Aunt Sioux
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A Boy Named Sioux free porn video
A Boy Named Sioux
By Missy Crystal
It all started innocently enough. My parents were hippies. When we were
born, my twin sister and me, they were traveling in their flower-power VW
minibus though the West, heading for a commune in the smoky mountains of
San Francisco. Yes, I know. The Smoky Mountains are on the East Coast.
Smoky, as in getting stoned on pot. Okay, and there aren't any mountains
in SF either, just hills. High is high, no matter where you are. So sue
me.
Actually, that's what this is all about. Me being Sue. They decided to
give us non-establishment names, so they picked two of the local Indian
tribes. My sister was Cheyenne and I was Sioux. Maybe if they weren't
buzzed all the time, they would have seen the problem. I mean, Navajo or
Apache or Comanche, would have been fine. I could have been Jo or Che, a
good revolutionary name, but no, I was Sue, at least that's how it
sounded to everyone.
It wasn't so bad growing up. I mean a baby doesn't care what he's called.
By the time we were toddlers, people were always mistaking us for
identical twins with our shoulder length curly blonde hair, although, of
course, identical twins aren't of different sexes. Mom, Sunshine to her
friends, which, by her philosophy, was anyone who didn't wear a uniform,
and Dad, Moondog, don't ask me where that came from, had pretty much
forgotten about us. I mean, it wasn't like they didn't want us kids, it
was just that their idea of parenting was to let us run around without
supervision while they tripped out.
There wasn't too much trouble we could get into in a commune and there
was always someone around to give us a plate of tofu and a glass of soy
milk when we were hungry. No animals died for our nourishment, or for our
clothes for that matter, which were tie-dyed cotton t-shirts that hung
down to our knees or, when it was really hot, tie-dyed tank-tops. Mom was
really into tie-dying. It had something to do with the psychedelic
colors. By the time we were four, Cheyenne and I were sisters as far as
anyone knew or cared, which was fine with us. Then two things happened
that changed my life or at least my gender.
First, Moondog got called up for the draft and had to take it on the lam
to Canada. Second, we were supposed to follow him, but, before Mom could
get herself organized, a monumental task for someone whose daily activity
was experiencing the subtle differences between domestic and Mexican
cannabis, the child welfare people showed up and whisked us off to a
state home. Now Mom was in a quandary. She could abandon us and head for
Canada to be with Dad or she could stick around, try to straighten
herself out and get us back. To her credit, she decided to stay, although
the fact that the narcs raided the commune, arrested her and confiscated
the minibus might have had something to do with it.
Eventually Mom was released and, since she was broke, she cleaned herself
up and found herself a job as a waitress at an SF vegan restaurant.
Sunshine went back to being Sarah and she worked her way up to shift
manager, which earned her enough to rent a studio apartment. It also got
her enough credit with DCW to have us returned to her, but what to do
with us during the day was a problem. Finally, she found a woman in the
building who would look after us, along with her own two girls.
Oh, did I mention that when we were put into the state home, everyone
assumed that Cheyenne and I were twin girls? I mean, if I had been Jo or
Che, it might have been different, but when people asked me my name, not
being able to spell, I told them Sioux and, of course, the forms got
filled out as Susan. Then again, when they asked my sister her name, they
assumed that what she said in four year old kid-speak was that she was
shy and her name was Ann, so she got put down as Ann. I was happy with
the mistake, because it meant we could stay together. When they handed
out our uniforms, we both got white cotton panties, white cotton socks, a
white cotton blouse with a round collar, a white polished cotton full
slip, a dark blue jumper and dark blue Mary Janes. A blue cotton nightie
too.
If there was any question about us both being girls before, the clothes
put an end to them, and we were assigned to the girls' dormitory. My
secret was discovered when we showered. The older girls knew a boy when
they saw one, but, nobody would tattle on me, as we considered the adults
who ran the place to be our common enemy, so I got to stay. By the time
we left, I was accepted as one of the girls and I could skip rope, play
jacks, make a cat's cradle and put my hair in pigtails with the best of
them.
When Mom came to get us, they gave her our outfits. Since she was just
barely able to afford the apartment, there were no new clothes for me,
and, since she was pretty liberal about my sister and me anyway, having
been a hippie, I continued to wear my girl's clothes. That's how I was
dressed when she dropped me off at the neighbor's apartment on her way to
work. The woman showed us around and introduced us to her two daughters.
Katherine or Kitty was almost nine and Patricia or Patsy just turned
seven. The girls went to school and were getting ready to leave. Their
school was only a few blocks away and Kitty was old enough to walk her
sister there. Looking at her watch and realizing she was going to be
late, Mom hurried off, neglecting to tell our new caregiver that all
wasn't as it seemed when it came to me.
Once her girls left, Mrs. Eldridge brought out a big box of their old
toys, dolls and accessories, and my sister and I played on the living
room floor while she went about her housework. So it went for a few
months, until one rainy afternoon. Kitty and Patsy came home from school
a couple of hours before Mom picked us up. Usually, they would ignore us,
because they were big girls and we were little girls, but this particular
day they were bored and decided to play babysitter.
The girls took babysitting literally. They wanted to practice taking care
of a real baby, so they could use their experience to earn some extra
money when they got older. They found some diapers their mom had packed
away and had us undress. It was perfectly harmless fun. Kitty and Patsy
helped my sister and me out of our shoes, dresses and slips, leaving us
standing in our socks and little white panties. Kitty picked up my
sister, pretending she was a baby and talking soothing baby talk as she
put her on the bed. She pulled down her panties and then lifted her legs,
slipping a diaper under her bottom. Kitty demonstrated to Patsy how to
fold the diaper in a triangle, bring the corners together and fasten them
with big safety pins. The diaper was really skimpy, but she managed to
get it on my sister.
Next it was my turn. You can imagine the surprised looks on the girls'
faces when they pulled down my panties. They asked me why I was dressed
up as a girl and I told them, as logically as a five year old could, that
our mother always dressed my sister and me the same. After thinking about
it, Kitty agreed that we had to do what our mothers told us and,
actually, this was good, because now they could practice on a baby boy,
so she continued to put on my diaper. Maybe the girls thought their
mother knew or maybe they thought it was a fun secret, but, whatever
their reason, they never told on me.
By the end of the school year, Mom and our neighbor had become good
friends. We would all go out to eat or to a movie together. Kitty and
Patsy were really sweet and always treated me as a girl. They would even
take me to the girl's room with them. Of course, the bags of their
outgrown clothes that their mother gave to our mother and that Mom
dressed us in probably helped. I mean, it's hard to think of someone in a
pink and white gingham sundress, pink socks with white bows and pink
sandals as a boy. Even more so when he has long, curly blonde hair down
his back and cotton candy pink nails from playing beauty shop.
Now you're probably asking yourself, why would my mother go along with
this? Well, I found out later that my sister and I were the result of her
participation in the free love movement. Tune in, turn on and get knocked
up. Dad or, more correctly, our father, split on her while she was in
jail. From what she heard, drugs weren't the only thing he was
experimenting with. Moondog discovered that he was actually a gay dog and
took up with some other draft dodger. That probably didn't make her too
fond of men. Add to that how much easier and convenient it was for a
single mother to raise two girls, the economy of her being able to double
our wardrobe by sharing Kitty's and Patsy's old clothes, and how well I
got along as a girl in general and with my sister in particular, there
was no reason for her to press the issue of my manhood.
Everything went well until the end of the summer, when Mom got letters
from the School Department reminding her that my sister and I needed to
be registered for kindergarten. The DCW must have sent over information
about us, because the forms had us down as Susan and Ann. Our going to
school wouldn't have been a problem. We would be at the same elementary
school as Kitty and Patsy, so they could walk us there and take us to
their house after school, until Mom got home from work. However, in order
for us to be registered, we had to have proof that we had our shots and a
physical. Now, you have to remember that Mom was not big on government
authority and the less she had to do with the man, as she referred to
officials, the better. She figured that since they had made the mistake
about me, it was up to them to fix it.
Mom took the next Monday off and brought us down to the free clinic for
our shots and exam. My sister and I both had on shorts, tank tops, mine
was pastel yellow and hers was white with multi-colored butterflies, and
sandals. We took the bus to the clinic and went in. Mom spoke to the
receptionist, who motioned for us to take a seat in the waiting room with
about a hundred other mothers and children waiting for their shots and
physicals. About an hour later a nurse came out and directed us into an
examining room. She had my sister and I take off our tops, shorts and
shoes. At that age, with our panties on, we looked the same. She asked
which one of us was Sue. I said I was. She had me get on the scale,
checked my height and weight, took my temperature and blood pressure, and
wrote it all down on the form, then she did the same for my sister. She
went out and came back with a tray on which were some syringes and
bottles.
The nurse gave us our shots, recorded it on the immunization record
card, handed the physical form to Mom on a clipboard to complete the
information about our health, told us the doctor would be in to see us
shortly and left. It took Mom about ten minutes to finish both forms and
then we waited and waited and waited, but the doctor never showed up.
Finally, Mom had enough. She noticed that there was a diploma on the wall
with a doctor's name on it. She signed his name to the forms, peeled off
the pink patient's copies, left the clipboard on the counter, took the
immunization record cards and we left. Power to the people.
Mom sent back the forms and the Tuesday after Labor Day, she brought us
for our first day of school. Our neighbor had given us a collection of
school clothes and Mom found similar dresses. Mine was a blue and pink
plaid A-line with long sleeves under which I wore a plain white nylon
full slip and, since this was a special occasion, white lace trimmed
nylon panties replaced my usual plain cotton ones. White ankle socks and
blue Mary Janes completed my outfit. My sister's dress was blue and
yellow plaid. We each got Monkeys lunch boxes that Mom found on sale at
the local five and dime store, although, not being able to read, we had
no idea whose pictures were on it. When I got older, I heard some of
their songs and understood why they were on sale.
School was fun. We played house with the other little girls. There was a
pretend stove and refrigerator with miniature food. Sometimes we did art
projects. We girls all drew pretty pictures of flowers and families with
children playing. My sister and I become recognized as "the twins" and we
went to lots of our girl classmates' birthday parties. Kitty and Patsy
had a nice assortment of party dresses with big fluffy petticoats, sheer
tights and shoes with ankle straps and little heels which we inherited.
Mom did our hair in French braids and we looked adorable. Even at that
age, we were heartbreakers and at lunch we had an endless supply of Ring
Dings, Devil Dogs, raspberry filled, pink and white marshmallow frosted,
coconut covered Hostess Snoballs, my personal favorite, and Scooter Pies
from our shy little boy admirers.
Everything went well until the sixth grade, when the girls were shown a
movie about menstruation in health class and the changes that would be
happening to our bodies when we reached puberty. According to the
narrator, we could look forward to cramps, bloating, headaches, backaches
and a bloody flow every month. The good part was that along with our
period came breasts. We all knew that having breasts was important,
because boys would want to take us out on dates and try to get to second
base, once we had bases for them to get to. Since the film was not very
explicit and our gym teacher, who doubled as the girls' health teacher,
was not particularly adept at gynecology, I looked forward to the day
when I too could slap some fresh boy's face when he tried to feel me up.
About a couple of months after the movie, my sister developed little
swellings on her chest and her nipples began to puff up. Of course, I was
still flat. Mom found some training bras for her in the clothes from our
neighbor. They weren't much, just a band of stretchy material with straps
that pulled over her head. There were three plain white ones and a pink
one with white lace edging and a little white ribbon bow in the center.
The next morning, my sister put on one of the white ones and chose a box
pleated skirt and thin white cotton short-sleeved blouse through which
you could see the outline of the bra. We shared a room and a bureau, so I
put on the other white one, stuffed in some Kleenex to give me a little
shape and found a similar outfit. When we came down to breakfast, Mom
gave me a curious look. At school, the girls were all excited about our
new bras and the boys were all excited in a different way. There was this
one boy, Jeremy, who had a crush on us. My sister, the flirt, made sure
to brush against him as we left homeroom, resulting in his shuffling down
the corridor holding his notebook in front of him.
Then it happened. A few months later, she woke up one morning and saw
that there were spots of blood in her panties. She excitedly showed Mom
and they hurried into the bathroom for her initiation into the rites of
feminine protection. I started to follow, but Mom shook her head and
closed the door. As time went on, my sister moved up to an A-cup bra,
with a little help at first from the padded inserts, and started to
develop a feminine figure, while I moved in the opposite direction. Mom,
having reached the age at which she previously would have considered
herself untrustworthy, tried to deal with my puberty maturely.
She took me aside and explained the facts of life, including the
developmental significance of the boy parts I did have and the girl parts
I didn't have. The truth hurt. It was not that I really believed I was
female, the thing I had to tuck into my panties every morning was a
constant reminder that I wasn't. It was just that, well, to my na?ve way
of thinking, just because I was a boy didn't mean I couldn't be a girl,
if I wanted to be one. I liked to wear girl's clothes, skirts and blouses
and party dresses with lacy slips or frilly petticoats, tights and shoes
with heels. I liked to have my hair and nails done, to wear lipstick when
Mom let us, and to look pretty. My friends were all girls. I did all the
things my sister did and I didn't do anything boys did, like sports. So
why wasn't I a girl?
Mom explained that, although I could choose my own lifestyle, the
physical changes that were going to happen to me would make it hard for
people to accept me as a girl. Once that happened, she continued, the
intolerance of both children and adults for what in those days was
insensitively called queers would result in my getting teased, probably
beaten up and certainly thrown out of school. She knew this from her own
experience, because hippies were treated that way. She and her friends
got called names, were harassed by the police, sometimes they were beaten
up or thrown in jail and some were even killed, just because they were
different. She assured me that I had time to think things over, because
the changes would be gradual and most likely I could get through the rest
of the school year as a girl, if I was careful. We hugged for a while
and, when we parted, I told her that I was sure that I would not and
could not be a boy. Mom nodded, kissed me on the forehead and told me she
would support my choice.
As Mom predicted, nobody noticed me, but that was mostly because the
other girls were developing into teenagers and I looked like their little
sister. There's only so much you can do with Kleenex. Since my sister and
the other girls were obsessed with dating, I was left behind socially
too. Not that I didn't want to have a boyfriend to take me to the movies
and buy me ice cream sodas at the drug store, but I couldn't take the
chance of some boy putting his hand where it didn't belong and figuring
out that he wasn't on third base. The school year dragged by and I was
relieved when we graduated, but that also meant the time for me to choose
my gender was running out.
Mom was patient, but, after a couple of weeks of my moping around, partly
because I couldn't make up my mind and partly because my sister looked
like Annette Funicello in her bikini and I looked like Twiggy in my tank
suit, she called a family pow-wow, particularly appropriate considering
that our Indian names were the cause of the problem. My sister's solution
was very simple. Of course I was a girl and anybody who wanted a piece of
me because of it had to come through her first. Mom said she was proud of
her for standing by me, but that confrontation and violence were the
cause of the problem, not the solution. I had to make this decision on my
own and live with it.
I tried to picture myself as a boy and couldn't. It wasn't the clothes or
the hair or the makeup that made me want to be a girl. We had a dress
code in school and girls could only wear pants in the winter under their
skirts or dresses, but I wore jeans, plain tops, socks, and penny loafers
or sneakers on the weekends, I pulled my hair back in a pony tail most of
the time and wearing makeup was reserved for special dress-up occasions.
The problem was that I didn't have anything in common with boys. There
were a few in my class who were quiet and shy, but most of them were
loud, crude and physical. I could never be like that. Great, I thought. I
was doomed. Either I would be teased and tormented as a boy, because I
was a sissy, or I would be teased and tormented as a girl, because I was
a queer. I started to cry.
Mom came over and comforted me. I told her that I did not want to be a
boy. I had already signed up for Home Ec and boys had to take Shop. Not
exactly a compelling reason for gender reassignment, but it was a start.
I didn't know anything about being a boy, I went on, gaining momentum. I
didn't even know how to use the boy's room. Actually, it was Mom's fault.
When my sister and I were little, she potty trained us at the same time,
so I learned to pee sitting down. That got a giggle from my sister, who
probably pictured me standing in front of the toilet with my panties and
tights down around my ankles, trying to hold my skirt out of the way
while I went. For my part, I could see the other boys wetting themselves
as their attention was distracted from the business at hand by the
spectacle. Returning to a more rational consideration of my choices, I
told Mom that either I could pretend to be someone I wasn't or I could
pretend to be someone I was. I chose to be a girl.
Mom nodded and smiled. She said she expected that would be my decision
and had made some arrangements, but she didn't want to say anything that
would influence me. First, she told us that we didn't have birth
certificates. Neither of us knew what that meant. Mom explained that when
a baby is born a record is made with the all of the information about
them, like the name of their parents and grandparents, their date of
birth, place of birth and sex. However, when she went into labor they
were driving through some small town. She couldn't remember the name or
even the state, because her head was so messed up in those days. They
found a hospital and she delivered my sister and me. The next day, the
nurse brought in some forms for her to fill out that would be used to
complete our birth certificates, but, since they had no money to pay the
hospital bill and since they thought it would be cool if we didn't exist
officially, they packed us in a picnic basket and skipped out.
Last week, Mom had gone down to the records bureau. They told her that
they would issue us birth certificates with her sworn statement as to our
date and place of birth, which she claimed was the commune, if there was
some official record to prove that we were her children. Mom got the DCW
records, which had her listed as the mother of Ann and Susan, so I was
officially a girl, according to the State of California. Way to go, Mom.
Second, Mom said that she had been talking to our neighbor about my going
to junior high school as a girl. She stopped when she saw the shocked
expression on my face and asked me what was wrong. I told her I was
worried that she would treat me differently, now that she knew I was a
boy. Mom laughed. It turned out she had known all along, because Mom told
her about having a boy and a girl when she arranged for us to stay with
her. I couldn't believe it. All this time I thought I was fooling her and
it turns out she was just a nice person who was considerate of my
situation. It occurred to me that if everyone was like her, I wouldn't be
in this predicament. Anyway, according to our neighbor, we would need to
have our shots and a physical, because we were starting a new school. Mom
told us that we could get our boosters anytime and that she had a plan
for the physical. A few weeks before school started, she would take my
sister to the clinic. Then she would take her back a few weeks later as
me. Mom still did not have a great deal of respect for authority.
Our neighbor also said that they had real phys ed at the junior high
school, with a locker room. The girls had to change into gym clothes and
take showers. Mom had that figured out too. The boys could exempt phys ed
and take an extra study hall to get their homework done, if they were on
an after school team. In those days, there were no girls' sports or
teams. Mom had marched, so to speak, down to the School Department and
insisted that girls should have equal rights. Enjoying the relative calm
after the storm of the peace movement and student radicals, the
Superintendent was willing to compromise to maintain the tranquility. He
allowed that, if Mom could find a suitable after school athletic program
for her daughter, she could skip phys ed. I was enrolled in Miss Kathy's
Dance Studio, Mom announced with a grin. That brought more giggles from
my sister, obviously picturing me dancing on my tippy toes in a tutu.
Actually, that sounded like fun.
Even though Mom had tried her best, there was one problem she couldn't
fix and my face showed it. She asked me what was wrong. I sighed and told
her how much I appreciated what she had done, but that there was still my
appearance. I was going to be the only girl in the seventh grade to shave
her legs and her face. Mom shook her head. There was a pill I could take
that would prevent it, but it was risky, which was another reason why she
had waited to see how I reacted to her plan before telling me about it. I
couldn't control my enthusiasm. Mom put her hand up to stop me. She
emphasized that the pill was a drug, not magic. Actually, it was a birth
control pill.
Mom explained that a woman's body already made what was in the pill,
taking it just gave her more. However, when a man took it, it made him
look feminine. My jaw dropped. I asked Mom if it meant I would have real
breasts. She said that I might have little ones, but nothing like the
natural ones my sister would have. My sister chimed in that she was all
for me not wearing the pants in the family, so long as she had the best
chest. We all laughed. Then Mom got serious. She heard about the pill and
its side effects on men from a nurse who was a regular at the restaurant.
The nurse told Mom that their office had prescribed the pill for hundreds
of women over the last few years without any problem, but that it was
illegal to give it to minors, so she had no idea what would happen if it
was taken by a girl before she was fully grown, let alone a boy. Mom made
me promise that I would tell her immediately, if I had any type of
problem. I promised and she handed me a bottle of pills. That is how a
boy named Sioux became a girl named Sue.
Trish
- 03.04.2021
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