Feminized By My Aunt

Feminized By My Aunt
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A Mother's Story

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Topic: A Mother's Story (Read 8674 times)

Patti59

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Feminne men make the Best husbands!!
Location: Pennsylvania

« on: November 17, 2020, 06:29:21 pm »
Here is a Thread I found authored by Steffie, a mother of a young boy: Date Posted: 23:40:50 11/19/11 Sat Author: Steffie Subject: My little girlboy My child, 10 years old, has taken to my 'girl-time' requirements quite well over the year since I began the program. He was definitely turning into his father at 9 years old; same petulant, male-centric attitudes. I was determined to minimize this behavior. It was quite a slow process of clothing and activity changes. I started by slowly replacing his normal boys sports-socks with shorter and longer socks; cute little ankle socks, and longer ones that became knee-socks of many colors. By not mentioning it, just letting it happen, within 6 months he was obvliviously walking around with the cutest pastel-colored knee-socks, sometimes scrunched down, but with correction, he always had his girlish knee-socks tugged up just right. Getting longer ones and insisting he pull them up got him quickly used to the idea of wearing tights, which I made him wear for Halloween, then at Christmas, I got him to agree and even get excited about being an Elf for the weekend, complete with green and red very streachy and shiny lycra girls ballet-tights, a green tunic I made by adding a flared skirt to a cotton, long-sleeved leotard, and boys ballet-slippers with little points sewn on to the toes. He looked just so sweet and pretty and cute, and I made sure he felt that way by inviting only guests who I knew would find him adorable. At this point, a year later, I have him taking semi-private gymnastics classes in a special class with two other very gentle, girlish boys and two 'real' girls. The children are allowed to wear whatever they like for colors, as long as they attend classes in form-fitting clothing. The boys by now seem to really enjoy trying new outfits for it, frequently trading dance togs. Franky came home yesterday wearing a soft orange-color leotard over a pair of white lycra footless tights that end just below his knees that I know belong to little Jeffry. I did call his mother and she laughed it off, saying she had my son's tights and dance-top. It's all about psychology and slow changes. Date Posted: 08:03:49 11/24/11 Thu Author: Charlaine Subject: Re: My little girlboy In reply to: Steffie 's message, "My little girlboy" on 23:40:50 11/19/11 Sat Dear Steffie, Have you thought of panties yet? You can start with plain white, flyless "underpants". as a reminder to sit instead of standing and making a mess. Then you can add color and various fabrics, patterns and styles. Hair styles are another area where slow changes can be made. Love, Charlaine Date Posted: 10:45:13 11/29/11 Tue Author: Jeremy Subject: Re: My little girlboy In reply to: Steffie 's message, "My little girlboy" on 23:40:50 11/19/11 Sat You should buy him a nice pair of girls China Flat Mary Janes to wear after school and on the week-ends and around the house. Theres nothing more feminine than wearing girls footwear. I wore these when I was 9 yrs old and all the kids knew that I had a "sissy streak" in me because I was wearing frilly ankle socks and girlie shoes that my Aunt bought me..... but I loved showing off in them. My Aunt bought me a pair of white girls sandals later that summer and I wore them them with girls pantyhose and had painted toe nails. Date Posted: 07:03:55 05/06/12 Sun Author: Dana (Happy) Subject: Re: My little girlboy In reply to: Ellen 's message, "Re: My little girlboy" on 08:53:04 01/25/12 Wed My son loves girly clothes particularly tights. He attends ballet class and wears the girls uniform of pink leotard white tights and pink ballet shoes. He wears girls panties always and when travelling to ballet class he likes to wear a red kilt, white tights and white blouse. On his feet he wears the most delicious black patent Mary-Janes. Thought this would be an enjoyable read. Wonder how he is doing 9 years after the fact!
« Reply #1 on: November 17, 2020, 08:08:10 pm »
Patti59, that is a lovely thread, thanks for sharing. Slow changes are like the frog in a boiling pot analogy - put him in boiling water he jumps out, put him cold water and slowly raise the temperature, he stays in and so on. The feminine dance and gymnastics classes for the boys are great at teaching them proper behaviour and of course when they are young slowly introducing it and adopting the girls attire they just get in with the fun and sweetness, ideally preparing them for their future.

RadicalFeminist

Sr. Member

Posts: 462

« Reply #2 on: November 20, 2020, 10:27:56 pm »
Thanks for sharing any mothers enjoy using the slow and steady approach while others enjoy more of a shock and awe approach. This is why I spend a lot of time mentoring new mothers there is no rush to force a boy into dresses. Having a plan and a clear set of goals goes a long way to achieving success. Having patients and introducing the next feminine touch works wonders for many brats, others need the boiling water. If the mother is prepared and willing to put in the work both approaches can be successful.

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A Mother's Story

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fem · u · late (fem ´ ya-lat ´ ) v., To imitate, copy, or try to be like a female.
That's a girl. It's a remake of an episode of the American show 'Whos the Boss'. The family is just shocked at how pretty the formerly tomboyish girl is.
The name of the Mexican show is 'Una familia con Angel'.
She looks a little bit like the actress who was in Willy/Milly
The summary of the short video is simple, Dear Stana: the whole family is happy with the change except the Father. The child, Adrián, is also very happy with its feminine image and likes to hear the compliments. After the entry, his aunt said to him she has bought something, a surprise, maybe another dress, shoes, makeup… And yes!, I wish I had an aunt like this lucky boy's/girl's aunt! Best Wishes María Cristina
The summary of the short video is simple, Dear Stana: the whole family is happy with the change except the Father. The child, Adrián, is also very happy with its feminine image and likes to hear the compliments. After the entry, his aunt said to him she has bought something, a surprise, maybe another dress, shoes, makeup… And yes, I wish I had an aunt like this lucky boy's/girl's aunt! Best Wishes María Cristina
this particular Youtuber likes to make his own version of shows and make pretend that there is a trans theme when actually there isn't. I have seen some of his work before
I should have known better... too good to be true.

You only have one life to live and you should live it like you want. If someone has a problem, then it is their problem, not yours. – my Sephora image consultant

Feel like a woman. Wear a dress ! – Diane von Furstenberg

Feel like a woman. Wear a bra! – Stana

My skirt's not too short – my legs are too long! – Stana

Boy by birth, woman by life. – Stana

Better femulate than never! – Stana

I dress like this because I just love being a man. – Faith DaBrooke

I always wears high heels because flat shoes are for quitters. – Avery Jessup

I can't concentrate in flats. – Victoria Beckham

Now that I am attractive to men there isn't a man I want. – Candy Darling
Aunt transforms nephew into niece in a Spanish language television show .

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She wasn’t really my aunt. Maybe her name wasn’t really Doris, I don’t know. She was one of my mother’s friends, and my mother had lots of friends. They’d come over, drink, blab. Usually the party went on all night. Aunt Doris used to come into my room to make sure I was still alive. Sometimes she flopped on my cot and told me a story. She smelled of booze, perfume and something else, something I liked. Aunt Doris’ stories were on the short and dirty side, but they were the only ones I got. [private]Since home life was the way it was, I stayed in school, hit the library when school let out. School plus library equals college scholarships. You better believe I went to college. College was OK. A week before graduation, I got a phone call from Aunt Doris. I hadn’t heard from her in a long time. She said she was coming up for a visit. Nobody else ever came to visit me at College. I braced for first-degree embarrassment. Aunt Doris showed up at the wheel of a cherry-red custom convertible. She had a white scarf around her hairdo, big sunglasses. She looked like a movie star from Hollywood, which is exactly where she drove from. She parked liked she never really learned to drive. Maybe she’d been drinking. When she stepped out of the car, she went from Hollywood movie star to dorm room smoker babe. Aunt Doris was 50 pounds lighter than the last time I saw her, but none of the weight loss was from hips, keister or bosom. The pounds took 10 years with them. Suddenly I was extremely glad my Aunt Doris had come to see me. She hugged me a lot closer, a lot longer, kissed me on the mouth a little deeper than a real aunt would have. That was OK too. Slight booze breath, but no cheap perfume when she raised her arms to wrap them around my neck. The smell I liked was still there. “Wow,” she said slowly, moving her lips like this was her big glamorous close-up in a silent movie. “Look at you. My little boy’s a handsome man.” College guys, football players and engineering nerds alike, popped from the library, classroom buildings, Student Union and dorms to get a look at the sexy lady with the flashy car. Bronwyn Evans, my college steady date, caught me kissing my Aunt Doris. She walked away as though she hadn’t seen. I was going to have plenty of explaining to do. Or maybe none at all. Aunt Doris wanted to take me to lunch. At a real restaurant, she said, not a teenage hamburger grease-pit. After that, she wanted me to take her for a ride in the wooded hills around College Town. The only real restaurant in town didn’t have a big champagne selection, but we drank up what they had. Marriage, Aunt Doris told me over Baked Alaska, was a bum deal. To be avoided at all costs. Enjoy youth and freedom while you’ve still got them. Keep on enjoying them even when they’re gone, that’s the secret. Aunt Doris was briefly married to a Hollywood millionaire. She thought both things, Hollywood and millionaire, would make her happy. She said she thought her dreams had suddenly come true. Two years later, she got a Mexican divorce and half the rich man’s loot. Maybe happiness was only a dream. Out in the parking lot, both of us woozy from low-grade champagne and pre-lunch martinis, Aunt Doris handed me the keys to her convertible. “You drive. Get used to driving dreamboats for a change.” Last time I hit the hills was with Bronwyn Evans. First time for both of us, not terribly successful. But we kept trying, over and over again, in other locations, strictly indoors, with the windows shut tight, curtains drawn. I thought Aunt Doris wanted fresh air and rustic scenery, after Los Angeles. Plenty of both, among the pines, but she had other plans. The trunk was full of brand new plaid blankets, a pack of rubbers, a bottle of good whiskey and a heavy navy blue cashmere sweater. She tossed me the sweater. “Here, I thought this would go with your green eyes.” Aunt Doris showed me a new view of the world, possible solutions to the mystery of man meets woman. Bronwyn made me put on a rubber before I even kissed her, practically. Aunt Doris wasn’t terrified by the nightmarish possibility of being impregnated. Male and female fluids didn’t disgust her. She was just being sensible, I thought, but the rubbers from Hollywood made me sad anyhow. Night fell and I was glad she bought me the fancy sweater. Aunt Doris didn’t mind the cold. She kept her clothes off while we gathered wood. I started a fire with Wall Street Journals from the back seat of the car and her gold lighter from Paris. Her skin glowed yellow rose in the light and flicker. She asked what I was thinking. I said I learned more from the last 3 hours than 4 years of college. Aunt Doris never finished high school. She never told me why she left home at 16, but I gathered it wasn’t a pleasant or pretty picture. Suddenly she wanted to talk about the past. Aunt Doris and my mother hooked up in the Big City back East. They had the same job. I asked what the job was. She laughed. Eventually, she said, “Waitress.” I couldn’t picture my mom as a waitress, not in a hundred years. She would have poured hot soup all over the head of the first guy who got fresh. She’d have told bad tippers to fuck off. She’d have taught the manager how to run a restaurant and the cook how to cook, even though she didn’t know how to run a restaurant or cook. My mother didn’t teach me how to read. She knew how, but she only read movie magazines. She tried to teach me to dance, once. While Aunt Doris was in the middle of telling me how she and my mother got their first apartment together with no deposit or key fee, I asked if she wanted to dance. Dancing without music works fine. Aunt Doris was a good dancer. She used to shake it like crazy at my mother’s parties. But that night we just held on. She stopped talking about old times with my mother and I was glad. There was plenty I didn’t want to know. Like who my father was. Long list of names to choose from. I had a feeling that’s where her story was headed. The fire burned to embers. It was full-on spring but still seriously cold on Black Goat Hill. Aunt Doris and I got under her blankets, but first I made her put on the sweater she gave me. “Don’t be silly. You’re so skinny. I can feel you freezing away. All I got to do is hug you tight and drink more whiskey. I’ll be fine.” “Not for the cold,” I said. “I want the sweater to smell of you.” “ Stink of me, you mean. I’m a drunk old lady and there isn’t a shower for miles, I’ll bet.” “That’s not what I mean.” She sat up and put my new sweater on. Navy blue, dark as the moonlit night. Her skin was pale, soft, warm and near, unlike the stars. Aunt Doris looked slightly haggard in the morning. Not hung-over. I knew what hangovers look like. Aunt Doris asked me to drive her to the nearest airport, about two hours away from College Town. There was a 7:30 flight for Los Angeles. She said she had to be on it. She had appointments in Tinseltown. Important appointments she couldn’t afford to miss. We stopped for lunch at a diner. “Those rubbers,” Aunt Doris told me, in her normal voice, like she didn’t care if anyone heard an older woman talking to a college kid about rubbers and recent sex, “were for you, not me. I just wanted to protect you, baby, from what I got. Too silly, but I want to keep you safe. What I got’s not even catching, but I didn’t like the idea. Now, I’m sorry. I wanted us to feel each other. I’d love making babies with you, Joe. I’d love nothing better. Honest.” “Aunt Doris, last night was really great, I mean it, but I don’t know if I’m ready to…” She cut me off. Of course I wasn’t ready. Of course the idea of having children and being a man scared the living shit out of me. “Just wanted you to know I wasn’t afraid,” she said, “of touching you. Of having you inside me. That’s what I wanted. I was thinking of you, that’s all. And it was so silly. Silly me, that is. Silly.” The convertible was for me, she said. A graduation present. People still flew around in silver Constellations in those days. Everything in America looked big, beautiful, full of hope and dreams. I parked my incredible new car as close to the runway as the law allowed, watched the gleaming airplane taxi, race its engines and take off towards the sunset. I waved at the porthole I thought might be filled by Aunt Doris’s face. I stayed on the runway till dark. Stars shone from their usual places. Constellations don’t really exist. Constellation stars are millions of light-years apart and can’t see each other. My Aunt Doris is one of them. She had cancer. Sickness grabbed her between the legs on the inside and spread with hellish speed. That’s what she told me the next time she called. I couldn’t figure out how she got my number. I was working in Alaska, a military airport construction project that was supposed to be top secret. She said no when I said I was going to get on the next plane, or drive down in the car she gave me, even if it took all day and all night and most of the next day. She said she didn’t want me to see her looking the way she did. She said she was down to 85 pounds. She just wanted to say goodbye, that’s all. A week after the phone call, she died. There wouldn’t have been enough time for us to have a baby together. She probably knew that. She thought a thin stretch of rubber could come between a human being and death. She didn’t want what was killing her to touch me. When it’s cold and clear and dark enough to see the stars really shine, I put on the sweater she gave me, sit on the ground and look up. I feel warm though it’s night all over.[private]
Matthew Licht is an underground filmmaker and the author of The Crazy House Gag and the detective trilogy World Without Cops . His book of short stories The Moose Show (Salt) was nominated for the Frank O’Connor Prize 2007. Justine, Joe and The Zen Garbageman is due to be published this year. He lives in Italy.

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