Date: Wed, 19 Dec 2001 09:55:04 -0800

From: Barry Eysman <beysman@pchnet.com>

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