I stood at the closet door. To open or not? That was the question. I never did have much willpower so hands reached out, opened the door, grabbed a top and put it on.

The chest underneath was completely wrong and spoiled the shape. Not for the first time in my life I cursed that bloody Y chromosome. It seemed that I’d known since I was knee-high to a grasshopper that something had gone wrong at birth; I’d lived sixteen very unhappy years knowing that.

There I was, just minding my own business when Mum waltzed unannounced and unbidden into my room and shouted (as if I were deaf), “WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING, YOU PERVERT?”

Anyone would think I’d just started World War III.

“I don’t think I’m doing anything; I know exactly what I’m doing. And my dictionary claims that a pervert is someone who indulges in unnatural sexual acts. As I have yet to have sex with anyone, ergo I cannot be a pervert.” With hindsight, I could have chosen different words or, preferably, none at all.

My mother hadn’t finished her rant.

“You’re done up like a dog’s dinner; you must be queer.”

I responded. “I haven’t had sex with anyone, I don’t want sex with anyone, I’m not attracted to anyone, nobody’s attracted to me and sex is so far into the future as to be off the radar.”

“You must be queer, every boy that dresses in women’s clothes is queer; I’ve seen it on tele.”

I sighed; this was going to be difficult.

“Would you like me to repeat my previous statement? Would that help you to understand?”

“Do you think I’m stupid?” she asked.

Clearly, a positive answer would definitely have incriminated me.

“Just wait until your father gets home; he’ll have something to say about this.”

Oh boy, just what I needed; parental stupidity.

As expected, the fatherly loving hand left a gorgeous mark on my cheek.

“Your mother told me what you’d been doing; how could you let us down like this?”

I tried, “Let you down? How do you think I’ve felt all these years, trying to be someone I’m not?”

That earned me another hand print; this time on the other cheek. Well, at least they matched.

“You don’t even look like a woman!”

“And whose fault is that?” I unwisely asked.

That earned me a punch in the belly. I fully expected further action on his part while I was doubled over, but it didn’t happen; perhaps he’d finally got fed up with using me as a punch-bag.

I turned and left the house, with his parting comment ringing in my ears.

“And don’t bother coming back until you see sense!”

~ O ~

It wasn’t something I particularly wanted to do. What I really wanted was parental support — but I knew I wouldn’t get it. Talk about blinkered.

~ O ~

My mother would have found the note on the doormat the next morning. Posting that letter was the second hardest thing I’d ever done.

The End