For all of us, there are many a “first time” for many things in our lives. As I grew up, I encountered many choices; whether to do, or not to do, certain girly things. Here are a few more of my own dilemmas and experiences, once I knew that I was a little different.

Chapter 6

At school, I was the butt of many jibes. All were to do with my spotty face. None were to do with what I was “inside”. Inside, I was both a boy and a girl. I wanted desperately to be liked by the other boys. I played their games with energy. I wanted to be liked by the girls, so I tried to talk with them, not in the way other boys did. I wanted to be like them. Like a girl. I kept that hidden away, deep inside.

My wearing of a bra and panties, occasionally and always in secret, was an expression outwardly, of some turmoil internally. My wearing of lipstick, at the same time, brought me closer to my real self. But I knew I was a boy and had, for the world, to be seen to be a boy, a young man.

“Scabby” I was called. “Poxy” was another nice one. I had to swallow it and not show that it was getting to me. Which it was. It hurt. And all the more I wanted rid of those zits. I wanted clear fresh skin. To off-set my girly side. I spent hours under ultraviolet lamps to rid myself of spots.

I went back to the family doctor enough times to get referred to a Specialist at the hospital. Hence the UV treatment. Did it work? Not so far as I could tell. I did get sympathy from several of the girls. That was great — for the wrong reasons — but great nevertheless. I was a spotty boy who wanted to spend some of his time as a girl.

At no time did I find myself thinking of boys and all the kissing stuff that girls spoke about. Eeee-yuk! No thank you! At times, I was surprised how they talked when boys, apart from me, weren’t around. The idea of “tongue tennis” for example, was a common theme. None of them had kissed a boy yet…. But they knew all about how to do it!

(We are talking the early 1960s here…. When young people like me matured later than today’s generation.)

One of them, my girl friends, tried to help me, in an unsuspecting way, when she suggested that my spots would at least be hidden if I used some of what she called “concealer”. I was at her house with a couple of girls one afternoon. Concealer? It sounded right to me. It turned out to be her Mum’s “foundation” crá¨me. She found the jar and put a finger-full over the worst of my spots, slowly, almost lovingly….. (in my dreams!)

It did work, although it may not have done the spots any good….. It made my face look better in the mirror. Maybe I should buy some at the drugstore, I thought. I needed a new lipstick anyway.

When my next shopping venture to the drugstore was possible I went back to the hair colours. Again, I hoped nobody was noticing me. And, of course, they weren’t. I looked for the small packs of “Hint of a Tint” as it said on every sachet. They all looked the same. The writing was very small because the individual package was small. One wash in each sachet. One wash that would infuse my hair with obvious colour. Would I dare? Could I get rid of it, if I did?

I wished I had worn my bra and panties out shopping that day. It would have felt right…. I needed a new lipstick so paused in my search for hair colour and went to the lipstick ranges where I had been before. The same shade as before? Maybe something a little redder! I chose and added the first item into my wire basket.

Back to the hair colours. I knew I'd not be able to go through with the colouring, but, hell!, a girl can dream! “Raven Black”, “Blue Black”, “Burgundy”, “Warm Auburn”, “Wild Cherry”, “Rich Chestnut”, “Golden Brown”, “Honey Brown”, …. The list went on and on…… The names were quite seductive. “Buy me, buy me!”, they seemed to say. Perhaps i could just buy a pack and keep it in my secret stash...!

Then my attention was diverted. Further along the shelf. There was another brand, in the same section. I hadn’t seen that these were all called “Toners”. There was a whole shelf devoted to brand called “Born Blonde”. Every one was a different toning colour for blonde hair. If your hair had been lightened… bleached, blonde. Oh.. WOW!

“Baby Blush”, Beige Blonde”, “Wild Strawberry”, “Pink Rose Blonde”, “Peaches and Cream”, “lightest Ash Blonde”, “Ash Blonde”, “Platinum”, …. On and on, the list went.

But those would need bleach. That’s permanent, I told myself. Don’t be stupid! In your dreams, baby. Could I imagine myself as a blonde? Well, if I hadn’t before, I did at that moment. There was no way I would be bleaching my hair — not for a while at least but “never say never” is a good principle to adopt.

So, it was back to the “Hint of a Tint” range. After all, I thought. I’m gonna go for this - one day - and what will anyone say if I mess up? In other words, who cares if it lasts for six washes and doesn’t come out? Answer? I do! i don't think I could bear......

A sachet of “Burgundy” went in to the basket. Should it have been “Wild Cherry”? I wasn’t sure at all.

My homecoming that day was filled with excitement. Mum was out again. Dad was away on business for the week and my Brothers were both staying late at college. The house to myself!! My excitement was uncontrolled. I bounded up the stairs…..

A choice? Dress in my panties and bra first? Or go find Mum’s shoes that I wanted to try on with my pantie hose? Or, maybe, before changing, perhaps I should shower and use the rinse on my hair? Decisions, decisions!

The bra and panties won the day, with ease. I felt most at ease when I was wearing them. A sort of peace swept over me as I fastened the straps of the bra. For the first time, I pushed some scrunched-up tissue paper into the cups to give myself shape.

Oh, if only I had tits! If I was a girl, I’d have tits — just small ones. Not huge melons like I’d seen in those magazines that some of the guys at school wanked with. I new they did. They never seemed to stop talking about it! I knew what wanking was now, though I wasn’t very good at it. Every time I dressed, I found myself with a hard-on. It was a bit of a nuisance, but it was quite easy to get rid of. Not a huge pleasure, sadly. Every time I thought of the girl in M&S who helped me choose my panties, the same happened. I did love her!

I slipped into the pantie hose — more easily now that I had practised how to get both legs in and to pull the stockings up over my thighs and the pantie section around my waist. And how to smooth them over. One day I would get a pair with seams down the back. Seams were very sexy, I recall, I thought for the first time. Now I needed shoes. Even now, I know how I felt.

I ventured into the hallway and through into Mum and Dad’s bedroom. Carefully closing the door in case of discovery, I knew exactly where the shoes would be. I opened the door of the closet where they would be. Neatly arranged in their racking. The black pair. With the heels. The heels that looked so high! I picked them off the rack. I sat on Mum’s side of the big double bed, knowing I had to smooth the covers when I left.

I reached down and for the first time in my life and pushed my first foot into a feminine shoe. All the straps were tricky to control, but I got there with relative ease. Compared with the first pantie hose experience! The second was easy too. I looked down for a moment to admire the look of my stockinged ankles in their strappy shoes. Heaven!

I stood up and smoothed the covers of Mum’s bedside. I took a step towards her full-length mirror so I could see how I looked. I stood there. In my parents’ bedroom.

And then it happened…… That awful dreaded moment when I heard a call from downstairs…. …….I hadn’t heard the front door open and close. No footsteps downstairs. “You in??”

My damned Brother. The younger of the two. The one I knew had ‘shopped’ me over the panties months before. Shit! ………Shit! Shit! Shit!

My door was closed. My bedroom. My own space. Could I get back there? As a family, we didn’t invade eachother’s spaces, unless invited in.. That wouldn’t stop him. He was coming upstairs and he’d come in. For sure, he would come in and find me. Here. Standing in front of the mirror. In my bra and panties, and my pantie hose. With shoes in my hand

All of my last two years of secret dressing flashed in front of my eyes. I was in a panic-ridden daze.
But then, I thought, he wouldn’t come in to Mum and Dad’s room. Would he?

Chapter 7 will tell you and how I coped with the next hour.