Though I was born a female I sincerely feel I was meant to be a male. Because of this deviation from the norm I’ve been existing in a separated microcosm not of my own choosing. No, I’m not a lesbian. I used to wonder whether I was gay so I met some gay chicks and they really hurt my feelings. They told me to be gay was to accept yourself as a female and yet desire another female. One laughed at me and said, “Listen, hon, we don’t want anything to do with males, let alone a poor substitute!” Right then I knew the gay scene wasn’t for me, so I knew I was a transvestite in a spiritual sense—a male soul trapped in a female body.
I never thought of myself as a female when I was a child, and the children of my neighborhood accepted me as a boy. My mom would buy me beautiful dolls and my brother and I would take off their heads and clothes and play Frankenstein.
Unfortunately I became physically developed at the age of 12, but to most of the kids I was still acceptable as a male. I met my first love in the 8th grade. She wrote me love letters but it didn’t go any further.
Since the age of 5 the occult has fascinated me and now witchcraft is my religion. I don’t mean Satanism or devil worship, but witchcraft as it existed 8000 years ago. There are countless numbers of people practicing witchcraft all over the world and most of them believe in reincarnation. Using my dreams, phobias, and such, a coven has helped me find my true identity and the reason I’m trapped in this female form . . . I’m glad to see science finally admitting to the existence of occult phenomena with their study of parapsychology. I’ve experienced supernatural phenomena since my childhood and this led me to link my sexual behavior with whatever my past identity was. Now I’ve found my true identity.
But back to my frustration. My mom sent me to an all-girl Catholic high school. I’m far from being the silent type and would get into many debates and discussions, since I don’t adhere to the Catholic faith.
The school was excellent and the courses interesting. I was an honor student and particularly loved acting. I was good at it and got to play major roles, all male, such as Romeo, Hamlet, etc. We had no dress code so I always wore bell-bottom jeans, a T-shirt, and an army jacket. The kids thought of me as a boy and I enjoyed it.
My big ambition was to try for the lead role in our senior play. We decided to do My Fair Lady, and I swore I wouldn’t try for the male role but instead for the female lead of Eliza Dolittle. It would be challenging for me to play a female role. I wasn’t even sure I could do it. One other chick and myself were the best actors so I knew one of us would get the part. When the announcement came I was downcast—I didn’t get the part. Then I was startled to hear that I would be playing the leading male role of Prof. Higgins. I was furious as I hadn’t even tried out for it. It was explained that I could carry a male role better than a female one. Then I was offered a choice—either play the part or forget the play. She had me under her thumb and she knew it. That play meant everything to me. And she was right—I fit right into the part. I don’t think I could’ve played the female role, and our director knew it.
I’m only 18 but I can’t take much more of this. I want to love a woman, but not as another woman. I could never do it, not with this body—I’d feel too awkward.
I cry when I realize I can never love a woman as a complete man and give her my children. I have no desire for any relationship with a man. When I go out in my army jacket and jeans a lot of girls think I’m a guy and start waving and giggling. I wave back and then quickly go on my way, silently damning the world for the curse I bear. How many times I’ve longed to reach out to these chicks, but I stop myself in time before I make a fool out of myself and only deepen the hurt.
Many times I’ve been forced into a submissive role by females . . .
My childhood was a hollow one. I never got the warmth I craved. My supernatural experiences frightened me and I’d walk through the darkened halls to my mother’s room seeking warmth and reassurance. Instead I was met with a loud “Go to bed.” I’d sit on the floor outside her room and feel some comfort being near her.
Whenever I hugged my sister or a friend in the past years they’d push me away and call me queer. As a result of this rejection I can’t reach out and express my love and I feel uncomfortable whenever anyone hugs me.
When I was 16 things became unbearable and I slit my wrist while with some “friends.” They laughed. It wasn’t so much that I wanted to die, I just wanted someone to care.
My folks kicked me out in November and things have gotten progressively worse. but I won’t bore you with my pointless life. Hope I didn’t take too much of your time.
“blessed be”
Bobbie
Shortly after I received this letter, and before I could reply to it, Bobbie sent me another letter, with the notation that she had written it first and misplaced it, and that I might as well have it too. Much of the material was identical to what she had already sent me, but a few paragraphs are worth consideration:
I don’t want a relationship with a male because I don’t feel female. I’ve tried kissing a male—it nauseates me. When a male touches me or comments on my physical appearance my blood runs cold and I feel uncomfortable and turned off . . .
At night I lie awake in bed and dream of being a boy. When I go out it’s all I can do to keep from crying when I see lovers in love. I don’t know what to do—I’m going crazy living like this. I’ve had occasion to meet male would-be transsexuals who desire to be female. Why can’t I have what I want and they what they want? Why this torture?
I’ve been getting into the discipline scene to relieve some of my frustrations. I don’t know how far I can go. I’ll find out when I get a slender, attractive, and totally submissive boy. I have some catalogues on discipline devices. You wouldn’t believe the things they sell—thumbscrews, gags, straitjackets, stocks, and all sorts of torture devices.
They have a helmet of rubber that goes over the victim’s head tightly and is fastened around the neck with straps. A large ball-type gag comes also, with breathing tubes, a force-feeding funnel, and a water inlet hose at the crown of the head . . .
I don’t really know how far I’d go with the discipline. I’ve already met three eager fem boys who would let me do anything but I’m still looking for a special type. If I can’t have the body I was meant to have and the love of a woman to guide me then why shouldn’t I release my tensions on a willing person?
John—
You know what? In a way I really could be called gay. My deepest desire is to have a sex change operation and then to meet a group of beautiful dominant women who keep me in subjective bondage.
I love the bizarre and unusual and fantasize quite often that I’m a male being subjected to various forms of discipline. I really enjoy the thought of being dominated by women in this way, but not sexually.
I don’t understand why many psychologists say everyone masturbates, especially during childhood. I never did. I found the thought repulsive and couldn’t see how playing with one’s genitalia could bring any sensation of pleasure. A few months ago I was tripping on LSD and I got this tingling sensation in my groin and I could feel the blood pounding. It was a feeling almost as though you have to urinate but you can’t.
I tried masturbating and found it quite annoying and dissatisfying. After two minutes of discomfort I gave it up, with no relief for the pressure in my legs. Finally I just lay back and imagined myself as a young male having a relation with another male and the pressure was relieved.
I know that wanting to become a male and have sexual relations with a male may seem odd, but I can’t help it. I’m attracted to young gay boys with long hair and slender figures. It’d be fun seducing a virgin. But it’s no fun as a female . . .
Peace—
Bobbie
Hey John—
I just finished reading your book The Male Hustler. [I sent the book with the notation that the material on a transsexual named Brenda might be revelatory.—JWW] What a bummer—most of those dudes have an
attitude that really hurts a gay guy. You know, that the queers are the perverts and these dudes selling their bods aren’t doing anything perverse. Goddamn, what a bunch of bastards.
Some guys I know are transvestites and they’re beautiful. They top a lot of chicks I know, and they’re so gentle and feminine it’s far out. They want to be loved and accepted as women. lf a guy goes out looking for a piece of ass he should take what he gets. He’s only looking for a sexual object anyway.
I know a lot of straight guys who go looking for gay kids, particularly fems or TVs. They’ll single out some gentle, quiet kid. They’ll take him out, get him stoned and relaxed, and then go to a parking lot, beach, or wooded area. The kid figures it isn’t so bad after all and tries getting close—once a sexual move is initiated the straight guy beats the shit out of the poor kid . . . I guess for the most part I’m just basically not a sexual person. Except when I’m tripping. Then I can’t help myself.
I never do grass. It’s funny, I’ve smoked twenty or thirty times since I was I4 and never once got off. I have a strong resistance so I went on to LSD and mescaline. It would take about a quarter of a tab to get my friends off while I had to pop the whole tab or even half of another one. Even then they’d be fucked up for almost fifteen hours while I was down in five or eight . . .
I read about Brenda in your book. There’s not much I can say I have in common with her. First of all, I don’t have a sex life . . .
Unlike Brenda. I can’t accept the genitalia of my body. I abhor them. My hope is that someday science makes a breakthrough and is able to perfect the sex-change operation so that all parts function normally. Brenda’s main hang-up seemed to be sexual pleasure. Mine is not. I’m not preoccupied with sex—I simply want to be what I was meant to be. A male.
I know why I’m cursed into this tortured existence and I know my true identity, but only if you’re interested will I tell you of the castration and murder of my previous life and why I was cursed into being born again and again as a female to die in my youth of a horrible death, or of the program of release in which I must submissively give my life for six months into a knowledgeable teacher’s hands, undergoing whatever they deem necessary—even torture!
. . . One day I met a beautiful blond girl at school. In the months that followed we founded a deep friendship, but for me love was growing. I longed to possess my beautiful, gentle friend—not sexually, but just to hold her and have her tell me she loved me. Somehow—I can’t remember how—we came to refer to one another as husband and wife. Now she is going steady with a guy she really loves. She doesn’t believe my sincerity when I tell her how I feel so she’ll constantly tease me. She’ll hug me and pull me toward her, and if we go out any place she’ll do the same thing. My love—my wife—and the only reason she can’t relate to me is because of this goddamned body. If I had a cock between my legs and no breasts I’d have the love of this beautiful creature. It just isn’t fair . . .
One day in my senior year of high school came a strange occurrence that definitely left its mark . . . We had converted our cafeteria into a lounge area where we sat on the tables or at desks. One day I was sitting there in my jeans and T-shirt when someone came up behind me, pulled my wool hat over my face, cupped their hands under my chin, and knocked me over backwards. She had me in such a weird way that my shoulders were painfully hunched over the table’s edge and my neck was pulled so far back that my face was pushed against her belly. With the hat pulled tightly over my face and my neck forced back, I could neither call out nor breathe very well.
Though I had secretly always desired to be dominated by females, I feared being bound or completely restrained. Someone also held my arms and when I struggled to free myself a severe pain shot through my shoulder blades and my neck nearly snapped. I was frustrated and kicked my legs, hoping to free myself, when others came and held down my legs. I was unable to move, and aside from the fear came the delightful sensation of being completely submissive in the hands of females.
They pulled up my T-shirt. At first gentle fingers caressed my sides and then came pinching and poking and painful snatching. Their dainty laughter echoed through my mind as I nearly lost my senses from struggling, lack of air, and sheer frustration. I stopped struggling, the blood rushed to my head, and I lay limp. They kept me subdued for almost an hour but when I became limp, my chest heaving for air, they released me. I pulled my hat off and lay there catching my breath.
That was last year. Now I dream of being a male dominated by laughing ladies, but my time is short as I’m supposed to lose my life very soon. Must go now.
“Blessed be”
Bobbie
In my reply to this letter I expressed some of the frustration I felt in being unable to help in any way, and offered the somewhat Pollyannish thought that things do get easier to bear with age, if not better.
John—
I can’t remember whether or not I told you of my belief in witchcraft, but when times get bad—as they are now—it’s the only thing that stops me from ending my cursed life. For Attys—which is my true identity—things do not get easier. The tests become more difficult, the obstacles harder to overcome.
I only remember part of my true existence, but enough to cause me great despair. For Attys is doomed and even the gods are helpless to aid him, for destiny has so decreed this eternal hell. Each night I pray to Zeus to aid me and yet he can only ease the pain a bit as he cannot interfere with fate.
It was revealed to me by a psychic that I had less than fifteen years left to seek the aid and teaching necessary to free Attys from his eternal damnation.
A few years back I would’ve been ridiculed by most. Now only the ignorant would laugh or think me daft.
With science finally admitting to occult happenings such as possession, curses, and so on, by instituting studies in parapsychology, many find it easier to accept my identity and even attempt to aid me.
I met Roy, who’s a psychic with some degrees in psychology, and he tried to help me. I was so tormented when we met and he really was very good at telepathy and other forms of psychic power. He told me everything about myself and this amazed me, as had the prophetess who predicted my damnation and death in early life. She was actually frightened as she spoke of the evil around me . . . this of course being the demon that stalks me. She told me all about my art and writing and other aspects of my life. With her accurate presentation of my past I couldn’t doubt her three predictions for my future. The first two have come to pass and I fear the third, which is my untimely death soon to come.
Roy and another friend have also told me that because of my identity I am doomed to an agonizing death in my early youth unless I can somehow find the path to free myself from my eternal damnation.
Perhaps it’s hard for you to believe this, but it is true and I hope someday you will accept it.
Attys doesn’t belong in this world or with these people he doesn’t understand.
I’m not feeling well at the moment but I will say I have tasted death and I simply lay there not speaking or fighting back. I feel if Attys cannot live as a God, he can at least die as one. I accept my destiny, I only wish I had the power to comprehend the reasons for it. I have also been bound, beaten, and whipped, aside from being nearly strangled and suffocated, all in the past few weeks.
Peace,
Attys
P.S. As my doom draws near, everything becomes dismal. I lost my job the other day because the boss didn’t care for my attitude or unfeminine mannerisms. What’s the use? I’m a born loser . . .
I left this letter too long unanswered, unable to think of a way to reply to it, and ultimately the struggle to keep up with more current correspondence made it easy to go on failing to write to Bobbie. Just now, as I’ve been readying this material for publication, I heard from her again:
Hullo there—
How’re things going? I’m still having a bit of a problem securing a job, but I do seem to have some promising prospects.
I suppose I’ve told you about the bloody demon that rather seems to enjoy possessing a wide variety of my acquaintances—in particular a fellow who’s developed a rather strange relation with me.
This fellow at first thought me quite an actor and aimed to prove that I meant none of what I claimed of reincarnation, demons, and the gods.
Since last May when we met, circumstances have led my doubtful friend not only to accept my beliefs wholeheartedly but also to fear them, as the demon has been a bit of a nuisance.
He can’t take much more and his possession has become more detrimental to my health. It’s common for a demon to possess a being with no intention of bringing about the demise of his host, but rather to implant thought suggestions in the host’s unconscious, thus making it nearly impossible to differentiate the suggestions as not originating in the host’s own ego. These suggestions suggest to the host actions the demon desires to achieve the results he wants—in this case, the loss of my sanity, or even more so, the loss of my life.
A pity we exist in such a computerized, categorized era when unknowledgeable people scoff at supernatural phenomena, and dismiss them as delusions, hallucinations, or superstitious mumbo-jumbo.
I believe even if a demon appeared to a multitude of people, they’d dismiss it with whatever rational, logical explanation they could conceive. It would seem people are dreadfully afraid of the unknown. Demons, gods, curses—they have no place with chemical-biological warfare, nuclear power, space travel and such. And yet, in days gone by, multitudes would have scoffed at the notion of interplanetary travel—or even a commonplace item such as television.
My friend accepts me as a transsexual, as the cursed Attys, and we’ve struck up a brotherly relationship. But since I’ve attractive features, he refers to me as a little fag boy. He said he was going to initiate me into fagdom by anal sex and he damn well did. Quite forcefully, I may add.
He pinned me down, gagged me, and took me quickly and brutally. I uttered a muffled scream and nearly lost consciousness. God damn—I give fags a lot of credit. Of all the tortures I’ve been put through, I never felt pain like that. I thought I was being ripped apart. When he saw the look on my face he stopped and hugged me, but I was groaning and crying. He thought I’d finally had it.
Love at a Tender Age (John Warren Wells on Sexual Behavior) Page 5
