Story. New Life
This is an original story that was inspired by a talk with a friend of mine. It deals with transsexualism in a post communist country.
Title: New Life
Author:
heroineanilem
Summary: Daniel is cute, shy teenager who grows up in a post communist country, and who will go to hell and back to find his true love and become what he truly believes to be: a gorgeous woman- Daniela
warnings: m/m, transsexualism,N/C, H/C, violence, minor...
rating: NC-17
Prologue:
It is usually said that what a child feels doesn’t matter; his emotions are feeble and unstable and change as quickly as his wishes. Children will forget their fears, desires, turmoil, ideas and illusions and once they grow up all these will seem small and irrelevant. After all, everything changes once they mature into responsible, productive members of our society. Let me say one thing: it’s all lie, a big, fat hypocritical lie. Nothing changes. Our fear, frustrations, desires fulfilled or not are all basis from which their responsible individual will spring up. Everything counts; every second in our lives is irrevocable, impossible to be relived and therefore precious. That I found out in a hard way. Yet, a fragile girl trapped in my male body had known it all along, from the beginning-just could not name it.
It is hard to say when it had started. It seems to me I have been this way forever. Sometimes the feeling was strong, sometimes weak, but it was always around, other half of my being.
I can’t remember when I played with other boys, no matter how much most of them wanted my company, at least at that early age. My father tried to sway my interests in any direction other than girls’ games, yet failed miserably. Nothing could force me to exchange making wreaths and garlands from wild flowers with tumbling in sand and mock battles. My mother’s pleas sometimes compelled me to take part in some football game that I’d abandon the first time I got the chance. Mom and dad tried everything from bribes to threats, but nothing worked; I’d go, play with other boys and leave with no intention of joining them again in their play.
I can only imagine how hard it was for my parents to face the truth about their child. However, I was never even slapped for preferring being princess to prince on the carnival; usually, in such situation they would come up with a middle solution, dressing me as a cat or a lion, anything that wasn’t strictly gender related. Mom would be stricter about such things than dad, sometimes falling into fits. Dad on the other hand was much easier to deal with; when I’d scream to get a fake ring or earrings he would only look at me with his dark eyes, the same exact shade as mine, for a long moment and with a barely audible sigh paid for it. At the time such details had no meaning; they were part of my dad’s personality. It will take many years for me to understand how hard it had been for him.
It is not hard to guess that my devotion laid with dad; not that I had not enjoyed mom’s company, but the time spent with him even now is precious to me. So, it came naturally that he soon became my best friend and playmate. We never played with dolls, and to be honest I never liked them much. What stimulated me were mind games and any activity that would bring about creativity. In Summers we’d spend most time in vast parks, feeding ducks in ponds, visiting the zoo, Luna parks, biking, chalk drawing on the pavement in front of our building, making paper forms…During cold winter days he’d make up stories, where beautiful princesses would be rescued by brave warriors, or would take me ice skating and building snow fortresses, or would teach me all kinds of mind games and on one of such days I was hooked on playing chess, a passion that will last the lifetime.
It was him who got me addicted to both science and art; sometimes, I’d spend hours drawing girls in beautiful dresses or imagining princes on wild beasts coming to the Earth from far away galaxies. At the age of six I knew much more than any of my rare playmates.
My early childhood passed in peace and happiness, without the commotion and social unrest that shook the foundations of the country and a rotten regime. These most glorious years of my life were spent in an Eastern European country, at the time when the communist regime had seen its last days and the new democracy had been caving out a long and unsteady journey, at the time when all forms of underground formations were filling in the vacuum. At such age my father was a scientist, a biochemist known worldwide. Although it is true that the first thing to be forgotten in the time of crisis is culture and science, both old and new regime highly respected my father. His fame and contribution to the science were such that he got nominated for the Nobel Prize. He never received it, for he had died in a car accident under unexplained circumstances. Regardless of his good status we weren’t exactly rich but neither were we poor; I’d say we belonged to the middle class intelligence, which was always over praised but underpaid, living in a four room apartment in the downtown of the capital.
I can safely say that dad’s death had changed everything; gone was our own magical world and its safety; I was forced to grow up way too quickly and face the real world.
When I was eight, a year after that tragic day, mom remarried a man of a questionable reputation, but who was well off, which meant a homo novus, in good favour with all kinds of people that roamed the new regime stage, including mafia. For me it will always stay a mystery why him, although I can only guess her reasons.
Before she married my father, mom graduated from the department of history, but never worked. Her father was a communist functionary and she was a socialite, as much as one could be in a communist country. Exceptionally beautiful and of good lineage, she could have anyone, but married my father, a poor scientist with an anticommunist past, modest and devoted to his small family.
Marko, on the other hand, was everything my father was not; an alpha male who wanted it all. It was whispered that he had trained with the French Foreign Legion, a thing I never asked of because I didn’t need other reminder of his forcefulness; he became ‘purified’ when the contemporary government accepted him in their ranks, giving him one of the most important positions in the security department. With my mother he was always tender and caring, so no matter what he had done to me I won’t forget care for her. Mom might have got another chance, but for me it was the end of carefree childhood.
At first he was nice with me, treating me as a shy boy, trying hard to get me into a soldier game or football, a thing I detested. His demeanour changed rapidly once mom gave birth to the twins, a boy and a girl, exactly nine months after their wedding. The first time he saw me wearing mom’s necklace he slapped me so hard I thought I’d never hear or see again. I had to hide when I played a popular girls’ game that consisted of jumping over an elastic band. He tried different measures of masculanization, and while I hated them all there were times when I was grateful.
Although a ‘natural’ thing for my behaviour in an intolerant society would be to get harassed every time I entered the school, such a thing would occur only once in while when some uncultured brute would try to show everyone what a sissy I was, but would go home with a broken nose. Being aware of a difference in me I gave my best to hide it, smoulder it somehow, so pretending became the way of my survival. Only at home, when I was sure everyone slept in the middle of the night, I could be myself. Then, I’d put make up on mimicking mom’s movements striving to perfection, dress a skirt or a dress ‘borrowed’ from mom the previous evening and would walk around my room in high heels that fit me perfectly.
The real nightmare began with upcoming of puberty. I felt something was missing and some things were never meant to be where they were. I didn’t hate my body, mind you, but I felt as it became suddenly a stranger I had no idea what to do with. It was a foreign feeling that hit me hard, unexpected in its force for any normal teenager, yet for me becoming unbearable in its inexplicability. For long time I’d stare at my female classmates, sometimes to the point of punishment; my mother and Marko saluted it, not fathoming the actual reason for such behaviour. It lasted for two years after which I could not keep it closed in me anymore; I sensed strongly its venomous effect. My mood started changing, I became withdrawn, pushing myself into isolation, where I could act as I needed to.
Life became so intolerable there was no night when I wouldn’t wish for death; it was only due to my cowardice I didn’t commit suicide. There was no one to talk to, to ask for clarification, advice anything that would solve the mystery of my behaviour. With passing days I was jealous of every girl I saw, pretty or ugly, poor or rich, just for being able to dress nicely, put the make up, flirt with guys, do anything and everything I would get beaten for doing, for being herself. On the top of that, attraction towards guys hit me as hard as a hurricane, leaving me breathless to ponder the depth of my own private curse.
That profound confusion and sorrow was drowned in books; reading became my passion to the point of exhaustion. I read everything I put my hands on, from science and history to cheap love novels, which I admittedly adored. It was so easy to think of myself being cherished and cared for, seduced and loved in the arms of a handsome stranger. These fantasies would lull me into restless sleep every night. It wasn’t long before perfectly stashed father’s books were taken out from dusty boxes where they had been lying for eight years.
And there I found the only help: medical magazines. Everything that was written there , I read hundreds of times before deciding that it was time for a cute looking, slightly short Daniel to become Daniela, a gorgeous woman.
Title: New Life
Author:
heroineanilem
Summary: Daniel is cute, shy teenager who grows up in a post communist country, and who will go to hell and back to find his true love and become what he truly believes to be: a gorgeous woman- Daniela
warnings: m/m, transsexualism,N/C, H/C, violence, minor...
rating: NC-17
Prologue:
It is usually said that what a child feels doesn’t matter; his emotions are feeble and unstable and change as quickly as his wishes. Children will forget their fears, desires, turmoil, ideas and illusions and once they grow up all these will seem small and irrelevant. After all, everything changes once they mature into responsible, productive members of our society. Let me say one thing: it’s all lie, a big, fat hypocritical lie. Nothing changes. Our fear, frustrations, desires fulfilled or not are all basis from which their responsible individual will spring up. Everything counts; every second in our lives is irrevocable, impossible to be relived and therefore precious. That I found out in a hard way. Yet, a fragile girl trapped in my male body had known it all along, from the beginning-just could not name it.
It is hard to say when it had started. It seems to me I have been this way forever. Sometimes the feeling was strong, sometimes weak, but it was always around, other half of my being.
I can’t remember when I played with other boys, no matter how much most of them wanted my company, at least at that early age. My father tried to sway my interests in any direction other than girls’ games, yet failed miserably. Nothing could force me to exchange making wreaths and garlands from wild flowers with tumbling in sand and mock battles. My mother’s pleas sometimes compelled me to take part in some football game that I’d abandon the first time I got the chance. Mom and dad tried everything from bribes to threats, but nothing worked; I’d go, play with other boys and leave with no intention of joining them again in their play.
I can only imagine how hard it was for my parents to face the truth about their child. However, I was never even slapped for preferring being princess to prince on the carnival; usually, in such situation they would come up with a middle solution, dressing me as a cat or a lion, anything that wasn’t strictly gender related. Mom would be stricter about such things than dad, sometimes falling into fits. Dad on the other hand was much easier to deal with; when I’d scream to get a fake ring or earrings he would only look at me with his dark eyes, the same exact shade as mine, for a long moment and with a barely audible sigh paid for it. At the time such details had no meaning; they were part of my dad’s personality. It will take many years for me to understand how hard it had been for him.
It is not hard to guess that my devotion laid with dad; not that I had not enjoyed mom’s company, but the time spent with him even now is precious to me. So, it came naturally that he soon became my best friend and playmate. We never played with dolls, and to be honest I never liked them much. What stimulated me were mind games and any activity that would bring about creativity. In Summers we’d spend most time in vast parks, feeding ducks in ponds, visiting the zoo, Luna parks, biking, chalk drawing on the pavement in front of our building, making paper forms…During cold winter days he’d make up stories, where beautiful princesses would be rescued by brave warriors, or would take me ice skating and building snow fortresses, or would teach me all kinds of mind games and on one of such days I was hooked on playing chess, a passion that will last the lifetime.
It was him who got me addicted to both science and art; sometimes, I’d spend hours drawing girls in beautiful dresses or imagining princes on wild beasts coming to the Earth from far away galaxies. At the age of six I knew much more than any of my rare playmates.
My early childhood passed in peace and happiness, without the commotion and social unrest that shook the foundations of the country and a rotten regime. These most glorious years of my life were spent in an Eastern European country, at the time when the communist regime had seen its last days and the new democracy had been caving out a long and unsteady journey, at the time when all forms of underground formations were filling in the vacuum. At such age my father was a scientist, a biochemist known worldwide. Although it is true that the first thing to be forgotten in the time of crisis is culture and science, both old and new regime highly respected my father. His fame and contribution to the science were such that he got nominated for the Nobel Prize. He never received it, for he had died in a car accident under unexplained circumstances. Regardless of his good status we weren’t exactly rich but neither were we poor; I’d say we belonged to the middle class intelligence, which was always over praised but underpaid, living in a four room apartment in the downtown of the capital.
I can safely say that dad’s death had changed everything; gone was our own magical world and its safety; I was forced to grow up way too quickly and face the real world.
When I was eight, a year after that tragic day, mom remarried a man of a questionable reputation, but who was well off, which meant a homo novus, in good favour with all kinds of people that roamed the new regime stage, including mafia. For me it will always stay a mystery why him, although I can only guess her reasons.
Before she married my father, mom graduated from the department of history, but never worked. Her father was a communist functionary and she was a socialite, as much as one could be in a communist country. Exceptionally beautiful and of good lineage, she could have anyone, but married my father, a poor scientist with an anticommunist past, modest and devoted to his small family.
Marko, on the other hand, was everything my father was not; an alpha male who wanted it all. It was whispered that he had trained with the French Foreign Legion, a thing I never asked of because I didn’t need other reminder of his forcefulness; he became ‘purified’ when the contemporary government accepted him in their ranks, giving him one of the most important positions in the security department. With my mother he was always tender and caring, so no matter what he had done to me I won’t forget care for her. Mom might have got another chance, but for me it was the end of carefree childhood.
At first he was nice with me, treating me as a shy boy, trying hard to get me into a soldier game or football, a thing I detested. His demeanour changed rapidly once mom gave birth to the twins, a boy and a girl, exactly nine months after their wedding. The first time he saw me wearing mom’s necklace he slapped me so hard I thought I’d never hear or see again. I had to hide when I played a popular girls’ game that consisted of jumping over an elastic band. He tried different measures of masculanization, and while I hated them all there were times when I was grateful.
Although a ‘natural’ thing for my behaviour in an intolerant society would be to get harassed every time I entered the school, such a thing would occur only once in while when some uncultured brute would try to show everyone what a sissy I was, but would go home with a broken nose. Being aware of a difference in me I gave my best to hide it, smoulder it somehow, so pretending became the way of my survival. Only at home, when I was sure everyone slept in the middle of the night, I could be myself. Then, I’d put make up on mimicking mom’s movements striving to perfection, dress a skirt or a dress ‘borrowed’ from mom the previous evening and would walk around my room in high heels that fit me perfectly.
The real nightmare began with upcoming of puberty. I felt something was missing and some things were never meant to be where they were. I didn’t hate my body, mind you, but I felt as it became suddenly a stranger I had no idea what to do with. It was a foreign feeling that hit me hard, unexpected in its force for any normal teenager, yet for me becoming unbearable in its inexplicability. For long time I’d stare at my female classmates, sometimes to the point of punishment; my mother and Marko saluted it, not fathoming the actual reason for such behaviour. It lasted for two years after which I could not keep it closed in me anymore; I sensed strongly its venomous effect. My mood started changing, I became withdrawn, pushing myself into isolation, where I could act as I needed to.
Life became so intolerable there was no night when I wouldn’t wish for death; it was only due to my cowardice I didn’t commit suicide. There was no one to talk to, to ask for clarification, advice anything that would solve the mystery of my behaviour. With passing days I was jealous of every girl I saw, pretty or ugly, poor or rich, just for being able to dress nicely, put the make up, flirt with guys, do anything and everything I would get beaten for doing, for being herself. On the top of that, attraction towards guys hit me as hard as a hurricane, leaving me breathless to ponder the depth of my own private curse.
That profound confusion and sorrow was drowned in books; reading became my passion to the point of exhaustion. I read everything I put my hands on, from science and history to cheap love novels, which I admittedly adored. It was so easy to think of myself being cherished and cared for, seduced and loved in the arms of a handsome stranger. These fantasies would lull me into restless sleep every night. It wasn’t long before perfectly stashed father’s books were taken out from dusty boxes where they had been lying for eight years.
And there I found the only help: medical magazines. Everything that was written there , I read hundreds of times before deciding that it was time for a cute looking, slightly short Daniel to become Daniela, a gorgeous woman.