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That one simple thing you can do as often as you choose; or not, it is always your choice. After over two decades of learning and teaching Life Skills while moving through a process of When I was 12 or 13, I convinced a very stubborn and old-school mother that girl jeans fit better than boys did.

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Michelle began to take some nursing courses that required her to do some time in the local hospital. Naturally she had to buy some uniforms.

I loved them. Always a sucker for a gal in uniform. Seriously, I considered changing majors just to be able to wear a nurse's outfit like Michelle's.

Michelle also found a waitress's job a few miles out of town, serving cocktails. She had to wear a very tight-waisted outfit that was "cut down to there, and cut up to here".

I decided that I could endure an occassional pinch for that kind of dough, so with her introduction I applied for a job. I didn't make anywhere near the money that Michelle did in that job beauty counts for something but it did help out for spending cash.

The outfit was a problem, though. Not so much the "cut up to here," but the "cut down to there" was a toughie. Michelle pitched in by visiting a second gynecologist her gyno already had her on the pill and obtained a second prescription for birth control pills.

After taking them for about a month, my nipples became sore and my breasts began to enlarge. After about six months, I had enough breast development to fill an A-cup bra.

I wasn't going to challenge Dolly but it was going to be hard to look like a boy again. At least topless.

The "cut down to there" problem remained, but at least it wasn't flagrant. Going home to mother was my biggest worry.

Oh well, I'd cross that bridge later. The pinches, as I expected, were there even if the tips weren't quite up to Michelle's.

One worry that Michelle didn't have, though, were my testicles and penis. Some drunken cowboy getting a grip on those and the jig was up.

I devised a more advanced version of the gaf that I had worn since I was 6. Previously, I had merely taken an elastic brief, such as a panty girdle, pulled my penis back between my legs, stuffed my testicles up into my abdomen, and caught the whole mess with the girdle.

Occassionally, the penis would slip to the side, but more often it would simply creep forward, coming to rest as a lump of unwanted flesh at the tip of my pubis bone.

My new gaf improved upon this by providing a pocket into which the penis was inserted, thus preventing it from slipping sideways.

It also allowed for the head of the penis to be secured and pulled backwards with the gaf. The final improvement involved finding a corset-type garment to attach the gaf to.

This was the hardest part. Corsets went out of favor many decades ago and therefore one cannot expect Sears or Penneys to carry them in their catalog.

The Yellow Pages weren't much help either. For the short term, I bought what was termed a "waist nipper". I sewed the gaf to the front of the nipper and put eyelets into the back, so that I could draw the laces, that I had sewn to the gaf, tightly towards the rear.

Utimately, I found a manufacturer of a Victorian style corset and had one made to my measurements. The gaf I had designed for the nipper worked well with the corset and my worries about being "felt-up" all but vanished.

The corset provided one additional benefit. Without the corset, my waist-line was nothing special. With the corset, I was able to bring my waist from it's natural 28" to a corsetted 24".

After a few months, I was able offer a corsetted waist of 22" and an uncorsetted waist of 24 inchs.

My gender ambiquity was become more difficult to maintain. The waitress job forced me to take a definite posture towards my feminine side, most of which was difficult, if not impossible, to reverse the next morning.

Obviously I was going to have to make some difficult decisions soon. I knew that I did not want to go through life appearing as a man, though I felt comfortable "being" a man.

I knew mother would be hurt and probably wouldn't understand. Aunt C probably would understand but I didn't know she could help. My professors would have to be told since the classes at the junior and senior level were definitely small enough for them to associate names and faces.

I asked for, and was granted, an appointment with the Head of the Psychology Department. I felt that I needed some help making these decisions and thought he might be in position to recommend someone knowledgable about my problem.

On the appropriate day I was greeted by Professor Ferguson himself. He gave me a warm handshake with his big dry paws. Directing me to the chair upholstered in well worn leather, he took up a position behind his desk.

Leaning on his elbows over his enormous desk, he inquired how help be of service. My hopes rose. I told him, as briefly as could, my career at the university.

I then told him of my extracurricular life. He didn't bat a lash. I told him that I felt I had reached a crucial decison point in my life and hoped that he could recommend someone who could help me with these decisions.

He smiled warmly and sat back in his chair. On this campus alone, that means that there are some students facing the same questions that you face.

Most will never resolve their conflicts. There is, however, a colleague of mine who is also knowledgable about this problem. Let me give you her name and extension.

No, better yet let's see if she has time to come here now. Professor Ferguson picked up the phone and dialed a few numbers.

He chatted amiably for a few seconds, inquired if the callee was free for a few minutes and then replaced the receiver. We chatted for a couple of minutes about campus life, weather and so forth, until there was a tap on the door and Professor Young walked into the office.

I recognized him instantly from his press clippings. He was a rising star in the academic world for his research into the fundemental causes of dyslexia.

Professor Ferguson briefed Professor Young about my situation, recanting almost exactly every detail I had told him. When Professor Ferguson was finished, Professor Young turned to me and invited to follow him to his office.

Young's office was a good deal less opulent than Ferguson's and a good deal messier. There were 2 foot stacks of books lining every inch of the wall around his office.

His desk was buried beneath 4 inches of papers and books. Apparently profesors and students weren't that different after all.

He asked me to elaborate on the briefing he received from Professor Ferguson, which I did. When I was finished, he said "your course seems clear, your mind seems clear, how can I help?

When he sensed my confusion at his response, he added "Look, most students your age are still wrestling with fetishism, how to hide episodic crossdressing from their parents or peers, or whether they're homosexual.

You seem to have a clear idea of what you are and you have lived enough in both genders to have a basis to form an educated decision.

I explained to Professor Young that I anticipated some of my professors would have difficuly accepting me as Paula in their classrooms and that an authoritative person that they could be referred to might help.

I shared my doubts that my mother could accept my decision, but added that I had a sympathetic aunt, my mother's sister.

He felt that whatever decision I made had to be right for me and only me. When I decided what was right, he would help to make it happen. I thanked him for his time and went back to our apartment.

I continued in the identity that I had established for each part of my life school, work, Michelle for the remainder of the semester.

As the end of the semester approached, I prepared myself to discuss my plans with Mom. About two weeks before the semester was to end, I called Aunt C and prepared her for what she was to see and to ask her advice about Mom.

She suggested that she drive over to the school and see me before I went home. I readily agreed, so we made a date for the next saturday.

Aunt C showed up at our apartment at 9 am. I answered the door and we embraced for what seemed like minutes. She complimented me on my appearance, which I appreciated deeply and must have let show because she embraced me again.

I told Aunt C about our past year at school and how Michelle and I worked at the same restaurant as cocktail waitresses.

Finally I told her of my plans to live the rest of my life as a woman and my concerns about how Mom would take it.

Aunt C then told something that I never would have believed if anyone else had been telling it; Mom was Aunt C's brother!

My Mother hadn't divorced my father; HE had divorced my mother. I was floored. I was caught in some sort of "Kafka world". In a few minutes I was sufficiently recovered to ask my aunt some questions.

She and I conversed for nearly 8 hours. Michelle had finished her classes around noon and sat with us until 3 pm, when she had to prepare for work.

Things were coming full circle. I, a transvestite, was the child of a transvestite. How could he she do this to me! Then I realized this must have been why she allowed Aunt C to raise me, to allow me to find my own course in life without any inadvertent influences from her.

Teenage Crossdresser Stories Recent Posts

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2 thoughts on “Teenage crossdresser stories

  1. Es ist schade, dass ich mich jetzt nicht aussprechen kann - ist erzwungen, wegzugehen. Ich werde befreit werden - unbedingt werde ich die Meinung aussprechen.

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