Last night I realized, you can’t out run shame. I was putting my girlfriend into a cab and that’s when I saw it. Lying there by the curb. Turning to kiss Gwen goodnight I tried to ignore it. But as her cab drove away my mind traveled in the opposite direction, back to when I was a boy.
I was the most anxious prepubescent on the face of the earth. The state of my sexuality was all consuming for me. I’d seen Gary Kligmann in the locker room during gym. At 13 he had the penis of a 33 year old – with a full bush and dangling shlong to match. As soon as my eyes detected it, I was traumatized. Me, I was a late bloomer, with the pea sized balls of a rabbit. As a result anything could make me feel inadequate.
Take for example, Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom. On one particular Sunday night I remember sitting with my mom and dad on the sofa watching nature’s drama unfold. Cameramen and biologists were exploring seal colonies off the coast of California. Horrific battles between half-ton males were taking place on the beaches. Fueled by testosterone and driven by the desire to mate, these bulls as the narrator referred to them, bloodied themselves for the chance to mount a prized female. There was not a coward among them. Except for the small group of young male outcasts that lacked the brawn to vie for a female and continue their bloodlines. Their failure struck deep into my heart. It was obvious to me that my future held the same fate. I was to live out my life as a useless male, weak and cowardly, doomed to spend my days on “Bachelor Rock” with the rest of the effeminate seals.
Things only got worse when I convinced myself that I was growing a cunt. Back then I’d spend countless hours locked in the bathroom soaking in the tub waiting to go through puberty. Beneath the suds and water my hands, with great anticipation, would explore the impending arrival of my genitalia. “When, when, when would I start to become a man?” It was within the moment of one of these deep dream states that my fingers slipped just due south of my scrotum to the area commonly referred to as the taint. T’ain’t your ass, t’ain’t your balls. And while I know this now - back then the mystery was far from being solved. It was there that I discovered a small patch of hair. And through closer inspection a slight ridge of skin, that ran from my asshole to my balls. Now I didn’t know much about female anatomy at this point but I was pretty sure this was where their business took place. Devastated I sprang from the water. Hair first, lips next. It was only a matter of time before it all developed into a full-blown vagina and I would begin to live my life as a freak
Soon enough everyone I knew had been asked by Mother Nature to join the young adults club. They got the inside joke about why elephants come in quarts, they became bored with Judy Bloom books, and they were jaded to the clinical diagrams of bisected genitalia in our science books. Alas I remained 13, boyish, and alone to draw my own conclusions about whether or not I was ever going to grow up to be a man. Or a woman. Then as a finally mockery even the year transformed.
5, 4, 3, 2, 1 – Happy New Year!!!! 1978 became 1979. My parents were out celebrating. I’d been left at home, free to order the pizza of my choice, to stay up late for the first time ever without a sitter, and to watch Dick Clark’s Rock’in New Years Eve. Back in those days I’d entertain myself by snooping through my parent’s belongings. I’d go through their closets, shoeboxes, and desk drawers. I’d found a bag of pot in my dad’s nightstand. In my mother’s vanity I discovered a small, velvet, drawstring pouch that contained an extra set of false teeth she used to replace of the real ones she’d lost thanks to a field hockey accident in college.
It was while I was rummaging through her stuff and spraying her perfume into the air that I became curiously aroused. Staring down into her panty drawer I lifted a pair of stockings from the dresser. Without thinking I pulled off my pajamas and pulled on the stockings. I looked like a dancer from the New York City Ballet. Impressed by my package I began to finally believe in my own manhood. My erection seemed to agree and stretched out beneath the navy blue nylons. I turned around and stuck my ass out towards her vanity mirror. “Take that bitch.” I’d said aloud. What if I added pearls? I pulled a strand from her jewelry box and wrapped them around my neck. “Would you fuck me?” I thought to myself. “Who’s the woman now?” My penis grew rock hard and ached. I uncapped one of my mother’s lipsticks, smeared a gruesome shade of red across my lips and continued to talk into the mirror. “You know you want to do her.” I told my quasi-female reflection. “I need shoes.” I was being driven by some strange hormonal imbalance. The thoughts that racing through my mind seemed to come from nowhere. My heart was beating in my ears. I opened her closet door and spied a pair of metallic gold pumps and slipped them on. I began to strut around the house. Passing by the mirror in the front hallway I caught a glimpse of my dick pitching a tent beneath the nylons. That was all it took to drive me, at super sonic speed, headlong into my first orgasm. Within minutes of my hand touching my dick, it exploded. I shook. Jisum filled the inside of my mother’s stockings. My chest heaved up and down. Sweat beaded across my brow. My skin was flushed. Then the front door opened and my parents walked in happy to be back from their party.
I’m sure they looked at me and I looked at them. But to this day all I can remember is pushing past them and running out into the street. I lost one gold shoe as I hit the sidewalk and turned to run up the driveway and hide behind the garage. And that is how I - Andre Stephen Miller, became a man.
By guest contributing writer, Nathan Walker.
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