Chapter 3: BOYHOOD

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I didn’t fully love my body. There was a disconnect between my reflection and I. Something was off, like I’m developing wrong. Everything was correct, I’m okay looking with a good body. Yet, something is missing. And there was, my uterus was removed when I was thirteen.

It’s a common procedure for omega males at that age. No one can tell the subgender of a baby unless they have an intense test. The AO gene creates a second set of hormones that present characteristics similar to our base gender. These characteristics show in two categories: Alpha and Omega.

The AO gene was created by man in the early 1900s when a military experiment went haywire. In an attempt to make the perfect soldier, they injected modified wolf DNA into the blood of over a thousand men over the course of ten years. Most men came out exactly how they wanted: beefed up, pumped with testosterone, and aggressive in nature. These men were called ‘Alphas’, named after the packer leader of wolves. However, at least 40% of men came out effeminate; their estrogen levels were abnormally high, and they exhibited an extreme desire towards men with the injection.

A couple decades later, male descendants of the men who’ve had the injection started having babies. In the sixties, they coined the term ‘Omega’ and male hysterectomies became mandatory. Because the AO gene is random, anyone with the gene could give birth to either an Alpha or Omega, meaning women can be either or as well. ‘Beta’ men and women are considered normal because they don’t exhibit features that an Alpha or Omega does—such as having pointed ears or experience heats—and they cannot get an omega person pregnant. I learned the history of my genes the year I got the surgery. Since then, I’ve felt I had a piece ripped from me. I was empty, yet the effects of being an omega still remained. I could be wrong, but I believe these effects is what lead me to try cross-dressing.

The first incident was after the death of my mom, Erena Harper-Voegeli. A few weeks after her funeral, I stepped into one of her black, silk dresses. It was baggy on me and dragged pass my ankles. I missed her deeply and wanted to feel connected to her again. I was nine when she died of a sudden heart attack while I was at school. I didn’t see anything wrong with wearing her dresses to bed and did so for a year. One day, Dad caught me, and he beat my ass with one of his leather belts. It was so painful, so disheartening I wouldn’t dare to think about wearing woman’s clothing again. That is, until I was introduced to the internet.

At thirteen, I browsed ‘boy in girl’s clothes’ on Google and found influencers like Ambrose Star and Charles Maddon, two makeup artists who love to stir up controversy. I followed them on MySpace and became entranced in their lifestyle. The fame, the makeup, the fashion, the freedom, I desired it all. A summer while I was seventeen, I managed to build up the courage to buy my first dress and makeup from a beauty supply store down the block using my birthday money.

My brothers were home when I returned from the long walk. I didn’t speak to them, hurrying to the basement. I put on the skimpy, black dress in the bathroom and watched makeup tutorials on YouTube. By the end, I was in full drag. It wasn’t great, but for the first time, I think I did okay. It was a different aura than t-shirts and jeans. There was a sense of comfort, similar to how I felt in my mom’s dress.

Sometime before I bought the dress, I found a blog for crossdressers called ‘SissiesUnited’. Countless men posted seductive photos of themselves in women’s clothes. I found a home there, especially after I experienced the high. I couldn’t wait to post of picture; however my face wasn’t in any of the photos. I was underage taking raunchy stills of myself and posting them online, but men loved me. By the end of summer, I had over five hundred followers and even made a few online friends.

Wednesday. November 9th. 2011.

School had started again, this time Basil graduated. We still talked on the phone and met up every other Saturday. On a random Tuesday night in September, I happen to drink half a fifth of vodka while on the phone with Basil. Before I got drunk, I put on a purple sundress with matching makeup that took me a few hours to do. I was posting pictures when Basil called. Out of nowhere, I asked him, “What do you think about crossdressers?”

“I don’t think about them often. Why?”

“Just wondering.”

Basil chuckles. “Why? Are you a sissy?”

“How do you know what a sissy is?”

“I know a few things.”

I smile as I look down. “Sure.”

“Answer my question.”

I pause before I open my mouth. “I think so.”

“Really?”

“I’m dressed up right now.”

“Let me see.’

I pinch my legs together. “You wanna see?”

“Yeah. I bet you look hot.”

“Okay. I’ll send you a pic.” I go to the bathroom where I take a quick selfie in the mirror with my iPhone. “I’m sending it to you now.” I slur. I clumsily swipe the screen, sending the picture through the photos app and not paying complete attention. “Sent.”

Basil waits a minute and says, “I didn’t get it.”

I go to my massages and gasp, “Fuck!”

“What?”

I shake my head just as a message appears on screen. It’s from Bailey, my classmate, and the girlfriend of De’Markus. It said: ‘What is this?’ I grab a chunk of my hair. “Shit! Shit, shit, shit! I just sent the picture to a classmate.”

“Oh shit.”

I respond to her, ‘Please delete that. Don’t show anybody.’

She says, ‘Too late. My boyfriend is here, and he already saw it.’

“De’Markus saw the picture.” I cover my eyes. “He’s going to send it to everyone.”

“It’s going to be okay.”

“No it’s not! They’re never going to let it go. I’m already being called a ‘faggot’.”

“Own up to it. You’re a sissy after all.”

I grit my teeth. “If anyone says that to me, I’ll kick their ass.” I soften the grip. “I should just kill myself now.”