"I WISH I WERE A GIRL LIKE YOU, JOANNE"
November 1988
Donna Sawyer
One rainy day we were up in the attic of our old, comfortable
woodframe house rooting through the family history... photo
albums, 78 rpm records, and old trunks of clothes that my mother
had put away. This was about 1959 and I was 15 almost 16. He
was 13 I guess.
I was wearing a full circle-skirt and a very full set of
crinolines and petticoats, very much the teen style of the time.
Up top, a nice soft pink angora buttoned-up cardigan sweater with
pearls and rhinestones sewn into pretty applique above the bust
and up the button line and around the collar. It was a little
too snug, and you could see the white shadow of my bra through
it, and even the pattern of my circle-stitch bra underneath as it
clung to my breasts. My bust was about a 36-C already, and
already I loved to show my bust off. The high, jutting,
pointy-cups of the circle-stitch bra my mother encouraged me to
wear did that nicely. I also wore a garter-belt and sheer
cinnamon stockings with white flats. I had just traded my
bobbi-sox for stockings that spring and relished the feel and
grown-up appearance.
My cousin, Tommy, had on a nice plaid short-sleeve
sportshirt, a pair of chino slacks, white socks and
penny-loafers. He looked very sharp and I adored him almost as
much as he did me. I knew he had a crush on me and unlike a lot
of girls, I guess, I was simply flattered by it. Even though he
was my first cousin. I loved him all the more for it. The
attention, the compliments. I ate it up. He wasn't dripping
with it in the company of others, just sweet and considerate.
Alone, he couldn't do enough for me.
We had grown up together. Summers, at least. He and his
younger brother would spend their time off from school with us in
our small town home amidst the gorgeous rolling hills of the
Pennsylvania Dutch country, escaping the suburbs and the parents
who were too busy for them. We had always been childhood
buddies, and in many ways we were still each others' best friend,
confiding things we never would tell another soul.
Mom had just brought us up a snack of cookies and milk saying
she was taking the other kids to the movies because they were
driving her crazy cooped up in the house on this rainy day, and
then she was going over to Grandma's. She'd pick the kids up on
the way home and wanted me to help her start dinner then. Tommy
and I had always been the "responsible" ones. We played quietly
together, so she let us stay home.
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It was the circle-skirt and crinolines and the soft sweater
that did it. As we sat together looking at photo albums by the
light of the attic window, we had to sit real close together to
see the pictures. I was letting my breast rub against his arm
and was watching his crotch. He acted like he didn't notice my
soft boob, but I know he did. Meanwhile, my skirts spread out
all over his lap as we sat so close. Our heads were together and
my long dark hair was brushing his face, even catching over his
ear as we giggled and laughed at the pictures.
At one point, we were looking at a picture of my mom all
dressed up in a formal cocktail dress some years ago. She looked
sensational. Full skirt. Strapless dress. Gorgeous cleavage.
Nice hairdo. Red lipstick and nails. Gloves and purse in her
hand. Big smile on her face. Ready to party! "Doesn't Mommie
look great?" I was saying.
Finally Tommy just blurted it out. I'll never forget it.
"You girls are so lucky!", he cried. Loudly. With a firm tone
of long held-in frustration in his voice. He didn't curse. He
didn't get angry, really. He just seemed to feel left out.
Hurt. "I WISH I WERE A GIRL LIKE YOU, JOANNE!" he blerted out,
starting to cry.
I didn't know what to say so I just held him. He wasn't
ashamed to say this to me. He knew our secrets went no further.
He knew he could trust me. I held him close to me and I said, "I
understand." I didn't really. Not fully. I just knew he hurt,
and I knew that what he hurt about didn't matter as much as the
fact that he hurt. I had never even thought about sexual
identity as a problem that some people might have, but now I was
faced with it, and because it was him, it didn't shock me. He
meant too much to me. I comforted him and my understanding let
him cry a little. But I dried his tears and kissed him on the
cheek softly telling him it was alright.
We said nothing for a while, then he asked, "Do you really
understand?"
"I think so," I said, honestly. My mind had been racing in
those quiet moments and I was piecing it together. I made up my
mind to help him. "Tell me more about your feelings," I said. I
thought it best to get him to talk about it.
"I just wish I were a girl." He shrugged; as though he didn't
understand much more about it than that himself. He looked into
my eyes and I just waited for him to find his words. He sensed
my patience and started searching for them. Out came a long
story, a set of feelings so intense and real that just the
telling touched me. I can't repeat all the words so I won't try,
but I understood every word now. He just intensely loved how
pretty girls were, and how nice they were treated by grown-ups,
and how affectionate they were, and how soft and delicate, yet
strong and authoritative at the right times. He was becoming
aware of their beauty in a sexual way and that just made him more
envious. And he loved and emulated me. He wanted to be just
like me in every way. Including being a girl.
There was nothing I could do except try to be understanding.
He wasn't crying anymore. He had passed that. The talking was
the catharsis my father always said it would be. But he was sad.
I listened and I understood. As he talked, I drew him against
me. I held him across my lap and close to my bosom. I caressed
his hair and squeezed him close every once and a while, pressing
my breast into his cheek. I watched his eyes closely. When he
was talked out, I just held him and waited for I don't know what.
I knew he was finished talking.
After while, it came to me that I could let him live his
fantasy with me and there was no reason it couldn't remain our
secret. "How can I help?" I asked. Again he shrugged and said
he didn't know and I believe he didn't. I said nothing, not sure
I should suggest anything he wouldn't want. Then it was like a
light came on in his head and he asked me, "What's it like to be
a girl?"
Yes, I thought. I could talk to him about being a girl.
That would be ok. I began to talk. I told him about being
girlish as a child. About anticipating becoming a woman. About
girl psychology. Wrapping Daddy around your little finger.
About the feelings of a girl. About the body of a girl. I told
him about my breasts and how I had waited so anxiously for them
to grow. About how all the girls were always measuring
themselves and competing in a race with which their skills had
nothing to do. About getting my first bra and how important a
milestone that was. About how important pretty and fashionable
clothes were. About wearing make-up, especially lipstick and eye
make-up. About wearing nylons and crinolines and petticoats and
skirts and dresses. About wearing high-heels and how mature they
made me feel. About shopping and choosing just the right clothes
and accessories. About growing and getting new clothes. About
growing and getting bigger bras. About bras in general, how they
could be used to make you look different ways under different
clothes. I talked about bras for a long time. Finally I asked
him if he would like to see my bra.
His blue eyes widened with excitement and he could only nod.
Still cradling him to me, I unbuttoned my sweater and slowly
pulled it aside, exposing my left bra-cup to his gaze. He let
out a soft deep-throated little moan, then looked up into my
eyes. He looked back to my breast then sat up and pulled away
from me so he could see better. I let him gaze, watching his
eyes, but noticing his boner. I pulled the other side of my
sweater aside and let him see both my bra-covered breasts. I
didn't have too much cleavage in that bra. As I said, it was a
white cotton circle-stitch bra. It didn't have a very deep
plunge. It did have some lacy-looking embroidered stitching in
the cups as well as the circle-stitches, but it wasn't a "pretty"
bra. It was a practical bra. One designed for a smooth, but
high and pointed-bust look under sweaters that was so popular
then. One designed for shaping, not showing. It would not have
been the bra chose if I knew I was going to show it to Tommy.
But somehow that seemed more appropriate. This was indeed
unplanned. And it wasn't a seduction, I don't think. It was a
sharing. Or it started out that way.
But we were both teenagers. And now I was getting hot. I
wanted my breasts admired and Tommy was obliging. Now I wanted
them felt. So I offered. He was so gentle and tender with me I
couldn't believe it. In point of fact, I've never had another
male treat my breasts so wonderfully as he does. Some women
have, but never another male. He petted me so softly and slowly,
so admiringly and so kindly, that soon I had to have his hands on
my bare breasts.
Predictably I asked, "Would you like to see them?"
Predictably he almost fainted with joy. He was very
undemanding and unassuming. He truly didn't know if I'd let him
see them or not.
I slipped my sweater off my shoulders and sat there before
him in bra and skirt. My crinolines were showing but my knees
were tight together and I must say that, when I noticed myself in
an old floor-standing mirror that happened to be at just the
right angle in the corner of the attic, I looked very much like
the demure virgin I was. I wondered if I was about to loose my
virginity. I made up my mind that I wouldn't. I laid my sweater
across my lap and let him look some more. We had been sitting
side by side on a cushioned deacon's bench and now he was on his
knees in front and to the side of me.
Soon I reached behind me to unhook my bra. This made my
breasts jut out and he gave that little subconscious gasp again.
For some reason that really thrilled me. I unhooked the bra, but
didn't pull it off. Instead, I reached up and held the bra in
place from beneath while I slipped first one bra-strap off my
shoulder, then the other. Finally I let the bra slowly fall away
from my breasts and let him see my firm young cone-shaped breasts
and their swollen dusty-rose pink nipples. My nipple-nubs had
erected quite a bit, but my areolas weren't crinkled up like they
get when I'm cold or very excited. They were like puffy satin
and looked beautiful. I remember thinking that even if my bra
hadn't been that pretty for him, my breasts and nipples looked
perfect.
My arms were still in the bra-straps as I rested them calmly
in my lap with the bra. I just sat still and let him gaze.
"This is part of what it's like to be a girl, Tommy," I said
solemnly. He tore his eyes from my tits and met mine. We looked
deep into one another's eyes. Then I turned my torso from side
to side to let him see them from all angles. That imparted a
little jiggle to them and he watched intently. Then I said, just
as seriously, "Let me share them with you, Tommy." I reached for
his shirt and began to unbutton it. I could feel my titties
jiggling gently as I worked on his buttons and I knew his eyes
were riveted to them. I was thrilled! He helped me slip it off.
Without rush. We pulled his tee-shirt over his head. I placed
my hands on his youthful, hairless chest and caressed him where
his tits would be if he were a girl. I slid to the edge of the
bench, arched my chest forward, jutting my tits out, pulled him
to me and pressed the tips of my breasts against his nipples.
He shuddered with feelings. I rubbed my nipples back and
forth across his chest lightly a few times then pulled him close
to me and pressed myself against him. He was nearly crying with
joy now and his arms went around me and we hugged, head on each
other's shoulders, nipples pressed against nipples. We stayed
like that for a long time, then drew apart. He asked if he could
kiss them and I smiled and nodded. He showered my breasts with
the softest, tenderest kisses ever. Not wet, but not dry. He
kissed them everywhere, but saved the nipples for last. His
hands came up to cup them and pet them as he continued his
kissing. Now it was my turn to let out a quiet moan. Soon his
kissing naturally turned to sucking and I eased him back onto the
bench, his head in my lap again, while never loosing contact
between his mouth and my breasts.
I came at least three times as he nursed at my tits. They
were quiet little cums, more like shudders, which is all he
thought they were. But I felt immensely satisfied after the
third one. Motherly, sisterly, cousinly and lover; all at once.
I felt no shame, only love. I knew there would be more. I knew
a secret no one else knew. I knew I could help Tommy, and in the
deepest part of me, I knew I would enjoy doing so.
That was all I shared with him that rainy day. After while I
realized he had quieted his sucking and when I looked I saw the
wet spot in his pants. He had cum while sucking my nipples and I
not touched him there. But I was immensely proud. He didn't
seem embarrassed. He just said, "I guess I came."
"I know. Did it feel nice?" I gently caressed his
still-hard member inside his pants.
"Yes, Joanne. It felt wonderful."
"We'll have to get you cleaned up." But we had no need to
hurry and as we got up, he insisted on putting my bra on for me.
Again he was so gentle, I could have started all over again. But
I let him finish braing my tits and slipping me back into my
sweater and buttoning it for me.
As he finished he kissed my cheek and said, "Thanks, Joanne.
Thanks for understanding me. I love your titties. I wish I had
titties just like yours."
"I know you do, sweetheart," I said. "I wish you did too.
But I'll share mine with you if you like. If it doesn't
frustrate you too much. If it helps."
"I know you will, Joanne. You're the most giving person in
the world."
"There's more I want to share with you too. But right now we
have to get you cleaned up."
"Will you share the rest of you with me, Joanne?"
"Of course I will, Tommy. Everything I know about being a
girl. Everything but my virginity. That wouldn't be right. But
not now. We'll tell Mom that I spilled the milk on your pants
and I put them in the washer so they wouldn't stain. Now go put
your jeans on and bring these to me in the laundry. I'll take
the glasses and cookie plate down to the kitchen."
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