"This IS what I want."

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"This IS what I want."

It's taken me only a few days to realize this is what I really, really want - Scary! Exciting! Wow. But I do love being dressed up - I love it!

An AP-500 story.
 

It’s happening. It’s NOW. In public. In stockings, high-heels, panties, corset, bra and a slinky floor-length dress with petticoats. The corset was an awful squeeze. I’m not a girly-shape as many girls – but then I’m not a girl. Backstage, Jane held me tight and hugged me. I needed the comfort and the confidence that her quick gesture offered.

I’m on-stage, dazzled by the lights. The microphone is in front of me and the music is beginning. I put so much effort into learning the right song.

We argued about what would suit both the occasion and the singer: ‘I enjoy being a girl’ - nope- ‘Just a Girl’ by No Doubt – maybe ; ‘This is what I want, what I really really want’ by the Spice Girls. I couldn’t do Baby, Ginger or Posh but I could have had a go at Sporty, or Scary as a second. “Thank heavens for little girls?" - No. Anything by Shirley Temple – No.

I often enjoy joining in, being a sport and so on. But – here I am.

Months ago, the clubhouse had been damaged by fire – and they asked people to take part in ‘An Evening’s Entertainment & Promise Auction’. I was doing my usual grumbling and protesting about how useless I would be if I had to take part – and the ‘gang’ went on the attack.

“Of course, you’ll be useless unless you give it a proper go,” said Jack.

“But we’re going to find something for you to do – just wait while we think.”

I made a mistake, and jeered, “Is that a promise or a threat.”

“Dumb Chum, whether by bribe or blackmail, you’ll be on stage,” said Sandy, Paul’s girlfriend.

I jeered. I criticised. I snarled and snapped. The girls’ expressions became black and bleak. “Right, you burk. For being a bad sport, you’d have got something you didn’t like much. For being so bloody about it – just watch out. Your tantrum about what MIGHT happen is grubby. Pathetic, juvenile and ….. lots of other words.”

I began to realize that I had been stupid. I tried apologising, grovelling …….not a chance. I’d delivered myself to their whim. My ever-punning brain sniggered ‘that’s why they’re whimmin.’ I kept quiet for a change.

I knew not what but my doom was bespoke. For a few days. Until, Rachel called and informed me that I was to come to her house that Friday evening.

“You’re a pillock,” were her opening words. “You sneer and contribute nothing. So we’re fixing that. You’re going on stage – you’re selling yourself as ‘A Good Sport open to offers’ and then you’re up for sale as ‘Whatever the purchaser wants’. But don’t worry, we’ve got it fixed that we have the winning bid.”

“Now, upstairs – spare bedroom, shower if you haven’t. I’ll help fixing you up. Then Sandy and Jane will be here to decide what you’re singing.”

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I hope the girls' bid wins. There’s some giving strange looks at me – as if they know.

A 500-word base-story to do things with (and attribute please)
AP

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