The First Dress I Ever Wore

You remember your firsts. First kiss, first crush, first consummation of carnality. Watersheds in the train ride to Adultsville.

Actually, that's a misconception I picked up from somewhere. I always thought that watersheds were where old steam locomotives used to refill their reservoirs – kind of replenish your reserves, build up the strength to carry on – but it seems the term derives from the German word wasserscheide, meaning a ridge of high ground dividing two river systems. It makes more sense. You cross a ridge into another valley and rather than following the same old course of the same old river, you find yourself on a new road with a new destination.

I have a few more than most, but then the river by which I was born wasn’t heading anywhere I wanted to go. Sometimes you have to take the difficult path, the path less travelled, the path everyone pretends isn’t there, or tells you leads to nowhere good. Because we’re not all the same, and some of us belong somewhere else.

My first wasn’t so much a mountain ridge as a bump in the terrain. Climbing it wasn’t so hard but choosing to was.

When you're young you take your cues from those about you, most of all your parents. I had one particular question which no-one else seemed to be asking, on a topic no-one else seemed to be talking about, so I asked my mum one day.

“Boys don’t wear dresses,” she laughed.

“Why not?” I persisted.

“Because... they don’t.”

I could see I was making her nervous, so I dropped the subject. Later I remembered a whispered conversation between her and Dad, and a few glances in my direction. Later still, I remember my father coming into my room and sitting on the bed. He coughed nervously and looked everywhere but at me.

“I hear you’ve been asking some questions,” he said when he’d finally decided how he was going to handle things. “It’s not something that men do.”

“What, ask questions?”

“Don’t be cheeky boy!” He did look at me then, and I could see the anger flashing in his eyes. I dropped my gaze, more than a little frightened. “You know what I meant, and it’s not something that men – real men – talk about. So, I don’t want you bothering your mother with this nonsense again, are we clear?”

“Yes Dad.” I used my careful voice, the one I reserved for snarling dogs and angry adults.

“Alright.” He stood up sounding mollified. “I don’t want to hear any more about this though. do you understand?”

“Yes Dad.”

I understood. I understood that I wouldn’t get any help from my parents on this particular issue. I understood that it was wrong – very wrong. At that age you don’t tend to question such concepts. I also had the beginnings of an inkling that deep down, maybe – just maybe – I might not be a man. At least not a real one.

It remained in the periphery of my vision for a long time, that low ridge. I couldn’t afford for anyone to see me looking at it, so I kept it buried. Not so deep that I wasn’t aware of it, and it niggled at me constantly, like the gap left in my teeth whenever one of my baby ones fell out.

I thought about it the next time that happened. I mean who could be more sympathetic about such a thing than a fairy? I thought if I asked her for some magic instead of the money, she’d surely help. So, I wrote her a short note and left it with the tooth.

Next morning the tooth was gone, but the note was still there. Scrawled at the bottom was a short response, “Only a bad boy would ask for this.”

There wasn’t any money.

I went down to breakfast still clutching the note and found my father glowering at me over his newspaper.

“Morning sweetheart,” my mum greeted me cheerfully. “Did the tooth fairy leave you anything?”

My dad raised an eyebrow, daring me.

“Yes Mum,” I said quietly. I crumpled up the note and put it in my dressing gown pocket. She’d left me a message alright. She’d told me who she really was. Not a particularly nice way to lose a piece of childhood magic, but I’m not sure any of it dies a peaceful death.

Later, as we were passing the shops on the way home from school, Mum asked if I wanted to spend my money, so I told her I’d lost it. Mum’s always been a bit of a soft touch, so she gave me fifty pence and I at least ended up with a bag of sweets to compensate for my shattered dream.

I kept out of Dad’s way as much as I could for the rest of the week, but you can’t live under the same roof as someone and avoid them completely. Every time we’d cross paths, he’d give me a scowl by way of reinforcing his message, and it came through loud and clear. Real men – and by association, real boys – do not do that.

What can’t be cured must be endured, my gran always used to tell us. I couldn’t help what was happening inside me, but I did get better at hiding it. Whenever I’d go out shopping with Mum and Dad and we’d stop in front of a window full of women’s clothes, I’d feign boredom and keep my face turned away from the goods on display. My eyes would be all the way over on one side though, taking in as much as I could see at the edge of my vision.

At other times it was easier. Dad didn’t mind me looking at other girls, in fact he encouraged it – saw it as an indication that I was in the process of leaving all that nonsense behind me. What he didn’t need to know, what I didn’t dare tell him, was that I was more interested in the clothes they were wearing than I was in the girls themselves.

I fought the sense of guilt I had over wanting something I knew was wrong. I fought it in a bunch of ways. At first, I tried to fight the tendency itself, but I found the more I denied and tried to suppress that part of my nature, the harder it fought back, and I couldn’t hold out for long. What I wanted with so much of my heart that it left almost no space for other things was forever denied me and it made me miserable. As I entered my early teenage years, I became sullen and withdrawn.

Mum and Dad worried of course, but they managed to convince themselves that I was just going through a phase and would get over it in time.

I did, but not in a way that brought them any comfort. I took the first step the day my cousin got married.

Aunt Miranda is my dad’s older sister and something of the family’s black sheep. Dad doesn’t speak about her much and usually has that disapproving twist of his mouth when he does. From what I’ve pieced together over the years, she apparently married in her teens and was divorced before she was twenty. Time enough to give birth to her first daughter, Lonny. Then she remarried the same man six years later and brought her second daughter, Chaney, into the world just a year or so before I came along.

For some reason, Dad heartily disapproved of their names and would tell anyone who’d listen that some people shouldn’t be allowed to have children. The closest he’s come to an explanation is to say that Uncle Richard used to call himself the Wolfman when he and Aunt Miranda married the first time.

I don’t really get it, but it used to upset me, because Uncle Richard and Aunt Miranda are two of my most favourite people in the world. Mum’s the same and I remember one time when she'd had enough, she told Dad that he was one to talk and that anyone who names his son after Princess Michael of Kent doesn’t really have any high ground to preach from.

Dad’s always been a bit of a royalist but apparently, he didn't like any of the names given our current lot of princes. He argued that if the royals were going to give a man's name to a princess that wasn't his fault and shouldn't stop him from putting it to its proper use.

If they'd known I was listening I doubt they'd have been so free with their words, but I can’t tell you how much better it made me feel to know I’d been named after a princess.

Anyway, it was during my thirteenth summer that Lonny got herself hitched. She was twenty-two, which was still way too young in Dad’s opinion, but she was family, so we had to go.

Sorry, Dad’s words, not mine.

Anyway, it was a full top hat and tails kind of affair. Usually, as a thirteen-year-old, I’d have been allowed to get away with smart casual but, given the poshness of the do, we had to keep up appearances, so Mum managed to wangle a new and really expensive dress out of it all and I was stuffed into a suit and tie.

I’ve always hated ties. From the moment I first put one on. I’d have hated them without the peanutting I got from the kids at school. I hate having anything constricting around my neck, and in hot weather it’s so much worse. So, needless to say, I was more miserable than usual sat crammed onto an overfilled pew without even enough elbow room to ease my collar and let some of the steam out.

Dad kept telling me to cheer up, that this was a wedding, not a funeral, and for goodness sake, to stop ogling the girls. For all that he seemed okay with me looking at girls most of the time, apparently cousin Lonny’s wedding was not an appropriate venue.

“I'm not ogling them,” I hissed.

“So, what are you doing?” There was the raised eyebrow.

I was envying them. Their low necklines, their raised hems and short sleeves, the amount of skin they were permitted to expose to the summer sun, their light summer fabrics. I was also admiring them. The riot of colours was enough to sweeten the sourest disposition, and the variety of patterns and styles in the clothing was an unbridled celebration of beauty and design.

Not something I could say to Dad though, so I resorted to teenage response number one and hunkered down into my silent sulk.

The music started and, for my cousin's sake if not my dad's, I plastered a smile on my face as we all stood. I turned to watch the bridal procession and almost lost my composure.

I know weddings are supposed to be all about the bride, and to be fair, Lonny did look stunning in a simple, unadorned ivory silk sheath, as did her maid of honour whose dress was a close match in pale pink satin. That being said, to my eyes it was Chaney who stole the show.

It seemed that the protocol Nazis had decreed that fourteen was too young to deserve a full-length adult gown, so Chaney's dress was quite different in design. The same pale pink satin, but with a full skirt that reached to just below her knees. Whereas the other two dresses were sleeveless and about as low cut as you could hope to manage with limited support, Chaney's had a higher, more modest neckline and short, capped sleeves. It was exquisite.

“Get your mind out of the gutter,” Dad hissed in my ear. “She's your cousin for heaven's sake!”

As usual, Dad sees a stick, Dad grabs a stick, Dad gets hold of the wrong end. Mind you, he’d have been even more upset if I'd told him exactly where my mind was. And since I couldn’t tell him, he would never find out how wrong he was, so he would never stop getting it wrong.

Chaney’s never been much of a girly girl and you could see it in her eyes – the double insult of pink and a dress. She caught sight of me looking at her and raised an eyebrow in challenge. I offered her a sympathetic smile and a shrug, and she bit down on a smile of her own, averting her eyes.

“Michael.” Dad’s tone held an edge to it. I pulled my eyes away from Chaney’s dress, but still joined the rest of the congregation in following the bridal party’s slow progress to the front of the church.

Boring music, boring litany, boring sermon, more boring music, and all in mid-summer heat. I have no idea why people get such a kick out of weddings. I was hot and fidgeting by the end of the service and very much in Dad’s bad books. After we left the church there was more tedious hanging about while the photographer lined us up in various groups, which I’ll admit I didn’t endure in any good grace. By the time we were ready to move onto the reception, Dad was foaming at the mouth.

The journey to the hotel passed in frosty silence and once Dad had parked the car, he made a bee line straight for Aunt Miranda. When he came back a minute later, he thrust a key card into my hands.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” I asked.

“I don’t care,” he said, “as long as you keep clear of your mother and me. You’ve ruined today so far with your sulks and your fidgeting and your bad attitude. I’ll be damned if I let you do the same with the speeches.”

He stormed off in the direction of a large room laid out with tables and chairs.

“Best do what your father says,” Mum said, beginning to chase after him. “I’ll call you when they’re about to serve the food.”

Result! Who wanted to listen to a bunch of boring speeches anyway? The room number was printed on the key card, so finding it took next to no time. I let myself in and kicked the door closed behind me.

“Just a minute,” said a voice from the bathroom, a voice I recognised.

It was nearer to twenty seconds when Chaney stuck her head through the door. She was wearing a pair of jeans and a low-cut top, both brand new by the look of them.

“Oh! Hello Michael. What are you doing here?”

“Dad’s having a rant. Figured I’d be better off out of the way. What about you? Shouldn’t you be downstairs?”

“Just going,” she said. “Will you give me a hand with this?” She held a thin necklace and pendant out to me.

I took it from her and fiddled with the clasp while she held her hair out of the way. “Shouldn’t you…? I mean, I thought you’d still be wearing your wedding gear.”

“I made a deal with Mum. I wouldn’t make a fuss about the dress as long as I only had to wear it for the wedding and the photographs. I mean pink for crying out loud. Sometimes I have no idea what goes through my sister’s head.”

“Well, I thought you looked pretty amazing in it. I mean, not that you don’t look amazing right now. Erm…”

She laughed. “You’re sweet cuz. If you like the dress so much, why don’t you wear it?” She was out the door without waiting for a response.

She’d just been joking of course, but there’s many a true word spoken in jest. I probably would never have given it a moment’s thought if she hadn’t said anything, but there I was with the room all to myself, and there was the dress on a hanger in front of the closet.

I sat down in a chair and pulled my phone out, tried playing a game, but my heart wasn’t in it. I kept looking at the dress, and this feeling kept growing inside me. My mouth was dry and my stomach doing summersaults. My heart was beating so hard I could feel it hammering away inside my chest. I couldn’t believe I was actually considering this.

I checked my watch. I’d been up in the room for ten minutes and no-one else had turned up. The speeches had most likely started. I went to the door and stuck my head out, but the corridor was clear. I let out a breath and could hardly draw in another.

I felt an overwhelming sense of unreality as I walked back into the room and lifted the dress down. The material was soft and silky smooth. Just feeling it under my fingers was a sensual delight. I couldn’t bear it any longer. I had to know what it felt like to wear, what I would look like with it on. I stripped down to my boxers and slid the dress off the hanger.

Chaney must still have been wearing the same underwear, not that I’d have gone that far, but the stockings were laying on the bed though along with the suspender belt. I took a shivering breath. Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, I thought and hung the dress back up for a moment while I tried to figure out the legwear.

I’d seen my mum put on tights before, so had half an idea on how to do it. The suspender belt was a bit of a tangle at first, but once I’d sorted it out, the rest kind of came clear. Having all that elastic under tension near my danglies didn’t do much for my nerves, but I loved the way the sheer stockings felt against my legs.

I slipped the dress off the hanger, unzipped it and stepped into it. It was as much as I could do to reach behind and do up the zipper and clasp, and when I finally had it hooked in place I realised that if anyone opened the door to the room just at that moment, there would be no way I could undress quickly enough.

It didn’t matter though. The cool sensation of the satin brushing against my silk clad legs was the most wonderful thing I’d ever felt. Heightened by the overdose of adrenaline coursing through my body, my brain was near overload. I opened the closet and stood in front of the mirror. The matching shoes were there on the floor, but a quick check convinced me I wouldn’t be squeezing my feet into them any time soon. I might have been a couple of inches shorter and about as slim as my fourteen-year-old cousin, but she still had tiny feet compared to me.

I don’t know how long I stared at my reflection. My short and distinctly male haircut didn’t do much for the overall impression, but even taking that into account, I still felt right. There was a sense of an enormous weight falling off my shoulders, of being let out of a confined space, of finally arriving at the place I should have been all along.

I walked around the room in my stockinged feet, stared at myself in the mirror from different angles. I mean, there wasn’t much to it all. Just standing and walking around in a room wearing a dress. It seems stupid, but for the half hour it lasted, it meant the world to me.

Something in my hind brain was getting nervous. A part of me wanted to leave the room and walk about like this in public, but it was only a very small part of me. Most of me screamed “No!” at the idea and conjured up images of me getting stuck on the other side of the door without the key card. The more I simply luxuriated in the feel of the clothes, the more the cautious part of me became aware of time passing. What if Mum forgot to phone and Aunt Miranda or Uncle Richard came up to get changed or something? What if Mum or, worse than that, Dad came up to collect me? I couldn’t afford to be caught like this. The initial delight was wearing off to be replaced by a growing sense of dread over the possibility of being found out, and I had just reached the point of convincing myself to change back when my phone rang.

I almost collapsed with the shock. I know, it’s stupid, it was just a phone ringing. I was almost too terrified to answer, as if the person on the other end might possess some supernatural ability to sense what I was doing just through talking to me. I told myself I was being ridiculous and put the phone to my ear, taking a calming breath or two before speaking.

It was Mum. Food was about to be served, she said. I told her I’d be down straight away. She wanted to know if everything was alright. Apparently, I sounded a little breathless. I made some excuse about being in the loo and having to scramble for my phone, though I’m not sure how convincing that might have been. I am known for taking my mobile everywhere with me, even into the toilet.

I hung up. Maybe not so ridiculous, I thought and set about the contortions necessary to undo the clasp and zipper.

It took next to no time to climb out of the dress and hang it back where I’d found it. It may have been my imagination, but the stockings looked a little stretched compared to when I’d first picked them up. I put them back on the bed and hoped they’d shrink a little with time. The suspender belt went back into a similar tangle to the way I’d found it, and things looked more or less the way Chaney had left them. I climbed back into my suit and tie, gave the room one last inspection, trying to compare it to when I’d first arrived, and once I was satisfied, I headed back downstairs.

“Are you alright dear?” Mum asked as I made it back to the table. “You look a little flushed.”

“I ran,” I said. I’m not the sportiest individual, so that much was believable.

“You shouldn’t run in a place like this,” Dad said distractedly. Trust him to find something to criticise me over. “Are you going to behave now?”

I bit back the response I wanted to give him and nodded. “Yes Dad,” I said. I could give him this much of a show of respect. After all, if he hadn’t sent me up to the room in the first place, I might never have made the discovery. All I needed to do now was figure out what it was I had discovered.