I have seen a lot of stories about boys being feminized by their mothers, or
occasionally by their aunts or other female relatives. And I've even read a few
about men being feminized by their wives-- sometimes forcibly.  These stories are
all right as far as they go, but for someone who actually was brought up as a
girl, they don't ring true.  So I'm writing this account, in the hope that people
can see what it's really like when a boy is brought up as a girl. You won't find
any coercion here; I was a willing--no, an eager-- subject, as I think must
always be the case when this happens in real life.  And I'm afraid you won't find
much sex, either.


I.


My life changed from hell to heaven when I was seven years old.

I was a little kid, and weak, and not aggressive; and the other boys picked on me
mercilessly.  School was hell for me, and even my own neighborhood was hell.  I
used to come home in tears almost every day, until finally I couldn't take it any
more and rarely left our house except for school, which was unavoidable.  For
companionship, I played with a neighbor girl instead of boys.

That Summer, we were about to move to a different town, and one evening my mother
sat me down and asked me the question that was going to change my life.

She was embarrassed, and very ill at ease, and it took her a long time to get to
the point.  But here, in brief, is what she said: "Jimmy, you've had such a
terrible time living here, and I've felt so sorry for you.  If I had a nickel for
every time you've come home in tears, we would be able to *buy* our new place. 
And I've been trying to figure out some way of protecting you or for keeping this
from happening.  I've only been able to think of one possibility."

She hesitated.  Then, "You used to play with Sally next door until they moved. 
Do you remember...the day you were playing with Sally and she put you in one of
her dresses?"

"Oh, Mom, that was her idea!  I never...!"

"No, there's no problem.  Yes, I caught the two of you, both of you in dresses
and playing with...what was it?  Her tea set?  Yes.  But you know, what I
remember about that afternoon was not so much your embarrassment when you saw me
watching you, but how peaceful and contented you were before you saw me.  Yes,
you were upset because I was watching you, but I had been watching you for almost
five minutes, and up until the moment you saw me you just seemed.... Well, I
can't remember a time when you looked so serene."

"Well, we were sort of...."  I trailed off, at a loss for the right word.

"Relaxed?  At ease together?  I thought you were.  I liked watching the two of
you.  You seemed so calm and happy, the only time you've ever been happy except
when you were home here with me.  And...I don't know, I've been thinking about
this, but still it sounds so crazy when I mention it, but...I wonder...have you
ever wondered what it would be like living as a girl?"

I had, as a matter of fact.  I'd better explain this, so you don't get the wrong
impression.  I didn't dislike being a boy.  I didn't dislike having a boy's body.
 At seven, I still had only the vaguest notion of the physical difference between
boys and girls, but if I had known more, I would have wanted to keep those boy
parts--at least back then.

But I hated the life I had to live as a boy.  We never talked about "sex-role
stereotypes" in those days, but if we had, that's what I would have objected to. 
The insane, compulsive machismo.  The nearly constant violence.  The disdain for
every kind of activity except athletics.  The strong back; the weak mind.

And yes, sometimes, on really bad days, I would go to bed and pray, "O God, make
me into a girl."  But I was praying for relief from the masculine stereotyping
and abuse that tormented me, not for a different body.  Not back then.  It wasn't
so much not being a boy as not having to live as a boy.  That would change later
on, as I'll relate, but that's how it was then.

Nevertheless, I think it's significant that that was the kind of solution I asked
God to provide.

Okay; now I've got that straightened out, I'll get back to my story. In answer to
Mom's question I said, Yes, I had thought of it and sometimes wished for it.

"It's been so awful that sometimes in my prayers I've asked God to turn me into a
girl," I told her.

Her eyes widened.  "When you put on Sally's clothes, did you like them?"

I nodded.

"You've put on some of my underwear once or twice, too, haven't you? I could
tell.  Did you like that?"

I should say that, ever since my father died, Mom and I had been very close. 
Most boys would have been petrified if they had been putting on panties on the
sly and their moms had confronted them like that.  But we were always on such
easy terms, I simply said,

"Yes, they felt good.  I just hope I didn't disturb them too much."

"Nothing but a few pieces out of place, Dear.  But here's what I'm driving at. 
We're moving away, to a place where nobody knows you. So it's a place where you
could make a fresh start, if you wanted to.  A really fresh start.  And I've
wondered whether this might be a good time for you to try living as my daughter
instead of my son. It would solve so many of your problems.

"You know I love you, Jimmy, and I love you for who and what you are.  But I
can't stand seeing you miserable.  Maybe if I could turn you into a girl--if I
could grant that prayer of yours--I don't mean for good, I mean just temporarily,
just for a few years, those years when boyhood can be so nasty--maybe you would
grow up into a happier person afterward.  Not scarred for the rest of your life
by all that nastiness.  And I do so want you to be happy."

You see what I meant about a change from hell to heaven.  It took me no time at
all to make up my mind; I had made it up while she was talking to me about the
possibility.  I said Yes, and I think she saw the light in my eyes when I did so.

But she was cautious.  "I think you should try for a couple of weeks, or maybe a
month, starting now, before we go," she said, "so you can see what it's like.  I
won't want you to do this if you don't like it.  But I can get you a dress to try
wearing, something that will really fit you.  It's Summer; you don't have to go
to school; you hardly ever go outside anyway.  So maybe you could just try
dressing as a girl, around the house, until we move.  In fact, that will give you
two opportunities to change your mind, the first one when we move.  If you think
you like it, then we can finish out the month after we've moved and then make up
our minds about whether you'll continue.  And if you decide you don't like
it...well, we'll hope you find nicer boys in our new place."

The idea had caught on in my mind.  I was half listening to her and half
contemplating the new possibilities her proposal had opened up. And the more I
thought about it, the better I liked it.  In fact, I was surprised to realize how
much it appealed to me.  Mom was being so careful not to pressure me; but I was
sure I would like it, and my only regret was that I wouldn't be able to dress up
as a girl right away, right that evening, but would have to wait until to- morrow
for Mom to get something for me to wear.

I thought about this some more when I went to bed, before going to sleep.  This
was going a genuine adventure, I realized.  This wasn't just *playing* at being a
girl, the way I might play at being a policeman or a pirate or an airplane pilot.
 This was going to be real, doing something with my life, experimenting with it. 
And it wasn't just something in my own mind; dresses and panties (panties!
...gosh!) were things that had an objective, material existence out there.  They
weren't even costumes.  They were real clothes, and I was going to wear them.

What would I call myself?  As a girl I'd have to be something other than Jimmy. 
I lay in bed, considering the possibilities.  I wanted something that sounded
frilly and feminine.  Not just plain Mary or Martha. 
Cheryl?...Madeline?...Stacey?  The girl in school who wore the prettiest dresses
was named Lorelei.  H'mm, how about Lorelei, in honor of the pretty dresses I was
going to wear?  Nope.  Too risky.  Suppose we bumped into each other some
time...I could just hear Mom saying, "Lorelei, this is Lorelei."  Too silly. 
Finally I had it:  Somebody (was it our teacher in school?) had told a story
about a sad ballerina named Giselle.  (I had somehow missed the crucial point
that Giselle was the name of the character, not of the dancer herself.)  I
pictured myself in tights and a tutu with the name Giselle.  That was it.  I
would be the Sad Ballerina Giselle.

The next day Mom came back from shopping with an armload of packages.  She had
obviously gotten more than just one dress.  I was beside myself with excitement. 
THIS WAS IT!!!  My escape into femininity was at hand.  And sure enough, instead
of taking the packages into her room, as she would have done ordinarily, she took
them into my room, and we unwrapped them there.

Little girls' panties.  A little top (I was still too young for a bra).  Little
white and pink ankle socks.  A skirt.  Some blouses. Another skirt.  A yellow
dress trimmed with white lace.  And a pair of little girl's shoes.

Slowly, my hands trembling with excitement, I put the things on.  I chose the
yellow dress for my debut as a girl.  Boys wore their hair fairly long in those
days, so Mom only had to comb it back and put a yellow ribbon in it.  Finally she
was done fussing over me, and I looked in the mirror.  I thought I made a pretty
convincing girl, as long as the person looking at me had never seen me as a boy.

Mom gave me a little kiss.  "My little girl!" she exclaimed. "What's your new
name, Dear?"

I hesitated.  Suddenly, "Giselle" seemed ludicrously exotic for the simple,
pretty American girl I had become.

"Well, come on, sweetheart.  Surely you've thought of a name for yourself.  You
can't go on being Jimmy, now, can you?"

I didn't have another name to fall back on.  Finally, my hands behind my back, my
eyes downcast, in a tiny voice--a little girl's voice, if I had realized it--I
whispered, "Giselle," and turned red as a beet.

One of the reasons I love Mom so was that she never laughed at me. And even then,
with this ridiculous answer, which, even now, I'm embarrassed to remember, she
didn't laugh.

"Oh, Dear, that's a lovely name!" she said.  "If that's the name you want to
take, then we'll do that."  She paused.  Then, "But you must remember you're an
American girl, not a European one, and people might find you a little
more...well, convincing...if you had a plain American name."

"No, Mom," I replied.  "Giselle was a dumb idea.  Let me think about it some
more."  I had no idea what I would come up with.

"All right," Mom answered.  "For the time being, I'll just call you Jenny, which
is pretty close to Jimmy.  And once you've settled on a name you want, we'll
change it then."

As it turned out, I never did think of a better name.  In fact, I was too busy
being a girl to worry about details like names, so from that day, the 20th of
July, I was Jenny.  Jimmy Taylor had been born on the 14th of December, but Jenny
was born on July 20, and from then on I thought of July 20 as my birthday.  That
fact alone should have been enough to tell me I was going to be a girl for keeps.


II.


On my first full day as a girl, I woke up early--about 6 AM--and then,
remembering what I was to do that day, I was too excited to go back to sleep
again.  I hadn't felt like this the times Sally would put me in a dress when we
played together.  This was going to be different; this wasn't going to be just
playing at being a girl.  I kept watching the clock as it inched toward eight, my
usual hour for getting up.

At seven thirty I couldn't wait any longer.  I got up, took off my pajamas, and
then looked over the modest assortment of things Mom had gotten me.  Should I
choose the pink panties, or the white ones? What a luxury, what a delight,
actually to have the choice, actually to be allowed, and in fact expected, to put
on panties!  I chose a pink pair.

This was to a month's trial, to see how I liked living as a girl. But as I put on
the panties--oh, gosh! how soft they felt! how smooth on my legs!--I knew that,
for me, the trial was already over. If this was what it was like to wear dresses,
I was all set to wear nothing else for the rest of my life.  Just then I
remembered how I had once prayed for this moment, and on a sudden impulse I
dropped to my knees, still with only my panties on, and folded my hands. "Thank
you, God," I said.  "Thank you for making me a girl."

(Years later, a wonderful Jewish girl who was my dearest friend told me that
every orthodox Jewish man thanked God every day for having been born a man
instead of a woman.  I said, "You'd never have caught *me* saying that!")

I chose a light blue blouse and a plain denim skirt.  I thought Mom would be
pleased that I had selected matching colors and that I had not picked anything
too dressy for day wear.

I put on a pair of ankle socks and the shoes.  Then I looked at myself in the
mirror.  It seemed to me that I looked a little less convincing than I had the
night before.

There was still half an hour to go before breakfast, so I spent the time
rearranging my dresser drawers, pushing my regular boy's socks and underwear out
of the way and putting in the girls' things Mom had gotten me.  Then I did the
same in my closet.  As I hung up the other skirt Mom had gotten me, I realized
that I was going to need skirt hangers.  For the time being, I just folded the
skirt over an ordinary hanger and carefully hung it up.

Mom was pleased when she saw me at breakfast already dressed as a girl.  She gave
me a light kiss and said, "How's my pretty daughter this morning?"

My heart leapt up.  "Your daughter is feeling just great, Mom!" I answered with a
hug and a kiss.

Breakfast was filled with happy talk about my new life.  I told her how good I
had felt getting dressed that morning, how impatient I had been to begin, and how
I had spent the extra time putting away my girls' things and hanging up my new
dress and skirt.

"You actually put your own clothes away?" she exclaimed.  "You've never done that
before!"  She laughed.  "If I'm not going to have to pick up after you the way I
used to have to pick up after Jimmy, I'm never going to let you change back!" 
That was fine with me.

But after breakfast we settled down to work, and I began to learn how much more
there was to being a girl than just wearing a dress. The first lesson was
walking--how to walk like a girl.  Smaller steps.  Weight less heavily on the
heel with each step.

"When you're old enough to wear heels, Dear, you're going to have to learn to put
toe and heel down almost together.  So you might as well get ready for that right
now."

As I walked back and forth across the living room floor, I thought about wearing
high heels.  And that made me think about wearing nylons, too.  What a terrific
adventure this was going to be!

Next came sitting down.  How to approach a chair.  How to sit down in it.  How to
smooth my skirt so it wouldn't get wrinkled.  How to cross my legs so men
couldn't see up it.  After that came using my hands and arms.

"The real test is going to be how you look when you aren't wearing a dress," she
pointed out.  "Suppose you put on blue jeans and a T- shirt, with sneakers. 
Girls wear things like that.  When people see you that way, are they going to
think you're a boy or a girl?  You can't fall back on your clothes then.  You
have to move like a girl; you have to act like a girl; you have to think like a
girl.  If you just wear dresses, you're only being a girl on the outside.  If you
don't want to be caught, you must be a girl from the inside out."

"Now run, Dear.  Start in the kitchen and run all the way out to the foyer."

I set off at a run.  Mom stopped me.

"Not that way, Jenny!  That's the way a boy runs, pumping your arms back and
forth.  Hold your elbows in and your hands out--" she demonstrated "--and keep
your balance by waving your forearms from side to side.  Your elbows should be
almost still as you run."

As she explained this, images of all the girls I had ever seen running sprang to
mind and I realized she was right.  It was tricky, running that way, and it felt
completely different.  This was going to take work.

"Now, Jenny, here's your homework," she said.  "I want you to practice walking,
running, sitting down, and standing up.  Do that for at least an hour this
afternoon.  And every time you sit down, here or in your room, remember you're a
girl and remember how I told you to do it.  Okay?"

It was just about as okay as anything could get.  I saw how much more there was
to being a girl than just the clothes, and I realized that the more deeply I
managed to feminize myself, the better it would be.  I sauntered around all day,
trying to remember all the details about how to hold myself and move.


III.


So that's how it started.  I think back now and bless the memory of those bully
boys who, unknowingly, pushed me into being a girl.  Mom had planned on a month's
trial, but it wasn't going to take a month. I knew this was what I wanted the
very first day.

This kind of thing works only when the chemistry is right.  I realize now that
Mom had secretly hoped for a little girl instead of a little boy.  And, at some
deep-seated, unrecognized level, I wanted to be a girl, too, even though I had
never realized it consciously.  It had been more than just the bullying by the
other boys; that had only been the trigger.  So once the possibility was opened
up to us by circumstance, it was inevitable that we would do what we did; we
snapped into our respective roles like a couple of magnets brought together.

When my dad had died, he had left a pretty good estate.  We weren't rich by any
means, but as long as we counted our pennies and lived on a modest scale, Mom
didn't have to work.  And that was the key to the second part of her plan.

"I'd like to keep you out of school altogether, Jenny," she said one morning, "so
you can keep on living as a girl.  I can do that provided I teach you myself. 
It's known as homeschooling, and I've been reading up on it.  So IF you'll be a
serious pupil, and IF you work hard and don't fool around, and IF you don't whine
when you have to study boring things, and IF you don't try to take advantage of
me, then you won't have to go to school at all, at least not until high school
and maybe not even then."

Not having to go to school...!  I had been dreading school.  A month's trial was
all very well, I had thought, but I hadn't been able to see how I could go back
to school as a girl.  Now Mom, wonderful wonderful darling Mom, had found a way
that I didn't have to go back at all.  All those IFs...if she had told me I would
have to work in the salt mines in order to avoid school, I would have jumped at
the chance.

She went on.  "It will mean extra work for me, teaching you as well as doing
housework.  So I'm going to ask you to help with the housework while we do this. 
I'll try to pick girly chores for you to do, the things you would have been doing
all along if you had been born a girl.  Those can be part of your training."

Once we had moved, Mom made the formal arrangements for home- schooling, and the
day they were complete we had a celebration.  It was another milestone in my life
as a girl.  I had already started living full time as a girl, but this was the
point when we decided the trial was a success--well before the month was
over--and that I decided was going to keep on being a girl, at least through
grade school.

We spent mornings and afternoons on schoolwork.  I worked hard, because that was
the price of freedom.  It was either that or having to go to school as a boy. 
But in addition, Mom discovered that she loved teaching me, because, she said,
she was learning so much herself..  Some things, like reading, writing, and
arithmetic, one uses all the time, but other subjects, like history and
geography, tend to fade with time, and Mom loved learning these subjects anew and
in greater depth than when she had been a girl.  And her own enjoyment showed in
her teaching and made me enjoy them, too.

Part of what she was supposed to teach me was some kind of performing art, and
for this she chose singing and dancing.  She wanted me to be able to dance like a
girl, and she thought dance training would help me learn to move like a girl in
other ways (although, under Mom's vigilance, I was beginning to be good at that
anyway).

She had an ulterior motive in having me sing, too: she wanted me to develop a
girl's voice if I could.  It's true that the difference is more in mannerisms and
vocabulary than in pitch and she wanted to get a feminine way of speaking firmly
in place as soon as possible. But she thought that singing would make me
conscious of how I used my voice and get me into the habit of controlling it. 
She thought it would be good for me to start this early, before my voice changed.

My vocabulary changed, too, because girls use different words for many things. 
For example, I decided right away that from now on Mom was going to be Mummy, and
I never again called her Mom.

Mummy decided that my handwriting should be more feminine, too. This was a tough
job, and we labored over it for months, because young boys don't have as good
control over their fingers as young girls have, and my writing was sloppy.  Mummy
wanted it to be neat and rounded, with little circles over the i's instead of
dots. I hated this work, but I kept at it, because I was beginning to appreciate
that the secret of feminizing myself was going to be lots of tiny details.