Date: Wed, 19 Dec 2001 09:55:04 -0800
From: Barry Eysman <
[email protected]>
Subject: You Should See How It Feels In Here
"You Should See How It Feels In Here"
by
Barry Eysman
"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 clich� 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
