Becoming A Whore: My Training Begins

I will begin with one statement to eliminate any possibility of confusion. While my training to become a whore began at the age of four, it was not the intent of my Grandma to train me as a whore. This should be so self apparent that it is all but pointless to even make the statement. At some point in my young life, my grandmother decided to raise me as a girl. She won the battle with my parents to do so and from the age of five to the summer of my twelfth birthday I was her granddaughter. Or so was everyone in our world let to believe. Everyone outside of the family, It was my decision — at the age of twelve — to end this charade. It was my decision to return to the life of a boy. I am convinced that if I had not made this decision when I did that I would have graduated from high school six years later as Veronica, the granddaughter of Alberta Vayne. While my grandmother chose to raise me as a girl when I was five, over the years her aspirations had changed — and she had begun to raise me to be a young woman one day.

While, as stated in the first sentence, it was not my Grandma’s intent to raise a whore, it would become an unintended consequence of my training. In November of my sixth grade school year, when I was eleven, I met a cute boy. He was older and when he asked my age, I lied. I said I was fourteen — his age. He invited me back to his home to listen to music. Fifteen minutes after we got to his room I was sucking his cock. It was the first time I had ever sucked cock. It would not be the last time I did so that year. By the end of the school year, about two dozen different boys had gotten blowjobs from Alberta’s granddaughter. Some more than once. Now I will not suggest that sucking cock at the age of eleven defined me as a whore. But it most definitely could be said that I was a slut. But of course my Grandma had not raised me to be a slut. So how is it I had become a slut?

The answer to that question begins with one indisputable fact. I had been born a male. I had been born as a boy. The earliest years of my life were spent as a boy and I had been taught what a young male toddler needs to know about being a boy. And then two months after my fifth birthday, I became a girl.

Or rather, the lessons changed. I had to forget everything I knew about being a boy and learn all the lessons I would have been taught about being a girl. My grandmother had taken on the task of changing every single thing I knew about myself and teaching me to become a different person.

She did so with no guidebook on how it could be done and she did so knowing my ‘education’ was already five years behind girls my age. And maybe most importantly, she did so with the same determination and commitment that she had applied to every goal in her life. She did not want to raise a boy who could pull of being a girl. She wanted to raise a girl.

What did all of this means as relevant to my life. For my grandmother, it was never enough for me to be a girl. I had to be the girliest girl I could be. I had to be the prettiest girl I could be. And, this meant, when it came to boys, I had to be a boy crazy girl whenever I was around boys.

Being born male, I was bigger than any other girl in my class. Not so much bigger or taller that it raised eyebrows, but big enough that I could easily pass as a fourteen year old girl with makeup.

My Grandma trained me to like boys. I use the word ‘trained’ reluctantly. However I can not think of a more appropriate word. So much of my new life was simply about the clothes I wore and the toys in my toy chest. It was about growing my hair out long and choosing to play with neighborhood girls over boys. Because of the clothes I wore, everyone saw me as a girl and being seen as a girl made it natural to act like a girl. I am not saying that there were not behaviors or mannerisms that did not require some training, but for the most part being a young girl of five or six is not much different than being a young boy of five or six. While I would not describe my grandmother as insecure, she apparently felt that her biggest challenge with her ‘granddaughter’ was the relationship I would have with boys. And this made her . . . let’s say nervous and not insecure. Unlike any other aspect of my new life as a girl, I feel my Grandma trained me to like boys. There was a certain way I was expected to behave when around boys. I came to understand that my grandmother expected me to smile at every boy my age I saw.

It should not be forgotten that nothing about my new life as a girl meet with my disapproval. I wanted to be a girl. I knew I would be happier as a girl and I truly seen the seven years I spent as a girl as the happiest years of my life. I do not know when my grandmother decided to raise me as her granddaughter. I can however recall sitting on the bathroom counter as she did her makeup. I would sit on her bed as she dressed for work — and often when she came home and changed out of her work clothes. I wanted to be a girl yes. But I also wanted to be like my grandmother. She became my role model. She taught me so much about being a girl but I feel I learned even more from her simply by watching her. To a great extent, it can be said that when it came to boys, most of what I learned came from watching Grandma around men. And once my parents and siblings had moved to Rosalia, and it was just Grandma and myself living together, it was not uncommon for me to wake up in the middle of the night to the sounds of Grandma getting fucked. On some occasions, I would get out of bed and spy on my grandmother and her ‘gentleman caller.’ I will not use the term to define my Grandmother — that feels like a boundary I cannot cross — but lessons I learned either watching or listening to my Grandmother taught me about boys and what they wanted from girls and explains a great deal about how I came to be a slut by age eleven.

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