He Wasn't Even A Boy! - Chapter 1

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Disclaimer: All characters depicted in this story are 18 years of age or older at the time of the events described. This work is intended for a mature audience and complies with all applicable content guidelines regarding age-appropriate material. It is purely fictional and intended for entertainment purposes only. The content is not meant to promote or endorse any real-life actions. Reader discretion is advised. Enjoy responsibly within the context of fantasy.

(Audio)

I could hear the conversation continue, but as if from a great distance.  

"Are you sure?" my mother asked. "I've not heard of a case around here."  

Doctor Wilson replied. 

"Jack is the first in the entire county. As soon as we got the results from the initial run, we rushed them to Syracuse. They verified it independently. Jack is becoming female, same like the others."  

The others. Dear Lord. Gender Biomorphism, or GB for short, has been around for several years now. The first cases had been documented in such sterling publications as the National Enquirer and Weekly World News. Gender-bending was long a staple of the supermarket tabloid set. 

Most folks, including myself, just laughed. But when the Centers for Disease Control verified the existence of the phenomenon, everyone took notice. By the time the 60 Minutes crew did their profile, no one was laughing anymore.  

I tried to remember what I had heard. Somewhere around 6000 boys across the country had been affected, with a few hundred more each month. There was absolutely no pattern, nothing to track its spread. 

GB could show up anytime, anywhere. It was just one of its many mysteries. Girls were not affected; only boys changed. And only teenagers seemed to fall victim; there had been no recorded cases in anyone over 18.  

My mother had a shocked look on her face. "How, how long does he have?" I realized it was like asking the doctor how much time I had to live. I felt the same way.  "The transition should be complete in about 3 days. 

As you may know, it's a gradual process until the final stage. The body prepares slowly at first, chromosomal, skeletal, etc. Then, it's like an asymptotic curve; the more dramatic, visible changes happen in just a couple of hours."  

Dramatic. Visible. That would mean breasts.  Among other things.  Oh, God, no.  I felt myself grow dizzy as my breathing increased. The doctors quickly had me lower my head and gave me some water. My hands were shaking.

I glanced at my mother. Her face was drained of color, and I wondered if she was feeling faint, too.  After I calmed down, I was ready to continue.  "How?" I asked.  "You mean, how did you get it?" Dr Wilson looked at me.

 I nodded.  She continued. 

"We don't know. As you may already be aware, GB has defied the best scientific minds on the planet. There is no common vector, no path for us to follow, so there is no way to predict where it strikes next, or why."  

"Is there anything that can be done?"  

"No. We've tried a variety of responses on other boys' hormone and gene therapies, metabolic rate reductions, and so on. Nothing works, nothing even delays the impact. No matter what the treatment, every boy affected becomes female."  And so I asked the final question. 

"How female?"  Dr Wilson paused for a moment and looked at me sympathetically. "Completely. In fact, after GB has finished with you, there will be no way for even a doctor to tell you were once a boy."  

I sat there in a state of glum amazement. The Doc spoke. "There's no easy way to put it, Jack. I've known you and your Mom for many year,s so I know how strong you both are. 

Here's a time when you will need that strength."  He spoke again. "Jack, the reality is this by Monday, you will be a girl."  Silence among all four of us. It was just too bizarre to comprehend.  ,"So how do we prepare?" my mother finally asked.  

"I've already made arrangements for Jack to be enrolled in the Gender Reorientation Seminar up in Syracuse." Dr Wilson replied.  

"You mean Girl School?" I snorted derisively.  "That's the colloquial phrase for ,it but don't mock it. GRS is a valuable tool in helping you to transition."  

I'd read about GRS as well. After it became apparent that GB was not going away and was impacting an increasingly larger number of boys, many states set up special facilities for those affected. 

At first, GRS clinics were isolated places where patients could endure physical changes privately, away from the media and other vultures. 

Later, more sophisticated support services were added, including psychological counseling and even training in such feminine activities as cosmetics and hair-styling.  Hence the derogatory name: Girl School. And now I would have to attend. I shuddered.  

"Will he be in any pain?" Mom asked. She still had a worried look on her face, and I was reassured by how much she cared.  

"None, although there is considerable disorientation during the final stages, no one has reported anything like pain. Chances are, he'll be asleep by the end."  'The end' good way to put it.  

They continued their conversation for a few more minutes, setting up the details of where and when I would report to GRS. Meanwhile, I just sat there, still unable to get my mind around it all.  

In the car, my mother and I were quiet. Both of us remained in a state of shock. There were other emotions at work, too. For me, my shock was mixed with horror. 

Everything, EVERYTHING, about my life was going to be different. Friends, family, school, hell, even my very voice would change. And I felt certain it would be a change for the worse. 

It was just too overwhelming to accept.  Like me, I could sense my mother had other feelings besides shock. As I caught her glancing at me, I could see sympathy, worry, and curiosity. I knew she was thinking the same thing I was.  

What kind of girl would I be?  I wasn't sure of the impact of GB on appearance that is, did the boys affected come out looking like their mothers? I took a long look at Mom while she drove. 

You know how it is as a teenager, it's next to impossible to judge the attractiveness of one's own parents. I mean, c'mon, who can imagine their folks as real people? They're just Mom and Dad.  So for perhaps the first time in my life, I really looked at Mom, the way a male would stare at a female. 

And I had to admit she was pretty. Very pretty. About 5'6". Fine, collar-length, medium brown hair, big blue eyes, smooth skin, full breasts, oh God.  Would I look like that? I remembered overhearing her bridge-club friends complimenting Mom on her attractiveness. 

Once, Hal had remarked that my mother was a 'babe,' which gave me the creeps. Kind of like when Candace Bergen played Garth's mom on Wayne's World and was drooled over by Mike Myers. 

I'd felt the same way Garth had; she was my mother, not a woman!  

But now I realize that I might very well end up with a similar appearance. And that really depressed me. I didn't want to imagine myself as a female, but looking at my mother created a picture in my mind of what was going to happen to me.  We arrived home, and I just sat down on the couch, too overwhelmed to move. 

Mom sat down next to me and put her arms around me. I let her do so. We didn't hug often, but now I suddenly felt a deep need to be comforted.  

She spoke. "Jack, I'm not going to insult you by saying I understand what you are going through. I really can't imagine what it's going to be like. But I want you to know I love you, I'm here for you, and I'll help you in every way I can."  

"Like taking me bra-shopping?" I said bitterly.  

"You know that's not what I meant."  I sighed. "I know, Mom, and really, I am grateful. It's just too much to accept. I can't even begin to cope with this."  "I'll help you are my child, whatever your gender, and come what may, I'll accept you for who you are."  

"That's sweet, Mom, and I know you mean it. But that's the problem. Just who am I? I mean, being a boy, growing up as a guy, that's all I know. More to the point, that's all I want to know." 

 "I'll help you to learn. And you may find that if you give it a chance, you might even like it. I enjoyed being a girl, and I've loved being a woman even more. There are advantages, you know."  

"Like wearing short skirts on hot days?" I said, a bit mockingly.  She chuckled. "That's one of the minor ones. Actually, I've always felt there's a certain kind of magic with femininity that men miss out on. 

Of course, I might be biased."  

"Gee, do you think?" I muttered.  "Look, Jack, I'm not trying to say things will be the same. 

We're both realists. Your life will change. Our life together will change, but it doesn't have to be a nightmare. 

There are worse fates than being an attractive young lady."  Maybe she was right. I mean, how bad could becoming a girl really be? Sure, I'd need some new clothes and new running shoes.

Oh no. Running.  And suddenly it came crashing down on me. Now I knew why my workout times had been getting worse.  I was turning into a girl. And girls are slower than boys. A lot slower.

That meant that I, too, would be slow, oh God. I sprinted to my room and fired up my computer.  I'd long since memorized the high school, national, and world records for men's track and field. 

I could tell you the history of who has been the world's fastest miler for the last century. I was nearly as expert on all the other events, too, from the 100-meter dash to the javelin throw. 

Track was practically a religion for me; I'd been running competitively since I was 11. Just like other kids pored over NFL and NBA stats, I studied the IAAF (International Amateur Athletic Federation) record books. 

And I dreamed of my own name being written in. But I'd never paid much attention to the women's marks. After all, it had no impact on my career. I would never compete against them, so their records were not a goal for me. But as I got online and looked at the side-by-side comparisons, I realized with a sinking heart how different the men's and women's standards were. 

100-meter dash: 

Men, Tim Montgomery: 9.78.

Women, Florence Griffith Joyner: 10.49.  It got worse as the distances grew.

400-meter run: 

Men, Michael Johnson: 43.03.

Women, Marita Koch: 47.1  And then I came to the mile. I already knew the current men's record, of course, my hero, the god of the mile: Hicham El Guerrouj of Morocco and his amazing 3:43. 

Then I saw the women's time: Svetlana Masterkova of Russia.  4:12.  Jesus Christ. A few days ago, I ran a 3:59. 

I was just a high-school boy who had never competed in an international race. And I was already nearly fifteen seconds better than the fastest woman miler ever.  

In 1954, Roger Bannister of England did what sports physiologists argued could never be achieved: he broke the 4-minute barrier for the mile. 

In the five decades since then, some 300 men around the world had followed in his footsteps, lowering the record by a remarkable 17 seconds. I'd just joined that elite club myself earlier this week, which only added to my hunger for more.  But now.

No woman had done it. Not even close. If I became a real girl, then I would never run a sub-four mile again. No matter how hard I trained, how much pain I endured, my body would not achieve such speed. Not as a female.  

And just like that, all my dreams were gone.  I know you may have trouble understanding where I'm coming from, but if you have any athletic background of your own, especially as a kid, you've probably indulged in a little fantasy while working out or competing. 

You know, pretending you are in the NBA finals against Jordan, catching the winning pass in the Super Bowl, hitting a home run off Randy Johnson in the World Series. It helps to intensify the experience, makes it more fun. And for a lucky few of us, our fantasies can become reality.  

I'd had many of them during the years of long, grueling workouts. It kept me running that kind of dreaming. And for track and field athletes, we had our own Super Bowl, every four years.  

The Olympics.  That was the one time when track stars could reach the fame of big league athletes, with names like Bruce Jenner, Carl Lewis, and Michael Johnson. 

And I had dreamed of joining them, racing El Guerrouj to a gold medal and world record in front of an audience of billions. And best of all, there was a chance-just a chance-it might have come true for me.  

But now that fantasy was dead. Once I was female, I would be lucky to finish on the same lap as the Olympic men's champion. Even if I ran the mile ten seconds faster than any woman before, I'd still be utterly outclassed by the guys.  I felt an emotional pain that seemed to reach my very soul. 

Maybe, this wasn't really happening. Maybe there had been a mistake after all. Still in my room, I took off all my clothes and studied myself carefully. Like any athlete, I knew my body well. And I couldn't avoid what I was seeing.  It had already begun. 

CHANGES!  It was subtle, but undeniable. There was a definite curve between my waist and my hips that had not been there before. My legs seemed a bit smoother, and higher up, I realized with dismay, there was a hint of puffiness to my chest that was new. 

Oh, it was nothing dramatic, the average 10-year-old girl probably had more, but the nipples were clearly larger, and my 'pecs' (such as they were) appeared rounder. As for my face, once I looked closely, I could see that my nose and mouth were slightly different. I can't really describe it, but when added to my thinning eyebrows, I was less masculine, more androgynous. 

In fact, I thought to my horror, if I put on a wig, I might just pass as a girl already.  It wasn't that I suddenly resembled Britney Spears. 

It was just that when I looked at myself with the knowledge of what was happening, I could now see the preliminary effects of GB. For the moment, the world would still see me as a boy, but that was more due to my walk, my clothes, and my haircut. Take those away, and I could be perceived as feminine.  

And the real changes hadn't even kicked in yet!  

I felt a sense of dismay that reached even deeper than before. I could not deny the evidence in the mirror. The doctors were right, after all, it would soon be impossible to ignore this harsh reality.  

I really was turning into a girl.  I could imagine what was happening inside my body, my chromosomes changing to XX, my body growing smaller, muscles weaker, skin softer. Every breath I took just provided my body with the oxygen it needed to complete the transition from male to female. 

 How could this be happening to me? I'm not supposed to be a girl! I never had any desire to be one. I liked my body, my life, my running, my buddies, my girlfriend, my.

Oh God, Sue!  And now my horror was complete. 

If no, when I became a girl, then Sue and I were finished. I mean, GB doesn't turn girls into boys. That meant Sue and I would be the same sex, we would both be females, and then.  Milford is a small, conservative town. 

There were no Gay Pride parades, and no one at school was out of the closet. Of course, I'm sure we had the same percentages of homosexuals as anywhere else, but here it was definitely 'don't ask, don't tell'. So, what would I be once I was a girl? I refused to think about boys that way. 

Would my feelings for Sue make me a lesbian?  

The thought was too absurd to consider. But I was confident of one thing.

Sue was not gay. Once GB was done with me, there was no chance that Sue and I could have a romantic relationship.  

And that sent my emotions spiraling down still further. I'd always had great affection and more than a little bit of a crush on her. But since we started dating, my desire for her has increased tremendously. 

There was the physical part, I mean, I am a teenager, so of course I dwelt in a near-perpetual state of elevated hormones. Anything that smacked of femininity was highly erotic for me.  But it was more than that with Sue. 

My previous dates had seemed like formulaic efforts at a ritual. I made the moves until the girl told me to stop, then I politely took her home, hoping to get a little farther next time. But Sue and I, clichéd though this may sound, had a connection. 

With Sue, it wasn't about the potential for sex (Okay, there was some of that!), rather, it was the easy, delightful 'specialness' of our time together. That was why I never felt any pressure to escalate to third base or beyond. 

When the time was right, we would both know it. No games, no teasing, no manipulation. That's the kind of girl she was. I loved being with her.  I loved her.  And now, that was lost to me. 

How could we ever make love if we both had vagi? I felt tears coming to my eyes.  

At that moment, my mother opened the door to my room. I was still undressed, and she turned away quickly. I picked up a robe.  

"Don't worry, Mom, nudity won't be an issue for us by Monday," I said harshly.  "I just wanted to see if you were okay," she said.  

"Well, let's see. The 5000 miles I've run in training over the last 4 years are wasted. My athletic scholarships are gone. Sports Illustrated will never call me again. 

I'm going to have to blow my allowance on makeup and nylons. I'm about to become the laughingstock of the school, and, oh yeah, my beautiful girlfriend will be forced to dump me next week. So I'm just fucking peachy!"  She started to walk towards me. I raised my hand to stop her. 

"I know you mean well, Mom, but I'm not really up for hearing the 'it'll be all right' speech right now. I need some time by myself, please?"  She nodded and said, "You know where to find me." 

Then she shut the door.  I got into bed and did something I'd never done before: I cried myself to sleep.  That night, I had some very unsettling dreams. 

You've probably had or at least heard of the classic nightmare of appearing in public nude. Freudian theory argues that it represents the unconscious fear of having one's privacy or secrets exposed. I'd had the dream myself once or twice before.  

These dreams were different, though. Yes, I was in public without any clothes on.  But this time I was a naked girl.  

A jumbled set of images ran through my mind,

 I was in school, on the track, or at a party. But in each scene, two things were common. One, I was nude. And two, I was female. In the dreams, there weren't any physical sensations, just an awareness that I was a girl. Everyone was pointing and laughing at me. 

I kept getting comments like 'nice rack' or 'cute bush, while I desperately searched for something to wear. Embarrassed, I would frantically look in lockers or my backpack, but all I could find were skirts, dresses, and other girls' clothing, which I couldn't bring myself to put on. 

In one dream sequence, still nude, I managed to locate a pair of boxer shorts and pulled them up, only to watch in dismay as they morphed into a frilly pair of girls'... panties. Pink, no less. 

Then, topless, trying to cover my breasts, I found myself surrounded by a group of boys who smiled and hooted as they approached me, too.

I woke up in a cold sweat, the sheets twisted around me. My dreams had unsettled me further. Was this to be my destiny as a girl? 

To be ashamed and disgraced someone to be mocked? Telling myself, a la 'Dallas', that it was only a dream wouldn't work for this nightmare was real.  Shaken, I headed for the shower only to freeze when I saw myself undressed.