Every year, my father and I go on a hunting trip. It used to be all three of my brothers and my father. However, over the years, my brothers started having families of their own, traditions of their own, and trips of their own.
For the past five years, it's just been me and the old man.
As far as the actual hunt goes, it's usually just me going out on my own. The old man always starts the day off with me until I pick up a track. Then he excuses himself and goes on his way to do his own thing, which I am more than ok with. He's in his late 60s and can't keep up like he used to.
Plus, depending on what I'm tracking, I may have to move faster than he can keep up with. So I might have to run some. I never say anything when he taps me on the shoulder to let me know I'll be on my own the rest of the way.
"Be careful out there," he'll say in his deep voice. "Don't be taking on any bears. I'll meet up with you back at the tavern."
"You be careful old man," I quip back with a nod and a smile.
Honestly? I enjoy my time alone; it helps give me clarity. Up on that big mountain, alone with my thoughts. It's just me and whatever I'm tracking. I'd be lying if I didn't say I missed the days he'd spot for me. But, as I said, he's getting older.
Nowadays, when we come up here to do a little hunting, he mainly hangs out at this tavern hidden in the mountains where he can sit around and sip bourbon, telling stories with his old friends, waiting for me to show up later and regale him and his friends with the story of the days' hunt. They want to know how I bagged my kill or how it got away.
My father has always been proud of me, something that has never been lost on me. He loves the underdog; if there is one fact about me, I am the true definition of an underdog.
This year I wouldn't be going out on my own. Nor would anyone else, for that matter. Unfortunately, this year, the weather has been just a bit on the insane side.
It's either raining like crazy or, in today's case, snowing non-stop. But rain, sleet, or shine, nothing will stop the old man from getting his drink on with his old friends.
Despite all the snow, somehow, we make it to the tavern, and I get to sit in on his bullshit session. I came out to my father months ago, and, God love him, he took it in stride.
"Shit, Joseph, you're a good son. I don't care about that gay shit. As long as you're a good person and someone I can be proud of, that's all I give a shit about." He paused, "Joseph, I'm proud of you; I love you."
"I know you do pop," I'd say.
That was months ago; he was the last person I tried hiding from. From that day, I was able to be myself. I love my father and have the utmost respect for him. So, I make sure to be conservative in how I dress around him.
My hormones, on the other hand, had plans of their own. My breast had been enough to fill an A-cup since I graduated high school; that was three, almost four years ago.
My hormones decided to have one more push just for the hell of it. My doctor tells me it's not abnormal for someone my age to have one final growth spurt. He said this should be the last one. He'd be shocked if I had another.
Unfortunately, my hormones are still dominated by estrogen. So instead of my "growth spurt," coming in the form of height or anything identifiably male, my tits grew.
I have gone from barely being able to fill my A-cup to comfortably fitting into a C-cup.
With my body build and my height, there was no hiding them. They'd gone from being my itty bitties to becoming my girls. So even if I had wanted to go back to the compression shirts, and fuck that, there was no hiding them now.
As I said, we come up here every year, and this was the first time that I felt uncomfortable around the old man's friends. It's been a little over two years since I came out and stopped hiding my natural body.
All these men have known of me as little Joey to big Joey to what the fuck Joey?
I grew up around most of them. They'd never seen me like this before. When you are barely over five feet tall, an A-cup might catch someone's eye. A C-cup catches everyone's eye.
For the past couple of years, they've looked at me like a dog looking at someone with a high-pitched whistle in their voice; their heads tilt to one side. Nobody has asked the old man what the what about me? And, I'm just as positive that he hasn't explained it to them.
In the real world, I've had to become accustomed to the "distance look," the "quick glance," the "side-eye," or the all-out, no trying to hide it, "ogling look." And that's from people I grew up around, people who know my family. People who know me!
I know the old guys are harmless, but I was not too fond of some of the looks I was getting, and I wasn't about to put my father in a position to defend me. So I politely excused myself and went into the main bar area.
I found a bar stool at the end of the bar with my name on it. The owner has always known about my condition because I told him years ago.
He's a nice enough old fart, and his wife is just as sweet. I'd find myself in their company on many trips, and they could tell I was miserable.
It was the fall before starting college, and I was hanging out with them when I broke down and told Anna, Hal's wife. They took it in stride and went out of their way to make me feel normal. I'll always remember them for that.
During the day, Hal tended the bar. As I said, it's his tavern, and like my father, an old guy doing what he loves.
"I'm still not used to serving you, kiddo; what can I do you for?" I smiled at Hal; it was always a cherry Coke when I was a kid. Today it's my fathers' favorite bourbon, neat.
"Makers, neat, and can you put the ball game on for me?"
"You bet, kiddo," he responded while he poured.
"They don't mean any harm, buddy; old guys gonna do old guy things."
Hal didn't have to make excuses for anyone, and I've always liked that about him. He'd always go out of his way to ensure I felt comfortable in his tavern.
"Nah, those old bastards don't bother me. On the contrary, I think it's cute. I mean, think about it. They know I'm not a woman."
With that, we laughed, and Hal turned around to put the game on.
"Old bastards," he exclaimed in-between laughs.
"Old fags," I answered.
Hal stopped laughing and turned around. He placed his hands down on the bar directly in front of me. "Oh shit," I mumbled; I went too far, I thought to myself.
He leaned into me, and I thought, he's going to tear into me for being vulgar and crass, fuck!
"The irony?!" He said, then exploded into a muffled big belly laugh.
I couldn't hide my laugh; I was laughing at him, trying to hide his laughter about them!
"Fags!" We said at the same time in a low voice, trying to hide our giddiness.
"I want in on the joke," said the man with a twang that seemingly appeared out of nowhere.
A big guy, hunched down, his forearms on the bar. With a big smirk, he glanced at Hal, then at me, then back a Hal.
"Um...no joke, just small talk between friends," I explained, looking down at my bourbon with a big smile.
I glanced up at Hal, and he smiled, straightened up, and asked him what he would like to drink.
