Christopher To Christina: An Answered Prayer

11. Delights

I'll tell you right now that the experiment (if that's what it was) with the hormones was a success. It was day six of the eleventh month when I was administered my first dose of life altering female hormones.

I may have been imagining things, but it seemed to me that the hormones started working right away.

I've since read that it takes several months or more, so this must just have been wishful thinking, but I could swear my nipples began to get sensitive the very next day, and I thought I detected some breast growth a couple of days after that.

Mommy came up with a solution for keeping track of my actual progress. Every Sunday night before bedtime, she passed a tape measure around my chest and recorded the measurement, both after I had inhaled and after I had exhaled. We included other measurements as well--height, waist, hips, and weight.

I still have those figures, and I can trace the way I gradually developed into a girl over the next three or four years.

As I made my way through puberty, instead of a beard, I grew breasts.

They weren't extraordinarily big, but they were cute and perky, had pretty brown areolas which I loved, and they excited me just having them. I would pause and admire them when I was getting dressed in the morning.

My voice never cracked and got deeper, developing into a pleasing contralto.

My hips widened out and fat deposits began to pad my rear. My penis didn't shrivel away to nothing, as I had hoped it would, but at least it didn't show any unwelcome signs of growth.

That was another of the good periods in my life. Just as my body began to develop into a woman's body, I was also reaching an age when I could start dressing more mature, instead of like a little girl.

For my fifthteenth birthday Mommy gave me my first pair of nylons. I felt so grown up putting on nylons.

At first, I wore them with everything-- dresses, skirts, shorts, and even under jeans.

I also got my first pair of shoes with a heel, on that fifteenth birthday. They weren't high and the heel was chunky, but I felt so mature wearing them almost every day.

I wondered if genetic girls appreciated their clothes as much as I did? Or do you have to be born a boy to realize just how amazingly wonderful they really are? Do they take the same pleasure in silky, delicate underwear; fluffy, frilly dresses, colorful fabrics, ribbons and ruffles and lace? Or is wearing those gorgeous things just an unappreciated part of who they are?

For me it was a sensual delight, and getting dressed every morning was a celebration of the clothes I put on and of my growing femininity. I still don't take these lovely things for granted.

I remember Mommy once found a vinyl record of a song from an old musical
comedy, at a thrift shop. The song was "I Enjoy Being a Girl." She bought it and brought it home as a joke for both of us.

We laughed as we listened to it, but that song was more then just a passing novelty, it really spoke to me. I learned it by heart, and sometimes when I was
getting dressed, or maybe just doing homework or tidying up our apartment, I would sing it softly to myself,

I'm a girl, and by me that's only great!
I am proud that my silhouette is curvy,
That I walk with a sweet and girlish gait
With my hips kind of swivelly and swervy . . .

When I have a brand new hairdo
With my eyelashes all in curl,
I float as the clouds on air do,
I enjoy being a girl!

Yes, I did occasionally wear jeans, a T-shirt, and sneakers. Thanks to the growing effect of the hormones, and Mommy's careful tutelage, I was just as fully a girl in those, as I was in any dress.

Most often you would find me in dresses. Every dress I owned was so lovely. The fabrics themselves...has anybody ever noticed how nice and feminine and pretty their names are? I used to get dreamy just thinking of their names;.cashmere, chambray, chenille, cretonne, lame', organdy, velvet, satin, tulle, tarlatan, and taffeta.

What ordinary, "normal" man ever has the opportunity, the good fortune, to wear taffeta? The poor sap would probably be embarrassed to tears.

It was the same with makeup. Mommy had to restrain me here because, like most young girls, I tended to overdo it. I would sit at my vanity (yes, Christine had a vanity in her room now) and imagine myself like the lovely Myrrhina, in a poem my mother used to quote,

Who sat at her vanity wiith eyelids closed as soft as the breeze
That flows through gold flowers on the incense trees.

The only problem was that when I closed my eyes, I couldn't see the effect of the eye shadow I had put on.