Bobby's Metamorphosis, Love's Spark

This is my first story in the Transgender & Crossdressers category. The entry is a slow-burn development as the protagonist realizes what his new summer friends immediately knew when they first met him. It is a journey that crosses over from heterosexual leanings to an unfamiliar world he would come to know well in his adulthood.

I have a personal goal to write at least one story in each of Literotica's genres. This contribution checks off another category. I hope you enjoy the evolution of a young man on his life's journey.

Kenjisato continues to accept my stories for grammatical editing. I'm very appreciative of his work. It makes this a much better read for all of us! I've made a few modifications post-editing. If you find mistakes among those changes, know that I own them, not my dear editor!

The phrase "absence makes the heart grow fonder" is often attributed to various ancient writers, but its true origin remains a mystery. I discovered this sentence while working on my Ph.D. dissertation in English Literature, and as a researcher, I spent countless hours analyzing its nuanced meanings. However, I found it to be true, at least for myself. The idea of missing someone and feeling more affectionate towards them resonated with me as I drove away from my teaching position in Urbana for a weekend getaway back home.

Ten long years had passed since I left home, and yet I was on the road heading back for my high school reunion. It seemed imprudent given the past. I'd plucked the invitation from my mailbox and intended to trash it as I had in previous years, until I noticed the handwriting. I hesitated mid-toss when the handwritten return address caught my eye. Initially, I wasn't keen on the idea of opening it, but the cursive handwriting addressed to Dr. B. Rhyder was so familiar. Inside was a handwritten note signed by Gaylan Watters; it made all the difference. I had ignored all the previous reunion announcements. High school wasn't a pleasant experience for me until Gaylan came along and turned my life around.

As I read the invitation aloud, Gaylan Watters' name flowed off the tip of my tongue like sweet tea pouring into a tall glass of ice with a twist of lemon. It was a refreshing flashback to the summer I turned eighteen. I felt like I owed him a face-to-face meeting to determine where we stood with one another. We had disconnected as I immersed myself in the world of academia. He had, the last I knew, been integrally linked with the care of Sara, his disabled sister. Now, somehow, he became connected with the planning of my tenth high school reunion.

I'd been an emotional mess closing out twelfth grade, looking forward to a summer of isolation and turning eighteen. In school, I encountered the catcalls and snide snickers of 'cute bitch' at unexpected turns in the hallways. A slender build with long blond wavy locks got me into more visits to the principal's office than any other student. They probably would have a trophy in the display case with my name on it for 'the most in trouble student.' But the school staff didn't 'bully' students with such disparagements. Admin let the students handle the dishing out of such treatment. I tried fending them off and got beaten in return before getting hauled off to the office.

Additionally, I was a product of what psychologists refer to as 'cold parenting.' My family dynamics ran toward control and sternness on my father's part. It eclipsed the attempts at tenderness and warmth my mother tried to show, as I grew from childhood into an early adolescent stage. Sir John Rhyder controlled that — tried to, anyway. I turned out to be just as obstinate as he. So, my lifestyle was 'tolerated' as I approached adulthood.

Mid-semester, my dad got wind of the ridicule at school. My mom could only cover up my situation for so long before he found out. I'd been badly hammered by a football jock. One look at me, and Dad blazed like someone attempting to use gasoline to douse a fire.

"What the hell happened to you?" he growled.

"One-hundred-eighty-pound linebacker," I answered, holding a pack of frozen peas to my jaw. I knew where this would lead.

"Over?" he demanded.

"John, don't go harping..." Mom tried to run interference.

"Shut the fuck up, Karen! I'm asking Bobby," he retorted.

Ol' John's glare turned toward Mom, quickly putting her in her place. She shut the fuck up, recognizing further interference would just be added kindling to his smoldering rage.

It had been this way for as long as I could remember. Dad ran the household like he did the family business: 'My way or the highway' was the most frequent bark at work. At home, it was often, 'I pay the fuckin' bills' to point out who ruled the roost.

'Shut the fuck up!' spewed out when he didn't want to hear about something. He didn't have any problems with keeping order. At six-foot-six and built like a pro wrestler with a nasty scar on his neck as a reminder, no one challenged Big John Rhyder, at least not more than once.

"Over?" he demanded again.

"Jason Kramer called me...a fag. I lost my temper and swung first," I replied.

"How many times have I told you to kick 'em in the nuts first, a fist to the throat second? God damn, you never learn! You fight like a damn girl."

"John!" Mom blurted out.

"Well, for fuck sakes! If he cut that damn long hair, maybe he'd get less shit," he barked at her in reply.

"Where are you going?" Mom called out as Dad grabbed his keys and hastened toward the front door.

John Rhyder's mind had long since left the conversation. It was fomenting an action plan to fix another family mess and protect his image. He didn't answer.

I looked at her for an answer as the roar of the Cummings diesel came to life. She shook her head in that 'not now Bobby' jester, reached for the phone on the wall, then hesitated. I'd seen that taciturn look before and knew her call would be another to 911. But to my surprise, she let it go.

The hour grew late. "No telling when Dad will return," Mom sighed, rose from her rocking chair by the television, and entered the kitchen.

She brought back an eighteenth birthday cake with a forest of candles. Her face had that soft, motherly-love demur smile.

"Carrot cake, your favorite."

"Thanks, Mom," I said, looking nonplussed. The excitement of a new eighteen-year-old wasn't in my voice nor my heart as I watched her light the eighteen candles.

The swelling in my jaw kept me from cracking a smile as her soft voice sang, 'Happy Birthday, dear Bobby.' Then she added, "Make a wish."

I did.

I wished I'd not been born John Rhyder's son. Then I tried to blow out the candles. It took some effort with my swollen jaw. Mom presented me with a gift, which I unwrapped: a novel by Kazuo Ishiguro,The Remains of the Day.

The story is both beautiful and cruel. It revolves around the theme of regret: the main character, Stevens, trusts a man who makes drastic mistakes. Stevens fails to pursue the one woman with whom he could have had a fulfilling and loving relationship.

The plot would become so familiar in my own life.

Past midnight, I awoke to the sound of the work truck rumbling in the driveway. Soon after, I heard an intense argument in the kitchen and headed out to get between them before ol'-liquored-up John forgot violence shouldn't come between a woman and a man.

For once, ol' John reined in his rage, seeing me standing there. He could tell I was pissed. The baseball bat in my hand gave it away, I guess. For the first time, I felt the need to pick it up.'Hit 'em in the nuts, then go for the throat' rolled around in my mind.

Mom saw me as well. Spotting the bat and ol' John staring at me, she fell quiet as though ol' John had spat out his famous line, "Shut the fuck up, Karen!"

Mom went to their bedroom.

At that point, my sire saw the remains of the cake and candles on the table. He raised his hands, the signs that fight had left him, and shook his head.

"Sorry, Bobby. We'll talk tomorrow."

With that, ol' John swayed unsteadily on his feet and headed to the basement to sleep off his usual stopover at the bar on the way back home.

I awoke the following morning and found a box propped up against the lamp on my dresser: Trojan SUPRA Lubricated: 18-Pack of Condoms. It wasn't gift-wrapped, but I knew the eighteen-pack's meaning and who placed it there. It was ol' John's way of marking a boy's eighteenth year and coming of age.

I got the 'look' when I entered school the following morning. In the first-period class, I was sent to Principal Snider's office. Both he and his secretary looked damn scared as I entered. As my classmates knew him, Snider, 'the sniveler,' was apologetic for what happened to me.

"Bobby, I'm going to make sure this gets dealt with firmly," his voice quivered, though he didn't make eye contact.

"Sure, it will," I sighed, looking at the indentation in the metal file cabinet behind him as he sniveled.

It was the size of my dad's fist. I imagined him blowing past the secretary, hoisting Snider in one hand, and saying something like, "My boy comes home again looking like he did today, and this is going to be how your fuckin' face is gonna look!"

Graystone High's grapevine was like lightning. Word got around fast, even with all its clicks. Physically, things got better, but I became more of a pariah than before.

The following week was filled with sneaked glances at me and then away as I jerked my head in their direction to take them on. Hall traffic flowed by me as if I was not even in the traffic lane, an invisible cipher amidst them.

After two weeks, it settled down a bit — the names came back by a few brave 'bitches' — the shoulder bumps, too. Just not to an intolerable degree. I pushed back some, but let the counterpunches go. Class bullies know their limits. Everybody knew my dad had come to the school. His football Hall of Fame picture was enshrined in the trophy case. But the tales of his reign over Graystone High as a class bully followed him even today. The end of the second semester neared, and the school's mindset focused on our senior class preparations for those of us about to graduate. Then summer came, and I was home free.

That summer, I was bound to the soil like a serf to the realm's master. Most my age had jobs helping their fathers and acquiring knowledge of the family business. It was the way of the village for generations: fathers trained sons to take over the family business. John Rhyder, my sire, made his living as a master builder of custom homes.

My father assigned his long-haired, curly-blond son the family gardening chores until he went to college in September. Yeah, that was the type of relationship we had. Dad was an infrequent endearment term; my most used term was—sir. I was an odd duck in the Rhyder clan—going to college. My mom was proud of that. My dad, not so much. He kept me off the construction sites, out of sight from the crew and any comments about...howdifferent I was from ol' John.

Books, five acres of gardening care and a ten-acre lot, were ol' John's way of keeping me busy. Still, it wasn't a heavy yolk to bear. I enjoyed the solitude and the time to read. The chores gave lots of time for reflection.

It was a time of reflection about self-worth and the need to become more...manly. I spent some time with John Rhyder's heavyweight bag hanging in the barn, getting in five minutes in the morning and five before heading up to the house in the evenings. Beating ol' John's workout bag grew vicious and more prolonged. With each punch, I had a mental image of him as I gained confidence through June. Though the punches vented some anger, it didn't do much to build up my physique. I'd never look like a fighter—just a girlish wuss who liked the long-haired look of musicians.

A summer of solitude would have been fine, but it improved quite remarkably when a Mayflower moving truck drove up to the vacant house across the street on the first day of July. I watched it unload a ton of stuff, including a hospital bed and exercise equipment. On the third of July, a second hospital-type van arrived along with two cars.

Gaylan Watters, tall and muscular, scurried among them and helped maneuver the patient from the van into the house. I could tell by the ton of stuff they carried in this was someone needing a lot of care. I watched the house for two days as the two cars took turns leaving and returning--trips to the stores. On day three, the shirtless strapping guy was outside ripping out steps, followed by a flurry of activity to build a new ramp. I could tell he didn't have the needed skill sets with a simple glance from across the road.

I spoke to Mom. With an apple pie in hand, we crossed the road and introduced ourselves.

"I'm Gaylan Watters," he said with a smile.

His words burst with exuberance and warmth, as he explained that his mother was away, leaving him to attend to his sister Sara and her care. I noted that he had no problem giving his first name--he would have if he were going to attend Graystone High.

"You want to tell him, Bobby?" my mother prodded, as we stood and talked by the pile of lumber. She saw what I did when she spotted the short string line staked out in the yard.

"Not my place, Dad would say," I answered.

"Something wrong?" Gaylan asked, a quizzical look spread as he turned to me.

I glanced at Mom and shrugged.

"John Rhyder would tell you..."

"Bobby," Mom quickly cut into the conversation, knowing I was about to quote one of my sire's famous lines: 'You don't know what the fuck you're doing.'

I rethought that famous line, and answered instead, "He'd say you need some...plans. I'm guessing this is a wheelchair ramp. That calls for a maximum of one-in-twelve slope; that's one inch of drop over every twelve inches in length. This layout is way too steep. Besides, it would be best to have footings to prevent frost heave and a minimum of thirty-six inches in width. You really...need some plans and...help."

I expected to get pushback from Gaylan Watters for trashing his shoddy start. Instead, I got, "Guess I better tell my mom and get the job done right. Thanks, neighbor."

His boyish, charming smile seemed like a magnet, attracting my mother's warm response. Standing there and chatting with my mom, shirtless, with sculpted flat abs and an Adonis-like frame glistening with sweat, would have held any girl's attention, even a mother's admiration. It even allowed me to admire that perfect mesomorphic body, every muscle in place, rippling and bronzed by hours in the sun.

"Probably so."

Mom chuckled at some words I'd missed while locked in studying Adonis. Then she added, "We'll stop back when your mom gets home."

Watters was...unusual. He didn't give off the everyday jock body-builder vibes.

He lacked the cutting 'incivility' of a high school jock though he had that look. There was something special about him, something easily one could overlook as he turned on that disarming charm. It had spread respectfully across that square-chiseled chin and mop of shaggy iron-tinged hair. Looking at him was like looking into a distorted mirror; he had the muscular framework and extra foot of height I lacked. I saw that as he stood glistening and bare-chested under the July heat. One glance at that bodybuilder mound of muscles and the girls at Graystone would find him hot. It wouldn't have taken long for him to fit right in with the jock crowd; hell, the leader of the jocks, even.

As we crossed the road, Mom scolded, "Don't grow up to be your father. He was nice, right? Maybe someone you could get along with for the summer?"

I shrugged in response, ran my fingers through my hair, and, to change the subject, said, "Better let the expert know when he gets home, or he'll be bitching about the shoddy construction all summer long." That 'expert,' of course, would be ol' John Rhyder.

"Why don't you create a project draft for your dad to review? Crank up the AutoCAD and make a small-scale copy--don't print out a full-scale one. You know how he gets about wasted paper."

Against my better judgment, I did as Mother asked. When ol' John Rhyder crossed the homestead threshold, a printout lay on his plate. Washing up, he came to the table expecting things to be ready like clockwork. The printout was a ripple in the waters of another day of foundation work. Today's work had gone well; he was in a stable frame of mind.

"What's this?" he muttered, looking at the plan.

"John, the new family that moved in needs a wheelchair ramp for their daughter. She has paralysis. Her brother, Gaylan, plans to build one; John, the boy needs help."

"Gaylan..." he muttered, emphasizing the first syllable while studying the draft. "It's a funny name, that..."

His mind was at work as his lips eased out his first thoughts; John Rhyder was outspoken and narrow-minded. He spoke his mind; whether anyone wanted or needed to hear his thoughts, you would get them.

"Getting paid for this?" he huffed, studying the plan.

My answer was non-committal. "Advertising for your trade. Enticement to draw in money."

My answer dovetailed with ol' John's thinking.

"Put in the back footings by the foundation wall. You missed those," he answered, pursing his lips.

In the recesses of ol' John's mind lay some sense of Christian charity, especially for the disabled. He finished by laying the printout on the corner of the table, saying, "Don't put my logo on it. Charity doesn't pay wages."

His words were the best praise he had ever given me as an only son. I had learned over time that nothing I did would meet his approval the first time. That was just his way of controlling things. He would hold out praise until he sweated it out of me that I had made a mistake.

In my case, the omission of the two backfootings was intentional. Ol' John would dig until he found something wrong or invent something to nitpick about. It seemed like it was always the family way of teaching, passed down from generation to generation of Rhyders. Early on, I had learned self-defense by leaving something glaringly obvious for him to see. He would usually not dig any deeper, and I would lose the skirmish in his eyes. But in the end, I figured that I had won the larger war.

I saw Brenda Watters leave for work in the morning as I mowed the front yard before the heat set in. She was the new legal secretary at the one law firm in town. Later, I spotted Gaylan looking over the weed field in their front yard. He waved. I turned to see if Mom was behind me. She wasn't. The wave was, for me, the girlish-figured guy with long, wavy blond hair. Gaylan was different from most jocks. I waved back. It seemed the right thing to do.

At noon, I carried the full-sized drawing of the ramp across the road. Gaylan was feeding Sara, who was in a mobility transport wheelchair at the table. Sara was two years older than Gaylan. I'd learned in yesterday's conversation that she had been the head cheerleader at their former school. Today, I got more of the story. She and three others were traveling in a van back from an away game when a drunk crossed over into their lane. A victim of that car crash two years ago put her life on hold, yet her outlook was upbeat. The Watters' banter was humorous—it turned to who would do the dishes.

I watched with amusement, wondering what it would have been like to grow up with a sibling instead of as an only child. Gaylan did the dishes; there was no way Sara could have reached into the sink. While he cleaned up, I filled Sara in on the world of Graystone High. It was not the real world I experienced; it was just the bright side of a small community high school where bullies didn't exist.