Date: Wed, 19 Dec 2001 09:55:04 -0800 From: Tim Stillman Subject: You Should See How It Feels In Here "You Should See How It Feels In Here" by Timothy Stillman "Why can't my boyfriend be like you, Laddie? I mean, I can cuddle with you and I can talk our dreams, but Robert, just sex for him, like I'm a Barbie doll grown alive and all he can do is rub his dick on my tits and shoot like he's a little boy and he's gotta impress me with his jism. It's not what I'm interested in, Laddie. It's just not. I want to feel something. I don't want to feel just nothing at all. I don't want to be a sex machine. I wish you were a boy." "Why can't my girlfriend be like you, Laddie? She's just giggly and she chews gum even when we're fucking sometimes, you know? I mean it's embarrassing. It's just so--I want to tell her stuff, I want to tell her how I feel. So okay maybe I'm not the most articulate guy in the world, but when I try, she just rolls her eyes and smirks and she just wants to suck me off. I want to feel something. I don't want to feel just nothing at all. I don't want to be a sex machine. I wish you were a girl." I'm in the middle of this mess and I don't understand it. It's the double whammy and I'm not one thing or another. I'm androgynous and that is a cool thing to be. People think. But it's not at all, it's not fun to reach down to my area and there is my penis and I don't want that penis and yet it defines me but I want to feel a penis, someone else's and I want to make it hard and make it mine because I know it will never be mine. I want it gone from my body. I want to be a girl. Yet, I don't. I guess a video game fucked me up somewhere along the line. Or some movie or TV show. That's the out these days. Comparing notes on what to blame "anti-social behavior" on. Really. My friends take notes on these things and use what fits. Adults are so imbecilic they fall for this crap every single time. I'm pretty. And the girls like me. I'm pretty. And the boys use me like a girl. They always go on, those boys, about how they like depth and content and feeling. But they don't. They go through me quickly, so they don't have to take a chance on feeling my dick. The girls like to be with me and like to feel my dick and they trace my bony long high cheekbone face and my long blonde hair and they pretend I'm a girl who has somehow broken through the magic window and transformed into a boy with the best parts of the girlhood physical and mental and emotional still extant, and they just want to fuck me too. Obviously I'm writing this at a bit of a distance of a few years, because these thoughts, though I felt them, though I tumbled with them in utter confusion, in those years I didn't have the words for them. The thing though is I am nothing and nothing can be talked to and sucked off and kissed and both sexes think I'm a freak, a golden haired, brown eyed, sun kissed skin freak, but that nonetheless. I think when I get older, I'm going to have the operation, but the whole thing freaks (speaking of freaks) me out big time. I've been going to these dumb butt psychologists since I was eight and my mother found me fucking my Ken doll in the attic where my room is--I mean I was just naked as a jaybird, whatever a jaybird is, and I was on my bed and I was pumping my dick into Ken's little mouth and he just lay there like a block of wood--like the boys and girls after they've finished with me, this double standard thing, this cliché boy girl thing has got to go, they're both in it for the sex, the one two three, period, and who is kidding who? except they are kidding themselves--and mom walks up the stairs, like an Indian softly and carefully and quietly through the forest, and there she sees me of the creamy girlish butt and the swaying back and the tea shot of my balls flopping against what she can't see on the bed, cute balls I might add, if only I could be a girl and still be a boy because I like my body, god--anyway, she has a conniption and she hits me. She had never hit me before or since. But she was scared. And crying. And called me a fag. And cried "Oh where did I go wrong? Oh where?" It was so fuckin' funny. We cried together for hours. I'm not a "fag." I like boys better. But girls are okay too. I don't want anyone to love me. I don't want to be anyone. I've seen the thing from both sides now, Judy Collins, and I've decided now that I shall just suck the boys and convince them that they do not have that many zits on their faces and they are hung like Van Damme, though who knows how well he is hung?, and I'll just cozy up to them and they might suck me sometimes. While I'm pretending they are eating my vagina (and so are they) and when it's over and we are mopping up the party leftovers, I'll say just to shock them--and I do the same thing with the girls, after I've eaten them and they've sucked me--I say some day soon I'm gonna get this talleywhacker cut off and get me a cunt instead. And the boys and girls are horrified. Their faces flinch like they feel the pain themselves. "Don't do it, Laddie. Don't spoil perfection. Don't let this happen. It's a lovely penis and it's so hot on a girl's body. Don't grow tits either. It would spoil the symmetry of you. So nice and flat and tender and kissable. Laddie with tits? God, that would be so horrible. Don't be anything other than yourself, Laddie." Hate that damn name too. It's my legal name. My parents wanted a boy. Wanted a boy at any cost to me. Maybe I'm a hybrid. Maybe I'm the 22nd or the 29th century human come ahead of time. Maybe human relations have gotten so fucked up that nature or god or whatever has decided just to incorporate both sexes into one so no one can hurt anyone else and everyone will always go home with their partners and no one will pry them apart or say goodbye it's for your own good, when that is such utter bullshit. I'm not an exhibitionist, I really don't think I am. But I do like to jack off in the mirror in my attic when I'm lying on my bed. I see an unformed girl up top and I see a fairly decent though small penis at bottom, and it does not have to be patchwork, it all seems to come together. Sometimes I masturbate as a boy. Sometimes I masturbate as a girl. I am interchangeable. Most boys I've discovered would not mind being a girl now and then. And most girls would not mind being a boy now and then. Oh everyone talks silly about transsexualism. There are jokes about it on TV and from stand up comics. And there are more than a few boys--and girls--at school who give me such a not nice time of it. Because I'm feminine. Because I could not talk if I could not gesture with my hands. Because sometimes I'm so giddy with happiness I do a little jig in the hall way or library or cafeteria and don't even know I'm doing it until I hear the laughter and discover I've had my eyes closed and have sort of been in my own little world. Sometimes I get wasted and then things seem more confusing but I'm flying high and I don't care about how confusing it all gets. Sometimes my friends and I go down to the old cemetery on a summer evening and we all get naked and have sex and I'm the center of attention. I can take it up the ass, in the mouth, and there's one boy who likes to fuck me in my belly button--I say whatever floats your proboscis. "You're a dream, Laddie, you're a dream boy (or girl, depending on which gender is saying it) and you're like ice cream in the summer sun, you're warm and sweet and I just love you so much, you don't mind me saying that, do you? Do you think my dick (my breasts) is (are) pretty? Does it excite you when I rub my hands through your hair and feel the downy soft hair on your legs? You have pretty legs, Laddie. I love to stroke them and to hold them and to put them round my shoulders. Don't you love that too, Laddie?" And if a boy, "Don't go getting wrong ideas, Laddie." I say I won't as he sucks me to completion. Dreams don't have to be anything but what the dreamer wants them to be. So I don't say anything, I just stroke the boys and girls longingly and their eyes melt into tears sometimes, especially when we're stoned out of our minds. And everybody forgets and I remember some old children's story about the Little Patchwork Girl and I remember some Greek mythology thing about the two sexes having once been one, then split apart for some reason, and for the rest of time, they are trying to get back into each other, trying to become one again, and sex is the most imperfect solution at which they shall always fail, at which they shall always part and be themselves. I'm 14. I'm 14 and I am at heart a total and complete virgin. I am unloved. I want to love a girl who is me. I want the jokes to stop. I want everybody to stop telling me I should be someone else, but somehow still be me at the same time. I want to do the operation. I want the psychologists to stop saying the idiot things they say and hurting me and hurting me more and making me cry cause when they make me cry they say good we are making progress now. Everyone of them is a Christer. Everyone of them is trying to get me to "snap out of it." To "not think about it." Which would be dandy if I was a doorknob like they are, but I'm not. I've decided to keep my brain and to use it to the best of my ability regardless. Something of which they most hardily disapprove. I read an old novel once called "I Want What I Want." It was the saddest thing. So brave and so lonely, the story of a boy who wanted to be a girl, and when the requisite downer of an ending came, I cried so hard. That writer captured what it is to be a bird in the wrong cage, only for me I'm not completely in the wrong cage. There is enough of me that wants to be a boy. There is a bit more of me that wants to be a girl. I want to be both. I want to be neither. I don't like my erection. I don't like the feeling. It makes me feel alien to myself. What is myself? And at the same time I do think it's a pretty penis. I do think it's got a nice look to it, I like it small and don't want it to get bigger, though it will look silly when I'm bigger and it's not, I don't care, and it's like a gentle wind blows on me when I'm hard either by myself or with someone else and it does feel good. And sometimes I do like it. I do like the feeling of a hard on at the same time I don't. Maybe I've got too much time on my hands. Maybe I think too much. Feel too much. Boys tell me about their girlfriends. Girls tell me about their boyfriends. They don't like them, they like them, they feel trapped, they trap, they know they can tell me anything, tell me all about how sex is with them, about what size cocks or what kind of vaginas turn them on the most, and the tell and tell and tell, like it doesn't hurt me that I'm always on the sidelines, that I'm just an illusion like something they saw in a star one night when they couldn't sleep, and they looked out their bedroom window at the sky for a time, and they always say these things to me, how I'll be this and that, what I'll try next time, and they always go on and on about their loves and their sex in such graphic detail, like I'm the star they wish on for someone else; and goddam don't they ever figure it out?, are they so thick headed?, so wrapped up in themselves not to know HOW MUCH THAT HURTS ME GODDAMMIT??? But if I told them, they'd smile and get off on that too. They'd think it was cute. They'd treat me even more like one of their toy dogs and they'd kiss the tip of my little nose and nuzzle into me and they'd kiss me hard and it wouldn't be me they were kissing me at all, but themselves and each other and I'm just a vapor trail and to hell with them and me and everything. There are some gay guys at school. And some gay girls. They won't give me the time of day. Won't talk to me. Ignore me. Won't have a thing to do at me. When sometimes one of them accidentally looks at me when my eyes are looking in my direction, it's like they want to crucify me they look so mean. Don't let anyone kid you. Gay people are not automatically wonderful. There are codes and gentrifications there too like everywhere else. I guess mostly they see me as a sell out. Some kind of traitor. They get to be what they want to be. What about me? Where is the fairness of that? Am I forever going to be on a see saw? Am I forever going to be someone who gets hit on because boys and girls like to pretend they are doing some gay thing without being gay themselves in the process? Who are people? Sometimes when I'm wasted and we're all out in the summer night in the cemetery, I get mixed up. I see boys faces on girls bodies. And I see girls with penises. And this excites me tremendously, because I know it's unreal. It's beautiful. Not like those she/males you see in magazines or gross or anything. Because I know these boys and girls around me have not crossed through the looking glass, but I can pretend they have become the dreams. That they have become unreal. That they will be both sexes and another one to boot and I can tell them about my sexual experiences, just describe it to the nth degree, make them feel lonely as hell and back again, and they have to be caught forever in dream limbo and this time they have to take it, and this time, they can't ever fight back. Because of what they are. And what they are is a dream at a far distance. Sometimes I'll make love to both a boy and a girl at the same time there in the sweaty grass in the hot July air. They make love to each other through me. I think I am a pink cloud in a coming to an end summer sky day and soon there will be only the memory of light and there will be a certain weakening of the sky as it might be tomorrow or the day after and they will remember clouds and they will regret that they were specifically boy or specifically girl, they will regret their clumsy maneuvers, their silly sex dances, they will regret that for all the boys (girls) they had, they had nothing real at all. That I, the dream, was the only real thing in their lives. They had only their hormones and they will lead lonely days and years, though of course this is just my wishful thinking. They'll probably go through life having an absolute blast. My brain gets all jangly sometimes when I'm dusted especially. Like computer circuit board all mixed up and sending off crazed electric signals. I get the feeling that I am a keyhole and people are peering through it into me and through me, seeing--what? I love it when boys (other boys) fuck me. I love it when boys (other boys) come inside me into the white hot heat of me and how they struggle their dicks into me as though they are trying to get lost in a small deep dark safe cavern where they can hide forever. I love how they jerk back and forth in me and how they kiss my shoulders so creamy dreamy, and their balls hit at the bottom of my little girlish poke out butt. I love how they reach their hands around to my penis and rub it and I pretend it's their hands on my pussy instead. So do they. We are together. We are light years apart. We sadden each other immeasurably. Sometimes at home, at night, on my bed in the attic, I like to lie naked with my mirror beside me propped up against the old rocker. I like to lie on my side, with my leg pulled up to hide my penis and balls. I have this old stuffed rabbit with one eye missing and whose fur has been almost rubbed away over the years because I love it so much and it has been my one constant companion. I lie with the rabbit on my rib cage, just a bit above it. I close my eyes a bit and look at myself, my willow body, my wind rippled stream of a body, soft and succulent, my right nipple rosy and pale showing, and my hair to my shoulders, my eyes travel the whole of me as I open them just a bit wider, my boyish girlish body, the right hip boxy like a boy's, the stomach and the legs inviting and probing and seductive like a girl's, and sometimes I move my leg and my penis, not very large, but still a nice hard on, and I pretend that I am myself when younger meeting myself when older, both the same sex, either one, both different sexes, either one, what a large playing field of fancy I have--and it is good to just cuddle with what I was when it was nice to be what I was. Before I knew that my heart would be my cage. And I stroke myself in the mirror, and I don't feel freakish seeing my girly body with my little boy dick standing straight up. I don't seem like patchwork then. The other kids seem in my dreams then, as when I'm high, like they are patchworks, clumsily sewn together, laughable. While I seem of a piece. And it gives me peace. I lie like a young girl on my bed at night. I lie like a young boy. About to be initiated into love and kisses and examinations in a Sultan's billowy warm tent in the middle of the desert with the midnight moon strong and beautiful and white and perfect as a round wafer up in the sky and the sand blowing calmly in a soft blue desert breeze, shifting quietly, subtly. I lie like a much younger child who is so giddy in his/her body and wants to share it, who wants someone to examine every naked inch of it, and I am someone not quite me, who wants to turn on his stomach and have his/her delicate pearly little ass stroked and opened, so my lover can see my rosy ass hole and lean down and kiss and tongue it to the heart of me. I want someone to feel the legs and the secret places and to hold and to kiss the center of my chest, to feel the firm kiddy electricity going off inside me. But who do I want to do it? Girl? Boy? Who do I want to be? Boy? Girl? I don't think about it when I masturbate. I think of the good feelings. Just me and my hand and my mirror and my dreams. People just louse things up. They just make you feel rotten about yourself. They always always have the upper hand. They make you think everything's your fault. They are just latent psychologists. But I don't think about those things as I rub my balls, tiny little chestnuts I can hardly see in the mirror which is cloudy and makes me more difficult to see, more wistful, more of a dream than I really am. Dreams are real. They do exist. Literally. Dreams hurt, themselves. Don't let anyone kid you that they don't. It takes a great deal of courage to be one. I lie on my back and I watch my tiny erection poke straight up. I watch my legs as I stroke my chest. My heart beats companionably. I try to be the dream others see me/don't see me as. A dream for me myself alone. That has no fingerprints on it, not even mine. And I turn over again, and stroke my girly beautifully curved tender feeling butt and I see my back arch like a young girl's and I sigh and gasp just right, just softly enough, I raise my right leg, then my left, I laugh sexily, I feel everything that is me/not me, and for a little while I feel so enormously good about it, and I like the lips of my soft malleable feminine face and I feel so happy and I cum and I cum like a girl and like a boy and it's a sweet warmth then that drifts me off to sleep. And my girlish/boyish hands reach down to me and I like what I find, I am tired of what I find. If I do have the operation, will I tire of being a girl just as quickly? Do I want to be a girl so I can have boys? Do I want to be a girl so I can have girls? Do I just want tits and a slit? Am I just simply plain nuts? I honestly don't know. The whole thing's crazy. I read books about characters who don't want to be themselves. Who wish they were someone else. Well I am several someone else's, and believe you me, it's not a lot of fun. I'd love to play football. I'd love to play with dolls. I just wish to god I could do one or the other and be content in that category and forget all the others. Be a one liner like the psychologists want me to be. Anal retentive bastards who honestly believe the brain is like a three layer cake--id, ego, super ego. I'm like to be as prosaic and as dim and as dumb as they are, and as are so many boys and girls around me and not think about it twice. I'm not out at school. I know. I know. But it's a conceit. But I pretend that no one knows. I mean when they are on top of me. When the star football player says to me before he tells me to mouth fuck him, "pretend you're Tommy, the sissy boy, the queer boy, I want to pretend you're a boy, I want to know what it's like." The jerk off has forgotten I AM a boy. He has gotten so lost in me and not-me that he really thinks he is not committing a GAY SEXUAL ACT. Christ. And sometimes the girls do the same thing. They never catch on. They never catch themselves at it. It's not a game with me. I don't swallow their jism. I don't tongue their clits unless I damn well want to. I've discovered that I have my boundaries. That I have my rules and my laws and by laws. And I've discovered over the last few years that I can set them down and the boys and girls don't mind because they think that is another cute thing from their cute little pi in the sky on whom they multiply all the boys and/or girls they are using me as a sub for in the first place. Maybe some day I will "snap out of it." Maybe some day I will become someone which would be no one because I've learned one thing in my life for sure and it is this: no one has an identity, no one has a certain thing that is themselves, it is made up, they make me up every bit as much as they fake it themselves. We're all unformed Jell-O. I truly believe this. We want to be with each other because we're scared kids and some day someone is going to find out we've been bluffing all along. But no one will. Because they're scared someone will find out they've been bluffing too. It's our secret shame. It's our secret ace in the hole. Because if we don't know just who in the hell we are, we can be other than we are, we still have a chance, we can change, we can be like someone else, and if we can, whether we want to be or not, then there is that link, no matter how tenuous, with everyone else. It's a hope at least. Maybe I'm just blowing smoke. But when a boy is blowing me and I know he's not thinking of me at all, and I know he's pretending he's eating a girl's cunt, cause he just "don't do boys, man, after all" maybe I can sneak past him, sneak past me, and become that girl and when he heads away from me, maybe he is heading right toward me at the same time. Surprise! And then he makes the move on the girl me, I'm back to the boy me. Surprise again! It'd be nice to drive someone else nuts for a change. I want to be a girl. I like being a boy. I don't like being a boy. I'm on the cusp of things. A millennium no one wishes to face. I am a doorway into--what:? A new dimension? A new chance for everybody? I am what you see and do not see. I am neither. I am the flame burning that you see out of the far corner of your eye, bright and blazing and blinding and magnetizing, but when you turn to me, when you turn in my direction, to see me full on because you must, because you are intrigued, I am gone, Laddie is gone, and is only captured by you for the rest of your life, an ache in the middle of your heart. A midnight cry of longing that will haunt you till the day you die. Remember me, Laddie. You/I can't but help it. the end