"They're just NOT like me - not at all !"

How can boys and girls be so different? And I know which one I am! They're a different species! But they're really NOT like me at all!!

An AP-500 story.

I stood there. Absolutely shocked at what I had overheard. It wasn’t said about me. There was zero possibility that the two boys round the corner from me could have known I was there. But they had hit the button – Bzzzzip.

“Y’know that little freak, James Morris, y’know, the one who always wears pale blue shirts. The one all the others call woofter, fairy and so on. Jack Poulter swears he saw him, well it maybe, in a dress in Colchester on Saturday.”

“In a dress!”

“Duh, that’s what I said. A dress. Y’know the sort of things girls (and didn’t that word carry a freight of disgust, revulsion and not-us) wear.”

“So he really is a faggot.”

“Got to be. Tho’ Jack says he would’ve sworn it was an ordinary girl with her mum. But that Mrs Morris, so recognisable with her red hair and tits. Talk about a Milf.”

"Huh, if that poofy James is dressing up then probably he or it just wants a good seeing to as well. That’s what homos & poofs want.”

“Yeah, my big bruv says that’s what wimps and sissies deserve. They’re not real men. They’re not girls either. At least they’ve got a fanny.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. This was two of my schoolmates, unbroken voices, barely into puberty. I couldn’t believe that they were able to think like that or talk publicly like that. I felt ashamed.

To be honest, looking back, that was one of the times I thought ‘I really don’t want to be like that. If that’s how boys grow up – count me out.’ I was exactly 12 and a 12th that day. One month past my birthday. And I realized that there wasn’t a single boy I had anything in common with. I didn’t like ball games, cycling, running, mud, MUD!!, mucking about, talking about girls and what we had learnt from friends – and grubby magazines [this was long ago before the Walkman, before the Web, before Digital Porn, the old days]

I knew James. I’d never even wondered about him outside school. He was quiet, above-average bright, willing to play kickabout a bit more than me, longish hair perhaps, but probably a bit less of an outcast than me. And HE was now rumoured to go into town in a dress!!!

No way. I wasn’t going to do that. Even if my mum was willing to go with me like his was – or so those kids were saying. And they were right – Mrs Morris was very noticeable. But I noticed her long skirts swirling and swaying atop those beautiful high-heeled boots. That’s what I watched.

Why? You ask why?

Because I wanted them. I wanted to wear them, to feel skirts round my ankles, calves, knees, thighs – Actually I didn’t care what length they were – I wanted skirts, dresses, frocks, gowns and pretty colours. Soft lush materials instead of grey-brown-black drab.

And James Morris had the confidence to wear them out in public. Yaarrgghhh.

An AP-500 story (ie 500 words of text) for someone else to take over and build on