Grandma’s Granddaughter

By Pamela

(pamelapamela@hotmail.com)

My grandmother thinks I’m a girl even though I’m actually a boy. Weird, right? The reason why has to do with the complicated tangled life of my mom and grandma. You see, my grandmother had my mother out of wedlock during a period in her youth in which she had problems with alcohol and drugs. She and my mom had a tumultuous time together, particularly when my mom acted out as a teenager. In fact, I’m the result of a drunken night my seventeen year old mom had with a guy she never saw again.

While Mom and Grandma were dealing with their addictions, they fought constantly and had a huge blow up when Grandma found out that Mom was pregnant. “Like we don’t have enough fucking problems!” is the way Grandma reacted to my presence in Mom’s womb. This led to their estrangement when my mom moved to Long Beach from the apartment she and Grandma shared in LA.

A couple of months later, Grandma met a dashing Frenchman, fell in love with him, and moved with him to Paris, France. Around this time Grandma committed herself to attending AA and NA meetings and successfully cleaned herself up. She then desperately wanted to get back in touch with Mom and apologize to her for all the heartache she had caused her. Of course, she was also anxious to find out the news about me.

Unfortunately, Mom was far from having feelings of forgiveness since her pregnancy was a miserable, lonely time for her and she harbored resentment for what she considered to be Grandma’s culpability for her predicament. When Mom finally was willing to communicate with Grandma I was a few months old and she was desperate for help with the baby. I was unusually colicky – difficult to get to sleep and Mom was utterly exhausted. She asked Grandma to come help her but it was a difficult time for Grandma to get away from Paris. Her husband was sick and, in fact, died a few months later. Besides that, she couldn’t afford the plane fare. She did try to give mom advice – free advice – and that profoundly backfired. Mom didn’t want to get lectures on how to live a better life or how to care for me.

Mom gave me the name, “Robin,” which is unisex – both boys and girls are named Robin. When she first heard my name, Grandma mistakenly assumed that I was a girl, Mom, being angry and resentful, didn’t correct her error. She thought that it would be the perfect revenge on Grandma that she wouldn’t even know the correct sex of her grandchild.

The responsibility of having a child weighed on my mom and she eventually sobered up and morphed into a responsible adult. When I was three Mom and Grandma shed many tears over the phone as they worked hard to get past the sadness of the past and embrace a new future together as a loving mom and daughter. Since Grandma lived in Paris and we lived in Long Beach, Mom felt no need to disabuse Grandma of the idea that she had a granddaughter. Like all lies, however, the more one adheres to it, the harder it gets to undo. Now even though I’m seventeen years old, Grandma still believes I’m a girl!

***

When I was four, Grandma sent me the first of what would become many fancy presents from Paris. Twice a year – for my birthday and for Christmas – Grandma sent me beautiful girls’ clothing. Invariably she’d have a note with it saying that since she was sure that I was dressing like a typical American kid – meaning tee shirts and jeans – she felt it was her duty to give me clothing that I would not ordinarily be getting. “I want you to have the opportunity to express a prettier, more feminine side of yourself,” is the way Grandma phrased it.

The very first package contained a stunning pink dress – the kind that moms love to dress their little girls in. All frilly and pretty. My mom thought this was a hoot. When she was done laughing she had me put on the dress, styled my hair and had me pose as if I was a girl. She took a slew of pictures of me being her little darling girl and sent them to grandma in Paris.

Grandma and my mom occasionally talked on the phone and I suspect that was when Grandma asked about my sizes – because the clothes she sent invariably fit me well. After that first dress came cute panties and a slip. The next Christmas saw girl’s shoes, socks, and another dress.

When I was six, Grandma came to visit us in Long Beach for a week. My mom drilled me on how to act like a little girl for weeks before Grandma came. She was terribly afraid that Grandma would find out she had lied about my sex and that could cause a new rupture between them. When Grandma arrived at our apartment, by all appearances and actions I was the cutest little girl she had ever seen. I could walk and talk like a girl. Pose like a girl. Move my hands like a girl. Grandma absolutely was in love with me. I was so precious for her. She’d have me sit on her lap in my flouncy dresses and I’d give her a big hug.

To tell you the truth, even though I knew I was a boy, I found a lot about my week as a girl enjoyable. I became fond of the frilly clothing. Girls underwear was more comfortable and softer than my boy underwear. But the moment Grandma was on her flight back to Paris, Mom had me convert back to Robin, her son.

A closet in my room was devoted to my collection of girl clothes. Grandma was convinced that I so loved feminine clothing that she began to spontaneously send me dresses, shoes, pretty nighties, pajamas, and other clothing whenever she saw something she liked. Over the next few years my ‘girl closet’ as Mom and I called it filled up with luscious clothing. Without fail, each time a present came from Grandma, Mom dressed me in the clothing, took photos, and sent them to Paris.

As I aged as a preteen I became ever more aware of the significance of my dressing as a girl – in other words, the knowledge that it was atypical for a young boy to dress as a girl, even if just for photo shoots. Instead of rebelling against my episodes of crossdressing, I looked forward to them. They seemed to be a nice way of uniting me with Grandma as well as Mom and I liked that very much.

Mom kept an album of the photos she had taken over the years and I have to admit that she and I enjoyed sitting side by side looking at the pictures – in particular how I aged over time. The one constant was how much I gave every indication that I was a real girl. If a stranger picked up the album and looked through it they would never know they were looking at a boy. My mom even said to me on more than one occasion that she thinks of me being as much a daughter to her as her son.

Once Mom said, “Do you ever get mad at me for sometimes turning you into a girl?”

I looked at her incredulously and said, “Mad? I love the times I get to be your daughter.”

Some tears formed in the corner of Mom's eyes, and she hugged me tightly. “You’re always welcome to be a girl for Grandma and me whenever you want.”

A big part of my contentment with being Mom’s quasi-daughter for lack of a better word, was my love for the clothes in my girl’s closet. I’m pretty sure that my appreciation for girls clothing wasn’t shared by the boys in my class. For example, I had a tendency to examine what the girls in my class were wearing each day and compare their clothes to my own outfits. With few exceptions, my girl’s clothing tended to be prettier than the clothing that the girls in my class wore. I felt proud that I had so many nice dresses – it made me feel special in some way. Perhaps by being both a girl and a boy I was superior to both boys and girls.

***

When I was ten Grandma once again visited us. As before, the weeks before she came I dressed as a girl virtually all the time when I was home. I practiced my girl moves until Mom was satisfied. I thoroughly enjoyed my chance to be feminine. It was a nice break from the stress of being a boy at school. The constant competition and accepting my relatively low status in the class hierarchy.

I was overjoyed by Grandma’s visit. I loved being her granddaughter especially because of the special bond we had with each other. I was affectionate wanting to hug her and sit with her. She enjoyed being with me and she told me countless stories about her life in California and in Paris. She described the beautiful shop windows in Paris and how she’d see an especially cute dress or nightie or whatever and think, “I’m sure my sweet Robin would love to wear that.” She’d buy it then send it to me and anxiously await the photographs. She had assembled them herself in a large scrap book.

After Grandma left I asked Mom if I could wear dresses whenever I was home and she said, “Of course, my dear. Please be yourself – whatever that self is!” From that time forward I led two lives: Boy outside the house and girl inside except when we had visitors. I especially liked staying up with Mom on Saturday night watching a movie together while I was her daughter. Mom confided in me that she was happy that I liked to wear dresses because it kept me practicing and improving my female mannerisms. That would come in handy every time we saw Grandma.

Mom was well aware that as I got older I’d have to continuously learn and master all the special things that girls had to know in order to become young women. A priority was to understand how girls change in puberty. Grandma would be watching me every step of the way and would notice if her granddaughter weren’t developing like a normal girl. For example, Mom taught me how to do my makeup, put polish on my finger and toenails, and style my hair. She gave me lessons on putting on pantyhose, stockings, and a garter belt, and how to match outfits with my underwear. She taught me about periods and when to use pads and tampons for menstruation. All in all she gave me many useful tips that any budding young woman should know. If my crossdressing were to have any psychological repercussions for me, Mom wasn’t focused on that.

I should say that I was a bit precocious for my age in the sense that I was infatuated with archaeology and hoped to pursue that in a career. Grandma was thrilled that I was a girl who had more interest in life than just boys and she talked about how she would love for me to come to Paris and see some of the old Roman ruins. There was an amphitheater, baths, and crypts as well as museums filled with artifacts. If we wanted we could also fly to Athens and see the Greek ruins.

I was twelve by this time and Mom decided that we should go to visit Grandma. She was concerned about my impending male puberty. It was like a loaded gun for her and she thought it would be good for me to see Grandma again before it started up in earnest. This would be one final anchor in Grandma’s mind about knowing me to be unquestionably a girl. We agreed to spend a week each in Paris and Athens.

My passport listed me as a boy as was shown in my passport photo. My hair was as long as that of a girl but combed into a boy style. Once we arrived at De Gaulle airport and through passport control, it was a simple matter to comb my hair a different way to turn me from boy to girl. In the taxicab to Grandma’s apartment I changed into a skirt and blouse and Mom helped me with some makeup.

The two weeks with Grandma in Paris and Athens was one of the most very special times in my life. To be a girl in Paris and then again in Athens, every moment of everyday filled me with joy. Grandma bought me a few more pretty dresses. We saw too many archaeological sites to count. I cried when we left. Returning to my life as both a boy and girl in Long Beach was a comedown from the glorious time I had in Europe.

***

Mom told me when we were back home that Grandma had asked her questions about my chest. Did I have breast buds? Did she think I was going to need a bra soon? Of course, Grandma knows all too well how she and Mom developed. Mom explained that “Grandma is going to expect that your breasts will grow very much the way they do for all the women in our family. So I will be reporting to her how your breasts are growing until they get to a D or DD cup size.” This opened up a whole new world to my imagination. I took comfort in the fact that Mom would be taking charge of what my breasts should be as I aged.

On my thirteenth birthday Grandma sent me a couple of beautiful French bras, with delicate lace and feminine colors and patterns. The first bras were A cup and my mom produced foam falsies to put in the cups when she took her photos. She had a knack for posing me as the prettiest young ingenue. One would never suspect I was a boy beneath the dress. Even when I had to pose just in a bra, panties, and cute socks I still looked like a girl.

For my fourteenth birthday, Grandma sent me a C cup bra and my mom got realistic looking breast forms for me to wear with the bra. Now my poses had me looking like a young woman. I was fascinated by the way girls had to go through a process of watching their breasts grow without any certainty as to where they would stop. Some girls think they get too big and others think they're not big enough.

The girls in my class were now all getting bras and I thought it was amusing that if they knew about my wearing a bra they’d be amazed that I was among the biggest breasted girls in the class. When I told my mom about that she thought it was pretty funny. “Like I said you’ve still got a bit more growth ahead of you. I’ll decide on your final size once I see what you look like when fully grown.”

***

When I was fifteen if was three years since I had seen Grandma and I was no longer the young girl I had been. Luckily, puberty hadn’t been overly aggressive for me. I became more masculine but hardly so obviously male that it would be hard to soften my face into a feminine look. My cock certainly came to life and my voice dropped a bit in tone. My beard was soft and sparse enough that my usual makeup was enough to reveal my face as being that of a girl. I did grow a couple of inches and Mom worried that my hips weren’t round enough to make my dresses look right. Her remedy was to buy me padded panties and panty girdles to wear with my dresses. The result seemed to work well in the photographs she took of me and sent to Grandma.

The time was ripe for another visit from Grandma but the long trip would be too much of a hardship for her. Instead, we agreed that when I’m eighteen we’d spend the summer in Paris with her. In the meantime, Mom taught Grandma how to use WhatsApp and now we began having weekly half-hour video calls. With Mom’s help we picked dresses and outfits for each call that showed off my bust so that Grandma would get a good idea of how I was maturing. I often wore my sheerest stockings with a garter belt and my high heels and I’d walk around a bit so that Grandma could fully appreciate how I’d turned into an attractive young lady.

***

So here I am, soon to be eighteen years old. I’ve applied for college and hope to major in archaeology at UCLA. Grandma is still a great cheerleader encouraging me to pursue my academic dreams. During one of our recent calls, she mentioned that she knew a French boy my age, Pierre, who was planning on studying archaeology at the Sorbonne starting next year. He’s the grandchild of a friend of hers. “The two of you should get to know each other. You’re a pretty girl and he’s a handsome boy and you have an equal passion for archaeology.”

Grandma arranged for me and Pierre to WhatsApp together. This was a whole new world for me. Only Grandma and Mom had seen me wearing dresses. Now a boy I didn’t even know would be seeing me as a girl. It was nerve wracking when the time came to receive the call from Pierre. Luckily, Grandma’s instinct was right on the money since Pierre and I instantly hit it off. For me, his knowledge and interest in archaeology gave me great pleasure. He’s also spent time in Greece looking at many of the same archaeological sites as I have so we had a lot to talk about. I also noticed that he’s handsome, though I have mixed up thoughts about that. The girl in me likes looking at him and even sort of imagines kissing him. The boy in me can’t see anything sexual in Pierre. A weird flip flop of emotion goes on in my mind. It shows me how far my crossdressing has taken hold in me after so many years.

Pierre is considerate and asks as many questions about me and my interests as I ask about him. He’s not a mansplainer! The more time we spend together on our video calls, the more intimate our friendship becomes. Pierre tells me about his most private wishes and dreams and I share some of my own with him – though I never would think of confessing to him that I’m a boy.

After a few months of ever longer and friendlier video calls I think that Pierre might be falling in love with me. I present to him over WhatsApp as an attractive young woman – at least that is what he’s often telling me. My girl side responds to his flattery with the effect of driving me emotionally closer to him. I’m pretty sure my girl self is falling in love with him – even while my boy self is apathetic.

As we become closer and closer friends, my phone calls with Pierre became ever more playful. One day he surprised me by telling me that I’m so pretty and sexy that it’s not possible for him to hide his erotic feelings for me. He’d hate for this to ruin our friendship, but he’s being honest. “It’s not in the DNA of boys to be able to be purely friends with girls they’re attracted to. It starts hurting too much. It causes great frustration.”

The boy side of me could relate to what Pierre was saying. The girl side of me was both flattered and more than a little apprehensive for opening the floodgate of sexuality between us. After some thought I decided that with the safety of six thousand miles between us there wouldn’t be much harm in helping Pierre express his sexual desires.

On our next phone call we discussed this a bit further and then Pierre said, “Would you show me your bra?”

I laughed and said, “You want to see my bra?”

“Do you mind? I’m curious as to what kind of bra you’re wearing?”

I laughed harder, “Oh, you’re curious what bra a girl wears?”

“Don’t you think that’s a reasonable request? A man can tell a lot about a woman from the bra she’s wearing.”

“He can? What, for instance?”

“Her bra might be boring. Bland and tan! It could look like it was made out of a medical bandage!”

“What will you think of me if my bra is boring?”

“I’ll be so surprised! I bet you’re wearing a really pretty bra!”

“If I am, what does that mean?”

“It means that you enjoy being pretty, being a girl, being feminine. Having boys worship you at your feet!”

I laughed and said, “So boring bras mean that the girls aren’t pretty or like being girls?”

“You know what I mean. You’re just trying to be difficult.”

“Okay, I’ll let you see my bra. But you’re going to have to show me something too!”

“Deal!”

I reached behind my back and undid the zipper of my dress. I lowered the front until my slip was exposed. Then I worked my arms out of the slip and pulled it down to reveal my bra.

“Wow!” Pierre said. “That’s so sexy.”

“It’s a bra my grandma sent me from Paris.” It was a pink DD cup bra and Mom had upped my breast forms to fit it. I knew that my chest with large breasts would be a turn on for Pierre.

“I don’t know what to say. I’m in love!”

“One look at my bra and you’re in love with me?” I joked.

“Yes, that’s how one-dimensional I am,” Pierre said.

“It’s okay. You’re a boy and all us girls know exactly how you think.”

“I’m trapped in my boyhood and can’t get out!”

“Now you show me something, “I said.

“I’m not wearing a bra,” Pierre joked.

“Ha, ha. Show me your chest and muscles.”

“You’ll be impressed.”

“I will?”

I watched Pierre unbutton his shirt and take it off. His chest was much more developed than mine. He had some dark hair and pecs and the rudiments of a six-pack.

“You must work out,” I said. “I’m impressed.”

“I go to a gym.”

Pierre raised his arms and flexed his muscles. His biceps popped out in a tantalizing show of masculinity. I noticed a small reflex in my penis. It was obvious that the girl side of me was getting turned on by Pierre. My boy side realized that there was no comparison between Pierre and me. My biceps were hard to see, I had no chest hair, and certainly no six-pack or pecs.

“I can show you my calf muscles,” Pierre said.

“Go ahead, I’d love to see them,” I said. I was getting turned on by our conversation and the masculine shape of his body.

Pierre tilted the camera to point toward the floor and raised his pant legs showing large rock-solid calves. “I bike a lot.”

“Oh my God, Pierre,” I said. “You’re quite the hunk!”

He laughed and said, “Now show me something else. Your panties.”

“If I do, then you’ll have to show me your underwear.”

“Happy to.”

I raised my skirt revealing the tops of my stockings, garters, my panty, and a garter belt.

“Holy cow,” Pierre said. “I’m cumming in my pants!”

“It doesn’t take much to get you excited!”

“Once again …”

“I know, boys! Show me your underwear!”

Pierre pulled down his pants to reveal his boxer shorts. They were navy blue and they had a considerable bulge in front. I figured that his view of my bra and panties had given him a boner.

In a husky voice I said, “Wow, Pierre. That’s quite a … I mean you’re well endowed …whew!”

This was all really kind of crazy. The obvious size of his penis within his boxers seemed to be inflaming my passion. It was as if my boy side was shoved aside to allow me to fully embrace my role as a woman responding to the sexual attributes of a man.

Pierre laughed and said, “I’m happy to show you what’s inside …”

“Enough of this,” I said. “A little decorum please!”

“Then maybe next phone call. That’ll give you time to think about what might be lurking inside my boxers. I’ll bet curiosity will win the day eventually!”

“We’ll see.”

***

At our next phone call, Pierre asked me if I had thought about what we talked about last time.

I said, “You mean about the sexting?”

“Sorry for bringing it up. I’m worried that you’ll think of me as a sex maniac.”

“But you are, aren’t you?” I said.

“Alas, guilty as charged! No! Robin, you know how boys are!”

“I’m just teasing you. What I decided is that we’ll turn the lights down low and in the dim light we let each other see the body part of our choice. How’s that!”

“A brilliant solution. It keeps us chaste but also allows us to enjoy each other’s bodies!”

“If you’re a good boy we could perhaps add a bit more light in the future!”

“OMG Robin. What a fantastic idea and I’ll be good!”

My mom had shown me how I could use a temporary glue to attach my breast forms to my chest and use some makeup to create a natural look. In anticipation of where our call was going to go, I had attached my breast forms. I could thus take off my bra and Pierre would get to see my breasts dangling where they are supposed to be dangling.

“So I’m going to dim my lights,” I said. “You do the same.”

We dimmed our lights so it was hard to make out our faces though there was enough light to make out shapes. “You go first,” Pierre said.

I sat back a bit from the camera and unbuttoned the blouse I had purposefully worn to make it easy to expose my bra. I took off my top and put it aside. I heard little sounds of awe coming from Pierre. I reached behind my back and unfastened my bra and slowly, very slowly, let it slip off of my breasts I heard Pierre whispering under his breath about how beautiful my breasts were. Finally, the bra was off and I slowly swiveled around so he could see my breasts from every angle. I was unbelievably turned on. I loved the fact he was devouring my image so intensely. After a few minutes I put my bra back on and then my blouse.

“I was just in heaven,” Pierre said.

I laughed. “Now have you got something to show me?” I asked.

Pierre stood up and I watched him take off his pants. He stood in his boxers which in the poor lighting was a bit indistinct, though the bulge in the front was evident. As he slowly lowered his underwear I guessed that his boner had caught on the elastic band until finally it slipped passed and bounced rigidly. I was a little intimidated by the full extent of his hard shadowy cock though I felt a rising excitement thinking that he was hard because of me. I guess I’m a lot more girl than one could conclude by looking at my penis – how else to explain my reaction? During all of this the boy part of me was entirely AWOL I felt like a young woman completely enthralled by the power of male sexuality.

“Oh, Pierre!” I said. “It’s so … it’s so … wow.”

Pierre laughed and said, “Big?”

“I was going to say dreamy, but it is big, isn’t it?”

“In the summer I hope you …”

Now I was placed into a quandary feeling both sexually excited by the thought that I’d be making actual contact with Pierre’s manhood this coming summer but also feeling that my boy side would be roped into participating in something that only my girl side could abide.

“We’ll see what we see in the summer,” I said. My girl side was now awake to the reality that my relationship with Pierre would be sexual. However, any attempt at physical sex was going to reveal that I was a boy. I couldn’t begin to imagine how Pierre would take that news. Disgust? Anger? Hatred? Disappointment? It was all too frightening to think about.

Over the next few calls Pierre and I teased each other with our sexting. I invented a strip tease for Pierre’s benefit in which I slowly took off my outer clothes and then my bra and then showed off my stockinged legs and heels. His contribution was to pose stark naked while flexing his muscles. We were just over a month away from seeing each other in person and I had developed a craving to caress his body. Feel his muscles, even experience his penis firsthand. Bask in the feelings of femininity that come over me while lusting after him.

The other side of the coin was that the upcoming trip was fraught with the danger that Pierre would figure out my secret. If he discovered it I could assume that Grandma would find out. Overshadowing the entire trip will be my need to protect my penis from discovery. That could prove to be a tall order. In the worst case scenario and Pierre found out, then I’d have to pray for a miracle – that it wasn’t a problem for him. Of course, I haven’t even taken into account what my boy side might think about this. He might not give carte blanche to my girl side in dealing with Pierre.

***

Mom and I had tickets to Paris for mid-June. All preparations were set. We’d stay in my grandma’s apartment. I’d get to meet Pierre in person for the first time. All was going to be heavenly – and then we got a frightening call in the middle of the night. Grandma had died of a heart attack. The two of us held each other weeping and feeling like so much of our lives had ended. Now our trip to Paris was to attend Grandma’s funeral. I can’t begin to describe my sadness at losing my grandma. I had a special attachment to her – she was the reason I got to be a girl and I was eternally grateful to her for that – even though it was really just the result of Grandma’s mistake and my mom’s pettiness in not correcting her.

Just when my mom and I were about to leave for Paris Mom came down with Covid and was too sick to travel. The funeral couldn’t be postponed. We decided that Mom would be there via a video link and I’d go by myself. On the flight over – in between my many episodes of tears – I wrote a eulogy that I could read at the service.

Pierre was also devastated by the passing of Grandma and he promised that he would support me during this awful time. He was at the airport when I arrived and I discovered that he was even more handsome in real life than he appeared over my smart phone. I had changed into a dress in the ladies room after going through passport control and made sure my makeup and hair were perfect. This wasn’t the tine for Pierre to become suspicious about my girlhood!

Pierre showed every indication of being dumbstruck by how pretty he thought I was. My dress was flattering to my shape and I could feel Pierre’s eyes delighting in looking at me for the first time. As the true gentleman he was, his first action was to hold me and tell me how much he had loved Grandma and that he wanted to do everything he could to help me during the sad days ahead. I felt my heart aching with love for him at the same time it was broken because I’d never see Grandma again.

Until the funeral had come and gone I thought it would be best if I stayed in Grandma’s apartment by myself. I wanted to commune with her ghost. Feel her presence at night. Afterwards, Pierre and I could be together for some time until Mom joined me in Paris. She and I would have the sad chore of taking apart Grandma’s apartment.

I had brought a black dress, bra, panty, girdle, slip, and black stockings and heels with me that I wore to the funeral. Pierre was handsome in a black suit and he held me as I shook with tears outside the church while gaining courage to go inside. He put his arm over my shoulder and held me as I wept during the service. When it was my time to speak I gathered my courage and walked up to the podium. I started with a long bout of tears until I collected myself. Then I spoke about Grandma’s early life and how she overcame so many hardships. I talked about how she and Mom became wonderfully close to each other and how that gave me the greatest start in life. I talked about Grandma’s unfailing love for me and her generosity. Pierre said that there wasn’t a dry eye in the church by the time I was done. I made Grandma come alive for all of them. I knew that no matter what came in the future, I would be forever thankful to Pierre for giving me unconditional support during this agonizing time in my life.

***

I invited Pierre to join me in the apartment after the funeral. The sting of Grandma’s passing slowly ratcheted down each day until I came up against the reality that Pierre and I had only a finite time to be together in Paris. For the first time in our many months of getting to know each other, we sat side by side on the sofa and passionately kissed. A flood of long delayed emotions ran out of both of us as we relished the living breathing connection between us.

It wasn’t long until Pierre was feeling me up through my clothing. My breast forms were fully lifelike and Pierre enjoyed feeling them without a clue that they weren’t real breasts. I adored making out with Pierre but was terrified that at any moment I would slip up in one way or another and he’d be onto me.

Pierre and I were old enough to have sex as far as that goes. To deflect Pierre from attempting to have intercourse with me or any other maneuver that would require me to take off my panties, I took the initiative in touching his penis. I let my hand fall onto his lap and slowly search for the zipper of his jeans. Then I took my time pulling the zipper down in order to raise his excitement. When the zipper was undone and my hand was beginning to enter within, Pierre tensed up anticipating that I’d be touching his penis. My hand slowly moved within his jeans searching for a way through his boxers to his penis.

At this point Pierre was breathing hard and moaning slightly. Then my hand discovered the opening in the front of his boxers and snaked its way through until it was touching the rigid flesh of his cock.

“I better lower my jeans,” Pierre gasped.

I smiled at him and he took his jeans off and then his boxers. Now his boner was in plain sight. I got to see the same instrument of manhood that I’d seen on WhatsApp. It was impressive and well proportioned. Of course I’ve had a lot of practice with my own penis for the last several years, so it wasn’t rocket science to figure out how to move my hand over his penis in such a way as to cause him tremendous pleasure. I marveled at how much power I had over him. The intensity of feeling was making Pierre gasp and loudly moan. I kept this up for just a minute longer and he suddenly spasmed. I used my free hand to catch most of his cum and stop it from flying all over the carpet and sofa. When Pierre caught his breath he put his hand on my thigh at the top of my stocking and said, “What can I do for you?”

“I’m okay, Pierre, truly. I get a thrill about pleasing you.”

“But I know you get excited.”

“True, but it’s a bit too soon for me to just let go and enjoy myself fully, I mean I really want to make you feel good, but I still have some healing to do until I can fully participate.”

“Sure, Robin. I don’t want to be a burden to you. But rest assured, I’m more than happy to do anything at all to pleasure you!”

“I know, Pierre. That’s so sweet of you.”

In a week, my mom would be joining me in the apartment. If I could make it to then without Pierre finding out my secret then I’d be home free. I could go back to Long Beach with my friendship with Pierre intact. and of course I’d be an emotional wreck missing him. After being with him in Paris I was certain that loving him from a far was going to be an awful challenge to my sanity. I’d be starting my college career at UCLA under a cloud of sadness and longing.

As each day came and went my sexual exploits with Pierre got more and more intense. To counter his ever growing desire to feel my supposed vagina – I upped my diversionary scheme by offering him a blow job. I’d of course never given a blow job to anyone before or even thought about doing it until this moment. I’ve never watched porno but I’d certainly heard about the central role that blow jobs play in many porno films. Judging from Pierre’s response when I suddenly slid off the sofa onto my knees in front of him I had to guess that he knew all about blow jobs.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Pierre asked me.

I was staring at his boner when he said that. “Yes, I do. I want more than anything for you to feel pleasure. I get so much pleasure from your pleasure …”

Pierre leaned back and I did my best to give him a magical experience. The act involved a considerable amount of coordination between hands, mouth, and tongue in order to keep the motion smooth and consistent. I spent a lot of time worrying about my teeth. All in all, in fits and spurts I got Pierre to the point of orgasm and judging by his yelps and grunting I had done okay. Clearly I needed some more practice which no doubt I could get the next couple of nights before Mom showed up.

After Pierre had released – which consisted of him comically shooting every which way inside and outside of my mouth as I tried to figure out what I was supposed to be doing – Pierre thanked me. I could see from his expression that he was ready, willing, and able to give me an equivalent experience – but I shot that down as I had been doing all week. My giving him blow jobs was no doubt an attempt to secretly make up for the fact that I had boy plumbing. In fact, by this point I was certain that I was a girl who just happened to have a penis.

***

Our last day before Mom was to arrive I had an epiphany: Pierre had to be told my secret – it was the only way that he and I had any chance of moving forward into the future together. Not to tell him meant that the underlying lie behind our love was permanent and our love could therefore never be legitimate. Telling him my secret meant that I wanted honesty and with it a chance – no matter how small – that he and I could somehow in some way find a way to continue our relationship. The risk, of course, was that he might not ever want to see me again – but it was a risk I had to take.

That night we were once again on the sofa making out. I could sense that he was looking forward to his nightly blow job. I knew that this was it. The secret of all secrets had to be said. I started shaking like a leaf and I began to cry.

“What’s the matter, Robin?” Pierre asked me. “Just because your mom is coming …”

“No!” I wailed. “It’s not that! Pierre, I love you more than anything.”

“I love you too. You know that.”

“I have a terrible secret. Terrible, terrible, and you have every right to never forgive me for holding it back from you.”

“Jesus, Robin, you’re scaring the shit out of me. What’s your secret?”

Now bawling my eyes out, I stood up, undid the zipper of my dress, and lifted it up over my head. Then, standing in front of Pierre in my bra, garter belt, panties, and heels, I took off my shoes, then undid my stockings and took them off. Then I unhooked and removed the garter belt. Shaking violently, I pulled down my padded panties and stood there displaying my penis for Pierre to see.

I looked into Pierre’s eyes and he said, “What the fuck Robin? You’re a guy, a boy, a man? Holy shit! How could I be so stupid! How could you be so dishonest?”

I watched in horror as Pierre raised his hand as if to slap me in the face. Then he thought better of it and turned and left the apartment. I collapsed onto the sofa and cried for hours. Sobbing and sobbing until I eventually fell asleep.

***

The next day Mom came and immediately saw how miserable I was. “I told Pierre my secret. I had no choice. If I didn’t tell him we could never see each other anymore.”

“I understand. Maybe once he gets a chance to reflect on …”

“I never got a chance to explain, you know, about Grandma. He just ran off.”

“Still, I imagine you’ll get a chance to talk to him. Once he settles down.”

“I hope so,” I said.

“You know I was so sad that Grandma died but also happy that she never found the truth out about you. That would have devastated her.”

“Like with Pierre?”

“Perhaps.”

We were lost in our thoughts a few moments until Mom said, “Your speech at the funeral was so loving and so special I was weeping and weeping. I think if anything Pierre will know from that how sincere and authentic a person you are. He’ll come to his senses and realize that at the very least the two of you should remain friends.

“I hope you’re right, Mom. I did love Grandma so much.”

***

Mom and I worked for a week on Grandma’s apartment. We settled her financial affairs, emptied the apartment, and did all the sad work of tying up the life of someone we loved. With one day to go we were getting everything ready for our flight back home when Pierre showed up. Of course I was wearing a dress and being the girl I now preferred being. Mom said, “The two of you have a lot to discuss. Spend the day together and talk it out. I can take care of everything here.”

Pierre and I left the building and walked slowly together. “I hope you know how sorry I am,” I said.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’ve had time to think and I know you must not have wanted to deceive me. So why did you?”

I explained to Pierre the entire history of my mom and grandma including Grandma’s mistaken belief that I was a girl and the endless consequences of my mom’s anger. When I was done, Pierre said, “Your grandma said you were a girl and that’s why I took you to be a girl. I can see now that if you had told me the truth I would have found myself in the tough position of having to keep a secret from your grandma.”

“Yes, so you see how – at least at the beginning – I didn’t have a choice. But then as I got to know you and love you I wanted to be honest but I also didn’t want to risk losing you. I was uncertain what to do.”

“I understand. I guess the only thing that I question is allowing me to fall in love with you. You knew that I wasn’t falling in love with the person I thought I was falling in love with. You could have stopped that.”

“You’re right Pierre. All I can say in my defense is that I’m not strong like you are. I fell so much in love with you and had no way to summon the strength to end our friendship – particularly without telling you why.”

“Except later you did find the strength.”

“Because the only way you and I would ever have a future together – and I know the chance of it is teeny tiny – is if I was honest with you. Of course, Grandma had died which changed everything.”

We were silent again and I began to think about how much I had hurt Pierre. I couldn’t help myself and I began to cry. As I sobbed I felt Pierre put his arm across my shoulders. I turned and hugged him and he put his arms around me and pulled me in tightly. “I’m crying because I hurt you,” I said. When I calmed down he gave me his clean hanky and I blew my nose.

“I couldn’t stop loving you,” Pierre said. “You’re a boy, or technically a boy, and I’ve always been straight, but you twist me around into knots because I see you as being a girl. I don’t see any boy in you except for that cock of yours.”

“With every dress or pretty bra Grandma sent me a little bit more of the boy in me was vanquished until there was none left.”

“I can believe that.”

“I love you so much Pierre … and I don’t want to hurt you. I knew the day was coming when I’d have to confess to you. I knew this pain was coming, but not allowing myself to fall in love with you was impossible.”

“In the fall I start at the Sorbonne and you’ll be at UCLA. We also have that problem.”

I felt despondent. I could see the mile high cliff that I was going to be falling off of when we parted. Tomorrow I leave for home. Time will pass and wear away our love. We’ll meet other people, have different lives and eventually be more loyal to them than we are to each other. Pierre will have a family and what will I have?

I looked into Pierre’s eyes and said, “If you wanted me to, I would make myself into a girl for you!”

“You mean …”

“I’d get breasts as large as the ones I have now. I’d get a vagina for you. I would do everything. The whole nine yards! Anything for you, anything!”

“I appreciate that. You’re going to make me cry, but of course you know that you can’t do that for me. You have to do it for yourself. There would be no guarantees about us – but you’d be doing what you wanted to do so it wouldn’t matter how you and I turned out.”

“You’re so smart, Pierre. I guess I have so much to think about in the coming years.”

“I’m so happy we could straighten this out so we can at least part as friends,” Pierre said. “I want to keep in contact with you.”

“We will, I’m sure of it,” I said in a trembling voice, trying not to cry again.

***

Pierre drove Mom and I to the airport. After Mom hugged Pierre goodbye she turned away to give him and I a chance to say what we had to say to each other. Pierre took me in his arms and we kissed for a long moment. I don’t think I’ve ever been through anything as painful as when our kiss broke off and we gazed at each other speechlessly. Tears were streaming down Pierre’s cheeks and I was convulsed in sadness. We shared the same pain.

“We’ll WhatsApp,” I said.

“Yeah, that’ll be good,” Pierre said.

Then Mom and I entered the terminal and when I looked back I saw Pierre driving off.

***

Our first dinner back home in Long Beach Mom said, “If this were the movies, we’d hear a knock on the door and it would be Pierre. The miracle happy ending. That happens so often.”

I thought about that and how nice it would be to have hope that Pierre would show up. Then the reality set in. “Or it can be like the Bridges of Madison County.”

“You’re right. Wrenching pain.” As Mom hugged me I thought that if I can get through this day, then I’ll get through all the others.

I would be attending UCLA as a girl. That much mom and I agreed on. She can see that I have no future as a boy. I brought up the question of changing myself into a girl and she said, “I want you to do what you need to do. I mean by that it’s got to be totally your decision.”

“Pierre said the same thing.”

“He is such a smart boy. I will say though that grandma left us more than enough money for you to make any changes you want.”

The irony wasn’t lost on me. From beyond the grave Grandma would still be sending presents to her granddaughter - presents that could make her into the girl she believed Robin to be.

The End