The Trial of Elizabeth

It was that newspaper clipping that shook my foundations. I’d never considered before any idea that men could dress fancy and colourfully.

Telegraph Thursday December 29th 2018 ‘Dressing Up’
A law in the reign of Queen Elizabeth the First declared “None shall wear in his apparel satin, damask, silk, camlet (angora) or taffeta in gown, coat, hose or uppermost garments except that he may dispend £100 by the year.” The article went on about the colours that were allowed - red, purple and so on.

Wow. What an opportunity ….. for anyone born a bit over 400 years ago and had sufficient wealth to dispend. Could it really be true that the male was the flamboyant peacock? I knew some of the words for the materials but I knew nothing about their reality. Once more I looked with disgust and despair into my wardrobe and at the drawers open beside my bed. Drab, dull, grey, black, blue, BORING. Oh to be in Elizabethan times.

Three months later. Summer holidays and I wanted a job so that I had more money than my mother could spare. We weren’t well off so pocket money was scarce. I’d learned early that any contribution to the family finances would be very well received – and that I would get most if not all of the money to myself to spend. I had no special ideas about what I was going to spend it on. I wasn’t a computer game nut. I didn’t have any especially expensive hobbies. I had a faint hankering for clothes – but the range of choices was, as I’ve said, SO DULL.

I had spent some days recently helping my mom’s friend at her shop. I was technically underage for working there but we lived in the small town of Torminster and the local police and so on were pretty tolerant of minor rule-bending.

Jane had been under some pressure at her shop with the recent departure of two staff to get married. So she offered me as many hours as I felt reasonable. Eventually, we agreed that I’d be there just before opening time to ensure the shop was tidy – and I could leave either at lunch or during the afternoon or take a long lunchbreak and stay on dealing with stock after the shop closed. Mostly I did the early – long lunch – closing time system. So there I was – with a job, earning a satisfactory sum on four days a week. Monday, then Thursday, Friday and Saturday. Actually I sometimes came in on the other days because sitting at home by myself was boring, there weren’t that many friends I could spend a lot of time with, and I was gradually getting more and more interested in everything at the shop. And my bank balance was improving.

I was sorting and checking all the incoming packets from suppliers, putting it all on the racks, moving stock after hours when the presence of a skinny boy in a materials shop wouldn’t seem more than averagely strange. And there would be no clients around to make comments about me or to me.

And it was strange. I had never seen, no, don’t be silly - I had never NOTICED colours like these before. I had never felt, touched, become so totally AWARE of the different materials and how one fabric that looked the same as another could be so different. I was stunned …….. and fascinated.

I still think it was surprising that Jane, the friend, noticed. There was a lot of, no rather, far too much ‘noticing’ going on that day.

Then Jane made her decision – and my world altered. She decided to ask the question. Even though she made it as a simple statement.

“Eli, you’re one of those boys with a real interest in, er, pretty clothes, aren’t you?”

“Don’t be silly. No. No way. Duh. You’ve seen me every day for the last week or more. I only ever wear jeans and a T. Makes your comment a bit off target, eh?”

“Sorry. I said it a bit wrong. How about – is it the fabrics and the different feel of them that has got you interested in them, mmm?”

Apparently I was imitating a fish – mouth open, eyes wide.

I’m sure I tried to speak. “Er, um, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I’d guess that was what I tried to say. Even if what actually came out was blur and babble in my mumbled efforts.

Jane grinned (by hindsight, there might have been an overtone of shark.)

“Darling, you may wear, so far, only jeans and a T as a quick and simple method of covering your naked skin from the elements and the gaze of passing people – but you’ve been learning that there is more. And I am sure beyond sure that you’re liking what you’re learning. And in a shop like this, it is one of my jobs to teach people about fabric and their options.”

My eyes were both wide open and glazed as if hypnotized. “I’m pretty sure I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.”

“Fine. Then let’s do a little experiment.”

My eyes must have gone a bit wider.

“Don’t be silly. It won’t hurt you in the slightest – and it will only take a few moments. Close your eyes and hold out your hands.”

I took a small step backwards.

She said “Don’t be silly. Just do it.”

Most of the time, I was a good teenage robot who did what adults told me. I did what Jane said. The command implicit in the tone of voice left me in no doubt that I had to do as she said. I closed my eyes, and stepped forward as she gave my outstretched hands a small pull.

Then she put something soft, sleek, smooth and satiny across my hands. I opened my eyes and saw that it was a pair of panties. Pink with white trim and a little rosebud at the waist, loose cut so that the legs were open – a French style I know now. Yes, I noticed that too. And I smiled. And my fingers stroked the smooth slinky material. And Jane noticed THAT.

“See. That’s what I meant. You’re absolutely fascinated by those, aren’t you?”

And she smiled.

“It’s not everyone that appreciates the things we sell here. And I can tell you it’s mostly girls, and women too of course. But sometimes, there’s a boy who finds out about the magic. And you’re one of them.” Jane grinned and put her hands over mine – on the soft, smooth, sheer, slinky, satiny silky wonderful material – and we both stroked the panties. Together. And it was magic.

And that was the beginning.

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It took time, but I learnt about all the things in the shop.

But if I’m giving you a list – do I start at the top (the hair, the makeup), the bottom (the shoes) or the really important things, the lacy, frilly underwear. I loved them so much.

I learnt all the names for the different styles – classic, brief, highcut, high-waist, control-briefs, hipster, bikini, boyshorts, French-knicker, tanga, thong, g-string, tap-pants, rumba-ruffle, low-rise, side-tie, Brazilian and so many companies gave their particular product fancy tradenames like the geekini and the cheekini. But I loved them all. Probably I loved the silky French-knicker style most. Although sometimes a fully-frilled rumba panty was specially different. But whatever, I loved panties from the first moment.

And the bras. The first time I put on a bra, I knew the wonderment of being hugged tight in a new and beautiful way. The stretch of the fabric, the pull of the straps, the enfolding of my breasts – as much as they were. It felt so good. And at the same time – so so wrong. Because I still knew I was a boy.

But it was round about then that I told Jane about the newspaper article. Wow. Did she work me through about the reality of the story.

Her first reaction was of keen interest. “That’s fascinating.“

Then she said “Have you much idea about materials and how they go together.”

Lessons took place at any quiet time in the shop. I did indeed learn about satin, damask, silk, angora and taffeta as well as a huge range of more recent textiles. Then we started analysing some of the clothes in the shop – most especially the prom and bridal sections. I learnt how taffeta felt and the properties it gave to a dress. There was so much to learn and I was really interested. Fascinated. Maybe Addicted.

I learnt more about what felt good, what felt exciting. How the feel of a long dress around the ankles was thrilling. How the same dress worn over stockings felt different. And yes, this did require me to actually try on lots of clothes. But Jane carefully (and by hindsight absolutely deliberately) kept calling them ‘your costume’ rather than ‘your dress’. I guess this was because I was still very certain that I was a boy – even if I did so thoroughly enjoy femme-dress.

You might wonder ‘how did I know I was definitely a boy’. Too much looking on the web had given me so much information – yes, I know some of it will be wrong, distorted, vague and just stupid. But you have to make your own choice about what is ‘worthwhile’. And, yes, most people will be wrong in some of their selections. Enough.

I knew I was a boy, or more accurately male, because I was not not not not never interested in getting rid of my penis. I liked girls. Even before I was thinking more about their clothes than what was under them – let alone what was inside them, their brain, their character and so on. I wasn’t that near being an adult.

I wanted to get to know several of them physically. I hadn’t yet had a second proper snog-kiss (the first one was – naaagh’ – too much detail). I had only a few time felt a breast even through clothes. Nor a thigh. A few times feeling someone else’s leg wearing stockings. Almost everything I thought I knew about girls was still in my imagination.

I’d have said that Kris, Jean and Felicity were probably my closest friends. But Sonya was the one I most liked.

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And then suddenly – somehow it was all going wrong. It hadn’t taken long before all my waking thoughts were taken up with the wonders of the clothing that was never going to be for me. I could wear some of the pretties – but they weren’t right. Some of the feeling wasn’t …… what I thought it should be.

It was screwing me up.

And Jane kept trying to help me.

But that didn’t help – not in any useful way. I was thinking about ‘pretty clothes’ all the time. When I woke, while I worked, while I relaxed, as I went to sleep.

Then there was ‘that day’.

I was working on dusting the window displays when a mother and her daughter came into the shop. I stopped what I was doing and squeezed out from behind the curtain. Almost popping out like someone at the panto.

“Can you help, please. My d’daughter wants to be fitted for her first bra. I assume it will be someone more senior who does that. We’ve done a basic measuring and Michael’a (the stress was rather obviously on the male ‘MI’ not the feminine ‘Mi’!!!!) needs a 28 AA, or at least I think so.”

“The owner, Jane, is in the office doing the accounts. I think she was about to finish so I’ll call her. Can I say who’s here?”

“Mrs Phillips and my daughter.” The statement was firmer and more definite than before.

I called Jane fortunately not having to shout ”We’ve got a customer here, Mrs Phillips and daughter, who need a bit of help.”

“Just coming, Twenty seconds to save the accounts!”

Jane was really good at telling people she would be a moment or two – her timing was almost always exact as well.

A few seconds later, Jane came through. “Oh, Mrs Phillips, I wasn’t expecting you so soon. How are you? And How are things coming along?”

“Hello, Jane. As you can see I’ve brought my daughter in today. This time, we will definitely be getting her fitted for a bra and a reasonable selection of undies. As we discussed, it’s past time. Do you still agree that it’s best.”

“You’ve certainly told me enough about the dreadful, even wrong, behaviour you’ve been getting and the behaviour you want. That’s for sure. Whether actually doing it with Michaela is completely right or not, it’s not actually my decision any more. You’ve made the choice and I’ve offered to do what I deem reasonable to help. Not necessarily everything you want will immediately be acceptable to me. Or maybe even never, if you do go along with some of those stories you’ve read. I’ve got to remind you again, don’t trust the stories on the internet. Even if the fiction contains germs of truth or even gems so also does it contain lies and wishes. As for the factual ‘true’ stories – some of them I trust even less. But , let’s be about it. Michaela, Laura follow me and we’ll get you measured.”

Was it true? Was what I had witnessed actually for real. It looked real. It sounded real. Michaela did, when watched carefully, not look really like a girl but more like a boy in a dress. And Jane was agreeing to what was happening, contributing, conniving. This was scary.

Was Jane intent on doing the same to me? What behaviour was seen as wrong? What was going to happen to Michael in his new guise as Michaela; (on the invoice I later saw this was spelled as Micayla)? Was this going to be temporary, short-term, long-term, permanent even?

I did not like this. I was going to have to talk to Jane. And I was going to have to be confident of what I wanted. If Jane did indeed see some of my behaviour as wrong then I’d have to listen and, hopefully, negotiate about how I could improve. However much Jane was teaching me about girls I was still certain that it was the dressing I liked provided I remained a boy.

Not in any way did I want to be forced into anything. Certainly not into being a sort of Micayla. No.

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It took a couple of days before there was a lull in the spring sales. I was kept so busy fetching and carrying; checking sizes as requested by Jane or the customer; serving coffee now and again when required to do so. All the jobs a shop-gofer had to do. And all while coming across as a suitable, that is, feminine assistant in a ladies shop. At the very least I could see that I was presenting as vague and androgynous. Alright, i was wearing girl's underwear, girl's jeans and a girl's top. At work.

To be more specific - do I have to? - today my costume was typically the now necessary panties, a bra or more accurately as sort of minimal pretence just to assist the guise, a t-shirt in pastel and culottes. Generally I wore what Jane called ballet-flats. All in all, about as unisex as Jane and I were willing to compromise at.

By now I was expected to call her Jane. “Jane, I’m not sure about that lady and her so-called daughter who came in. I mean it was pretty obvious from all your comments that ‘Michaela’ was a boy in a dress. And that made me look closer to be certain. What was going on? Why were you so willing to help? What sort of behaviour was Michael doing wrong? Does what you’re doing for them mean anything significant as regards ME?” I tired to come across as reasonable and sensibly concerned but I’m afraid that last phrase was a bit more like a squeak.

“Eli, don’t be silly. I’m not doing anything to you or for you that you haven’t made clear you’re interested in and willing to do. If ANYTHING we’ve done in the last month or so has made you feel pressurised or manipulated in any way – then tell me. And I’ll make sure to undo it or, at least, go through it with you so we agree it’s not too bad or it’s has to stop. Yes? Or No?”

“But you’re helping Mrs Phillips do something to Michael. Doesn’t HE deserve to be part of the decision?”

“Now Eli, would I let that happen? Michael has been involved throughout. Every time he has been badly behaved – like dragging mud through the house, breaking windows, cheeking either his parents or their guests, not doing his homework, bad behaviour reports from school. You give me a list of typical mid-teenage bad behaviour – and he’s done it. And they’ve talked with him, told him of the possible results if he keeps in, and they’ve let him off more times than you can count. Eventually Michael was told how close he was getting to being sentenced to a juvenile prison. And not by his parents but by a local magistrate. The man took him to a local place to show him just how awful it would be for someone who thought he was tough. The guards showed him the knives, the shanks, photographs of the wounds, the damage. One kid with a burst eye; another with his teeth smashed out. He was given a choice. Do you want to know what it was?”

I wasn’t sure. So I said so. “I dunno. Do you think it would help me in any way. Are you trying to tell me that I’m on your schedule for something like Michael’s getting.”

“Oh, Eli, no, no, no. You’re not a risk. But I’ll tell you about Mikayla’s choice. Notice I’m not calling Michael by his boy-name for the moment.”

“Umm.”

“He was asked ‘Do you WANT to go to a boy’s reform school or juvenile prison like you’ve just seen OR are you going to stop doing the list of problems we’ve got here OR if you keep doing them are we allowed to decide on a course of action that, we are told, persuades a lot of badly behaved boys to become respectable and responsible? And your guess as to his response? And your guess as to the suggested course of action? ”

Jane’s question had got me thinking quite differently.

“I guess that he chose option 2 and if he did do wrong that he would go with option 3.”

“Yep. Would you like to guess how soon he went off the rails?”

“Either almost immediately or maybe he managed to be good for a month or so. Then, I’d guess his mates or some sort of temptation made do something sufficiently stupid.”

“Yep again. And what do you think option 3 involves?”

“Dressing up as a girl?”

“Partly right this time. Actually, Mikayla has to do her best to BE a girl in every way that matters. Dress obviously. Attitude, Behaviour and Character too. The group I used to work with believed that while the official view is that men should be 100% men and that women correspondingly should be 100% female – that this was rarely true. We developed a program to help men, and rarely women, to move away from the 100% so that they had a genuine and real understanding of the other sex. Not to be some sort of halfway 50-50 but enough so that male testosterone was not the driver for everything a male did – like Michael really needs to reduce the effect of the male testosterone which seems to drive much of his life. The Big Sister system works on showing the client how far from the average they have moved. And the only way to move away from the 100% or what feels more like 120% macho version is to learn deeply and properly some of the feminine attitudes and behaviours. Not to become girly, or sissy. Certainly not to become any more transgender than wearing costume. No, no. Just enough to learn that mega-macho is not always the best way to approach problems.”

“So how long will this take for Michael, or Micayla, whoever.”

“How long is a piece of string? If it works at all, there should be some evidence that Mikayla is learning some new ideas about how to deal with people and with problems in a couple of months. It often depends on how quickly this is not being set up as a punishment but as a learning device. It’s a tool about how to become a worthwhile citizen rather than a bully, abuser or all that can be worst about a hormone-driven male. That’s why I’m helping.”

There was a pause.

Jane held my chin and tilted me round until I was looking straight at her. “You, Eli-Elly, have none of those problems. If anything you are learning some of the feminine skills or rather the skills you’ll need to deal more effectively with girls by knowing how they think. That’ll help you find a quality girl to learn about the more significant subjects – like male-female interaction as responsible equals. And you’d be amazed how many apparently successful marriages are not equal. I have high hopes for you.”

“So, would the next stage be me actually going a bit more down the femme route? Do you want me in a skirt or a dress at work? Or what did you actually have planned next?”

“Eli, you can wear what you want. If a lass called Elizabeth turned up asking for a job, then I’d give her a trial. Just like you. I would, as you rightly imply, want a suitably feminine outfit so that she would look right for the shop. I suppose I have to say – it’s up to you. What do YOU want to do.”

“I think I’ll think about it. But you’re right – perhaps some day soon Elizabeth will turn up for work. And to think some of this came out of that article about the rules for costume back in the time of Elizabeth the First.”

“That’s so true, I’d almost forgotten. But as to Elizabeth turning up for work, that’s fine. When that happens, I’ll help you choose a couple of outfits – unless Eli already has some ideas? But I want YOU to be making the decisions. If it will help; actually, I don’t know if this will help or not. And I am interfering more than I would normally do. But I’d like to have Elizabeth working here for a while. How would it be if she worked here for the next four weeks of the summer holiday. Then there’d be a week or so to have some Eli-time.”

I had a sort of half-smile going. Not a grin. But a degree of happy interest in Jane’s suggestion.

“Just before the end of the holidays, I know that your friend Felicity is having a 16 party and all her friends will be coming here to choose dresses. I think it would be good for you to be able to help them. It’s time you got to know them better. It may seem surprising when you actually already treat them very nicely – but something as important and intimate as a full-bore dress-up party is so important that I think Elizabeth should be available to assist.”

And somehow I knew that within a few days, Elizabeth would be at work. And I think I already knew that I wanted to be helping my friends try on the mega-maximum frills and fancy frocks.

“Oh, my.”