexed.

	Now, at the time I was labeled as a hermaphrodite, but in modern
science that word is no longer being used so casually to refer to
anyone who doesn’t fit in a neat little gender box.  It
specifically refers to individuals with both sets of sex organs
to one degree or another.  While I may not necessarily look the
part, I am biologically, or at least legally, male.

	At the time of my birth I appeared to be just a normal, healthy
baby boy.  I was maybe a bit small despite being full-term, but
other than that everything was great.  I even had the good
fortune of not being circumcised, which is a small miracle for an
American and even more so in Utah.  It wasn’t that my parents
were against it (that would be like finding Catholics that were
anti-guilt); I think that my dad just didn’t feel comfortable
letting our aging OB-GYN do such a delicate operation. 
Delivering a child was one thing, but using small sharp tools
with less than ideal dexterity is something else.  Having seen
the results of even “good” circumcisions and knowing what I would
have had to give up, as well as the potential negative side
effects, I thank whatever passes for a god up there every day
that I came out intact.
	
	My early childhood was comparatively good, I suppose, albeit a
little sheltered and overly conservative.  It wasn’t until I was
about 5 or so that things took a turn for the worse.  That was
when I started dressing up in my mother’s clothes.  Up until then
I’d never done anything overly girly, but then again very young
children all tend to do pretty much the same stuff --- play with
shiny things, build things with blocks, snuggle with stuffed
animals, blah blah blah.  What do I care whether something is
blue or pink?

	I’d grown up being referred to as a boy, but honestly I’d never
thought much about it.  It was sort of a meaningless word to me,
or at least not any more significant than “tall” or “short” or
“blonde.”  It wasn’t until I started paying closer attention to
adults that I started placing significance on the idea of gender.
 I would look at people on the street or, even better, on TV and
I would see these beautiful women with their curves and soft skin
and long, wonderful legs and I wanted to play with them.  I
wanted to dress in their clothes, to look pretty like them and
move like they did, thus I started raiding my mother’s closet
when she wasn’t around.
	
	The first time my parents caught me I was young enough that they
could just dismiss it as harmless experimentation.  “He was just
confused.  He doesn’t know any better.”  That was harder to
swallow for them when it happened over an over again.  I started
getting in trouble in kindergarten when I would naturally go sit
with the girls when we’d divide ourselves up by gender for a game
or something (why is it that it always has to be girls vs.
boys?).  One day in class my friend Nancy, a cute little brunette
with big brown eyes, kissed a boy named Tommy.  I remember that
we both laughed when he turned beet red and hid his face in his
hands in embarrassment.  Curious what the kiss had felt like for
her, I had turned to the boy next to me, Ryan, and planted a big
kiss right on his lips, making sure to close my eyes like they
did on TV.

	I’m sure you can fill in the rest of what happened.  There were
a bunch of kids shouting, my teacher shouting and sounding both
shocked and disgusted at the same time, and then the same exact
thing from my principal.  My parents were called and when they
arrived everyone gave me a stern talking-to about my
“inappropriate and obscene behavior.”  My mom cried.

	I was angry because I didn’t understand what the problem was. 
Nancy had kissed a boy and she wasn’t in trouble, but somehow I
was?  Everyone kept saying that it was “wrong” for me to kiss a
boy but they acted like it was self-evident and obvious.  No one
explained homosexuality to me or their various silly religious
attitudes about it.  They simply couldn’t fathom why I would have
wanted to do it.

	I spent the next 8 or so months confused and increasingly
stressed both at home and at school.  I was constantly worried
that I’d do something else that seemed innocuous to me but would
bring the wrath of doom down upon me.  Ironically, it was my
desire to escape all this tension that finally caused the shit to
hit the fan.

	My dad was at work and my mom was at home with me.  She’d become
an increasingly “hands-off” mother and had managed to thoroughly
entwine herself in a web of phone calls relating to some sort of
potluck dinner or bake sale.   I jumped at the opportunity to do
the one thing that always made me feel better:  dress up in her
clothes.

	I generally tried on smaller dresses and long tops, things that
were more my size (or at least less excessively large) and
occasionally teetered around in her heels, but I’d never really
done much with her underwear.  Seeking to remedy this, I pawed
through her drawers and came up with an assortment of bras and
panties.  I tried several of them on, marveling at the drastic
difference between this silky, lacy garments and the simple
cotton Underoos that I wore.  None of this fit me, of course, but
I could cinch them with my hands and look at myself in the
mirror, pretending I was a grown-up sexy lady.  In particular I
loved the feel of the material against the smooth skin of my
little ass, as well as the way it gently tickled the sensitive
skin of my cock and balls.  Further curious, I removed the
panties I was wearing and pulled on a pair of black pantyhose. 
Every inch of my legs tingled with excitement as the nylon slid
over them.  Once they were on I shuddered briefly at the
wonderfully snug feeling I had around my crotch and my little ass
cheeks.

	I felt like I was wrapped up in femininity.  It just felt right,
more right than anything in my life before.  I didn’t want to
give that feeling up, so I grabbed my clothes and headed back
into my room to enjoy my “new toys” in private.  My mom walked in
on me 15 minutes later and simply shrieked in horror at what she
saw.  I was naked on my bed except for a pink bra hanging loosely
around my chest and the black pantyhose, on my knees with my
chest on the bed and my ass pointing up in the air.  With one
hand I was caressing my ass and thighs and the other was between
my legs, rubbing and tugging on my little package.  My eyes were
closed and I was moaning softly to myself.

	“Oh my god!  What……What are you DOING?!”  Her face was frozen in
revulsion.  I jumped at the sound of her outburst and tried in
vain to cover myself, my pale skin growing bright red in shame
and embarrassment.  I struggled to think of something to say but
my age got the best of me and I started to sob uncontrollably. 
My mother looked as if she was going to vomit and left the room.
I sat there for the longest time, hating myself for wanting to do
so many things that just made everyone else mad, and hating
whomever or whatever was responsible for making me want those
things.  After I ran out of tears I simply curled into a ball
with my stuffed giraffe and waited patiently for my dad to come
home and tell me what a horrible child I was.

	He never came in that night.  I heard shouting from the other
room, presumably when Mom told him what happened, and what
sounded like a lot of crying.  They talked for hours followed by
more crying and then it all just got quiet.  The silence was
probably the thing that scared me most.

	I don’t know when I fell asleep but I was woken up by my dad the
next morning.  I had overslept for school but he didn’t say
anything about it nor did he act as if he wanted me to get ready.
 He looked at me, hesitated for a moment, and then grabbed a
quilt off of the chair by the door and brought it over to the bed
and wrapped it around me.  I looked up with him and was nearly
bursting with love – I’d done something so bad yet he still loved
me enough to wrap me up and hug me – until I realized that he was
just covering me up so he didn’t have to look at me.  You see, I
was still wearing the bra and pantyhose.
	He told me that I was different, that I was “gay” and that that
“made things difficult.”  He didn’t actually explain what “gay”
meant, but said that it wasn’t my fault that I was the way I was
and that while he and Mom still loved me that I “just didn’t fit
in here.”  He said that someone like me needed special attention
and things that they just couldn’t provide.  He wouldn’t look me
in the eye while he talked.

	At my father’s urging I got changed and went into the living
room to watch cartoons.  I could just faintly hear my mother
sobbing in my parents’ bedroom.  Dad was packing up my clothes
and an assortment of my toys.  I probably should have been crying
or yelling but I was just too numb.  I just stared blankly at the
TV and felt like I was having a horrible dream.

	The next day my dad drove me to the airport and we sat at the
gate waiting, the cold, rough plastic of the chairs scratching at
my thighs.  My dad was painfully silent, and I kicked my feet
nervously as I held tightly to my stuffed giraffe.  After an hour
or so the plane Dad had been watching for arrived and I stood
there staring at the flood of disembarking passengers.  At length
a warm-looking young blonde wearing worn, faded jeans and a red
tank top broke from the crowd and walked towards us.  She stopped
when she got to us and my dad managed a muffled “Hi.”

	She stared coldly at him for a few moments before replying. 
“Jesus, Darren.”  She shook her head slowly.  She opened her
mouth as if she were going to speak and quickly cut herself off
with a wave of her hand.  She squatted down onto her heels and
turned to me.

	“Hi there, little one.  I’m your cousin Lisa.”  She gently
touched the tip of my nose and smiled.  “That’s a very handsome
giraffe you have there, Jesse.”  I smiled back.  “I’ve been
talking with your mother and father and we think you might enjoy
coming to stay with me for a while, sort of like a big vacation.
I’m sure we could have a lot of fun together, whaddya say?”  She
smiled again and ran her fingers through my hair.  I liked her
right away.  Something about her just felt safe.

	“Ok,” I said quietly from behind my giraffe.  Her face lit up
and she pulled me into a massive hug.  Love just dripped off of
her.  I felt as though I were being rescued.  She took my left
hand in her right and told me that she’d take me over to where
the plane would leave that would take us back to Austin, TX,
where she lived.  Off we went, Lisa rolling my bags along as she
held my hand and talked about what plane rides were like.  I only
half paid attention as I clung tightly to her warm hand and my
giraffe.  I turned around to wave to Daddy but he was already
gone.  He’d left without saying goodbye.

	I never saw him or my mother again.

I enjoy feedback!  If you like this story, don’t like this story,
or want to discuss activities contained herein, contact me at
blackdire@hotmail.com.

All stories copyright 2009 by BlackDire.
