Carlie has sissy predispositions, but overcomes difficulties with love, courage and increasing self-awareness. In this chapter, he learns to stop fooling himself and finds a direction in life.

Carlie

IV. My New Self

I was a sissy. I liked my cute perm, smooth legs, round tush and pointy chest. Once I admitted it to myself and saw that the people I loved and who loved me didn't think less of me, I wanted to see what a dress, pierced ears and make up would feel like. Just then, reality intruded. First, Shane said that Kelly would be home from college that weekend. I wasn't ready to expose my femininity to some one I did not know. Second, Mrs Sanchez scheduled a visit, and I didn't want her to think that the two crazy lesbians, who I loved, had corrupted me.

In the event, things went smoothly. First, Kelly came home from college Saturday afternoon. She was almost 21 and had just finished her junior year. She was my opposite in many ways. She was 5' 11”, 155 — a solidly built tennis player on an athletic scholarship. I was 5' 6-1/2”, 128 and couldn’t make a muscle if I tried. A pony tail held her brunette hair close to her head. Mine was an auburn halo of pin curls. Her legs rippled with muscles. Mine were smooth and soft. Kelly was outgoing and decisive. I was shy and infantile. She had a 3.86 average in computer engineering. I’d finished high school with a barely respectable 3.04. My As were in English, French, social studies and home ec. I had Cs and a few hard won Bs in math and science.

I expected her to look down on me, just as the jocks in high school had. But, she was Shane's daughter — warm, concerned and sympathetic. She genuinely seemed to like me. She wasn't a model or centerfold, but I was in love as soon as I saw her. My fantasies that night proved one thing forever — I might be a sissy, but I definitely wasn't gay.

The next day I texted Judy about Kelly all day long. She promised to come by and meet her for herself. I should say that Judy had a boy friend, David, she often texted me about — so fair is fair. Of course, I had no idea what to do about my new love.

Mrs. Sanchez came the following Wednesday. She looked much less harried — maybe because it was a normal weekday call, not an emergency, and she'd allotted time for me. I decided to be no more sissy than when she’d first met me, so I wore my white tennies, jeans and a polo shirt. Of course, my girls' jeans showed a panty line, my hair was permed and a raspberry cami could be glimpsed under my top.

She was pleased that I was up beat and in good health. She asked if I was happy living with Shane and Kate, how my grieving was going, whether I was still planning to go to State, if I was going to file for emancipation and if I’d be transitioning any time soon. I expected all the questions except the last. “Transitioning?” “Yes, you know, becoming fully a woman. You know the county won't pay for hormones. You're lucky we covered the birth control pills you got the doctor to prescribe.”

“I got her to prescribe?”

“Don’t be coy with me, Carlie. I’ve tried to be supportive, but I will not tolerate deception.”

“But, I didn’t ask for them.”

“Why else would she give you birth control pills? They're not to stop you from getting pregnant, now, are they?”

“I thought they were for my acne.”

She looked me over and raised an incredulous eyebrow. “Be that as it may … the county does not pay for HRT for boys or for sexual reassignment surgery. Still, if you want to see a counselor to begin your one year trial — you know, living as a woman full time — that would be covered.”

I decided not to press the issue, even though I hadn’t asked for BC pills. “I'm not sure what I want to do, but there's a lot I've been thinking about, so I'll take you up on counseling.”

“Good, here is a number to call.” She handed me a card. “And don't forget you have a good resource here in Kate.” She said her good byes and left.

That night, as Kate bushed my hair, I asked her what Mrs. Sanchez meant about being a good resource. She said, “I used to be a boy like you, but from what I can tell, you want to stay a feminine boy and I couldn't wait to become a woman.” That came as a shock. She went on to explain that I was placed with them because Mrs. Sanchez saw that I was feminine and probably transgendered. After all, during my interview I went by Carlie, wore women's clothes, worked as a nanny and held a doll.

I didn't think less of Kate, nor was I mad because she waited so long to tell me everything. In fact, I felt privileged to share her secret. As for everyone thinking I was TG, right after my dad's death wasn’t the best time for me to take that on. For the first time I kissed Kate like a mother and went off to bed. I had a lot to think about.

I have to admit that I was never really convinced that my BC pills were for acne. Part of me kept saying I should check with the doctor, but another part of me liked being one of the girls in the system. Now, I had to decide what to do about my breasts. When summer came, I’d reverted to sleeping in my underwear, as I did when I lived with my dad. Looking down, I saw my nipples rising on a very small swell, stretching my cami. If I didn’t want feminine breasts, I needed to stop taking my BC pills soon.

I’d already stopped taking the tetracycline because I looked up thrush, and it seemed pretty nasty. My BC pills and a facial cleanser Kate gave me kept my complexion clear without antibiotics. I didn’t want to go back to being a pimply teen. Still I could not deny what was happening to my chest.

I ran my finger tip over and around my nipples and was rewarded by a warm, almost erotic feeling. I imagined them resting on small pubescent mounds — then on the full breasts of a nursing mother. None of the images repulsed me — or even seemed foreign to who I was — except for one glaring clash. Below my camisole, I saw my night diaper.

I knew I was fooling myself, rationalizing I wore diapers to save the bed. I hadn’t wet since the night of my medical exam. I wore them because I wanted to be a baby — small, helpless, and cared for. But, here were my pointy nipples — pointing in a different direction — pointing toward motherhood — pointing in a direction I wanted to go — toward a goal I knew was absolutely impossible — even if I became a woman by the grace of modern medicine. Still, the direction they pointed was my direction. I’d known it from the time mommy gave me Nancy. It became clearer every day I took care of Liz. Now my body was physically pointing me.

I reached down and untaped my diaper and threw it in the trash. In its place I drew floral print panties up my legs. I didn’t want to get rid of my penis, but it didn’t fit my new image, so I tucked it away to have a smooth front. I smiled at the girl in the mirror, the girl who, God willing, would one day be a mom.

My dad hadn’t been religious, but my mom had. Maybe he was before she died, but lost his faith then. We used to go to Mass every Sunday and I had my first communion just before she died, so we must have been Catholic. She told me that God always answers sincere prayers, but not necessarily the way we expect. She also said that our prayers weren’t sincere unless we did everything we could to get what we’re praying for. So, I made two resolutions. First, I’d start praying again as mom had taught me and second, I’d do whatever I could to prepare for motherhood. I knelt down and prayed that I could have a child of my own to mother.