Stuart Celibate
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Stuart, Part 1 free porn video
My name is Claire Olivia Milton. Or at least... It used to be.
I was born on 2nd March 1990, the second daughter of three, to two loving
parents. My father is a manager at a big investment firm, my mother- 15
years his junior- was his secretary until she fell in love with him, got
married and had three kids. Growing up I wanted for nothing- I lived in a
big house, was spoiled rotten, went to the best schools... And yet, from a
very young age I knew something was wrong, not with my family, but with
me.
When I say 'wrong' I of course mean 'amiss', something 'off' about me. My
older sister, Emma, is very much her father's daughter. Academically
successful- straight As in her exams, head girl at school- she took an
interest in our father's work from a young age and is set to follow our
father into a very lucrative career. My younger sister, Rebecca, is the
apple of our father's eye. She studied all varieties of dance from an
early age, sang in the school choir and is a talented jockey too (riding
a horse the family owns, of course). I... Did none of those things. Don't
get me wrong, I did well at school- particularly at languages and music-
but I was hardly the teacher's pet, nor was I interested in other
performing arts or sports.
Nor did I enjoy school that much. Like my sisters, I went to an expensive
private school, and every day I'd dress in the school uniform and feel
utterly RIDICULOUS. My hair was held back by a burgundy coloured hair
band, and I'd wear a matching blazer and grey knee-length pleated skirt
with itchy knee-high socks regardless of the weather. Every day I went
home, I would race upstairs as fast as I could to change into a
comfortable pair of jeans. PE was even worse- if I wasn't wearing a
netball dress that was seemingly designed to make it easier for
paedophiles to get their kicks just by looking at me, it was a gymnastics
leotard that did the trick even more successfully.
All throughout childhood, everything felt a little 'off'. Then, when I
was thirteen, I went through puberty- and things got infinitely worse.
Imagine waking up one day and feeling that your body was attacking you.
Imagine developing an overwhelming urge to tear your own skin off, you're
in that much psychological pain from what you're experiencing. My parents
told me that it was normal- that I was turning into a woman. It was at
that exact moment that a switch flipped in my brain. I'd suspected
previously what was wrong, but this confirmed it. I was turning into a
woman, and I didn't want to. I didn't even want to be female. More than
anything, anything at all... I wanted to be a boy.
I'd always been somewhat tomboyish. I didn't have much of an interest in
sports but I loved watching motor racing- particularly Formula One- on
television. I had dolls and dress-up clothes growing up, but I much
preferred playing video games. My hair never grew beyond shoulder length,
and I never developed ANY interest in cosmetics, whereas my sisters would
play with make-up from an early age. My parents convinced themselves- and
to a lesser extent, myself- that it was just a phase, that I'd grow out
of it, but puberty just strengthened my feelings. Every day that I was
turning into a woman was a day in hell for me. But I endured it, endured
the constant torture my body put me through every morning. I tried
various coping strategies, such as dressing more masculine, keeping my
hair cut short, making more male friends at school and taking an interest
in their hobbies. I immersed myself in my music, became highly proficient
at guitar and keyboards, wrote songs, even recorded them- but every song
I sang, I wished I was singing in a deeper voice. I exercised, went
running- but always wished I could run faster, wished my body was
physically stronger. The coping strategies worked... Right up until my
sixteenth birthday.
For my birthday, my mother took me and my sisters (who at the time were
18 and 10) out for a day of pampering. My hair- which was short at the
time- was styled into a very feminine pixie cut. My face was expertly
made-up, my nails manicured... And every second of it felt like torture. I
felt uncomfortable, even foolish. I'd tried to get out of it by faking a
cold, but my mum insisted, after all- in her words- 'my sisters were
really looking forward to it'. Never mind what I wanted, of course.
I arrived home and changed into the party dress that had been laid out
for me, and the brand new high-heeled shoes. Once I was all dressed up, I
felt a wave of nausea wash over me. It was like I'd been punched in the
stomach, I couldn't breathe, I could barely stand up. All I wanted to do
was scream, tear the clothes from my body, and tear the skin from my
flesh. My mind snapped- I pulled the shoes and the dress off and hurried
into my en-suite bathroom, where I scrubbed my face clean of make-up and
scratched off the dreaded nail polish. I slicked my feminine hairstyle
back, exposing my bare forehead, and I said the four words that would
change my life.
"I. Am. A. Boy." That was the moment- as far as I'm concerned, anyway-
that Claire ceased to exist. Defiantly, I slipped off my bra, and using a
roll of masking tape I had on my dresser, taped my breasts down as flat
as they would go. I took off my nasty, sweaty tights and rolled a pair of
black socks up my legs, before pulling on a smart pair of black trousers.
I pulled on a smart white shirt- technically a blouse, due to the way the
buttons fastened, but opaque, like a man's shirt- and fastened my school
tie (the only tie I owned) around my neck. I pulled on a pair of lace-up
school shoes- the most androgynous shoes I owned- and looked at myself in
the mirror. Aside from a few stray flakes of red on my fingernails- and
my unfortunately 'cute' shaped face- I was every bit the handsome teenage
boy.
"I. Am. A Boy." I repeated to myself as I took a deep breath. What I was
doing wasn't just an act of defiance, it was out and out rebellion
against the two people who raised me for the last sixteen years, and the
consequences could be dire. But the consequences of being a girl just one
minute longer... I didn't even want to contemplate them. As far as I was
concerned, the switch had been flipped. From now on, it was boy or bust.
"I'm ready," I said in my deepest possible voice as I strode downstairs,
exuding an air of confidence but inside, I was utterly terrified. The
looks of shock on my parents' faces did nothing to help my nerves.
"Claire..." Mum whispered. "What- what have you done to yourself?"
"Where the hell is your dress!?" Dad yelled. "Do you know how much that
thing cost!?"
"I don't care how much it cost," I said, my lips trembling despite my
defiance. "I'm not wearing dresses any more, or skirts, or anything like
that. I'm not a girl, I'm a boy."
"Don't be stupid!" Dad spat. "Now get upstairs and get dressed! NOW!"
"NO!" I yelled in the older man's face, desperately trying not to wet
myself through fear. "I can't live like that anymore! You can't make me!"
"You're my daughter, and oh yes I can make you!" Dad growled, looming
threateningly over me.
"Then go ahead!" I shouted. "Make me!" I braced myself for pain as dad
raised a hand in front of me.
"Ray!" Mum yelled. "Stop this!" Much to my relief, dad stood down, though
the look of sheer hatred with which he pierced me still haunts me to this
day.
"Emma, Becca, go to your rooms," dad ordered. Meekly, my sisters obeyed.
"Kitchen, now." Still hoping to maintain some control of the situation, I
nodded my head, and followed my parents into the kitchen. Much to my
relief, dad didn't yell in my face the instant I entered the room, though
his anger was obvious.
"Precisely what the hell do you mean, 'you're a boy'?" He asked me
through gritted teeth.
"I mean exactly that," I said. "Every day I wake up and I'm a girl I feel
like screaming. I feel like my body's actually trying to kill me and
every time I do anything feminine I feel like I'm falling down a black
hole. But when I'm like this, when I'm being a boy... I feel comfortable.
It's like a security blanket, like I can pretend for one, blissful moment
that it's actually real."
"Claire..." Mum whispered. "Why didn't you tell us earlier?"
"Seriously? After the reaction I just got?" I said, making dad lower his
head in shame.
"What's changed?" Dad asked, his anger finally giving way.
"I just couldn't take any more," I sighed, trying desperately not to cry.
"I looked at myself in the mirror, in my dress... And I felt like I was
going to die, right then and there. I just snapped."
"Well you can't go back to school on Monday as a boy," dad snorted.
"And why not?" Mum asked, placing a supportive arm around my shoulders.
"HE has made it quite clear that HE can't handle life as a girl any more.
If HE wants to be a boy... Then we should accept that. We'll call the
headmaster on Monday, explain that Claire's ill, that we need to meet
with him to explain the situation."
"It's only three months until her- oh, I suppose his- GCSEs anyway, why
bother?" Dad asked.
"How would you like being forced to be a woman for three months?" I asked
sarcastically.
"Okay then," dad sighed. "We'll call the headmaster on Monday. Christ,
here I am hoping for an easy life as I get to retirement age..."
"It's hardly a walk in the park for me," I quipped, earning myself a
disdainful stare from dad. "You wouldn't like being forced to be a woman
for three months, and rightly so. Try living with it for sixteen years."
Almost immediately, dad's frown disappeared.
"This is going to be a hell of a thing to try to explain to everyone at
work," dad moaned self-pityingly. "But I guess what's most important is
what Claire wants. It's her life, after all. 'His' life, whatever. And I
suppose we're going to have to call you something other than 'Claire',
right?"
"I hadn't really thought about it," I confessed. "Clarke? That'd make me
sound like a wanker..." Much to my relief, both mum and dad laughed at my
joke. I tried to brainstorm some names when we were interrupted by a
knock on the kitchen door.
"Hi," Emma said cautiously, clutching her laptop. "Can- can I come in?"
"Of course," mum said. Emma took a seat next to me and opened her laptop,
showing me the webpages she'd loaded onto it.
"I think," Emma said softly, "that Claire might have a case of gender
dysphoria. I've been looking it up online, it's a real thing and can be
diagnosed by a doctor."
"We'll add the doctor to the list of people to call on Monday, then," dad
said.
"There are also plenty of websites and support groups available online,"
Emma said. "Claire... If this is really a big deal for you, you don't need
to suffer alone."
"How are we going to explain this to Becca?" Dad wondered aloud. "Surely
we can't simply say 'your sister is now your brother'? She's much too
young to understand that..."
"She's 11 next month, she's not an infant," I said firmly. "When I was
11, I knew that there were people who lived their life as the opposite
gender to the one they were born. That woman who won Eurovision, the one
who won Big Brother..."
"Yeah, but they're not members of our family," dad pointed out.
"I'll talk to her first, explain everything" I said confidently, before
taking a deep breath and standing up. "No time like the present..."
"I'll come with you," Emma said. "I'll be just outside in case you need
any support."
"Thanks," I said nervously as we climbed the stairs together.
"Not a problem," Emma said, before giggling. "Bruv!" Taking a deep
breath, I knocked on my baby sister's bedroom door and let myself in.
"Hi," I said quietly to the young girl, who was sat on the bed, still
wearing her party dress.
"Hi," Becca said. "Claire... Are you going to have a sex change?"
"I- I don't know," I confessed. "But I probably am, yeah."
"Why don't you want to be a girl anymore?" Claire asked, her voice not
sad, but inquisitive.
"It's not a sudden decision," I said, sitting down next to her. "Imagine...
Imagine if you woke up tomorrow, but the body you were in wasn't your
own. Imagine if you had to live life as someone completely different, and
deep down inside, you knew it was wrong. That's what it feels like every
day for me. I don't love you, or Emma, or mum and dad any less. I'M the
one who needs to change, not you or anyone else."
"Do- do you wish I was also a boy?" Becca asked, and to my shame, I
couldn't help but chuckle.
"No, of course not!" I said, giving my little sister a quick hug. "You be
whatever you want to be."
"Are you still going to be called Claire? Because that's a girl's name..."
Becca pointed out, making me laugh again.
"Yes, yes it is," I said with a smile on my face. "I haven't actually
thought of a new name yet."
"I used to have an imaginary friend," Becca said. "I used to pretend he
was my big brother. I always wanted a big brother."
"What was his name?" I asked.
"Stuart," Becca said.
"Then that's what I'll be called," I said proudly. "Stuart Milton. Nice
to meet you, Becca."
"Nice to meet you, Stuart!" Becca said happily, shaking my hand before
giving me another tight hug.
"You can come in now, Emma," I yelled, prompting my big sister to come
into the room and join in the group hug.
As promised, I was kept out of school the following week, my parents
citing 'illness'. I saw my GP that week, who referred me to a counsellor
who didn't take much time to diagnose me with a case of gender dysphoria
and start me on a course of hormone replacement therapy. Upon meeting
with my headmaster, he agreed to several compromises to allow me to
continue attending school. I would wear trousers- even though the uniform
guide stated that girls HAD to wear skirts- and wouldn?t take part in any
PE lessons until the end of term, and if I needed to use the toilet, I?d
use the staff toilet. The headmaster was understandably concerned that he
was indulging a ?whim?- but when my parents made it clear that this was
being discussed VERY seriously, he became only too happy to oblige. Even
a school as prestigious and expensive as his couldn?t run the risk of
being accused of transphobia. Of course, I was still addressed as
?Claire? rather than ?Stuart?- at least until I was able to change my
name by deed poll over the summer- but it was a small price to pay to
finally live the life I?d always wanted to lead. I didn?t really have any
female friends at school- I mostly hung around with boys- so the change
there wasn?t as pronounced as it was at home.
Over the course of the summer between finishing school and starting at my
music college, everything changed dramatically. My wardrobe was cleaned
out- most of my dresses and skirts were earmarked for Becca, when she got
older, but a lot of it went straight in the bin or to a charity shop. My
underwear drawer saw the most dramatic makeover. Whilst I?d still have to
wear a bra until my double mastectomy the following summer, my panties
were replaced by boxer shorts, my tights and lacy socks were replaced by
plain black cotton socks. The dress I wore on my sixteenth birthday would
turn out to be the last item of female clothing I would ever wear.
My body changed dramatically under the influence of the testosterone
supplements I took. My hips and backside got smaller, whilst my muscles
suddenly grew. My skin- previously smooth and soft- became tougher, with
body hair quickly growing and covering my body. Most excitingly of all, I
started to grow light, wispy facial hair that I was very reluctant to
shave, until dad insisted on teaching me how to. Despite his initial
resistance, dad quickly grew to love having a son, and we?d take part in
father-son activities almost every weekend, including an especially
exciting weekend at the British Grand Prix one year! Following three
years on hormones, my double mastectomy and a hysterectomy, the only way
you?d ever have been able to tell that I was ever a girl was by pulling
down my boxer shorts.
I went to university in September 2008, studying music at the University
of Nottingham, and I graduated in 2011 with a 2:1. My parents and my
sisters were in attendance at my graduation, and had mile-wide smiles on
their faces as they had their photographs taken with me in my cap and
gown. Probably the most proud was Becca, who by that time was sixteen
years old, and a dead ringer for how I looked when I started to be
Stuart.
?I?m so proud of you!? Becca yelled as she gave me a tight hug. ?Look at
you, Mr. Graduate!?
?Thanks,? I said, still feeling a little emotional following the end of
my studies.
?Soo,? Becca teased, ?did you meet anyone nice at uni? Any GIRL take your
fancy??
?That?d? Kinda raise some awkward questions,? I said with a laugh. Prior
to my transition, I hadn?t really had any thoughts either way about sex,
either with boys or with girls, but as the testosterone took its hold, I
found myself more and more attracted to girls, and more and more in need
of sex. Of course, the university had a healthy LGBT society, of which I
was a part, and I did have dates- and the odd sexual encounter- with
girls, but I didn?t have anyone you?d describe as a ?girlfriend?
?How about you?? I asked Becca with a laugh. ?Anyone I have to beat up
for breaking your heart yet??
?As if dad would let me see anyone!? Becca laughed. ?Haven?t you noticed
yet?? I stopped and looked at my non-longer little younger sister, who
had a very sly smile on her made-up face.
?Noticed what?? I asked.
?My dress!? Becca enthused, giggling excitedly.
?Um, yes, it?s very nice, what about it?? I asked.
?It?s yours, silly!? Becca laughed. ?It?s the dress you wore on your
sixteenth, when you stopped being Claire.? I couldn?t help but laugh.
?Well at least now it has an owner who wants to wear it!? I chuckled,
giving my little sister a quick hug. "And that's the day I started being
Stuart, not 'stopped being Claire'. Always look forward, not backward."
"Aww, I'm so lucky to have you as a big brother!" Becca said with a warm
smile. But if anything, I was the lucky one for having such an amazing
and accepting family in my life.
I moved back to London shortly after graduation and got good work as a
session guitarist/music teacher- nowhere near as much as my parents or my
elder sister earned, but more than enough to live on independently. I
continued to see my psychiatrist (a very expensive one, paid for by my
dad), but it wasn?t until April 2013- seven years since I?d started my
transition- that the ?final piece? in the puzzle fell into place as I
entered Dr. Phillips?s office and stared into the face of someone I?d
only recently heard of, yet felt I knew intimately.
?Hi,? I nervously said to the beautiful young woman sat in the waiting
room.
?Hi,? she politely replied.
?I hope you don't mind me asking,? I continued. ?Are- are you Jamie-Lee
Burke??
"Yeah," Jamie replied, offering me a polite handshake. "Nice to meet
you."
"Wow, I have the same psychiatrist as a celebrity," I quipped, inwardly
kicking myself for sounding so goofy in front of such an attractive girl.
"You know, what you said on TV yesterday morning really struck a chord.
Sometimes it's nice to know there's someone else who understands."
"...I don't follow?" Jamie said, looking at me puzzled.
"Well you know what Dr. Phillips's specialism is, right?" I asked,
chuckling that I hadn't been 'made'. "Would it surprise you to learn that
just over six years ago my name was Claire, and I was the not-so-proud
owner of a vagina?" Much to my delight, Jamie's jaw dropped as she looked
at my trim, yet masculine body.
"You're kidding," she breathed, making me chuckle more.
"Oh, the wonders of testosterone," I said with a smile. Over the next few
minutes (before she went to her counselling session), I got to know the
recently-famous young woman, and even plucked up the courage to ask her
out on a date- which to my amazement, she accepted!
I did eventually go out with Jamie, but only very briefly- it turns out
that not actually having a penis was a deal-breaker, even though she
still had one herself! After dating Jamie, I also briefly dated her
friend Krystie, a ballet instructor (whom Becca quickly signed up with
after learning that Krystie was classically trained), who was MUCH more
adventurous than Jamie when it came to sex. Still though, as adventurous
as the sex was, the fact that I was still lacking my ?final piece? put
Krystie off as well.
Unlike transsexuals who ?go the other way?, many transmen don?t end up
having SRS, largely as the operation to graft a penis onto the body is
considerably more complicated than the operation to remove it, and the
odds of there being a post-operation complication can be as high as 55%-
odds I'm not overly keen to play. And yet... I know I'll always be
incomplete without 'it'. When I was sixteen, I NEEDED to be a man, and
now I'm 23, I am a man. Do I really need the final piece to be complete?
Mila
- 07.12.2022
- 10
- 0
