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By our sophomore year, we had located an affordable apartment that we could share. We each had separate bedrooms plus a kitchen and a living room.

The rent was more than two dorm rooms but we had much more privacy and less noise. Since I didn't have to worry about one of the guys getting into my stuff, I loaded up all of my clothes from Aunt C's and moved into the apartment full-time.

During my sophomore year, as I became better known among my classmates, I took deliberate pains to cloud my gender.

First, I was tall now 5' 11" but slender lbs. My hair was long and I was virtually beardless but I did not tweeze my eyebrows. My clothes that I wore to class were asexual jeans and sweatshirt.

Second, my voice, though low for a girl was soft. Third, the style that I wore my hair had infinite variations varying from unquestionably feminine to borderline masculine.

Finally, my personality intellectual and emotional could be varied through the spectrum from male to female. Manipulation of these traits allowed a great deal of freedom for me to explore my own gender identity.

I attended most large lectures ie. For smaller lectures, where the instructor was more likely to compare the face to the roster, I attended as Paul.

Even as Paul, I continued to sow as much gender confusion as possible might as well share the wealth. Michelle began to take some nursing courses that required her to do some time in the local hospital.

Naturally she had to buy some uniforms. I loved them. Always a sucker for a gal in uniform. Seriously, I considered changing majors just to be able to wear a nurse's outfit like Michelle's.

Michelle also found a waitress's job a few miles out of town, serving cocktails. She had to wear a very tight-waisted outfit that was "cut down to there, and cut up to here".

I decided that I could endure an occassional pinch for that kind of dough, so with her introduction I applied for a job.

I didn't make anywhere near the money that Michelle did in that job beauty counts for something but it did help out for spending cash.

The outfit was a problem, though. Not so much the "cut up to here," but the "cut down to there" was a toughie. Michelle pitched in by visiting a second gynecologist her gyno already had her on the pill and obtained a second prescription for birth control pills.

After taking them for about a month, my nipples became sore and my breasts began to enlarge. After about six months, I had enough breast development to fill an A-cup bra.

I wasn't going to challenge Dolly but it was going to be hard to look like a boy again. At least topless. The "cut down to there" problem remained, but at least it wasn't flagrant.

Going home to mother was my biggest worry. Oh well, I'd cross that bridge later. The pinches, as I expected, were there even if the tips weren't quite up to Michelle's.

One worry that Michelle didn't have, though, were my testicles and penis. Some drunken cowboy getting a grip on those and the jig was up. I devised a more advanced version of the gaf that I had worn since I was 6.

Previously, I had merely taken an elastic brief, such as a panty girdle, pulled my penis back between my legs, stuffed my testicles up into my abdomen, and caught the whole mess with the girdle.

Occassionally, the penis would slip to the side, but more often it would simply creep forward, coming to rest as a lump of unwanted flesh at the tip of my pubis bone.

My new gaf improved upon this by providing a pocket into which the penis was inserted, thus preventing it from slipping sideways.

It also allowed for the head of the penis to be secured and pulled backwards with the gaf. The final improvement involved finding a corset-type garment to attach the gaf to.

This was the hardest part. Corsets went out of favor many decades ago and therefore one cannot expect Sears or Penneys to carry them in their catalog.

The Yellow Pages weren't much help either. For the short term, I bought what was termed a "waist nipper". I sewed the gaf to the front of the nipper and put eyelets into the back, so that I could draw the laces, that I had sewn to the gaf, tightly towards the rear.

Utimately, I found a manufacturer of a Victorian style corset and had one made to my measurements. The gaf I had designed for the nipper worked well with the corset and my worries about being "felt-up" all but vanished.

The corset provided one additional benefit. Without the corset, my waist-line was nothing special. With the corset, I was able to bring my waist from it's natural 28" to a corsetted 24".

After a few months, I was able offer a corsetted waist of 22" and an uncorsetted waist of 24 inchs. My gender ambiquity was become more difficult to maintain.

The waitress job forced me to take a definite posture towards my feminine side, most of which was difficult, if not impossible, to reverse the next morning.

Obviously I was going to have to make some difficult decisions soon. I knew that I did not want to go through life appearing as a man, though I felt comfortable "being" a man.

I knew mother would be hurt and probably wouldn't understand. Aunt C probably would understand but I didn't know she could help.

My professors would have to be told since the classes at the junior and senior level were definitely small enough for them to associate names and faces.

I asked for, and was granted, an appointment with the Head of the Psychology Department. I felt that I needed some help making these decisions and thought he might be in position to recommend someone knowledgable about my problem.

On the appropriate day I was greeted by Professor Ferguson himself. He gave me a warm handshake with his big dry paws.

Directing me to the chair upholstered in well worn leather, he took up a position behind his desk. Leaning on his elbows over his enormous desk, he inquired how help be of service.

My hopes rose. I told him, as briefly as could, my career at the university. I then told him of my extracurricular life.

He didn't bat a lash. I told him that I felt I had reached a crucial decison point in my life and hoped that he could recommend someone who could help me with these decisions.

He smiled warmly and sat back in his chair. On this campus alone, that means that there are some students facing the same questions that you face.

Most will never resolve their conflicts. There is, however, a colleague of mine who is also knowledgable about this problem.

Let me give you her name and extension. No, better yet let's see if she has time to come here now. Professor Ferguson picked up the phone and dialed a few numbers.

He chatted amiably for a few seconds, inquired if the callee was free for a few minutes and then replaced the receiver.

We chatted for a couple of minutes about campus life, weather and so forth, until there was a tap on the door and Professor Young walked into the office.

I recognized him instantly from his press clippings. He was a rising star in the academic world for his research into the fundemental causes of dyslexia.

Professor Ferguson briefed Professor Young about my situation, recanting almost exactly every detail I had told him. When Professor Ferguson was finished, Professor Young turned to me and invited to follow him to his office.

Young's office was a good deal less opulent than Ferguson's and a good deal messier. There were 2 foot stacks of books lining every inch of the wall around his office.

His desk was buried beneath 4 inches of papers and books. Apparently profesors and students weren't that different after all.

He asked me to elaborate on the briefing he received from Professor Ferguson, which I did. When I was finished, he said "your course seems clear, your mind seems clear, how can I help?

When he sensed my confusion at his response, he added "Look, most students your age are still wrestling with fetishism, how to hide episodic crossdressing from their parents or peers, or whether they're homosexual.

You seem to have a clear idea of what you are and you have lived enough in both genders to have a basis to form an educated decision.

I explained to Professor Young that I anticipated some of my professors would have difficuly accepting me as Paula in their classrooms and that an authoritative person that they could be referred to might help.

I shared my doubts that my mother could accept my decision, but added that I had a sympathetic aunt, my mother's sister. He felt that whatever decision I made had to be right for me and only me.

When I decided what was right, he would help to make it happen. I thanked him for his time and went back to our apartment.

I continued in the identity that I had established for each part of my life school, work, Michelle for the remainder of the semester. As the end of the semester approached, I prepared myself to discuss my plans with Mom.

About two weeks before the semester was to end, I called Aunt C and prepared her for what she was to see and to ask her advice about Mom. She suggested that she drive over to the school and see me before I went home.

I readily agreed, so we made a date for the next saturday. Aunt C showed up at our apartment at 9 am. None of us.

Hershey Pennsylvania or Virginia Beach would be a very special trip. With nothing to do, and few kids to do it with, Judy, Claire, and myself came up with a brilliant idea.

We needed a boy and the only one available was my brother. We were 8 and 9. Judy and Claire were cousins and lived across the street from each other.

The plot was simple. We corralled him into the small bathroom in our basement, the one that was designated for handwashing while doing loads of wash or relieving oneself if you were in the small backyard.

It had a shower, but the whole room was tiny. Poor Jim. He was small. A tiny thing at age six and outnumbered 3 to 1. We should pull down our pants too he said.

A fair amount of negotiation took place. Would we pull down our pants and pull up our shirts? He pulled down his pants very quickly then pulled them back up.

White jockey shorts! Everything had to come down! More negotiations resulted in an agreement that one of us had to lift our shirt first for that.

Why is was me, I do not know. Maybe because I was the youngest of the girls. I did. The modesty that begins to arise around that age was in full force.

I did it. It was a flash. My t-shirt went up and down as quickly as his trousers went down and up. Again the standoff. He had made a deal. We instisted he stick to it.

Judy and Claire were next. They did it, mimicking my swift action. Claire, the oldest, had small buds: a poorly timed blink would have meant missing them.

Nonetheless, there was no bargaining power left for my brother. If he emerges from his bedroom of our Montauk family house wearing only underwear, as he is known to do many morning, I have to avert my eyes.

A flash of the memory from that summer day hits me, with no small amount of embarrassment and shame. Now he is no longer a skinny little kid. And yes.

No sooner had my brother revealed himself, my mother banged on the door. Get out right now. Do you have a playing doctor story?

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This was to no avail. Out came the familiar pillow, towel, Vaseline jar and equipment. She placed the pillow and towel across the bed with the Vaseline jar being placed on the left hand side of the towel.

I heard her begin to run the water and continued to plead for her not to do it. The enema was placed on the bed. Down went my shorts and underwear, leaving me naked from the waist down.

I told my mother that I did not want her to do it. My mother replied, "Okay, I will let your uncle Marvin do it.

He was a medic in the war and he has given enemas on many occasions. My uncle , of course, declined the honors but watched as my father held the bag.

After my mother greased the syringe, my aunt Elizabeth sat down on the bed on my left hand side. She held my arms and hands while my mother went about the business of insertion.

I did the usual kicking, wiggling, screaming and crying. I remember as the enema flowed in, my aunt held in her hands a toy of Santa Claus on skis which belonged to me.

She showed it to me and told me to play with it to take my mind off the enema. Needless to say, I didn't want to see Santa Claus. The enema continued.

I had settled down to just bawling. My cousin was playing at the foot of the bed watching the entire process. My mother turned to him and said, "Tell him that it doesn't hurt.

The enema continued to flow. I began to cry out that I had to use the bathroom. No response; the enema continued. I don't want to be doing this again in a day or so.

I might not have all of this good help. This enema experience at the age of four or five is probably, in retrospect, my favorite episode, although at the time I still thoroughly detested receiving them.

It was a weekday morning. I was once again sitting in the living room floor playing with a toy car or truck.

I was wearing no socks, but I had on a striped T-shirt and shorts. While playing, I heard my mother telephone a neighbor.

When you get through with that, I want you to come down and help me give Bobby an enema" I, immediately, jumped up and began to cry, telling my mother "I don't need an enema; I don't want an enema.

She will not be here for awhile. If you have gone to the bathroom when she gets here, one will not be necessary.

Plenty worried, I returned to play in the living room. I was hoping she would not come for a couple of hours.

I, then, heard a knock on the door; It was neighbor Louise. She hadn't waited any hour or two. Whatever she was doing at home before arriving had only taken her five or ten minutes to finish.

Immediately, Louise and my mother went into the bathroom to make the necessary preparations. Out once again came the traditional head pillow, towel, Vaseline jar and enema equipment.

I was pleading with them that I didn't need an enema; That I didn't want an enema. Once everything was prepared and placed on the bed, my mother told Louise to remove my pants and underwear.

I at this stage was stomping and crying. What was I going to do? I, immediately, announced to my mother and Louise I had to use the bathroom.

Jerking free , naked from the waist down, I flew into the bathroom positioning myself on the toilet. To this day I remember the two of them sticking their heads through the bathroom door watching.

I remember my mother saying, "You can't go; You are all stopped up. While this verbal exchange was going on, my mother decided to try some psychology.

She stated that if I would not let Louise and her give me an enema , she was going to take me to the doctor's office to be given one.

I well remember her saying, "Those nurses won't be as easy on you as Louise and I. She then inquired whether they would do it and when she could bring me into the office.

Here I was on the toilet, thinking to myself, the last place I wanted to go was the doctor's office. They might not stop with an enema. I, immediately, jumped off the toilet seat and told my mother, "Ok, but I want Louise to do it because you hurt so bad.

I went to the bedroom where I was placed on my stomach on the towel with my head on the pillow, completely dreading what was to come.

Louise greased the enema nozzle, spread my cheeks and inserted it up my rear end. I never liked an enema nozzle being shoved into my rectum.

I always cried while receiving an enema; it was always a mad, angry cry. I screamed and pounded my fist vigorously up and down on the bed, kicking my feet into the air while wiggling from side to side.

I then heard the bag lady, my mother, say: "Get it way up there, Louise. I , however, continued to cry letting everyone know I was not a happy camper.

I heard my mother ask Louise, "Does Joe," her son my age, "cry and carry on when you give him an enema? My mother replied, "That must be so nice.

We have to go through this every time with him. Even though all of my uproar, except the crying, had subsided and the chit chat had ceased, my enema continued.

I began to cry out to be allowed to use the bathroom. The enema continued on. Beside myself, I screamed that I needed to use the bathroom.

I flew to the toilet. My mother thanked Louise for her help reciting she really needed it with me. She then came into the bathroom to see how I was doing.

When I was five or six years old we moved into a larger house with a den next to the kitchen. The den was near both bathrooms. I can only remember while living there being given two enemas.

Both time they were administered at my mother's insistence for nausea. The first enema in the new house was given to me one evening by my parents.

I had thrown up all over the bathroom. My mother, after cleaning me up, ordered me to get into my bed. Bedclothes were not to be issued to me until after I had received an enema.

I, of course, protested loudly but I did go to bed naked as ordered. After the enema was prepared, I was told to come into the den.

There I saw the traditional pillow, towel and Vaseline jar lying on the den floor rather than on a bed. I was told to lie down on the floor.

I cried and protested as usual. My father once again held the bag, while my mother got on her hands and knees to insert the nozzle. I must have really given them a hard time, kicking and screaming but the enema was given anyway.

My last childhood enema that I protested came as a surprise. It was Saturday morning. I had once again thrown up. I was told to take my naked self to bed until called for my enema.

I started to raise hell that I didn't want one. A next door neighbor stuck her head in the kitchen backdoor and asked what was going on..

When informed, the neighbor laughed at my predicament but agreed to go to her house and look for a smaller enema syringe.

I always complained about the nozzles being too large even though they were normal in size. She did return with some kind of nozzle.

I don't know which my mother decided to use. My mother filled the bag up in the kitchen sink. The pillow and towel were all already in place on the den floor.

The next thing I remember was lying naked on the den floor as ordered by my father. Recalling my last enema episode, my father this time sat down in the floor to personally give me the enema.

Knowing the routine and how I resented these affairs, he literally sat across my legs pinning me securely to the floor.

A minute later, I heard, for the first time, the most wonderful sound in the world: an enema clamp snapping open. I really enjoyed the way the water just flowed into my ass, pouring inside me, without the stop and start of the bulb.

I took the entire bag without once asking her to stop, which got me a lot more praise from her. When I heard the bag gurgle, and saw that it was empty, as she shut the clamp, I told her I liked this way of taking enemas much better, and asked if I could take all my enemas this way from now on.

She smiled, and told me of course. I lay on the bed holding it in and feeling wonderful, especially when I realized I still had to take a plain water enema after this one!

Over the next few weeks, I made sure that I got lots of enemas, and even started asking for them when certain people were in the house, in particular some cousins of mine who were grown women.

I was always very embarrassed about having them see me take my enemas, but I found I couldn't resist having them see me take them. Also, I noticed my sister, who was well into puberty by this time, rarely missed one.

In fact, after a few weeks, my mother told her that if she was always going to be there, she should make herself useful, and hold the bag up.

She always held it up very high, and would sometimes stand on the bed and have the tubing going straight up, if I was plugged up badly, and the water wouldn't go in.

She loved to see me get my enemas, and was always telling Mom that she thought I needed one, which was fine with me.

When I hit puberty, my enema experiences changed radically: I noticed that my cock always got hard from two things, pretty girls and enemas.

I had no idea why, at first, but I realized that I always got hard as soon as Mom slipped the nozzle into my ass, and while it felt great, I didn't know what to do with it.

The first time I got up to go to the bathroom with a hard on, I remember my sister giggling at me, and my mother telling her to stop. After a week or two of this, Mom made a change.

Years later, my sister told me that Mom had always gotten turned on by giving me enemas, but felt wrong doing it once I hit puberty.

So, she finally convinced Dad to let her give him enemas, and, according to Sis, they still do that frequently, and they both enjoy it.

So one day, Mom told me I was too old to get enemas from her anymore, so my sister would give them to me from then on. She said I had to take them whenever my sister said to, just as if it came from her.

The first time Sis gave me one by herself, without Mom watching, she got the bag ready, then came into my room and told me to undress.

I was hard by the time I got stripped, and she looked at it, shaking her head. I asked what she meant, and she pointed at my cock.

She said to lie down and she'd show me something I'd like. When I was on my belly, she slid in the nozzle and told me to start rubbing it against the towel.

Of course, as soon as I started I knew I was onto something great. She opened the clamp, and as the water started filling my ass, my cock felt better and better.

Shed been holding the nozzle fully inserted, but then she started fucking my ass with it, slipping it in and out as I wiggled up and down.

At that age, it only took a few strokes before I came for the first time, with a scream. Of course, I still had most of the bag to take, and take it I did.

Lying there, in a puddle of cum, with the nozzle pouring water into me, made the warmth of the orgasm seem to go on forever.

When I had the whole bag in me, my sister told me that whenever I got hard, I should tell her, and she'd give me an enema to take care of it.

From that day on, I got 3 or more enemas daily. One day, I came home from school with a throbbing erection, unable to think of anything but getting an enema.

I walked into my sister's room to ask for one, but she had a girlfriend over. She asked what I wanted, but I couldn't bring myself to ask in front of her friend.

She told me she knew what I wanted, and I shouldn't hesitate to mention it, just because she had company. I still couldn't say anything, so I just told her it was nothing, and started to leave.

You need an enema, don't you? I could only nod my head. All my friends know about your problem, she won't mind moving into your room while I give it to you.

Go get ready. By this point, I was usually able to keep from cumming until I'd taken the entire enema, so my sister would have me roll over onto my back, and jerk off so she could watch me shoot.

That was fortunate, since that's what she wanted me to do in front of her friend. In fact, that's what she made me do in front of most of her friends, over the next few months.

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