Troublesome
A short Story
By Maryanne Peters

You may know the story. If you are reading this, you may have heard it more than once. I was a troublesome son. My mother took drastic action to curb my bad behavior. I resisted. I struck out and I hurt her. It was not what I wanted to do. I was out of control. I see that now. But she was desperate. That is why she called in her friend; to put an end to my bad behavior.

He wore a surgical coverall and a mask – I guess to hide his identity. It could not have been legal, what he did. He gave me a local anaesthetic. It turned my arms and legs to jelly so I could not struggle, and it numbed my groin. My mother wanted me to see it being done. She wanted me to know: “This is the consequence of your behavior.” She wanted me to see those two grey white pellets cast aside into a stainless-steel bowl, and watch the empty sack be sewn up.

I should have fainted. I wish I had. I would do that now, but then I was fighting because it was my nature. I was fighting to stay conscious as if that allowed me to stop what was happening, but it didn’t. And after it was done, the fight just drained out of me. I was fighting to stay male, but that was gone too.

That is the way it is for young colts, as my mother told me. Young male horses who exhibit aggressive behavior are gelded. I was now no longer a colt, but a gelding. Geldings can’t be sires, but I had a brother. And as she said: “Bad begets bad. Best that line stops here. Fortunately your brother is a good boy and will make a fine man. I hope that you will be good to.”

She believed in what she was doing. That is the only way that I can reason what she did. She thought that I was doomed if I continue to answer everything with aggression. We will never know if she was right or not. Once it is done, it is done.

What followed did not happen suddenly. I watched my maleness ebb away over several weeks. Not just because of the absence of the male hormones from those balls she took away, but also with the assistance of huge doses of female hormones that followed. It seemed to me like a substance that I could feel in my blood. I could feel those feminizing chemicals melting my muscles, turning them to fat, making me soft and weak; killing off my essence. These estrogens were slowly murdering Brad – the boy I had once been.

My breasts grew. There is something about having big soft breasts that is so unmanly. When you move in bed you are conscious of them. When you get up in the morning and wash your face, you look down and there they are, dangling off your chest. When you put on your bra and nestle them into the cups, they are the mark of womanhood. And if you don’t wear a bra they bounce around and you can’t do anything.

I reached the point where any resistance left in me was gone. You do not take away a man’s balls and fill him to the eyeballs with girly juices and expect him to fight to the death. Girls give up. And I had become a girl.

It was that or go through life as something in between the sexes. Stronger people might be able to do that. I can admire them for it. To say that: “I am a eunuch with breasts, so get over it” requires more strength than I have. At least as some kind of girl I could be invisible.

But it seemed that my mother was not finished with me.

“Look at yourself in the mirror, Brianna,” my mother would say. “You are beautiful. Honestly, I would not have expected for you to turn out looking as good as you do.”

Much as I might want to disbelieve her, she was not lying. I had one of those faces that I thought looked masculine, but now looked very feminine in its own way. I inherited a square jaw from my father, but under a soft face it now looked just pretty, and with my big eyes and good cheekbones, people would call me “striking” – certainly the objective of attention and often praise.

My body too had developed into a desirable shape. Somebody told me that transwomen fashion models are successful because they have square shoulders, slim hips and long legs, so clothes hang on them better. Add to this that the estrogen did what it should and had me follow my mother with good size breasts and a rounded butt. A model figure with shape.

You just need to get the walk right, and the gestures. And of course when you sit down and you have no nuts to get in the way, you can cross your legs at the thigh and show everybody just how good your long legs look.

So, what do you do in an appearance like mine? Do you shroud it in loose shapeless clothes? Do you deny it? Or do you accept it? Do you work it?

Well, my mother introduced me to makeup. She told me that when I was ready to do my own face and hair, and dress as a girl should, she would let me walk out of the house on my own. I wanted to walk in the open air, but I wanted to be good-looking. Man or woman, we want that, do we not.

At the start I was confined by my own shame more than anything, but I was slowly learning that what I had and the way I looked were nothing that needed to be hidden. Quite the opposite. The world needs more beauty. I began to admire my new appearance so much that it became my duty to step into the world.

So, I dressed as a girl and I went out. Short expeditions at first. But I quickly found my feet. Next I had to find my style.

It took some experimenting, but I had magazines and videos, and all the cosmetics and the curling wand and everything I needed. What I did not have I could buy. I insisted that my mother provide me with some money. The new me was her doing, after all.

The mall became my territory. I would strut and browse endlessly, and sometimes stop for a coffee or a cold drink somewhere I could be seen, legs shaved and crossed, and on full display.

I worked on my appearance until I knew that I had it right, and then I changed it, just because I could. My looks may not have been to my mother’s taste, but it worked.

By that I mean that it worked on boys. It was something I never understood when I was one – perhaps I was too young – boys are too easily controlled by a pretty girl. And I was pretty. And a little controlling too – manipulative my mother called it. Frankly I like the word.

I like the word “gay” too. I never used to. I thought it meant unmanly, which I guess it does. But now I am a girl, I do not care so much. So long as his dick is hard for me, he can be gay or straight, whichever he likes. For me the word gay has its original meaning – full of joy, and full of him too, perhaps.

The truth is that I cannot get enough. I guess that means that whoever said that the brain is a bigger sexual organ that the testicles was right – for me anyway.

I was a troublesome son. I admit it. Now I am just trouble.

The End

© Maryanne Peters 2021