Veronica: A Girl With A Difference

Those who know me best, who know more about my story, will often ask me "Do you see yourself as a boy or a girl?"  This is not the easiest question for one such as myself to answer.  As I have said elsewhere, maybe even repeatedly, I never saw myself as a boy.  I always felt myself to be a girl.  At the same  time, I am most definitely not like other girls.  It is impossible for me to take a shower and look in the mirror before I dress and not be reminded that I am still somewhat a boy.

When I suggested above that it was not an easy question to answer, it may be a bit misleading to say so as I always answer that I see myself as a girl.  However, even as I do so, I know it is not as simple as 'I am a girl' or  'I am a boy.'

However, conceding that I am a girl, allowing that my gender identity is more that of a girl than a boy, as is often the case in sports almanac, that label comes with an asterisk.  I am a girl, but a different kind of girl.  The question this brings to mind is 'Does being different make me better  than other girls or not as good as other girls."

Once we had arrived in Spokane, once it was decided that I would be living in Spokane full-time as a young girl, my mother went out of her way to continually impress upon me that I was no different than other girls, that I was just as good as any girl, that I was better than most girls if I was a better person than most girls.  It is not unlikely that one of the reasons she started signing me up to compete in beauty pageants was to support her belief that other girls had nothing on me.

Nothing however could change (at this point in my life) the one inescapable fact that I had boy parts between my thighs and not girl parts.  While on one level this was really inconsequential, particularly as a young girl in her preteen, it was there.  Every time I sat down on the toilet to pee, I was reminded of my boy parts.

As I have mentioned in a previous post, I started out a bit boy crazy as a young girl in Spokane and if anything I even got more boy crazy as I grew older.  Rightly or wrongly, I felt I had to try harder with the boys than most girls. And I did so because I craved their attention. I liked it when boys gave me flowers and told me I was pretty and made a big deal out of me competing in pageants.

And I loved to smile at boys and let them kiss me and flash them glimpses of my panties.  I wanted the boys to like me more than t they liked other girls.  I wanted to be the prettiest, most popular girl on the block.

In other words, at a very young age, I started seeking out the approval of boys by doing those things that I knew would most likely earn me their appreciation, those things that would get me gifts of flowers.  And compliments.  And secret kisses.  I was at the age of eight by no means a slut, but I was laying a pretty solid foundation for the life of a slut that would one day be my life.