When I Was A Boy

During childhood, as Dar Williams can attest, genders are not so staid and solid as they will later become. To be sure, I went through phases when I would not wear pants, and had names for the pink dress with three unicorns on the front, and the purple dress with tiny valentines. But probably before that, and certainly for most of childhood and life after, I was a different sort of kid.

I have a picture of me at my 10th birthday party, wearing a pair of cut-off jean shorts with holes all around the bottom, with blood caked down my leg from some fall or scrape, and a huge grin on my face. I fell somewhere in the middle of the girl-boy continuum. I played with Barbies constantly, but mostly they were wild jungle heroines, saving Ken from some unknown danger. Other times Ken would rescue Barbie and they would fight along side. I made my own outfits for them, out of bits of handkerchief and clothes pins. And yes, I tied them up. Other times I was a superhero, and other times a harem girl, and I was aware of my sexuality from a young age. And I noticed early on that little girls have a cruelty that boys don't have. Boys can tease, and they can ignore, but they don't have the same calculated, planned unkindness that girls have for those that don't make the cut. I, of course, never did, and so I decided for a while that I would be a boy.

It didn't really work, but all through middle school I wore boys' pants, I hung out with boys, I worked hard to become One Of The Guys, and rather than fight the laughing misogyny of the young bastards I hung out with, I absorbed it. I have it to this day, meshing poorly with deep seated feminism -- a feeling that if women are just as smart and capable as men are, if only they would stop being so fucking irrational all the time.

And there I was, in college. I liked to wear wide-leg pants and small, tailored velvet blazers, and put my hair up into a news-boy cap. At the prom party, I went as another girls date, with my hair slicked back, in a tail coat and a collared shirt unbuttoned to show my wonder-bra-ed breasts. I love boys in corsets and girls with shaved heads, a helpless devotee of androgyny.

So, this is me. And then I met a Boy who liked to be fucked.

And here is where it gets interesting: I love fucking boy, I love strapping on a cock, but wearing a cock while I fuck him makes me feel... well, androgynous, yes. But very much on the Female side of androgyny. I am a woman with a cock, powerful and lovely. I love that feeling.

Recently, however, we began to be unhappy about the fact that with the glorious harness Boy made for me, I cannot be fucked while wearing the cock. We were unsure what to do to solve the problem, until Boy remembered the rope-harness we learned in Bondage You Can Use by Lee "Bridget" Harrington, the bestest of the best of Sex and Bondage Educators. It took a bit of modification, but suddenly I could wear a cock and still have my girlbits exposed. I could have a cock, and still be fucked.

In this submissive position, my cock meant a whole other thing. It never occurred to me that I was a girl in that context: I was a boy, submissive to a bigger, stronger Boy. And I LOVED it. I had never been a boy the way I was like that, even though vaginal intercourse made my girl parts very apparent. Nor had I ever felt submissive in the same way I did, with my hard silicone cock pushed into the bed and the base pushing against my pubic mound, turning me on even more as Boy fucked me.

So what does it mean, do you think, that when I wear a cock and am dominant, I remain a female thing, but when I wear it and submit I become a boything? I don't know how to parse it. I just know that I want more. I want to be a submissive boy and a dominant girl. Maybe not forever or exclusively, but this does a new pieces in the jigsaw puzzle of my gendering.

Plus also, funsex. More please soon.