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30 June 2011, 4:00 pm No Comments

Personal Narratives: Émile Bonnet: Tales of A Teenage Crossdresser And His Mistress

Crossposted with permission from Mommy Fiercest. View the original post here.

Just a A French Teenage Crossdresser & His Mistress, c. Mommy Fiercest

I had decided that I would fall in love with Émile Bonnet before I’d ever even met him. He was my junior high school boyfriend’s foreign exchange student. He was 19 and French. I loved Émile because he was smart and worldly and he did what I wanted him to do.

When he arrived we stayed up late sitting out on the picnic bench in my boyfriend’s family’s backyard.  The breeze cooled our sweaty skin and carryed with it the pungent aroma of the tomato cannery and the garlic fields that surrounded my tiny village. Émile and I laughed and flirted as the yard sizzled with the summer sounds of frogs and crickets and the air smelled wonderful like spaghetti. Émile  showed me photos of his college hazing, regaling me with tales of being made to run around Paris on a scavenger hunt covered in raw eggs and carmel sauce in only his underpants. In one such photo Émile was standing atop a formica table before a blackboard in a lecture hall. He wore a poorly fitting french school girls uniform that one of his classmates had brought with her from home. He sang into a child’s toy microphone, head thrown back, chest thrust forward. He looked positively radiant and not in the least humiliated. I had already begun dressing my boyfriend in my goth girl drag and my approval and subsequent titillation were all the incentive Émile needed to become my cross-dressing femme entertainment.

One summer afternoon I bleached his outdated Beatles bowl haircut and dyed it bright pink. He rinsed the dye out in my shower and he stained his entire face (and my bathtub) Manic Panic fushia. I sent him home on the skate board he borrowed from my boyfriend. I had no desire to make out with his tomato face.

He was a good kisser but his breath often smelled of anchovies, which he ate almost daily. I knew of no other teenagers who ate anchovies or hot mustard that stung your nose and made your eyes well up with tears when you swallowed.

We maintained a love letter romance for about a year before one of us eventually lost interest. But I will always remember him in photos. Émile as a naughty schoolgirl. Émile as a slutty goth girl in my driveway blowing kisses from beneath the shade of my Ren-Fair head dress. Émile the pink haired teenager in a red pleated skirt and silver thigh high stockings.

In America, in Gilroy, Émile was fearless.


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