Tales
Andragyne
How Jerry married the Queen and found people thinking he was gay.
A Mother’s Story
Part 1
How Jerry married the Queen and found people thinking he was gay.
A Surprise
“Hey Jerry, can I talk to you for a minute?” Jane Turner, one of the hottest girls in school, was beckoning to me. Me? She had said “Jerry,” and there was no other Jerry around, so I must be the one she was talking to. She was cheerleader who had starred in the fall musical and dated the crème de la crème, and I was – well me. I walked over to where she was standing – a little alcove that looked out over the parking lot. It was where the assistant principal kept an eye on things without being seen.
“I’ve noticed you looking at me. Aren’t you ever going to ask me out? Are you waiting for me to ask you?” I was embarrassed that she had seen me eying her, but I had been – along with most of the other guys in school.
“Jane, everyone looks at you. You’re like the queen. You are the Queen. But, I know my place in the pecking order, and it’s not dating the Homecoming Queen. In fact, I’m so far down the ladder, no one wants to date me – even the Homecoming Scullery Maid.”
“You never can tell, Jerry. You have to ask.”
I felt I was being set up for ridicule. Still, I plucked up my courage. “OK, Jane, would you like to go out with me Saturday?”
“Of course, Jerry. Here’s my number. Call me tonight.” She pressed a slip of paper into my hand and hurried off. I must be dreaming – or I was being set up for an elaborate joke. I’d been going to this school for almost four years and had zero dates. Sure, I knew some girls – lots of girls – more than boys – but they considered me more one of them than dating material.
At lunch I told my friends what happened. Delores Gomez said something was up – maybe Jane wanted to get Bob Williams, the quarterback she used to date, jealous. If so, I should watch out. He had a temper and one well-placed punch could land me in the hospital. Cat, a “sweet” boy whose real name was Carl Alfonso Torres, said that Jane had been stressed and distracted lately. Cat had the best feminine intuition at the table, so I accepted his observations without question. Tina, the brain of our little group, agreed. She’d seen Jane repairing her mascara in the girl’s bathroom.
I floated the idea that I was being set up for a cruel joke. Roger O’Malley, who had a crush on Cat, started to agree, but then said that Cat was usually right, so it must be something else. After a bit of discussion, the consensus was that I was too insignificant even to be the butt of a joke. I should just call Jane, be careful, and see what happened.
Mom worked. So, I cooked and cleaned up. It was almost 9:00 when I called Jane. She seemed anxious, like I wasn’t going to call. She tried to hide it with bravado, but there was a tremor in her voice. She tried to be pleasant, but clearly Cat was right – she was stressed and distracted. She wanted to see a movie in Pasadena, about 20 miles away, and would pick me up about 4:00. After the movie we’d stop at the Hat and split a pastrami sandwich. It was within my limited budget, so I agreed.
After I got off the phone and I looked up the movie. It was playing at three local theaters. Why go to Pasadena? She must not want to be seen with me. That seemed to rule out Delores’s idea of making Williams jealous. I was glad not to worry about winding up in the hospital.
Saturday, I shaved twice, brushed my teeth and gargled more times than I remember, put on extra deodorant, new underwear, my best khakis and a polo shirt. My mother gave me the mandatory compliments and I waited patiently for Jane. About 4:15 she drove up in her Prius, honked and waited for me to come out. My mother made a comment about how rude girls are these days, then revised it to apply to Jane alone.
I tried to make small talk as we drove to the theater, but Jane wasn’t talkative. When we got there, I got the tickets and offered to buy popcorn. She needed to watch her weight. I looked – maybe she was right. I got her a diet soda instead. That’s how the date went – it was a disaster. She was tense, said little, and barely laughed at my feeble quips.
After the Hat, she suggested that we go up into the hills to see watch the sunset and city at night. It was spectacular. As I sat watching, she put my hand under her skirt hem, leaned over and kissed me with more than a little tongue. I never kissed a girl before and wasn’t ready for that. Still, I got hard. Her hand was slowly rubbing the front of my pants. It was too much, too fast.
“Jane, stop! We’ve had a lousy date and now you’re doing this. What’s going on?” With that she stopped, put her face in her hands, and started sobbing. For a long time she couldn’t say anything. I felt sorry for her, and held her.
“I’m knocked up and need to get married. I thought maybe I could make you marry me.”
“I’m surprised you don’t get an abortion. Rumor is lots of your friends have.”
“I was planning to get rid of it, but my mom found my test kit and told my dad. He won’t let me ‘kill my child.’ They want me married so they don’t get dissed at the club. Bob won’t marry me … and none of the other guys will either. I thought maybe you’d be thrilled to marry me – besides no one would think the less of me when I divorced a looser like you.”
“So your plan was to make me think I got you preggers, force me to marry you, and then divorce me after the baby is born? And do what with the baby?”
“Oh you could keep the horrid thing. I don’t want it.”
I wasn’t sure what stunned me more – how little she thought of me, or her total indifference to “the horrid thing” inside her. No one could really be like that. Maybe she’d be a normal, loving woman and mother if someone gave her real love.
“I’ll drive you home. Just keep your mouth shut, or I’ll fix you, or maybe one of your fag buds – O’Malley or Torres – or that Tina person. You never can tell who you’ll meet in a dark alley.”
“I wasn’t going to blab anyway – but you better stay away from my friends. Their connected,” I lied. I always try to think the best of people. I decided she didn’t mean the threat, but lied as I lied in return because she was desperate to keep her secret.
The Prenup
I admit it. I’m a horrible romantic. As I was going to sleep that night I started thinking of myself as a white knight, coming to Jane’s rescue. If I gave her the love and devotion any woman deserves, she’d come around. Then, there was the baby. I know, guys aren’t supposed to like taking care of babies, but I’d done a lot of babysitting and a baby of my own touched a cord deep in my heart.
Don’t forget that testosterone had been coursing through my veins for 5-6 years. Jane was the only girl I had ever been on a date with. (I had taken Tina to the prom, but only because no one else asked either of us. It wasn’t a date. We didn’t even kiss.) Not only had Jane practically asked me out, but if I’d just gone along with the program, I would have gotten laid. When you’re 17 that means a lot more than it should.
So, the combination of my heart and my cock pulled me in a dangerous direction. My brain, on the other hand, was jumping up and down blowing whistles and waving red flags. It lost. About noon Sunday, I texted Jane, “Thinking abt it.” About 10 minutes later I got “Pk u up @ 1.”
Again, she was about 15 minutes late. “You want to marry me?”
“I’m thinking about it. What do you want?”
“I told you. Look, I told my dad you were thinking about it. I didn’t tell him what a looser you are,” she reassured me. “He wants to talk to you.” The rest of the drive passed in silence.
We pulled up to a pretentious colonial – pretentious because the columns were way out of proportion to the house. Still, the house was bigger than any I’d ever been in. Jane led me to the library, where her dad had his desk. “He’s waiting for you,” she said as she turned to go up stairs.
“Hello, I’m Jerry – Gerald Zimmerman – Jane said you wanted to talk to me.”
“Ralph Turner,” he said holding out his hand. “Have a seat,” he said indicating one of two leather armchairs flanking a lamp table. He eyed me for a few seconds. “Funny, you don’t look like an idiot. Are you after money?”
“What?”
“Jane said you were thinking of marrying her. So, I figure you must either be an idiot or looking for a payday. Am I wrong?”
“Jane is a very beautiful and sexy girl. Lots of guys would want to marry her.”
“They don’t. She’s a bitch. Everyone who’s met her finds that out straight away. If that’s why you want to marry her, you’re an idiot. I’m not going to take advantage of an idiot. It’s immoral. So is there any other reason you’re thinking of marrying Jane?”
He wasn’t fooling around. He had no delusions about his daughter and had thought about her a lot more then I had. He sat patiently as I gathered my thoughts.
“Well, I don’t call girls ‘bitches,’ but you’re right. She’s self-centered and inconsiderate. … Last night when she decided to tell me what was going on … she was crying and I felt sorry for her. Still, I was mad that she was willing to trap me … to use me. … I like to think the best of people. I think maybe if someone … if I … loved Jane she might change … you know all girls … all women are capable of real love … at least that’s what I want to believe. … I think if I treated her nice I could bring that out.
“Then there is sex. You know, I’m 17 and never had sex. I want to wait till I’m married and she wants to marry me … so that’s part of it.
“And there’s the baby. Babies need someone to love them … I don’t think Jane is ready to love her baby … Maybe I could help her see how wonderful babies are. I’ve done some babysitting. I know I could love a baby the way it deserves – even if it’s not mine … biologically I mean.”
“Is that all?”
“It’s all I can think of right now.”
“Well, Jerry, you’re not the kind of idiot I thought you were. You’re an idealist and a romantic – that makes you an idiot of a different sort, but an admirable idiot. I don’t think for a second you’ll be able to change Jane. I’ve loved her all her life, and it hasn’t made the slightest difference. Maybe you might, God bless you, but I really doubt it.
“As for sex, Jane gives that out freely. So get what you can as long as you can. Just don’t catch anything.
“What matters most to me is you loving my grandchild. He or she will need a lot of love, and won’t be getting much from Jane – I have no delusions about that. Having a parent that will love my grandchild means the world to me.
“Have you thought about how you’ll support your family?”
“If I do marry her, I plan to get a job when I graduate … I was going to go to Cal State L. A., but I’ll get a job instead.”
“I want you to go to college as you planned – but maybe later. The child has to come first.
“Personally, I think you’re signing up for a stint in hell, but I want to protect my grandchild. So, here’s the deal. Connie, Jane’s mother, wants her to stay married for two years at least – for appearance sake – Connie is very concerned about appearances.”
“If I marry it will be for a lifetime, not two years – I don’t care about appearances.”
“I am not doubting your good intentions – but it takes two to make a marriage. Right now, anyway, Jane is not planning a lifetime marriage – and she and Connie do care about appearances – sometimes I think that’s all they care about. Anyway, let me lay out my proposal without interruption. Then you can tell me what you think.”
“Sorry for interrupting, sir.”
“No need to be. As I was saying, here’s what I am proposing. Whenever you are divorced, you will get full custody of any children. I’ll buy you, personally, a starter house before you are married. When you marry I’ll pay off the mortgage. It will be yours to keep and raise my grandchild in. You’ll stay married to Jane for at least two years. If you’re divorced before that she’ll get no inheritance and you’ll get nothing further. If you stay married for the two years, you will get a $100,000 cash settlement and $25,000 a year until the youngest child is 18. I’ll also set up trust funds for any grandchildren to attend a four-year university. Is that satisfactory?”
“I wasn’t looking for any money, so that’s more than generous.”
“So, there you have it. If I were you, I’d walk away because I wouldn’t want to be married to my daughter for any length of time for any money. I want you to take a week to think about it and discuss it with your parents.”
“It’s just my mother.”
“Well, tell her she should be proud of you, but also tell her what I said about being married to Jane. See you in a week.” He shook my hand and I left.
Jane was waiting in the hall. “Did he say I’m a bitch?”
“Yes, but I’m sure he loves you.”
“Well, I am. Last warning.”
I told my mother the whole story. She gave me the same advice as Jane’s father. Still, I figured I could make Jane love me by being nice enough to her, so I wanted to give it a try. The following Sunday I was in the Turner library telling Mr. Turner what I decided.
“I’ll have my lawyer draw up a prenuptial agreement along the lines I outlined. I’ll give you money to hire a lawyer of your own to review it. Remember, that though I’ll try to help you, I think you’re going to have a rough two years.”
Jane and I were married the week after graduation in a small wedding in the Turner home. Cat was my best man.
Our Honeymoon
After the wedding we went to the Beverly Hilton before flying to Hawaii the next day. (The Turners gave us a honeymoon there as one present.) I know wedding nights are supposed to be about sex, but Jane said she was really tired, and I know I was. So we just went to bed and slept. We did not even have Champagne because Jane was preggers and I was too young anyway. The next morning a limo took us to LAX and we were off on a first class flight. In Hawaii, we stayed in a cottage overlooking the ocean.
When we got there, I thought it was time for me to loose my virginity, but Jane looked at me in a disgusted way. “Look, Jerry,” there was an angry edge to her voice as she said my name, “if you think your going to fuck me, you’ve got another think coming. I’m not fucking a fag looser like you.”
“I’m not a fag!”
“Oh? Any guy who was not a fag would have screwed me when he had his chance up in the hills that night. Besides, only a fag would hang out with other fags like Torres and O’Malley. So, if you want to have a pleasant marriage, find a boyfriend down by the pool or wank yourself off, but leave me alone.” With that she shoved me out of the bedroom door and slammed it shut.
It was hardly manly, but I burst into tears. I spent the night on the sofa. The next morning, Jane asked me if I knew my place.
“What place is that?”
“You’re a paid companion, dearie. If you’re ready to accept that and give up on sex with me, we can go down to breakfast together.”
I didn’t know what else to do, so I agreed, hoping that in time I could change her mind and have a normal marriage. That started a pattern. We had meals together, then went our separate ways until the next meal. Jane flirted on the beach and around the pool, but given that she was beginning to show, without much success, which just made her angrier. Meanwhile, I sunned, read, swam or watched TV.
The third day, I was getting some rays by the pool, reading Pride and Prejudice, when a well-built 30ish man named Tyler sat beside me and struck up a conversation. I’m not very outgoing, but I’m not antisocial either. I was glad of someone friendly to talk to. He knew the book and had seen a couple of movie versions as well. It was a favorite of his former SO. He identified with Darcy, because he tried to be rational, but found that his emotions eventually won out. His SO was more like Elizabeth, rash to judgement, but willing to see the truth about him in the end. Sadly, they had recently broken up when another man came into the picture.
By now we were walking along the beach front in the shade of palm trees. “I hear you're married, but it’s not going well?”
I was surprised. “Where did you hear that?”
“Well, this woman kept eying and flirting with me, so I went over to tell her she was wasting her time. It turned out to be your wife. When she found out where my interests lie, she suggested that I talk to you.”
“You mean about Jane Austin?”
“Well in a way. About you being Elizabeth to my Darcy.”
“Elizabeth?” I was confused. Then it came to me – Jane told Tyler I was gay. While I was working it out, I’d been looking into Tyler’s eyes, trying to grok what he meant. He misread my stare, leaned forward and gently kissed me on the lips. For a second, I kissed back, kind of automatically. I thought I’d be revolted at kissing another man, but I wasn’t. Tyler’s kiss had been affectionate, not lustful, and I was badly in need of affection. I was still confused after I’d worked out how I could be Tyler’s Elizabeth.
Tyler didn’t press me, but waited for my reaction.
“Let’s sit and talk, Tyler.” I lead him to a bench facing the sea. I wasn’t sure how much to tell Tyler, but he deserved more than a curt rebuff.
“That was a very sweet kiss, Tyler.”
He smiled. “Thank you, Jerry.”
“Yes. In fact, I really liked being kissed, but it wasn’t because I want sex with you. It’s because I’m going through a hard time with Jane now. I guess I need affection and to feel wanted.”
“Jerry, that’s very honest and brave. Those are two of Elizabeth’s best qualities.”
I blushed.
“Look, Jerry. I don’t need a sexual relationship just now and I really like you. You need someone to care about you. So, how about we just spend some time together? We can agree right now that there won’t be any sex, but if you’re willing we can share a little affection. How about it?”
I sat for a while thinking. Lots of young guys and gals went out, kissed and didn’t have sex, but Tyler and I were both guys. I wasn’t gay – Tyler’s penis held no fascination for me. Still, his kiss had warmed my soul. I was married, but Jane made it clear that it was a marriage in name only. What would people think? Did I care? I wasn’t a homophobe. Cat and O’Malley were gay and I liked them very much.
“It sounds weird, but I don’t care. If you don’t mind dating a straight guy, I don’t mind dating a gay one.”
“That’s great Elizabeth!” Tyler winked at me, took my hand and helped me up. Then he held my hand and we continued walking down the beach. Later I texted Jane: I wouldn’t be eating with her. After dinner, Tyler walked me to the cottage, and gave me a good night kiss that warmed my heart.
When I went in, Jane was in a crappy mood. She’d ordered a drink, but room service wouldn’t serve her because she was underage. “I see you took my advice and found a boyfriend. I saw you and Tyler kissing. I knew you were a fagot!” I didn’t care what she said or thought.
That was the tone of my honeymoon. Jane and I occasionally ate together, but mostly we went our separate ways. A couple of nights she didn’t come home. I spent most of my time with Tyler, who was true to his word and didn’t press me for sex. I felt feminine with him, and enjoyed being held, kissed and called Elizabeth. After a week he went back to Texas. A few days later, Jane and I returned to L. A.
My Job
My new house was in West L. A. It was Spanish colonial build in the 1930s with three small bedrooms, a living room, dinning room, and a breakfast room that Jane and I put our computers in. Jane and I each took a bedroom, and set up the third as a nursery.
Connie Turner spoke to some people and lined up a good paying job in a men’s store a short bus ride from my house. The salary was more than anything I had a chance at, and there would be commissions as well. Sunday evening after our return from Hawaii I put on a coat and tie, and went to meet the owner of the Blade Boutique in West Hollywood. It didn’t take long to realize that the Boutique catered to the gay community. Rene Blade, the owner, wore make up, a ruffle front mauve satin shirt, a beret, and black crepe pants. I wondered what Connie had gotten me into. Jane probably told her I was gay.
“Sweetie, I know you’re just out of high school. I can understand why a sweet boy like you would dress conservatively in such a hostile environment, but you can express yourself here. In fact, I try to maintain an image that will make even the shyest thing feel at home in my little boutique. Since you’re my first associate, I’ll style a uniform that highlights your yummy features. You’ll need at least a couple of new outfits to wear at the Boutique. Don’t worry, you’ll get them at cost, and I’ll deduct it from your salary.”
Since I was young and thin, he wanted to show my legs with the male version of black satin hot pants – if there is a male version. I was to shave my legs before work Monday. I protested that I was married and didn’t want customers hitting on me.
“Not ‘customers,’ ‘guests,’ sweetie. Don’t worry, I am not asking you to do anything with your yummy body your mother would blush at. Think about how waitresses dress, sweetie. It isn’t to get dates – well not mostly anyway – but to increase sales. Of course, if you want to make dates, I have no objection. We both know being married hasn’t slowed you down so far.” Clearly, Rene had been told about my dating Tyler.
Rene picked an assortment of poet shirts and matching berets to go with my black hot pants. “Now shoes. You can’t wear those old things,” he said indicating my new black Oxfords. “Take them off – let me see your feet. … Hmmm, lovely toes. No need to hide them. I’m cursed with ingrown nails, but yours are perfect. I have the perfect thing.” I followed him back to the shoe department. There he measured my feet and quickly returned with a pair of Steve Madden wedge sandals. “These will really shape your legs and show off your delicious feet.
“You have an appointment at 8:00 tomorrow at Randi’s Salon over there.” He pointed it out down the street, “Let him work his magic. I won’t expect you until noon. We close from noon till 2:00 every day for lunch, siesta and afternoon delights, but I’ll show you the ropes – oh wouldn’t that be delicious – don’t worry – just fantasizing. After that I’ll expect you Tuesday till Saturday from 9:30 to 7:30.”
It was all a bit much. Obviously all the customers would think I was another gay blade – as would anyone that saw me dressed for work. Still, the folks in Hawaii that saw me holding hands and having dinner with Tyler must have though the same. That didn’t bother me as much as I thought it might, so this shouldn’t either. Like Rene said, it was like waitresses wearing short skirts – just a costume to please the customers – ah, guests.
That was the pep talk that I gave myself on the bus home. When I got home Jane was watching some inane flick and eating chocolates. “Well, do you like the job mother found for you?”
“It pays very well.”
“I’m sure you’ll fit right in.” If that was her worst, I could take it.
The next morning I got up at 6:00, showered, and shaved my legs with one of Jane’s razors. I was not sure if they were the same as men’s but better safe than sorry. As I ran my hand over my shaved legs to feel for stubble, I got a strangely erotic feeling. Now that I’d done it for work, maybe I’d continue, even if I didn’t have to.
After I dressed in my hot pants, poet shirt and sandals a glance in the mirror showed a perfect sissy. I was glad that I wasn’t still in school or I’d have been beaten to a pulp. Jane was still asleep when I left.
I arrived in front of Randi’s at 7:40. About ten minutes later he arrived to open up. He stopped and looked my up and down. “You must be Jerry. You have a lot of potential. It’ll be a pleasure helping you blossom.”
“Ah, thanks.”
“How very refreshing to hear an unaffected voice from such a pretty boy. I know a lot of people who might find that intriguing. I’ll send them by. I’m sure Rene will be happy to have the traffic, and you can have the commissions and maybe a bit more.
“Rene wants you to have the works, but I want to keep you fresh and innocent looking. Nothing too over the top. You have blue eyes and a fair complexion, so Irene will lighten your hair and give it some subtle highlights. I’ll show you a simple day makeup regime to accent your gorgeous face, and Margaret will give you a manicure and pedi while you’re under the drier.” With that Irene started shampooing my hair.
“You're gorgeous honey. Randi’s the best. You’ll be so glad you came here. I wasn’t anywhere near you and look at me now,” Irene said in a husky voice.
I did look at her. If she didn’t still have a bit of an Adam’s apple, and I wasn’t so shy, I might easily have asked her out. “You’re beautiful, Irene.”
“It’s very sweet of you to say that, Jerry, but I have a long way to go yet.”
“No, it’s true. You are beautiful, and I’m sure you will only be more so in the future.”
“You’re a such a flirt, but I love it anyway.”
I found it very easy to relate to Randi, Irene and Margaret. I only needed to treat them as real people with virtues and flaws instead of stereotypes. I decided that if I did the same at the boutique, I could do very well there.
Shortly before noon, Randi brought me to the wall mirror to see the finished product. I didn’t look like a woman, and I certainly didn’t look like the man I’d been. Still, I was beautiful. For the first time in my life, I was proud to be me. My hair was honey blond with natural looking highlights. My lips were just a bit redder than their natural color, and my fingers and toes matched them. Mineral make up evened out my skin tones and covered a few blemishes. Finally, a touch of blue liner and mascara made my eyes pop.
I guess I looked like a sissy, but not like a caricature. Rene did have an eye for clothes. What seemed merely effeminate in the mirror this morning, all came together to make a statement. It was not a statement I’d thought about making, but as I looked it dawned on me that the Rene, Randi, Irene, and Margaret had all seen something latent in me that they had managed to bring out. I found myself saying, “It’s so me!” I'd have to find the courage to carry it off.
A Mother’s Story
Part 2
How Jerry and the Queen came to a fateful decision.
A Mother’s Story
Part 2
Settling In
When I went to the Boutique, Rene had me do a turn and told me how well I ‘cleaned up.’ “Look at those gorgeous legs and your eyes are to die for! Oh to be 18 again and look as delectable as you, sweetie!
“Still, you can’t be going around with bulges in your pockets. Those pockets are for show, not blow. Empty them on the counter.”
When I finished there was a considerable pile. Rene lead me to a mirror and showed me how much better my hot pants fit with empty pockets. As I turned to see myself at various angles, he was selecting a bag. He returned with a very smart Coach messenger bag that looked businesslike on my shoulder, but hardly masculine.
As it was a little after noon, he invited me to lunch in his apartment above the store. He shared it with Charles, a stockbroker in Century City. Charles had put up the money for the Boutique, but now it was a going concern. In fact, Rene could afford to hire me because he had just finished paying Charles back.
“Rene, I’m curious. Yesterday you said my being married hadn’t slowed me down. I gather that you heard that from someone in the Turner family. Could you tell me how?”
“The same way you got the job, sweetie. Charles belongs to the Turners’ club. He uses his membership to recruit clients like the Turners. Mrs. Turner has been outing you to anyone who’ll listen. She says you tricked her daughter into marrying you to be your beard. Charles takes anything she says with a grain of salt, of course – in fact a whole shaker full. He’s seen the Turner woman twist facts before.
“Anyway, when she showed him your picture, he thought of me needing an associate. He told her ‘it would serve him right to have a gay job.’”
“Thanks for being so straight with me.”
“Imagine me being straight!” We both giggled.
“I want to be honest in return. I know you spent a lot of money on my makeover, but I’ll pay you back if you don’t want me when you hear the truth.” I told him my story, concluding that though I liked Tyler kissing me, I was never tempted to have sex with him. So, I wasn’t gay.
“I’m not a heterophobe, sweetie. We should all love who we love, and have affection from anyone nice enough to give it. So, I don’t care if you’re not gay. I don’t even care if you like kissing women!” He grinned. “But, do you like your new look? I don’t want you uncomfortable. It wouldn’t be good for you or the Boutique.”
“I do! I mean I never imagined dressing like this, but for the first time in my life, I like how I look. That really surprised me. I’m still trying to grok it. Maybe I like people seeing at me instead of acting like I don’t exist. I got some looks on the bus this morning. No one was rude beyond staring briefly. Some even smiled. One lady my grandmother’s age even said she wished more boys had my sense of style.
“Still, I’m not sure how it will wear when I’m not working. If I want to look more like my old self, I can just change my clothes and take off my make up – except for these.” I held out my glossy red nails.
“Your hands are one of your best features – along with your face, legs and feet. If you studied art, you know artists compose paintings to lead your gaze without you realizing you’re being lead. Your polish draws attention to your delicate hands and feet. In the same way, your pants highlight your legs and your makeup draws the eye to your face. All that gets integrated into an appreciation of what a pretty boy you are. That’s why people are looking and smiling instead of ignoring you.
“You’ll be a work of art in my boutique. People will want to come in and admire the masterpiece. That will be good for sales – both yours and mine. Still, remember that there are certain men who will look at you and get an erection, hate themselves for reacting that way, and want to take it out on you for ‘making’ them feel like that. That happened to me when I was younger. Like beautiful women, we have to be constantly alert and walk with confidence so we don’t become the victims of such men.
“So, I got you a little present to help keep you safe.” He handed me a small pepper spray. “Keep this in your purse, sweetie.
“Now back to dressing down. You’re used to being invisible and ignored. Being seen and appreciated takes some getting used to, and you may want a break. That’s why models and movie stars often wear hoodies and sunglasses. Red nail polish is hard to hide, so you may want clear polish instead. You decide.”
What Rene said all made sense. He and Randi’s crew were artists who’d made me into a work of art. That is why I liked how I looked – anyone would unless they were homophobic and hated their own response to a beautiful boy. … A beautiful boy!? Yes, I was! I wasn’t handsome. I knew that. But, now I was beautiful – and I liked it!
After lunch we went down to the shop and Rene became all business. I had a lot to learn. We started with the mechanics of ringing up sales and proceeded to stock layout. That way, I could take some of the burden off Rene without having a mastery of body types, coloration, fabrics, styling and especially personality. The Boutique didn’t push the same styles on everyone like a traditional men’s store. Instead, we helped guests express their inner self – even when they did not know it themselves – as Rene had done for me. Until I mastered those things, I was to follow Rene and his ‘guest’ around, observing in silence and awaiting his orders. When the guest left, I was to ask Rene about anything I didn’t understand – which turned out to be a lot. Rene was a lot more analytical and perceptive than one would guess from his bubbly persona.
By the end of the day, my calves were on fire from my wedges, my mind was buzzing with undigested information, but my soul was satisfied that we had really helped a couple of people to accept and express themselves. I had been hit on – nicely – once, but deflected it by flashing my wedding ring. Rene said I had done better then he had hoped and he was glad he’d hired me. He even gave me a commission on a Coach bag like my own I had suggested to customer, er guest, I was ringing out.
It was a little after 8:00 when I arrived home, dog tired. Jane had nuked herself something for dinner, and was munching popcorn and watching TV. “Gawd! You really are a sissy! Look at you – makeup, nail polish, wedge sandals, hot pants and a purse. Are you wearing panties and a bra?”
“No! This is just how I have to dress for the job your mother found me.”
“Well, you should be. It was bad enough you screwing around with that guy in Hawaii, now you're embarrassing me at home. What do you think the neighbors’ll say? ‘Oh poor Jane Zimmerman, she couldn’t even find a real man to marry her!’ Gawd! You make me sick. I’ll get you for this!”
“I told you, nothing like that happened with Tyler. He was just nice to me while you were off all night doing God knows what.” She gave me an evil, satisfied grin.
“Getting what you wouldn’t give me – a thorough screwing.”
“I wanted to make love with you, but you refused!”
“Do you think you could ever satisfy a real woman with that dinky thing of yours? Do you think I’d ever fuck a man who uses makeup, wears hot pants and carries a purse? Get out of my sight you little shit!”
I was tired and stressed from strangers staring at me on the bus home. I’d felt so nice this morning when Randi and his crew finished with me. Now Jane made me feel like crap over the same thing. I started crying and went to my room. About midnight I woke up, ate a banana and a carton of yogurt, and drank a glass of milk.
The next day Rene taught me fabrics and fibers. I sold some earrings and pairs of shoes while Rene was busy with another guest. The commission was less than on the bag, but I viewed every commission as a bonus. One of the customers from the previous day came back to buy a shirt and ask me to lunch, which I politely declined.
When I got home, Jane didn’t talk to me, but gave me a strange grin. I baked a chicken leg quarter and a potato, and ate it alone in the kitchen. I thought about removing my red polish and replacing it with clear, but that would have been like drawing a moustache on the Mona Lisa – ruining an artwork that was not my own.
As usual, Jane was still asleep when I got ready for work. After my shower I went to my underwear drawer and found all my jockeys gone – replaced with nylon panties. Next to them lay a neatly folded pile of camisoles in place of my tees. I thought about putting yesterday’s underpants on, but then what was the point showering? No one would see the panties, so wearing them would be no big deal. Besides, I didn’t want to give Jane the satisfaction of making a scene – let her have her laugh. It was a strange sitting in purple print panties doing my make up, but I decided I liked their look.
After the third guest eyed my hot pants and smiled, I looked in the mirror. The thin fabric made my panty line very noticeable. I was embarrassed, but told myself that it was all part of the costume. When things were quiet, I asked Rene why he’d said nothing. He told me as long as it did not spoil the image he’d created, my choice of panties was my own affair. He told me if I didn’t want my panty line showing I could always wear a thong – no thanks!
By noon I decided that I did not mind showing a panty line – at least not in the Boutique. Maybe I was becoming an attention whore. At least I liked being noticed – being someone as opposed to the invisible nothing I'd been.
When I got home, Jane was in a good mood, and had actually made us dinner – if you can call baking frozen lasagna and pouring premixed salad in a bowl making dinner.
“Look, Muffin, let’s declare a truce. I told the neighbors my husband is in Afghanistan. You’re my gay brother, and I’m not responsible for you wanting to be a girl. So, if you don’t cross me on that, we can get along until the two years are up. Deal?” She held out her hand for me to shake. So far my life at home had been the hell her father had predicted. Anything would be better. I didn’t need to lie, just not say anything about the real situation. So, I shook.
“Good, I promise to be the supportive big sister as long as you go along.”
“OK, thanks, I guess. … Ah, what do you mean by big sister?”
“Well, if we’re brother and sister we can’t both be 18, so I told the neighbors I’m 22 and you’re 18.”
“I see.”
We had a pleasant dinner. And Jane even asked me about work and listened. After dinner she put a frilly apron on me and we did the dishes together. We watched TV until 10:00, when she said it’s bedtime. That was unusual, because she’d been staying up to the wee hours and sleeping in.
“Isn’t 10:00 a bit early for you?”
“I have to get up early and make my little brother breakfast. Don’t worry, I’m DVRing my shows. I’ll watch them in the morning.”
Maybe she was turning over a new leaf. Anyway having breakfast made for me was better than being called “a little shit.” Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.
I learned that Jane could be pleasant when she wanted to be. When I came out for breakfast, I found hot coffee, a soft-boiled egg and OJ. I was used to a bigger breakfast and the coffee had no cream or sugar. I wanted both, but was told that my big sister was taking charge, and I'd be eating healthy from now on. If that was the price of peace, it was not too high – it would even be good for me.
Another surprise was a bag lunch with cottage cheese, a banana, and a container of cranberry juice. Jane told me to put it in the fridge when I got to the Boutique. I got a kiss on the cheek and a pat on the butt as I left. It wasn’t marital bliss, but it wasn’t hell either.
The new regime continued when I got home to find a dinner of skinless chicken breast, a small portion of brown rice and broccoli, accompanied by a glass of vegetable juice. Again, we did the dishes together. After, Jane brushed my hair and put barrettes in it.
“I don’t need barrettes.”
“Yes, you do. Remember you promised to go along with my story. We’re going for a walk and I want the neighbors to see how much of a girl you’re becoming.”
“Is that really necessary?”
“Yes, the doctor says I need more exercise, and it would be strange if I went alone when my girly brother was home.”
So began our new pattern of behavior. Jane was pleasant as long as I allowed her to show the neighbors that I was becoming ever more femme. When I objected or refused to go along, I got a vicious verbal hiding that reduced me to tears. While I was not heavy, my new diet caused me to loose the little fat I had around my waist and on my abdomen. My arms and legs also became thinner. Still, I felt healthy enough.
Things were going well at work. Rene was letting me serve many guests on my own and my commissions were increasing. Also my presence had increased traffic, and the Boutique’s increased sales more than paid my salary. I was content, but not really happy.
The big negative was no sex life other than what I provided for myself. If I were interested in men, I could have had more than my fill – I was constantly hit on in a respectful, but often persistent way – but that was not my cup of tea. No one seemed interested in me the way Tyler had been – as an object of chaste affection. The few girls I met weren’t interested in a guy that looked better in makeup than they did – besides, I still considered myself married and held out the vague hope that Jane might move past accommodation to something approaching respect or even love. Things got easier as time went on: my libido dropped, and I thought about sex less than before.
Birthing Class
As summer ended, Jane’s doctor sent us to birthing classes. I would be her partner/coach. I arranged to get off early two nights a week so we could attend the 7:00 PM classes together. I found them fascinating, while being confronted with the reality of giving birth only put Jane off.
One of the classes dealt with the many benefits of breast, as opposed to formula, feeding. As we drove home that night, we broke our détente by getting into a huge fight over nursing. Jane did not want “the thing” “sucking the life out of my body,” while I reminded her that her father wanted me to do the best possible job of taking care of his grandchild. That meant the baby must be breast fed. As we arrived home, I decided not to bring the argument into the house, and so I said, “Ok, just think about it.” Jane was tired and agreed to think about it. So, the rest of the evening was quiet, if not cordial. I could tell that she was seriously thinking about it, as she was researching lactation on the web.
At breakfast Jane told me that she had thought about it, and that maybe the baby should be breast fed. I was pleasantly surprised.
“It’s very important to you, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is. Even if you don’t want the baby, I do, and I want it to be as happy and healthy as possible.”
“I gathered that. OK, let’s agree then, the baby will be breast fed.”
“Good.”
“You know, I’m really glad that we are beginning to agree on things.” Jane smiled, kissed me on the cheek and patted me affectionately on the rear as I left for work. I felt that my hopes were being realized.
A Mother’s Story
Part 3
Jerry tries to cope while the Queen poisons an apple.
Friends and Family
I’ve not said much about our family and friends. Mother and I chatted daily, and visited each week. Occasionally, she came Saturday night to see both of us. Jane was not rude, but was less than cordial. More often, I went to see mom Monday night. I’d arrive at her apartment before she got home and make dinner as I used to before I married.
Mother and I had no secrets. She knew I’d never dated. So, when I told her about Tyler, she wanted to know if I was gay. I admitted enjoying Tyler’s affection, but had no desire to go further. I also told her about my job as things unfolded. I had Rene take a cell pic of me when he was done. I sent it to mom. She wanted to know if I was forced, or had done it freely. I said I knew it’d take getting used to, but that I felt like a butterfly emerging from the cocoon, and for the first time in my life, liked how I looked.
She saw the whole effect – makeup, nail polish, hot pants, panty line, hairless legs and wedge sandals – the first Saturday after I started. The pic had prepared her, but the reality still set her back. After dinner, Jane watched TV while mom and I cleaned up in the kitchen.
“You like your new look?”
“Yes, very much. Before, I felt like I didn’t exist. No one ever looked at me. Now, I’m noticed. Sometimes it is embarrassing, but I’ll get over that. I like the attention. I get a lot more smiles than I used to, and even if I get stares and scowls, at least people know I exist.”
Mother was silent to as she rinsed and dried the dishes I was washing. “And your sure you’re not attracted to men?”
“Well, not sexually, but I did like Tyler being affectionate. He was the first person – other than you – to give me any affection.”
“You needed a father in your life. It’s my fault – I should have found you one. I think every child needs a man’s affection as well as a woman’s.” She thought silently as she wiped two plates. “Also, you’ve always had a feminine side. I saw it when you were little. You were so neat, and liked to play dolls and house with Sandy when we lived in the Valley. I took you to soccer so you’d learn to be more boyish. … And not many boys have babysitting jobs. … Also you and I relate more like mother and daughter than mother and son – we talk so freely you know.
“I remember you used to like bright colors. Then, after you were in school, you wanted to wear dull colors and fade into the background. That surprised me at the time.”
“Well, I got teased and called a sissy. I wanted to disappear.”
“Well, you’re making up for it now.” She smiled and gave me a hug. Her acceptance made me feel warm and … centered. I don’t know how else to say it.
I tried to keep in touch with my friends. Mostly it was with texts. Delores and I were never close. She was more Tina’s friend. So, I never heard from her after graduation.
Cat and Roger asked why I’d not come out to them before, as they had with me. It took quite a while to convince them I wasn’t gay. I invited them to the boutique one evening. It was pricey, so I didn’t expect them to buy anything – just see where I was working. Rene treated them warmly and gave them each one of his signature berets. He also gave Cat a note to Randi for a free manicure and pedi.
Tina had an unexpected reaction to my new look. She thought I looked better than her and was jealous. It came out as a joke, but as we talked I could tell she was down on her appearance. I felt bad for her. I invited her to lunch one day when she wasn’t working. After lunch we walked around West Hollywood, stopping at Randi’s. I’d sent him a steady stream of new clients, so he’d agreed to a free makeup session for Tina. Of course, she demurred. I told her it was all set up, and it would insult Randi to turn it down. So, with a little pushing and cajoling, she went in and I went back to work.
I expected to see her in an hour, but I was busy and time flew. Three hours later, the new Tina appeared with tears running down her cheeks. Randi had opened his heart and given her the works on the house. She was both radiant and gorgeous. I was rewarded with hugs and kisses.
I did not see much of Jane’s friends. I think she tried to keep me out of their sight. On the few occasions when I did see them, they either ignored me or snickered.
The person whose reaction I was most worried about was Ralph Turner. In the weeks before the wedding, I’d begun to look up to him as a father. He said he thought of me as the son he never had. Every father wants his son to be a chip off the old block, not a sissy. However much I liked my new look, I knew I was a sissy – a disappointment to him. Still, I respected him too much to avoid him.
On the way home from my first full day, I called him to set up an evening I could come over and “talk” to him – really, to face his disappointment and disapproval. He suggested that he pick me up the next day and take me to lunch at his club. I agreed, but thought it would be better not to go to his club. I didn’t want to embarrass him.
I was very nervous as I helped Rene close for lunch. Though my mouth was dry, I imagined further embarrassing myself by wetting myself from fright as I had on a third grade field trip when I nearly stepped on a snake. I pictured a little boy wetting his sissy shorts on the sidewalk. I went to the toilet – just in case – but had nothing to pee.
It was 12:05 when I went out. I looked up and down the street – no Ralph Turner. Part of me was very relieved. I wouldn’t have to do this – at least, not today. Suddenly, there was a pert beep from a white BMW Series 4 convertible double-parked in front of me. I did practically wet myself. Swallowing hard, I opened the door and got in.
Ralph Turner was smiling. “Nice to see you Jerry. You look a lot different that when I saw you last.”
“Sorry, but I wanted to be the one to show you what I look like, and not have you get it second hand. I respect you too much not to face the music. I’m sorry if I shocked you.” Damn it! Tears were forming in my eyes. I was being almost as much of a sissy as if I’d wet my pants. I wanted to be strong. Fuck!
“Well, you didn’t shock me. Connie showed me a picture Jane texted her last night. Still, I appreciate what you’re trying to do. It shows a lot of courage, and I’m proud of you. Now, there’s no need to cry.” We were stopped at a light and he dabbed my eyes with his handkerchief.
“We’re going to Malibu for lunch. An associate has a nice house with an ocean view. We can eat quietly while you tell me what this is all about.”
I don’t remember much about the house or how to get there, but behind it was a patio high above the ocean with a fabulous view. We had a simple lunch of salad and fish tacos while I told Ralph everything. I can’t say he approved my decisions, but he didn’t second-guess them. He told me everyone has to find his or her own way in the world, and as long as they were not hurting anyone – including themselves – they should be given the space to find their way.
As 2:00 PM approached, we were pulling up in front of the Boutique. Ralph said, “I think you're a brave person who's doing his best. Next time, let’s eat lunch at my club if you're willing. There are a few people I’d like to shake up.”
Acting for the Queen
I’ve already said how Jane made my life hell until I agreed to go along with her story that I was her transitioning gay brother. I should have learned from her father that unless agreements are spelled out in detail, they’re subject to differing interpretations. My interpretation was I’d hold my tongue and let her spin whatever harmless yarn she wanted to the neighbors. Jane’s interpretation was quite different.
I grew up in a peaceful household and always accepted – well, up to the time I decided to marry Jane – that mother was older and wiser, and knew what was best for me. Jane, on the other hand, lived in a household where hysteria ruled. If Connie did not get her way she made Ralph’s life hell until she did. Jane did the same as a child, and was now doing it with me. You’d probably say a real man would have stood up to her and I didn’t because I’m a sissy momma’s boy. I might be, but Ralph Turner is a confident and successful businessman, and he didn’t stand up to them either. I know – that’s no excuse. I’m responsible for my own choices.
I almost always chose peace over stress and conflict – go along to get along, as they say. The one exception was the baby – my baby, as I’d come to think of it. When it came to my baby, more than my personal stress or comfort was involved. Compared to it, what happened to me was secondary. I got that from my mother – in things that mattered, my welfare always came first with her.
I’m wandering. I was talking about agreeing to go along with Jane’s story about me wanting to be a woman. As I said, the first active thing I did was to go for a walk around the neighborhood with barrettes in my hair. She introduced me to three different neighbors as Geraldine, her transitioning sister. I said little, but my makeup, nails and shoes all silently confirmed her story.
Being exhibited as a half girl in a conservative L. A. neighborhood is very different from dressing as a beautiful boy in accepting West Hollywood. No one was overtly rude, but there was a lot more sympathy for Jane being in such a demeaning situation than for any struggles I might face expressing my inner self. That was just what she was looking for – to play the role of the poor suffering sister of a confused and inconsiderate sibling. By the time we got home she was as satisfied and exhilarated as I was embarrassed and depressed.
Having tasted victory, her appetite increased. The next evening, I was told to wear a shear white blouse and pushup bra. When I balked, Jane flew into a rage – calling me a lying fag for going back on my word. Given the choice between temporary embarrassment and continuing hell, I chose the former. My cranberry bra showed through my sheer blouse, and it molded cleavage at my neckline. Again, parading me around the neighborhood generated attention and sympathy for Jane while it made me feel weak and impotent.
With my spirit broken, I saw little point in protesting when she told me to wear my new bras whenever I wasn’t at work – including to bed. After two months my chest had reshaped itself. My new shape remained even when I removed my bra to shower. When I wasn’t wearing a bra, my nipples rubbed against my shirt, causing painful swelling. It was a relief to put my bra back on when I got home. I started wearing camisoles to work to protect my nipples during the day.
One day when we closed at noon, Rene asked me up to his apartment for a talk.
“Are you transitioning, sweetie?”
“Transitioning?”
“Yes. You’ve stated wearing camis and your nipples are dimpling your shirt. Also, your shorts have gotten tighter across your hips and derriere.”
I told him that Jane had made up a story about me transitioning, and had me wearing bras at home to support her story. My bra cups were just molding my chest.
“May I see, sweetie?”
I lifted my shirt and camisole. Rene asked if he could touch, then gently pinched the area under my nipples. “Ouch!”
“How long have you been taking hormones, Jerri?”
“I haven’t been, Rene. Really.”
“You may not know it, but you have been, and for at least a couple of months – probably longer.”
“You think Jane’s been feeding me hormones?”
“Yes – probably from when she started cooking for you.”
I started crying. Not because I’d been given hormones, but because my hope of making Jane love me was based on another of her lies. She was probably laughing at me right now. Rene held me until I calmed down.
I looked in the mirror. My breasts weren’t real big or pointy, but my chest didn’t look like any boy’s chest I’d seen. Also, my aureolas were getting bigger – not huge yet, but definitely bigger than boys’. It had all happened so slowly, I hadn’t noticed the change from one day to the next, but once Rene pointed it out, it was obvious that I was growing breasts. I felt my breast where Rene had squeezed. I was firm and tender. “Milk glands, Jerry,” Rene said. My nipples were little cylinders maybe a ¼” in diameter. A little moisture had spread out over the tip – not even a drop, but enough to glisten in the light.
I started panicking and hyperventilating. I was feeling faint. Rene gave me a bag to breathe into. “Maybe you should take the rest of the day off.” I nodded.
“I better drive you. You might pass out on the bus.”
“Yeah, I’m not feeling very well.”
Rene drove me home. He offered to come in, but I wanted to talk to Jane alone.
A Mother’s Story
Part 4
The Queen Is dead. Long live the Queen!
When I stepped onto the porch, I saw a skateboard leaning against the entryway wall. I recognized it as belonging to John, a 14 year old who lived next door. We paid him to cut the grass. I wondered why he'd left it, but I was too angry to think about it. Mostly I was thinking what I was going to say to Jane.
Unlocking the door, I went in. Immediately I heard rhythmic squeaking and moans coming from Jane's room. Furious, I opened the door to see Jane bent over the bed with John behind her going at it like there was no tomorrow. Neither of them noticed me.
“Get the fuck out of my house, both of you!”
“Wha …?”
”Beat the shit out of the fag, John. Show him who's the man of the house.”
John pulled out of Jane, his huge hard, red cock bobbing at an obscene angle. Before I could react, he hit me between my ribs and stomach. I heard a distinct crack. Only then did I realize how much bigger than me he was. My adrenalin kicked in, allowing me to retreat a couple of steps. John lunged after me, but his pants were around his ankles, so he fell on his face. While he was untangling himself, I opened my purse, got my pepper spray and blasted him in the face. He screamed in agony – clawing at his eyes.
Meanwhile, Jane grabbed a wine bottle. She swung at my head, but I dodged and she hit my left shoulder, breaking my collar bone. She had the bottle raised again when I doused her with pepper spray as well.
With both of them writhing in pain, I ran out and hid on a porch across the street. I dialed 911 and waited. A couple of minutes later John came out, stumbling around looking for his skateboard – still blinded by the pepper spray. Just then a police car pulled up, quickly joined by another, and then a third. Finally, a fire truck with a paramedic arrived.
Unless your lung is punctured, there's not much to be done for a broken rib, but they set my collar bone. My mother picked me up from the hospital and took me back to her house. Three days later I felt good enough to go back to work.
John was tried for assault and battery and spent a year in juvenile detention. Jane was charged with sexually abusing a minor, battery and for dosing me with hormones. She spent two years in prison and is now a registered sex offender. She had our baby in jail. I named her Marie after my mother. Shortly after, we divorced. I got full custody.
I'd been married less than a year – not the two I signed up for, but Ralph Turner not only gave me the $100,000 he talked about, but offered to pay my university tuition. I told him I'd think about it.
Connie was furious about everything that happened and blamed it all on me. I had not kept up appearances – which she saw as my primary job. Instead, I had exposed Jane as a sex offender and liar. Further, the grand daughter she had hoped to brag on was being raised by a blatant sissy. When Ralph agreed to pay me despite my shortcomings, she divorced him and moved to Florida – where she could tell whatever story she liked.
Of course, you're wondering about how I coped as a mother. After Jane was arrested, I spent a long time reflecting on things I should have thought about before I got married – especially about how I was going to take care of my baby. You can't easily care for a baby and work full time, but then I did not have to. I had a house and $25,000 a year, so I did not have to work.
I had been serious about Marie being a breast-fed baby. Now there was no one to do it but me. Rene knew a doctor who dealt with gender issues, She was able to tailor a program that threaded the needle between growing breasts and still being able to father children. I nursed Marie until our next baby came.
Oh, you want to know about how I came to have another baby? Well, when Tina heard what happened, she came to help me until I was recovered. She had not found her relational niche because she was masculine, but not interested in girls sexually.
Given my hormone regime, my sex drive was low. Tina was still not sure where she belonged in the sexual spectrum. So nothing happened between us for a long time. Instead, she just stayed on in Jane's old room after I recovered and we became ever closer friends. She went to community college in the Fall, and I stayed home to mother Marie. In October, I had a talk with Ralph Turner, who had connections at U.S.C. He agreed to use the money he'd offered for my tuition to pay Tina's. She started at U.S.C. in the Spring.
After living together for a year, we became intimate. We married when Tina discovered she was pregnant. By this time, Ralph, who came every weekend to spend time with his grand daughter, had come to love Tina too – as a daughter. He is Bobby's godfather.
Fifteen years later, I am the full-time mother of four and Tina is up for a partnership in a West L. A. law firm. However bad the start, love wins in the end.
Andragyne
Judy was very excited. “You’ve got to come over after school and see! It’s so exciting!”
“What is?”
“You’ll see. Just come over, please!” she implored.
“OK, OK.”
So began my journey of 10,000 miles.
Judy was very excited. “You’ve got to come over after school and see! It’s so exciting!”
“What is?”
“You’ll see. Just come over, please!” she implored.
“OK, OK.” So began my journey of 10,000 miles.
When I got to Judy’s house, she led me to her room and showed me the newspaper. Not many 8th graders read the newspaper, but Judy does – every day. She handed me the paper and pointed to a small article on page 12. It was about Margret McFee, the widow of the Internet millionaire. She’d died and left $10,000,000 to Braintree Academy for merit scholarships for girls from under-funded schools.
“Isn’t that exciting?”
It took me a second, then I put two and two together. Braintree was the best high school in the state – well for girls, anyway – and now Judy, who was as bright as they come, might be able to go. “That’s great, Judy! Now you have a chance to go Braintree – a really great chance. I bet you’re the smartest girl in the county and Emerson sure is under-funded, so you’re sure to win a scholarship if you apply! I’m so happy for you.” I hugged her – my heart filled with joy for her. It would really change her life. Over 90% of Braintree girls got into Ivy League universities.
Tears welled in my eyes. Partly they were tears of joy for Judy, and partly, I realized, tears of sadness. Braintree was a boarding school on the other side of the state. I’d be loosing my best friend.
“It’s not just for me, George. You could go too.”
“Judy, who wouldn’t want to got to Braintree? But, it’s a girl’s school, and the scholarships are for girls.”
“You didn’t read the whole article. Read here, near the end.”
“Ms. McFee, long an advocate for gender equality, selected Braintree not only for its academic excellence, but for its leadership in gender equality. While it is not generally known, many of Braintree’s 1200 students are transgender, having been born male. The school declined to specify the number of transgender students currently enrolled.”
“I Googled it this morning. You don’t have to be a girl to apply for a scholarship! We can go together! Isn’t that exciting?”
I was in shock.
She continued, “We’re always trading between numbers one and two. If I can win a scholarship, so can you!”
“Judy, Judy, Judy! I don’t feel like a girl born in a boy’s body. I’d never qualify as transgendered. It would be a lie!”
“Come over here.” She took my hand and led me to the old computer on her desk. “I bookmarked it. Here. Read there,” she said pointing.
“Scholarships are open to genetic and transgender girls. Transgender girls are persons who, though born male, express themselves by dressing and acting as girls.”
“See?”
“See what?”
“You already act like a girl – me! We like the same things and except that you stand to pee, we do the same things. That’s why we’re such good friends – and frankly, it’s why Joe Valdez and his gang call you a sissy.”
I didn’t want to admit it, but, actually, my mom made me sit to pee at home – so as not to make a mess.
“Well, we may act the same, but I sure don’t dress like a girl!”
“That’s easily remedied. I can give you my old training bras and the panties I out grew when my hips got bigger – and a blouse and skirt or two.”
“You could, but I’m not a sissy. I won’t do it!”
“I never said you were a sissy! But, if you won’t apply, neither will I. I won’t go off and leave you. Remember when those feral dogs were chasing us and I sprained my ankle? You wouldn’t leave me – and I won’t leave you.”
This may all seem rather silly, but it was in deadly earnest. Ralph Waldo Emerson Elementary is in the worst school district in the state. Cantwell, the high school we’re bound for, has a dropout rate of almost 50% and college admission rate of under 10% – most of it to junior colleges. Also 2-3 students are shot each year. Judy and I have been thinking for years about how to go someplace else. Now Judy had her chance.
“Judy, you’ve got to apply! You can’t go to Cantwell.”
“I’m not applying unless you do.”
“I’m not dressing like a girl!”
“Why not? Sacrifices must be made.”
“You know why not – I’d be beaten to a pulp.”
“We’ll think of a way.”
I went home with a lot to think about and black plastic bag of Judy’s clothes.
When I got home I did my homework. Even though it was boring stuff I already knew, I did it because one third of our grade was based on homework. Next, I made dinner for mom and me – chili and beans with fried tortilla chips.
After mom and I exchanged greetings, she washed up as usual. I served her, then joined her and we said grace. “George, what’s the black bag in the living room?”
“It’s a present from Judy and something we need to talk about.” I told her the whole story about Ms. McFee, Braintree, the scholarship, and Judy’s attitude.
“I see.” She sat quietly, scooping up her chilli with tortilla chips. I said nothing, knowing she was thinking.
“Well, George, I know you’re a quiet boy who doesn’t care for sports, and you don’t have any male friends, just Judy. Still, I never thought you wanted to be a girl.”
“I don’t, mom.”
“Have you ever dressed in girl’s clothes?”
“Judy and I played dress up when her mother watched me a when I was 4 or 5, but that’s it.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
“It was fun. Girls’ clothes are more fun than boys’.”
“Well, I can’t deny that. How would you feel about wearing girl’s clothes and acting like a girl all the time?”
“I think I’d be scared. I mean I don’t want to be beaten up.”
“Is that all? You wouldn’t miss being a boy?”
“Other than the clothes and being scared about them, I don’t think it would be much different.”
“You think that now, but there would be all kinds of small differences – some good and some bad – and of course the big difference that not a lot of girls want to date a boy who wears dresses – though some boys might.”
“I’ve never dated a girl, so I don’t know what difference that would make.”
“You’re only 13, George. The older you get the more you’ll want to date girls – or boys … Do you like boys, dear?”
“Not like that – that I know of, but then I don’t know about girls much either – except that they’re interesting to look at.”
“Their bodies, or their clothes?”
“I don’t know, just them.”
“OK.”
“So, what did you tell Judy?”
“That I’d think about it.”
“So, what have you thought?”
“Well, I don’t want to lie, but I don’t have to. So that part’s OK. I want Judy to go to Braintree. It is a thousand times better than Cantwell – and a million times safer. It’s a once in a lifetime chance for her, and I don’t want to screw it up for her. It’d be a good school for me, too, but I’m not sure it’s worth living like a girl for four years.”
“It would be hard, but you’d have the rest of your life to get over it.”
“Mostly it comes down to me being scared shitless – pardon me mom …”
“You’re excused this time.”
“Mostly it comes down to me being scared versus what’s best for Judy. That’s how I see it. What do you think, mom?”
“Well, I’m sorry that Judy put you in this position, but I know why she did it, and I kind of agree with her. This is a once in a lifetime chance for you, too. I vote you face your fears. Still, it’s a huge decision and needs to simmer a while before you decide.
“Let’s see how you’d look as a girl. Go put on your bra and panties while I look at what Judy gave you.”
My bra and panties? I blushed and took a plain white bra and panty set from the bag to my room. Putting them on gave me an embarrassing tent, but some cold water returned me to normal.
“Well, don’t you look cute! Here, try on the sailor set.”
The blouse was white with blue trim. A matching scarf tied at the neck. The skirt was also blue, with six brass buttons in two rows on the front. It came to just above my knees. I remembered how cute Judy looked in it. Mom tied the scarf and loaned me a pair of ankle socks. My blue and white sneakers completed the ensemble.
She led me to the hall mirror. “Well?”
“It’s embarrassing, but I like how it looks more than what I usually wear.” I was even more embarrassed to like how the padded training bra gave me a bit of shape, but I didn’t mention it.
“Me too, George. Let me see what I can do with your hair.” After brushing and pinning forever, mom managed a barely passable hair do. “You’ll need to get it cut if you’re going to do this. Let’s try on your other skirt and blouse.”
The second set was a plain white blouse with a round collar and puffy sleeves. The skirt was a red, white and black plaid with pleats. It only came to mid thigh.
“Mom, every one will see my panties if I wear a skirt this short!”
“Nonsense! You look darling in it. Did you ever see Judy’s panties when she wore it?”
“I guess not.”
“It’s just a matter of learning to move like a girl. I’ll show you how to walk, sit and stand so that that no one sees your panties either.”
As I was practicing, we discussed what to do next. We decided that I should talk to Mrs. Brandeis, my English teacher.
Before I went to bed, I called Judy and told her all that happened.
After class Judy and I asked Mrs. Brandeis if we could talk to her some time.
“What about?”
“Our plans for high school, Mrs. Brandeis.”
“Oh. I’m glad you’re thinking about it. I don’t think Cantwell is right for you. I’d love to hear what you’re thinking, but I have a busy schedule today. I’m supervising lunch again. How about coming to my classroom after school?”
“We’ll miss bus,” we complained.
“What if I drove you home?”
“That would be wonderful! Wouldn’t it George?”
“Yes, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“No trouble at all for my two favorite students.”
Once the halls cleared, we climbed the stairs to room 204, where we had English. Mrs. Brandeis was grading a huge stack of papers. She looked up. “Hi, George, Judy! So, what are you thinking?”
Judy opened her backpack and took out a file folder with the newspaper article on Ms. McFee’s legacy, selected printouts from the Braintree website and other stuff, including articles on Cantwell. For five minutes she impressed the hell out of me. When she got to the part about me applying as a transgender girl, Mrs. Brandeis jaw literally dropped, and she looked at me. I nodded. Still, she didn’t say anything until Judy finished.
“Judy, I’ve always thought you were a very remarkable girl, but the presentation you just made was as good as any I heard when I worked in industry. Still, it’s hard to believe you convinced George to change gender to go to Braintree with you.”
“I told him I wouldn’t apply if he didn’t. I won’t leave him behind.”
“I see. And, George, how do you feel about this?”
“I want Judy to go to Braintree, and it’s the best school I could have a chance to go to, but the idea is very scary. Still, I can’t let my fear stand in the way.”
“Have you discussed this with your mother?”
“Yes.”
“And her reaction?”
“She had me try on some outfits Judy gave me. Then she said we should talk to you.”
“Wow!” Mrs. Braindeis sat silently, thinking. “Well, sadly, Judy’s plan makes perfect sense. Cantwell is no place for either of you, and George, you could resume your male identity after you graduate from Braintree if you wanted to. Still, this is not something to rush into.”
“Oh, but, Mrs Brandeis, it is,” said Judy.
“Why?”
“Because George needs to establish his transgender identity as soon as possible.”
“Yes, I can see that. So, what do you want from me?”
“Well, advice, support and letters of recommendation when the time comes,” said Judy.
My concern was more immediate. “And a way to prevent me from being beaten to a pulp!”
“Well, I do have an idea for that. I’ll talk to Principal Kowalski, and let you know if I can pull it off for you. Let me lock up, then I’ll drive you home.”
Judy got dropped off first. When we got to my house, Mrs. Brandeis talked to me a while about the implications of becoming a girl, then asked if she could talk to my mom on the phone. I gave her mom’s cell.
Once home, I changed out of my school clothes. I don’t have a lot of clothes, so mom insists that I keep my school things nice. When I opened my closet, my skirts and blouses yelled out at me. I thought how good I looked in my sailor outfit, and was tempted to put it on, but thought it might be “school clothes” next week, so I should keep it nice too. I thought about wearing a bra and panty set – to get used to them – so I took a pink set out of my drawer, but I didn’t want mom to think I wanted to be a girl, so I put them back. If things kept going the way they were I’d be wearing them soon enough anyway.
I cooked mac and cheese, jazzing it up with frozen peas and canned tuna. Mom had a frilly apron in the cupboard that called to me, but I was still a boy.
When mom got home, I told her about our conversation with Mrs. Brandeis, and that she might be calling mom.
After I finished my homework, mom suggested that I put on my plaid skirt and practice moving like a girl. While I was changing, Mrs. Brandeis called and mom closed the kitchen door to talk to her privately. So, I was alone in a mini skirt in the living room worried that someone might come to the door and see me – though they hardly ever did. Then I thought how everyone might be seeing me like this soon and got so nervous I almost threw up. By the time mom finished on the phone I was a mess.
“I had a good convers … Oh, dear, what’s wrong, George? You’re as white as a sheet!”
“I’m worried someone will see me like this! I feel like I might throw up.”
Mom hugged me. “Calm down, George. Come sit in the kitchen. Put your head down between your knees and I’ll make you a cup of tea.”
I started feeling marginally better.
“George, no one but me has seen you in a skirt yet. You can call this whole thing off, and no one would blame you.”
“Thanks, mom … but, I have to do it for Judy … and for me too … You know, I read that Admiral Nelson used to be seasick for days at the beginning of each voyage, but he got over it and was a great sailor. I guess if I throw up a few times it would won’t be much different.”
“That’s my brave girl!” mom said hugging me.
“George and Judy, stay for a second. I talked to Mr. Kowalski, and we have a plan to stop George from being ‘beaten to a pulp.’ If you still want to go ahead, George, you need to go and see him. Well?”
“I’m going ahead.”
“OK. Here’s a hall pass. Judy, you’d better get to your next class.”
I felt a bit lost without Judy to explain everything and started getting nauseous as I walked to the office. Mr. Kowalski had been a third-string line backer for the Bears and a coach before becoming a principal, so all the kids were intimidated by him. I suppose that’s why he was the principal. Anyway, I started imaging how he’d feel about a sissy who wanted to wear skirts to school. The more I imagined, the more scared I got. I was afraid I’d wet myself. I stopped at the boys’ room to relieve myself. That helped, but it also made me more scared, because I imagined what it’d be like to go into the boys’ room in a skirt and blouse. Maybe I could wear a diaper. Then the idea of some bully pulling up my skirt and finding a diaper made me even more nauseous.
By the time I got to the office, I was so green, the secretary sent me to the nurse. The nurse had me sit with my head down and then breathe into a paper bag. After 15 minutes I was ready to see Mr. Kowalski. When I walked into is office, he smiled at me, shook my hand and offered me a chair.
“Mrs. Brandeis had a long conversation with me and told me the plan Judy Myers and you cooked up. It seemed crazy at first, but I understand now. I can’t think of anything that would take more guts, George! When I went to Cantwell, my way out was football, and I did everything I could to take it. So, I understand and am proud to have a student like you in my school!”
Wow, I thought. This isn’t what I expected. I relaxed, and tears filled my eyes. I was so embarrassed! He’d just said how brave I was, and now I was crying.
“It’s alright George. Really. Now, I understand you’re worried about some of the boys beating you to a pulp if you come to school in a skirt?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, that’s not going to happen in my school – or out of it for that matter. Wear your skirt and whatever Monday. I’ll have Mrs. Brandeis pick you up at 7:30 and escort you so no one sees you before I address the students. You’ll come directly to my office and I’ll introduce the new you. I guarantee no one will lay a finger on you once I finish. OK?”
“OK, Mr. Kowalski. Thank you, sir.” My fate was sealed.
Judy and I sat alone at lunch and I told her all that happened. She was so happy she gave me a big kiss – right on the lips! Luckily, no one saw, or at least said anything.
Saturday morning, mom got me up early and showed me how to shave my legs. There wasn’t a lot of hair on them, but lately my peach fuzz had gotten longer. I also shaved my underarms. When I was done, she had me put on my mini skirt and took me to the salon.
“Mom, I don’t know if I’m ready to go out in a skirt.”
“Well, if you don’t want to do this, you need to tell me. Otherwise, we need to get you ready for Monday. So?”
“OK, I’ll do it.” I felt nervous, but not as bad as I had walking to Mr. Kowalski’s office.
When we got to the salon, mom told the lady I was a Tomboy who hated spending time fussing with my hair and asked her to recommend some styles. She showed us a book, and I picked a pixie cut. It looked most like a boy’s style and would be easy to care for.
Next, we drove to the mall where I got my ears pierced. Mom bought me small pearl studs like Judy wore. She said I needed a good dress for church. God, I hadn’t thought of going to Mass in a skirt. What would Father Gordon think? We went to the Juniors department at Macy’s and a lady came to wait on us.
“My daughter’s growing up, and needs an adult dress for church. What’s on sale?”
“Our sale dresses are over here,” she said leading us to a section.
“Could you measure my daughter? What size does she wear?”
“I she’s a small. Call me if you need any help.”
Mother and I browsed the racks. Unlike boys’ clothes, there were hundreds of dresses to choose from. No wonder it took girls hours to shop. At first I was very embarrassed looking at dresses, but after mom held a few against me, and no one stared, I discovered that I liked some more than others – and some very much. We picked out three I liked and went to the dressing room to try them. The one I most liked was what the lady called “a grommet-detail fit and flare dress” in a color called cobalt – which is a kind of blue. One problem was the top was loose. My little training bra just didn’t fill it out. Mom talked to the lady. Soon I was wearing a plain white A-cup bra with pads called falsies.
Wearing the dress made me feel happy and I told mom so. It cost more than she planned on paying, but she bought it for me anyway since I liked it so much. “Every girl should have one dress she really likes.”
At Payless we got a pair of black strappy sandals with 2” heels. I haven’t mentioned it, but I am not big – only 4’ 11” and 89 pounds – Judy is like 5’ 2”. Anyway, I liked how the heels made me taller. Maybe more boys would wear them if they knew. I also got some floral print sneakers to wear to school. They had so many colors they would go with most anything I wore.
Our final stop was a consignment shop where we got three skirts, two pair of shorts and five tops for $40. When we got home I spent an hour deciding which skirt and top combinations I liked best. They all looked better when I wore my new A-cup bra. Mom came in a couple of times to comment on what I was wearing.
“Mom, I’m too old to wear a training bra. All the other girls have regular bras.”
“I agree dear, we’ll get you some more tomorrow. … There’s one more thing, George. You need a feminine name. I almost called you ‘George’ when you were trying dresses at Macy’s. Have you thought of one?”
“Not really.”
“Well, give it some thought. Maybe Judy has an idea.”
“Mommy, you should name me,” I said hopefully.
“Well, if you were a girl I was going to call you Melissa after my aunt. Do, you like that name, dear?”
“I love it, mommy.”
Sunday I went to Mass in my new dress. Father Gordon didn’t recognize me when he gave me communion. Several of mom’s friends did and surrounded us in the parking lot after Mass.
“Sandra, why is George wearing that dress?” asked Mrs. Perry, who wasn’t really a friend, just a horrible busy body.
“This is Melissa, and she’s wearing this dress because it’s the one she liked best at Macy’s. I think it looks great on her, don’t you? … Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Well, I never …”
“Then it is about time, because you've been sticking your pointy nose in where it doesn't belong far too long!”
“Well, I …” When she couldn’t think of anything more to say, she stormed off in a huff, followed by her toady, Mrs. Wilkins.
Standing by patiently was Mrs. Sanchez, who was in St. Vincent de Paul with mom, and her daughter, Rosalind, who is in my grade. “I don’t care why Melissa is wearing her dress,” said Mrs. Sanchez. “I yus come over to say how beautiful the two of you look this morning.”
“Thank you, Delores.”
“George, I mean Melissa, I think you look great! I love that dress and the color is perfect for you. Just ignore those bi…, I mean ladies.”
“Thanks, Roz.” Tears welled up in my eyes. Roz hugged me.
“Would you like to join us for breakfast, Delores?”
“We would, but we can’t. We have a long drive to see my Tia Maria. She’s not doing well.”
“I remember. Melissa and I will pray for her.”
“Yes, we will,” I seconded.
When they left, mom apologized for exposing me to Mrs. Perry and Mrs. Wilkins.
“Mom, if I’m going to be wearing dresses, I have to expect to upset some people. I liked how you said she had a pointy nose.”
“It wasn’t very charitable of me.”
“Maybe not, but she deserved it.”
“Are you up for breakfast at Denny’s?”
“Yeah, I want to show off the dress my mom got me.” I was in a defiant mood.
Our breakfast was uneventful. The waitress said how nice we both looked and no one indicated they thought I was a boy. In fact, a boy I didn’t know, who looked about 14, kept ogling me. When I smiled at him, he blushed and turned back to look at his family. That never happened when I was a boy.
We stopped at Target on the way home and mom helped me pick out two more A-cup bras. One was beige with a little bow in the center, but the other was a red tee shirt bra. Mom was surprised that I picked it out. She also got me a package of panties, ankle socks, a small purse, a make-up book and some inexpensive makeup to experiment with. Being a girl is a lot more expensive than being a boy.
When we got home, mom suggested that I change into a tee and shorts and experiment with my makeup until lunch. One of my old white tees went well with a pair of red shorts from the consignment shop. I wore my red bra under it. It was neat the way it showed through.
Makeup was a whole new world for me, but I followed the book. I started with nail polish. I made a mess the first time. So, I took it off. The second time I did a pretty good job. Strangely, pink nails made me feel more like a sissy than all the clothes I’d worn.
I paused for a while and tried to understand my sissy feeling, but couldn’t. I only knew that part of me liked it and part of me hated it. An hour had gone by, so I started on my face. I put on lipstick, but then looked at the book, and found out that’s not how you’re supposed to do it. So, I took my lipstick off and started over with concealer and foundation. My face looked ever so much better than it had as a boy. I added a bit of color to my cheeks and lipstick. I was pretty!
I stopped there, as the chapter on eye make up was long and complicated. Besides, I liked how I looked so far. Mom was making toasted cheese sandwiches when she turned and saw me. “Oh, my! … I shouldn’t be surprised, but you’re lovely, Melissa. That’s a perfect look for school tomorrow. Why don’t you call Judy after lunch and ask her over so she can see how great you look?”
“I like your pixie cut, Mel, but I wish you waited. I had some ideas I wanted to try on your old hair.”
“Well, we’ve got four years, so you can try other styles when my hair grows out.”
“I suppose so. I do like your pearls. We look like sisters.” She pulled me to a mirror so I could see how our earrings matched.
“We do, a bit. I’m glad,” I said without a lot of enthusiasm.
“What’s wrong Mel? Don’t you like how you look? I think you look wicked!”
“I do like how I look – maybe that’s the problem. I feel like a sissy,” I said looking at my pink nails in the mirror as I turned my studs. My red bra was clearly visible under my tee.
“Is that bad?”
“Well, all this time I’ve been trying not to be a sissy. Now I think maybe I’ve been a sissy all along. I mean would a real boy like being pretty?”
“Well, if he didn’t he’d be pretty stupid, and you’re not stupid, Mel.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean what’s wrong with being pretty – whether you’re a boy or a girl? It makes people happy to look at you. Isn’t that a good thing? … And, why shouldn’t you be one of the people who’re happy that you’re pretty? Only bullies would get mad at someone for being pretty. Besides, if you’re going to do it no matter, you might as well be pretty and enjoy it.”
“I suppose so. I’ll have to think about it.”
“I expect you to! … Now lets see your new clothes. I want a fashion show! Let’s see your dress.”
I got it out of the closet.
“Can I try it on?”
“I don’t see why not. Here, I got these heels to go with it.”
Without the slightest hesitation, Judy stripped down to her bra and panties. I was wearing a bra and panties myself, but I reacted to seeing her strip in a very ungirlish way. Luckily, I’d tucked myself back, and nothing showed. Still, I was blushing furiously.
“Don’t be such a prude. We’re sisters – and besides, you’ll see a lot more when we’re at Braintree. I’m sure.”
Anyway, it didn't last long. It took her only a few seconds to get into the dress. I zipped it up the back as she stepped into my strappy sandals. She looked in the mirror – turning this way and that.
“You have great taste in dresses, Mel. Can I borrow it sometime?”
I’d never lent clothes to anyone, but I knew girls did. “I guess so.”
She kissed me on the cheek. “Unzip me and let’s see how you look in it.”
I started taking off my shorts and tee.
“Bra too! That bra won’t work with this dress.”
For some funny reason, I was reluctant to take off my bra and expose my chest to Judy. I realized it was because I was ashamed of not having real breasts. Of course, she knew that, but still it seemed to matter that she'd see I was wearing falsies. I turned my back to her as I changed bras.
“You’re a very shy girl, Mel, but I love you anyway.”
I didn’t know what to say. Somehow my flat chest was something to be ashamed of – like a birth defect.
Anyway, once I changed my bra, I didn’t mind turning around. I saw Judy looking at my flat crotch. I blushed. “I tucked myself back. It didn’t look right to have a bulge.”
“No, I guess it wouldn’t. Here, step into your dress.” She helped me into it and zipped it for me as I had for her. “It looks even better on you than it does on me. The color goes with your eyes and makes them look deeper blue.”
“Thanks,” I smiled.
We spent most of an hour trying on various combinations and discussing what worked best together. I discovered that my other shorts were hot pants. Judy thought I looked really sexy in them, heels and a tee rolled up to expose my belly button. I didn’t think my mom would want me dressing like that – at least not in public.
After going through my clothes, Judy wanted to try my makeup – on both of us. Her mom only let her have pink lipstick. We used the book and made up each other’s eyes. Some of the looks worked, but many made us laugh. Mom came in and looked at us and laughed too. It was one of the best times I ever had with Judy.
Just before Judy went home we discussed what I should wear my first day as a girl at school. I wanted to wear my cobalt dress and my heels, but mom said it would look like I was “putting on airs.” Judy suggested the plaid skirt and white blouse she’d given me. We all agreed it would be best, even thought I was still shy about wearing such a short skirt.
Monday morning I woke up and realized it was the day I’d start dressing like a girl at school. I was so scared I literally threw up. Mom managed to get a piece of dry toast into me, but that was all.
“You’re absolutely white! Are you sure you want to go?”
“Yes. I have to … for Judy … and me. If I don’t go today, I’ll just toss my cookies again tomorrow.”
Mom gave me some OJ to sip slowly.
“I’ll do your make up,” she said, starting to apply concealer. “You need some color, or everyone will think you’re dying.”
“I am.”
“No, you’re not. Remember Mr. Kowalski said everything would be OK. You trust him don’t you?”
“Yeah, I guess,” I said with marginally more energy – maybe from the OJ.
Mom continued with foundation and blush as I sipped my last meal. “OK, put on your lipstick.”
I opened my compact and saw how pretty I was. “Thanks mom.” I broke a faint smile.
Just then Mrs. Brandeis knocked to take me to school.
“Oh my God! You’re beautiful, George …”
“It’s Melissa,” interjected mom.
“Melissa! And a big girl too,” she said glancing at my bra.
I was shaking a little.
She gave me a hug and whispered in my ear, “It will all me fine – you’ll see. The fix is in.”
I wasn’t sure what “the fix” was, but I knew she was trying to encourage me. “Thanks, Mrs. Brandeis.”
In the car she told me that from now on I’d be using the girls’ restrooms at school, but shouldn’t be a problem since the stalls are private. Other than that, she made small talk to take my mind off of what lay ahead. I was lost in my own thoughts – wondering if I was making the most horrible mistake of my life. The next thing I knew, I was sitting alone in Mr. Kowalski’s office.
After a few minutes, he walked it, carrying a large tree branch like a club. “Melissa, what a pretty girl you are,” he said, smiling warmly. “Do you have any questions?”
“Probably, but I can’t think right now.”
“I understand. It’ll be OK. You can see me anytime you need to.” He stood and walked over to my chair. “Here, take my hand.”
We went to the auditorium’s stage entrance. As he opened the door, the murmur of quiet voices made it clear that there was an assembly. He led me to a chair next to the podium. Everyone was staring at me – even though other people were sitting in chairs next to mine. One was a policewoman.
Mr. Kowalski put the branch across the podium. “We are here today to welcome a new student, Melissa Antonelli,” he said, gesturing to me. “Many of you may have known her as George Antonelli, but, as you can see, she is really a very pretty girl. The reason I’m talking to you is that I know some of you are bullies. Bullies are sniveling cowards who pick on people weaker than themselves. Bullying makes me very angry, and when I am angry, I am inclined to break things.” He picked up his branch, and broke it over his knee, with a loud crack that sent splinters flying. There was a shocked silence in the hall. No one was looking at me anymore. “Now, I hope none of you will give me occasion to become angry by bulling Miss Antonelli or her friends. However, in case you do, there will be further consequences. To explain them, I have invited Lieutenant Justine Lane of the hate crimes squad. Lieutenant Lane …”
Lieutenant Lane talked for about 15 minutes explaining what hate crimes were, what the law said, and what had happened to some of the delinquents she had arrested for attacking homosexual and transgendered people. When she was done Mr. Kowalski dismissed the assembly and sent them to their classrooms to discuss what they’d heard.
Finally, he took me by the hand and escorted me to Mrs. Brandeis’s English class. No one bothered me after that. Some boys gave me funny looks in the hall, but no insults came my way.
As usual, I sat with Judy for lunch. Roz came over and invited us to eat with her friends. They were all very nice and welcomed me into their group. I answered their polite questions as best I could. Mostly they wanted to know why I liked skirts, because most of them preferred pants. I told them skirts were a prettier, but I worried about boys seeing my panties. That made them giggle. I also said how shy boys seemed now that I was in skirts and told them about the boy at Denny’s.
After lunch, we all went to the girls’ room. It was my first time. Two things surprised me. First, the line to use the facilities. Second the conversation. This is where the girls talked about boys. Some of the conversation was so frank, I blushed. Clearly, they no longer considered me a boy.
While I was waiting in line Roz asked to look in my purse. She put two tampons in it.
“What’re they for?” I whispered.
“Some one may ask to you for one. You need to have a spare to give her.”
After lunch I used to have wood shop, but Mr. Kowalski suggested that I go to home ec and talk to Mrs. O’Malley about transferring. They were just finishing their first unit, cooking. I was able to convince her to let me take the test on Friday. If I passed, she’d let me transfer.
When I got home I changed into boy clothes, but left on my bra and panties, as I didn’t look like a boy in my pixie cut. I told mom everything that happened at school, and that I was making friends as a girl.
“Maybe being a girl will be good for you. I mean you need more friends.”
“Yeah, maybe. I mean yes, I like having more friends.”
Life in middle school is not very exciting, even if you are a boy wearing skirts.
The next Friday I did some cooking at lunchtime for Mrs. O’Malley. She made a few suggestions for improvement, but said I know how to cook better than most girls in her class. The next unit was childcare. A lot of the girls were interested in that so they’d have a better chance of getting baby-sitting jobs. I thought it was good for me because even fathers should know how to take temperatures and change diapers.
With more friends, I got invited more places after school. Girls have a lot of get-togethers that aren’t really parties, but are fun just the same. I had to stay up later to finish my chores and homework. I decided to be more selective in accepting invitations so I’d have time to do everything. Mostly my reading suffered a little.
One Saturday Judy invited me to see the new Jane Austin movie. As usual, we stopped at the drug store to get candy before we went. I decided purses were much nicer for candy than pockets – the chocolate didn’t melt. Anyway, when we were in line to buy tickets, two 9th grade boys, Ron and John, asked us what we were going to see. We told them. They were going to see X-men, but they’d like to see something with us. Judy seemed to know Ron, and wanted to join them, but not for X-men. Finally, we settled on a comedy that started a little later.
Since we had to wait in the lobby for the theater to open, the boys went to buy us sodas. When they were gone, I said, “Dating boys isn’t a part of acting like a girl that I’m interested in.”
“Don’t worry, Mel, they’re harmless. I really want to get to know Ron better. Would you please be nice and go along?”
“Alright, but John better not kiss me or anything.”
“He wouldn’t – did you see how shy he was?”
“Yeah, I guess so. OK. I hope I don’t regret this.”
When they got back with our sodas, Ron asked Judy if she wanted to look at the posters of coming attractions. I figured they wanted to talk alone. I was left with John.
“John, you seem familiar, did you go to Emerson last year?”
“No, Mel, but you did see me before. You smiled at me in Denny’s a couple of weeks ago. If you hadn’t, I would have said no to Ron when he wanted us to talk to you two.”
“Oh,” I said blushing.
“I hope you won’t get mad, but I saw you even before that – at Denny’s. I thought you looked cute even then, but you were a boy.”
Oh! I …” I was starting to panic.
“Please don’t be upset. I’ve never said this to anyone before – but I have a secret too – I like boys.”
“Oh.” I said. No one had ever come out to me before. “I don’t know who I like yet, John. I mean, just because I wear skirts doesn’t mean I like boys.”
“I know Mel. I’m not expecting anything. I just like you – in pants or in a skirt – it doesn’t matter to me.”
I wanted to be mad, but John was baring his soul, and I couldn’t be.
“So, what do you want – from me – John?”
“Just to spend time with you, if you’ll let me. I mean I don’t even know what I want. You’re just so pretty.” He leaned over and kissed my cheek.
It was very sweet, even if it was not what I was hoping for.
“Enough of that, John!” I reproached gently.
“Sorry.”
“It was very sweet of you, but I’m not ready to be kissed by boys yet.”
“OK. I won’t kiss you again without asking.”
“OK.”
Just then Ron and Judy wondered back.
“The theater just opened. Why don’t you two get us some good seats while Mel and I visit the ladies’ room.”
“Sounds good.”
“Well, someone is making good progress. I saw that kiss.”
“It’s complicated. He has a crush on me – and he knows I’m a boy.”
“How?”
“He saw me in Denny’s when I was a boy, and then when I was a girl. He thought I looked cute both ways.”
“I’m sure you were. So, is he gay?”
“Yes, but he’s not out to anyone but me.”
“I won’t let on. … So, how was the kiss?”
“It was just on the cheek. Still, it was very sweet. He seems really nice.”
“So, are you going to encourage him?”
“Well, I don’t want him to feel rejected, but I not looking for a boyfriend.”
“Well, let me know what happens.”
“So, is Ron nice?”
“So far, but he hasn’t kissed me yet – so you’re the fast worker.”
I blushed.
In the theater, it was John, me, Judy and Ron next to her. It was fun. John put his arm around my shoulders and by the end of the movie I was leaning against him a bit. There was no more kissing. He asked me for my phone number, and I gave it to him.
When I told mom, she asked, “Why did you give him your number?”
“Because I like him – not because he’s a boy.”
“We’ll see, dear.”
John became a close friend. I knew he was gay, and he knew I wasn’t interested in making out with him. Still, as time went on, I let him be affectionate if he behaved – putting his arm around me or kissing me on the cheek. We became close enough that I told him why I started wearing dresses, and even that I preferred dressing like a girl. I asked if he’d like to try my clothes, but he wasn’t interested.
Mom kept an eye on us, but treated John well, and didn’t interfere. Most people thought John was my boyfriend. He was certainly the closest thing I had to one.
Having a 9th grader as a boyfriend increased my social status. I didn’t tell the other girls John knew I was a boy, lest I out him. When asked, I’d say, “He’s happy the way things are – and its not like I’m going to marry him.” One girl, whose boyfriend was a sweet, pimply, 8th grader, kept telling me it wasn’t right. She wore a C-cup, even though I knew she was barely an A. Looking at her chest, I just said, “We all have our little secrets, don’t we, Linda?” After that she wasn’t so moralistic.
Meanwhile, Judy was letting Ron be a little more adventurous. She was letting him do things I wouldn’t let John do, but then she’s a real girl and I’m not. It all came to a head one Thursday when Ron went to her house before her mom got home to make out. After he’d gone as far as she ever let him, he wanted to put his hand in her panties, and wouldn’t take no for an answer. They had a physical fight and Judy bit him on the arm. (John saw the bite the next day, and said it drew blood.) Ron left. That was the end of the two of them. John and Ron also stopped talking.
I spent a lot of time consoling Judy the next few days. Judy thought she could trust John and loved him. So what he did really hurt her. I didn’t know what to say. So, I suggested she talk to her mother. She was too embarrassed. Finally, I said. “Why not talk to my mother? She understands a lot more stuff than I do”
If Judy hadn't been hurting so much, I don’t think she’d have agreed, but she did. We walked over to my house and I left the two of them alone. Later, Judy told me what mom said.
Judy was embarrassed, but told mom that she had let Ron take her bra off and kiss her breasts and also French kiss her. She thought mom would yell at her, but she didn’t.
“Judy, I’m proud of you for standing up for yourself, and not letting yourself be forced into going farther than you felt comfortable with.
“All boys and girls need to explore and find out about their bodies and about how other people respond. It’s part of growing up. So, you shouldn’t be embarrassed. There’s nothing wrong in letting boy, or girl, you like kiss you or touch your breasts. Your mother and I both did when we were growing up. It’s part of becoming a woman.
“Still, you need to keep safe. It isn’t safe to be with someone, like Ron, who is bigger and stronger than you, and more sexually mature, when no one’s around to protect you. So, you shouldn’t have let him in when your mother wasn’t home to protect you – but you know that now.”
“Well, I couldn’t do it with my mom in the house, could I?”
“Why not?”
“Well she wouldn’t let me … I mean she wouldn’t let me and a boy … you know try things.”
“I’m sure she doesn’t want you having sex at your age, but she was 13 once, and knows how it feels. Maybe you could talk to her. When John visits Mel, I let them have some privacy, but I’m still in the house. Maybe your mom would give you and your boyfriend some space if you talked to her.”
“You think so?”
“Yes. Are you embarrassed to talk to her? I could talk to her for you, but it would be better if you did it.”
“Oh, please don’t tell her about this!”
“I wouldn’t unless you said it was OK.”
“Oh, thank you!”
“So, are you scared of boys now?”
“A little, but mostly, I …”
“What?”
“Well, I thought Ron was nice and I could trust him. Now I … I don’t even trust myself to know if a boy’s going to be nice.”
“Well, part of that is because you’re only 13 and don’t have a lot of experience with boys – but believe me a lot of grown women have a hard time judging men. That is why I’m divorced … and your mom too. We thought the guys we married would be a lot nicer than they turned out to be.”
“So, you can’t trust boys?”
“I didn’t mean that – there are selfish ass … selfish ones and nice ones – like John. He never pushes Mel.”
“But he’s gay!”
“I don’t think that has anything to do with it. He’s just a nice boy.”
“Oh.”
“So, you have to follow your feelings, but keep your eyes open – and, at your age, especially, keep safe.
“Feel better?”
“Yes. Thank you Mrs. Antonelli. I like talking to you. You don’t treat me like a child.”
“I’m glad I helped, Judy.”
Judy didn’t talk to her mom, but decided not to get mixed up with boys until she was a bit older.
After Judy’s experience with Ron, I realized what a gem John was. I still was not attracted to him sexually, but I really liked being with him because he always made me feel special. If I had a bad day, spending time with him made me feel better. His arm around me made me feel warm and loved. I felt he deserved more than I had given him. So, I invited him over for dinner one evening. I cooked hot dogs and baked beans, home made potato salad, and an apple pie I made myself. When he arrived, I kissed him on the lips and told him how much I liked him and the way he treated me.
After dinner, mom left us alone in the kitchen. Our dish washing was interrupted with a lot of kissing, and toward the end we were French kissing and John was very excited. Even my panties were damp. I could tell John wanted to go further, but he was a gentleman, and didn’t.
That night, as I thought about what happened, I cried. I wasn’t a girl, and I wasn’t the kind of boy John deserved. It wasn’t fair to him to lead him on and then frustrate him. The next morning, I talked to mom about it. I told her how much I liked John, but that I did not want to be with him like a girl, or like a boy with another boy. Mom said how much she liked John and wished, for his sake, things were different. Still, she agreed that dating me was not fair to him.
Later, when John came over, I took his hands and kissed him gently.
“John, you know I love you and being with you.”
It was the first time I’d said “love” to him, so his eyes brightened. Mine were filling with tears.
“The problem is I don’t love you the way you deserve to be loved.”
“But, last night …”
“Last night was what made me realize it. You deserve someone who would have wanted to go further. … I did … but not for the reason I should have. I wanted you to be happy, but if I’d done … more. It would have made you happy for a while, but I would have hated myself latter … and that would have made us both unhappy.”
“But, the way you kissed me …”
“You deserved to be kissed like that … I wanted you to know how much you deserved to be kissed like that … because I love you … but as a friend, not as a lover.”
“But, you seemed to be excited to …”
“I was, but it didn’t feel right … I was imagining that you were a big strong girl taking me in her arms.”
“Oh …”
“So, we should not see each other for a while. You need to find someone else to love – a boy that deserves you and wants to give you the kind of love you deserve.”
“I’m not interested in anyone but you Mel …”
“I know …” Tears were streaming down my cheeks. “You better go. I’ll always be your friend.”
John left. I went to my room and sobbed until I fell asleep. Mom was right, wearing skirts had consequences I never dreamed of.
The rest of eighth grade streamed by. Most of our teachers had us doing independent study, and Mrs. O’Malley helped me make two dresses with patterns and fabrics I bought at the fabric store.
In February Judy and I applied to Braintree for scholarships. We both scored in the 99th percentile on the state standardized test, even though we took it early. Mrs. Brandeis and two other teachers wrote us excellent recommendation letters. In April, we got called out of class to be interviewed Ms. Cora Jackson, a recruiter from Braintree. She asked us a wide range of questions. Judy did better on current events and I did better on science, but she told us both were definitely Braintree material.
I happened to be wearing one of the dresses I’d made. She complemented me on it. I explained I made it myself, and pointed out details I’d added. She’d had some doubts about me being a girl, but when she saw me walking in, they’d all evaporated. She said there was no doubt that I was a confident young lady who would fit in perfectly.
At the beginning of May, we received letters saying we were accepted, and had won full scholarships. Judy was to report September first, but I was to report the previous week for “special orientation.”
In early May, Father Gordon figured out that the new girl coming to Mass with my mom was me, George Antonelli. He reamed my mother out for encouraging her son to be homosexual, threw her out of St. Vincent de Paul, and me out of confirmation class. Mrs. Linden, the president of St. Vincent, came to our house to apologize and told us about a more understanding priest, Father Rodrigues, in an adjacent parish. As it turned out, I got confirmed before the kids in my parish because confirmation in there was early June.
Mom and I found a pattern for a flower girl dress. I made it with her help. So, I wore a gorgeous white dress and mom's pearl drop earrings and necklace to the ceremony. Father Rodrigues suggested I pick Francis as my confirmation name so the bishop wouldn't have heartburn. My confirmation certificate said “George Richard Francis Antonelli,” because George Richard is how I was baptized. That was fine with me, because I didn't plan to be a girl forever.
Once school let out, I tried to earn money babysitting, but after a couple of jobs, word spread that I wasn't really a girl. Most parents didn't want to hire me. I guess they thought I would turn their baby boys into sissies and do who knows what with their daughters. I had even less success trying to make money mowing lawns.
That was not my only problem. After graduation, Mr. Kowalski's threats no longer protected me from Joe Valdez and his gang, who tried to make my life as miserable as possible without running afoul of the law. It was hard to steer completely clear of them because whenever I needed to buy something, I had to go to the Quik Stop – one of the gang's favorite haunts. Mr. Pierce, the manager, didn't tolerate bullying inside, but what happened outside was beyond his control.
The gang regularly called me a fag and made obscene suggestions while exposing themselves. I thought that's what they were, because they wanted sex with a boy, while I had no interest in them. I tried to avoid them by taking different routes. One day I spotted them coming down the block, so I ducked into an alley to avoid them. That was a mistake because they came down both ends of the alley and trapped me. Two of them twisted my arm behind me and forced me to kneel. Gravel and broken glass cut into my knees. Joe stood in front of me and unzipped his fly. I screamed in pain, but it was hopeless because no one could see that was happening. Trash barrels and board fences blocked the view in all directions.
Just then an old man burst trough his alley gate yelling something I didn't understand. He was armed with a garden fork leveled at the boys. They broke and ran. I was on my knees sobbing. He took my hand and gently helped me up, escorting me into his house. His name was George Washington Johnson. He called the police. While we waited, he washed and bandaged my knees. As he worked, he recounted how he had bayoneted a man in Viet Nam, and hoped he'd never have to do it again. Still, he was ready to this time. I thanked him profusely, but didn't say I was boy.
When the police came, I told them who did it. Since Mr. Johnson hadn't seen their faces, he could not collaborate my identification. So, there wasn't enough evidence to charge them. When I got home, Judy suggested that I call Lieutenant Lane and tell her what happened. She came over and was very nice. Even though there wasn't enough evidence, she arrested the gang and held them over night. She hinted that she'd tell the 43s that they liked sex with boys if they ever bothered me again. They didn't, but then, I didn't go to the Quik Stop again.
I made an apple pie, and mom and I took it to Mr. Johnson to thank him. We sat and talked a while as he showed us his photo album. He had 4 children, but none of them lived close. I said I would write him when I got to Braintree and tell him how I was getting along.
I heard later that Joe Valdez succeeded in making a 7th grader do what he wanted me to do. The kid was the younger brother of one of the 43s. Joe was shot and barely survived.
Even though I didn't go to the Quik Stop anymore, I did have the courage to go to Judy's house. We spent a lot of time together. She liked the dresses I'd made and asked if Id make her a couple to take to Braintree in the fall. We looked at patterns on line and I sketched some changes to make them unique. Judy had babysitting money, so we took the bus to the fabric store, where we picked out fabrics and bought the base pattern. Mrs. Myers had an old Singer. So, after a couple of false starts and two weeks cutting, fitting and sewing, Judy had two new dresses. She said, “They look better than any I've seen in stores.” She was just being nice, but I was happy she liked them.
Roz also liked the dresses and got her mother to pay me $30.00 to make her one. Soon I was making simple dresses for little girls in the neighborhood. I managed to save $352.57 by the time I left for Braintree.
Mom thought of getting me breast forms for my birthday, but couldn't afford any worth buying. She got me a prepaid phone to take to Braintree and a salon appointment instead. At the salon, I got a style with super bouncy tousled curls the lady said would show off my earrings. (I forget to mention it, but I kind of fell in love with earrings, and had quite a collection.) Anyway, the large curls and casual look was easy to care for and the style fit my face. I looked like a girl even in what was left of my boys' clothes.
The salon also did my nails super smooth and shiny. The nail lady showed me how to use nail stickers. I got butterflies, flowers and feather patterns. They made my nails look so cute! And, I could change the patterns to fit my moods.
I saw John a few times, but it was not like before. A couple of weeks before I was to go to Braintree, he brought his new boyfriend, Sandy, over to introduce him. Sandy was in John's grade – a very shy and feminine redhead with long, wavy hair. I liked him – especially since he and John got along so well. I was so happy for John, I kissed them both. I sent John to the Quik Stop to get slushies and took Sandy to my room to show off my dresses. He spent a lot of time looking at them, but said he wasn't ready to try them – yet. I said he should, as John liked boys in dresses. Sandy blushed. He did try mascara and a natural shade of lipstick. John was very pleased when he came back with our slushies.
John had come out to his parents. His mom was pretty accepting, but his dad was quiet. Finally, his dad said “You're my son and I'll always love you,' and “I'm proud of the courage you showed in being who God made you.”
We talked until we finished our slushies, but John had promised to take Sandy to the movies, so they had to leave. As they were going, Sandy asked if he could come over by himself the next day. Of course, I said yes.
The next day Sandy came over, and I served him some iced tea.
“What did you want to do?”
He seemed tongue tied.
“Do you want to ask me something?”
“Ah … I liked it,” he said quietly.
“It?”
“Wearing make up. Mommy said I looked pretty.”
“Oh. Did you want to try it again?”
“No! … I mean yes, … but I'd like to talk first.”
“OK.”
“I mean, when I had it on, I felt … I mean it was exciting … but … I don't know how to say it. It made me feel less knotted up. Like I wasn't fighting myself. Is that how you feel wearing dresses?”
“Dresses and me is complicated. I mean, I like how they look and feel, but I don't think I was fighting myself before I started wearing them – or maybe I was – I was trying to act more like a boy than I felt.”
“I have been too! That's just it. Acting more like a boy than I felt! Wearing make up made me feel more like me.”
“I'm glad. Would you like to try my makeup again?”
“No. I'm going to buy my own.”
“OK. I have a makeup book my mom got me. I'm done with it. Would you like it?”
“Thanks, Mel!” he said enthusiastically.
“Yesterday, you said you weren't ready to try my dresses yet. Do you want to now?”
“May I? I mean just one – my mom expects me home soon. The sailor skirt is so cute, could I try it?”
“Sure, but to really get the full effect, you need the underwear as well.”
“Like panties and a bra?”
“What else!” I went to my dresser. “Here's a set my friend Judy gave me when I started. I wear larger bras now, so you can have it. You can change here or in the bathroom.”
“Would you mind if I put it on here? I'd feel more like were were girls together.”
“OK.”
Sandy was shy, but still changed in front of me. He had a slim, girlish body.
“I can't get the bra hooked.”
“Here, I'll do it. Next time you can hook it in front, then turn it around.”
“Oh.”
“Also you need to push your self back so you don't have a bump in front.” In truth, there wasn't much of a bump. “Look in the mirror.”
“I look like a girl, except for my hair.”
“I'll brush it for you.” I parted it I the middle, brushed her bangs forward, and used barrettes to hold it in place.
“This blouse goes with the skirt. … Now step into the skirt and tuck your blouse in … Here, I'll tie the scarf for you. … What do you think?”
“Oh, Mel!” Sandy started crying.
“What's wrong?”
“Nothing, nothing! Oh thank you!” She kissed me and hugged me.
I hugged her back.
“I wish I could wear this home.”
“It's not safe, dear, especially in this neighborhood … but you can wear the panties and training bra … your shirt is loose enough to hide it.”
“Oh may I, Mel?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Oh dear! Look at the time! Mommy will be upset.”
I helped Sandy out of my sailor set. She left in her boy clothes. Her training bra was only visible if you knew she had it on.
Sandy came over a number of times in the following weeks, sometimes with John, but often alone. We'd talk about clothes, how dreamy John was, and her mother's growing acceptance of her feminine self. She never wore a skirt over, but by August was regularly in girls' pants and blouses. We became good friends.
I got a letter at the beginning of August about traveling to Braintree. Freshmen were allowed one storage box, one suitcase, a carry-on bag, and a purse. No appliances other than a clock and/or radio were allowed. The rooms already had a small refrigerator and microwave. There was a list of recommended clothes and personal items. Parents were welcome for Thanksgiving weekend. Other than that, we wouldn't see them until Christmas break. My mom had to sign a consent form for my care.
There were two supplements: one for scholarship students, and one for transgendered students.
In addition to full tuition and room and board, scholarship students received school uniforms, full medical coverage, a tablet with a removable keyboard, and a weekly stipend for miscellaneous expenses.
Transgendered students were not to bring male clothing. We would be picked up by a school van August 24th for a week of special orientation. My pick up time was 11:00 AM. Lunch and dinner would be provided en route.
On the 24th I kissed my mother good bye before she left for work, and waited nervously for the van. The letter said to dress casually. I wore violet shorts and a lavender tank top as I wasn't sure if the van had AC. As 11:00 passed I got more nervous, but at 11:03. the van pulled up in front. A tall lady, who turned out to be Ms. Kelvin, the basketball coach, came to the door and helped me load my stuff into the van. She asked if I had forgotten my box. I didn't have one as all my stuff fit in my luggage.
Three other girls were already in the van were, one of whom was sprawled out taking a nap. Since the only empty seat was up front, I rode shotgun. Ms. Kelvin introduced us. Casey and Paula were in the middle seat, while the sleepyhead in the back was Pattie. Pattie was in denim shorts, a white sleeveless top and paisley sneakers. Casey and Paula both wore pencil skirts and strappy heels. The difference was that Casey had a red embroidered top while Paula had a cute print top with a crocheted yoke. They paid little attention to me, giggling about something on their phones.
I was the last pick up, so it didn't take long to get on the interstate and be out of town. I'd never been out of town before, so the scenery was fascinating. Of course I knew what farm animals looked like, but I'd never seen real ones. After a while we got into a more wooded area and there was a yellow diamond sign with a deer on it.
“Will we be able to see deer here, Ms. Kelvin?”
“Probably not dear, they mostly come out at dawn and dusk.”
“Have you ever seen one?”
“Yes, lots. You will too, they come on the Braintree grounds most evenings in the Fall and Spring. You'll be able to see them – and fawns too, in the Spring.”
“The pictures in the catalog are beautiful. Is Braintree really that lovely?”
“Most of the girls think so. Of course, at first you may be too homesick to enjoy it.”
“Are all the teachers as easy to talk to as you, Ms. Kelvin?”
“Well, not all of them. Still, most of the girls get on well enough.”
After that she started asking about me, and what I did over the summer. I didn't tell her everything. I said how babysitting didn't work out because a lot of parents didn't want “a boy in a dress” watching their children, but that I finally made some money sewing.
“May I see some of the things you sewed later? I have a hard time getting things that fit because I'm so tall and thin. If I like your work, I might ask you to sew something for me.”
“I don't mind showing you, but I think I won't have a lot of time for dressmaking with all the courses I'll be taking.”
“Of course, Mel. How thoughtless of me.”
About 12:30 we came to a small town with a little restaurant.
“I stopped here for dinner last night. The food was delicious – all home made.”
We all got out and I introduced myself to Pattie. She was quite tall, maybe 5' 10” or 11”, and masculine looking. Understandably, she was shy.
Casey and Paula continued to be standoffish, so I chatted with Pattie as we waited for a table.
“What's with them?” I asked.
“They were very unimpressed when they saw your house. They live in mansions,” she said in a husky voice.
“Oh?”
“Yes, I was the first one picked up – at 6:30 this morning. So, I saw where they lived.”
“And what kind of house do you live in?”
“A regular one. My grandmother is wealthy and went to Braintree, so she is paying for me to go. My parents are glad to get rid of me. I'm an embarrassment. I don't want to be a boy and I'm too big to be a girl.”
“I know some tall girls, Pattie.”
“That's nice of you to say, sweetie. Still, look at my face. It's not the least bit feminine.”
I did look at it – thinking of what I'd learned in my makeup book. “I think the problem is makeup. You're not very good at it.”
“No one ever taught me. Are you a make up artist?”
“Hardly! I just read about it and helped a boy I know. If you're willing, I could try to help you a bit.”
“I'm in no position to turn down help, Mel.”
Just then we were seated. There were a lot of things on the menu I'd never seen, so I tried cat fish and okra. Pattie had country fried steak and green beans with bacon. She let me have a taste. It was good. Casey and Paula turned up their noses at the menu and just had vegetable soup and a salad. Ms. Kelvin ate a double portion of meat loaf, mashed potatoes and collard greens.
I continued to chat with Pattie, while Ms. Kelvin tried to talk to Casey and Paula. They more or less ignored her. I was beginning to dislike them.
Pattie leaned over and said, “Don't be too hard on them. Their parents were happier to get rid of them than mine were to dump me. I could tell by how they said good bye.”
I began to realize just how lucky I was. I'd trade a mansion for my mom any day.
When we got back in the van, I asked Ms. Kelvin if she'd stop at the Walmart we'd seen so I could get some things. It wouldn't take more than 10 minutes. She agreed even though it meant going back a mile or two. There was nothing Casey or Paula would want in a Walmart so, they stayed in the van when Ms. Kelvin, Pattie and I went in.
I dragged Pattie to cosmetics and selected inexpensive makeup in tones matching his complexion. I wanted to pay for them, but Pattie wouldn't hear of it. While we were arguing, Ms. Kelvin paid the cashier.
Soon, we were on the road again. I sat in the back experimenting with Pattie's makeup. I found that a dab of mascara could create shadows giving her face feminine contours. When she saw the result in my compact mirror tears streaked her mascara.
It was almost 11:00 when a change in rhythm woke us. We'd turned off the expressway. A few miles down a country lane a stone and wrought iron gateway on our right proclaimed “Braintree Academy.” We turned in. The entry lighting was subdued, so we saw little before arriving at a colonial style brick building. Mrs. Robertson, a matronly woman, came out to greet us.
“You must all be tired. Just grab your carryons and purses, and I'll show you your rooms. The rest of your things will be delivered to you later. The wake up bell will be delayed until 7:00 to let up sleep in. Breakfast will be at 7:45. Orientation starts at 8:30.”
She showed Casey and me to the first room.
“I think Casey would rather share with Paula, and I'd rather be with Pattie. Would that be OK, Mrs. Robinson?”
Casey gave me a grateful smile, and Pattie perked up as well.
“I don't see why not. These won't be your permanent rooms.”
“Thank you so much.”
I called my mom. Leaving a message that I'd arrived safely. Pattie and I said little as we brushed our teeth, donned our nities and crawled into bed.
A very loud, annoying bell broke my dream about feeding deer on the lawn. I looked out and saw a campus of manicured grass and mature oaks, crisscrossed by walks and surrounded by colonial buildings. Two or three women were walking on the quad. We had an en suite bath, so it didn't take long to shower and dress. Pattie had a little stubble and was shaving when I finished.
“Do you have time to do my makeup, Mel? I really liked what you did yesterday.”
“Yes, but you'd better pay attention so you can do it yourself next time.” I was hungry and didn't want to miss breakfast. I did a rush job, but still told her what I was doing and why.
“Thank you ever so much. I could kiss you.”
“Maybe later, I'm hungry now,” I smiled.
Breakfast was a medley of fresh fruit, an egg, and two pancakes with coffee, tea and or milk. Later we found that all the meals were portion controlled and would be tailored to our individual diets once they were established.
There were six girls at the table. Besides Pattie, Casey, Paula and me, there were Cyndie and Jane. Cyndie was small like me, strawberry blond and very cute. Jane had glossy black hair, was a bit heavy, and her V-neck revealed amazing cleavage. Both were quiet throughout the meal.
When we were done, Mrs. Robinson announced that special orientation would begin at 8:30 in room 105 of the main building and asked us to bus our dishes to a conveyor belt that disappeared into the kitchen. Shorts or pants would be “inappropriate,” so Pattie, Jane and I returned to our rooms to change. I tried to warm Jane up by telling her how much I liked her hair. She thanked me politely.
After changing into skirts, Pattie and I started for the main building. Jane emerged a few yards behind us, so we waited.
“Isn't this a beautiful campus, Jane?”
“I suppose, for a girls' school.”
“You sound like you don't want to be here.”
“My mother's is making me. I have gynecomastia, so she makes me wear a bra and dress like a girl. I said it wasn't right. She said that girls' clothes were designed to fit breasts. Since God gave me breasts, She must want me to wear girls' clothes.”
I'd never heard God called “She” before, but let it pass. “So, she's really religious?”
“No, she just uses God to win arguments. Anyway, since I wore girls' clothes already, when she read about the scholarship, she told me to apply.”
“So you don't want to be a girl?” asked Pattie.
“What choice do I have? I'm a 38C.”
“Well, you could have an operation.”
“Like my parents would spring for that!”
“Doesn't your dad want you to be a boy?”
“Maybe, but not enough to butt heads with my mom. She rules the roost.”
“Oh, that's rough!” said Pattie.
I agreed.
“Besides, everyone at my old school called me names. I'm hoping people will be nicer here.”
“We will,” we both said.
By then we'd found room 105. It was a small classroom with a large table instead of desks. It was called “the seminar room.” At the head of the table was a smartly dressed woman in her late 50s. Some other women sat in chairs behind her.
“Good morning, girls, I am Sarah Wright-Jones, headmistress of Braintree Academy. I want to welcome each of you special girls to our school. You will learn more about our school, its history, rules and customs next week at freshmen orientation. Today we are gathered to deal with topics that only concern you who are new to our gender. For the majority of you, most of what we need to do will only take a day and a half, so you will be able to relax and enjoy the facilities – more about them later. It will take a few days for your test results and some of you may require more assistance in fitting in at Braintree. That is why a full week has been scheduled.
“Most of our staff is still on summer leave, so your orientation will be handled by Ms. Wilkins, our capable basketball coach, Ms. Snyder, our nurse, and Dr. Koebler, our staff psychologist. You have already met Mrs. Robertson, one of our dormitory supervisors.” Each of the women stood briefly as her name was mentioned.
“You will begin by going to Le Magasin. our campus store, located in the basement of this building, to be fitted for, and issued, school uniforms. Uniforms are to be worn to all campus functions unless you are explicitly told otherwise. The normal exceptions are physical education and dance, where you will dress as required by your instructors. You will report back here at 9:30 in your uniforms.
“Any questions?”
There were none.
We went downstairs to Le Magasin, which was a combination bookstore, convenience store and boutique. We lined up and were led, one by one, into the fitting area, where we were met by nurse Snyder.
“Take off your blouse and bra, dear. I need to decide what to do about your titties, sweetie.”
“About my titties?”
“Yes, your breasts dear.”
“I know what titties are. I was just wondering what you are going to do about them?”
“Oh. Most special girls your age are underdeveloped, so I need to see how you're developing and decide what size chest would best suit you.”
“Oh,” I said blushing.
“Mrs. Robertson can't measure you for your uniforms until you're properly sized.” She probed my breasts with her fingers. “You haven't started hormones yet?”
“No,” I said. I hadn't even imagined hormones, but I wasn't sure I should say so.
“Until you grow your own, I think a B-cup breasts would look lovely. You're getting older. You don't want to be behind the other girls, do you?”
“I guess not.”
“This may be a bit cold.” She washed my chest with alcohol, then glued on breast forms. “Hold them in place for two minutes, then report to Mrs. Robertson.”
I was shocked to be the sudden owner of two rather heavy tits. Seeing myself topless in in the fitting room mirror made me feel I was sliding down a slope.
As I stood cupping my new breasts Nurse Snyder started on Pattie. It didn't take her long to decide that D-cups would feminize Pattie's large frame. Pattie was thrilled. I was wasn't sure I could deal with the four or five pounds lready pulling at my chest. So, I was quite happy I only had Bs.
Once the glue set, Mrs. Robertson showed me how to use makeup to hide the breast forms' edges. While she was applying it, the pull on my chest was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. When she finally helped me into a beautiful satin and lace bra, I was grateful for the support it provided.
After a few more measurements, she had me step into a padded girdle. “Pull this up. You'll need to wear padding until your hips develop.” Next, I was given, a pleated navy skirt with a belt and side buttons, a matching blazer, and navy pumps with 2” heels. My skirt came to mid thigh and was called “a scooter” for some reason. “Your other uniforms will be in your room when you get back,” she said before attending to Pattie.
I looked around Le Magasin while I waited for Pattie. It sold almost everything a girl could want: beautiful, if conservative, lingerie; expensive cosmetics; sanitary supplies; even a small selection of jewelry. The snack area had dried fruit, fat-free pop corn and diet drinks.
When Pattie came out, she looked every inch a girl – except for wobbling on her heels. “I never wore heels cuz I'm already too tall.”
“You'll learn. Come over to the mirror, I want you to see how beautiful you are.” She was. In fact, she was the girl of my fantasies – big and strong and able to take care of me. I had to remind myself that she was a boy underneath. I remembered John and decided to watch my fantasies.
We still had fifteen minutes, so I took Pattie's arm and helped her practice walking on the quad. Jane joined us once she was fitted. She had a firmer waist and a more rounded rear, but didn't seem very happy about it.
“You look nice, Jane.”
“Thanks, I guess.”
I couldn't think of anything more to say, so I let it drop.
Cyndie, who was sharing a room with Jane, came out next. If anyone was meant to be a girl it was her. If I were attracted to delicate girls, I would have been in love with her. For her part, Cyndie was concerned about Jane and her unhappiness. She showed her concern with sympathetic affection. We walked back to the seminar room together.
When we were all seated, Dr. Koebler stood up and said that she would be our counselor and oversee our transitions. Nurse Snyder would assist her. Each of us would have individual appointments to evaluate our situation and progress. Mine was for 3:00 PM.
Next, nurse Snyder gave us a long hygiene lecture. She began simply enough. While we could expect the other girls to discover who we were eventually, we were to be discrete about our transgendered status. This was both for our own sakes and that of the school, which did not want to be the scene of a public spectacle.
The embarrassing part came when she said that we should take care to tuck our privates away whenever we left our rooms. She selected Pattie as her model. Most of us were quite embarrassed for her. If we might be seen nude, we should temporally glue ourselves in place. Again, Pattie was her example. When the demonstration was over, she distributed glue and solvent to each of us. By then Pattie was crimson.
If that weren't enough, the next topic was sex. The faculty was under no delusions about what might happen amongst hundreds of teen girls deprived of male company. Still, we were not to have intercourse with a genetic girl on pain of expulsion for both of us. She must not trust us because she gave out condom packets to carry in our purses. I'd seen pictures in health class, but had never touched one. Putting some in my purse seemed very naughty. Fortunately for Pattie, Ms. Snyder used a plastic model for her demonstration.
My head was spinning with how different Braintree was from middle school.
She gave us a bathroom break before starting her next topic – transitioning. We got 45 minutes about counseling, the role of hormones in puberty, anti-androgens, estrogen, side effects, real life tests, and sexual reassignment surgery. All transition services and expenses would be covered as long as were at Braintree. Pattie looked very happy.
I was alarmed, and asked, “Are we all going to get estrogen?”
“That will be decided on a case by case basis by Dr. Koebler and our consulting endocrinologist after your interviews and examinations, dear.”
I was in inner turmoil. Delaying puberty might be OK, but growing tits was something else again. I didn't hear much of what nurse Snyder said after that.
I don't remember much about lunch. I was thinking what I'd say to Dr. Koebler when she interviewed me. I didn't want to admit that I wasn't really transgendered, but I didn't want to be put on estrogen either. When Pattie and I got back to our room, I fell asleep from nervous exhaustion.
Pattie woke me. “Ten to three, sweetie. You need to go to your appointment.”
On the way over, I rehearsed how I'd tell Dr. Koebler that I wanted to wait on starting hormones until my mind was more settled. If I repeated that each year, I'd never take them. Once I had my plan down, I relaxed.
Nurse Snyder measured my weight, height, blood pressure and balls. (I wasn't expecting that.) She took enough blood to satisfy a family of vampires. She also wanted urine and semen samples. I never expected that she'd ask me to – you know – do that. I was very embarrassed, but she acted like it was no big deal.
Once I gave her my samples in a paper bag, she said that a portion would be placed in cryostorage against future need. That puzzled me, but before I could ask about it, she sent me on to Dr. Koebler's office.
I knocked.
“Come in! … Miss Antonelli?”
“Yes.”
“Have a seat.”
I imagined laying on a couch, but she pointed to a comfy chair at her desk. She sat smiling at me with a pen in her hand. In front of her was an open folder. We chatted a bit about what I thought of Braintree so far – it was very beautiful, but had my head spinning – and then got down to business.
“How long have you been dressing more or less full time as a girl?”
“Since October.”
“How did you feel about doing it?”
“I was terrified at first. In fact, I threw up the first morning before leaving for school, but I got a lot of support. So it worked out.”
“You showed a lot of courage facing your fears like that. You must have been pretty determined?”
“Thanks. I needed to do it.” I was trying to decide if I should explain about Judy and her plan, but before I could decide, she moved on.
“I understand. … So how old were you when you first tried girls' clothes?”
“Four or five. I used to play dress up with my friend Judy.”
“How did you feel about it?”
“It was fun. Girls' clothes are more fun to wear than boys'.”
“None of us would argue with that, dear.” She made some notes.
“Have you ever had a girlfriend?”
“I have lots of girlfriends.”
“Any of them romantic?”
“Not really.”
“What about boyfriends? Any romantic relationships with boys?”
I blushed, thinking of how I liked to snuggle with John. “Nothing, you know … sexual.”
“What about cuddling and kissing?”
By now I was bright red.
“It's OK. I am not trying to pry.” She made some notes. “So, how did this past summer go?”
I told her about trying to babysit, and how I finally made some money with my dress making.
Our conversation went on like that – pretty low key except for asking if I had a boyfriend. She never asked if I wanted to grow breasts or be put on estrogen. So, I never got a chance to tell her the answer I'd rehearsed. I figured we 'd talk more later. I could tell her then.
Two days after that our test results came back. We were called into nurse Snyder's office one at a time. My results were all fine, so she was going to give me an implant. My puberty blocker, I guessed. It would be less stressful if I were mildly sedated. When I woke up I felt good, but an hour later my arm was sore. I felt a little bump under the gauze bandage. I was to leave it on for two days, so, I tried not to mess with it. When it came off, all I had was a small scab.
We had a lot of leisure time. Only Pattie and Jane had extra demands on them. Pattie was spending time working on grace and poise with Ms. Kelvin. Toward the end of the week she went into town and came back with an irritated face and no beard. Jane was also working with Ms Kelvin, but on muscle tone. Nurse Snyder put her on a weight control program. The rest of us were encouraged to read, swim and walk the grounds.
I called mom and told her what was happening. She was a bit put off by our sex education lecture, but decided it was unavoidable. Besides what was done was done.
I also spent a lot of time texting Judy, Sandy, Roz and John. Judy asked me an interesting question. She could understand how my transition expenses might be included in my scholarship, but Pattie was not a scholarship student. Why was Braintree paying for his? It must be costing them a lot of money. I had no answer, and neither did Pattie. She only said that when he was interviewed Cora Jackson said they would be. That made her really anxious to go.
By Wednesday, I felt I could trust my new friends enough to tell Pattie and Jane why I was at Braintree. Pattie deserved to know because she was my roommate and it felt wrong to let her think I was just like her. I thought I should tell Jane so she wouldn't think she was the only one at Braintree who didn't want to be a girl for the rest of her life. I began with Pattie as we spent more time together. She was laying on her bed reading one of her romance novels.
“Pattie, can we talk for a bit, I have something I want you to know.”
“Sure, Mel, what is it?”
“Well, I haven't been entirely honest with you about why I'm here. Jane isn't the only one that doesn't want to end up a woman. I don't want to either.”
Pattie sat up, looking at me. “You mean your mom is forcing you to be a girl – like Jane's?”
“No, she's really nice and would never do that. It's all my idea. No, that's not right, it was my friend Judy's idea.”
“Did she dare you or something?”
“No.”
“I don't understand Mel.”
“Well, I haven't said it very well. You see, Judy and I live in a crappy school district – one of the worst in the state …” I told him the whole story up to the time I got picked up by Ms. Kelvin.
“Well, Mel, I mean George , your one of the bravest gir … ah, boys I know. I thought it took a lot of guts for me to come out, but I had no choice. I couldn't live as a boy. You had a choice. I really admire you, sweetie.” She gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek.
I was embarrassed. I didn't think I deserved a hug for fooling people. “Thanks, that's more than I expected. I thought you'd be mad at me pretending to be trans.”
“No … but you better watch out, I like boys,” she grinned mischievously.
“I dated a boy last semester, but it wasn't fair to him so I broke it off.”
“Did he know you were a boy?”
“Yes.”
“Then it was his choice.”
“Yeah, but I wasn't right for him. Now he has a really nice boyfriend and they're both happy.”
“You're really nice … should I call you Mel or George?”
“You'd better stick with Mel. There's less chance of a slip up.”
“Right.”
…
No one answered my knock at the door to Jane's room. I finally found her at lunch. She and Cyndie had been been swimming.
“Jane, I'd like to talk to you after lunch. How about a walk?”
“Sure, Cyndie and I found a shady spot near the creek, It's really lovely. I'll show you where it is.” She was right, the spot was beautiful – private, shady and offering a great view of the creek that flowed along one edge of the grounds.
“Jane, I wanted to talk to you about not wanting to be a girl.”
“Cyndie already gave me that talk. I know how nice the clothes are, how many more ways girls have of expressing themselves, the power girls have over boys, and all that. I just don't feel like a girl – even if I look like one and am starting to talk and act like one.”
“That wasn't the talk I wanted to have. I wanted to tell you that you weren't alone. You're not the only girl at Braintree that wants to go back to being a boy,”
Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Who else doesn't want to be a girl.”
“Me.”
“What? Your so pretty, Mel, and everything you do screams 'girl'. You even sew your own dresses!”
I blushed. “Well, I do like dresses.”
“Yes, and I saw how you looked at the fitting after you got your bigger chest. You were beaming!”
“Maybe I was.” I was getting defensive and embarrassed.
“You were, darling.”
“Maybe, but I don't want to stay a girl.” I tried to explain how I got into this and planned to go back to being a boy after graduation.
Jane listened patiently. “Mel, I know you want me to feel better and think you're a kindred spirit – but you aren't, darling girl. You enjoy wearing dresses and pretty clothes. You like them so much you design and make them. I wish I never had to wear a skirt again! So, I love you for trying to help, but I think you're fooling yourself.”
I couldn't think of anything that might change her mind and I was embarrassed that she still thought I was a girl after I told her I wanted to be a boy again. So, I said good bye and walked back to my room for a nap.
At dinner Thursday Ms. Kelvin asked if Pattie and I would be in our room after dinner, as she wanted to talk to us. We said we'd expect her.
“Hello girls, I wanted to see both of you, but on different matters. I wanted to ask you, Pattie, if you'd consider jointing the basketball team. You're very tall, and that makes you a good prospect. It might also be good for you, because if you were on the team, no one would think twice about your height. Everyone expects basketball players to be tall.”
“Well, I've never been at all sporty, Ms. Kelvin. It didn't seem very feminine, if you know what I mean.”
“I do, but there are a lot of feminine athletes.”
“Maybe, but I don't even know how to drabble, let alone throw the ball into a basketball ring. The only sport I ever played was soccer because my dad made me, but I didn't like it much. … By the way, why are you asking me now, when I've seen you every day working on grace and poise?”
“Well, I'm hoping Mel will think it is a good idea and give you a little push. … As for not knowing how to dribble or shoot baskets, most of the girls I start with don't either. It's something you could learn with the other girls. I am not asking you to decide now. Just think about it, and maybe discuss it with Mel. OK?”
“OK, Ms. Kelvin. I like you, so I'll think about it, but no promises.”
“Thank you. That's all I'm asking.
“Mel, dear, you promised to show me some of the dresses you made.”
“OK.” I had pictures on my cell phone that I showed mothers when I was trying for an order. I showed them to her.
“Mel, these are really cute! Still, I need something more adult. Do you have any here I could see?”
I showed her three I'd made for myself.
“Mel, I didn't know you made those,” Pattie said. “I wish I could sew like that.”
“I could show you.”
“It wouldn't do any good. I'm all thumbs. My auntie Maylene tried to show me. I wound up sewing the wrong side to the right side and all my seams were so crooked I screamed!”
“I'm sorry.”
“It's OK. I plan on marrying a rich hedge fund operator who 'll spoil me rotten with Jimmy Choo and Prada shoes, Reem Acra and Melissa Antonelli gowns, and diamonds galore!” She got dreamy eyed.
Ms. Kelvin waited for the fairy dust to settle, then said, “You do really gook work, Mel. I know you'll be busy once the semester starts, but would there be time to make me a dress? I'd pay you of course.”
“It depends on how complicated it is. Also, I don't have a sewing machine. I borrowed one from my friend's mother.”
“Well, how about I buy you a nice one in exchange for the dress?”
“That would be wonderful, but it depends on the dress. Do you have a style in mind?”
“Yes, there's one I love on the Nordstom website, but I can't afford it.”
The one she liked was a Missoni rib knit sheath with horizontal strips. The dress was simple enough. The problem would be finding a knit with stripes she liked. No small-town fabric store would carry such an exotic fabric. After an hour we found a fabric on line that could be delivered Saturday. It was not the same pattern as the Missoni, but she was thrilled with it anyway.
Friday morning was feeling a bit nauseous, and did not eat much breakfast. Actually, it was the second morning that I felt a little off, but I didn't think much about it.
When I was done, Mrs. Robertson told me to report to the bursar's office. There I was surprised to receive $40.00 – my weekly stipend. My account would be credited with a similar amount every Friday. I could withdraw funds any school day between 7:00 and 4:00. I was in shock. If I saved my money, I might have well over $1000.00 by June!
Back at my room, Ms. Kelvin was waiting for me. She drove Pattie and me into town to buy a sewing machine. We went to JoAnn. I liked the Singer 3223R which was a scrumptious raspberry color, and only cost $99.99. Ms. Kelvin insisted she buy a better machine. We settled on the computerized Brother CS6000i. It was marked down from $349.99 to $199.99. Unlike Mrs. Myers' old Singer with its one straight stitch and single foot, it had 60 stitches and seven feet! I had no idea what I'd do with them all, but bought remnants to practice on.
While she was paying for the machine, the sales lady asked Ms. Kelvin what she was going to sew with it. She responded it was for me, and I'd be sewing her a knit dress based on a Missoni design.
The lady was very surprised. “Have you sewn knits before dear?”
“No.”
“Their stretch can make them a challenge. Here let me show you.” She spent half an hour showing me how to set up my machine and demonstrating technique on knit scraps. Then she had me try and corrected me until I had it down. I was very grateful. I'm sure I would have made a mess of the dress without her help.
Meanwhile Pattie been roaming the store fascinated by the fabric patterns and colors. She fell in love with an inexpensive cotton print with lavender roses on a black background. It was a good choice for her because the dark colors make you look smaller. She asked if I could make a skirt and top for her. I suggested an empire waist dress that would flare out when she twirled. She liked that even better, and offered to pay me. It would only take a couple of hours, so I said if she'd wait until I finished Ms. Kelvin's dress, it would be my gift. She kissed me.
Ms. Kelvin took us to a diner for lunch, and we all drove back happy.
That afternoon I played with my new sewing machine while Pattie retreated to the en suite to play with something else. She emerged quite flushed. I played with myself fairly often, so I was in no position to judge. I'd never been that close to another person's sexuality and didn't know how I felt about it. It was something I'd have to get used to. I thought of what Ms. Synder had said about what might happen amongst 1200 girls deprived of male companionship and decided my feelings about Pattie hadn't changed.
When I'd played with my machine enough, I wanted to sew something real. “Pattie, I have time to start your dress now. Let me measure you.” I could hardly believe that her breasts were 42” and was worried that her bodice would take more fabric than we had. Then I remembered that we'd bought extra so I could make a really full skirt that would flare out when she twirled. By dinner, I had it all cut.
I haven't said much about our meals, but we six ate alone except for Mrs. Robinson serving us our potions and then leaving. Our common experiences lead to dinnertime discussions and comparisons. Slowly, we all became friends. Even Casey and Paula thawed out. Pattie and I decided that they had romantic feelings for each other. That night they decided there was no point in trying to pretend they didn't so they told us they'd been girlfriends for about a year.
They'd met at the private school their parents sent them to and were drawn to each other as kindred spirits. Eventually, they had regular sleepovers. Usually, their parents left them alone as they had more important things to do, but one night Casey's mother came to her room to tell her about a change in plans for the next day and found them made up, dressed in baby dolls and kissing. A lot of screaming ensued – most of it about what people at the club would think. Their parents got together, decided that they were hopeless and there was no point in trying to change them. The best solution was to ship them off to Braintree, where they'd embarrass their families as little as possible.
They'd only been full-time girls since the beginning of summer. I asked how they convinced their interviewer, who turned out to be Ms. Cora Jackson, that they were transgender.
“Oh, she didn't need convincing. When we told her we liked girl's clothes, she was happy to have us – two more paying customers, I suppose,” said Paula.
“Yeah, I got the impression that she'd accept anyone willing to wear a dress,” added Casey.
Pattie interjected, “She accepted me and I didn't look at all like a girl.”
“And me, and I told her I only wore dresses because my mom made me,” added Jane.
We sat quietly, eating our fresh fruit dessert cups, trying to make sense of it, but couldn't.
It was a pleasant evening so after dinner we all went for a walk along the creek. We walked along in pairs with Pattie and I in front. Casey and Paula took up the rear, where they stopped for an occasional kiss when the rest of us rounded a bend.
When we got back to our room I sewed the bodice of Pattie's dress, then I searched the net to learn how to make an embellishment I wanted to surprise her with. I glance over to make sure she wasn't looking over my shoulder. She was on her bed in her floral nitie reading a paperback whose cover featured a muscular guy above a woman overflowing her bodice – too occupied to see what I was researching. Making the embellishments turned out to be simple, so I took the lavender silk ribbon I'd bought and started to work. By the time I'd finished I was ready for bed.
I'd slept in my underwear at home, but when I opened my suitcase the first night, I discovered two gorgeous, lace trimmed nities. They were so silky! One was pale violet and the other was rose. I loved them both – they made me feel so … sexy.
I came out of the en suite with tissues lining my panties. Once the lights were out, I ran my hands over my satin nitie from my new breasts to my panties. I decided I'd wear satin to bed from now on – even when I went back to being a boy.
I dreamed of feeding the fawns again, but this time I was dancing between them in an airy cream dress. John was watching me, smiling. Then John morphed into Pattie dressed in short shorts and a tight basketball jersey. I thought how strong her arms looked.
Saturday morning we had breakfast at 8:00. Again I was feeling off, but wolfed down my food anyway as I wanted to finish Pattie's dress before Ms. Kelvin's fabric arrived. When I got back to the room, I was close to vomiting, but felt better after a bit. By the time Pattie returned, I was ready to mark the hem. I had her wear her navy pumps and I sat on the floor to mark the hem. It came to just above her knees – short enough to be cute, but long enough to flare widely when she twirled.
“Go away and come back in an hour. I want to surprise you,” I ordered.
An hour later I had hemmed the dress and added my surprise embellishments.
“Here, try it on!”
“Oh, Mel, it's gorgeous! I just love the little lavender roses along the neckline! How ever did you make them?” She said, admiring herself in the mirror before turning to give me a hug and kiss on the lips.
“Trade secret. … but, I'll show you if you want to know.”
“No, I'm hopeless. … but I do love them – they're so precious!”
“Do a twirl.”
She did, but the dress didn't flare out as I'd hoped. I frowned. I didn't say anything, but looked in my purse.
“Do you have any pennies?”
“Pennies?”
“Yes.”
“Let me see – thirteen cents.”
“I have seven. Twenty cents should do it. Take off your dress.”
Pattie looked puzzled but complied.
“Come back in half an hour.”
When she returned the dress flared beautifully, the hem weighted by our pennies.
Pattie was swinging her hips back and forth, making her dress swirl, when she saw Ms. Kelvin walking across the quad. Shortly, she knocked at our door.
“Is that the dress you made for Pattie? It's lovely.”
“Yes, it is. Thanks. ... Pattie, show Ms. Kelvin the special feature.”
Pattie turned so fast her panties showed.
“I've never seen a dress do that!”
“That's because you've never seen an Antonelli twenty cent dress before!”
“A twenty cent dress?”
I explained.
“Your a genius, dear! And now you're going to be my genius seamstress,” she said opening the bag she carried. As I expected, it was the fabric for her dress.
We talked a while longer. No, Pattie had not decided whether to try basketball. Finally, I measured Ms. Kelvin and she left. Pattie left at the same time to show the other girls her dress.
It was the first time I'd been alone for a while. Once the rush from gratitude and enthusiasm wore off, I started feeling lonely. I missed my mom. I wanted to call her, but she was working and I shouldn't disturb her. By the time Pattie returned I was a mess – crying quietly on my bed.
“What's wrong, sweetie?”
“I feel lonely and miss my mom,” I sniffled.
Pattie sat on my bed and gave me a hug. I sat up next to her. She put her arms around me and held me to her breasts. The little roses on her bodice tickled my nose. She rocked me a little and gently kissed my cheek. I relaxed into her, glad to be held. She looked down at me and kissed me on the lips. I felt better. We leaned back and lay holding each other, exchanging kisses until I fell asleep.
When I woke, Pattie was still holding me, but had fallen asleep herself. I thought I should feel embarrassed kissing a boy like that – but Pattie was no boy. She was a very sweet girl. I was glad to be in her arms.
Sunday morning at breakfast, Mrs. Robinson announced it was time to move out of the guest lodge, and into the freshman dorms. We special girls would be paired with each other, at least for our freshman year. Did any of us wish to trade room mates? No one did. There were a limited number of baggage carts, so we had to finish with them by 11:00 to make them available to the girls who 'd be arriving later.
It didn't take Pattie and I long to move. One trip with the luggage cart piled high was enough. I took special care to make sure my new sewing machine didn't come to harm. Our new room was smaller and older than that in the lodge. We didn't have a private bath, but shared one with the girls in the next room. In fact, you could walk through the bath into their room if they left their door open. We were on the third floor, so we'd be getting a lot of exercise, as we discovered hauling our stuff up the stairs.
From about 11:00 until long after dinner, buses and cars rolled up disgorging girls. Many were happy and giggling, some serious and studious looking, a few looked sad or even scared.
About 3:00 our first suite mate, Kimberly, arrived by bus. Pattie and I helped carry her luggage and put her things away. Her clothes barely fit in the closet – definitely a clothes horse, but with a lot of outfits Pattie and I liked. She seemed nice enough – about my height, with a natural smile and light brown hair in a ponytail. I could tell she was religious because she hung a cross over her bed.
Her room mate, Sue, arrived about 5:30 with her parents and older brother – so she needed no help carrying her stuff. She was a couple of inches taller than me, thin, and had a mass of blond curls. A little acne marred her sweet, round face.
Her brother, Rudy, was a high school junior. He had a square jaw, broad shoulders, blue eyes and wavy blond hair. Every time he carried something up, he smiled at me while almost ignoring Kimberly and Pattie. His attention made me feel special, so I smiled back. When his parents started back to their car, he stayed back to ask my phone number. I gave it to him without thinking. He thanked me, gave me a quick kiss and ran down the stairs to catch up with his folks.
I stood enjoying the tingle for a minute. When I turned Pattie was glaring at me, but said nothing until we got back to our room. “What's going to happen when he finds out you're a boy and want to stay one, sweetie?”
“You're right Pattie. I wasn't thinking. If he calls or texts, I'll tell him I'm interested in girls.”
“Are you?”
I didn't answer. I liked being kissed by boys and I'd never been really kissed by any girl but Pattie. I must like girls more. Boys were supposed to.
Judy found me at dinner. She was assigned to room with Nancy, the child of an English engineer and his reporter wife. Nancy was quiet, maybe because of her Midlands accent, so I didn't learn much more about her. I was happy that Judy and Pattie seemed to hit it off. I like my friends to get along.
After dinner, Judy and I took a walk. Her week had been pretty uneventful -- mostly babysitting and packing. I filled her in on my week, starting with the uniform fitting session. She liked my larger chest and wider hips, and asked how I felt about my new figure. I surprised myself by admitting that I liked how I looked. She asked how Pattie and I got along and smiled when I told her about us kissing. Somehow, that made me feel better about it.
I hadn't done a thing on Ms. Kelvin's dress all day, and I was too tired to do anything when I got back to my room. Sue and Kimberly were arguing about something, so we were a bit timid in asking if we could use the bathroom first. Pattie and I showered to save time in the morning. When we finished we locked the door on our side to keep the noise down. We were asleep shortly after 9:00.
I dreamt about fawns again. This time I was hugging and petting them. Suddenly I was a fawn. Rudy came out of the bushes to hug and pet me. As he got close, the other fawns panicked and ran off. Rudy was upset at scaring them and I was left alone.
In the morning, I woke up before the 6:30 bell, still a little nauseous. I peed and was brushing my teeth when the bell startled me. I was still brushing when a sleepy Sue knocked – in a night gown so diaphanous her nipples showed clearly.
“Excuse me, I need to tinkle before I wet myself.”
I blushed and pressed my legs together to keep from popping out of my panties. She smiled, pulled down her panties, and sat to relieve herself I stared more than I should, then tried to cover my blushing by washing my face and spending a lot of time rubbing it dry.
“My mom says you should pat, not rub, Melissa. Rubbing is bad for your complexion.”
“Oh! Thanks. I guess I'm a tomboy still.”
“I've always been a girlie girl. … You know what?”
“What?”
“My mom read that there are some real boys here – you know ones that want to be girls like us.”
“Oh.”
“Do you think we'll be able to tell who they are?”
“I have no idea.”
“Well, it'll be interesting to see.”
“So, what if you do find out?”
“I don't know. Maybe congratulate them for being smarter than other boys. What do you think?”
“I think they might be embarrassed to be singled out. They just want to be who they are – just like you and me.”
“I s'pose so. … How much longer are you guys going to be?”
“Not too long. We showered last night. We'll knock when were done.”
When I returned to our room, Pattie was in a panic. “I heard you guys talking. She's sure to see me without my make up. She'll know I was a boy!”
“We'll just say you're a basketball player – like Ms. Kelvin suggested.”
“I don't know.” Pattie was doing her make up as fast as she could.
Uniforms were not required for orientation. I thought the girls from rich families like Casey and Paula might dress to impress, so I wore my cobalt fit and flare dress. Pattie wore her twenty cent dress with black rumba panties. (When we moved, I discovered she had a huge collection of frilly panties. In contrast, mine were plain cotton pastels except for a lacy white satin pair mom bought me to wear under my confirmation dress.)
“I hope you are not planning to do a twirl that shows those off, Pattie!”
“A girl can never tell,” she smiled.
“You better not, or we won't be doing any more snuggling.”
“You're no fun at all!” she pouted, then gave me a kiss on the cheek.
We sat with Casey, Paula, Jane, Cyndie, Judy and Nancy at breakfast. I sat next to Pattie and across from Judy. Nancy wondered about orientation. Pattie started to say something about Sarah Wright-Jones, but I kicked her under the table and broke in.
“Yes, we met her when we got here. She's the headmistress, you know – seems rather serious. I expect she'll be very formal – give us a prepared speech or something.”
After breakfast, we walked to the main auditorium. On the way Pattie asked why I kicked her.
“Do you want everyone to know we've been here for a week and wonder why?”
“No, I suppose not.”
“OK, then be careful.”
“Good morning, girls, I am Sarah Wright-Jones, headmistress of Braintree Academy. I want to welcome each of you to our school. Today we are gathered to orient you freshman girls to student life at Braintree. You will learn about our school, its history, rules and customs. …”
She droned on for almost an hour about the school's stored history and influential graduates. By the end my bottom was quite sore.
“… You will all learn that knowledge is power and thus become the next generation of powerful Braintree women.”
Ms. Harding, a math teacher and the prefect of discipline, stood up and directed us to the freshman dining hall to pick up our class schedules. Then we were to go to Le Magasin to buy our books and uniforms if we still needed them.
My schedule was algebra, women's history, French, introduction to dance, lunch, English, psychology, and art. The text books must have weighed fifty pounds and cost almost $300.00. Luckily, my scholarship covered them. Pattie bought mostly used books but still spent over $200.00. I'd left my backpack at home, and bought a pink one with the Braintree logo for $35.00 of my own money. So much for saving money.
I had the afternoon free and made good progress on Ms. Kelvin's dress. I was ever so glad the lady at the fabric store had shown me how to sew knits. Even then, I had to unsew almost as much as I sewed before I got into the rhythm of it. I expected to finish by the end of the week if I didn't have too much homework.
Pattie came in and said little. I could tell she was still miffed at what she called my flirting with Rudy. I thought I was just being polite.
About 3:30, I got a text from Rudy asking how my day went. I replied that I shouldn't have led him on, as I was more interested in girls than guys. I wished him well.
When I got tired of stitching Ms Kelvin's dress, I looked at my new textbooks. The algebra text began with things I already knew, so I wasn't worried about it. I'd never heard of women's history, so I was curious about it. There were chapters about the Greeks (featuring Sappho), the Egyptians (female goddesses, priestesses, overseers, a woman pharaoh called Hatshepsut, and Cleopatra), and so on. As I'd only heard about Cleopatra, I was sure to learn a lot of new stuff. I couldn't figure out how to pronounce French, so I stopped trying before I developed bad habits. The English text had mostly women writers. Our psychology book had so many new words I gave up. For art we had an illustrated history and a workbook. I liked both. The workbook explained composition, proportion, perspective and so on. I really enjoyed some of the exercises.
When I was done looking at my new books, Pattie asked to see what I looked like in my dance togs.
“What dance togs?”
“The ones you bought for dance class, silly.”
“What? I didn't know we were supposed to.”
“Look at the bottom of your schedule.”
Sure enough, there was a note saying we needed a leotard, tights and ballet flats. I ran into Le Magasin just before it closed, but there were still lots of girls waiting to check out, so I had time to get my togs. I was the last to check out.
Tuesday was the beginning of classes. I still felt a bit off when I got up.
Again, Sue came in to relieve herself while I was still in the bathroom, but this time she was only wearing the panties of a baby doll set.
“I saw you staring at my boobs yesterday.”
I blushed and my heart raced.
“It's OK. Rudy texted you like girls, so I understand. I thought I'd give you a better look this morning. I hope you appreciate the view.”
I didn't know what to say. I didn't want to look, but she had gorgeous little tits with large aureoles and perky nipples, so it was hard not to. Finally I did. “I do like girls, but I want to know them as people before we get … You know, close. I'll come back when your done.”
“Don't go. I'm sorry.” She looked embarrassed and put an arm over her chest. “I never met a lesbian before, and … well, I'm curious. Besides there aren't any boys here – well none that I know – and … Please don't tell anyone.” Tears were forming in her eyes.
I felt sorry for her. “Look, we're all trying to figure out how to act and how to be, so we're bound to be dorky sometimes. Don't worry, I won't tell. We all have things we want to keep secret.” I leaned down and gave her an awkward hug and kiss on the cheek. Then I closed the door behind me. I went back after I heard her flush, wash and close the door behind her. This time I locked the door to her room. I didn't tell Pattie what happened.
Our schedules varied so we'd meet different girls in different classes and get to know more people. Pattie was in my algebra class, but not in women's history. Sue and Judy were. Of course, you can't get to know 300 girls, but I got to recognize quite a few.
Algebra was different than any of the math classes I'd taken before. There was no review of old material. Instead, Ms. Harding wrote down the axioms we'd be using and started explaining how to use them. I could see that Pattie was already lost. Math was not her thing. I resolved to help her.
We had Ms. Crawford for women's history. She wore her hair shorter than most boys and dressed in a tweed jacket, chocolate slacks, and a shirt and tie. We all had a warped view reality, because it's been shaped by men who selected some facts and ignored others to suppress women and support male power. She'd insure that we had a more accurate understanding of the world by the end of the year. We'd learn that women were smarter, emotionally stronger and made most of the decisions in modern families. I had to agree that my mother was like that.
She said that since men ran things, sometimes there was not as much documentation on women’s history as men's, so we had to use our imaginations to fill in the missing links. (I wondered how that happened if women made most of the decisions, but Ms. Crawford didn't seem like she was open to questions.) Anyway, she started with Sappho of Lesbos, who lived in the 600s BC. She was the best of the nine lyric poets of ancient Greece, which was what they had instead of pop song writers. Rhodopis was the most beautiful woman of her time, desired by men, but she chose to love Sappho over all her male admirers. Our homework was an essay on what made Sappho a great role model for educated women.
Mademoiselle Bonbleu was our French teacher. She was in her early twenties, had an enormous chest, and wore a scarlet satin blouse with a huge bow to draw attention to it. She told us how lucky we were that she was condescending to teach us the language of romance and diplomacy, as she was descended form Gascon nobility. Class was very boring, as we spent forty minutes drilling on how to pronounce Js and Us properly. We had still not satisfied her when the bell rang. I consoled myself that when we finally did learn some French, we'd pronounce it flawlessly.
I had dance instead of PE because I hated sports and had requested it on my application. Once I put my tights and leotard on, I was glad for my breast forms as falsies would have been pretty obvious. Our teacher was Michele Danseur, who was not French as far as I cold tell. He'd been a chorus dancer on Broadway before he retired. We'd be learning modern dance as we'd be in the chorus of a musical production with the “delightful boys” of Wroxford Seminary just before Christmas break. (Wroxford Seminary was “an upstart boy's boarding school” in the town of Wroxford, about 15 miles away. It was an upstart because it only dated back to 1917, while Braintree had been founded in 1848.)
When some of the girls got dreamy eyed about dancing with the “delightful boys,” he recalled that most of the boys in last year's performance had been too delightful to show much interest in girls. One or two of the girls muttered rude epithets. Michele (that is what we were to call him) chided them and said that artistic pursuits attracted boys with “aetherial souls” – whatever they were. We spent the rest of the period learning ballet positions and doing bar exercises.
At lunch Judy was beside herself with what she thought was Ms. Crawford's twisting of the known facts about Sappho. Sue didn't care, but thought it was great that Sappho was so powerful and accomplished, and rejected males. Even if Ms. Crawford did fill in some holes, she was teaching the class. We should write what she wanted to see in our homework and tests and not worry what other books might say – they were mostly written by men, anyway.
Ms. Cunningham, who looked old enough to have met Jane Austin, was our English teacher. She told us that we should view literature as a garden, in which we might skip from one flower to another, instead of plodding through it as a museum in which we must read every card in every case. To make her point the taught us about the life and works of Sarah Scott, one of the Bluestockings. She lead a wonderful life filled with trials, literary production, feminine domestic companionship and works of charity. It was much more interesting than any English class I had before. I left wanting to learn more of Sarah's life and works.
Dr. Koebler was our psychology teacher. We'd be learning about the male and female psyche, what motivated people to act as they do, and how to use this knowledge to become women of power and influence. She outlined the theories of Freud, teaching us about the id, the ego and the super ego and how dreams revealed our subconscious mind. When I discussed this with Judy at dinner, she frowned and went on about Popper's falsifiability criterion showing Freud's theories were unscientific. Still, some of his ideas explained things I'd wondered about, so maybe it wasn't all nonsense.
Art was my favorite class. Ms. Sanchez was our teacher. She'd been all over the world and wowed us with pictures she'd taken showing the development of art from the cavemen to works still hanging in New York galleries, waiting to be appreciated for the first time. It really got my juices flowing to see it laid out like that. I knew I'd never be up to the level of anything she showed, but I wanted to get back to my sketch pad and sewing machine, and create something – anything.
As we were all walking back to our rooms after dinner, Sue asked if she could talk to me. So we drifted away from the group and headed toward the creek.
“Mel, I feel really weird about what I did.”
I did not want to think about it, because when I did I couldn't help but see her topless, which made my tucked penis uncomfortably hard. “Look, I said I wouldn't tell, and I won't. So forget about it.”
“I believe you, but I want you to .. well not think I'm some kind of lesbian slut. I never was attracted to girls before … but there's something about you … maybe because your kind of a Tomboy with your hair and all … not like other girls … and I don't know … like … how girls let other girls know … you know … that they're interested. It's easy for you because you already knew you liked other girls … You and Judy already knew each other – and I see how jealous Pattie is with you … maybe you could … like help me out here.” She was blushing and her eyes were starting to water.
She was being so open with me, I couldn't lie. “Sue, your asking the wrong person. Maybe your not attracted to girls at all.”
She looked very puzzled.
“Look, you have to promise not to tell, but after you spilled your guts to me, I have to tell you the truth – you aren't attracted to girls – I'm one of those boys you were talking about the other morning.”
She stopped walking and looked stunned. “No way!”
“Way.”
“Does Pattie know?”
“Yes.”
“Are you two … you know … doing it?”
“No.”
She was silent for a while, then and started walking again. Slowly, relief spread over her face. “So, your not a lez, and neither am I! … and when you texted Rudy … God! He'd die if he knew he kissed a boy – even a trans boy!” She started belly laughing so hard she had to stop walking.
“Let's not tell him. OK?”
“Yeah sure! It'd kill him!” She giggled.
“And you'll keep this between us?”
“On one condition.”
“Condition?”
“Yeah, I want to see it and touch it.”
“What?”
“You know, your dick, silly! I never saw or touched one before – well except on a baby changing diapers.”
“I don't know. I mean no girl ever touched it – or even saw it.”
“I thought you said you liked girls?”
“I think I do, but it's kind of – well, theoretical.”
“Theoretical? Theoretical!” Now she was laughing harder than before. She laughed so hard that she had to sit on a bench to recover. When she did, she asked, “Well, are you going to let me see it? You want me to keep my mouth shut don't you?”
“This isn't fair. I kept your secret for free.”
“Yeah, you're not me. I want to see and touch one and there aren't all that many at Braintree. So, deal?”
“Yeah, OK,” I said reluctantly. Well, my brain was reluctant anyway.
She grabbed my hand and dragged me back to the dorm. “We'll each go into the bathroom from our own side and turn on the shower, that way Kimberly and Pattie won't know we're in there together.”
“OK.” Part of me felt relieved that it wasn't my choice. Being forced made me feel less guilty.
“Well, let's see!”
I unzipped my skirt and started to grab my girdle, when she said, “No! Everything off! I want to see all of you!”
“That wasn't the deal!”
“It's my deal, so I set the rules! Strip.”
What could I do? I was starting to feel helpless, but somehow I didn't mind. Once I had my skirt and blouse off, she said, “Your bra is prettier than mine! Now, take it off so I can see you as a boy.”
I did.
“Whoa! Where did you get those? They're bigger than mine … You on hormones?”
I blushed. “They're breast forms!”
She ran her hand over them and gave them a squeeze. “They feel real.” She stoked my nipple gently. “Can you feel that?”
“Of course not.”
“Too bad, I like doing it.” She was getting flush as well. OK, girdle next.”
I popped out as soon as my girdle was down.
“This is so sexy – half girl and half boy – even if the boy half is not as big as I expected.” She reached out and touched me.
“You can feel that can't you?”
“Yes,” I managed to breathe out.
“And it feels nice? Not like a theory?”
“No, not like a theory.”
“Do you want me to hold it?”
I was silent. As soon as she wrapped he fingers around me I made a mess all over her skirt.
“Wow! No wonder my cousin complains about boys who cum too soon! … and look what you've done to my skirt!”
“I think you did it, Sue.”
“Yeah, I guess I did. That was so cool – like you'd do what ever I told you! … Well almost anyway.”
“I better rinse off so Pattie thinks I was showering. Then you can wash your skirt.”
“Yeah. I'll tell Kimberly I got spaghetti sauce on it at dinner.”
When I got back to my room my face was still flush.
“No need to guess what you were doing in there so long,” Pattie said.
God, she knows, I thought. Panic gripped me and my face reddened more.
“No need to be so embarrassed. It's not like you're the only one.”
Oh, she thinks I was … Still, I knew what happened. What I didn't know was how I felt about it. Part of me wanted to do it again as soon as possible, but part of me was humiliated that Sue had “had her way with me.” Why hadn't I stood up to her? Sure, every red-blooded boy, or girl, or whatever I was, wanted sex, but there was more than that. Part of me liked Sue telling me what to do. It gave me a rush. I didn't know if I liked that part of me. A final part of me felt that the whole thing was wrong in a way too vague to figure out.
Anyway, I was very embarrassed, and Pattie smirking didn't help. I decided she didn't deserve to be tutored in algebra – at least not tonight. Putting on my satin nitie did make me feel better. Despite what happened when Sue held my boy part, I felt like such a girl. I sat quietly for a while, unable to concentrate on my homework. Eventually, my conscience got the better of me. It wasn't Pattie's fault that I let myself be Sue's toy. So, I helped Pattie understand the algebra axioms and how they worked. When I finished, I felt better about myself.
My homework didn't take long until I got to my women's history essay. I read about Sappho on line to see what was fact and what was Ms. Crawford “filling in gaps.” There was a lot of filling in. Still, Ms. Crawford had a point – if women had written her history, we'd know a lot more about Sappho. Maybe we'd know what Ms. Crawford filled in. I thought about Judy complaining that's not how you do history, and Sue saying it didn't matter because Ms. Crawford was the teacher and we should just tell her what she wants to hear.
Once I got started, the beginning of my essay went fast. I stated the facts, and used weasel words to add Ms. Crawford's fill-ins: “we can imagine that …” and “it's natural to think that …” The hard part was deciding what sort of role model Sappho was for us – well, you know, for women. I was stuck there for a while. Finally, I thought, “What kind of role model was she for me?” The artistic part was easy. I related it to my dress designing – Ms. Crawford would eat that up. The lesbian part was harder to figure out. I thought about John making out with me, kissing and snuggling with Pattie, and being Sue's toy. I finally wrote that Sappho figured out who she was and who she loved, and we should all admire that. It sure was something I hadn't managed to do.
I was in bed by 9:30 and quickly asleep. The fawns again. This time I was one, but Sue had put a collar around my neck and attached a leash. She was leading me on a beautiful walk by the creek. The other fawns were looking at me. I was proud she'd selected me to be her pet, but then the other fawns started snickering. I wanted to go back and play with them but she was pulling on the leash, choking me. I woke up with my nitie tangled around me so badly that I had to get out of bed to straighten it.
When I went back to sleep I was in women's history sitting at an old fashion double desk with Sue. She had her hand under my skirt, caressing my thigh. Ms. Crawford saw her doing it and smiled. Sue pushed her hand between my legs. I relaxed them a little and she moved her hand up. I woke up pulsing in my panties – my first wet dream.
When the morning bell rang, I'd slept little and was nauseous to boot. I decided to skip breakfast and see nurse Snyder instead. I had to wait on the bench outside of her office until she arrived a little after 7:30.
“What seems to be the problem, dear?”
“I think I must have a bug. I've been nauseous every morning for about a week.”
“Any fever?”
I shook my head no.
She swiped an electronic thermometer across my forehead and into my ear. “Looks like you're fine. A lot of our girls get nauseous at first, but you'll find it's worth it. It should go away in a week or two.” She went to a cupboard and put some pills in a tiny envelop. “Take one of these in the morning if your tummy's bothering you. You'll feel better in about 15 minutes.”
“Thanks.”
“Off you go, dear.”
I took a pill at the drinking fountain. As I walked to algebra, I wondered what could be worth it?
The rest of the morning was pretty uneventful. I got called to the board in algebra and so pleased Ms. Harding with my explanation that she set me a harder problem that I also figured out. In women's history we learned how Aristotle thought women were defective males, and ranked them below men but higher than slaves. In French we learned the rules of pronunciation and were individually asked to pronounce words Mlle. Bonbleu wrote on the board. One or two of the girls got a ruler on their open palms for prononciation de horrible. Michele had us line up by height, put our arms on each other's shoulders, and practice synchronized high kicks until our muscles ached. I figured they'd come in handy if I ever needed to defend whatever was left of my virtue. It did instill a sense of unity and timing. We looked pretty good in the mirror before we pooped out.
All the while, what happened with Sue would pop into my head, and every time it did, it was painfully embarrassing. Not only had I let Sue “have her way with me,” but I had completely lost control and messed all over her skirt. On top of that, she'd said my penis didn't measure up! I wondered if she'd seen other boys or looked at dirty pictures like some of the boys at Emerson did. Anyway, the whole thing made me so nauseous I didn’t want to repeat it.
At lunch Sue came by our table. Luckily, there was no room for her, so she looked frustrated. She asked where I was at breakfast. I said I wasn't feeling well and went to see nurse Snyder.
“Yeah, periods can be real bitches!” she said before leaving reluctantly.
I didn't know how to take that. Maybe it was just her way of keeping my secret. Judy and Pattie both looked at me like, what was that about? I shrugged.
Part of me wanted to talk to someone, maybe Judy, or even Dr. Koebler, but it was so painful thinking about it, I decided it would be best if I just pretended it didn't happen. Besides, what could Judy do? And, if I talked to Dr. Koebler, I'd probably get in trouble.
In English, Ms. Cunningham moderated a spirited discussion about Sarah Scott and the Bluestockings. She read passages and asked us to relate them to her life events. We all agreed that 18th century England was a crappy place to live if you were female. We wondered if her husband was gay. Either way, it was easy to see why Sarah never consummated her marriage and preferred the companionship of Lady Barbara Montagu. Psych was a different story. I alternated between falling asleep and waking up at hearing Dr. Koebler say things that reminded me of what Sue and I did. Luckily, I didn't fall out of my seat, and she didn't ask or expect questions. Art was easier to stay awake for. We learned how sculpture developed from bas relief and fertility idols to the fluid creations of classical Greece
After class, Sue stopped me in the hallway, wanting to talk. She had a look I couldn't read. I told her I had an appointment and didn't have time. Still, I got very uncomfortable tucked back in my girdle. I hurried off to the library, like I was supposed to meet someone there.
When I got there I saw Sue following me. Maybe she didn't believe me, or maybe she wanted to see who I was meeting. Looking around, I saw Judy sitting at a table, making notes in a book.
“What cha readin'?”
“The Power of Women in a Post Modern Society.” She showed me the cover.
“Is it good?”
“Well, it's got some good points, but there's a lot of bull shit about power making truth. You have to sort the potatoes from the manure. You want to read it when I'm done?”
“I think I'll pass.”
“If your going to be a girl at this school, you should learn about this stuff.”
“Maybe you could just tell me what I need to know when your done?”
“Maybe,” she said noncommittally.
“Mel, did you know that Sue followed you in and is behind the Greek literature shelves spying on us?” she said, not looking directly in Sue's direction.
“Oh, God!”
“What's with the two of you?”
'”It's embarrassing.”
“It can't be any more embarrassing than pretending to be a girl, or making out with Pattie.”
“We weren't making out, just kissing … But, yeah, it is … more embarrassing I mean.”
“Do tell.”
“Not here, someone might hear, let’s go for a walk by the creek.”
Judy said she thought we were being followed. I glanced back, and saw Sue darting into the trees behind us, but she was too far away to hear us.
“It started the other morning when I was brushing my teeth and Sue came into the bathroom to pee …” I told her the whole story except what I promised Sue I would keep secret. The missing parts made Judy ask embarrassing questions, but I just said there were some things I promised not to talk about.
“So that's why she was buzzing around at breakfast and lunch, and spying on us in the library. You're her boy-girl toy. How do you feel about that?”
“Confused.”
“Confused?”
“Yeah, part of me liked it, part of me is mad because she changed the rules, but mostly I'm so embarrassed by it all I just want to pretend it didn't happen.”
“I don't think Sue's going to let you pretend it didn't happen.” With that she turned and waved at Sue who was trying to hide in some bushes about 30 yards away. She blushed and ran off.
“I wish you hadn't done that. I don't know what she'll do now.”
“She'll do whatever you let her do, so you better decide what that is.”
“Yeah. Thanks.” I walked back to my room. There was no sign of Sue.
I tried my best to put Sue out of my mind and do my homework. Mostly I succeeded, but whenever I'd try to relax between tasks, the memory of what happened would pop into my mind. I found myself reaching up under my skirt and fondling myself through my panties. I was fantasizing being held and kissed, but who was doing it was very vague. It wasn't long until I made a mess of my panties. If I didn't change them, my skirt would soon be stained, but if I got fresh panties and changed, Pattie would know what I'd been doing. I decided it would be worse if she saw a wet spot on my skirt. So, I got a fresh pair of panties and retreated to the bathroom.
“My God, Mel, don't you have any self control?”
“I guess not,” I admitted shame-faced.
Once in the bathroom, I realized how tired I was after my stressful day and decided to get ready for bed. Then I realized that if I'd taken my nitie out of the drawer with my clean panties, Pattie wouldn’t have guessed what I was doing. Oh well. Live and learn.
I slept so soundly that I didn't remember my dreams. I woke early. By the time I was in the bathroom, I was so nauseous I threw up. I remembered mom telling me how she got morning sick when she was first pregnant with me. It flashed through my mind that I could be pregnant. Surprisingly, the idea made me smile. Of course, I couldn’t be. So I took one of my new pills, and felt better in a few minutes.
The bell hadn’t rung by the time I opened the door to leave. I thought maybe I could get breakfast early and so avoid Sue. It was not to be. She was in the hall leaning against the wall opposite my door.
“You've been avoiding me!”
“Yes, I have. I'm just too embarrassed to talk to you.”
“I don't care, we need to talk. It's early, we can take a walk before breakfast,” she said, grabbing my hand. I did not realize how strong she was – or how weak I was. Either way, I couldn't get my hand free, so I stumbled after her. The quad was almost empty, so we had privacy as soon as we got outside.
“You told her, didn’t you?”
“Huh?”
“You told Judy what happened?”
“Yeah, but I kept your secret, like I promised.”
“What do you mean?”
“I just told her you found out I was a boy and wanted to see me nude. I didn’t tell her how you found out, or that you like girls.”
“Oh,” she said like the air got let out of her. She thought for a while before saying “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome – but that’s not all is it? I mean you were trying to talk to me all day before I talked to Judy.”
“Yeah, I was.” She blushed. “I wanted to say … to say I didn’t like it. … touching it … I mean your … ah … part. I think I don’t really like boys. I know I don’t.”
“Really? It’s not like I forced you. It’s more like you forced me.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I’m really ashamed of myself. No one should force a girl or woman – even if she is a boy. I’ll turn myself in and quit Braintree if you like.”
“You don’t need to do that, we’re all learning. I don’t think you’ll do it again.”
“I won’t,” she said quietly. “Is Judy going to tell everyone what a slut I am?”
“You’re not a slut, just curious like we all are – and no, Judy’s not like that. She won’t tell anyone.”
Sue started crying, then sobbing. I held her to me. When she regained her composure, I said “Let’s have some breakfast.” We both walked with a lighter step.
Andragyne
Carlie has sissy predispositions, but overcomes difficulties with love, courage and increasing self-awareness.
Carlie has sissy predispositions, but overcomes difficulties with love, courage and increasing self-awareness. This chapter outlines his early life.
Carlie
I. Beginnings
Some would say it started the night my dad blew up the house, but I think it started one day in the grocery, or perhaps even earlier, on my fourth birthday. Yes, I think it was when I turned four. Dad gave me a baseball and bat, and mom gave me a baby doll. I could hardly swing the bat and was scared of being hit by the ball. So, my first sports experience was frustrating for both dad and me. Maybe if he’d given me a wiffle ball and bat things would have been different, but he didn’t.
You might think that mom giving me a baby doll was meant to feminize me. It wasn't, at least not in the sense of turning me into a girl, or even dressing me like one. She just thought that all children should look forward to caring for real babies. Mom spent a lot of time teaching me how to care for Nancy, as I called my dolly. I really liked playing with her and couldn't wait to care for a real baby. At four, the neighborhood boys didn’t tease me about playing with dolls, but neither were they interested. The girls, however, were glad to play with me. I enjoyed playing with them and loved their company more than that of boys. Dad thought I was a bit of a sissy, not liking baseball, loving dolls and playing with girls. Mom kept him under control, so he was not mean to me, just disappointed.
Mom also taught me how to fix things, as she was the handy one. Dad liked to think he did the repairs, but generally Mom, and later I, helped him, reminding him to turn off the water before working on the plumbing, remembering the sequence of parts for reassembling things, and so on. Unaided, there was a 50% chance that whatever he was working on would not only be worse off, but a complete wreck.
When mom took me to register for school, there was a clerical mix up, and I wound up in first grade instead of kindergarten. As I did well, mom saw no point in correcting the error. Still, I was small compared to my classmates. In fact, I would have been small even in kindergarten, because both mom and dad were small. Given my size and the fact that I didn't like sports, I was usually chosen last for teams, and came to hate sports even more. This didn't matter to most of the girls, so most of my friends continued to be girls.
Mom was killed in a traffic accident when I was seven. Dad and I lived alone from then on. He tried to “man me up,” by watching sports with me. I learned about baseball, football, basketball and hockey to please him, but privately thought it was silly for grown men to chase balls and fight over pucks. On his side, he accepted that most of my friends were girls and that my interests generally followed theirs.
Dad and I did all the work around the house. I did most of the shopping, cooking and washing once I was old enough. He did the yard and we both cleaned the house each weekend. We worked on repairs together. I'd learned from mom how to let him think he was doing them with my help when really there was little chance he could do them alone.
I was 14 when I met Sandra grocery shopping. She was picking out cantaloupes by smelling them, and I asked her how to pick sweet ones. She saw my full cart, and asked why I was grocery shopping on my own. I said I was the homemaker in our family. She asked how that happened. After a while I figured the conversation was centering too much on me, and told her how adorable her baby was, and that I was looking forward to having my own baby to care for when I got older. She was surprised and asked if I knew all that involved. I said I did and explained how mom had taught me to care for Nancy.
Sandra was a lawyer and her maternity leave was ending soon, so she was looking for a nanny. She didn’t want to put Lizabeth, her baby, in day care and expose her other kid's diseases. She asked if I’d like watching her. It was early summer, and I had no job, so I said it would be wonderful. She asked me to come over the next day and she would give me a trial to see how much I really knew about babies.
When Dad came home from the bank, I told him I'd lined up a job. He was happy until I said it was being a nanny. He asked if that wasn’t a girl’s job. I said it won’t be if I’m doing it, because I am a boy. I spent the next two days at Sandy’s apartment learning how to feed, change and generally care for Liz. After the first day I did it all on my own, with Sandy watching, offering suggestions and corrections. But mostly, she read and worked on the computer while I cared for Liz. She was impressed by the way I carried her with me, talking to her and giving her little kisses. When she was down for her naps I put on an apron and did the dishes or dusted. After the second day, she announced that I was her official nanny for the rest of the summer and gave me a little certificate she'd printed on the computer.
I loved Liz, and she came to love me. I enjoyed dressing her like a living doll and teaching her as mom had taught me. When she was old enough, I gave her Nancy. She asked her mother for another baby doll so Nancy could still be my dolly whenever we played. “Carlie” was one of her first words, and Sandy started calling me Carlie too. Sandy was surprised by my domestic skills, and made me proud of being a homemaker and nanny.
When summer ended I went back to school and Liz took her chances in day care. I continued to baby sit whenever Sandy needed me. Sandy and I grew close. She helped me with problems like a mom, so I was happy to be at her place.
Most of my school friends were girls. Judy was my best friend, but not a girlfriend in the romantic sense. When we talked the topics were skewed toward feminine interests, even her boyfriends. We both liked to brag on the babies we cared for, as if they were our own. Judy even told me when her monthlies were giving her cramps or putting her mood off. She also liked my fashion sense better than her mother's and would take me clothes shopping with her.
My only real male friend was Jason, who a lot of people assumed was gay. He never made a pass at me, so I assumed he was like me — not interested in the things most boys were obsessed with — including girls. We'd both gone through puberty, of course, and did the things boys do with themselves, but we weren't ready to hit on girls. I don't know about Jason, as he didn't spend as much time with girls as I did, but for me girls were more people with common interests than sex objects.
As a result of talking mostly with girls, I used a lot of their words and expressions. I also used their movements and body language. Dad tried to correct me for a while, telling me boys don't say “lovely,” “darling,” or “scrumptious” or stand the way I stood. I tried, but doing as he said meant holding my feelings in until I was ready to explode. Even tually, he gave up.
Things went along uneventfully until the spring of my senior year, near my seventeenth birthday. One Saturday morning dad and I went to the plumbing supply to get a new hot water heater. I'd just helped him carry it to the basement when the phone rang. Sandy urgently needed me to watch Liz. I told dad not to install the new water heater until I got home to help him, and I rushed out to meet Sandy.
Carlie has sissy predispositions, but overcomes difficulties with love, courage and increasing self-awareness. In this chapter: disaster and turmoil.
II. A Sudden Change
Liz was 3 and a joy to be with. We played dolls all morning and I was about to cook lunch when a large explosion shook the house. Liz cried and wet herself. I held, comforted and changed her. Meanwhile I could hear sirens rushing to the disaster, whatever it might be. When things quieted down after lunch, I put Liz in her crib for a nap. Sandy came home about 5:00 and we all got in her car to take me home. When I got there, instead of a home I had a smoking hole surrounded by splinters of wood and debris. A fire marshal and a policemen were poking around, trying to determine the cause. To me it was obvious: dad had tried to replace the hot water heater by himself and forgot to turn off the gas. I ran out of the car, shocked and numb, hysterically looking for my dad. Finally, the fireman grabbed me and I blacked out. I remember crying as Sandy held me, and then being in the shower.
The next morning I woke in Sandy’s queen sized bed dressed in lavender satin PJs and a wet diaper. It was almost noon. Embarrassed, I took off the diaper, put it in the trash and showered. When I came out, I found a pair of plain white panties on the bed. Seeing nothing else, I put them on and got back into the PJs. I walked into the kitchen. Liz hugged me and told me she was sorry about my daddy, which started me crying again. I wasn’t hungry, but ate a bit of bacon and eggs. Sandy told me a social worker would come at 1:00 to decide what to do.
“To do?” I asked.
“Yes, to find you a place to live.”
“Can’t I say here with you and Liz?”
“I'd love to have you, but I don’t think social services would like the idea of a teen boy sleeping in my bed every night, and I don’t have another other place to put you.”
“In Liz’s room? No, I guess not.”
After I finished picking at my food, Sandy said I better hurry and get dressed before the social worker arrived. I asked where my clothes were. She told me I'd ripped them in the rubble running around like a crazy person. Also I'd lost control when I fainted and messed them. So, she'd thrown them out. I started to recall Sandy cleaning me with baby wipes on the bathroom floor and diapering me. I was very embarrassed. She said not to worry about it, but I still needed something to wear for the social worker's visit. Of course, all my other clothes were gone in the explosion.
Sandy said, “I have some shorts that fit before I got pregnant. I saved them, but they'll never fit me again. You could wear them if you like. They aren’t very feminine — not compared to lavender satin anyway. They're roomier in the hips and a tighter waist than your pants, but yours always looked tight on your rear and too big around your waist anyway.”
“I know, I have big hips like my mom. Pants that fit my rear are loose at the waist. So, I get the smallest ones I can and wear my belt tight.”
“Since my old PJs you fit you, the shorts should too. Would you like them?”
“If they fit and aren't pink, sure.”
They did fit, and were a lot more comfortable than my jeans, so she gave me the lot. She also had some sleeveless tops that didn’t fit her maternal breasts, but fit me loosely. She said sleeveless wasn't just a girls' style, guys called them “muscle shirts.” I wound up in white cotton panties, white shorts and a violet “muscle shirt.” My tennis shoes were sooty, so I wore Sandy's pink flip flops.
Once I was dressed, I sat with Sandy waiting for the social worker. Liz sat next to me and gave me Nancy to hold so I'd feel better. I took her so Liz would think she was helping, but, frankly, I did feel better with my old friend and reminder of my mommy.
Promptly at 1:00 the doorbell rang, and a rather harried woman in her mid forties announced that she was Mrs. Sanchez, a county social worker, come to talk about “the Robinson child." Sandy introduced me as Carlie Robinson. I stood up to shake her hand when I realized I was holding Nancy with my right arm. As I was fumbled to switch Nancy to my left hand, Mrs. Sanchez told me to sit and relax as she knew I'd been though a lot.
She asked Sandy what relation she had to me. Sandy said that I'd been her nanny for almost three years and and she planned to file Monday to be my attorney ad litem pro bono — whatever that meant. Then the social worker turned to me and, instead of getting down to business, asked me if the dolly was mine and what her name was. I told her that my mom had given her to me, that Nancy was Liz's now, but she was mine when Liz and I played dolls. She smiled and made a note. Then she asked if I was the only child of Edward Robinson, what my birthday was, if I knew of any other living relatives, where I went to school, when I would graduate and if I had any plans for after graduation. I said I didn't know of any relatives and that I'd been accepted for the fall term at State in town.
She told me that I was a ward of the state until I was 18, but that might change when Sandy became my attorney and filed whatever motions she had in mind. In the meanwhile, regulations required that I have medical and dental exams and be given whatever treatments I might need. She would also find me a place to stay as soon as possible. She asked Sandy if I could stay with her for a day or two until she lined up a foster home. Otherwise, I'd be put in a county facility — which she did not recommend “for a child like Carlie.” Sandy said I could stay, was given some papers and told to make appointments with the county-appointed doctor and dentist. The whole interview took maybe eight minutes.
Sandy had planned to buy me some boy's clothes Sunday after the appointment, but I was too emotionally exhausted and teary to go shopping. Mostly I answered Judy's and Jason's concerned texts, watched a Disney princess video with Liz, and slept. Judy came over in the afternoon and hugged me. Shortly after, Jason came too. I was lousy company, so after an hour Judy gave me a kiss with tears in her eyes, and left. When she was gone, Jason told me he loved me, but knew I was “not like that.” Then he gave me a tender embrace and kiss, and left too. I was touched.
That night Sandy suggested that I wear a Depends to bed, since I'd had an “accident” the night before. I did, but I hardly slept and got up several times to pee just in case. I woke dry.
Monday, Sandy filed a petition to be my attorney, and it was granted. Other than that, she stayed home working the phone and computer — making appointments and starting to look into my dad's estate. Mrs. Sanchez called to say she'd found me a place within walking distance of State with a couple that usually hosted exchange students. The girl they were expecting had canceled, so they had an opening. Since I was almost 17 and graduating, the judge had granted a waiver for me to stay with them even though they weren't certified foster parents. Mrs. Sanchez said I'd find them “very accepting” of my “situation.” Also, they were near the bus line, and the county would provide bus vouchers for me to finish at my current school.
When my Nikes were washed, we found holes burned in them. Sandy gave me a plain pair of black flats to wear. While I sat with Liz, she packed a gym bag for me. Finally, it was time to go. She took me out for a delicious Mexican dinner, then drove me to my new home.
The couple I was to stay with, Katherine and Shannon, was lesbian and usually only hosted girls. They were making an exception for me. Their home was a modest three bedroom Cape Cod. They seemed very nice, but, like many lesbian couples, lived on a tight budget. They shared the master bedroom. The second bedroom belonged to Shannon's daughter, Kelly, who was at college. The third they occasionally rented as a B & B in the summer and used for exchange students the rest of the year. After a brief conversation, Sandy promised to keep in touch, said I could call her any time, and left me to settle in.
Shane (as she liked to be called) and Kate lead me to my room. Kate had refinished a mismatched bed, dresser, desk and makeup table in white with antique gold trim so they looked like a set. She'd also made the drapes flanking the window and a gorgeous quilt in a spring flower theme. Goddesses and faerie queens printed off the Internet adorned the walls. A small bath echoed the floral theme in its towels and rugs. Fragrant soaps, shampoos, and lotions stood on a pink counter top. I cried at how lovely it all was and told them it was stunning. They were both genuinely happy that I liked it, and Kate beamed proudly.
Kate stayed to help me unpack. She was concerned that I had only one small bag. I said all my things were lost in the explosion. I was not to worry — the county had given them a budget to buy me “some lovely new things.”
She found Nancy on top and handed her to me. I placed her on the dresser as a reminder of my mom. I wished I had pictures, but alas, they were gone with the rest of my life in the explosion. Next came the shorts, “muscle shirts” and panties that no longer fit Sandy. There were three pairs of slacks I hung in the closet. Near the bottom Kate found “my” lavender PJs. If they weren't enough to make me blush, under them were a couple dozen Depends. Kate saw them as she handed me the PJs, but said nothing. She left me to put them in the dresser. It was only 8:30, but I was drained from stress and lack of sleep. I put on my PJs and went to the kitchen say good night.
They could see that I was exhausted, but needed to tell me the house rules. Shane said I must tell them where I went, be home by 10:00 PM if I didn't clear a later time, help with the housework (we'd divide up tasks later) and not pee standing up, because they couldn't abide males “making the floor pissy.” (I never liked cleaning pee off the floor myself.) All the rules seemed reasonable. So, I readily agreed.
I turned to go to bed when Kate said she had an idea to help me relax. She invited me to sit by her and slowly brushed my hair, telling me that 100 stokes every night would make it lustrous. Her mother had brushed hers every night, and, if I didn't mind, she'd like to do mine. It would also give us a chance to talk when I needed to. It was very relaxing, but I was tired and sad, and didn't say much. When she was done brushing my hair, she asked if she could trim it, “just a little.” Too tired to give it much thought, I nodded. She put a towel over my shoulders, trimmed the sides and back, and then cut my (previously non-existent) bangs above my eyebrows. When she was done, she patted me on the bottom and said, “Off to bed.” I started to leave, but she held my hand and whispered, “Be sure to wear your protection. The mattress is new.”
Back in my room, I saw a girlish bob with bangs in the mirror. I dreaded the teasing I'd get at school. Maybe I could say it was Beatles style. But right then, in lavender PJs and bangs I looked like a sissy or maybe a flat-chested girl. I decided it really didn't matter. Compared with loosing my father and home, how I looked wasn't worth thinking about.
I cradled Nancy and started getting into bed when I remembered Kate's reminder. I'd never wet the bed. Well, not until Saturday night. Still, I was a guest and shouldn't take chances. Reluctantly, I pulled down my PJs and replaced my panties with a diaper. I'd expected to feel embarrassed, but strangely, the diaper, my diaper, felt comforting. I hugged Nancy and cried. I didn't think I'd miss my dad so much, but I really hurt — and it brought back the pain of loosing mommy. As exhaustion and sadness overtook me, my thumb found its way into my mouth.
I had strange dreams. Mommy was holding me, then nursing me. Then Sandy was giving me her breast. Sandy turned into Kate brushing my hair, and tying a bow at the back of a blue play dress she'd put on me. Later, I asked her to change my diaper. I woke up. It was 2:00 and I realized my diaper did need changing! I'd forgotten to use the bathroom before going to bed. I got up and took off my diaper. Someone, probably Kate, had put white plastic bags on the bathroom counter. I put my wet diaper in one and cleaned myself with a washcloth. I sat and drained my almost empty bladder. Taking no chances, I put on dry diaper. It made me feel warm inside and safe, almost as if someone were holding me.
I woke about 9:00, wondering if I'd wet again. Happily, I was dry. I showered, and shampooed and conditioned my hair. It had a sheen and body reminiscent of shampoo commercials. I put on fresh panties, shaved my virtually non-existent beard, and wondered how to style my hair. It would be rude to change the style Kate had given me without trying it a few days, so I parted my hair in the middle and brushed my bangs forward. It was a cute style, and I liked it. I took a cell picture and sent it to Judy and Jason. Judy texted back “Fab gf!” Jason said “For me?” I blushed.
It was a cold morning, so I opted for slacks. I choose a black pair with a fly. They were a cotton-poly blend that flowed like water, but dragged on the floor. The other two pair had elastic waists, were flyless and the same length anyway. Maybe Shane or Kate could shorten them. I put on a royal blue “muscle shirt” and the flats Sandy'd given me. I was cold, so I put my PJ top over my shirt.
Shane was already at work. (She was an elementary school principal.) Kate was the home maker and worked as a substitute teacher until she could be hired full time. She saw that I was cold and loaned me a periwinkle cardigan. After a breakfast of fruit, unsugared cereal and skim milk, I asked if she could shorten my slacks. She said they were meant to be worn with heels, not flats. Also, I had doctor's appointment in an hour, so there was no time for alterations. Shane had some sensible black boots that might fit. I could borrow them.
The boots were “sensible,” but still had a 2” heel. Still, they were less feminine than the flats Sandy'd given me. Kate loaned me cranberry boot socks that came almost to my knees. Although a bit narrow in the foot, the boots fit well enough. Once they were on, the slacks were a perfect length, but the heels made my butt more prominent. Oh well.
Kate told me the plan for the day was to go to the county medical center for my exam, and then to the mall for clothes shopping. Kate hated being late for anything, so as soon as I got the boots on, we left.
We got there 15 minutes early. Even so, I had to wait an hour before “Carlie Robinson” was called. The nurse gave me a urine container. When I returned it, she took my height, weight, BP and three vials of blood. I sat a long while, maybe waiting for the lab, then the doctor saw me. She had me pull up my top and drop my pants. She said nothing about my black nylon panties or cranberry socks, but I still felt like a complete sissy. I was healthy except for my acne, and she promised to prescribe something for it.
My panties were still on display when a nurse poked her head in. Luckily, I had my back to her. The doctor said, “Carlie Robinson, standard regimen — acne.” The nurse made a note and the doctor left me to pull my pants up. Total time: 3:45 minutes by my watch. I was given an appointment for a follow up blood test in a month, and sent to the dispensary. After another long wait, the pharmacist gave me my meds and asked if I'd taken BC pills before. I'd never had a prescription before, so I said no. She said, “Don't worry, everyone in the system gets them. They should help the tetracycline clear up your acne. They might make you a little nauseous at first, but that should pass in a week or so. If not, call the doctor. Any questions?” I was tired and had to pee, so I said no.
As I waked out to meet Kate I looked in the bag and found a three month supply of birth control pills and tetracycline, each with three renewals. I'm not the brightest bulb in the box, but I knew what birth control pills were for. I just didn't know they gave them to boys. The pharmacist said everyone in the system got them. Maybe they stopped boys from getting girls preggers. I remembered Judy saying they cleared up her acne. The doctor had promised something for my acne, and the pharmacist said they'd help. I decided that's why I got them.
Carlie
III. Back to Boyhood (Sort of)
While I felt and looked cute in the clothes I'd been wearing, I couldn't wear them to school. So I was firm with Kate about not wanting things that were too “lovely” at the mall. I needed an outfit for my father's memorial service, so we started at a discount men's wear store. A suit would have blown the budget, so I got black wool slacks and a navy sports jacket. As the tailor started measuring me for my pants, he said, “Will you be wearing these slacks with the heels your wearing, miss?” If I was embarrassed when the doctor and nurse saw my panties and said nothing, you can imagine my color then. Kate said no, we'd be back in an hour or so when I'd gotten the shoes I'd be wearing.
We went a discount store, but didn't find dress shoes we could afford. Kate did find a dress shirt and tie, some generic jeans that fit (i. e. girls'), a couple of polo shirts and a sweater. Payless had a shop worn pair of girls' black loafers with a 1” stacked heel for $9.99. They were leather and not obviously feminine. (The cheapest black boys' shoes were $24.99 and not real leather.) We got them, but I couldn’t wear them to the men’s store because my slacks would drag. Once there, I put on my new shoes and changed into slacks to be measured. The tailor, seeing my cranberry socks, (and my panties when he adjusted the waist) was still convinced I was a flat chested girl — until he measured my inseam and ran into something he hadn't expected. He was very professional, but now he was as red as I was. Everyone was relieved when finally we left.
Kate and I tallied up our purchases. We didn't have enough for new underwear. I'd be wearing panties a while longer. They felt nice, so I didn't mind as long as I wasn't teased.
When we got home I texted LOL to Judy about being on BC pills for my acne. She thought it strange, but said they really helped with hers, so give 'em a try. She also said I shouldn't take the tetracycline too long as I could get thrush, whatever that is. I didn't text Jason as I thought he might take my being on BC pills as some kind of encouragement. I know that makes no sense, but it's what I thought. Kate made us a late lunch and I took a nap. I didn't wear a diaper, but made sure to empty my bladder.
I stayed home until my father's memorial service on Saturday. I took tetracycline and a BC pill every day. The pharmacist was right, they made me a bit nauseous at first. By Saturday, it was hard to be sure, but my acne seemed marginally better. Maybe the pills were starting to work. I also wore a diaper every night, but only needed it once more — the night of my doctor's appoint ment — maybe because I felt like such a sissy. After that, I got my control back, but they felt so comforting I continued wearing them to bed. Maybe it was a rationalization, but I told myself better safe than sorry.
Saturday I wore my new slacks and jacket to the service. There was no body, so it didn't last very long. Judy and her parents were there. Jason came alone. Sandy, Kate and Shane came and there were some people from dad's bank and a couple of our old neighbors. Everyone was very nice except a guy from the bank who kept looking at me like I was a freak. Sandy had arranged lunch and, as I later found out, paid for the whole thing. I cried a lot and didn't say much. I half wished I'd worn a diaper because I wanted to shrink away, be a baby and forget everything.
Monday, I went back to school. No one said anything about my bobbed hair or girl's jeans and loafers, except Jason and Judy. They both liked the look. I think everyone else felt sorry for me and decided to give me as break.
Later that week I realized I'd forgotten my 17th birthday, which was the day of my father's service. When I told Jason, he offered to take me to a movies for my birthday. We saw “Stardust.” We both enjoyed its combination of adventure, romance and comedy and it took my mind off my dad. Jason held my hand and I let him. He also touched my bare leg affectionately as we watched the movie, but didn’t try anything. At the end he kissed me on the lips, but with no tongue. After, as we ate pizza, he asked me if I’d like to wear dresses like Robert De Niro in the movie. I hadn’t thought about it. Later I decided it would be too embarrassing. When he dropped me off, I gave him a hug and a thank you kiss. From then on we had a movie and pizza date each weekend. He was a gentleman and we never did more than innocent kissing. His affection made me warm but not excited. I wasn’t ready to think about what it might mean
I toned down my femme look at school at the beginning of May when the county’s check came. We went to Costco. I got khakis that Kate took in and white tennies to wear instead of my girl’s jeans and loafers. There was enough money for boy's underpants, but I'd been wearing panties for weeks without repercussions after the embarrassing day of my medical. I liked how they felt and looked, so I didn't replace them. It was getting humid and I needed undershirts. On one side of the aisle were men's white tees. Across the aisle were cheerfully colored camisoles styled like wife beaters. I needed cheering up, so I bought two three-packs of bright camis. They were softer and stretchier than boys’ undershirts.
There were only a couple weeks of school left. My teachers saw I was depressed and Shane had called my principal to ask that I be let out of finals. So, I was. My skin was smoother and softer and my hair shone from brushing and conditioning. Jason was the first to notice and asked if I was doing anything different. I told him I was taking acne meds but not what. He said he should get some. Judy, who knew I was taking BC pills, snickered a bit.
Meanwhile, Sandy had been working on my dad's estate. I didn't have much coming as the house was underwater, and the bank took most of what my dad owned. I had my saved nanny wages, some social security benefits if I stayed in school, and the county would pay Shane and Kate to keep me until I was 18. That was about it. Maybe it would cover resident tuition at State and used texts. Of course, I was welcome to continue as Liz's nanny. I could apply for emancipation, but then I'd be on my own and the county payments would stop. Sandy felt I was still too fragile to be on my own, so she recommended against it. Since I was still playing baby every night, I knew I wasn't ready to be an adult.
Graduation was pretty much a non-event. Sandy threw me a small party at her apartment with Shane’s and Kate’s help. Judy and Jason showed up, but they had their own celebrations, so didn't stay long. Even though I was barely 17, I got to have a rum and coke to celebrate. It was good and made me a little high, but I couldn't see what the big deal about alcohol was.
At home, Kate continued brushing my hair every night, and I started relaxing with her. I even told her I was taking BC pills for my acne, and asked if she thought it was OK. She thought they did me a lot of good. The week after graduation the weather heated up, and I wore shorts, camis and “muscle shirts” all the time. Kate suggested that I'd look better with shaved legs and underarms. I knew it was a sissy thing to do, but no one I knew would mind, and I'd look cuter, so I did it. I even plucked the few hairs on my chest. Sandy noticed my smooth legs the next day and said they looked fabulous. Judy stuck her tongue out at me because mine looked better than hers. Jason rubbed his hand gently up and down, feeling how smooth they were, but I made him stop after the first repeat. It felt nice, but I did not want to go there, not with a boy anyway.
Since I was shaving my legs, Kate thought I might like wedge sandals to show them off. She got me a pair with cork soles and a 2” heel as a belated birthday present. Shane got me a messenger bag to carry my things in since some of my shorts had no pockets. Not long after Kate persuaded me to try a perm. My new curls were cute, but hardly boyish. Still, I loved them.
I rode the bus to and from Sandy’s morning and evening. Riding with me were a lot of women who worked as cleaners or nannies. One, Lupe, often got off at my stop and we walked the same way for a block or so before she turned off. Naturally, we get to know each other. She had a degree in Latin American literature from a university in Guatemala, but the only jobs she could find here were as a nanny or housekeeper. She was taking night courses to qualify as a Spanish language teacher, but had a long way to go.
After a few days, she said, “You’re a boy, aren’t you?”
I didn’t take offense at being asked, and admitted I was.
“I thought so, but I was not sure. You look nice as a girl, but have no tetas, boobs.” She paused, glancing across as we walked and wondering if she should press on. Seeing that I wasn’t offended, she did. “Why do you dress as a girl and work as a niá±era, a nanny?”
“I love children and wish I could have my own baby to mother.”
“So you are afeminado, gay?”
“I don’t know. I go to the movies every Saturday with a boy who likes me that way, but I’m not sure if I like him like that. We never do anything — you know — physical, except kiss.”
“Then why do you go with him?”
"I’m not sure. He’s been my friend a long time and I like doing it.”
“Is it fair to him and to you not to know?”
“Probably not.” At that point we came to the corner where we parted and said good bye.
I walked stunned that I couldn’t answer Lupe’s questions. I must be one of the most unreflective people in the world. Later, I went easier on myself and thought it had come to a head while I was still wrapping my mind around losing my dad. I needed to think more about who and what I was.
By that time I'd been on BC pills for about 2 months. I’d noticed my nipples getting swollen and tender. They would have been really sore if my new camis hadn’t prevented them chafing against my shirt. My areolas seemed larger too. My chest looked like a 10-11 year old girl’s. Maybe I was getting tetas. If I pressed hard on my areolas, they hurt, but if I rubbed my nipples gently, I got excited.
Should I call the doctor, as the pharmacist had suggested, or did I like my girlish development? I was getting over the depression from losing my dad, school was over, so I had more time and energy to think. Lupe’s questions gave new urgency to deciding if I was gay. I liked Jason, and the affection and kisses he gave me. I even liked going on dates with him, but I couldn’t see myself getting physical with him — or any other boy for that matter. Dating and kissing might be fun, but Lupe was right, it wouldn't be fair to him or me when he wanted to get intimate.
I wondered if I was transsexual. I liked being maternal — taking care of Liz. I liked my cute curls, smooth legs, round tush filling out my shorts and how my budding breasts felt when I caressed them. I might even want to let them grow, but I didn't hate my penis or want a vagina.
I wasn't sure what I was — other than a sissy. I couldn't deny being a sissy. I liked dressing, acting, and looking like a girl. I thought and talked like a girl, but I still liked my boy parts and didn't want to become female. If I ever got married, it would be to a girl. Once I figured out that I was a sissy, I texted Judy. She responded. “Like Duh. Thats why ur my bestest gf.” I didn't text Jason, because he might misunderstand the kind if sissy I was. I told Kate everything that night as she brushed my hair. She wasn't surprised or shocked. In fact, she was pleased that I'd come to a level of self awareness and acceptance. Still, for me, it was a big admission.
Carlie has sissy predispositions, but overcomes difficulties with love, courage and increasing self-awareness. In this chapter, he learns to stop fooling himself and finds a direction in life.
Carlie
IV. My New Self
I was a sissy. I liked my cute perm, smooth legs, round tush and pointy chest. Once I admitted it to myself and saw that the people I loved and who loved me didn't think less of me, I wanted to see what a dress, pierced ears and make up would feel like. Just then, reality intruded. First, Shane said that Kelly would be home from college that weekend. I wasn't ready to expose my femininity to some one I did not know. Second, Mrs Sanchez scheduled a visit, and I didn't want her to think that the two crazy lesbians, who I loved, had corrupted me.
In the event, things went smoothly. First, Kelly came home from college Saturday afternoon. She was almost 21 and had just finished her junior year. She was my opposite in many ways. She was 5' 11”, 155 — a solidly built tennis player on an athletic scholarship. I was 5' 6-1/2”, 128 and couldn’t make a muscle if I tried. A pony tail held her brunette hair close to her head. Mine was an auburn halo of pin curls. Her legs rippled with muscles. Mine were smooth and soft. Kelly was outgoing and decisive. I was shy and infantile. She had a 3.86 average in computer engineering. I’d finished high school with a barely respectable 3.04. My As were in English, French, social studies and home ec. I had Cs and a few hard won Bs in math and science.
I expected her to look down on me, just as the jocks in high school had. But, she was Shane's daughter — warm, concerned and sympathetic. She genuinely seemed to like me. She wasn't a model or centerfold, but I was in love as soon as I saw her. My fantasies that night proved one thing forever — I might be a sissy, but I definitely wasn't gay.
The next day I texted Judy about Kelly all day long. She promised to come by and meet her for herself. I should say that Judy had a boy friend, David, she often texted me about — so fair is fair. Of course, I had no idea what to do about my new love.
Mrs. Sanchez came the following Wednesday. She looked much less harried — maybe because it was a normal weekday call, not an emergency, and she'd allotted time for me. I decided to be no more sissy than when she’d first met me, so I wore my white tennies, jeans and a polo shirt. Of course, my girls' jeans showed a panty line, my hair was permed and a raspberry cami could be glimpsed under my top.
She was pleased that I was up beat and in good health. She asked if I was happy living with Shane and Kate, how my grieving was going, whether I was still planning to go to State, if I was going to file for emancipation and if I’d be transitioning any time soon. I expected all the questions except the last. “Transitioning?” “Yes, you know, becoming fully a woman. You know the county won't pay for hormones. You're lucky we covered the birth control pills you got the doctor to prescribe.”
“I got her to prescribe?”
“Don’t be coy with me, Carlie. I’ve tried to be supportive, but I will not tolerate deception.”
“But, I didn’t ask for them.”
“Why else would she give you birth control pills? They're not to stop you from getting pregnant, now, are they?”
“I thought they were for my acne.”
She looked me over and raised an incredulous eyebrow. “Be that as it may … the county does not pay for HRT for boys or for sexual reassignment surgery. Still, if you want to see a counselor to begin your one year trial — you know, living as a woman full time — that would be covered.”
I decided not to press the issue, even though I hadn’t asked for BC pills. “I'm not sure what I want to do, but there's a lot I've been thinking about, so I'll take you up on counseling.”
“Good, here is a number to call.” She handed me a card. “And don't forget you have a good resource here in Kate.” She said her good byes and left.
That night, as Kate bushed my hair, I asked her what Mrs. Sanchez meant about being a good resource. She said, “I used to be a boy like you, but from what I can tell, you want to stay a feminine boy and I couldn't wait to become a woman.” That came as a shock. She went on to explain that I was placed with them because Mrs. Sanchez saw that I was feminine and probably transgendered. After all, during my interview I went by Carlie, wore women's clothes, worked as a nanny and held a doll.
I didn't think less of Kate, nor was I mad because she waited so long to tell me everything. In fact, I felt privileged to share her secret. As for everyone thinking I was TG, right after my dad's death wasn’t the best time for me to take that on. For the first time I kissed Kate like a mother and went off to bed. I had a lot to think about.
I have to admit that I was never really convinced that my BC pills were for acne. Part of me kept saying I should check with the doctor, but another part of me liked being one of the girls in the system. Now, I had to decide what to do about my breasts. When summer came, I’d reverted to sleeping in my underwear, as I did when I lived with my dad. Looking down, I saw my nipples rising on a very small swell, stretching my cami. If I didn’t want feminine breasts, I needed to stop taking my BC pills soon.
I’d already stopped taking the tetracycline because I looked up thrush, and it seemed pretty nasty. My BC pills and a facial cleanser Kate gave me kept my complexion clear without antibiotics. I didn’t want to go back to being a pimply teen. Still I could not deny what was happening to my chest.
I ran my finger tip over and around my nipples and was rewarded by a warm, almost erotic feeling. I imagined them resting on small pubescent mounds — then on the full breasts of a nursing mother. None of the images repulsed me — or even seemed foreign to who I was — except for one glaring clash. Below my camisole, I saw my night diaper.
I knew I was fooling myself, rationalizing I wore diapers to save the bed. I hadn’t wet since the night of my medical exam. I wore them because I wanted to be a baby — small, helpless, and cared for. But, here were my pointy nipples — pointing in a different direction — pointing toward motherhood — pointing in a direction I wanted to go — toward a goal I knew was absolutely impossible — even if I became a woman by the grace of modern medicine. Still, the direction they pointed was my direction. I’d known it from the time mommy gave me Nancy. It became clearer every day I took care of Liz. Now my body was physically pointing me.
I reached down and untaped my diaper and threw it in the trash. In its place I drew floral print panties up my legs. I didn’t want to get rid of my penis, but it didn’t fit my new image, so I tucked it away to have a smooth front. I smiled at the girl in the mirror, the girl who, God willing, would one day be a mom.
My dad hadn’t been religious, but my mom had. Maybe he was before she died, but lost his faith then. We used to go to Mass every Sunday and I had my first communion just before she died, so we must have been Catholic. She told me that God always answers sincere prayers, but not necessarily the way we expect. She also said that our prayers weren’t sincere unless we did everything we could to get what we’re praying for. So, I made two resolutions. First, I’d start praying again as mom had taught me and second, I’d do whatever I could to prepare for motherhood. I knelt down and prayed that I could have a child of my own to mother.
Carlie has sissy predispositions, but overcomes difficulties with love, courage and increasing self-awareness. In this chapter, Carlie starts walking the walk toward motherhood.
V. An Impossible Quest
I didn’t know how I could become a mother, but I wanted to be ready when God made me one. I knew I wanted to be able to nurse my baby, as Sandy had with Liz. So I needed breasts — not show breasts from implants, but breasts that could suckle a child. I wasn’t going to stop taking my BC pills. In fact, I was going to ask whatever counselor I got about growing bigger breasts.
I got into bed with new resolve, but my thoughts were swirling so much I couldn’t sleep. I thought that while I was waiting for God to give me my baby, I should pursue what I now saw as my “career” — being a nanny. If it was a career, wasn’t there training for it? In the morning I’d call State and make an appointment with a guidance counselor about courses I could take. Once I found something I could do, by mind quieted and I slept soundly.
In the morning I told Kate what I’d decided. She started crying. I hugged her — or rather we hugged each other because I started crying too. I asked her why she was crying.
“Because we’re so much alike. I want to be a mother too, even prayed for it, but I’ll never be one.”
“You have me, Kate, mommy — if you want me.”
“You mean it?”
I nodded.
“Oh, I do. I really do!”
We cried and hugged again. Maybe God wouldn’t answer my prayer, but He answered Kate’s. Or had I? My love answered her prayer. I remembered mom telling me “God is Love.” Maybe there was no difference between my love answering her prayer and God doing it. It was too much to think about. I just knew I was happy to have Kate be my mommy, and she wanted to give me all the love she had.
I had to catch the bus to Sandy’s, so Kate and I didn’t have much time to celebrate our new relationship. Lupe must have been working someplace else, as I didn’t see her. I texted Judy and told her everything. She was still texting me back when I got to my stop and walked to Sandy’s apartment. When I got there, I told Sandy that I had a lot to tell her. Again, there was no time as she had to leave soon after I arrived.
I treated Liz the same, but my actions took on new value now that being a nanny was my career -- and preparation for mothering my own child. During Liz’s nap I called State and made an appointment to see a guidance counselor the next night after work.
When Sandy got home we had a long talk. She was very supportive, but said it might be hard for me to find work as a male nanny. I said, “I’m working for you, aren’t I?” She had to admit that I was, so there was hope. She promised me a glowing recommendation when the time came. She said she’d noticed my nipples had gotten more prominent recently, but didn’t want to embarrass me by saying anything. I asked her to look and see if I was fooling myself about blossoming. She said that my chest looked very like hers when she was starting puberty. I left feeling good about myself and what was happening.
On the way home I texted Jason. He responded, “Awesome,” and asked if he could see my titties on our next date. I liked him a lot, and knew it would make him happy, so I said yes.
When we got home, Kate met me at the door and took me to my room where she gave me three brightly colored AA bras. I took off my top and cami, and she helped me into a padded raspberry bra. I felt ever so feminine as I ran my hands over the cups. I started crying. She beamed that her new daughter was pleased with her first bra. We hugged and cried some more. That’s what girls do.
The next day, Lupe sat next to me on the bus, but didn't get off at my stop. She encouraged me, saying I looked much better with tetas. Sandy also smiled and told me I looked particularly pretty that morning, but said nothing about my chest — maybe to avoid embarrassing me.
I went directly from Sandy’s to my appointment with Mr. Jensen, the guidance counselor at State. When I walked into his office, he said, “You are? I have an appointment with a Mr. Carl Robinson.”
“I’m Carl Robinson.”
“Oh,” he said rather uncomfortably. “What can I do for you?”
“Well, as you can see, I’m pretty feminine. I love children, and I’ve decided I want to be a professional nanny.” He had incredulity all over his face.
“Are you planning to become a woman, then? I mean physically and legally?”
“Well, I’m starting gender counseling soon, but right now I don’t think so.”
“I can’t tell you what career to follow, but I will say that a transvestite is going to have a hard time finding work as a nanny.” There was a noticeable emphasis on “transvestite.”
“Well, I’ve been a nanny every summer since I was 14 and I just came from my nanny job. So, respectfully, I think I’ll be able to find jobs. … Anyway, I’ve decided, and I just want advice on what courses to take.”
“I see. We don’t have a nanny program, but you could take early childhood education and maybe some nursing courses. We have a three year BSN program leading to an RN. There are some males in our nursing programs, but mostly women. You might feel comfortable in that crowd.” I took the emphasis on “that crowd” as a suggestion that male nurses were gay and I was too. I decided not to react to his prejudices as long as they didn’t interfere with my goals.
“About half way through the RN program, there’s the option of taking the National Council Licensure Examination for Practical Nurses and being certified as an LPN or LVN. That would qualify you to care for newborns, elderly patients and patients with long-term or chronic diseases. You could stop your nursing training there and continue with education courses. That would give you something like a double major, combining an LPN with early childhood education. Then you could work as a nurse or teacher if you can’t find a nanny job.” I went for that. He laid out a program. With 2 or 3 summer evening courses, I could finish in four years. I had to take some additional tests to qualify for the nursing program. He arranged for me to take them and tentatively start in nursing that September I thanked him and left, glad to be quit of him.
I showed mommy my program. My first year was very full, with courses in English, math, history and psychology, as well as nutrition, basic pharmacology, and pediatrics. The second year included education courses as well as obstetrics, health data collection, and medical-surgical nursing. She was very pleased that I had a direction and plan for my life. Yes, nursing and education would ensure a job if my nanny plan didn’t work out. I went to bed pleased that I was taking control of my life.
Carlie has sissy predispositions, but overcomes difficulties with love, courage and increasing self-awareness. In this chapter, Carlie begins to define his relationships.
Carlie
VI. Changing Relationships
I had my usual date with Jason that Saturday. He was working as a bus boy and had just bought a used car. After the movie and some Mexican food, he drove me out to park by the lake to watch the sunset. Parking was new, and I was a little nervous. He asked if I’d show him how my breasts were growing. He helped me off with my top, then loosened my bra. I felt so like a girl.
“Can I touch them?”
“If you don’t press too hard, that really hurts.”
The next thing I knew, he was caressing them and I was getting excited. I should have stopped him, but it felt too good. Soon he was licking and nibbling them. I lost control and made a mess in my panties. It was the first time that happened with someone else. I was sure the wet spot would show, so I was embarrassed and flustered. I told him to stop and take me right home. Jason was totally confused. I’d been enthusiastically intimate one minute and completely shut him down the next. But, I was too embarrassed and confused to think about his feelings. I just wanted to run and hide. We had a silent trip home, and I ran in holding my bag in front of my damp shorts to conceal my shame.
I ran past mommy, into my room, closed the door, and fell in tears on my bed. After a few minutes she knocked and sat silently on my bed while I tried to get control of myself.
“What happened? Did Jason try to force you to do something?” Her voice had an angry tinge.
“Oh, nothing like that. I let him see how my chest is growing and one thing led to another and I lost control and I … I messed my panties and shorts. I’m so humiliated. I didn’t want any one to see,” I said pulling the sheet over myself.
“Poor baby. That happens with lovers. It’s not terrible. It happened to me when I was still a boy. You needn’t to be embarrassed. I’m sure Jason would be happy to know you find him exciting.”
“Oh … I’m not sure I find him exciting at all. It was just … just what he was doing. My breasts are so sensitive and I … I felt so like a girl. It wasn’t him at all. It … it could have been anyone doing it. In fact I’d rather it was someone else, a girl. … So … so I don’t know how to be with him any more. I don’t know if I can be with him any more. Partly I’m crying because I’m ashamed and partly because I’ve lost Jason as a friend. I can’t see him any more.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’ll think it’s a date. Since I let him get to second base, he’ll think it’s OK to steal third and it isn’t … Not with me anyway. I don’t want to do those things with a boy.”
“Then you’ll have to sit him down and tell him.”
“I’ll text him.”
“No daughter of mine will do any such thing! That would be cowardly. Don’t think that being a sissy means being a coward, because it doesn’t. You’ve already shown me that you have courage by being who you know you are. I was so proud of how you dealt with that guidance counselor — telling him what your goal is, and not letting him change it, but accepting his expertise on how to get there — and ignoring his ignorant prejudices. Be just as courageous with Jason and maybe you won’t lose him as a friend.”
“Your right, but I can’t face it now. I’ll call in the morning and ask him over to talk.”
“That’s my girl! Now go wash our your panties so the stain does not set, take a shower and put your nitie on. Meet me in the kitchen because I have something else to discuss.” I did as she said. My nitie was a recent present that she’d made for me. It was a baby doll set, not a sexy one, but a sweet, pale pink cotton print with fairies and unicorns. I loved wearing it and imagining I was a little girl. Mommy understood that I still wasn’t ready to be completely grown up.
When I went into the kitchen I found milk and cookies set at at my place. They and my baby dolls made me feel like her little girl.
“Carlie, I got a letter today that might be important for both of us — if you were serious about accepting me as a mother.”
“Oh, I was Kate ... mommy.” I could see tears form in her eyes. She paused until she composed herself.
“As you know, I have been working part time as a substitute teacher. This letter is an offer of employment as a full time teacher. Of course the position comes with benefits for me and ... my family.” She looked at me. “That would be you if I adopted you. Would you like me to?”
“Oh, mommy, I would really. I don’t care about benefits. I just want you as my mommy.” She held out her arms and I sat in her ample lap. She hugged me to her breasts and we both cried. When we were cried out, she said she’d talk to Sandy and to the social worker Monday to see what needed to be done. By then I was emotionally drained and went to bed a happy and tired sissy girl.
Sunday I called Jason and apologized for being so rude and not telling him what was going on. I asked him over after lunch so we could talk. I decided to wear make up to look more like a girl and less like a boy. Maybe he’d see that I wasn’t the boy for him. Mommy helped me with a light foundation, eye shadow and lipstick.
When he came, he said I looked very pretty, but I could tell it wasn’t a look he found attractive. I was still embarrassed to say what happened and how I felt. Finally, I said, “When you were playing with my titties I melted inside and felt like a girl. Part of me is a girl, and that part felt so right … and what you were doing felt so good. I should have told you to stop, but I didn’t. Then I lost control and made a mess in my panties. I had a huge wet spot on my shorts. I was really embarrassed by what happened and my wet shorts. I just wanted to run and hide. So I asked you to take me home.”
“I understand. … I thought you were mad at me for forgetting you’re not gay and getting physical. I know I shouldn’t have, but your titties are so beautiful. I wanted to touch them and kiss them and well … I wasn’t thinking either. I was really confused. I mean girls have titties and so I thought you’re my girl letting me have her titties, but then I really don’t like girls but you’re a boy. So everything was going in circles and I was getting excited and … Well I made a mess about the same time as you. In fact, I thought you noticed and that’s why you were mad at me … for treating you like you’re gay when I know your not. I feel really guilty for that. Your my best friend and I drove you away treating you like we’re a gay couple instead of you being my sweet girly friend friend. Carlie, I really love you, but not like a boy, if you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I do, cuz I love you the same way, but like a boy if you know what I mean.” We both laughed. “You know, you’re a great date, Jason. You really know how to kiss and make me feel dreamy, but I shouldn’t be dating boys … not because I don’t like dating you, but because I’ll never be ready to give you the loving you deserve.”
“Yeah, I know. You’re a great date too, Carlie … so much fun to be with, but I keep wanting to go where I shouldn’t because I love you so much. I want to be with you because I love you, and I don’t go there because I love you. I like dating you and kissing you, but it’s really a strain, too … you know?”
“For me too. I love you and being with you, but every time I think about giving you what you need, it turns me off. Maybe I’d do it eventually to please you, because I love you and want you to be happy, but I’d be faking and we’d start hating each other. I don’t think we can date any more. Besides when we’re dating, your not looking for the boy of your dreams and I’m not looking for the woman of my dreams.” Jason nodded. We cried and I held his hands. Then I kissed him leaving a lipstick stain for his mother to wonder about.
I haven’t said much about Kelly. I had a bad crush on her, but she was out of my league — not that she looked down on me. Rather, she treated me like a little sister. I accepted what I could get. She was genuinely interested in my life, and once we got to know each other, she started telling me about hers, even her dates. She worked long hours as a techie for an electronics store. She dated, but respected herself too much to have sex just because her date expected it. So, a lot of her relationships ended when the guy didn’t get in her panties.
I said that I’d never expect her to have sex with me just because I dated her long enough. She said I wouldn’t date her anyway because I liked boys. I tried to say I liked girls, but it was hard for her to believe when I’d been asking her what to wear for my dates with Jason. She loved me as a mixed up younger sister that was hard to figure. I couldn’t blame her. I was having a hard time figuring myself out.
That brings me to my counselor, Dr. Jane Goodrich. Of course she wasn’t really a doctor, well not the medical kind, anyway. She was a psychologist with a contract from social services to see “troubled youth.” Compared to a lot of her clients, I wasn’t troubled. Maybe that’s why she liked talking to me. I wasn’t into drugs, beating people up, raping girls or cutting myself. I was just sane a transvestite sissy orphan — more the kind of thing she signed up for I suspect.
She told me the county allowed anyone in the system three sessions. After that a case had to exist for more. The first session I told her my history. We talked a little at the end about my grieving, and she decided that it was “progressing normally, and not worth using up limited counseling time on.”
The second session, we talked about why I thought I was a sissy. Of course, sitting there in my bra and panty set, white girls’ shorts, grape cami, lavender top and cork-soled wedge sandals, I thought it was pretty obvious why I thought I was a sissy. She wanted to know why I dressed that way. I told her it was a cute look for me, and I felt more myself than I had before. Did it arouse me sexually? Well, I thought I looked sexy, but there were other things that aroused me a lot more. Like what? I told her about Jason playing with my tittles and especially my fantasies about Kelly. Was I the male in those fantasies? Yes, but just physically. Emotionally, I was very feminine. At the end she gave me homework. I was to write on the pros and cons of changing into a woman.
Of course I’d already decided that since I couldn’t have a baby, there was no point in having a vagina. I certainly didn’t want one to please a man. Breasts were something else again. I loved how I felt when Jason nibbled and kissed mine, and I could imagine how wonderful it would feel, emotionally and physically, to nurse a baby.
At my third session, Dr. Jane and I discussed my homework and why I wanted to work as a nanny and be a mom. She asked to see my breasts. I was glad to show her — they were my favorite feature, even though they were still very small, even tiny. She asked again why I was happy presenting as a female. Did I really want bigger tatas, as she phrased it. I most definitely did. She wanted to go over the pros and cons of a heterosexual boy having breasts and presenting as female, but we were out of time. She said she could authorize 2 more sessions before having to make a case to social services. One would be next week, and if she decided to recommend hormone treatments for me, she’d schedule a follow up later, when my breasts had developed.
The fourth session was designed to scare me, or maybe test me — was I ready to risk not having a wife or girl friend to have breasts. By the end she was convinced that I’d given it thought and was making an informed decision. Mothering a baby was more important to me than having a mate. She referred me to an endocrinologist for hormones. Hurray! I was on my way to being a nursing mom, even if I couldn’t be a birth mom.
I told mommy everything as she brushed my hair. She said how thrilled she was when she was approved for hormones. Then she told me about her figure growing to the point she could not pretend to be a boy any longer. Her mother was happy to have a daughter, but her father was less than thrilled and disowned her after her mother died. She was very lonely for a long time until she met Shane, but now she felt truly loved as Shane’s wife, and I was making her a mom.
After a bit of silence while we both reflected, she said she’d talked to HR and my hormone therapy would be covered with a co-pay once my adoption process began and she started work.
The next day I talked to Sandy and told her Kate wanted to be my mommy. What did we need to do? Sandy said she would talk to Mrs. Sanchez, and see. That evening Sandy told me that because I was 17 and a high school graduate, the family court judge would waive some formalities and expedite my adoption. Still it would take six months for it to be final. She said that was not a bad thing because the county would continue paying Shane and Kate for my upkeep until the adoption was final, and, by state law, Kate’s insurance would cover me as soon as the adoption process was started. She’d set up an appointment for Kate to sign the papers. Once they were filed there would be a meeting with the judge that would only take a few minutes. I was so excited, I cried.
By the time I got home, Sandy and Kate had talked on the phone. I was a little disappointed, because I wanted to be the one to tell mommy, but still we both had happy tears. After that everything went fast. The judge was very nice and quick, just confirming that an adoption was what Kate and I wanted, and Mrs. Sanchez had no objections. At the end of August, Kate started work with teacher’s meetings. I had an appointment with the endocrinologist the same day. I hoped to leave with a prescription, but she needed to review my country medical file and do more blood tests. I finally started my hormones the day I started classes at State — not a happy coincidence because I got morning sick all that week. But, isn’t that part of the price for becoming a mom?
The strain between Jason and I had eased by the end of summer, but we still didn’t see each other much. Judy had worked as a waitress and spent her free time with Dave, her latest boyfriend. We three finally got together the last Sunday before school to say good bye and promise to stay in touch with video chats and emails.
Carlie has sissy predispositions, but overcomes difficulties with love, courage and increasing self-awareness. In this chapter, Carlie begins college, makes friends and an enemy without trying.
Carlie
VII. Friends and Not
When classes started, I decided to dress as I liked. That was usually in a bra and pantie set under slacks and a sleeveless top. I wore light make up and my wedges or flats as long as the weather held. I was feminine enough that people I met in passing took me for a girl, but most of my classmates figured out I was male. Two conservative Christians and a Mormon girl treated me like I had a terrible contagion, but most of my classmates didn't make a big deal of how I dressed and were glad to be chatty with me.
My nursing and education classmates were mostly girls, with a sprinkle of boys. (Some sprinkles were almost as cute as me, but most looked masculine.) I was one of the few who knew what I wanted to do with my life. Many were in college because it was expected, or because the alternative was finding a job. A few were more intent. One of the serious ones, Sharon, was very shy and seemed lonely. I knew what that felt like. So, near the end of our first week, I made a point of sitting next to her at lunch.
“Hi, we’re taking nursing together. May I sit with you?”
She was surprised. “Hi. I guess ... if you really want to.” It wasn’t hard to tell why she was alone. She was tall and chunky, not graceful, dressed plain, had acne, and her hair looked like she washed it with soap instead of shampoo and conditioner. There were better pickings for boys and most of the girls wanted to hang with aces to have their leavings. On the other hand, I wasn’t looking for a girlfriend, just a friend, and from the little I’d seen, Sharon seemed smart and nice.
“I’m Carlie Robinson, by the way.”
“Sharon Kawalski.”
“You going for a BSN?” I assumed she was, but I was trying to make conversation.
“I guess. I wanted to be a premed, but the guidance counselor said I didn’t have the personality for it, so he put me in nursing.”
“Can he do that?”
“I don’t like fighting, so I said OK.”
”Who was the counselor?”
“Mr. Jenkins.”
“I met with him. He told me I couldn’t be what I want, but I just ignored him. You should do the same.”
“I’m not like that. I don’t make waves. It never does helps anyway. … What do you want to be?”
“A nanny.”
“You have a good personality. I bet you like children too. I think you'd be a good nanny”
“Thanks, I do love them. I already work as a nanny summers and Sandy, the lady I work for, promised to write me a glowing recommendation.”
“You’re a boy, aren’t you? I can see why Jenkins would say you can’t be a nanny. He has no imagination.”
“You’re right — but I do, and I can imagine you as a doctor. You care and pick up on things quick. That‘ll really help when you’re a doc.”
“If I ever am.”
You can’t change people in a few minutes, so I decided not to push her. I switched to a point that I didn’t understand in pharmacology, and we had a pleasant lunch. I sat next to her in class, and soon we were friends. As you may have guessed, Sharon was much smarter than me — she was taking computer methods while I was in college algebra — but still we studied together. Mostly, she helped me, but I helped her a bit with her writing assignments in English.
Sharon was orphaned when she was 6 and had been raised by a maiden aunt Catherine, who’d been jilted. Her aunt discouraged Sharon from having anything to do with men. I met her aunt when she visited Sharon in October. She gave me a pass because I didn’t qualify as a man in her view. She assumed I was gay and Sharon was safe enough with a sissy.
Sharon seemed to notice girls more than boys. Maybe it was because of her aunt, but I thought it was a way for her to pretend she didn't care that boys ignored her. A couple of times I pointed out that I was a boy and liked her. Still, that did not do much to build up her self confidence, because, as she pointed out in a kind way, I was not the regular kind of boy.
Sharon wasn’t my only girl friend. Peggy was another. She was the class gossip. The main object of gossip was our classmate Russ. I thought Russ was cute in a boyish way, but not really athletic. Still he was better looking than Jason, and much more outgoing and ingratiating.
The consensus was that the only reason he was in nursing was to bed as many girls as possible. You’d think that with a reputation like that, he'd be a pariah, but a lot of the girls seemed attracted to bad boys — or maybe thought they could hook him. Either way, his score rose steadily as the weeks went by.
One morning after algebra, he asked if he could borrow my notes from the previous class, which he’d missed. I said of course and handed him my notebook pages. The next day he said he didn’t understand completing the square and could I explain it to him. When I did, he told me how smart I was and it was rare to find anyone as smart and pretty as me. I reminded him that I was a boy. He said that made me even more interesting. Would I go to the football game with him Saturday? I told him that I wasn’t interested in football, so he asked me to a concert. I turned him down on that as well.
This went on for a while, with him touching my arm, leg or breast “accidentally” as we passed. I started to understand what the girls saw in him. He made me feel wanted, and gave the impression that he’d be warm and tender with me. Still, I knew from my experience with Jason, that however fun it might be to date boys, it would not take me where I wanted to go, So, I kept brushing him off.
After many brushoffs, he finally cornered me in an empty hallway after a late class. “I know you wanted it, so stop playing hard to get.”
“Look Russ, I don’t like boys that way and so you can keep it for whatever bimbo finds you attractive. Now, let me go!” I tried to leave.
He grabbed me, squeezed my breast and forced his tongue down my throat. He was too strong for me, so I pretended to relax, then kneed him in the groin. I ran for it while he was doubled over holding himself. He yelled, ”I’ll get you for this, you bitch!” When nothing happened after a week, I dismissed it as an empty threat.
Peggy’d seen him hitting on me, and asked if he’d bagged me. I told her he hadn’t, but the juicy morsel for her was that he knew I was a boy and wanted me anyway. Word got around that he was bi, and his success with the girls dropped. Next, a few of the sprinkles hit on him. Some of the girls decided he was gay, and only hit on girls to have a beard. That was why he dumped them, they said. Three of the girls he’d dumped picked up on that and enhanced the rumor with juicy details, which, real or fictitious, lent weight to the impression that he was gay. Since he was cute, that was enough to get him hit on by guys that weren’t even in nursing. None of this made him happy, and he made it clear he blamed all of it on me. Still, he didn’t do anything, so I figured he was all bark and no bite.
Carlie has sissy predispositions, but overcomes difficulties with love, courage and increasing self-awareness. In this chapter, Sharon's new self-confidence blossoms into intimacy with Carlie.
Carlie
VIII. Self-Confidence and Intimacy
Sharon had a room on campus. After the first grading period, her roommate (who imagined she was Madonna but was nowhere close), left to share a room with a more attractive girl whose roommate had dropped out. Studying there was nicer than the library because I could leave clothes and stuff, and no one shushed us if we got excited, talked loud or giggled.
I thought we were getting along well when one day she said, “Carlie, your the best friend I’ve ever had, but its embarrassing to walk around with you.” I felt stabbed. I teared up and gathered my things to leave. “Why are you upset?”
“Because I thought you were my friend!” I yelled.
“But I just told you you’re my best friend!”
“Then why are you embarrassed to be seen with me? Because I’m a sissy, right?””
“No, silly, because you’re a boy and so much prettier than me.”
“Shar, you’re beautiful, which is much better than pretty.” Shar was tearing up too. I hugged her and apologized for yelling and misunderstanding. “I could help you be prettier if you like.”
“Really? How?”
“Sure. I’ll show you. Put your jacket on. We’ll walk into town and get a few things. My treat.” I didn’t have a lot of money, but it’s always a privilege to help a friend. I got her shampoo, conditioner, setting lotion, facial cleanser, basic make up and curlers at Big Lots.
As we walked back she said she’d never look pretty because of her awful acne. I said, “I had worse acne, but I took tetracycline and birth control pills. They also helped my friend Judy with hers. You should get a prescription from the campus clinic. Besides, you’ll need BC pills when all the boys start chasing you.”
“Oh, Carlie, I don’t want to be with a boy — just you!” She said it without thinking, then blushed. We didn’t say anything the rest of the way back. I hadn’t thought of Shar as a girl, at least not one that might want to be with me.
When we got back to her room, Shar took off her blouse so it wouldn’t get wet when I shampooed her hair. She was a solid C, but her white cotton bra was more like a medical appliance than lingerie. She insisted that since I saw her in her bra, she should see me in mine. No one but mommy had seen me since my date with Jason, but I felt comfortable with her, so I took my top off. I was in a lilac push up with lace-top cups.
I felt very girly doing her hair in my bra. After shampooing and conditioning, I blow dried and set it while she watched in the mirror. “You’re very sexy in your lace bra Carlie.” That made part of me feel very ungirly.
Once I put the last curler in, she pulled me onto her lap and kissed me. Kissing Jason had been nice, but not exciting. Shar kissed with a pent-up urgency that was contagious. At the end of the long kiss, I discovered that my bra was loose, and she was caressing my breast.
“You have beautiful little breasts, Carlie. Are they sensitive like mine?” Before I could answer, she was running the tip of her finger around my left nipple. I grew light headed as it hardened in response to her gentle touch. Shar kissed and nibbled me onto her bed. “I always wondered what that would be like, but I was too shy to kiss anyone’s breasts ... before now. … Do you like it Carlie?”
“It’s wonderful. Would you like see how it feels?”
“Yes, take off my bra.”
Delicious, thoughtless sensations washed over me as her teat brushed my lips. I latched on like a starving baby. As I sucked, Shar began panting and moaning. She barely suppressed a scream by biting her lower lip. My own gasp was muffled by her pillowing breasts.
I wasn’t guilty or embarrassed as I’d been with Jason. Instead, I lay back glorying in what we’d done for each other. Shar smiled down at me with half moon eyes, brushed her breasts across mine and kissed me deeply. “It looks like Carlie had a accident in her panties. I’ll take care of it sweetie.” She pulled off my damp slacks and panties, and cleaned me with a warm cloth. Her ministrations roused me again, but her mind had regained control over her libido. She kissed me and said “No more today, Carlie.”
I couldn’t wear my pants home on the bus, and Shar’s were two sizes too big for me. Looking though her things, she found a spandex panty and a draw string skirt I could wear. I’d not worn a skirt before. As I walked it continually kissed my bare legs. I wondered why girls ever wanted to wear pants. I had to wear skirts more often.
“Now finish my hair, girl!” I brushed and sprayed her curls and used concealer on her acne. She looked in the mirror, obviously pleased. “Oh Carlie, you’re perfect! Not only do you make me feel like a woman, but a pretty one. I love you.” I was still topless, standing behind her chair. She turned and kissed my breast, but broke it off before I could respond.
After that we had sweet treats in her room everyday after lunch. Neither one of us had been so intimate before, so new joys and discoveries continually delighted us. Still, as time went on, I started feeling frustrated. Shar had no interest in making love as a girl and boy, even after weeks on BC pills.
What we did have was good for both of us. Shar’s confidence increased daily. Her acne cleared and she let me put highlights in her hair. Lifting her head and eyes made her walk graceful. I convinced her to let a bit of lace show under her blouse. She became truly beautiful — not like a movie star, but in the way that showed she knew who she was and deserved respect. She even told (not asked) Mr. Jenkins she was switching to premed for the Spring semester. On my side, I came to a new sense of self worth -- realizing that my love could transform those I loved.
Still, part of Shar’s new confidence made me unhappy. Before, I’d had her all to myself. Now she teased the boys, and even chatted up some of the the cuter girls.
Carlie has sissy predispositions, but overcomes difficulties with love, courage and increasing self-awareness. In this chapter, Sharon and Carlie have different views of sharing.
Carlie
IX. The Little Girl
One Monday a few weeks later we were walking across campus when Shar pointed out a petite girl I’d seen before. Her name was Cindi. Like many of us, Cindi had her own distinct look. I’d once seen her in a Bonnie Jean sailor dress I thought I might look darling in, but mostly our tastes were very different. That day she wore a puff-sleeved blouse with a Peter Pan collar, pink shortalls, and black patent Mary Janes with ruffled ankle socks. Blond pigtails with ribbons matching her shortalls bounced as she almost skipped along, and her books were in a Princess Ariel pack. A very substantial chest and killer legs broke her little girl image.
Shar asked how I liked her look. I was hardly in a position to criticize how anyone dressed, so I said she looked cute and sweet, but it wasn’t a look I’d choose. I thought nothing more about it until lunch, when Cindi joined us shortly after we sat down. Cindi’s little girl didn’t stop with her clothes or pink nails and lips. She called Shar “Auntie Sharon,” and asked if she could call me “Nanny Carlie.” I wasn’t very comfortable being her nanny, but I didn’t want to be rude, so I didn’t object.
The only two people at State who knew I was a nanny were Mr. Jenkins and Shar. So, Shar must have told her about me. I wasn’t sure what to think about that.
“Cindi, Nanny told me she thinks you look cute and sweet.”
“Thank you, Nanny.”
“You're welcome, Cindi.” She did look cute, but not entirely sweet up close, as her white blouse did little to obscure her braless nipples.
Cindi was nice enough, but it became apparent that she and Shar were playing some kind of game. Shar would say things like “Sit straight, dear” or “Take small bites, sweetie,” and Cindi would say, “Yes, Auntie,” and do as she was told. Occasionally Cindi would look at me as though I should also correct her. I finally decided to tell her to finish her milk and said what a good girl she was when she did. She beamed a smile at me and seemed to relax.
“Nanny, I’ve eaten all my lunch may I have an ice cream?”
“Yes. What kind would you like?”
“Cherry, with sprinkles … pretty please.” Shar didn’t want dessert. When I came back with Cindi’s ice cream, she and Shar were whispering. They stopped when they saw me. I was a bit miffed at being excluded.
Cindi made a mess of her face with the ice cream — on purpose, I suspect, because there wasn’t a speck on her blouse or shortalls. I cleaned her up. “Thank you, Nanny.”
We’d spent much longer at lunch than usual, and I was anxious to get to my own sweets with Shar. I got up. Shar followed, but turned to Cindi. “Come along, sweetie.” I was disappointed that we wouldn’t be alone, but Cindi was too close for me to object to Shar. In fact, she grabbed my hand and followed along like a little girl. I have to admit that I was starting to like the game. Still, I’d been looking forward to being alone with Shar.
When we got to Shar’s room, I had to ask. “Shar, why’s Cindi here?”
“Cindi and I have been playing auntie and niece all weekend, and I thought you’d like to join in, girlfriend. You like to dress up little girls, and Cindi needs to be put in a pretty dress for our tea party.” Shar laid a white satin and pink chiffon confection on her bed.
I didn’t like Shar comparing my maternal feelings toward Liz with my growing lust for Cindi, but I couldn’t think how to say that nicely, either. So, I just asked, “Tea party?”
“Yes, we’re going to play tea party, won’t that be fun Cindi?”
“Oh yes, Auntie, scrumptious fun! Change me into my party dress. Pretty please, Nanny.” She made a begging little girl face, put her thumb in her mouth and twisted back and forth expectantly. She did make a luscious little girl. She’d look even better without her blouse.
I’d told Shar about playing dress up for the party with my girl friends when I was 5 or 6. I didn’t think this would be the same. Images of Cindi out of her blouse and shortalls flooded my imagination. I looked at Shar for direction, but she was fixed on Cindi — her face flush, her pupils wide and her breath quick.
I recognized the look. It wasn’t one I wanted to share with Cindi or anyone else. Cindi still stood innocent and childlike, but when she looked at me she started sucking her index finger. Was she being suggestive, or was I projecting? Maybe she’d let me do what Shar hadn’t — make love to her like a boy with a girl. Make love … but I didn’t love Cindi. I barely knew Cindi. I wanted her, but I didn’t love her. I knew where the game would go — even if Shar and Cindi hadn’t already planned it — I knew because I’d take it there. I had no self control, not once I was breast to breast with a girl as I’d surely be with Cindi.
Images of Shar and Cindi playing auntie and niece flashed in my imagination, making me feel like a replaceable part. A mix of anger, jealousy, and revulsion at my own loveless lust filled me. “I’m sorry, but I forgot that Sandy wanted me to take care of Liz this afternoon.” It was a lie, but one that wouldn’t insult the girls. I left. Angry tears streaked my mascara as I made my way to the bus stop.
Both mommy and Shane were still at school, so I went to my room and cried until I fell asleep. Mommy woke me for dinner. She could tell I’d been crying, and sent Shane off to watch the news as so we could talk. Faithfulness and cheating had been abstract terms for me, but now that Shar had been with another girl, I understood their full impact.
“Another girl, Carlie?”
“I did say that didn’t I?”
“Yes.”
“Well, we made love like two girls, never like a boy and a girl, so I guess I was her girlfriend.”
“Is that what you wanted?”
“Well, I liked it. But, I wanted more, to be with her like a boy with a girl. Still I loved her.”
“I’m sure you did and maybe still do. But, it's like you and Jason. You loved each other and maybe you still do, but you could not give him what he needed, and maybe Shar can’t give you what you want and need. And — maybe — you can’t give her what she wants and needs. Maybe a girl — like Cindi — can. If so, you might not be right for each other. You know it took a lot of searching for Shane and me to find each other — but eventually we did.”
“Thanks, mommy.”
It was still early. I went back to my room to try doing my algebra homework. About 8:00 Shar called to find out how I was. I said that I was very unhappy, but I couldn’t find a way tell her why because I didn’t want to hurt her. Still, I was hurting. Finally, I told her I didn’t like sharing her with Cindi.
“Well, dear, that’s not how I was thinking about it. It was more like I was sharing Cindi with you. She’s so cute and childlike, and I know you love taking care of children, so I thought you’d like playing with her. Besides, she was interested in you as a boy. It’s a long story, but being with you as a boy might be a breakthrough for her.”
“Shar, I’m faithful to you and I thought you’d be faithful with me — not playing auntie and niece with another girl.” (There, I said it.)
“Is that what’s bothering you? It’s only sex, Carlie. It doesn’t mean anything. She’s just fun to play with, and I invited you to play too. I wouldn’t be upset if you and Cindi made it.”
“Well, sex means something to me, Shar. It’s how I show you you’re special to me. That’s part of the reason I ran off — cuz I knew if I undressed Cindi what would happen. Also there’s no comparison between my taking care of Liz and playing games with Cindi.”
“I wouldn’t have minded if something happened with you and Cindi. That’s why I invited her — so we could both play with her. … So, if that’s part of the reason, what’s the rest of the reason you ran off like a little cry baby?”
“Because I’m hurt that you made love with someone else.”
“Carlie, sex isn’t love — get over it.”
“Maybe I will, but I’m not over it now. I’ll think about it, but we better hang up before I say something mean. Bye”
“Bye.”
I did think about it, but didn’t get over it. Shar wasn’t trying to hurt me. She thought she was being considerate sharing her toy with a friend … but, I never thought people were toys. We didn’t see sex the same way — so we weren’t the ones for each other. I wasn’t a toy. If she wanted to play with Cindi, let her. If not, she could find someone else to play with in no time flat.
Carlie has sissy predispositions, but overcomes difficulties with love, courage and increasing self-awareness. In this chapter, Carlie learns what he is not.
Carlie
X. A New Hope
I was angry and feeling sorry for myself — I didn’t know if I’d ever find the right person. Maybe Dr. Jane was right — maybe I’d given up any chance of finding a mate when I decided to follow my dream of being a mother. Maybe my whole life was a waste. Mommy saw my dark mood, but knew I just had to work through it as I’d worked through my father’s death.
My break up with Shar might of have been the end of it, but a couple of days later I was eating lunch alone when Cindi sat next to me. This time she was in an adorable cap sleeve aqua tween dress with a bow-accented waist and a butterfly applique. She still wore her MJs but with turned down bobby socks. Her hair was loose, held back on one side by a barrette matching the butterfly on her dress. Unlike Monday, she wore a modest sweater bra.
“Hi, Carlie.”
“Hi, Cindi.”
“I want to apologize. I didn’t mean to break you and Shar up. I’m really sorry about that. She said you’d like it … if we all played together.”
“I guess she didn’t understand me. I’m a one-girl guy or girl or whatever I am, and Shar thinks it’s a game.”
“I know, Shar told me. I really admire that. There aren’t very many one-girl whatevers at this school.” (She smiled to show me she was not making fun of me.) “I’d like to get to know you better.”
“I’m not fast, Cindi. If you want fast, you’d be better off with Shar.”
“I’m not looking for fast Carlie. Been there, done that. I want to spend time and get to know you.”
“I’m not too good company just now.”
“That’s OK, I’d just like a walk. The leaves are beautiful and we don’t need to talk. Do you want to come?”
There was more depth to Cindi than I’d imagined, so I said OK. We walked along the river looking at the fall color and not saying much. After a while, she took my hand, but not in the little girl way she had on Monday.
Cindi wasn’t looking for fast. We just went for walks or movies, or talked over lunch. We’d talk, not in long intent conversations, but in bits and pieces that, like the dots of color in a Seurat painting, combined to paint our lives. Over weeks she asked about my family, how I became feminine and my goals in life. She was interested in all my friends from Liz and Sandy though Judy, Jason, Shane and Mommy. I asked about her life in return.
The little dots of light had an earnest tone that can’t be summarized, but the over all picture can be. Her parents are surgeons and were too busy to spend much time with her. Like Victorians, they hired nurses and au pairs to raise her. She was presented to them, prissily dressed, every day at 5:30 to spend an hour before they prepared for dinner. Like any child, she wanted and needed more affection. When she was old enough to have a say, she dressed in the way she thought most endearing — as a cute little girl.
Eventually she was shipped off to boarding school. The staff was nice enough professionally, but the only real affection to be had was from the other girls. She was attractive to girls who wanted to treat her as a child — well as a child in some ways, but as a plaything in others. When Shar showed an interest in her, she fell into the same pattern with her.
Shar lead her to think of me as a quasi-male version the efficient nannies who cared for her as a child. Her little girl behavior had squeezed a few reluctant drops of affection out of them, and maybe it would with me. Shar said that I wanted to be with a girl as a boy. While Shar wasn’t interested, Cindi didn’t know if she was or not, and wanted to find out. So, in her mind, I’d be a safe test object to see if she liked boys.
Cindi knew the effect her braless breasts and sexy legs had. So, she was set back by my refusal to play because I loved Shar and not her. It shattered her view of people as pawns in a game where winning meant affection and sexual relief.
Much of her story was reluctantly told. Her parents inattention not only hurt, but made her feel unlovable. Her boarding school experiences made her feel weak and needy — worse, she feared I’d reject her as a lesbian slut. She only told me when I sat holding her hands on a dark park bench. After she finished she was shaking. I hugged her to me and told her I loved her. She loved me too.
After such emotional intimacy, you’d think physical intimacy would follow. Yet, despite her experience, Cindi was reluctant to do more than hold my hand, or give me a hug or peck on the cheek. She feared that I’d think she wanted to use me. I, of course, had never made the first move with anyone. I still wondered what kind of love Cindi had for me. Maybe it was the kind Judy and I had. So, our relationship stalled as we each waited for the other to make a move. Again, mommy came to my aid.
Mommy had been afraid I’d be hurt again when I told her that Cindi wanted to know me better. So, each night as she bushed my hair, she asked about us. Finally, she said, “Carlie, I know you think you’re feminine and passive, but that won’t do with Cindi.”
“What do you mean?”
“Deep down you’re strong, dear. Cindi has been so emotionally beat up, she’s never had a chance to realize how strong she can be. I know you’ve imagined yourself as a mother and wife, and assumed your mate would husband you. But, that’s not you. You need to husband Cindi. That does not mean you can’t be a mother, because sometimes mothers are the strong ones in their relationships. So, you need to take charge, and not let things drift.”
What mommy said ran against my whole self-image. Still, I knew she was right. Mother had been the power with my dad. She’d let him think he was in charge, but mother and I, even at 7, knew he wasn’t. When dad and I lived alone, I’d come to be the leader. I admired Sandy and looked to her as a model for motherhood, and she was as strong as anyone. So, mommy was right, I was feminine, but that didn’t mean that I was weak.
I’d been passive with Jason and Shar, and neither relationship had worked out. Cindi needed me to be strong, and I could be for her.
Carlie has sissy predispositions, but overcomes difficulties with love, courage and increasing self-awareness. In this chapter, Carlie starts following through on his feelings for Cindi.
Carlie
XI. Carlie Makes His “Move”
While I realized that Cindi needed me to take the lead and show her how lovable she was, years of shrinking passively into the background take their toll. Irrational fears of angry offense and rejection filled my mind. More importantly, I had no idea of how to “make my move.” Frankly, I didn’t have any “moves” to make. I asked mommy for advice, but she had no experience of move making to share. She could only say, “Be honest and things will work out in the end.” Since my empty head generated no alternative ideas, that is what I decided to do.
The following day, Cindi was in red bib overalls and a pink jacket with a fur-trimmed hood when I met her in front of the student center. I’d long since given up skirts for jeans and pantyhose. I asked her if she’d like to take a walk by the river. She was a bit puzzled as to why because the autumn color was long gone and there was a chill in the air. I’d chosen the spot because we’d be alone and walking there was the first thing we’d done together. Despite the chill, my bra and blouse were damp with sweat. I thought what a waste of bodily fluid, I could have used some of the moisture in my dry mouth. I had no idea what to say, so I just started talking.
“Cindi, our relationship has not been going anywhere for a while ...” I stopped when I felt her tense up and saw tears forming in her eyes. For a second, I was puzzled. Then I thought she might think we were breaking up. “No, it’s okay, Dee, I’m not trying to dump you.” She relaxed a bit, but was still tense as she wiped the corners of her eyes.
“What then?”
“What I mean is that we’ve been stuck on a plateau because you’re afraid to move it along, and I never made a move in my life and have no idea how to do it.”
“You’re right. I’m scared. I want to do more, but I’m afraid you’ll think I’m fast and dump me. Are you saying that’s how you feel?”
“Well sort of. I mean Shar told me you wanted to use me to see what being with a boy would be like, but now you’re different. You said you didn’t want fast, just to get to know me. Now I think you might be just a friend friend like Judy. If that’s what you want, I’d be your friend, but … but I want more.
“You know I’m a sissy, but that doesn’t mean that I’m weak. I want to take care of you and show you how lovable you really are — and I want to do it like boys love girls — not like two girls. Neither one of us has done that before, but that’s what I want — if you do, I mean ...” I was running out of steam and very uncertain as Cindi was just looking at me not saying anything, or even changing her expression.
All of a sudden she put her arms behind my neck and pulled me down into the most wonderful kiss the world has ever known — well, my world anyway. I didn’t feel at all girly — just like a boy with the most beautiful girl in the world. We stopped at a bench and kissed for a long time. Eventually the cold air won out over the heat of our passion. When I looked at my watch, I saw that my pharmacology class was in 20 minutes.
I escorted Cindi back to the quad and then broke off to go to class. “Think of a place.”
“I will.”
That night I told mommy I’d done it, and asked if it would be okay to have Cindi stay over night with me in my room. I didn’t think it would be a problem.
“How old is Cindi?”
“Almost 19.”
“Well, that’s a problem, you know.”
I was surprised. Mommy was not a prude. “Why?”
“Because you’re still 17 and in this state sex with a minor is a crime.”
“Well. No one is going to care.”
“What about her parents? If they decide they don’t like you, they could make trouble. They could even stop your adoption by arguing that I was an unfit mother by allowing you to be ‘abused’ in my own house. Have you met them?”
“No, but Cindi's 18 and they don’t seem to care what she does.”
“It might not be what she does, but who she does it with. There is still a lot of prejudice in the world.”
“Grrr!”
“You might not like it, but it’s true. I’ll tell you what. You talk to Cindi about what I said and get a sense of what her parents might do, and if they won’t make trouble, you can have Cindi as an over night guest — if you are responsible about it — that means birth control, Carlie, got me?”
“Yes, mommy.”
It was not this complicated in the Harlequin romances Judy’d lent me. They just kissed and the next thing they were making sweet love.
I decided to do the most embarrassing thing first. I went to the student health clinic, showed my ID and was given a box of condoms — no big deal. Still, I felt strange carrying condoms in my purse. (I’d given up calling it a messenger bag when I’d started putting make up in it.)
Next, I met Cindi at the library and told her what mommy’d said. At first she said, “No problem, I’ll just ask Katelyn [her roomie] to spend the night with her boyfriend.” I said her parents might still decide to mess things up for us when they found out. Cindi considered her parents non-entities whose sole function was to pay her tuition, but she agreed to take me her home with her the following weekend. With luck, we might find ourselves in together in her bed after her parents went to sleep.
I told mommy. She fretted over whether I should go dressed as a boy or not. Given that my breasts had grown into perky A’s that protruded from any shirt I wore, I convinced her it was not an option — and dishonest to boot.
I packed my better clothes. I didn’t have a good dress to wear to dinner if they should decide to take us out, so I packed the sport coat and slacks I’d worn to my dad’s memorial service. (My breasts were small enough not to show under my jacket.) About 5:30 Friday night Dee picked me up in her Porsche for the two hour drive to her parents.
Carlie has sissy predispositions, but overcomes difficulties with love, courage and increasing self-awareness. In this chapter, he meets Cindi's parents.
Carlie
XII. Meeting the Parents
As Cindi drove down the interstate to her parents' home, I asked her what she told her parents about me.
“I told them that I was bringing my friend Carlie to stay the weekend with me and we’d be there about 7:30.”
“Did you tell them I was a boy?”
“I told them you had a double major in nursing and early childhood education and wanted to be a high-priced nanny.”
“I never said I wanted to be high-priced.”
“I know, but they respect people that charge a lot.”
“But you didn’t tell them I was a boy?”
“No, why should I?”
“Because it would be honest.”
“There are lots of honest things about you I didn’t tell them — like your dad blowing himself up or Sandy being your lawyer. There is no reason for them to know any of them. They’re lucky they know you exist and I care about you.”
“Well, I wanted to get to meet them and see how they feel about us sleeping together.”
“You will and you will. Leave it to me and they’ll send us to bed together knowing we’re lovers. Look, if they ask if you’re a boy, you can tell the truth, but if they don’t ask, let’s just say that means they don’t care. You’ll see. They don’t care what I do or who I’m with because they don’t care about me. I’m just a margin note on their resume: Child 1, age 18, sex f. It would be bad form not to care about me, so they pretend they do.”
“That’s sad.”
“Yeah, ain’t it?” There was a hard coldness in her voice that I’d never heard before. We were both quiet until her mood improved.
“Guess what?” she asked.
“What?”
“I’m wearing big girl panties and a matching bra — went to Victoria’s Secret to get them special for you. I’m going to be a big girl for you tonight.”
“Let me see.”
“I can’t silly, we’d have an accident — or maybe you would as we drove along safely. Either way, you'll just have to wait for the unveiling.”
“Can you get me tickets?”
“You got 'em all, lover.”
“Good, because I don’t like sharing.”
“I know. I don’t either anymore.”
After that the conversation went back to things that wouldn't arouse our passions before we got there.
About 7:15 Cindi exited the interstate. Soon we were in a neighborhood of large houses set well back on huge lots. They weren't estates, but they were close. When we came to a mail box with “McCartney” on it, Cindi turned in and parked under a side portico.
Cindi let herself in. I followed carrying her overnight bag, and the gym bag I’d used when I came to Mommy’s house. Her parents, Eileen and Sean, were sitting in the living room watching Fox news. Cindi introduced me. Sean gave me a warm embrace — almost a bit too warm for my taste. Eileen stood, eyed my gym bag for an eternal second, said “Any friend of Cynthia’s is a friend of ours,” and gave me some air kisses. I wasn’t sure what to do with air kisses, so I found myself making a bobbing curtsy which she didn’t know how to respond to. “1-1,” I thought.
“Well, we thought we’d put you two together in Cynthia’s room. Cynthia, I do know how you so like to share the bed with your girlfriends.” The latter was said with a unmistakable mix of condescension and innuendo.
“That is just what I expected, mother,” parried Cindi. She was right, her parents didn’t care what she did — as long, I suppose, as it didn’t embarrass them. Glancing at her father, I saw a vague sadness cross his face before he recomposed himself.
Eileen continued, “We have dinner reservations at the club for 8:30. So, you two just have time for a wash and a change.”
I followed Cindi to her room, shocked by the atmosphere. “You’re right, they don’t give a fuck about you, do they?”
“I told you — and here we are — sent off to share a bed with her knowing we’re lovers.”
“Well, technically, we’re not. Not yet.”
“All in time, lover. … did you bring a dinner dress?”
“I don’t have one. We poor folk don’t go to the ‘club’ much. I brought a sports coat and slacks.”
“Well, this should be rich.” She slipped out of her flirty A-line to reveal deep violet hip hugger panties and matching demi bra before she disappeared into her in suite bath. I stood there for a few seconds until I remembered I was supposed to change for dinner.
Due to mommy’s expert packing, neither my pants nor my jacket were wrinkled. My dress shirt was still folded from the cleaners. I took off my bra and put it on, but it’s starched front irritated my nipples. A raspberry cami solved the problem, but could be seen though my shirt. I'd finished dressing and was struggling with my tie when Cindi came out of her powder room, topless. Of course, my concentration was completely broken. She put my hands on her breasts, then gave me a passionate kiss. When we broke for air, she stepped back leaving my hands in place and tied my tie. I'd wear a tie every day if this was how they'd be tied.
“Sit here lover,” she said as she pushed me down on her vanity seat. She turned her back and made a show of lowering her panties to put on a garter belt. Sitting on her bed, she slowly pulled up and fastened her nylons. A strapless bra and a very adult LBD followed. Finally, she slipped into black metallic Jimmy Choo glitter pumps. Where was my little girl? Then I realized the whole outfit was designed to hide her real self from her parents. Still, I was embarrassed at being way under-dressed and told her so.
“Don’t worry.” She went to her dresser and replaced my birthstone studs with a pair of 2-3 carat flower button diamond earrings. “My parents gave them to me for my 8th grade graduation, but they wouldn’t let me take them to boarding school. So, they've been sitting here gathering dust ever since. I doubt they even remember buying them. Probably, Lydia, their office manager, bought them. Anyway, they really power up your dyke look.”
I wasn't sure I wanted a dyke look, but that, and not a sissy boy, is what I saw looking in the mirror.
We went down to the living room where her parents were still watching Fox news. Eileen was not pleased. “Carla, do you have to dress like a complete dyke? What will our friends think?”
“Now, Eileen, let the girl be herself! They will think we are in the same situation as the Cheneys — not bad company, I’d say. … Carlie, you look fine. Just be yourself, honey.”
I was starting to like Sean, despite my feeling that faithfulness was not his forte. I thought maybe that was forgivable given who he was stuck with.
The club was one of those closed gate places which you can’t even see from the road. We were shown to our table by a maitre d’ who obviously knew the Doctors McCartney well. I got some stares and murmurs, but nothing overt. The McCartneys were served their cocktails almost before they were in their seats, and there was no hesitation in asking Cindi and me what we wanted to drink. Cindi said we’d both like Brandy Alexanders, and they appeared toute de suite.
We had the best steaks I’d ever tasted. I’d thought, from the chewy meat my dad bought, that I didn't even like steak. Boy, was I wrong. We had a flaming dessert, Bananas Foster, and finished with aperitifs.
“Well, I'm sure the young folks are anxious to get to bed. Let’s go home,” said Sean.
“I’m sure they are,” Eileen said, giving us a disgusted glance that changed into a pleasant smile as George, our waiter, brought the bill to be signed.
When we got back Eileen air kissed us all and went up to her room. Sean gave me a nice hug, said he could see what Cindi saw in me and he hoped to see more of me. I almost felt like coming out to him, but I could see Cindi looking nervous, so I didn’t.
Carlie has sissy predispositions, but overcomes difficulties with love, courage and increasing self-awareness. In this chapter, he and Cindi share her bed.
Carlie
XIII. Bedtime and Beyond
I expected Cindi to lead me back to her room as soon as her father started up the stairs, but she didn’t. Instead, she watched as he went into a room across the hall from her mother’s and closed the door. “Don’t they sleep together?” I asked.
“They haven’t for years. I think that is why she’s always rude to anyone I bring home — can’t stand the idea of people loving each other.”
“Oh, I thought maybe it was just me. Why don’t they get a divorce?”
“Who the hell knows! … Sorry, I just hate being here.”
“Why do you come?”
“Because I’m a good little girl — and I came this time because you wanted to meet them,” she said with some vehemence. “I’m sorry, I’m ruining our special night.”
“It’s okay. Any night with you is a special night. I’m here for you, not what’s on the agenda.” Tears filled her eyes. I picked her up and carried her to her room like a child.
“Where are your night gowns?”
“In the third drawer.”
I undressed her as I do with Liz, slipped a princess nitie over her head, and laid her in bed. I decided not to wear my own baby dolls, but stripped to my panties and cami and slid in next to her. Still weeping, she put her head on my shoulder, snuggled against me and was soon asleep. It was not the bedtime I’d expected. Her warm body roused my passions at first, but helped me sleep soundly in the end.
The sun pierced the open window and stabbed at our eyes. Cindi, trying to fend it off, rolled over and threw a leg across my panties. “Not bad for a sissy.” I blushed. Her thigh moving slowly up and and down my front a couple of times aroused us both. “Hurry up. Let’s eat some breakfast and then have play time.”
“What about your parents?”
“Dad plays golf every Saturday morning, then has brunch with his golf buddies, and mother meets with her coven for breakfast and then has her hair done. We have the house to ourselves." She went to her bath to get ready. When I came out after my turn she said, “Here, you look cold,” and threw me a pale green kimono with French seams and lace trim. “It’s not my style, so mother got it for me for Christmas.”
Down in the kitchen, a pot of coffee was still on. I lifted her onto a stool and tied a towel for a bib. “Sit in your highchair, snookems, and nanny will make breakfast.” Cindi got hot chocolate and I poured myself coffee. There were the makings for pain perdu. “How’s about some French toast?”
“Yummy, nanny.”
Soon, I had two plates ready. I fed her bite by bite, eating mine when I could. When she was done I washed her face with a warm cloth.
“Enough little girl time, Cindi. Now up to your room and get ready for big girl play time.” I tidied up the kitchen, then followed. She was laying against the pillows with the sheet held to her neck.
Remembering mommy’s admonition, I went to my purse and got a condom. Once in bed, I put it down between us, and started kissing and petting Cindi. With Shar I’d learned how to make a woman feel loved, and soon Cindi was no longer feeling like a little girl. “Carlie, I’m ready, get on top.”
I looked where I’d put the condom, and it wasn’t there. “Grrr!”
“What?”
“I can’t find the condom. I put it right here.” We both looked to no avail. Finally, Cindi turned to look on her side of the bed and there it was, stuck to the back of her shoulder. We both laughed, but now neither of us were ready. We kissed and held each other for a while. Soon, the mood built again, and this time the mechanics worked. Cindi used her hand to guide me into her. She gasped a bit as her resistance broke, and I slid into her. Afraid of hurting her, I stopped. Soon she was moving under me, and my instincts took over.
At the end, any lingering doubts we had about preferring the same sex were washed away in a flood of ecstasy. By noon, we’d gone through a whole strip of condoms, and decided to call each other Mr. and Mrs. Bunny. We were trying to decide if we were up to a fourth go when we heard the front door open.
“Cindi, Carlie, I’m home!” her dad called out.
“Where up in my room changing to go out!”
We took a shower together and finally made our way down to the living room where her father was watching the State game. Cindi was a bit sore and her walk showed it. Fortunately, State was first and goal, and he hardly looked at us as we sat on the sofa.
During the commercial after the TD he turned to me. “Carlie, I know you have your own style, but it makes Eileen uncomfortable to have you in slacks and a jacket. … I wonder if you would let me buy you a cocktail dress?”
“I couldn’t accept anything so expensive.”
“You’ve already taken something far more valuable — Cindi. I feel you are part of the family now, Carlie. … Cindi, would you take Carlie shopping for a dress and shoes?”
“I’d love to Daddy!”
At half time he walked us to the side door where Cindy had parked. As he showed us out, I felt his hand lingering on my rear.
Carlie has sissy predispositions, but overcomes difficulties with love, courage and increasing self-awareness. In this chapter, The Calm Before the Storm, Cindi takes Carlie shopping.
Carlie
XIV. The Calm Before the Storm
I debated whether to tell Cindi about her dad feeling my rear, but thought it was just possible that he was being inappropriately affectionate without meaning anything more. Her relationship with her parents was already bad enough without me adding fuel to the fire. Maybe I was just not used to how older men treated girls. In any event, I decided to hold my peace.
The town was not big enough to have anything approaching a Fifth Avenue or a Rodeo Drive, but it did have a few up-scale stores. One was Lucile’s Pour La Femme, a high end shop where the McCartneys had an account. Cindi’s mother always took her there when she was trying to make her “dress like an adult.” The result was the half rack of unworn dresses I’d seen in her closet. Still, Cindi knew my taste well enough to know that I’d like some of some of the dresses in the juniors department.
Neither of us were dressed for high-end dress shopping. Cindy was wearing bib front overalls and MJs with a pink Jacket and I was in Walmart jeans, Payless loafers and an androgynous jacket. I was a more than a bit uncomfortable, because I’d never shopped in a women’s wear store, let alone an exclusive one, and if I’d thought about it, I would have worn my best, not an outfit for watching football on TV. Also I’d spent no more time on my make up than I did for class.
When we walked in, Cindi was greeted by Denise. “Miss McCartney, how nice to see you again,” she said with apparent sincerity. “And this is?”
“My friend, Carlie.”
“And your father is treating your girlfriend to a dress and shoes?” Apparently, this was a regular thing for Dr. McCartney.
“Yes, he is.”
Just then, Miss Lucile, as her gold name tag proclaimed her, came up. “I’ll take care of these guests, Denise.” Denise looked a bit disappointed at the possible loss of her commission, but stood to one side. “I’m sorry, but I do not know your companion’s name, Miss McCartney?”
“Carlie Robinson. We’re looking for a cocktail dress for Carlie.”
“Of course. If you would take your jacket off Miss Robinson ...” Lucile passed my jacket to Denise who left to hang it up. She looked me over with an eye so practiced she had no need of a measuring tape. “I think you would like something flirty, but not too revealing. Am I right?” I nodded. “In a size 4?” That was the pattern size mommy used in making my everyday dresses, so I nodded again. “Let me show you three or four that I think you’ll just adore.”
Denise had returned and was standing by. “Denise, I think I can handle it from here. Thank you.” Denise left and returned to her station by the front door. “Let me show you to the fitting salon.” Cindy and I followed to the back of the store, where an ornate door opened onto a room that must have been 12’ by 15’. At one end was a sofa with a coffee table. At the other was a raised platform with mirrors. Below a Degas painting stood table with an assortment of drinks — hard and soft — and canapes. “Help your self and have a seat while I select some dresses for your consideration.”
I looked very nervous. I’d expected a little 3’ by 4’ cubical for me to change in and hide my secret, but this was a huge space with no place to hide. I looked at Cindi, who gave me a “Sorry, I didn’t think” look. She turned to Lucile and started saying, “Sorry, I don’t ...” when Lucile said, “Don’t worry dears, Pour La Femme caters to all types of femmes. I have dealt with women with Carlie’s figure problem many times. That is why I sent Denise away. So, relax, have a drink and some canapes, and you’ll receive the confidential service every woman deserves.” I felt a bit relieved, but was still nervous as I picked at my snacks.
The first selection was a white silk blend Coast Kamika textured dress with a full skirt, halter top and open back. I loved it so much, I wasn’t sure I wanted to see more. The only problem was the open back. I could not wear a padded bra to enhance my nascent breasts. Still, when I shyly stripped to my panties and tried it on, Lucile said I had enough of a top to carry it off as it was not form fitting. Cindi whispered that she loved the way my nipples were outlined by the silk falling from the halter.
The second was a white Aqua by Aqua Evangalista dress with one sleeve. She’d sold it to a number of women with my "figure problem" as it had a very high neckline that would hide a prominent Adam’s apple. I didn’t have much of an Adam’s apple, so I did not need that feature. The skirt was much less full than the Coast dress. To me that meant it was less fun to wear. Cindi thought the asymmetrical design was too sophisticated for me to carry off. Looking in the mirror, I had to agree.
The last was an Aqua by Aqua skater dress in a digital print poly fabric. It was a flirty mini with a round neckline and a fill skirt. I loved the cut, but the print did nothing for me. It was a dress to wear clubbing — one that said “I’m here, dears.” So, I stayed with my first choice.
“The only problem is that it is too cold at night to wear an open back or even a sleeveless dress.”
“Don’t worry, dear, I have the prefect wrap to go with it.” Lucile went into the shop and came back with a hand woven raw silk and unbleached wool ruana. “Try this.” I did. It was warm and the perfect compliment to my new dress.
“Now shoes dear. I think I have some that are absolutely you.” She returned with a very surprising selection, but one I loved: Pedro Garcia 'Chenoa' Booties. They were stylish enough to wear to dinner, but wouldn’t look out of place if I wore them to class. I tried them on. They were a bit narrow, but Lucile said that since they were leather, they’d stretch to fit me perfectly.
I was very happy when we finished and told Lucile so. She responded that I was a lovely girl and deserved the best.
Carlie has sissy predispositions, but overcomes difficulties with love, courage and increasing self-awareness. In this chapter, the storm hits.
Carlie
XV. The Game
When we got home, Eileen was still out. We showed my new clothes to my benefactor, who insisted that I model them. He made Cindi and me pina coladas while I changed in Cindi’s room. I came down the stairs very dramatically, and did a little runway show in the living room. He seemed to like me in my new dress as much as I liked wearing it. After we drank our pina coladas, Cindi was yawning and looking sleepy, Her dad told her he would entertain me if she wanted a nap. So she went up for a rest.
I was hungry. Sean suggested that I microwave us a package of pop corn. I nuked a package.
“Do you know anything about football?”
“A little. I used to keep my dad company when he watched it.”
“Well, I’m kind of alone here myself, so how about watching the game with me?” Watching sports was not my favorite thing, but he’d been very generous to me, and had even taken my side against his wife the night before. It would’ve been rude rude to refuse. He made room for me on the sofa and I put the pop corn on the coffee table in front of us. Apparently he’d been busy while I’d made the pop corn, because there was a fresh pina colada on the table in front of me.
“Oh, thanks.” I sipped it. “It’s delicious.”
“Most girls like them. I’m glad you do too.”
Things went nicely. We ate our pop corn and Sean explained various points I’d forgotten or never knew. It was very relaxed. As we munched, he got closer to me so he could reach the bowl easier. When the pop corn was done, he went to refill my drink. When he came back, he sat with his arm on the back of the sofa behind me. That made me a little nervous, but after 5 minutes or so, nothing more happened so I calmed down. I didn’t want to over react.
I was kind of light headed, but it was a pleasant feeling. Sean had his arm around me and had pulled me closer. I thought he’s being affectionate to me like a daughter. That was a good feeling. I missed my dad, and even though dad had never held me like that, an affectionate warmth ran through me. I leaned my head against his shoulder. He kissed me on the top of my head. “Hmm.”
Somehow I lost track of what was going on. A hand was in my halter top, massaging my breast. “You have lovely little tittles for a boy, Carlie.” It all felt good, but more like a dream than reality. My eyes were closed and I couldn’t think who owned the hand fondling me. Someone was kissing me. Cindi? Shar? Jason? Another hand was rubbing my panties. I lay back on the sofa feeling warm — ready to please whoever was making me feel this way.
I was being carried up stairs. My booties were off. My dress was unzipped and my panties pulled down. It was just happening and I was there — none of it was very alarming. Someone big and sweaty put me on my hands and knees, then was on top of me, pushing.
Suddenly the fire alarm went off. Not really, but it was like that. A piecing shrill shattered my dream. “Get off him you faggot!” I got a painful bruise as whoever was on me pushed against me to get up. A hard slap shook my brain and stung my cheek. “Get the hell out of my house, you freak!” Cindi stood dazed and blinking in the doorway. “You’ve been screwing this thing, haven’t you? You slut!” the voice shouted at her. “Get out! Get out! Get out, all of you! Vipers! Perverts! Freaks! Out! Out! OUT!” I grabbed my shoes, panties and dress and ran to Cindi’s room. She slammed and locked the door behind us.
She was dazed as me. Between the fuzz in our heads, and the pounding and screaming at the door neither of us could think. We fell back on the bed, struggling to stay aware.
Suddenly the pounding got much louder — too loud. It wasn’t pounding, it was shots. We pushed her vanity and bed against the door just as explosions shattered its lock. We ran to her bath and locked that door. I prayed. Cindi just said “me too.” We heard pushing and cursing. The furniture groaned, but held. It was quiet for a while. Then we heard sobbing ... sirens … and one more shot.
“Can you hear me? Wake up.” A woman was shaking me. I was in a bed in a white room. The lights were too bright. I closed my eyes.
“There was shooting. Someone was shooting. Who was shooting? We were hiding. ... Is Cindi okay?”
“There was no shooting honey. The girl with you is okay. We think you were both drugged — roofies for you maybe. Something to put your friend to sleep — some kind of sedative. The tests haven’t come back yet. Do you remember what happened?”
I told her as much as I could, but what happened and what I dreamed were all mixed up. She looked understanding, but not happy. When she left, Cindi came in — awake, but still groggy.
“Mother sort of apologized to me, but she kept calling you a ‘that thing’ and ‘it’. So, I didn’t accept it.” She started crying.
“I’m sorry about what happened. I thought dad liked other women, not trans people. If I’d known he was like he is, I wouldn’t have brought you home.”
“How did he know I was a boy? Your mother didn’t.”
“He told the cops he knew when he heard your name. He read the article about your dad blowing himself up and he remembered there was a son named Carl.”
“So, what’s going to happen?”
“Well, they locked him up, but he’ll probably be out on bail soon. Mother’s finally going to divorce him. I’m not going home again. I don’t even want to be a McCartney anymore. I’m going to change my name. I think Cynthia Robinson sounds nice.”
“I’m too young to get married, Dee.”
“I know, silly, but I still like the sound of Cynthia Robinson. It has a lovely ring to it — and it has the extra benefit of pissing off the bitch-witch. I thought for a while about Cynthia Thing, but I like Robinson better.” The nurse came in to shoo her off. She gave me a gentle kiss and left.
“Karl, I’ve tried everything I could think of to make a man of you, but you’ve shown no interest. Isn’t that true, son?”
“Yes, I suppose it is, dad.” For years I’d resisted every activity my father had suggested to “man me up” – soccer, little league, hunting and fishing, watching sports, and now the Boy Scouts. It was much more fun to stay home, play with Jane, and help mom.
“It is crazy for a person to keep trying the same thing and expect different results. I’m not crazy, so I’m not going to try to man you up any more. It’s hopeless, because it cuts across your nature. From now on, I’m going to reinforce your nature. At first, it might be a little stressful, but in the end, I think we’ll all be a lot happier. How does that sound, Karl?”
“It sounds pretty good. You know I want to please you, but the things you’re always pushing just aren’t any fun for me. Can you understand that, dad?”
“Yes, it’s finally sunk in. That’s why I’m changing course. To start with, I want you to call me ‘daddy,’ like Jane does. Will you do that for me Karl?”
“If that’s what you want dad…dy.”
“Good, and from now on, I’m going to call you ‘sweetie.’ OK?”
“But that’s what you call Jane.”
“You’re right, sweetie. Remember when you asked why I didn’t ask Jane to do the things I asked you to do? Now I’m going to treat you two more equally. OK?”
“I guess.” I wondered where this is going? Still, dad … daddy had always been more affectionate with Jane. I felt jealous. It might feel strange at first, but I might like being daddy’s “sweetie.”
“You’re not sure?”
“No, it would be nice, … daddy.”
“Good, sweetie. Now go play with Jane, she has a surprise for you.”
“A surprise?”
“Yes. A surprise. Please accept it graciously and thank her. Will you do that, … sweetie?”
“Yes, daddy.” I’m always nice to Jane – I didn’t need to be told. As I left to find Jane, daddy gave me an affectionate swat on the rear, as he often did with Jane. It felt strange, but nice.
“Jane, daddy said you have a surprise for me?”
“Yes, he took me shopping yesterday, and told me to buy nail polish for us to share. He said I should show you how to use it. Here! Don’t you love the color? Orchid Scintillation. Hmmm!” She wriggled her fingers for me to see. She was bubbling at the thought of us wearing the same polish.
I was in shock. My surprise was nail polish?? I wanted to scream I wasn’t a sissy who wore nail polish, but I didn’t want to ruin her happiness -- and, I’d promised daddy to be gracious. Also, a small part of me wondered what polish would feel like.
I let Jane show me how polish my toes. Then she asked me to do hers. I felt trapped until I saw how happy it made Jane. By the time I finished her toes mine were dry. Seeing how shiny and sparkly they were made me feel funny. I couldn’t stop looking. When I finally broke their spell, Jane had done three fingers on my right hand. I let her finish, figuring I could remove it in a bit.
“Let’s go show mommy and daddy!” she said excitedly.
“I thought we’d just wear it in your room a while, then I’d take it off.”
“How?”
“Isn’t there stuff that takes polish off? Like paint remover?”
“Well, mommy has some for when my nails look tacky, but I don’t have any. Besides, daddy said you’d be wearing polish from now on.”
“What?!”
“Daddy said you’d be wearing polish from now on.”
“I heard you, I just don’t believe it.”
She was looking upset. “Karlie, I never lie to you. Daddy told me you’d be wearing polish from now on when we were shopping yesterday.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t think you were lying. I just can’t believe he’d say that. Only a sissy would wear polish all the time.” Or at all, I thought – looking at my nails.
“I wear polish all the time. Now we can wear it together. I saw how you were looking at your toes. I know you like it. You think it is pretty, don’t you?”
Jane didn’t lie to me and I didn’t lie to her. “Well, I kinda like it, but boys aren’t supposed to wear polish.”
“That’s OK, cuz daddy said he’s not going to make you be a boy anymore. You’re going to be a sweetie, like me,” she beamed.
Suddenly, I got very scared, and started crying. I sat on Jane’s bed with my head in my hands crying softly. Jane tried to figure out what was wrong and comforted me with hugs and sisterly kisses.
Finally, I calmed down enough to tell her what was wrong. “Daddy’s making me a sissy!”
“No, he’s not Karlie.”
“Yes he is – look at my nails.”
“So? Daddy didn’t do them. I did, and you liked it.”
“But everyone’s going to think I’m a sissy.”
“That’s not the same as daddy making you a sissy. Mommy told me we all have to learn to be what God made us. He made you a sweetie. Isn’t that true?”
“Well, maybe. But, I don’t want to wear polish all the time.”
“Why? Don’t you like it?”
“I do, but people will think I’m a sissy.”
“You care more about what people think than what makes you happy?”
“I guess I do.”
“Maybe that’s why daddy decided you should wear polish – so you can learn to care about what makes you happy.”
When my tears dried, Jane took my hand and led me out to show mommy and daddy our matching nails.
“That is a good color for you both, and Jane, you did a professional job,” mommy said. “Karl, you should have started wearing polish long ago. Your hands look ever so much better.”
I looked at my hands again, but tried to look unhappy.
At first, daddy was silent. Then he said, “Sweetie, you’re trying hard to look unhappy. Tell the truth, do you like how your nails look?”
“Yes, daddy, but I don’t want to wear polish all the time. People will think I’m a sissy.”
“You don’t have to wear it forever, just until you stop caring what people think.”
For the next few days nothing further happened, except that Jane offered me a floral barrette so our hair would match. It was very pretty – she has good taste – and mommy said I’d look cute in it. I said no. I was still tying to convince people – or maybe myself – that I wasn’t a sissy.
I wasn’t doing a very good job. Whenever I saw my nails I got all tingly – especially my boy part. Their sparkling fascinated me, making it hard to hide how much I liked them. When we went grocery shopping, I started with my hand in my pockets, but soon took them out to grab my favorites. No one said anything. By the end of the week I stopped thinking about wearing polish.
I was playing with Jane in the back when Betty came over with a toy suitcase.
“That’s really nice polish you two are wearing – not like the cheap stuff my mom buys me,” she said wriggling her blue fingernails.
“We can do yours, if you like,” responded Jane.
“Thanks.
“Karl how come you’re wearing nail polish now? I mean boys don’t usually wear polish.” Betty’s tone was curious, not mean.
I didn’t know what to say. My face was red. I wasn’t sure if I’d cry, run into the house, or both.
“He likes how it looks, so Daddy said he should wear it.”
“That’s very brave, Karl. Do you really like it?”
“Thanks. I do – it makes my nails look pret… I mean shiny and sparkly. Please don’t tell anyone – they’ll call me a sissy.”
“Well, they are pretty. Being sissy just means that you’re sweet, like pretty things and don’t want to get hurt. Boys who aren’t sissies are loco en la cabeza. You’ve always been more like Jane and me than a loco niño.”
“Don’t you think it is weird that I like … ah … pretty nails?”
“Why should I? I like them too.”
“But I’m a boy.”
“That is not your fault. I’ve never held it against you.”
I didn’t know what to say. When I stopped thinking about what Betty had said, she and Jane were in the middle of a new topic.
“… My Tia Constanza made them for me. Aren’t they beautiful?” Betty was showing Jane tiny dresses from her satchel.
“Let’s go up and try them on my Barbies. Come on, Karlie.”
“I don’t like playing with dolls.”
“How do you know when you’ve never tried? … Besides, it’s no fun to play alone.”
I followed along reluctantly, thinking I’d just watch. After a few minutes, I saw Jane pair a lime blouse with a chartreuse skirt. “Those really clash,” I told her.
“Well, I couldn’t find a top to match the green in this skirt. If you’re so smart, show me a better top,” she said handing me her Ken doll and the skirt.
Mommy had taught me complementary colors were more interesting than matches. After putting the chartreuse skirt on Ken, I found a pink floral print top that made a striking contrast.
“Wow, Karlie, that looks way better. What do you think, Betty?”
“Muy bueno, Carlita!”
I was very proud of myself, and started getting into dressing the dolls. Sadly, many of the skirts wouldn’t stretch to fit Ken’s waist. “It’s not fair, some of these clothes don’t fit Ken.”
“He needs a larger size, sweetie,” said mommy from Jane’s doorway. I didn’t know how long she’d been watching. Embarrassed, I dropped Ken like a hot potato. I didn’t know what to do. One minute I was having fun, the next I was caught being a hopeless sissy. I started tearing up and ran for the door, trying to squeeze past mommy.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to spoil your fun. There is nothing wrong with playing dolls or dressing Ken in skirts.” She said as she held me tight.
My emotions poured out of my eyes. “I’m such a sissy!”
“Yes, mommy’s sissy boy,” she said giving me a firm squeeze and a kiss on the forehead that made me feel loved and accepted. “You know, you’re old enough to learn to sew. You could make outfits that fit Ken. Would you like that?”
“Maybe,” I said, trying to keep my voice from breaking.
“Oh, please do, Karlie. Then you could make clothes for Barbie and Melissa too!”
“I guess it might be fun, mommy. And, Jane, if I make anything for Ken, I will make something for your Barbies too.”
Jane rushed over and gave me a hug, followed by Betty.
“I’ll even make something for Juanita, Betty, but it won’t be as nice as what your tia made.”
That afternoon, mommy showed me how to make simple skirts using her sewing machine. I made four skirts with elastic waists – one for each of the dolls.
When I went into the living room to show Jane, daddy was home.
“Let me see, sweetie,” he said. “Not bad for a first effort, Karl. You have hidden talents. I’m proud of you.”
I couldn’t remember him saying he was proud of something I’d done before, so I felt a warm glow inside, even though what he was proud of was something a girl would do.
The next day, mommy took Jane and me shopping. I always hated shopping for Jane because I was always bored doing nothing. Instead of going right to the stores (there was always more than one), we went to the salon. My hair hadn’t been cut since spring and was quite shaggy.
I never got excited over haircuts, but Jane was more eager than usual. When we were done, our cuts were similar. The only difference was hers was a longer. She was thrilled. I don’t mean my hair looked girlie, but it wasn’t boyish either. In fact, it gave no clue whether I was a boy or a girl. Then I pushed back a stray strand. My orchid nails made all the difference.
I waited until we were outside to complain. “Mommy, I look like a tomboy or a sissy with this hair and my nails.”
“Karl, you didn’t want people thinking you’re a sissy. Now they can’t be sure you’re not a tomboy. Isn’t that better?”
I didn’t know what to say. Maybe it was better. No one laughed at tomboys. I was still puzzling it out when we went into Ross.
“Sweetie, you showed you have a good eye in dressing Ken. Why don’t you help Jane pick out some shorts and tops?”
Maybe shopping wouldn’t be so boring if I got to pick things out. Mommy wondered off while Jane and I looked over the racks in the girls’ section. I enjoyed finding things she’d look cute in. Jane was thrilled at the attention. By the time mommy came back we’d found three pairs of shorts and four tops.
“You both like these?”
“Yes, mommy,” Jane said.
I nodded in agreement.
“OK. You need panties. Go pick out some you like and I’ll be right along.”
Jane ran off.
“Go along with Jane, sweetie.”
I was embarrassed to be shopping for girl’s underwear, even if it was for Jane. Still, I was able to help. She couldn’t decide between Disney Princess panties and a package with heart and flower patterns.
“What do you think Karlie?”
“The Princess panties are cute, but the hearts and flowers ones look more grown up.”
“You’re right. They are much more grown up. Thank you. You’re the best big sister ever.”
I was about to say I wasn’t her sister when mommy arrived, asking what we’d decided.
“I like the hearts and flowers ones, and Jane agrees.”
Mommy tossed them in the cart along with a second package. “OK. You two go look at shoes while I check out. If you see any you like you can show me and we’ll compare at Payless.”
They didn’t have many children’s shoes, so we didn’t take long. Mommy was waiting in the front when we finished. Next, we drove to the shoe store. Mommy sent us for sandals. Jane found white ones that showed off her toes. To my surprise, mommy picked out a second pair in my size.
“Try these on, please,” she said handing me a pair of disposable socks.
“They’re girls sandals.”
“The shoes you have on are obviously boys’. Do you want people to think you are a sissy or a tomboy?”
“A tomboy,” I said reluctantly.
“Then you need new shoes.”
To make a long story short, I left wearing white open-toed sandals, carrying a bag with black patent block-heel Mary Janes, and pink and white Adidas. I looked like a tomboy, but I knew I was a sissy.
Our final stop was JoAnne’s. Mommy let Jane and I pick out remnants. She also bought me a book on making doll clothes and my own shears.
I got another surprise when we got home. Only a few of the things we’d picked out were for Jane. Most, including one pack of panties, were for me.
Each morning for the next week, mommy laid out panties, shorts, a top and shoes for me just as she did for Jane. It was very embarrassing to wear girls’ clothes, but also exciting. I got a definite tingle as I dressed, and secretly liked the bright colors and soft fabrics I’d picked out for Jane. Just as with the nail polish, I got used to wearing panties and girls’ shorts and tops. After all, shorts are shorts, and the tops weren’t flowery or frilly, just cut a little different from my boy’s tops.
Daddy would say how cute I looked and tell me how much he liked the things I'd picked out. Jane got a little jealous and said she’d helped too, so daddy complimented her as well.
Whenever we went shopping, people assumed I was a tomboy because I didn’t act very girly. Still, I started getting complements on my looks and manners along with Jane, and they made me feel good. I found myself walking, talking and acting more like girl to win more compliments.
After the first week, mommy said I was old enough to pick out my own clothes. Sometimes I’d wear my boy clothes, but if Betty came to play or we were going out, I wore my girl’s clothes. As time went on, I wore boy clothes less and less. After a couple of weeks, I asked mommy for more panties so I’d have enough to get through the week.
Mommy took me to Victoria’s Secret. We got a pack of pastel panties with satin bow in the front, and a pair of lacy pink coral boy shorts that were on sale. “Just for fun,” mommy said. They were quite expensive, but so pretty I couldn’t wait to get home and try them.
Jane, Betty and I continued to play with our dolls. Betty was quite an artist and had given Ken a make over —painting lipstick, eye shadow and blush on him. I learned to design and sew stylish dresses for the dolls. One day, as I was sewing Ken an asymmetrical off the shoulder I’d designed, mommy asked me if I’d like to wear a dress.
“Well, not all the time, but sometimes it would be fun, like when we all go to dinner. I’m too old to be in shorts like Jane. A dress would go nice with my MJs.”
“Would you like to make one or have me buy you one?”
“Maybe both? I mean I’d like to make one, but I’m not sure how it would turn out. I’d like to be sure of having a nice one. Would that be OK?”
“Of course, sweetie. Do you trust me to surprise you, or would you like to shop with me?”
“I trust you. It would be fabulous for my first dress to be a surprise.”
My twelfth birthday was a few days later. Mommy and daddy gave me a burgundy skater dress. I ran and put it on, but it didn’t fit right. I had nothing to fill the front. I almost cried.
Mommy came in with a box. “Girls your age often need a bit of help, Karlie.” In the box was a lacy A-cup push up that matched my boy shorts, and a pair of pads to fill it out. Once she helped me into it, my dress fit perfectly. I twirled and the skirt flared out. I felt dreamy!
“Oh! Thank you mommy,” I said kissing her.
“Go thank your dad. It was all his idea. I had my doubts, but now I know he was right.”
I ran into the living room, did a twirl, jumped into my daddy’s lap and gave him a huge hug and kiss.
Andragyne
George, a barista, tries to better his station by applying for a job as as Admin, thinking it is an administrator. Sandy's interview probes his motives in applying for a traditionally feminine job.
George, a barista, tries to better his station by applying for a job as as Admin, thinking it is an administrator. Sandy's interview probes his motives in applying for a traditionally feminine job.
Georgie
I had been out of college for 8 months with a huge student loan and no decent job. I had a degree and certificate in early childhood education, but the only job I’d found was as a part-time barista in an office-building coffee bar. I got minimum wage plus a few tips – only enough not to further burden my mother with whom I was still living. It was really a dead end job for me, because everyone knows the only way to get a teaching job is to be a substitute teacher long enough for some principal to notice you and recommend you for full time work – and you can’t substitute if you have to be at work every morning for the morning rush.
Mother loved me, but had told me when I picked my major that early childhood education was not a good economic choice. Now that I was in a bind, I knew she was wondering why I hadn’t listened to her. She never said anything, but when she brought home a DVD of Failure to Launch, the message was pretty obvious.
Of course, I did not date – not because I did not like girls or even meet pretty ones, but because they saw me as a cute a 5’6” 135 pound barista who probably had a boyfriend at home. Not only was I small, I’d let my blond hair grow to shoulder length to cut expenses. Only hunky gay men hit on me. If I were so inclined, I would have been flattered. Instead, I was embarrassed and annoyed.
So was my life when a professionally dressed young woman ordered a latte about 9:30 one morning. She was interviewing to be “an admin” in one of the law firms upstairs. We were the only two in the shop, and so talked until just before her 10:00 appointment. I knew I could be an administrator. I was well organized, had good computer skills and had even taken a couple of business courses before I settled on early childhood education as my major. The salary was much more than the pittance I was making.
The next morning I hand delivered a tailored resume to the law firm’s receptionist, and was rewarded by a call for an interview a few days later.
Sandy
I was very surprised when Sally, our receptionist, told me a man had applied to be my administrative assistant. What she actually said was “a pretty blond boy who's probably gay.” We’re a liberal firm with a proactive equal-opportunity policy. Interviewing a man to be my secretary would reinforce that image. So, even though his resume was weaker than those of the women I’d seen, I had Sally set up an interview.
The idea of a male secretary was strangely appealing. My ex was a macho ass, so the idea of bossing a man roused a side I didn’t know I had. Novel, unprofessional fantasies ran unbidden through my mind. I’d never act on them. I’m scrupulously professional and ethical. Still, one can dream, and my fantasies were very entertaining. Too bad the candidate was probably gay.
When George Myers came into my office, he was everything I’d fantasized: petite, and fine-featured with shoulder length blond hair. He told me about his computer skills and business course work.
“Are you in a relationship? Married, living with someone? Have a boyfriend? I ask because it relates to your potential stability as an employee.”
He blushed, but didn’t take offense. “No, I live at home with my mother. Despite my appearance, I like girls. They just don’t seem to like me back – not like that anyway.”
I asked his major, as it wasn’t on his resume – early childhood education – a traditionally feminine major. Once I’d confirmed his lack of experience, I decided not to hire him. Still, I wanted to know what made him tick. “So, what made decide to apply for a traditionally feminine job?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that being an administrative assistant, a secretary, is traditionally a woman’s job – not that that disqualifies you – we are an equal opportunity employer. Still, knowing your attitude is important in deciding how you might fit in here.”
“Oh, I thought the job was being some kind of administrator.”
“Didn’t you read the job description? How did you find out about the position?” He’d met a woman coming for an interview in the coffee bar where he worked and, being desperate for a better job, he decided to apply. He thought “admin” meant administrator. I had to credit him for initiative, if not business savvy.
“So, now that you know, I take it you’re no longer interested?”
“No, I’m still interested. I can’t afford to be hung up on gender stereotypes. I need a better job.”
I don’t know what came over me – maybe my fantasies – but I asked, “And if our dress code required administrative assistants to wear a skirt and blouse – what would you say?”
“Well, I’d have to think about it.”
“So, you aren’t that sure you want the job?” I was being mean, but was intrigued that he hadn’t said “no!” to the possibility.
“Oh I do! If I had to wear a skirt, I guess it would be worth it. I’d just be embarrassed.”
“I’m sure you’d get over it in time.”
“I guess I’d get used to it.”
“Well, you’ll be glad to know our dress code requires no such thing. I just wanted to see how much you want the job.”
“Oh, thank goodness. I don’t think I’d look very good in a skirt.”
“I’m sure you’d look lovely.” He blushed. I rose and shook his hand and told him we’d let him know one way or another once we’d decided. Of course, I’d already decided and drafted letters for Sally to send out that afternoon.
Georgie
I arrived on time for my interview, smartly dressed in my graduation suit. As I walked in I saw Ms. Sandra Major, Esq., seated behind a huge desk. She was about 10-12 years my senior with healthy complexion, athletic build and gorgeous figure – way out of my league. When she shook my hand, she was 4-5” taller than me – and in flats. Her short brunette hair, lace blouse and short, floral print skirt gave her an imposing presence.
She was gracious, but as the interview progressed, I felt ever more foolish. First, I had no relevant experience. Second, the job opening wasn’t for an administrator, but an administrative assistant – a secretary. Finally, saying I’d wear a skirt and blouse if the dress code required it was pathetically desperate. To cover my embarrassment I said I wouldn’t look good in a skirt, but she returned a complement: I’d “look lovely.” Sadly, she might be right. No wonder people assume I’m gay.
Two days later I got a very polite letter – it was a pleasure to chat with me, but, despite my impressive qualifications, … I was not surprised. I was almost relieved that I wouldn’t have to work for a woman before whom I’d so embarrassed myself.
Sandy
I didn’t know that Georgie (that is what I called him in my mind) worked in our building until I had to rush to a meeting one morning before my new admin had made coffee. I stopped at the lobby coffee bar and there he was, cute as ever, with his hair in a ponytail. We nodded in recognition, but I only had time to buy my coffee and leave. As I drove to my meeting, my fantasies returned with a vengeance. I decided to return to the coffee bar later and ask him out.
I had my new admin find the name and number of the coffee bar manager. I called her, said I was an attorney, and asked when I could talk to Mr. Myers without interrupting his work.
The next day I wore a new Tom Ford scent, Velvet Orchid, and my “power suit.” We all know that the masculine power suit of the last century is passé. My “power suits” are floral and lace – showing just enough leg and cleavage to distract the weaker sex. At 9:55 I went down to the lobby, ordered a black coffee from Georgie, and told him I wanted to have a word during his break.
I’m not into devious dating games. I started by saying why I had not hired him – he was under-qualified and I’m attracted to him. The last threw him into a tizzy of stunned silence. After waiting for a bit for him to recover, I asked if he liked French food, then if I could take him to dinner Friday. The poor thing could only nod.
Georgie
I was very surprised when, a month later, Ms. Major came into the coffee bar to order a black coffee. She was in a hurry, so we just exchanged smiles and she left. I didn’t expect to see her again any time soon. I was shocked the next day when she came in just before my 10:00 break, ordered coffee and asked if we could chat. I wondered how she knew I’d be on break, but I wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.
When I joined her, she looked and smelled fabulous. “I want to start by saying that you didn’t have as much experience as the other women I interviewed, but even if you had, I still could not have hired you.”
“Because I’m a man?” I knew that couldn’t be the reason when she lumped me in with “the other women,” but I didn’t know what else to say.
“No, because I’m attracted to you, and I didn’t want you to feel job pressure when I made my advances.”
Her “advances”? As I said, she was way out of my league, so that was the last thing I’d expected. Besides, she’d said I’d look lovely in a skirt. So, she could hardly think I was much of a man. Maybe she was just trying to be nice, then. But now? I sat with my jaw dropped and mouth open until she went on.
“To cut to the chase, do you like French food?”
I closed my mouth and nodded, even though I’d never eaten any.
“Good, then how about dinner at Chez André Friday night?”
I nodded again.
“I’ll pick you up at 7:00. Wear the suit you wore to the interview. I have your phone number and address already. See you Friday.”
She left and I sat stunned until Martha, my manager, came over and shook me to say my break was over.
When I told my mom what happened, she had mixed emotions. She was glad that I was finally starting to date – and a woman. (Despite my protests, she also wondered about my orientation.) On the other hand, she was concerned that Ms. Major would be more experienced and could take advantage of me. Ms. Major anticipated her concerns and called her (not me) the next evening. Mom closed the door for an hour-long woman-to-woman talk.
Sandy
I was almost positive that Georgie would tell his mother about our date, and equally sure that she’d be concerned about her precious child dating an older, experienced woman. No doubt Georgie was a momma’s boy, so I needed his mother on my side. At 8:00 I gave her a call. Georgie answered and was excited to hear my voice, but a bit disappointed when I asked to speak to his mother.
When I spoke to Nora, I knew I was right. She was a surprised, but gratified, that he was dating a woman. Still, she couldn’t imagine why a confident woman would be interested in him. She didn’t have specific suspicions, only a vague feeling that I was too good to be true.
I stated by saying how, like most young women, I had been drawn to gorgeous hunks. When I met Ted, I felt he was a dream come true. He’d been a star fullback in college and had a body to die for. He was sweet enough while we were dating, but once we married he became rude, arrogant and unfaithful. As a lawyer I earned more than him and that made him insecure. He reacted by doing his best to sabotage me. When he became physically abusive, I left. Since then, I’ve sworn off men – until I met Georgie.
He was unburdened by gender stereotypes – even open to wearing a skirt if our dress code required it. His openness stirred confusing feelings in me – none of them negative. One idea I’d sorted out was if we had a family, he could be the homemaker, caring for our children. My biological clock was ticking, and I wanted children soon. So I wasn’t toying with her son.
She listened until I finished, then spoke. She didn’t think he’d ever worn women’s clothes, but wasn’t surprised that he’d consider it. He’d never been very manly. Her main concern was that he’d die single and alone. She didn’t want him to have the stress of being gay, but she’d rather he be gay than alone. In fact she’d been seriously considering arranging a date for him with a gay man she knew at work.
She could tell that I was serious about him. I was his first, and perhaps only, real chance at a relationship. She’d be supportive. I thanked her.
Georgie
Before my date, mother insisted on helping me with my hair! She brushed it out, looked at it, and said I needed a bit more flair for an elegant dinner date. Much to my chagrin, she used her curling iron to give the ends an outward flip. I thought I looked femme, but mother insisted it was fine and Ms. Major would like it.
At exactly 7:00, Ms. Major rang the bell. I was still struggling with my tie. My mom answered, introduced herself, and invited her in. When I came into the room, Ms. Major gave me a radiant smile, said I looked “beautiful,” and that she especially liked my hair. I was still a bit embarrassed about it, but her compliments gave me a warm glow, making me glad I’d let mother help.
Ms. Major told me to call her Sandy, took my hand and lead to a blue Beamer parked out front. She opened and held the door while I got in. As we drove to Chez André, she told me how she was attracted to me during the interview and struggled to act professionally. She asked if anything she said made me feel uncomfortable. I told her nothing had. She was glad.
When we arrived, I struggled to release my seat belt. By the time I figured it out, she was holding the passenger door open, offering me a hand. She held my hand till we got to the entrance, then opened that door for me. At the table, the maitre d’ sat me while Sandy sat herself.
“Shouldn’t he have sat you instead of me? And, shouldn’t I be the one opening doors for you?”
“One reason I like you is during your interview you said you aren’t hung up on gender roles. I was married to a macho ass, and I can’t stand that attitude. Since I’m more fit, it’s logical that I open doors. I earn more, so should I pay for our dates. If you were just blowing hot air, tell me now, and I’ll take you home with no hard feelings. Are you OK with me leading, or should I take you home?”
“No, I’m not at all macho. I want you to like me, and you’re right – you are stronger, more experienced and earn more, so it’s natural that you should lead.” I didn’t want our relationship to end before it started. I couldn’t afford to let my male ego, such as it was, to get in the way of my first chance with a woman.
“Good! I like your attitude. Do you know much about French food and wine?”
“No, not really.”
“Then I’ll order for us. Do you trust me?”
“Yes.”
She ordered for both of us, and it was fabulous! The wine was outstanding and I got very mellow. By the time Sandy walked me to my door, I was feeling wonderful.
“Did you have a good time Georgie?”
“Amazing, Sandy. I’m so glad you asked me out.” I wasn’t about to quibble over my new pet name.
“I work hard during the week. So, I try to make the most of my weekends. Would you like to spend the day with me tomorrow?”
“I’d love to,” I said – forgetting that I usually cleaned the house for my mom on Saturdays.
“Good! I’ll pick you up at 8:00 for breakfast. Wear shorts. We’ll go for a walk later.” She bent me back and gave me a kiss so deep that I melted and literally came in my pants. I was so embarrassed I rushed inside before she could see the wet spot.
Sandy might not have seen it, but mother surely did. “I see that you had a good time,” she said staring at the front of my trousers. I blushed, not knowing what to say.
“Did she take advantage of you, dear?”
“No, she just kissed me good night, and I … well got excited.”
“Yes, I can see that. Go rinse your things out with cold water and we can discuss your date over breakfast.”
“She invited me out for breakfast – in fact for the day! I hope you don’t mind. I won’t be able to clean the house tomorrow.”
“The house can wait. You can do it during the week, dear. I want you to have a chance to relate to a woman other than me.” I could see her thinking, “or you’ll be living here forever,” but she didn’t say it.
“Thank you, mother.” I rinsed my pants as she told me. Then went to bed. I dreamed that Sandy had hired me, and I wore a skirt and blouse to work.
Sandy
Our date went as well as I had hoped. I was surprised that he'd given the ends of his hair a feminine flip.
I did for him all the things a lady could wish a strong, courteous man to do on a first date. He complained once, but backed off when I gave him the choice of going home or letting me lead. It’s a heady feeling, having a male girlfriend.
I’ll never be cruel to him, but being dominant gave me an erotic tingle all evening. He seemed to relax and enjoy it after his initial pro forma protest. He especially liked the French kiss I gave him at the door. I felt his body arch, a pulse against my thigh, and then he almost swooned. His face was flush and he was quite embarrassed – poor dear. Maybe it was his first time with a woman. When I got home a sticky wet spot on my dress confirmed my suspicion. I hoped to embarrass him more like that in the future.
Georgie
The next day I put on stone poplin shorts and a baggy black tee. When I came out, mother asked if I were going to a funeral or on a date. I didn’t have any brighter shorts – mother said she’d buy me some – but she’d given me a sleeveless purple top she insisted I wear. I’d never wore it because it’s close-fitting and I’m ashamed of my body. I also wore loafers and dark socks because I didn’t have tennis shoes. They didn’t make mother happy, but there was nothing to be done about it.
Sandy appeared promptly at 8:00 and escorted me as before. She and mother must have a psychic bond because she complemented me on my top, but said we needed to do something about my shoes.
The day was overwhelming because Sandy is overwhelming – so decisive. We began with breakfast at a small family restaurant where they knew her. She introduced me as her new friend, Georgie, and ordered me the Nature’s Best Special – a fruit bowl, yogurt, and one slice of multi-grain toast with safflower spread. She had the Farmer’s Plate – two eggs, sausage, home fries and a stack of buttered pancakes. She explained she’d burn the calories off at the gym, while I wouldn’t. If I wanted a bigger breakfast next time, I’d have to join her at the gym.
As we ate, she told me about her broken marriage to Ted, a former football player who must be a real ass. No one had interested her since, until she met me.
“Well, one thing’s for sure – no one will think I was a football player.”
“That’s why you’re so perfect! You’re very pretty, and so far your personality seems to fit mine. You’re not insecure being with a strong and successful woman. My biological clock is ticking. It’s time that I started a family. You’re interested in children. What do you think?”
“You’re way ahead of me. I’m just glad that we’re going out – that you’re interested in me. When I first met you, I thought you’re totally out of my league. I’m like stunned that you even want to go out with me. In fact, I’ve never even gone on a real date before. I escorted my cousin to her school dances a couple of times, but that’s it. Girls never seemed interested in me – at least not before you. Even my mother thinks I might be gay – I’m not – really – but when you don’t date girls, er … women, that’s what people think.
“I do love kids. That’s why I majored in early childhood education – so I could spend time with them. I probably never will because I won’t get a teaching job because working at the coffee bar means I can’t be a substitute, and that’s the key to fulltime teaching.
“So, you’re way ahead of me thinking about starting a family. To me it’s just something I hope will happen one day, but thought never would.”
“Oh Georgie, I’m sorry. You must think I’m really pushing things. I don’t mean to be. It’s just that when I know what I want, I go for it. I’m laying my cards on the table for you. Now you know what I’m looking for and that I’m serious about you. We still need to learn a lot about each other and ourselves, but at least you know what I’m thinking.”
“Sandy, I appreciate you being honest. I’ll try to be too, but sometimes I’m shy or embarrassed. So you’ll need to be patient with me.”
She reached out and held my hand between hers. “I’ll try my best to be patient with you, Georgie.
“To change the subject … one treat I give myself is a weekly facial, manicure and pedi. I really enjoy being pampered. You would too, if you let yourself. I’d like you to come with me, and give it a try.”
This was going to be one of the strangest dates ever, but I couldn’t say no to her. We walked a few doors south to The Chi Salon, where, again, the staff all knew Sandy. “Georgie will have the same as me, but no color, please.”
My face was massaged as I closed my eyes and relaxed. Someone was removing my shoes. When I woke, my face had an invigorating tingle and my nails were shaped and shone with clear lacquer. I should have been embarrassed. Instead, I was amazed how good my nails looked – not masculine or feminine – just beautiful – like they were meant to be from the beginning of time.
Suzie, who’d done my facial, told me that I wouldn’t need to shave for a few days. Was that even possible? Most boys can’t wait till they have to shave, but I always thought it was a pain. It would be a miracle if I could skip shaving.
Apparently, Sandy had stepped out to do a bit of shopping because she came in with a paper bag in hand. “Well?” she asked.
“I feel amazing. Thank you so much.” That earned me a kiss, but a daytime one that didn’t cause the reaction of the previous night.
The next stop was a shoe store where Sandy bought me white sneakers, peds, and laces to match my shirt. I should have felt like a sissy, but I looked too good to feel down on myself. Again, not male or female, just nice to look at. Only the blond fuzz on my legs looked out of place.
As we walked back to her car, I was surprised how comfortable my new shoes were. I was self-conscious about my purple laces, but no one seemed to notice, and I soon forgot about them.
Sandy drove into the mountains to a shaded parking area. She shared some sun block, then slipped on an insulated backpack and led up a narrow trail. I was scared as we approached a treacherous spot where one slip would send me sliding into the canyon below, but she held my hand firmly and I felt safe. After 45 minutes, we arrived at a small waterfall. There we sat on flat rocks and had wine, crusty bread and cheese. I was tired, and fell asleep in the sun – cooled by the drifting mist.
Sandy woke me with a gentle kiss. “Wake up princess.”
I opened my eyes and soon we were kissing passionately. Sandy took my hand and placed it under her top on her bare breast. I had often dreamed of breasts, but had never touched one. Hers was fuller and softer than I had ever imagined, with a large firm nipple. Again, I embarrassed myself by ejaculating in my shorts.
As I did, Sandy hugged me close, saying “It’s OK.” She held me until the glow past, then helped me stand.
“Oh dear, you have another wet spot, princess.”
I blushed.
“After last time, I thought you might need a change,” she said, handing me the paper bag I’d seen earlier. Inside were white scallop-pocket J. Crew shorts with pink polka dots, and white Hanes Her Way panties.
“These are women’s …”
“No gender hang ups, remember? You’ll look darling in them. Or you can parade around with your little accident.” I decided I had no choice but wear them.
“Aren’t you going to turn around?”
“I let you fondle my breast. Now it’s my turn – fair is fair.” She watched as I changed, suggesting that I’d look better if I tucked myself back. “I was right, you do look darling in those. You’ll look better after you shave your legs. How do you feel?”
“Embarrassed.”
“You'll get over that. Just think how cute you look and how much I appreciate you dressing nice for me.”
By the time I got home, I knew I had spent the best day of my life with Sandy.
Sandy
Saturday was when I would see if Georgie would let me feminize his appearance. I ordered him a breakfast appropriate for a weight-conscious young girl, had him participate in my facial and nail regime, and shared a little passion in my favorite forest hideaway.
I must have tired Georgie out, because he fell asleep after our picnic. Watching him sleeping with his fine features and slightly curled blond hair, I could not help but think of him as sleeping beauty. I woke him with a kiss and called him “Princess.” He didn't object.
He was so pretty sleeping I wanted to be with him, but it was only our second date and the poor dear was a virgin. I didn’t want to scare him off. So, I contented myself with passionate kissing and teaching him to fondle my breasts. As I expected, he could not contain himself. I held him close and told him it was all right as he had his release.
I knew he’d loose control again and need a change, so I’d bought a pair of cute shorts and panties while he was finishing at the salon. I watched him change, and I saw the potential for great bed partner.
I delivered him home about 5:00. Nora greeted us and invited me to stay for a spaghetti dinner. She told Georgie she liked his manicure, and new shorts and shoes. She seemed to enjoy making him blush.
She asked if I wanted some Chablis. When I said yes, Georgie was lead off and returned in a hostess apron with my wine. After that he stayed in the kitchen while Nora joined me with her own wine.
“You do work fast, Sandy. Is he wearing panties as well?”
“Yes, nothing fancy, just white Hanes.”
“I’d thought many times while he was growing up that he might prefer feminine clothes, but it just did not seem right. You know what I mean? But now that he is wearing them, I see a glow about him that I've not seen before. Was it difficult? I mean getting him to have his nails done and wear girl’s things?”
“No, not really. He made a few pro forma protests, but did not put up any real opposition. He even let me call him ‘princess.’ Did you have trouble getting him into the apron?”
“No, it was pretty much like you described. He asked if he really needed to wear it, but when I told him he needed to keep his white shorts clean, he let me tie it on him.
“This is not really what I had imagined for my son, but he seems happy, and you seem very sweet with him. So, I’m glad you came along.” She gave me a motherly hug.
I blushed. “Thank you,” I said sincerely.
“He seems to enjoy being treated like a girl, but be embarrassed by it. We need to work together to help him get over his embarrassment. He’s so pretty, he really should have a chance to take pleasure in it while he’s young. Your complements really help.”
“I agree. I don’t believe in doing things half way. Once I make up my mind, it’s full steam ahead for me. After all, I’ve never had a little girl and so I’ve missed out on a lot. I’m not going to let you have all the fun!” Just then Georgie came out of the kitchen to announce that dinner was ready.
“Thank you, princess,” Nora said.
Georgie
After my date with Sandy even my mother was calling me princess. I have to admit it made me feel special, but, still, it was embarrassing.
Sunday Sandy was busy visiting her family and straightening her apartment, so we did not see each other.
Monday mother suggested that I wear my new shoes. Martha noticed them as well as my new hairstyle and nails. She said they looked good, and that as long as I looked neat and professional, she was all in favor me exploring my “new look.”
Maybe it was because of my new look, or maybe it was because I was so much happier than I’d been, but I noticed a big increase in my tips.
Sandy works long hours during the week, so I only got a few brief texts saying how much she enjoyed our time together, how pretty I was, and how she was looking forward to spending more time with me.
Tuesday morning, mother said, “I found your new panties in the laundry. If you’re going to wear panties, you should try brighter colors and prettier styles.”
I was not sure how to respond, so I said nothing. Mother seemed to take that as agreement.
Wednesday my boxers had been replaced with an assortment of brightly colored cotton bikini, nylon print, and lacy panties. I was too embarrassed to say anything, so I picked out a pair of cranberry cotton panties as the least feminine. They gave me a strange feeling – not sexual excitement, but a confident tingle that I decided was what girls mean by “feeling pretty.” By the time I got to work, I was a bit down because Sandy was not there to see how pretty I was in them.
I was still feeling that way when Sandy came in at 9:55 for join me for my 10:00 break.
“Hi princess,” she said as she came in.
Even though it was embarrassing to be called “princess” in front of Martha, I felt special and happy.
“Nora called to say you decided to wear panties all the time. I took a break from my deposition to tell you that I can’t stop thinking how pretty you must look in them. Do you have a pair on now?”
I nodded.
“What kind?”
“Cranberry bikini ones.”
“I wish I could see how good you look in them. Do you want dinner at my place Friday?”
“I’d love it.”
“I’ll pick you up at 7:00. Wear something pretty. It will just be us, so you needn’t feel embarrassed. Bye.” She gave me a quick kiss that left me feeling dreamy.
I felt so like a girl the rest of the day, wondering what I could wear for my date. When I got home I was still feeling dreamy. I told mother what happened and that I did not know what to wear. She had me change into my polka dot shorts and a loose top she lent me.
“That’s not going to work. Go shave your legs and underarms.” It was a very sissy thing to do, but I wanted to look as pretty as possible for Sandy. When I dressed again, Mother darkened my blond brows with a light brown pencil and added lip gloss. I looked like a girl. Still, I was nervous.
We went to Macy’s. I almost didn’t get out of the car. Mother led me to the Junior’s department. I got no strange looks on the way so I relaxed a bit.
Mother decided that we should look for a blouse first, as it was most like men’s wear. I found a fuchsia satin blouse with a pointed collar that buttoned up the front like a man’s shirt. I loved it, but the front sagged, so it didn’t hang right. Since it was a Junior’s size, it was not tailored for a big bust, but no bust just did not work.
“Do you really like it, Georgie?”
“Yes, but I can’t wear it. I’m too flat chested.”
“That can be fixed.”
“Mother! I’m not wearing a bra.”
“Why not, you wear panties.”
“Well, I don’t have anything to put in one.”
“That is exactly why you, and a lot of other girls, need one. Come on, we’ll see what you like,” she said, taking my hand and heading to the lingerie department. I could have resisted, but it would make a scene.
“Perfect,” she said, handing me a padded push-up almost the same shade of fuchsia as the blouse I was still holding. “Go try it on. Do you want me to help?”
“No, I can do it myself,” I said, somewhat annoyed.
“How do you know, have you worn one before?” Now I was really blushing, and left for the changing room before I was further embarrassed. It took me a long time before I got the hang of it, but eventually I hooked the bra in back. “Let me see.” I opened the door so she could look in. She pushed and pulled my chest flab until I actually had a little cleavage. “You look fabulous! We should get some more in the same style, but different colors.”
“I don’t even need one!”
“Now try your blouse.”
“Yes, mother.”
“Doesn’t that look better?”
In the mirror was a girl I’d like to go out with. Maybe she could improve her hair and makeup, but she still turned me on. I was glad I’d tucked myself back, otherwise I’d have a tent in the front of my shorts.
“You stay here, I’ll pay for your bras and blouse then you can wear them while we look for the rest of your outfit.”
Mother wanted me to look at skirts, but I wasn’t ready to wear one, and I didn’t know if Sandy would like me in one.
“If she likes you in panties, she’ll love you in a skirt.”
“Do you really think so?” I remembered her interview question and my dream, and almost agreed to look at skirts. Then I remembered I was a man, and decided that women’s pants were as far as I would go.
Mother found a beautiful black crepe pair with a wide leg, but they were too long.
“They’re meant to be worn with heels.”
“I’d look silly in heels.”
“You would not. They’d make your legs look great.”
“I don’t think I could balance on them. I’m not very athletic.”
“They don’t have to be stilettos. You could wear block heels. They’d make you taller – easier for Sandy to kiss.” I blushed, but the idea appeal to me.
“OK, we can look, as long as they’re not too feminine.” We found a pair of loafers with 1-½” block heals on sale. The slacks looked fabulous when I wore them. Once I’d gotten them it was not hard for Mother to persuade me to get a pair of wedge heel sandals to wear with my shorts. I dreaded seeing my credit card bill, but the thought of how pretty I'd look for Sandy made it worthwhile.
On the way home we passed a Ross, and mother insisted that we look. I was wearing my new blouse, shorts and wedge sandals. I had no resistance left when mother showed me a floral print skirt that picked up the color of my blouse. When I tried it on and did a twirl, I had to have it.
I would have bought more, but I could not afford another thing. I felt like a very pretty sissy, but that felt great. I wore the skirt home.
When we got back in the car, mother gave me a shoulder bag that matched my new loafers. She was crying.
“I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment. I know I’m not the kind of son that would make a mother proud.”
“Oh, but you do! I am just crying because I did not act on my impulses to buy you pretty clothes when you were younger. … You’re so beautiful!”
Sandy's fantasy founders on the rocks of reality as Georgie is haunted by the past.
Georgie
“You’ve got to take him for a haircut. He looks like a fucking girl!”
“Karl, watch your language. He’s such a beautiful child. Cutting his hair would be a shame!”
“I don’t want a ‘beautiful child.’ I want a son that doesn’t look like a damned sissy! He’s an embarrassment!”
…
I was sitting on a booster, feeling cold scissors work across my forehead. Shiny gold filaments skidded off my lap onto the floor. Mother was sitting opposite me, silent tears falling.
…
“Only girls throw like that. What the hell’s wrong with you? I’ve shown you how to throw a hundred times. I’ll have your mother put you in a dress if you don’t throw it like I showed you!”
…
I was trying to sleep. “He’s a sweet, sensitive child. Shouting at him like you do is just as abusive as if you hit him!”
“I’m trying to make a man out of him. You can raise the little pansy any way you want for the next year. I expect he’ll be in curls and nail polish when I get back from Iraq. Why not just buy him a dress and be done with it?”
…
I was sitting on the porch. Two men in dress uniforms were inside with mother. “We regret to have to inform you …”
…
I was grown up – happily doing dreamy twirls in my new skirt, fantasizing about my date with Sandy. Suddenly, two MPs grabbed me and dragged me into a court marshal.
My father was presiding. “I tried all my life to make a man of you. Now look at you – a fucking fairy spinning in a flower dress and sissy blouse.” He ripped them off me. “A bra and panties too! You make me sick!” He threw up on my new loafers.
…
I was in front of a firing squad. “Ready, aim, …”
I woke in a cold sweat. I couldn’t go back to sleep. I kept thinking what a disappointment I’d always been to my father. Now I was betraying his memory – fixated on being pretty for a date with a woman who encouraged me to have my nails done and wear women’s clothes. I’d let mother make me up and talk me into buying heels and a skirt. I’d even fallen asleep in a bra and panties.
Tears rolled down my cheeks. Something was terribly wrong with me! I’d become the “damned sissy” my father feared! I had to break it off and start acting like a man! I threw my bra and panties in the trash. I shampooed the flip out of my hair and scraped the polish off my nails. I’d get a buzz cut later. It was getting light. I went to get dressed. My underwear drawer held nothing but panties and bras. I put on the white cotton pair Sandy’d given me and resolved to buy boxers after work.
I left before mother got up. When Martha found me waiting at the shop gate, she only remarked that I no longer had my “new look.” Later, when I was sullen with customers, Martha told me that whatever was going on, I needed to put on my game face. I tried to act cheerful.
At my break I called Sandy. She was in a meeting. It was cowardly, but I left a message with her admin. It was too easy for her to bend me to her desires. I wouldn’t be going on our date, nor did I want to see her again.
After work I stopped at K-Mart to buy boxers. My credit card was declined. I was over my limit! I started crying and hid in the bathroom until I regained my composure. Even in trying to be more of a man I was such a sissy!
I wanted to avoid mother, so I wandered the streets until 11:30 when I went home to sleep.
Sandy
Everything was going so well. Georgie and I were both happy. Then, out of the blue, he breaks it off without talking to me – not even saying why! I felt hurt, empty and angry.
When I got his message, I wanted to rush down to the coffee bar and confront him, but that was too much like stalking. If I were patient, maybe he’d talk to me. After an hour, I gave up on patience, and texted him. “Why don’t you want to see me anymore?”
“I want to, but I can’t. Plz leave me alone.”
I hadn’t cried since my ex hit me, but now I was crying. He wants to but can’t?? What the hell does that mean? Nora had given me her cell number, so I called her. I tried to be calm and objective, but soon my voice cracked like my heart.
She was stunned that he’d dumped me. He’d been ecstatic when they were shopping for our date. He’d been avoiding her. So she knew something was wrong, but had no idea what. She’d try to find out.
Georgie
The cold water I’d splashed on my face didn’t help. Martha knew I’d been crying.
“Look, sweetie, he’s a fool who doesn’t deserve you. We’ve all been dumped by men we’re too good for. I know it hurts now, but you’ll find someone better – someone who’ll treat you like a girl … er, a sweetie like you deserves.” She gave me a warm, motherly hug.
I was going to correct her, but the words caught in my throat as renewed tears stained her blouse. Now we were both a mess.
Nora did something she’d never done – rolled down the lobby gate, flipped the sign to “Closed,” and turned off the store lights. We sat in her microscopic office until I was cried out, then she sent me home for the day.
I was asleep on the sofa when mother found me.
“What’s going on, George? You’ve been avoiding me and your eyes are red and puffy.”
“I broke up with Sandy.”
“What did she do?”
“Nothing. It’s me. I can’t stop thinking what a disappointment I must be to dad.”
“Your dad is dead and in heaven. If he was disappointed in you, I’m sure God’s straightened him out.”
“So, what did Sandy say when you told her?”
“Nothing. I didn’t actually talk to her. I just left a message saying I didn’t want to see her anymore.”
“Did you say why?”
“No. I was too ashamed to let her admin know what a sissy I am.”
“You can’t just dump someone and not tell them why – especially by remote control. She called me in tears. You’ve really hurt her. I thought I raised you better.”
“I know. I’m a coward – just what you’d expect from a sissy.”
“Is that what’s bothering you? Being a ‘sissy’? I thought you were a college grad, but mentally it seems you’re still in grade school. … Did someone call little Georgie a sissy?” she said in a mocking tone.
“No … yes. I mean dad did.”
“You’re dad did!? He’s been dead over ten years. How could he call you a ‘sissy’?”
“I had a dream. He had me arrested, and court marshaled, and shot.” I started crying again.
“So this is all about some silly dream you had?” she asked incredulously.
“It’s not just the dream – it’s what a disappointment I’ve turned out to be. He was always trying to make me a man and I wind up a worthless sissy in a bra, heels and a skirt!” I couldn’t control the flood pouring from my eyes.
“Your father was a wonderful man in many ways, but when it came to appreciating what a great son he had, he was a total jerk! An asshole!”
I’d never heard mother criticize dad before. Her vehemence shocked me.
“Your dad thought in stereotypes. You didn’t fit the box he wanted to put you in and that embarrassed him. Instead of seeing how sweet, caring and beautiful you are, he kept thinking how embarrassed he'd be if his buddies thought you weren’t a he-man. You never knew, but we used to argue about it after you were asleep.”
“Sometimes I wasn’t asleep. I was in bed crying about what a failure I was.”
“Georgie, you poor dear!” She held me close. “I swear, you’re just like your father!”
“What??”
“You both think that not fitting the stereotype makes you ‘a failure as a man.’”
“Well, doesn’t it?”
“Who says what a man is supposed to be?”
“I don’t know. God I guess…”
“I don’t think so! God made you as you are – and ‘God don’t make trash.’”
“God made me a sissy??”
“There you go with that word again. I swear, your almost 23 and you’re thinking like you’re seven! Seven year olds think that anyone who isn’t what they think a boy should be is a ‘sissy’.
“God makes each person different. He doesn’t put people in boxes, humans do. He made you sweet, sensitive, and yes, pretty. Instead of complaining you don’t fit in some stupid ‘being a man’ box, you need to be the very best, the very happiest, George Myers you can be.
“When I saw you twirling in your new skirt, I could only think ‘how pretty and happy he is.’ I didn’t once think what a sissy!’” She was crying too.
“You’ve made three happy people very unhappy.”
I heard what she said. I did regret the pain I caused Sandy and now mother, but I missed my dad terribly. The idea of betraying him tore at my soul. I was sure I needed to be strong and “do the right thing.”
“I need to act like a man. It’s what dad wanted.”
“Well, it wasn’t acting like a man to break it off with Sandy by leaving a message … and avoiding me was hardly ‘manly,’ either.”
“I guess I should see Sandy and explain it to her.”
“If you don’t, you’re sure as hell a sissy.”
Sandy
My intercom buzzed. “Mr. Myers on line 2.”
“Good afternoon, Sandra Majors,” I said stiffly.
“Hello, Sandy. It’s Georgie, er, George. I hope you’re not so mad you won’t let me explain things. Can we meet and talk?”
“I’ve got a busy week, I don’t know if I can fit you in, George.”
“I know I don’t deserve it, but I’d need to talk to you. Please!”
“Let me look at my iPad. … I have an opening Monday evening, are you available?” I could see him a lot sooner, but was mad and wanted him to wait.
“Yes, that would be fine.”
“I’ll be at your house at 7:00.”
“Can’t we meet somewhere else? My mother will be home.”
“Oh, are you still hiding from your mother?” I was going to take him to a quiet coffee shop where I’d often met clients, but was in a rotten mood. If he didn’t want to meet at his house, then I did.
“No, I’m not.”
“Good, then I’ll see you Monday at 7:00. Bye.”
I thought I’d feel better after sticking pins in Georgie, but, as the afternoon dragged on, I didn’t. In fact, I was ashamed of myself. He was on the verge of tears, but I’d shown no compassion. I was hurt and wanted to hurt him back. I thought about calling and meeting with him sooner, but decided I needed until Monday to cool off.
As the week crawled by, I thought maybe Nora would call to tell me what was going on. Eventually I realized that she wanted Georgie to do his own explaining.
Georgie
“Doing the right thing” didn’t feel good. I’d never been more sad and lonely. Sandy may have treated me like a girl, but I felt wanted and special with her. I’d never pleased dad, no matter how hard I tried. He knew I was only acting a part, not being a man. When I bit the embarrassment bullet and did as Sandy suggested, I felt genuine appreciation. Before her, I felt a failure – never having pleased anyone but mother. With her, I felt like I’d found my rightful place.
But, how could a place be right when I wasn’t doing the right thing? Was it right for a man to have his nails done or buy a pretty outfit for a date? I felt pretty when I wore my panties. Surely a real man wouldn’t feel like that. No wonder dad threw up on my loafers. Of course he hadn’t really – my subconscious had.
Monday morning, when I got dressed, my underwear drawer still had no boxers. I’d gotten paid Friday, but hadn’t gotten around to buying new ones. I had lots of excuses. Mother usually bought my clothes. I was depressed over the breakup. I saw my hand reaching past brightly colored cotton panties to a cream pair of satin pettipants with 2-1/2” lace trim on the legs. “They’re the closest thing I have to boxers,” I rationalized. They didn’t feel like boxers as I pulled them up my shaved legs. To stop looking at them, I quickly pulled a pair of khakis over them.
My fuchsia blouse called from my closet. I reached past it to a tan polo shirt. “Dull as dishwater,” I said with some satisfaction as I did a little turn in the mirror. I hadn’t gotten the buzz cut I’d promised myself, so I pulled my hair into a low ponytail. My face was too pretty … maybe some dark makeup to create masculine contours or beard shadow? What was I thinking? I wore a masculine scowl instead.
“George, why are you making a face this morning?”
“Oh, was I?” So much for the scowl idea.
“Yes, you were. It doesn’t make you look more masculine, just constipated.”
“Oh.”
“Also, you can’t wear khaki and tan together. You need some contrast. You know that. Now go change.”
“Yes, mother.” I did not want to see my pettipants again, so I changed into a maroon polo.
I worried all day about what I’d say to Sandy. Would she listen to anything I’d say?
“George, your almost useless today. That’s the third order you’ve messed up. It’s not like you.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I’m meeting Sandy tonight to explain why we can’t go out anymore, and I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“You need to focus while you’re working.”
“I’ll try to focus more.”
“You better, or I’ll have to send you home without pay until you can.”
I finished the morning rush without further errors. When the shop emptied, Martha lowered the gate and called me into her office.
“So, this Sandy person didn’t dump you? You dumped him?”
“Sandy is a woman – a lawyer upstairs.”
“Really?? Oh, that’s great! … but why are you dumping her? I’d never seen you so happy. Was she unfaithful? Abusive?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“Then what?”
“It’s me. I need to be a real man, like my father would have wanted.”
Before I’d finished, Martha was laughing. At first she tried to stifle it, but she couldn’t stop herself. I frowned.
“I’m sorry sweetie. I’m not trying to be mean. I think the world of you, but ‘a real man’ and you just don’t fit. I can’t even imagine what it would look like.”
“I was thinking of getting a buzz cut and …”
“Please don’t. You’d look like a dyke, sweetie.”
“Oh,” I said, defeated.
“So, all this is because your father said something?”
“No, he died years ago, but I had a dream and he …” I started crying. I was a wreck.
“Did he love you, George?”
“Yes, but I was a disappointment to him.”
“If he really loved you, he’d want you to be happy. You were before you broke up. Now you’re a mess. Go home and do whatever you need to do to fix this. I can’t keep closing the shop. The owners will find out and be on my case.”
As I waited for the bus I realized that everyone who loved me thought of me as a girl. The last time I was happy was doing twirls in my skirt. I needed to do whatever was necessary to fix this …
Sandy
I rang the bell precisely at 7:00. As I stood waiting, I recalled Professor Kunst telling us, “Never ask a question you don’t know the answer to.” I didn’t know any of the answers. Did George just want to tell me why he couldn’t see me anymore? Had he changed his mind? How would I react? Would the spark of anger lingering in my soul burst into rage? Could I stay strong and calm? Or would I show weakness by crying? I’d started this relation with me in total control. Now it was totally out of control.
Suddenly, I realized that I was a woman, had always been a woman, and had no experience whatsoever playing the male lead. A fantasy is comfortable toy, but real life can quickly spin out of control. I was in over my head, drowning in a sea of emotions: compassion, anger, loneliness, masculine dominance, maternal concern and God only knows what else! Maybe this is what made Ted act like such an ass. I was almost hyperventilating by the time Nora opened the door.
“Hello, Sandy, George is cooking in the kitchen. I hope you haven’t eaten.”
“No, I usually eat late.”
She led me into the living room. “I’ll get you some wine and then leave you two to it.”
She ducked into the kitchen and returned with a tumbler of iced sangria.
“George will be out as soon as he gets the paella in the oven. I’m off to visit a friend.”
I sat, drinking the sangria and trying to breathe regularly. I was feeling mellow by the time Georgie emerged. He was cute in a tight top and shorts, but now he was absolutely delicious! His hair was in a casual do reminiscent of Lauren Bacall. A hot pink, no fuchsia, satin blouse topped black Palazzos and block-healed pumps. As he came closer, I saw just a hint of bust filling his blouse.
“Oh, God, Georgie, you’re beautiful!”
His expression changed from timid and tentative to radiant. “This is what I planned to wear for our date last Friday. I wanted to look pretty for you. I’m so sorry I didn’t.” A torrent of tears started.
My remaining anger evaporated as I ran and pulled him into my breasts. “It’s OK. It’s OK. Do you want to tell me what happened, Princess?”
A flood of words took his story first in one direction, then another – happiness, fear, joy, self-loathing, advice from Nora and someone called Martha, shopping and firing squads, walks in the dark and tears in his bed, the cold hand of a dead father trying to smother his beautiful warmth. I couldn’t follow it all, but I got enough to know that he’d been through an emotional wringer much worse than mine.
The oven timer's buzz broke our embrace. We sat down to a delicious paella and more sangria. By the end of dinner, we wanted to give ourselves to each other. Georgie took my hand and shyly led me to his room. He gave me a new toothbrush and showed me the guest bath. By the time I finished, Georgie had lit candles and was in bed in his bra and panties. I removed my dress and slipped in beside him. Georgie had just taken my nipple between his lips when we fell into an exhausted asleep.
I
James:
They say that tall people have a competitive edge. I can't confirm that, but I do know that short men, such as myself, are at a disadvantage unexplainable by grades or accomplishments. In my last year of law school I got as many interviews as anyone else in the upper 10% of my class, but however smoothly they went, no job offers materialized. Thus, I graduated with no job and no prospect for one.
The usual drill is that when you're hired, the firm pays for a bar exam prep course. (Strange as it seems, all the money spent on law school doesn't prepare you for the bar exam.) Anyway, if your not hired, you have to pay for the prep course yourself or take the exam unprepared. I choose to save my money for such luxuries as food. Predictably, I failed the bar. That didn't increase my employment chances.
I hoped to find a paralegal job, but again, seemly good interviews didn't lead to offers. Other things being equal, impressive knockers seemed the decisive factor. As I searched the net for any job paying more than Burger King, I found an ad for a legal secretary at a local firm. Yes, I know, being a secretary is a women's job, but I was desperate. Maybe I could work my way up once I was in a law firm. Besides, my money was running out.
When I called, a woman answered: Diane Torini, attorney at law. Apparently, this was a one woman firm. She seemed reluctant when I introduced myself – reminding me that being a secretary was usually women's work. I told her that I didn't have gender-role hang ups, I needed a job, and she should judge me by my qualifications, not by my sex. She gave me a time to come in for an interview and test.
Her office was in 1930ish building with small shops at street level. A security camera stared down at me as I climbed the narrow stairs. Her office was at the top, in the back. The door only said “3” and “Private.” I knocked and was buzzed in.
Ms. Torini was about 5' 7” – a little over weight in a pleasant, busty way, but not fat. Straight, dark brown hair trimmed above the neck framed an olive complexion. Her dark eyes commanded attention – attentive, but thoughtful. I was too nervous to notice her clothes. She might have worn a camel skirt suit and white blouse.
We quickly got down it. As a test, she gave me a case file with her notes from a client interview. She asked me to read the file and prepare an affidavit for the client to sign. I was to take enough time to do a thorough job. After an hour and fifteen minutes, I printed the finished affidavit, knocked on her inner office door, and handed it too her. She thanked me, and said she would call in a few days, either way. Though it went well, my expectations were low.
Diane:
It had been a long struggle, but by 35 I had enough of a reputation to open a law office on my terms – providing pro bono representation to those who needed it, bartering with others and charging lucrative fees to those who could afford them. Now, after three months, I was ready to hire some help. As none of the women I'd represented were up to my standards, I ran an ad in the local on-line paper.
The results were disappointing. The flaws varied – unprofessional appearance or demeanor, poor typing or spelling, fear of computers. Two women who were up to my standards wanted substantially more than I could afford. There was one I could afford who was up to my standards. He was a recent law school graduate who'd failed the bar and was desperate for work – a perfect candidate but for one thing: he was a he.
Don't misjudge. I'm not a feminist – well not a radical one – but many of my clients are abused women. The sight of a male in my outer office could easily spook them. I knew. I'd fought off a date rapist in my early 20s and men spooked me – though I hid it in my professional life.
James Carrol was an ideal candidate. He was passionately dedicated to the law as an instrument of justice. The affidavit he'd prepared was flawless and he spoke in a soft, professional voice. I really needed help and he was the only applicant up to my standards and down to my budget. Other than his gender, he was perfect – and desperate for a job.
I'm a perfectionist, not only in my work, but also in my ethics. My conscience rebelled at not hiring Mr. Carrol solely because of his gender. I didn't sleep well. In the twilight of half sleep, I hatched an utterly ludicrous idea that would shift the moral blame for not hiring him from my shoulders. In the morning I phoned some former clients to work out the details. At 10:00 I phoned him.
James:
I was almost speechless when Ms. Torini asked me to come in to discuss an offer. Her voice was a bit strained, but still, an offer! I was ecstatic.
The hours, duties and salary had been outlined in my interview. She apologized for the low salary, but said if I helped the firm prosper I'd share in the increase. The salary was enough to live on and I knew I could help increase revenues, so the prospects seemed bright.
“So far, so good,” she said. “Sadly, the next item might be a deal breaker. When I advertised for a secretary, I expected to hire a woman. Your being male presents a difficulty. Many of my clients are referred by women's shelters. They are often bruised, and not only physically. Frankly, many are scared of men.” She paused. “Seeing a man at the desk in my outer office … Well, it would spook them and … they need to feel safe here.”
“So, I can't have the job because I'm male? Then why did you invite me in today? I'm confused,” and a little angry, though I didn't say that.
“Yes, I can see how you'd be confused. I'm having a hard time coming to the point. I'm a feminist, and won't discriminate on based on sex. So, the job is yours if you want it, but one of the requirements – the one that might be a deal breaker – is that you can't present as a male while working here.”
I could have the job. I took a moment to let my anger dissipate. Then my mind moved on – I “can't present as a male while working here.” What did that mean? What was presenting? Projecting an image?
“You mean that I'd have to look female at work?”
“In a word, yes.”
I thought about arguing that this was discrimination, but I knew it wasn't. I, a male, was being offered the job and the “deal-breaking requirement” had a rational, legally defensible basis.
“You're not just saying this to deny me a job?”
“I'm not denying you a job. I'm offering you one. You're far and a way the best candidate, but presenting as male would be a big problem. You can see that can't you?”
“Yes.” Sadly, I could.
“I know this isn't easy. You may need time to think about it … and discuss it with your partner.”
“I don't have one.”
“Oh … Well, think of it as playing a role, like in a drama.”
“The drama is my life.”
“Yes. I'll give you a few days to decide. FYI, I've called in some favors. If you accept, I have someone to help with your presentation. Also, I'll pay for a small, initial wardrobe – like a first uniform.
“So, is this something you'll consider, or is it so beyond the pale that you want to reject it outright?”
“It is beyond the pale, but I'm desperate. Let me ask: do you think I'd look feminine, or like a man in a dress?”
“I don't want to hurt your pride, but you have fine, feminine features. If I didn't think you could pass, I wouldn't have made the offer. How much time do you want?”
“Let me think a moment.”
“Certainly.”
I'd been looking for a job for almost a year and this was the first offer I had. My money wouldn't last past the end of the month. What choice did I have? Maybe I could negotiate some perks.
“Could I have the title of 'paralegal' so 'secretary' does not appear on my resume?”
“You can have any title you like, but you'll be a secretary – at least to start.”
“If I stay a year, will you pay for a bar exam prep course?”
She thought for a while. “If revenues allow it, and if I have the option of keeping you for the following year.”
“OK. Vacation?”
“Two weeks for now. Three weeks when we get another person in the firm. Anything else?”
“No. Let me lay my cards on the table. It'll be humiliating to 'present' as a woman, but I understand why you're asking. I need a job desperately as I'm almost out of money. So, I accept. When do I start?”
“Here's the card of someone who owes me and will help make you over. Call her this evening. Come back Sunday at 6:00 PM and let me see how you look en femme. You can start Monday if you're passable. You needn't wear a skirt as long as you dress professionally. Slacks and a blouse will do. See you Sunday.”
I left feeling that I'd betrayed my masculinity, but consoled myself with the thought that I wasn't doing anything immoral. Besides, with a prep course, I could pass the bar in a year and find another job. Still … dressing as a woman for a year! I told myself it would only be 9 to 5. The rest of the time I could look, be normal.
When, Phil, my apartment mate, came home I told him I'd found a job at a law office and could pay my share of the rent next month. I was too embarrassed to tell him about the dress code.
How was I going to pull off dressing for work without Phil seeing? He worked in town and left at 7:15 and usually didn't come back until 6:30 -- or later if he had a dinner date. I could dress after he left and change back before he got home. Then I remembered the card Ms. Torini gave me and decided to call the lady.
“Hello, is this Dorothy Burger?”
“Yes?”
“I'm James Carrol. Diane Torini asked me to call you.”
“Good, I was expecting your call …”
Diane:
I was quite shocked that Mr. Carrol had accepted my offer – and so quickly! I'd expected him to see how outlandish it was and refuse. Was he already a transvestite? After all, he had applied for a woman's job. Now I – we both – would have to live with the crazy idea I'd concocted. Well, maybe not. Sunday was a few days away and if he looked like … what did he say? “A man in a dress” … that would be the end of it.
I really didn't want to do this. I try to run a professional office. What would people think if they discovered I had a cross dresser for a secretary? Professional ruin? Still I was trapped by my ethics – hoisted on my own feminist petard. I couldn't discriminate against him even if he was gender confused. I fretted on and off for the rest of the week wondering what miracle Dorothy Burger might work.
James:
Ms. Burger had asked to meet so that she could “assess” me. I said I did not want my apartment mate to know about my, ah, transformation. Also, I had no car. No problem, she'd pick me up in 30 minutes. I told Phil I was meeting someone from my new job.
While I waited I had second thoughts. First, I was increasingly embarrassed at surrendering my masculinity so rapidly. What must Ms. Torini think of me? Second, what would Ms. Burger do to/for me? Would I be buying lingerie at Victoria's Secret? Be worked on at some salon while women whispered about the sissy? Third, what about going to and from work on the bus? Would I be hit on by amorous males or stared at like some freak. By the time the doorbell rang my heart was racing and I was short of breath.
I opened the door to a tall blond in her early forties in a casual summer dress. She was athletic, but feminine – impeccably put together. If she was going to help me, I had a chance of pulling this off.
“James Carrol?”
“Yes.”
“I'm Dorothy Burger. You may call me Tee. Shall we go?”
As we walked to her car, she said, “You look very tense. I won't bite. We'll go to my place, where we'll have some privacy.”
I relaxed a bit. When we got to her studio apartment, Tee relaxed me further with a stiff drink.
Looking at me critically she said, “Di was right. With a bit of work you could pass. You have fine features, a light, blond beard and almost no Adam's apple. I've worked with worse.”
“How do you know Ms. Torini?”
“I'm a counselor at a center for transgender youth. She helps with legal issues – usually pro bono. So, I owe her.
“I understand that you applied to be a secretary – that took guts – and you've accepted the need to work en femme – that took more guts. You're a brave person. You should be proud of yourself.”
“I don't think it's bravery, just necessity. I need a job badly.”
“Bravery isn't taking stupid risks, it's doing what's necessary when it isn't easy. You are brave.”
“I never thought of that.”
“Do, it'll make things easier.” She was right, it did, but I still felt like a sissy.
After I finished my drink, Tee had me stand, take off my shirt and took measurements I didn't even know I had. I'd need size 5 panties, 36A bras and a 10 or 12 dress.
“Can't I just wear my jockey shorts?”
“Not unless you want to be clocked.”
“Clocked?”
“Have people figure out you're a guy.”
“Oh. That'd be embarrassing.”
“Yes – and possibly dangerous, depending on the situation.”
“I hadn't thought of that …”
“Well, do. If you're going to do this, you have to be all in, or not in at all. Which will it be?”
“I have to be all in.”
“OK. Let's go shopping.”
“I thought maybe dinner?”
“Later … all in, remember?”
On the way, Tee said that while I could wear a 36 A push up, our goal was to have me look average so I didn't draw special attention. Most women wore a B cup. She thought I should too. When I agreed, she said she'd make an appointment to get me fitted for breast forms.
We went to Target for a “starter kit” so I “could shop for women's things without being embarrassed” – like that would ever happen. In women's wear, an A-cup push up, a pack of 3 cotton panties, a blue knit top, a pair of black slacks and a matching shoulder bag went in our cart. Since I was with Tee, none of that was embarrassing. What was embarrassing was trying on wedge sandals and walking in them to ensure their fit. Tee found a video of To Have or Have Not. I figured it was for her. In cosmetics we added a manicure set, nail polish and remover, cotton balls, a matching lipstick, mascara, an eyebrow pencil, cold cream, lady's razors and moisturizing lotion.
By the time we checked out I was starving. We went to Wendy's and Tee bought me a salad and diet soda. “You're on a diet until you loose 10 pounds.” As I ate, Tee gave me homework. Shave my arms, legs and under arms tonight. Wear my starter kit all day tomorrow to become comfortable in feminine attire -- especially my sandals. Learn to apply my cosmetics without looking like a clown. Finally, imitate Lauren Bacall's low, feminine voice in To Have or Have Not.
Tee dropped me off about 11:00 and she'd pick me up the next day at 5:00. I was to wear my new clothes, including cosmetics. After I shaved and moisturized, I fell into a sleep disturbed by dreams of unending embarrassment.
I had coffee, yogurt and a banana while Phil puttered around getting ready. Once he left, I struggled forever to hook my bra in back. Pushing my flab around, I managed a hint of cleavage. I opened the panties – my panties – and pulled on a yellow pair. The soft cotton felt sensual on my newly shaven legs, giving me an unexpected erection. What kind of perv gets excited wearing lingerie? I wanted to take care of it in the obvious way, but felt that would reinforce whatever this was. I used cold water instead. By the time I'd put on my top, slacks and sandals, a very unladylike tent in my slacks showed the cold water had worn off. This time, my inner Borg told me “resistance is futile” and I succumbed. I was rewarded with a powerful orgasm.
When I came down from my high and cleaned up, I felt guilty -- perverted. I wanted out to get out of women's clothes and throw them away. If I did, I'd be throwing away my only job in prospect. I calmed myself and researched how cross dressers dealt with bulges. Following Internet instructions, I managed a flat front. I'd ask Tee about control panties if I could summon the courage.
I started on make up. I got respectable lips on the third try. For mascara, I watched a couple of videos – one genetic and another with a transwoman. The latter was much less affected and likable. Following their advice, my formerly in invisibly blond lashes popped – there's no other word for it. Light brown eyebrow pencil further enhanced my eyes. I stared at them in amazement – thinking how washed out they used to be. Maybe I could find lighter shades to use when I went back to being male. An internal ratchet had clicked – the old, invisible James would be a creature of the past.
I looked like a lesbian - feminine, but butch, because of my male haircut and minimal bust. I didn't look like a man in women's clothes – a major blow to my ego. Negative thoughts crept into my mind. Maybe I wasn't man enough for a male job and should be a secretary. I was certainly closer to the feminine ideal than I had been to the masculine. I determined to push such thoughts out of my mind.
I took off my sandals and started on my toes. My first try was sloppy and uneven. I removed the polish before it was dry. My second try gave my toes an attention-grabbing red gloss. Another video by the same transwoman showed me how to do a manicure. My nails cleaned up nicely, but I needed to grow them out. I didn't allow enough drying time and smeared an otherwise good job. I watched To Have or Have Not until my second effort dried.
Imitating Bacall's sultry voice dressed as I was was embarrassing, even alone. I wanted a less sexy voice – maybe Dustin Hoffman's Tootsie, but without the southern accent. I found New in Town with Renée Zellweger on Netflix and mimicked her until my lunch of cottage cheese and pineapple.
In the afternoon, I set up my web cam and recorded myself walking and talking. Slowly, I became more convincingly feminine. There were many rough spots, but nothing glaring. I was surprised – panicked – by a knock at the door. I looked at the clock and saw that it was 5:00. Tee was here to pick me up.
“Please come in,” I said in my best Zellweger imitation.
Tee looked me up and down, pausing a millisecond at my flat crotch. “Impressive. Not perfect, but impressive enough not to raise red flags.”
I blushed. “Thanks, Tee. I've been working on it all day.”
“It shows.”
I summoned the courage to ask her about control panties.
“A lot of girls wear them, but if you're willing to go that route, you might think about a high waist padded girdle. You don't have much of a booty, and it would help your waist too. Are you up for that?”
I looked at my rear. It didn't fill out my slacks very well. “If you think it'd help.”
“I think it would. Get your purse dear, we have a lot to do.”
In the car, Tee explained that we had to get my “figure adjusted” before we shopped for clothes. We drove into the city to district with a questionable reputation. Tee turned into an alley and parked behind “The X-Form Boutique.”
“We can find most of what you need here.”
We were greeted by Michelle, the well made-up male proprietor. He and Tee knew each other and exchanged pleasantries before Tee introduced me as Carol and stated my needs.
Forty-five minutes later I had a full, round rear and the nipples of B-cup breast forms dimpled my knit top. When I looked in the mirror, I flushed with a combination of lust and embarrassment. I was as grateful for my girdle. Michelle anticipated my reaction, having placed a pantyliner in my girdle and extras in my purse.
Tee also seemed to understand. “It can be a bit overwhelming at first, but don't be embarrassed. What you're feeling is very normal.”
“Normal for whom?” I said in a voice husky with lust.
“For women like you.”
“I'm not a woman like me!” I didn't know what I was.
Tee and I discussed buying a wig from Michelle, but concluded it would be uncomfortable in July's humidity. Instead, we walked to a salon accustomed to serving “women like me.” There Julia gave me a supposedly unisex hairdo that looked suspiciously like a pixie cut. She finished by unexpectedly piercing my ears. I was unsure what Phil would make of my gold studs and pixie cut, but I had an idea.
We ate at an Indian place on the same block and then headed to Marshall's to fill out a minimal wardrobe. I told Tee that Ms. Torini said I needn't wear skirts, but she repeated her point that I look as average as possible – and your average legal secretary wore skirts. I wound up with a pair of tight embroidered jeans for casual Fridays and 3 skirts to wear the rest of the week.
I was able to talk her into letting me get block heeled loafers instead of pumps. On the other hand, Tee insisted I accessorize my outfits. I wound up with a bag full of inexpensive bracelets, necklaces and earrings. Luckily, Phil was asleep when I returned home.
Diane:
I was editing a brief Sunday afternoon when I saw woman climbing the stairs on the security monitor. By the time she knocked I realized it was James Carrol. I buzzed him/her in.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Torini. I'm here for your inspection/approval,” she said in a voice vaguely reminiscent of Renée Zellweger.
I looked James up and down as he did a little turn. I'd told him that he needn't wear skirts, but apparently he preferred them. Maybe I was right about his tendencies. Whatever his tendencies, the result was more than acceptable. “You look fabulous! And your voice is lovely! I can see you've worked very hard … and please call me Di when we're alone. We can save 'Ms. Torini' for clients and visitors.”
“So, I'm hired? What a relief – you can't imagine how stressed I've been about meeting your approval!”
“Well, you've exceeded my expectations. We have only one detail to settle – what shall we call you? 'James' hardly fits the situation. Maybe 'Jamie'?”
“Well, Tee, Ms. Burger, called me 'Carol.' So, maybe 'Carol James'?”
“Perfect!” The matter was settled, and we would be moving forward. “Do you have someplace you need to be? If not, I'd like to take you to dinner to celebrate – my firm expanding, and your first professional position.”
“Actually, I was wondering how I was going to kill time until 11:00, when my apartment mate will be in bed. He doesn't know about my, ah, presentation.”
“Oh, I see. That must be awkward.”
“It is – especially since he's a bit homophobic.”
“Well, I hope it works out.”
“I'm sure it will one way or the other.”
I walked "Carol" a few blocks to a neighborhood bistro where I'd made reservations.
“Good evening Ms. Torini. Your table is ready. And who is your beautiful guest this evening?”
“This is Carol James, my new secretary. She may be calling in the future to make reservations for me.”
“Certainly. It is enchanting to meet you Ms. James.”
“Thank you.”
We had a lovely dinner. Relaxed by a great Bordeaux, I did most of the talking – rehearsing some of my best “war stories.” Usually male dinner companions are more involved in themselves – only listening enough to be polite. Carol was different – interested in me and genuinely impressed with what I'd accomplished. I had to get quite a bit of wine into her before she relaxed enough to tell me her story.
We stayed until closing, then drove her back to her apartment. The lights were out, so Phil had retired for the night. Instinctively, I went around, opened the car door for her, and walked her to the building entrance. “I think we'll make a great team – not only are you competent, but good company as well.”
“Thank you, Di.”
James:
Avoiding Phil had been relatively easy during the work week, but I knew the weekend would be a challenge – especially Sunday when I'd have to go out fully dressed for Ms. Torini's approval. Friday night I carefully removed every trace of make-up and fingernail polish. There was no point in undoing the work I'd put in on my toes. I'd just have to redo them for Monday.
My face was washed out and lifeless. It was no wonder no one had hired me before now – I was practically invisible. The only thing drawing attention to my face was my gold studs. They cheered me up a bit. I tried removing them, but when I did, my piercings were red enough to be obvious anyway. I decided to go out and face the music.
Phil was in the kitchen cooking bacon, eggs and potatoes. When he caught sight of me, he exclaimed, “Jesus, Jim, you look like a fucking fag! What's up with the studs and lesbo hair?”
“I thought studs would make me look tougher,” I lied.
“Ya? Well they don't. And that hair cut?”
“I needed a haircut to start work, and the girl said this was stylish.”
“Maybe for Ellen Degenerate, but not for a guy. You might as well wear a dress and be done with it!”
Sometimes its best to play into it. I struck a feminine pose and batted my eyelashes. “You think so?” I said in falsetto.
Phil muttered something unintelligible and went back to preparing his heart attack special.
I poured my coffee and ate my usual yogurt, granola and fruit in silence.
When I'd started running low on money, I'd made a deal with Phil that I'd do the all dishes and clean the apartment in exchange for a lower share of the rent. I considered it a great deal, as Phil was such a slob that I couldn't stand living in the place and would have cleaned it free to preserve my sanity. Since then, Phil would sometimes refer to me as “the maid. ” It seemed to make him feel better about himself.
When I was in law school I had classes during the week and gotten into the habit of doing the heavy cleaning on Saturdays. So, after breakfast I did the dishes and started dusting and vacuuming.
Phil came out in his baseball uniform a said, “Jesus! From the back you look just like a girl, Jamie. Maybe I'll order you a French maid outfit. Ha ha.”
My first thought was that in a month or two, I'd have saved enough to rent my own place. Once he was gone, I remembered mincing around in my skirt and wedge sandals the day before and wondered what I'd look like in a French maid's outfit. I didn't really want one, but I couldn't get the image out of my head. Worse, imagining it was giving me an erection. After I finished vacuuming, I took a warm bath and gave myself some relief. Again, I felt guilty, but not as much as before.
After my bath I thought of wearing my push up and panties, but Phil would surely notice my bra, and I'd worn all my panties already. They needed washing. I hand washed them and hung them in my closet to dry.
Three pair wouldn't last the week. I needed more panties – maybe nicer ones. I walked to the local K-Mart. I almost chickened out, but remembered Tee saying I was brave. Somehow, that made me feel brave. A three pack of silky print panties excited me and went in the cart. Satin blouses were on sale. One was the exact shade of my lipstick and nail polish. Well, in for a penny … I started feeling free.
I needed a woman's wallet. Pulling a man's wallet out of my purse would not do. There were so many options. I could see why women spent so much more time shopping than men. I settled on a conservative black one.
I was looking at watches in a locked case when a thirtyish sales lady asked, “Can I help you miss?”
Then it struck me -- with my small stature, hair and studs, Phil was right – I looked more like a woman than a guy. Maybe a flat-chested butch woman, but a woman nonetheless.
I answered in my best Zellweger. “Thank you. I'm starting a new job Monday, and I need something professional looking.” With her help, I settled on a silver-tone analogue with a back strap.
Encouraged by passing in the watch department, I went to cosmetics where I found an older woman restocking the shelves. “Excuse me, I'm starting a new job Monday and want to soften my look a bit – nothing too drastic – I just don't want to come across as too, ah, masculine.”
She seemed genuinely happy to see a Tom boy final realize she was a girl. I came away with concealer, mineral foundation, eyeshadow, clear polish and a book on make up techniques.
I hadn't thought about it until I was almost home, but getting my purchases by Phil could be a problem – especially with my red satin blouse showing though the plastic K-Mart bag. Luckily he and his bud John were so sloshed and absorbed in a Phillies game that they didn't even say hi.
Sunday was the big reveal. Phil had no set Sunday routine, so I was tense about getting out of the apartment unseen for Ms. Torini's approval. I'd get ready early, then hope Phil left or got busy before I had to leave. I was dressed and made up by 3:00, but Phil was parked in the living room watching a game. Luckily Karen – Phil's “friend with benefits” came by and dragged him off – reluctantly it seemed – to his room. The ensuing grunts and moans ensured me that I could leave unnoticed.
I'd missed the bus, so I was forced to call a cab. As the minutes ticked by I got more and more nervous. I was so upset about being late, I forgot to be upset about being outside my building in a skirt, blouse and heels. Just as I was about to despair, the cab arrived. I climbed the stairs to Ms. Torini's office with not a minute to spare.
She was so pleased she took me to a French restaurant to celebrate. After days of fretting about this job, I could relax.
I hadn't been out with a woman in a long time. In fact, I'd never been out with one except in a group. Strangely, I wasn't nervous. This wasn't a date, but a celebration. Once Di, as I was told to call her, got some wine in her, she told the most interesting stories. The more she talked, the more I admired her. Previously, I'd imagined my job as trying to impress her. Now, I felt nothing I could do would compare with what she'd already done. I was just glad to be able to support her.
Carol:
My first week was mostly routine legal work: typing case notes, briefs, affidavits, and other documents as I worked through the backlog Di'd accumulated. I could see no reason to be en femme as few people came to the office other than the Fed Ex man, who wanted to flirt. He was always in a rush, so his flirtations seemed harmless. Still, they were embarrassing. My blushes only seemed encouraged him. I also prepared for the notary's exam at home -- which was fine by me as Phil and I had little in common and he hogged the TV.
The office itself had three rooms: a reception area where I worked, a small conference room to one side and Di's private office behind me. Besides my desk and computer, my fiefdom had a supply cabinet, two small sofas, a fridge, microwave and coffee pot. I was often alone there as Di spent much of her time at the courthouse or in meetings with other lawyers.
Friday Di came in from family court about 10:30 with Melodie, a shy girl about 16. I was handed a couple of orders, and asked to open a file, then join them. I was introduced and told Melodie wanted to change her legal name and gender. The court might not approve yet, but we'd try. Di named a similar case and left the details to me.
Melodie could hardly talk. When she reached for the soda I offered her, I saw bandages under her cuff. I sat next to her and put my arm around her. She buried her face in my ersatz breasts and started crying.
Eventually she said, “I've stained your blouse.”
“It'll dry and wash easily enough. Don't fret about it. How did you wind up in this fix?”
She told me how her parents kept burning her clothes and forcing her to act male. She'd been taking birth control pills a friend gave her. When her breasts started showing, her father slapped her, took her pills and flushed them down the toilet. Last night she'd cut her wrists and was in the bath waiting to die when her parents broke in. She wind up in the emergency room. A male nurse had called CPS. Now she'd be staying in Tee's shelter until things got sorted out.
I started to understand: the name and gender change filing would move Melodie closer to her goal – giving her hope. Even if the court didn't grant it now, there'd be a fixed date in the future, a birthday, when they would.
“Let's start making you a girl legally. Would you like that?”
“Yes, very much Carol.” She smiled for the first time.
“Do you type? Would you like to help?”
“Yes. Could I?”
I could do it faster alone, but helping empowered Melodie, putting her fate back in her hands. Using the old case as a guide, she and I printed out the filings just after noon. When she saw them she glowed with delight.
“Oh Carol, I want to be just like you when I grow up,” she said hugging me and kissing me on the cheek. I cried too.
When we composed ourselves, I said, “How'd you like to be the legal secretary for this?”
“How?”
“Well, press this intercom button and say. 'Ms. Torini, I've prepared the filings you requested,' then go in and place them on her desk.”
She did. Shortly after, Tee picked up Melodie. I did not see her again.
The whole incident made me feel very maternal. I could have done it all as a male, but was glad I had breasts to comfort Melodie. I understood why she wanted her own.
Diane:
Carol is a jewel. Not only is she efficient, but she also has a natural empathy with clients. She understands my moods -- not disturbing me when I'm thinking a problem through, but bringing me coffee when I'm tired and need a pick me up. The one thing that ruffles my feathers is her frowning on my downing a scotch when things are tough. Just as I'm about to pour a few fingers, she comes in to chat. So I'm drinking less. I can tell because the fifth of Red Label in my desk lasts longer.
Yes, I know, I'm calling James 'Carol' and 'she,' but that's how I think of her – except when I'm in bed at night. Somehow my sex drive has woken up. She pops up in confusing fantasies causing my fingers to drift down under my nitie. I suppose it's common enough. I've represented plenty of wives whose husbands have gotten involved with their secretaries. Still, this is different. Carol and I are the same sex – well not really. She probably has a boyfriend – maybe Phil. No, not Phil. She's scared of Phil discovering her secret. Of course, my fantasies are very unprofessional and need to be forgotten as soon as I get out of bed.
Carol:
Things were going very well. I passed my notary exam and began to understand the need to be en femme when I sat in on interviews with battered wives and girlfriends. Di's confidence in me had grown steadily. I was now researching precedents and preparing filings with minimal supervision. She started billing my time at paralegal rates and our revenues grew noticeably.
On a personal level, we were getting closer. I don't mean romantically, but as good friends who understood each others' moods and needs. Secretly, Di was part of my Walter Mitty life – including my growing addiction to cross dressing.
I'd graduated from the plain cotton panties and bras to satin and lace lingerie that made me feel pretty – and frankly – sexy. Block heel loafers had given way to black pumps and then flirty platforms that made my legs look dynamite.
Starting from a shy, plain Jane, I'd become a hopeless flirt on the bus to and from work – exposing a little fake cleavage or a careless bit of lace below my hem. I wasn't interested in men physically, but I enjoyed the psychological power I had over them.
James had been invisible, but Carol was a beacon. At first it was just being noticed: the passing smile, doors being opened, helpful clerks in the grocery. Then I noticed eyes directed to not my face, but to my pert B-cups. I laughed to myself that a bits of silicon could have such an effect on guys. To draw more attention to “me up here,” I worked on dramatic eye make up and swapped my gold studs for a collection attention grabbing of dangles.
I was no longer one of 'them.' They were 'guys' and I was, well, a little flirt.
Of course, my sex life was going nowhere – not that it ever had. Guys hit on me regularly, but I wanted a girl. One lesbian chatted me up after I deflected a pass by telling the guy I liked girls, but I wouldn't be what she wanted in bed. What sex I had was increasingly centered on my sensuous lingerie. I even slept in baby dolls. I only dressed as a male evenings and on weekends to fool Phil.
Diane:
Carol and I worked very well together -- without a hint of the sexuality spilling over from my nighttime fantasies. She was was now more of a paralegal than a secretary and revenues started soaring. Partly it was because of billing her time, but partly it was because she was a little tyrant - like a nagging wife – about recording my billable time accurately.
Our professional relationship wasn't what I'd imagined it would be. Yes, I was the boss, and she did the work I assigned her. Yet somehow she'd carved out a domain in which I obeyed her. I returned calls more promptly, drank less in the office, kept better track of billing. She admired me, but saw my faults as well, and worked to make me a better person. As time went on, I noticed myself more and more concerned with her approval – as though she were my wife.
Carol:
I suppose it was bound to happen. I came home at 5:30 and there was Phil in his wife-beater and boxers, sloshed on beer and playing with himself while he watched porn. I tried to sneak by behind him as he was thus occupied, but half way to my room he turned and saw me.
“What the fuck?! I knew you were a fucking fag when I saw you with studs in your ears and that sissy haircut. What's with the skirt? – and tits! Get over here you cock sucker and finish me!”
I froze. Phil had 6” and 60-70 pounds on me, and was deadly serious. He struggled out of his lounger and grabbed my wrist. I screamed like a girl and tried to twist free. A slap made me see stars. When my vision cleared, he'd grabbed my hair – pushing me toward his crotch. Meanwhile he backed into his chair. A beer bottle broke. Phil cursed -- letting go of me to grab his bleeding foot. I ran out the door.
He was coming after me. I'm not athletic, and my heels and tight skirt slowed me further. Just then Woody Johnson, a big, black retired marine Sergeant Major came out his door and stopped Phil cold with a punch to the solar plexus.
“You betta run girl!”
That's what I did – leaving Phil retching and cursing behind me. I stopped a block away, panting, crying and shaking. I could taste blood in my mouth. I heard a siren. Maybe Woody called the cops. Not wanting to explain why I was dressed as I was, I walked down a side street.
About half an hour later, I'd calmed down enough to think. I had no idea where I was. I called Di. She was drunk, but sober enough to suggest using my phone's GPS. Eventually, Tee drove up with Di next to her.
I tried saying what happened, but did more sobbing than talking. Di got in the back and held me. I stopped sobbing, but started shaking again. They discussed where to take me – the police, Tee's shelter, Di's house – and settled on Di's. If I were in better shape I would have objected. I was mad that Di was drunk when I needed her.
Di:
I'd had a rotten day in court. My expert witness tripped himself up. As a result, Judge Carter had given custody of a thirteen year old to an abuser. I was about a third through a fifth of Red Label when Carol called. I couldn't make out what happened, but she was in trouble and didn't know where she was. I had her use her phone's GPS to tell me where she was. Being in no shape to drive, I called Tee. We found her with a swollen face, sitting under a street light. Phil, her apartment mate, had sexually assaulted and hit her. I wanted him in jail or worse. We drove her to my place.
I suggested she shower and I wash her things – something I would not have done sober. Tee said that might destroy evidence, and called the police.
Detective Sargent Alice Rice and her male partner arrived to take Carol's statement. I can't say I was impressed by her partner, who barely suppressed a snicker when he found out Carol was male. Sargent Rice, however, was very professional. She noticed a small stain on Carol's blouse and a smear of blood on her shoe, and took them for analysis. Forensics later found Phil's DNA in both -- collaborating Carol's story.
After interviewing Carol, she said that Mr. Johnson had indeed called the police. Phil was in custody and would probably be arraigned in the morning, after which he could be out on bail. The apartment was a crime scene, but Forensics was almost done. If we wanted to pick up Carol's things, we'd best do so early. We agreed on 8:30. She'd have an officer meet us there.
When Sargent Rice left, I suggested a stiff drink all around, but backed off when Carol gave me an icy stare. Tee left. I showed Carol the guest room and we each went to bed.
Carol:
Surprisingly, I slept like a log – utterly exhausted. When I woke, my left cheek was red and purple – twice its normal size. My neck also felt strained. Di took more pictures before she helped me cover it with make up.
My mood was icy. Di's place was a mess. All She had for breakfast was coffee, frosted flakes, whole milk and pasty white bread – no fruit, yogurt or anything in the least bit healthy. She'd have diabetes by forty for sure. Of course, none of that was why I was angry – it just didn't improve my mood.
Finally, she said, “Alright! I'm sorry I was drunk when you needed me – but I had a crappy day. Dr. Freudlich screwed up on the stand and Carter gave partial custody of the Robinson kid to his father.”
“That's truly disgusting, but 'sorry' doesn't cut it. The one time I needed you … and you were as drunk as Phil! I really needed you and you were only half there,” I screamed. “I thought I could count on you!” I wanted to say more, but tears were pouring down and my voice was breaking.
Di came round to my end of the table, squatted down and hugged me. “I want to be there for you, Carol … I … I love you.”
“If you love me, you'll stop drinking,” I whispered.
“I don't know if I can.”
“If you try, I'll help you.”
“I'll try.” Di was crying too.
“I'll help you.” I wanted to say “I love you too,” but I wasn't ready.
We hugged. Passion began welling up – but I wasn't ready for that either. Finally we broke our embrace.
“We better get dressed and go collect your things.” She lent me a top and a pair of sneakers a size and a half too big. I laced them tight. We stopped at Home Depot for some boxes and arrived just as a black and white was pulling up. With the officer's help, we had all my stuff in Di's Hyundai by 9:30.
Before we left I knocked on Sargent Johnson's door. “I want to thank you for yesterday. I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't helped me.”
“Always glad to help a lady in distress, Ms. Carrol. I've seen you coming and going to work every day out my front window. I wanted to say how pretty you looked, but I thought maybe I'd embarrass you, or maybe you'd think this old fart was hitting on you.”
“Thank you, Woody.” I kissed him on the cheek. It seemed more natural then shaking hands. “By the way, I'm Carol James now.”
We were at the mall when mother spotted them – a mother and daughter with matching hair and outfits. “Aren’t they just delightful, dear?”
I glanced at them. The girl was about my age and really cute. “Yes, mommy, very cute!” I know, not many thirteen year old boys say “mommy,” but my mom likes it and I like making her happy.
I didn’t think about it until the following Friday. School summer vacation started at noon, and mom had arranged to pick me up. We went to lunch at a place we like. As we were leaving, she said, “Remember that mother and daughter in matching hair and outfits we saw last week?”
“Yes, mommy.”
“You need a summer hair cut and I decided it’d be delightful if we had matching hair like they do.”
“Your hair is very pretty, mommy, but I don’t want girly hair.”
She laughed. “Don’t worry, I’m getting a new do too. We’ll both have androgynous dos.”
“Androgynous?”
“It means that a person of either sex can have it.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, we’re both getting parted bobs.”
“Parted bobs?”
“Yes, it will be parted in the middle and cut blunt around the sides. It’ll be much cooler for summer than your shaggy mop, but still long enough that you’ll like it. I know how you like long hair.”
“Oh.”
“One other thing.”
“Yes?”
“We’re having our hair dyed the same color. I’m tired of being a brunette and you’ll love being a blond. It’ll draw dating material like bees to honey.”
“Boys don’t have their hair dyed!”
“Some do. Anyway, you will. You’ll love it. You said you thought that mother and daughter looked cute. You weren’t lying, were you?”
“No, mommy.”
“So, you’ll let Cindy dye your hair?”
“Yes, mommy,” I said with resignation.
My haircut was odd, but mother was right, if it wasn’t boyish, it wasn’t real girly either. It just made me look, well, “style conscious.” Still, when Cindy spun me around for the big reveal after dying my hair, I was shocked. Having blond hair definitely put me on the feminine side of androgynous (my new word). But, there was nothing to be done. Strangely, I got a funny tingle looking at my new self.
Mom came over, looking in the mirror at the two of us. Her hair was cut and colored the same. “It’s just perfect, Dale. Don’t you think?” she said primping a bit.
For the first time I saw why people said I favored her. My chin, cheek bones and eyes looked just like hers. I wasn’t sure what I thought.
“Well, what do you think, Dale?”
“We almost look like twins, except our clothes are different.” Of course mom had a figure and I didn’t, but I was struck by how alike we were.
“That’s easily changed dear.”
After paying our salon bill, mom drove to the department store anchoring the mall. Mom spent a fair amount at there and had a VIC (Very Important Customer) card. So, she got primo service there. We went by the jewelry and cosmetic counters and up the escalator. Mom looked around for a bit until she spotted Ms. Omer, who managed women’s wear.
“Excuse me, Alice. As you can see, I’ve changed my hair. What clothing colors would go well with my new hair?”
“Hello, Ms. Mavelli. How nice to see you again! What a delightful color you’ve chosen! And, for your daughter too! Generally, blonds should wear pastels, and stay away from black and other dark and dull colors. You’d look wonderful in warm blues and yellows, sage, lavender, khaki and gold. Ivory and warm grays can also work. You have a lot of choices.”
I wasn’t happy at being called a daughter especially as I was still wearing my school clothes. Mom, on the other hand, seemed not to have even noticed.
“I was hoping that Dale and I could find matching outfits.”
“That should be no problem. Perhaps something knee length for you and a mini for her,” she said looking at me. “I’ll have Lindsey help you. She’s young, and very capable.”
“Mom!” I squeaked.
“Don’t worry, Dale, I’ll straighten it out. Just sit here and be patient.” Mom took Ms. Omer’s arm and led her off for a private talk.
I didn’t have my tablet, so there wasn’t much to do. I finally saw a pretty girl shopping with her mother. Eventually she saw me and waved. Maybe mom was right about blond hair being a chick magnet.
About then mom came back with a young associate. “Lindsey is going to help find us some coordinating outfits.”
“She knows I’m a boy, right?”
“Yes, Dale, I know you’re a boy. Your mother has explained everything.”
“Thank goodness!”
Since we were in the women’s wear department, we started by selecting possibilities for mom. As I was gong to wear the same colors, mom wanted me to help choose. I wanted the same kind of dull colors I always wore, but Lindsey reminded me that dull colors didn’t go with my new hair.
At first, I thought it would be boring to help mom, but now that I was helping decide what to buy, it was more interesting. Women and girls have so many more choices than boys – colors, styles, fabrics, even the type of outfit. I mean boys just wear pants and shirts. Women get to wear pants, skirts, dresses, tunics, tights, leggings and who knows what. They get to wear solids and all kinds of plaids and prints. And the colors! Mostly boys wear just a few, but girls can wear any color they like. Anyway, I enjoyed helping mom pick out some outfits.
I’d made a few suggestions and mom had even added one or two to her pile of possibilities, complimenting me on my taste. We were going from one area to another, when I saw this cool rose and lime floral print dress. “Hey, mommy, look at this!” I said, holding it up.
Turning around, she said, “It’s very pretty, Dale. Do you like it?”
“Yes, I love the colors – and the flowers are so cool!”
“Yes, it’s beautiful and the colors compliment our hair and complexions, but remember we’re looking for things we can both wear.”
“Oh … yeah … I forgot.” I was blushing furiously.
Mom came back and hugged me. “There’s no need to be embarrassed, Dale. The dress is lovely, and shows you have great taste. There’s nothing wrong with liking it.”
“Really, mommy?”
“Yes, really, dear.”
We went on to the next rack, looking for shorts and coordinating tops. Mom said something to Lindsey, who went off for a bit and came back smiling. By the time Lindsey returned mom had enough possibilities and went to try them on. She came out several times, asking me what I thought. We picked two combinations we both liked. One was a blue skirt with a yellow top, the other sage slacks with a lavender top.
The next job was finding me outfits that matched. Lindsey had selected some possibilities while mom was in the dressing room. So, I was sent to the boy’s changing room to try them. The yellow top she found me was sleeveless and buttoned the wrong way, but went really well with my blond hair (which I was beginning to like more and more). So, I said OK. No one’s going to notice how it buttons anyway.
I was afraid Lindsey would suggest a skirt to go with it, but she handed me shorts instead. They were so short that my boxers showed under them. Mom sent Lindsey to get briefs for me. She returned with red, white and blue pairs. They only came half way up my hips, had narrower elastic, and no fly. I asked mom about them.
She said, “They’re short so you can wear them with low cut slacks and shorts. You can just could pull the front down to pee.”
“Oh.” They were conformable, so I wore the blue ones for the rest of the fitting.
The shorts looked nice and fit well, but they also had no fly – or pockets for that matter. When I questioned Lindsey, she said they were the only shorts in that shade of blue, but they had blue skirts with pockets if I wanted to try them. I wasn’t sure if she was serious, but I didn’t want to find out.
For the second outfit, Lindsey found a lavender tee. The sleeves were a little short and the neck larger than I was used to, but it fit well, so I said OK. I had a choice of sage shorts or slacks. Both had pockets, but neither had flies. I opted for the slacks as that was what mom was buying for herself, but mom said since it’s summer, I might as well get both.
You may think I’m dumb or naive – I mean thinking that I was trying on boys’ clothes. I may not be the brightest bulb, but I know the difference between boys’ and girls’ clothes. Trying them on in the boys’ dressing area didn’t fool me a bit. I figured that shorts are shorts, and I had an androgynous look anyway, so what difference did it make as long as I wasn’t wearing a dress or skirt? Mom wanted us to match, and after all she’d done for me, the least I could do was cooperate.
Our final stop was a shoe store. We each got a pair of white and a pair of sage canvas shoes. I knew we’d match wearing them, but I also knew that wasn’t the look mom really wanted.
“You’d really like it if we wore matching sandals, wouldn’t you?”
Mom looked a little shocked.
“Mommy, I know you really want a mother-daughter look. Isn’t that so?”
“Yes, Dale,” she said hanging her head, “I can’t lie. That’s what I’d really like. I’m sorry.”
“Mommy, there is nothing to be sorry about. I love you and want you to have your wish, as long as it isn’t too embarrassing. So, if you can find androgynous sandals for us both, I’ll wear them with you.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really, mommy.”
We each left with a pair of brown wedge sandals with 1/2” straps and a 1” heel.
When I got home, I put my new things away. Afterward, I was very tired. I suppose my transformation from boy to feminine androgyne had been more stressful than I realized. At any rate, I zonked out. Mom woke me about 7:00.
“Get dressed. I’m starving and I want to show off our new outfits.”
“OK, mommy,” I said groggily.
“We’re going to Richardo’s. So, wear the lavender top with sage slacks. That way you won’t have to shave your legs.”
“Shave my legs?”
“Yes. You’re starting to get body hair, and your legs and underarms will spoil our matching look.”
“My underarms too?”
“Yes – just for the summer. You might as well do them now. You can borrow my electric razor.”
Suddenly, I wasn’t so sure I wanted to grant mom her wish, but she’d already spent so much. I didn’t want to ruin it for her, so I said, “OK, mommy,” as I usually do.
Dressed in my lavender top, sage slacks and wedge sandals, I might still have been androgynous, but 99 out of a 100 people would have thought I was a girl. Maybe a tomboy from how I walked and acted, but still a girl. Even I saw a girl when I looked in the mirror. Luckily, we have an attached garage, so I didn’t have to go outside to get in the car.
Richardo’s is an up-scale Italian place mom and I like. The maître d' there knows us, but made no mention of my feminine appearance. Our waitress didn’t know us, and began by complimenting our mother-daughter look. Later on she quietly suggested that I’d look less like a tomboy if I wore some makeup.
I thanked her and said, “I would, but mommy doesn’t think I’m old enough to wear makeup yet.”
“I wore makeup when I was Dale’s age. So, you may if you want, Dale.”
I looked at mom, like yeah, thanks.
“We can get you some tomorrow.”
“Thanks, mommy,” I said in an uncertain tone.
By the time we’d finished dinner, I’d forgotten the episode.
That night I slept in my jockeys as I usually do and enjoyed being a boy again. Still, when I woke up, I put on a pair of my new briefs because I liked they way they hugged me – and besides, wearing them gave me a tingle. Over them I wore khaki Bermudas (with a fly and pockets) and a light blue tee.
When I came into the kitchen, mom gave me a warm hug. “I just loved going out as mother and daughter. You were so wonderful realizing that sandals would fulfill my dream even more than canvas shoes.”
“I didn’t mind wearing them, mommy,” I said, quite proud of myself. “Besides, they’re cooler than sneakers.”
“Yes, you looked very sweet in them, Dale. Still, I want to apologize.”
“No need to apologize. I was happy to do it.”
“I know, but I was so caught up in my fantasy, I wasn’t thinking of you.”
“Don’t be sorry, mommy. I loved doing it.”
“Of course, sweetie, but I exposed you to embarrassment.”
“I wasn’t embarrassed.”
“But, you could have been. Morgan thought you were a tomboy.”
“Morgan? Who’s Morgan?”
“You know Morgan. She waited on us at Ricardo’s last night.”
“Oh, that Morgan. She didn’t embarrass me.”
“Don’t pretend, Dale. I saw you blushing when she said you were a tomboy. You did blush, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I just want you to know mommy understands. I’m going to try and see that it doesn’t happen again.”
I wasn’t sure what she meant, but I knew it was an expression of her love for me. “Thank you, mommy. I love you.”
“You’re very special, Dale.”
“You are too, mommy.”
The rest of the morning went pretty normally. By 10:00 the grass was dry and I was out cutting it. Billy, who’s been my friend since I was a toddler, came by walking his dog, Lance.
“Love your new hair, Dale!” he said without a shred of sarcasm.
“Really?”
“Yes. You look much … ah, better with your hair like that.”
“Thanks,” I said smiling.
“Better get going before Lance decides to drop one on your lawn.”
“OK, see ya.”
Maybe I should say a bit about Billy. We’re about the same age, but he’s taller and stronger than me. So, he takes care of me at school – you know, keeps the bullies off me. Whenever I’m a little scared I stick close to him. Still, we like different things, so we don’t play together all that much. Like he’s good at baseball and usually hits at least one homer in a game. I really don’t like baseball, but I watch him play and cheer for him. After, his mom usually takes us to get an ice cream.
Anyway, a little after he walked by, I finished the lawn and went in.
“Take a shower, dear, but wear my shower cap. I don’t want your hair getting wet yet.”
“OK, mommy.”
I’d never worn a shower cap before, but then I’d never been a blond before. So, I did as she said. I remembered that she wanted me to shave my legs so I did that too – not that there was much to shave.
When I got out, I put on my last pair of briefs because the earlier pair was sweaty. Brushing out my hair in just my briefs, I realized how much I look like a girl – thin and fragile, with femme hair. Only my bulge made me look like a boy. I decided to see what I’d look like if I put it back between my legs. When I was trying to get it to stay back, my balls popped up inside me – and stayed there when I pulled my panties back up. (Yes, I knew they were panties, but sometimes it’s best to pretend you’re dumb.) My smooth front was kind of Gucci, and not uncomfortable, so I decided to keep it for a while.
As I was walking back to my room, mom came the other way, glanced at my crotch, smiled, and walked on. I was glad she didn’t say anything.
I put my Bermudas back on with a gray rainbow tee mom bought me for a rally once. Then I went to see what was on TV. Mom came in with an iced lemon and cucumber drink for me, and sat down beside me.
“You need to stay hydrated, dear.”
“Thanks, mommy.”
We watched a craft show on PBS for a while. This one was on scrapbooking, something mom started me on a few years back. I always like learning new techniques.
“I noticed you wearing your new briefs coming out of the shower. Do you like them better than your boxers?”
“Yes. They feel nicer.”
“Would you like more?”
“Well, I’m wearing the third pair now. So, I guess a few more.” I felt funny asking for more panties, but my voice sounded normal.
“By the way, a smooth front looks good on you – if you want to dress like that again.”
“Ah … thanks, mommy.” I’d been hoping she wouldn’t mention it, but after a while, I was glad she did.
After the show we had a salad for lunch. I was going to work on my scrapbook, but mom asked me if I’d rather go shopping with her. I needed some craft supplies and I like doing things with mom anyway. So, of course I said yes.
“Wear your sandals, dear.”
As we were driving to Target, mom said, “I was thinking about what Morgan said last night and how you said you’d wear makeup if I let you, so I’m going to get you a little inexpensive makeup to experiment with.”
I would have protested, but I really didn’t know what to say.
“It’s OK. You don’t have to say anything. You can try it in the privacy of your room. Then the next time we go out, no one will mistake you for a boy.”
Mistake me for a boy? But, I am a boy, I thought.
I had no idea how many things were required to have “a little inexpensive make up:” two shades of lipstick, eye shadow, liner, mascara, blush, nail polish and a dozen more items. Lastly, mom got me a book, Your First Makeup Experience: Makeup Basics and Tips for Young Girls.
“Mommy, you really don’t need to get me all this stuff.”
“I know, you think lipstick is all you need, but it really isn’t if you don’t want people thinking your a tomboy. Now just hush, and let me be generous with you.”
“I’m sorry. Thank you mommy.” I didn’t want to seem ungrateful, but I knew I’d never use this stuff. Maybe after a few days she’d see I wasn’t interested and return it.
When we finished shopping for makeup, she said, “Why don’t you go look for your scrapbooking supplies and I’ll pick up some more briefs for you.”
“I’d rather buy them at Michael’s. They have a better selection. Also, I know my briefs are panties, so you don’t need to hide that from me.”
She started pushing the cart toward girl’s wear. “You don’t mind that I bought you panties?”
“Should I? You taught me that that men and women, boys and girls should be treated equally. So, as long as they fit well, feel nice and no one but you and I see them, why should I care?”
“I suppose I should have expected that, but I’m still surprised – pleasantly so, but surprised.”
By then we’d reached the shelves of girls underwear. I should have been embarrassed, but strangely, looking as ambiguous as I did, with girls sandals, boys shorts and an LGBT tee I wasn’t.
“Want to try a variety?”
“Sure, why not?”
“Shall I choose or you?”
“I’d rather you chose.”
She chose three packs. One was silky full cut panties in black, pink and beige. The second had four pair of pastel hipsters, and the last six assorted prints.
“Since you’re in the mood, lets get you a pair of heels so you can learn not to walk like a tomboy.”
Suddenly, my heart started racing. My sandals could be boys, and no one could see that I was wearing panties, but if I wore heels, It would be clear they were for girls. I mumbled something and gave a little nod.
“I don’t have to wear them out of the house, do I?”
“Not unless you want to.”
“OK, then.”
Mother found an inexpensive pair of white platform sandals with a 2” heel and an ankle strap. As I walked around trying them, I felt like I wanted to keep them on. My hips swayed as I put one foot in front of the other like a model. Suddenly I realized I was a boy sashaying in girls shoes and I just wanted to take them off.
Mother saw the whole performance, but said nothing. Still, the shoes wound up in our cart.
By the time we got home I needed a nap. When I woke up, cosmetics were arrayed on one corner of my desk along with a makeup mirror. On the floor of my closet was my growing shoe collection, which now included a pair of heels. Later I discovered that I now had a panty drawer. Clearly, things were getting out of hand.
I ignored the makeup as I worked on my scrapbook. Still, when I took a bathroom break, I found myself sitting and tucking myself back before I pulled up my panties. Looking in the mirror, I realized I preferred a smooth front.
When I got back to my desk, the makeup was staring at me – almost like an animal sitting on my desk. I opened the pink lipstick, and watched as it flowed onto my lips. It seemed to have a life of its own and wanted to be there – on my lips. Calmly, rationally, I realized I looked better with it than I had before. I closed the tube and put it back in its place. Finally, I stopped looking in the mirror and went back to work on my scrapbook page. After working for a while, I forgot that the lipstick had painted itself on my lips. Eventually, I finished the page. It was one of the best I’d ever done! I brought it to show mom, who was catching up with some work in her office.
“Look, mommy!” I said holding up the page.
“My, don’t you look pretty!”
“Me?” Then I realized I was still wearing the lipstick – my lipstick. I meant to wipe it off, but I hadn’t and now mom knew that I'd tried it and even left it on. Panic filled me. I looked for a place to run, to hide.
“Calm down Dale!” she said as she got up and embraced me. “Don’t be upset, sweetie. Your face was made for make up. Do you think I would have gotten it for you if I thought otherwise?”
“But, I’m a boy.”
“Yes, but a very special and very beautiful boy.”
I stared at her blankly.
“Come along,” she said, taking my hand. “I’ll show you how lovely you can be.” She led me back to my room and sat me on my bed.
For twenty minutes or so, she worked on my face, using all the products she’s bought me. At each step, she explained what she was doing and why. I was in a daze and barely heard a thing. Finally, she led me to the bath, so I could see myself in the mirror. I didn’t look a bit like a boy. I was a gorgeous girl!
“See, Dale, you’re beautiful! Billy’s gong to love how you look!”
“Billy?”
“Yes, Dale, Billy. Don’t you think I've seen him holding you and the two of you kissing? With you made up like this and wearing the rose and lime dress I bought for you, you two can go on proper dates and no one will bother you.”
I started crying. “Thank you, mommy.”
I was born Wendell Blair, and abandoned shortly thereafter. I wasn’t any couple’s idea of the boy they wanted, so I was never adopted. I wasn’t abused, but I never felt like I belonged either. So, I just got along dealing with the hand I’d been dealt. After getting an arts degree from Cal State L. A., I worked as a barista near the court house.
It was there that I first saw Shannon. She’d come to pick up an order for the Public Defender’s Office, so I knew she was at the bottom of the totem pole. She didn’t have the looks of a model, but she was cute in a boyish sort of way with short sandy hair, blue eyes and light makeup – usually dressed in a pants suit and oxford blouse. I enjoyed chatting as I finished assembling the PD’s order.
One Monday, she stopped coming in – replaced by a nerdy guy named John. I chatted with him, too, but it wasn’t the same. I missed seeing her enough to be down about it. Then, about 4:00 Friday afternoon, she came in and asked me for a date. It would be an exaggeration to say that my dating life was virtually nil. It was nil. So, I was thrilled to say yes.
Dating Shannon wasn’t easy. Sometimes I’d get a text canceling because she had to fill in for somebody or a hearing had been rescheduled. Other times we’d only get a quick bite together before she had to review case notes. Occasionally, we’d end our evening at her Koreatown apartment for some intimacy. Then one day she unzipped my pants and led me to her bed by my handle. She said she was tired of waiting for me to make my move.
Not long after, she invited me to move in with her. I’d been crashing with some Cal State friends, so I felt like I had a home at last. I offered to pay half the rent, but she said as long as she was making so much more than I was, I should spend my money on other things. I paid the utilities.
Her hours allowed little time for housework, so her place was even messier than where I’d been crashing. I’m kind of a neat freak so I took it on myself to straighten and clean the place. I spent part of my pay buying little things to make our apartment more homey. I learned to sew and made curtains and throw pillows. Shannon never asked me to do any of this, but was very complimentary about my homemaking. When she proposed a year later, she jokingly asked me to be her wife. I blushed a bit, but I can take teasing as well as the next, and told her yes.
Neither of us were churchy, nor did we have a lot of savings, so we got married at City Hall. Shannon wore a cream pants suit (I don’t think she owned a skirt or dress), and I bought a suit. I had no family and she only had her mother, Marilyn. So, we had a simple ceremony with Marilyn and a couple of our work friends. Afterwords, Marilyn took us all to dinner in Chinatown. Her wedding toast included a cryptic remark about Shannon always having been a tomboy.
I’d first met Marilyn when Shannon took me to Sunday dinner at her condo off of Fountain in West Hollywood. She was less than impressed with me, but, still, she was polite and tried to make me feel at home. I supposed that she felt no one was good enough for her only daughter.
Once I’d moved in, we had Marilyn for dinner every Friday night. At first, Shannon ordered takeout, but I wanted to win her mother’s approval, so I started cooking something special for her weekly visits. She enjoyed my meals and even asked for my recipes from time to time. She also noticed how I’d decorated our apartment and gave me compliments on what I’d done.
Shannon had been feeling a bit off before our wedding, but seemed to shake it off. Still, from time to time, I’d see her wince and then tell me it was nothing. Finally, I forced her to see a doctor. Tests and scans followed, then a devastating diagnosis: stage four cancer. Nothing could be done but make her comfortable. I took a leave from work and stayed home to care for her. By the time she died we’d eaten through our meager savings and run up large credit card bills.
After Shannon died, Marilyn kept in touch. She’d call daily to see how I was getting on and came around regularly with carryout meals to share. She had as much reason as I to be depressed, but her ability to function was better than mine. She was simply stronger than I was. I spiraled into a deepening depression. As my work performance fell and absentees rose, I was given another leave of absence and got some free counseling. When I couldn’t pull myself together, I was asked to resign. Of course, my depression was impossible to hide from Marilyn. One Friday she came over with an order of butter chicken to find me unshaven, staring blindly at the dunning notices scattered over the kitchen table.
“Alright, Wendell. Pack your things! Tomorrow I’m taking you to live with me. Do you hear me, Wendell?”
“Yes, Marilyn.” Of course, I was too depressed to pack anything. So, the next day, she came and packed my clothes and personal things, while a couple of day workers moved the rest of our things to a storage locker.
When we got to her condo she showed me the room that was to be mine. It had an en suite bath and fit a bed, bureau, desk and vanity without being crowded. While its decoration was hardly masculine, it was not strikingly feminine either.
“Wendell, you smell like a pigsty. I can hardly stand it. Go take a shower, wash you hair, and shave. I’ll put away your things in the mean time. Oh – and be sure to use conditioner on your hair. Call me when your done.”
“Yes, Marilyn.” I didn’t feel like arguing.
While I was in the shower, the clothes I’d worn disappeared – I presumed to be washed. In their place was an orchid colored satin pegnoire. I didn’t have my own robe, so I figured Marilyn had provided me with one of hers. I couldn't find a comb, but there was a brush on the counter, so I used it. My hair became more lustrous with each stroke. When I finished, it was obvious that I’d gone too long without a hair cut. Only my lack of bangs prevented me from looking like a woman.
Walking back into my room, I called out “Marilyn, I’m done!”
She appeared at the door, looking me up and down. “I thought I asked you to shave?”
“I did” I said, somewhat petulantly.
“Then what’s that on your legs and chest?”
“My legs?” I asked, bewildered.
“Yes – those appendages sticking out under your pegnoire,” she said with a sweep of her hand. “And, I suppose you haven’t shaved under your arms, either. … Back you go!” She gave me a gentle push. “And apply lotion after – there’s a bottle by the sink. Call me when you’re really done.”
I suppose that I should have resisted, but I’ve never been very assertive, and it was her house and … Anyway, I shaved as much as I could, save my pubes. I wasn’t that hairy to begin with, so I reckoned that shaving didn’t make a big difference. The lotion was very soothing, but gave me a lilac scent.
Returning to my room, I called her again.
“Well, that looks much better. Put on some underwear, and I’ll see if you missed anything obvious. … By the way, you smell lovely.”
“Thank you,” I mumbled uncertainly. Going to the bureau, I searched for my underwear, but concluded she hadn’t put it way yet, as all I found was a selection of panties. I supposed Shannon had left them behind.
“Well, get on with it!”
“I can’t find my underwear. Where did you put it?”
“In the top drawer, of course.”
“It only has panties.”
“So?”
“They’re not mine.”
“They most certainly are! I bought them for you last night.”
“What?!”
“Must I repeat myself?”
“But, I don’t wear panties.”
“You mean you didn’t wear panties. Now pick a pair and put them on. Full cut ones would be best under your pegnoire. Chop, chop!”
I didn’t know what to do. I looked into the drawer. The panties ranged from hipsters on the left through full cuts in the middle to lacy tap and pettipants on the right. I found a pair of black satiny panties without decoration. Reluctantly, I pulled them up my legs. By the time I got them to my waist, I was painfully erect.
“Okay, off with your pegnoire. Let’s see! … Ah! I see you like them very much. It’s not surprising, but I think you need a bit of privacy. Lay on the bed and have a wank. When you're done wash them out in the sink with cold water and hang them to dry in your bath. Then put on a clean pair and call me. … Did you hear me?”
“Yes, Marilyn.” I was beet red as she waited for me to lay on the bed before leaving. I’d never been told to “have a wank” in my life, but it was exactly what I felt like doing. I ran my hand down feeling how smooth my panties were. “My panties” I thought. What a sissy I was to be aroused by wearing panties. Once I touched myself though my panties I couldn’t stop. In a few seconds my body tensed in a powerful orgasm and my new panties were soaked.
I lay motionless for a few minutes. Then I got disgusted with myself and wanted out of panties. What kind of man was I? I vowed never to wear panties again. I hurried to the bath, stepped out of my panties and washed with a soft cloth. Then I remembered Marilyn’s instructions and washed my panties I put them over the shower curtain rod to dry. The hanging panties made my bath look like a woman’s – or a sissy’s.
Back in my room I needed to put some underwear on. So, I again opened my panty drawer. On the right were the laciest purple tap pants I’d ever seen. I wondered what it would feel like to wear them. Soon I was laying on my bed again, soaking my pretty tap pants. By the time I called Marilyn back, three pair of panties could be seen drying in my bath.
She appeared in a work apron. “Well?” she said.
“Well what?”
“It would be polite to thank me for the panties you so obviously enjoy. You do enjoy wearing them, don’t you?”
“Oh,” I blushed. How could I deny it? “Yes … Thank you very much for my panties.”
“You’re very welcome dear. I’m glad you like them.” she said without a hint of irony. “Things are so much easier when honesty prevails. … Now take off your pegnoire so I can see if you missed any spots shaving.”
I soon stood before her dressed only in beige nylon panties, too drained to be aroused.
“You’ve done a remarkably good job for a first try … only a few nicks and a little hair on your back that I’ll help you with.” She took my hand and led me into my bath. As she entered, she felt the panties I’d hung to dry. “This pair is dry, you can put it in your drawer when we’re done.”
“Thank you,” I murmured.
She soon finished shaving my back and applying lotion. “Come along, I have something I think you’ll like.” She took my hand and led me back to my room, where she slid the closet door open. “Isn’t this lovely?” she said, holding up an empire waist dress with elbow length sleeves. It was not quite knee length and purple with densely printed white flowers.
I stared at it.
“Well, what do you think?”
“It looks very nice,” I said politely.
“Go ahead, try it on!”
“Me?”
“Who else is there?”
“But, but … I’m a man.”
“Yes, one who likes wearing panties. We’ve established that. I think you’ll like wearing dresses as well.” She unzipped the back and held it for me to step into. “Go ahead, it won’t bite.”
I knew it wouldn’t go away. What was I supposed to do? I was getting aroused and the dress would hide that, so I put one foot in, then the other. Marilyn helped with the sleeves, then zipped it.
“It looks very becoming … Don’t you think? The color suits you.”
I looked in the mirror on the closet door. The color did suit me.
Marilyn tugged her and there, adjusting the fit. “You have just enough of a bust to fill it out … don’t you agree?”
I looked in the mirror again. My flabby chest, accentuated by the band below my breasts, filled out the bodice. With my long, newly lustrous hair, I looked far more female than male. I couldn’t help but stare and turn to see how I looked.
“It’s okay to like it dear. I bought it for you.”
“Why?”
“Because you need something to cheer you up. A new dress usually helps. … Here, I got you these to go with your dress.” She handed me a pair of white wedge sandals. The heels weren’t very high. They were quire comfortable. “Now come along.”
I followed her through the living room and out a sliding glass door to a balcony with a small table and two chairs. Strategically placed potted plants made it surprisingly private – a nice place for morning coffee before dressing. I sat in one of the chairs while Marilyn produced hair scissors and a rat tailed comb from her apron. She started in the back, evening up the ends. Then, before I could think about it, she combed the front few few inches of my hair forward and cut bangs just above my eyebrows.
Handing me a mirror she said “It’s a nice look for you, don’t you think?”
“If I were a woman!” I said with some pique.
“You’re a sissy dear,” she said without the slightest animosity. “Aren’t you? If you weren’t would you be sitting in panties and a dress?”
It was hard to admit, but she was right. “I guess I must be,” I said hanging my head.
“No need to be upset. It’s just what you are. That’s why I had reservations when Shannon married you. … but it was her business. So I didn’t interfere. I saw the self sacrifice and fortitude you showed during her illness, so I came to love you as my own and not just an in-law – to think of you as my own child. I hope you’ll think of me as a mother. However, if you’re to live with me, I expect honesty. So what are you, dear?”
“A sissy.”
“And a very cute one. As long as you’re here, I expect you dress and behave appropriately. Will you do that?”
“Yes … mother.”
“So, what shall we call you. Clearly, ‘Wendell’ won’t do.”
“I guess not.”
“How about Wendy?”
“Yes, that’s nice. I like it.”
I spent the next weeks learning to be Marilyn’s sissy daughter. There’s a great difference between the flamboyant gestures of a drag queen and the natural grace of a woman. Somehow, feminine grace came naturally to me. The hardest part was making my voice passable. I spent endless hours imitating famous actresses. I decided on Lauren Bacall as my voice model. Her voice was so – well sexy.
It didn’t take long to pass for the occasional stranger who came to the door – delivery and repair men. I became the lady of the house while Marilyn ran her boutique – earning my keep by keeping house. As time went on, I made of game of flirting until I elicited a pass which I demurely rejected. Somehow getting a man to want me was a thrill – even though I didn’t want them. As part of the game I worked on my appearance. A padded bra improved my figure and I became proficient with make up. I shared my little conquests with Marilyn, helping us grow as close as any mother and daughter. She suggested I wear jewelry and pierced my ears. The prettier I got, the more I liked being a sissy.
Once I could pass reliably, Marilyn began taking me out. We shopped, had our hair and make up done, went to dinner, and, occasionally, to bars to flirt. Eventually, she offered me a job in her boutique on Santa Monica. I’d never seen it before, and was quite surprised to find that her clientele was mostly male: cross dressers and trans women buying for themselves, and a few dominant women buying for submissive boyfriends, husbands and occasionally sons. I realized then why Marilyn knew I was a sissy long before I did.
I began by working in the back, doing the books and taking care of the stock. After a few days, I learned to run the register so I could cover for Marilyn when she went out.
She’d gone downtown to talk to a supplier when a mother came in with her son. He had long auburn hair and looked to be about 14.
“Hello, I caught Michael here wearing my panties and dresses behind my back. So I’ve brought him to get him his own.”
“Hello, I’m Wendy Blair, and you are?”
“Loraine McKinsey. … Go ahead … tell the Ms. Blair what you want!”
“I don’t want anything, mommy, thank you,” the boy whimpered.
“Well, I think you do, because you want to dress like a girl and I don’t want you wearing my things. So tell Wendy what you like to wear … or I’ll deal with you when we get home.”
“I, I like panties and bras and dresses,” he said in a barely audible whisper.
“Isn’t that lovely for a boy!” His mother glared at him.
“I don’t see anything wrong with it. I’m a boy and I like them as well,” I responded.
“What?!” She turned her glare at me.
“You are? You do?” he asked.
“Yes and yes.”
“But … you’re so pretty.”
“Thank you, Michelle. You’d be even prettier, if your mother helped you. I’m sure she loves you very much and just wants you to be happy.” I could see this wasn’t going the way she’d planned. Getting him girl’s clothes was supposed to be so embarrassing he’d never want to dress again. Still, she was determined to leave with him dressed as a girl. I, on the other hand, wanted it to be a positive experience for both of them.
“You think?” he asked.
“Yes. Now would you like a costume, like a Dorothy of Oz or a Princess Elsa dress? Or something a girl your age would wear? Or, maybe both?”
“Could I have both?” He looked at his mother.
“I don’t know.” She was weakening, and didn’t want to seem prejudiced – at least in front of me.
“Why don’t we let Michelle try a few outfits. Then you can see what you think.”
“I suppose …”
Because of his hair color, I started him with plain white panties, a little padded bra and a Dorothy dress. Before he came out of the dressing room I tied his hair in two bunches with blue ribbons, and put a little lipstick on him. He was thrilled, but still scared what his mother would say.
“Well, isn’t she pretty, mommy?”
I could see that she hadn’t really imagined what he’d look like as a girl, for she looked almost stunned. “Yes, I never imagined. … Do you like looking like that, ah … Michelle?”
“Oh, yes, mommy! I love this dress!”
She looked at the price tag. “It’s not cheap. Would you actually wear it if I got it for you?”
“If you weren’t mad at me mommy.”
“You’re too pretty to be mad at!” She hugged him.
An hour later Michelle helped carry several hundred dollars of merchandise, including ruby slippers, out to his mother’s Beamer. He was happily dressed in a miniskirt, training bra, white blouse and kitten heels. I wondered what would be next for him.
Marilyn was thrilled with my sale, and asked me to work in the front from then on.
The Boutique was next door to a bakery. Georgie, the owner, dressed male, but wore full makeup. I’d often stop in to buy some of his delicious pastries to eat with our morning coffee. He knew Marilyn, and, of course, we became friends as well.
Once I started coming out of my depression, Marilyn began inviting Georgie to dinner. Often, she’d say what a great cook and homemaker I was and what a wonderful wife I’d been to Shannon. I liked the compliments, but still, it was embarrassing. I didn’t even know if liked men.
After dinner, we’d all watch a movie. I liked sitting in the arm chair while Georgie and Marilyn shared the love seat. About the third or fourth time Georgie came over, Marilyn sent me to the kitchen on some pretext. When I came back, she was in the arm chair and I had to share the love seat with Georgie. About half way through the movie, she yawned, said she’d seen it before, and went to bed.
The movie was very romantic and I found myself snuggling against Georgie without thinking about it. He responded by putting his arm around my shoulders, and smiling down at me. It had been a long time since I’d had any physical affection, so I just relaxed – feeling good at being cuddled, without giving it much thought. I was watching one of the most romantic scenes when Georgie lifted my chin and kissed me. He was very gentle. There wasn’t any tongue, just a lingering, romantic kiss.
I knew Georgie was gay, but I didn’t want to be rude, so I didn’t pull away or object. As the movie couple became more intimate, I felt his hand – first on my knee, then slowly moving up my skirt. My heart beat quickened. I thought it was because I was scared and didn’t know what to do, but as his hand crept higher I became increasingly aroused.
“Are you okay with this, sweetie?”
I felt weak and powerless. It had been so long. I just nodded. He kissed me, but more passionately this time – squeezing me through my panties. I tensed and came instantly. “Ohhhh!”
I was so embarrassed! I got up and ran to my room in tears. I didn’t know what Georgie thought. I didn’t even know what I thought. Was I embarrassed because I let a man give me an orgasm? Or was I embarrassed because I had no staying power? I didn’t know. I just knew I wanted to hide.
I didn’t have any friends I could talk to about what happened, so, the next morning, with much blushing, I talked to Marilyn. After all, I’d agreed to be honest with her while I lived with her. I said how embarrassed I was and that I didn’t know why. I also said I was embarrassed about what I’d done to Georgie – running off and leaving him wondering what he’d done wrong.
Marilyn insisted that I talk to Georgie, as it was unfair to leave him wondering. So, I started there.
“Georgie, I, I had an orgasm …”
“I know, sweetie. It was kind of quick, but the whole point of what I was doing was to make you feel wonderful.”
“Well, it had been a long while and I did … feel wonderful. But, I’d never, ah, felt wonderful with a man before. I didn’t … I don’t know how I feel about feeling wonderful with a man … and also, I was embarrassed because it only took me thirty seconds and that’s … well, rude.”
“Ha, ha. I wouldn’t worry about being rude … I mean … I was kind of flattered to have that effect on you. … and as for being confused about how you feel. I understand. I was very confused growing up. So, not to worry.”
“Thank you, Georgie.”
“So, if you want another chance to see how you feel, I’d like to ask you out. There’s a concert at the Bowl I think you might like.”
“Let me think about it. Can I call you this evening?”
“Sure, sweetie. I’ll be waiting to hear from you.”
I thought about going out with Georgie all day. In the end, I decided that I liked being felt up, but when I imagined it, it was Shannon, and not Georgie, I imagined doing it. So, that evening, I called Georgie and thanked him for asking me out, but told him I hoped to find a lady to be with.
Needless to say, I didn't find a lady to date any time soon. Partly, it was because I was still mourning Shannon and not looking very hard, and partly it was for the more obvious reason that a guy who wears dresses is not every woman’s idea of “the one.”
Michelle and her mother, Ms. McKinsey, came in several times over the next six months. They always called ahead to ask for me. Over the months I saw slight swellings on Michelle’s chest blossom into young teen breasts. Meanwhile her other parts seemed to be getting smaller. Clearly, she was on the road to transition.
In late June Michelle turned up unaccompanied by her mother. Ms. McKinsey had been called at the last minute to show a house in Beverly Hills. In her place, she had recruited Michelle’s cousin Beverly to drive him. Beverly was a tall athletic brunet in shorts, a polo shirt and running shoes.
“Hi, you must be Wendy.” She extended her hand to shake mine. She had a strong grip. “Loraine asked me to bring Michelle to get some sun dresses for a cruise. What can you show us?”
I showed them some cute dresses that Michelle instantly liked. So, it wasn't long until she took an armful to the changing room.
“Actually, I wasn’t entirely truthful, Wendy. I asked Loraine to let me bring Michelle today because I wanted to meet you. I must say you’re as pretty as Michelle keeps saying. You’re her role model, you know.”
“I didn’t, but that’s very flattering to hear.”
“Yes … Well, … I hope you don’t think that I’m weird, but I have this fantasy … about feminine men and … well, I’d like to get to know you better. … If you’re interested … in women … and maybe in me?”
“Well, despite liking to dress, I do like women, … but as you can imagine, not many like me … well, not in that way. So, I’d be a fool not to accept the chance to get to know you better.”
“Good, give me your number and I’ll text you a time and place. … what do you like to do?”
“Well, I bought this delicious cocktail dress and I’d love to wear it someplace.”
“I think I can arrange that … Here’s our sweetie in a dress she’d like us to see …”
Friday of that week, Beverly picked me up in her Lexus, and took me to an exhibit opening at the Getty. We met several lesbian couples, who were very polite, but did not linger once we made our situation clear. I did, however, recognize two couples I knew from the Boutique. One was led by an actress, the other by a lawyer who’d known Shannon. After the opening the six of us went to a club for drinks and a bit of dancing. We danced with each others partners, but that is as far as it went.
On the way home, Beverly asked me if I’d like to park and admire the ocean. I very much did, as she was beautiful and strong, and I longed to be in her arms. It did not take long for her to feel me up, but I asked her to go show so I didn’t have an accident. Suffice it to say I did not feel like running and hiding when we finished.
It was only six weeks later when I moved out of Marilyn’s condo, and into Beverly’s beach house. Now, a year later, I’m her wife and the mother of a pretty baby. Of course, Beverly gave birth to our sweetie, but I’m nursing her as I type this.
On the Road
This is my attempt at the classic bad boy to good girl tale, given a sensible and loving mother.
Martha Broadbent was Alice's neighbor and good friend. Parenting Melodie, her 8 year old, was not easy for Martha. In fact, their first real conversation had occurred when she sought Alice's advice on stopping Melodie from cursing like a sailor. So, when she suggested they attend the Weston Women's Association “Modern Parenting” class, Alice agreed. She would not have otherwise, for after reading about the class in the Weekly, Alice thought “modern parenting” would mean nutty parenting.
Alice found the classes next to useless. The first was about the benefits of breast feeding, with the presenter urging that it be continued as long as possible – even refusing to give a firm cutoff age when Martha suggested that perhaps 10, the age of her son Robby, was too old to still be on the tit.
The next meeting was on the horrors of gluten, and the benefits of quinoa for children. Mary Ahemm (owner of Mary's Marvels, Weston's health food emporium) so scared Martha with vague allusions to autism and ADHD that she had resolved to put Melodie on a gluten-free diet. Alice researched the facts and managed to talk Martha down.
The third class, “Modern Child Discipline,” ended the group. While there had been polite disagreement with previous presentations, that class was different. Weston mothers were too invested in their favorite method of discipline to brook even the most non-judgmental criticism. The speaker thought spanking abusive, and suggested time-outs and grounding as better alternatives. Alice didn't think spanking was necessarily abusive, but liked timeouts and grounding better.
On the other hand, Katherine Mauser got increasingly red-faced as the speaker droned on. Finally, she could stand no more. Standing up, she said, “That's an excellent way of raising a juvenile delinquent. Spare the rod and spoil the child!” Alice thought she should know – the Mauser boys were frequent guests of the Weston police. Someone in the back shouted that spanking should be a felony, and suddenly everyone was yelling at once. Susan Sedate, chair of the WWA education committee, tried to restore order by suggesting that each mother speak in turn.
That worked until Sandy Loam said she'd tried grounding, but her daughter had simply snuck out. Rose Treely, sitting next to Alice, turned and said, “Too bad Dot isn't a boy. Sandy could petticoat her and she'd be too embarrassed to sneak out.” Katherine Mauser shot off, “a good whooping would take care of sneaking out.” Shouts of “abuse,” “parental rights,” “bullying,” “raising delinquents,” etc. erupted throughout the hall. This time Susan couldn't restore order. She finally turned off the lights and asked everyone to leave.
There were cold and angry stares at Petersen's Grocery for a week or so, but eventually things returned to normal – especially after Mayor Loudfellow suggested there be no more WWA parenting classes.
That was in April. Summer vacation began at the end of May. Weston was too small to have a pool, and most of the park equipment was geared to younger children. There was a basketball court, but it was dominated by the older teens. The younger teens soon grew bored with checkers and ping pong, and wondered Weston looking for excitement – a task as difficult as looking for glaciers in the Sahara. Often their excitement was breaking windows, painting graffiti or letting air out of tires.
Although Robby was younger than the vandals, he admired the older boys, who let him tag along. So it was that officer Loudfellow, the Mayor's son, caught Robby near a can of green spray paint and freshly painted green obscenity on the back of Mary's Marvels. Robby denied painting the graffiti. It was pretty high, so maybe he was telling the truth. Still, he refused to say who'd done it. Alice wound up paying to have the wall repainted.
“Robby, I was going to surprise you with a birthday trip to Disneyland. Now that money will have to pay for repainting the wall. Even if you didn't spray the wall, you hung with a gang that did – and you refused to help the police.”
“I'm scared of getting beat up.”
“I raised you to do the right thing, even if it is scary. It was scary when your father was ordered to Afghanistan, but he went anyway. Do you think he'd be proud of you if he were still here?”
“No.”
“Well, then tell me who did it.”
“I can't.”
“OK. You're grounded for two weeks and I forbid you to to play with older boys again. Do you promise to obey me?”
“Yes.”
A few days later, Ralph Dyer, who had painted the graffiti, knocked on Robby's front door and offered him an ice cream for not ratting him out. Robby knew he shouldn't go, but was bored and thrilled the older boy was paying attention to him. When they got to Petersen's, Ralph had him wait while he got the ice cream. Two minutes later Ralph ran by, threw Robby an ice cream sandwich and disappeared down the alley. Robby was still wondering why Ralph was running when Lars Petersen's iron grip closed on his arm.
Alice was livid when officer Loudfellow called her at work. Of course, she knew Robby hadn't stolen the ice cream. In fact, he told the whole story this time and was not charged. Instead, Ralph and his father, who ran Weston's only painting business, were both arrested. Alice even got her vacation money back. Even so, Robby had broken his word and disobeyed her.
Alice was still furious when they got home. “I trusted you to take your punishment like a man. Instead, you lied to me. It seems that grounding doesn't work with you. What should I do with you?”
“Spank me?”
She put Robby over her lap, pulled his pants down, and had at it. Martha, not knowing Alice was home, rushed over to find out what was wrong with Robby.
“Everything is OK, Martha … well, not really. I had to spank Robby. He was grounded, but broke his word, snuck out, and got in trouble with the law .. again.”
Robby was standing next to her, trying to fasten his pants with one hand while rubbing is bottom with the other.
“May, may I go to … to my room … please?” he sobbed.
“How do I know you'll stay there? I need you where I can see you. Sit on the floor so I can keep an eye on you.”
Marsha listened as Alice vented. “Well, if it helps, I could baby sit Robby afternoons, but you know I work mornings.”
“That would help a lot, but I can't even trust him to stay home in the morning.”
“I don't need a baby sitter. (Sniff) I'll stay home … I promise.”
“You have demonstrated what your promises are worth. You do need a baby sitter. And … I don't want to hear another word out of you unless I speak to you.”
They sat silently for a while, thinking what to do. Then Martha remembered the last WWA class.
“This may sound ridiculous, but remember what Rose Treely said at the last parenting class? About how Sandy Loam could make sure Dot would stay home if she were a boy? Well Robby's a boy.”
“Wouldn't that be abusive?”
“I don't see how. It would hurt a lot less than spanking … besides, he brought it on himself. What do you think? I could loan you some things. I have a box full of outgrown clothes I was going to take to the consignment shop. Melodie's shorter than Robby, but bigger around.”
Robby stopped sniffling and started being alarmed. “Are you two talking about me wearing Mel's old clothes? There's no way in hell I will. I'll take them off as soon as you leave, so it won't work anyway.”
“Robert Francis Alister, I told you to be quiet. Do want your rear blistered again? … and watch your language! You'll do whatever I decide. I was going to say it was a silly idea, but your complaining makes me think it may not be so silly after all.”
“I'm sorry, mom, but I don't want to wear girl's clothes. It's not fair.”
“You had your chance to take your punishment like a man and you blew it. It seems perfectly appropriate for you to take it like a little girl.
“Martha, do you really think Mel's old clothes will fit him?”
“Yes, he's much thiner than Melodie. They'll fit around – they'd just be a bit short.”
“Good. If you'll get them, I'll get him ready.
“Robby, go fill the tub for a bath.”
“But I take showers.”
“Little girls take bubble baths.”
Alice left Robby to bathe in lavender-scented bubbles. As he did, she, Marta and Melodie sorted though the box of outgrown clothes.
“Is Robby really going to wear my old clothes?”
“Yes, dear, but I don't want you teasing him. That would be mean-spirited.”
“I won't mommy, but can I play with him? It would be nice to have a girl my age to play with.”
“If he wants, but don't be a pest. He'll be very embarrassed at first.”
When they finished sorting, Marsha and Melodie began packing up Robby's clothes. Meanwhile, Alice went to get him. Peeking in the bathroom door, she saw him playing with the bubbles just as he had when he was five or six.
“Time to get dressed sweetie.”
Noticing his mother for the first time, he blushed and stepped out of the tub, holding his hands over his shriveled boyhood. Alice held out a towel.
“Lift your arms so I can wrap this around you.”
Turning his back, he lifted his arms, allowing his mother to wrap the towel around his chest. She put another turban-fashion on his head, leaving his hair damp. Alice was surprised how much he looked like a girl. Nothing in his face or thin arms suggested he was a boy.
“Let's get you dressed,” she said, taking him by the hand.
Robby was shocked to find Melodie in his room – helping put the last of his clothes in a large box. Just behind her, two dresses and coordinating panties were laid out on his bed. He did not want to look at them. He burst out crying.
“Don't cry Robby, these were my favorite things before I outgrew them,” Melodie said, giving Robby a sisterly hug.
“Why don't you and your mother give us some privacy while Robbie gets dressed. Then I'll bring him over.”
“OK. See you in a bit, Robbie.”
The embarrassed boy could only blush more.
Alice had used toddler choices when he was younger, letting Robby “choose” between two things equally acceptable to her. She returned to the tactic now.
“Which outfit would you like to wear, sweetie? Your sundress or your sailor outfit?”
“They aren't mine.”
“They are now. Marsha and Melodie have given you all these lovely clothes,” said Alice, gesturing to an assortment of blouses, skirts and dresses hanging in his closet. “Of course, you could go nude. Melodie might enjoy the view. Is that what you want?”
“No … “
“Then do you want to wear your sundress? Or your sailor dress?”
For the first time, Robby looked at the dresses on his bed. One was pink with no sleeves and flowers all over it. The other was blue with short sleeves, a sailor collar, two rows of brass buttons on the skirt and white trim. Coordinating panties lay next to each – one pink cotton with roses, the other blue and white stripped nylon. There was no way he was going to wear a pink dress with flowers. At least the idea of a sailor was boyish.
“The sailor one.”
“What about it? 'The sailor one' is not a sentence.”
“I'll wear the sailor dress.”
“Is that how I taught you to ask for things?”
“May I wear the sailor dress?”
“What is the magic word?”
Robby knew the sooner he did as his mother wished, the sooner this ordeal would be over. “May I wear the sailor dress, please?”
“If that is what you want, dear, certainly.”
Robby wanted to say it was not what he wanted, but that would only make things worse.
“Step in,” Alice said as she held the panties open for him.
Reluctantly he put his feet through the openings and pulled them up under the towel. They were softer than Spiderman briefs, but the main difference was they only came half way to his waist.
Next, she eased the dress over his head. As she tied the bow in the back, Robbie realized his mistake. The skirt was flared out more than he expected. On Melody, it had come to just above her knees, but she was younger and shorter than he. On him, the skirt ended three inches below his crotch – putting his panties on display whenever he bent over. Again, he teared up.
“There is no reason to cry. You look darling and your legs are to die for.
“Now, put on your shoes and socks.”
He hadn't noticed the black patent Mary Janes on the floor. A pair of socks were folded in one. Pulling them out revealed a two inch blue lace ruffle. Once he had them on, the ruffle formed a little tutu around each ankle.
“Do I have to wear these? They make me look like a sissy!”
“Yes, Marsha spent a long time coordinating the outfit and it is meant to be worn together. Also, I prefer a sissy to a delinquent.”
Finally, Alice helped him squeeze into the MJs. They were painfully short, but she managed to buckle them. “We'll buy a pair your size later.”
Once Robby was dressed, his mother began winding strands of his auburn hair around her finger.
“These are called 'pin curls.' Pay attention because I want you to set your hair whenever it needs it. I loved them when I was your age. Maybe you will too.”
She applied setting lotion to each curl and held it flat against his scalp with bobby pins. When his hair was all pinned, she set it with her blow dryer. Brushing it out to produced a short, summer hairstyle.
Seeing himself in the mirror, Robby realized that while he did not look quite like a girl, he looked very cute. He felt a strange tingle. Slowly he realized he liked looking cute. Knowing he should not, he felt very confused and started crying again.
Alice hugged him to her breasts. They had not hugged in a long time, and it felt nice to both of them.
The whole process from retrieving Robby from the police station to brushing out his pin curls had taken about three and a half hours. Now Alice had to return to work, for she was in the middle of an important project with a tight deadline.
“Don't worry, I'll make sure he stays out of trouble. Work as late as you need to,” Marsha said as Alice started her car.
Robbie had run to Marsha's to avoid being seen by the other neighbors. To say that he felt fragile in his short sailor dress, lace top socks, Mary Janes and pin curls would be an understatement.
Melodie was waiting in the living room. “You look so pretty, Robbie.”
Robbie felt like taking a bite out of her, but when he saw her face, he realized she was sincere. The realization reinforced his secret thought that he really did look cute. He didn't want to like the compliment, but he did. “Ah … thank you.”
“Would you like to play in my room?”
Robbie was not sure what she had that he might want to play with, but he was in no position to be rude. “Ok, I guess.”
Mel's room was large enough for a bedroom set, a large doll house, and a play table with four chairs and a tea set. Arrayed on shelves was an assortment of dolls, books, Legos, and other toys.
“Since you're all dressed up, we should have a tea party.”
Robbie was not sure he wanted a tea party, but he was on his best behavior and too tired to object. “That would be lovely.” Was that me talking, he wondered.
Leading him to the table, Mel introduced two dolls already seated. “This is Katelyn, and this is Missy. Mommy just taught me to make tea, so you talk to Katelyn while Missy and I make tea.” She indicated a seat next to a large display doll in a yellow silk gown. Robbie had seen such dolls in gift shops and always thought them very pretty. But, boys ought not to think dolls are beautiful.
“Did your mother make you wear that dress, Katelyn?” Where did that come from? Only girls and crazy people talked to dolls. “I suppose Mel is your mother. Well, she picked a very pretty dress for you. Yellow silk matches your hair.”
Robbie had never talked to a doll before, but wanted to be a good playmate ... Besides, no one else was there, so what was the harm? “My dress is very plain in comparison, Katelyn.” … “Oh, you really think so? That is very kind of you to say, but I like yours much better.”
“Yes, hers is prettier, but I have a party dress you could wear if you want. It's not silk, but it's almost as pretty as Katelyn's … isn't it, Katelyn?” … “She says it is … would you like to borrow it, Robbie?”
Robbie was blushing furiously. “I was … ah … just … ah.” What was he doing? He didn't know, and he couldn't think of an excuse that made sense. “Ah, no, my dress is fine.” My dress? … is fine? Really?
“OK. I made us tea and here are some cookies,” Mel said, setting a tray on the table and placing Missy in the chair opposite Katelyn. “Would you like to be mother?”
“Mother?”
“Yes, the one who serves. Since you're older. I thought you'd like to be mother.”
“I don't know how … and you're the hostess.”
“OK, then you can be Katelyn's little sister.”
“Little sister?”
“Yes, you're dressed like you're five or six. Katelyn is dressed much older.”
“Oh,” said Robbie quietly. He was tired and the fight had gone out of him.
After tea, they got on the floor with Katelyn and Missy to play with the doll house. Soon Robbie was asleep.
He woke as the sun was setting. Someone had given him a pillow and put a quilt over him. A doll in a yellow silk dress was nestled in the crook of his arm. He couldn't recall how he'd come to have her or be sleeping on the floor of a girl's room. Then he saw the edge of his sailor dress and the whole horrid day came back to him.
He and Katelyn were alone. He felt a strange affinity with her. “Do you like looking pretty as well? You know neither of us are real girls, don't you, Katelyn?” … “Yes, I know you don't have to be a real girl to be pretty, but boys aren't as smart as you, Katelyn. Maybe that's why Mel made you the big sister.” He kissed her on the forehead and put her in her chair.
The Broadbent home had the same floor plan as his. So, he had no trouble finding the toilet. He wanted to pee standing up, but there was no fly in his panties, and he was worried about getting his skirt wet, so he sat. It seemed the right thing to do.
Marsha and Mel were cooking dinner. Robby offered to help. He was given an ruffled apron, and asked to make pudding. He had no idea how, but Mel showed him. It might have been from a box, but it tasted wonderful and Robby felt a sense of accomplishment.
When he sat to eat, Marsha showed him how to brush his skirt under so it didn't get wrinkled. Later Mel whispered that she could see his panties, and he learned to sit with his legs together.
Alice came to pick him up about 8:00.
“Hi, mommy. Did you finish your project?”
“Yes, I did. Thank you for asking dear.”
“Did Robbie behave?”
“Yes, she did. She and Melodie played tea party and dolls, then she fell asleep. When she woke up, she helped by making a delicious pudding for dessert.”
Robbie was unused to being a “she,” but was in no position to complain.
“I am relieved Robbie caused no further problems.”
“She didn't. I'll be home about 12:30 tomorrow. She can come over then.”
“Thank you.
“Robbie, we need to hurry to get you shoes before the stores close.”
His feet ached from a day in MJs at least a size too small. So, the idea of right-sized shoes was very welcome. He became frightened when he realized he might be shopping in his sailor dress and tutu socks. His fear grew as they walked to Alice's car, rather than the house.
“Mommy, can't I change into boy clothes first? I can't run away with you next to me.”
“It's already late and I want to get to the mall before the stores close. Besides, your boy things are all packed away in a safe place.”
“I look like a sissy.”
“How else should a boy that plays tea party and dolls with little girls look?” Alice was still angry, but regretted saying it as soon as the words left her mouth. “I should not have said that. Boys can play dolls if they like. I can even get you one of your own if you behave. Would you like that?”
Robbie was trying to figure out which was worse – his mother thinking he was a sissy or her buying him a doll. So, he said, “I don't know” – not in answer to her question, but in talking to himself. That is not how his mother took it.
It took Alice forty-five minutes to get to the Easton Mall – where they'd be unlikely to meet anyone they knew. As she drove, she decided to see how interested in dolls Robbie was. After her bad start, she decided to ease into it.
“So, did Mel tease you?”
“Well, she said I looked pretty. I was getting mad, but then I saw she meant it, so I said 'Thank you.'”
“I am proud of you – and she's right you do look pretty.”
“Boys shouldn't look pretty.”
“There is no 'should' to it, dear. Some boys look pretty and some don't – it's just how God made them. You're one of the ones who look pretty.”
“Oh.”
“So, was she nice after that?”
“Yeah, she invited me to play with her in her room. She has lots of stuff – dolls, a huge doll house her dad made – even Legos.”
“So, what did you play?”
“Well, her mom taught her how to make tea so she wanted to have a tea party with Katelyn, Missy and me.”
“Katelyn and Missy? Are they friends of hers?”
“Naw, they're dolls. Katelyn is the kind they have in gift shops. She has a real pretty yellow silk dress and lots of lace. Missy is an American Girl doll. I think she's Mel's favorite cuz she took her to make tea while I talked to Katelyn.”
Alice was surprised that Robbie noticed gift shop dolls and even more that he talked to them. “It must have been nice to sit next to someone so pretty. What did you two talk about?”
“She's just a doll, mommy – but we did pretend talk about how pretty our dresses were. Of course, hers was the prettiest”
“There's no harm in talking to dolls. I did it when I was your age. So, then what?”
“Well, Mel wanted to rearrange the furniture in her doll house and I guess I fell asleep on the floor.”
“And then you helped with dinner when you woke up?”
“Yeah, I thought I should help. I got to make pudding. It was fun. I could make some for us sometime.”
“That would be lovely, dear.”
It was 8:50 when they arrived. The mall was open till 10:00. So there was plenty of time, but Robby was scared again and did not want to get out of the car.
“Can't I just stay in the car? Please, mommy,” he begged. “Everyone will think I'm a boy in a dress.”
“You are a boy in a dress, but no one will know unless you tell them. Plenty of girls your age are Tom boys. Anyway, you can't stay in the car. I don't know your size in girl's shoes, so you need to try them on. I could put lipstick on you to make you look more like a girl.”
“I look enough like a girl already, thanks.”
“If you look enough like a girl, there's no reason not to come in. Hold my hand.”
Holding Alice's hand made Robbie feel better. When they got to Payless, she sat him down and measured his foot.
“I want to find you in this chair when I come back.”
Once he was alone, Robbie started feeling anxious. A girl in shorts and a baseball Cardinals' tee came over and sat next to him. She looked about Mel's age
“Did your mom make you wear that outfit?”
“Yes, she did.”
“I thought so! Your hair and the way you walk tells me your a Tom boy like me. No sane girl would ever pick that outfit. Am I right?”
“Yeah. I hate lace and skirts. I wish I was dressed like you.”
“You got to stick up for yourself girl! Tell your mom you don't want to look like a six year old. I'm Sandy by the way. You?”
“Robbie.”
“Nice to meet you Robbie,” she bubbled as she shook his hand.
“So, is she trying to femme you up?”
“Well, I was grounded, left the house and got in trouble with the cops. So she dressed me like this to keep me home.”
“I can see that. It's kind of embarrassing, ain't it?”
“Yeah, these socks look like little tutus.”
“Yeah, freaky. … did you get a training bra yet? All my friends have them, so I got my mom to buy me some,” she said, quickly pulling up her tee to give him a peek.
“Oh! … I don't have any.”
“Well pester her until she gets you some. You'll feel a lot older. I do. … I see her coming back. Nice talking. Bye,” and she was off.
“Did you have a nice chat with that girl? Did she think you were a boy in a dress?”
“Yeah, she was nice. She thought I was a Tom boy and said I should ask for a training bra.”
“Would you like one?”
“No! No! It was just what she said.” Robbie was turning beat red.
“I finally found Mary Janes in your size. They didn't have black – we can get you a black pair in the fall. Let's see how these white ones fit. … Walk to the end of the aisle and back. …
“Well?”
“They fit okay, but I really don't want girl's shoes.”
“And I don't want you leaving the house when your grounded. … Now take off your MJs and try these sandals. They're the same size, so they should fit. They'll be more comfortable when it gets hot.” The sandals were also white, with a one-inch cork wedge sole and a bow on the toe.
“Couldn't I have plain flat ones?”
“And pretend they were boys' when you sneak out? I think not! Put your new MJs back on, and I'll pay for everything.”
As they checked out, Alice saw shoulder bags on sale. “Dresses don't have pockets. You can carry your things in this,” she said, handing Robbie a white purse.
“I skipped dinner, let's get something at the food court. Do you want anything?”
“I'm not hungry.” Truth be told, he was almost nauseous being in public dressed as he was and carrying a purse.
“Then, here's $10. Put it in your purse. Buy me a lamb gyro and a diet root beer while I rest my feet.”
“Mommy, please?” he pleaded.
“You look fine. Even another girl thought you were a girl.”
“Yeah, but she also thought I was dressed like a six year old.”
“You chose your outfit. Tomorrow you can try all your new things and choose something you like better.”
Robbie suffered no further embarrassment, but still felt like a complete sissy opening his purse to pay for his mother's dinner.
Alice wanted to talk more on the way home, but he fell asleep.
Since he'd napped the day before, Robbie woke before his mother. By the time he was on the toilet, he was awake enough to realize he was wearing blue cotton baby dolls he didn't remember putting on. As he washed, he saw that his pin curls were crushed. They sprang into shape after a little brushing. Pulling a curl out and watching it spring back was a new experience. It was almost as if his hair was alive.
Determined not to repeat yesterday's mistake of dressing like a six year old, Robbie tried all the dresses and skirts in his closet. Each time, he looked in the mirror, primping his hair and turning this way and that. When he realized what he was doing, he was embarrassed, but not enough to stop. He finally narrowed the choice to the floral sundress his mother had laid out yesterday and a jean skirt with a white ruffle. The sundress was longer, but its floral print was just too girlie.
The skirt needed a top. His male teeshirts were gone. Power Puff Girls, Disney Princess, and My Little Pony graphic tees were too much, so he chose a white blouse with puff sleeves and a Peter Pan collar – though he knew neither of those terms. Plain white ankle socks and his new MJs completed the outfit.
When he finished, he did a little spin. It was fun to make his skirt flare. He stared at the mirror. … The jean skirt and white blouse made him look his age. … His mother was right – some boys were pretty and he was one of them. As long as no one teased him, being pretty wasn't so bad. Yesterday, two girls had been nice, and no one teased him – maybe dresses would be OK – at least for a while.
Robbie heard his mother showering. So he went to the kitchen, determined to make up for some of the trouble he'd caused. He put on an apron, washed yesterday's dishes and mixed a batch of pancake batter.
“How many pancakes, mommy?”
“Who are you and what have you done with Robbie?”
“I'm the Wicked Witch of the West and I turned him into a girl – hehe,” he said is his best wicked witch voice. “Now answer quick – before Dorothy throws water on me and I start meltingggggg… ”, he said wriggling down toward the floor.
“Hehe – I'll have two, please.” Alice gave Robbie a hug and kiss that made him feel loved and forgiven.
“That's a nice outfit. You look very pretty this morning, Ms. Wicked.”
“Thank you. You do too. Turquoise is a good color for you, mommy.”
“Thank you.” Alice thought how much more pleasant the new Robbie was.
After breakfast, they hugged and kissed good bye. “Remember to go over to Marsha's at 12:30 … and eat lunch first. I don't want her thinking she has to feed you.”
“I will mommy. Bye.”
“That's a good girl. Bye.” As she was driving off, Alice realized she'd said “good girl” instead of “good boy,” but it was too late.
Robbie had a lot to make up for. He worked until 11:00 making beds, straightening, and vacuuming. The house looked noticeably better. Again, he felt proud of himself. It was a good feeling.
He played on his tablet, but his standard games bored him. Looking for something new, he found a lot of dress-up games. One had both boy and girl models, and you could put the girl's clothes on the boy. He gave the boy auburn hair and blue eyes like his own. Sadly, the game had no pin curls. Still, he enjoyed dressing the boy so much that he lost track of time.
He realized it was late when his stomach growled. He wolfed down a PB&J sandwich – not a very ladylike way to eat, he thought. It was 12:35 when he knocked on Marsha's back door.
“You look more grown up today, Robbie.”
“Thank you. You look very sweet in your sundress and matching bow, Mel.”
“Thank you.”
“Did you eat yet?” asked Marsha.
“I did, thank you. Why don't you eat with Mel? I'll wash the soup pan and breakfast dishes. I want to show how much I appreciate you helping my mother.”
“You don't have to do that, dear.”
“I know, but I'd feel better if I did. I've been a lot of trouble lately.”
“OK, if you insist. I'll never be one to turn down free help.”
After lunch, Robbie and Mel played with Katelyn and Missy. Later, he joined Mel as Marsha taught her to sew. He learned to thread the machine and sew straight lines. By the end of the week both he and Mel had made simple skirts for Katelyn and Missy.
After wearing his skirt and blouse outfit two days, Alice insisted it be washed and Robbie wear something else. As the sundress was his second choice, he wore it with his wedge sandals. The heels were not high, so he soon got used to them. He even liked being a bit taller.
Since nothing bad had happened, he'd become less self-conscious about wearing skirts. They were cooler and more comfortable than pants, so he was starting to prefer them. Something else felt good about skirts, but he could not quite put his finger on it.
Robbie's next shock came Saturday, when his mother told him she needed to buy him a Sunday dress for church.
“I can't wear a dress to church!”
“I don't see why not.”
“Because people will see me and call me names – maybe beat me up.”
“No one did any such thing at the mall.”
“No one knew me there.”
“And no one knows you at St. Joan's in Easton. That's where we're going.”
“Can't I be a boy when I'm with you? It's not like I'm going to run away.”
“You're a boy all the time – but you behave better dressed as a girl. You never helped with dinner, cleaned the house, or even talked to me much before you started wearing dresses. Now you're a perfect angel. Besides, I know you like being pretty. You do like looking pretty don't you?”
“No!”
“There's no use lying. I've seen you looking in the mirror – swinging your skirts and playing with your curls.”
Robbie couldn't talk. Instead, tears rolled down his cheeks.
Alice held him close. “It's ok. Some boys have a lot of girl inside. You are one and I love that about you. So, there is no need to cry.”
“But I don't want to be a sissy!”
“Why not?”
“Because no one likes sissies.”
“Well, Mel likes you, and that girl at Payless was friendly enough.”
“She didn't know I'm a boy.”
“No one needs to know unless you let them.”
“My friends will know.”
“Oh? And who are these so-called friends? That Ralph Dyer who got you arrested twice?”
“I don't know,” he sniffled
“Now tell the truth. OK?”
“OK.”
“Do you like being pretty?”
“Yes,” he said in a very small voice.
“And do you like wearing skirts and dresses?”
“Yes.”
“So why can't your mother buy you a beautiful dress and show off how pretty you are?”
“Boys aren't supposed to like wearing dresses.”
“Well, I don't see why not. Girls wear pants. So, boys can wear dresses if they like.”
“I guess.”
“Good. Now go wash your face and brush your hair so mommy can buy you a fab dress.”
The next day a new girl was in the communion line at St. Joan's. She wore a cream dress and white Mary Janes. Her green waist band was a striking contrast to her auburn curls. Just visible through her bodice was a lace training bra. Several people commented on how radiant she looked.
I
I was born in 1969, and my mom was, well, a hippy. She had no idea who my dad was, so neither do I. When I was 5 she inherited some money and opened a small shop that sold soap, candles, incense, essential oils, and, if she knew you, pot and LSD. She never gave me any pot, but I’m sure I was often high from second hand smoke. I had no siblings, because mom decided that she liked women better than men, and eventually settled down with Ella, who’d been her shop assistant. Now mom is the breadwinner and Ella the homemaker and my second mom.
Ella is sweet and loving, but has weird ideas. While mom’s Catholic, Ella’s sort of Buddhist. So we went from not eating meat on Friday to not eating meat at all. I ate peas, beans, lintils and tofu until they came out of my ears. Also, they both believe that essential oils have mystic powers. I was bathed in, and anointed with, a variety of oils for reasons that weren’t explained. I didn’t mind the process, but the result was that I was often teased for smelling like a girl. I was also teased for wearing big, floppy hats because Ella didn’t want my skin exposed to the sun.
As a result, I was a small, fair-skinned 10 year old. Mom and Ella believed in long hair for boys, so mine came almost to my shoulders. Still, I was as much of a boy as I could be. I built models, explored with my bike and played baseball. I was a fair hitter and a decent shortstop. If the ball was hit to me, I could throw for an out most of the time.
One morning I woke with sore breasts. Unbuttoning my pajamas, I saw that my nipples were red and puffy. I’d seen an old jar of breast cream in the bathroom cabinet, so I rubbed a little on. It was soothing. “Problem solved,” I thought. A few days latter, my breasts were irritated again, and, again, the breast cream helped. Soon, applying breast cream became part of my morning routine.
A while later, I was putting on my Star Wars tee after school, and noticed it was tight across my chest. I would have changed, but it was one of my favorites. When I went down for my milk and cookies, Ella did a doubletake.
“Take off your tee shirt, sweetie.”
“I know it’s tight, but I still want to wear it.”
“It’s not that it’s tight, it’s why it’s tight that concerns me.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Now take it off, dear, so I can see.”
I thought, “No big deal,” so I did.
Ella looked at my chest, squeezed a little, which hurt, and said, “Your blossoming, sweetie.”
“Blossoming?”
“Yes, developing breasts, just like any girl your age.”
I felt my breasts and looked closely. It was obvious now that she’d mentioned it. I’d never seen breasts like mine on a boy, but I’d seen them on my cousin Faye when she’d visited two summers before and changed in front of me. I broke out in a cold sweat and started to feel faint. Ella guided me into a chair.
I had a million questions, but no words formed. Instead, my mouth opened and closed, like a fish gasping for air.
“Don’t worry sweetie, I’m sure we can straighten this out.”
I wasn’t so sure.
Ella called mom at the store and then made an appointment with Dr. Gail, my pediatrician.
Dr. Gail poked, prodded and took blood. Two days latter she saw mom, Ella and me. “Well, Raymond, you have an acute case of gynecomastia.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a technical term meaning ‘women’s breasts’.”
“Not to be smart, or anything, but I already knew that – or that I have girl’s breasts anyway.”
“Yes, medical terms are designed to be impressive, but really, the name hides the fact that we don’t know why some boys develop girl’s breasts when they go through puberty. I mean we know its caused by a hormone imbalance, but we don’t know what causes that. You have too much estrogen, which is the hormone that makes young girls develop into women. The good news is that breasts on boys usually go away in two years, maybe three in a case like yours.”
“So, I’m becoming a woman!?”
“No, not really. It should all go away in the same two or three years at the latest. I know when you’re 10½ that seems like forever, but really, its not a very long time.”
I was going to make a rude remark, but I held my tongue. “What am I supposed to do till then?”
“Well, it may seem strange to you, but wear a bra. You should already be wearing a training bra to stop your nipples from being irritated, and, at the rate you’re blossoming, you’ll probably need one for support soon.”
Tears started pouring down my cheeks. “Everyone will laugh at me.”
“Not if they think you are a girl.”
“Well, they don’t!”
“Perhaps that can be remedied. … Why don’t you sit in the waiting room while I talk to your mother and Ella?”
That was the last time I saw Dr. Gail.
On the way home I sat in the car with Ella as mom went into Target to buy me some bras. She came back with a large shopping bag that she put in the trunk.
“You bought more me than bras, didn’t you?”
“Yes, Ray.”
“Girl’s clothes?”
“Nothing awful. I’ll explain when we get home.”
I had a bad feeling.
When we got home, mom wanted me to play, but I sat on the sofa refusing to move until she showed me what she bought.
“Well, Raye, you heard Dr. Gail say it would be less embarrassing to wear a bra if people thought you were a girl.”
“Yes, it was a dumb idea!”
Mom was getting frustrated with my attitude. “What’s you’re idea, young lady? … Pretend you’re just a boy who likes to wear bras?”
“I am a boy! … and I don’t want to wear bras at all!”
“Well, your body hasn’t given you a choice … has it? … So, why don’t we start there.” She reached into the bag and handed me a plain white training bra. “Here, put this on, then, tell me what your idea is.”
“I don’t know how.”
“There are two ways. Ella, show her.”
“I’m not a her!”
“That remains to be seen.”
Reluctantly, I let Ella help me into my bra. “My bra,” I thought, my emotions confused.
“Now,” mom said, “put your shirt back on and go look in the mirror.”
I did, and came back in more tears. “I look like a girl!”
“Exactly. Now you understand the problem. … So, What is your solution, Raye? … Do you want people to see you as a boy that dresses like a girl or a girl that dresses like a girl?”
“But, I don’t want to dress like a girl!” I sobbed.
“I know, dear … but unless you want to have surgery, there’s not a lot of choice – and I wouldn’t approve surgery for a temporary problem anyway. … So, what’s your solution?”
“Well, if I dress like a girl, everyone will laugh because they know I’m a boy.”
“If they knew you were a boy … but what if they didn’t know you were a boy?”
“How wouldn’t they know?”
“What if you went to stay with your Aunt Mary? No one but she would know you were a boy. Then, when your breasts got back to normal, you could come home.”
“I’d miss you and Ella,” I sniffled.
“Its not that far. We’d come and visit.” I could see that they’d miss me too.
“But, I don’t want to be a sissy,” I whined.
“You could be a tomboy instead.”
“A tomboy?”
“It’s the opposite of a sissy – a girl that acts like a boy.”
“So, I could act like a boy?”
“Mostly, yes. You could still ride your bike, play baseball and do lots of other things boys do.”
“That might not be so bad.”
“That’s what I thought. That is why I got you the kind of clothes a tomboy might like.”
“Like what?”
“Well, shorts, jeans and shortalls instead of skirts or dresses, and tops that are pretty much like shirts.”
“May I see?”
“Of course.”
I looked over what she’d bought. The clothes were pretty boyish for girls’ things – plain with no frills or lace. At the bottom of the bag were two packages of panties. They were white cotton, but still, they were panties.
“Panties!”
“Well, you didn’t expect to wear jockeys did you? If anyone saw the elastic, they’d know you were a boy for sure. … Right?”
“I guess. Did you buy me high heels as well?”
“No, sneakers are fine for a tomboy. … Now, you choose what you want to wear, try it on and let Ella and me see how it fits.”
I chose jeans and a tee that was very like mine, except the sleeves were a bit shorter. I started going to my room, when mom said, “Don’t forget your panties.” I blushed, but accepted a package.
It did not take long to change. It felt strange to wear a bra and panties, but except for my chest, I looked like a boy – a tomboy. I was glad not to look like a sissy. I stared into the mirror, imagining what I’d look like in a frilly dress and lipstick. Picturing it made me feel funny. Not good or bad, just funny. I realized that if people thought I was a girl, no one would mind if I wore a dress or lipstick, or even painted my nails. It was like a whole pile of rules just had disappeared.
When mom and Ella saw me, they told me how nice I looked, and pointed out that I was dressed very much like I dressed as a boy. Ella brushed my hair this way and that, then took me into the kitchen for a trim that gave me bangs. That scared me, but the result was hair that was still OK for a boy.
Mom called her sister Mary and talked to her for a long time in her room. When she came out, she said auntie needed time to get ready for me, so it would be a while before I went to stay with her. Meanwhile, I could get used to my new clothes and “smooth some of my rough edges.” After that they let me play for the rest of the day.
Mom sent a note to school saying I was moving and asking for my records. That let me stay home as I got used to my new self. I stayed inside and wore a different outfit each day. Ella gave me quiet encouragement and reminded me to keep my knees together when sitting. She also taught me to curtsy when introduced instead of shaking hands.
I wore the shortalls last – not because they were any more frilly, but because they made me look like I was 7 or 8. When I mentioned that to Ella, she said that how old a girl looked depended on what she wore.
“I could make you look 12 or 13, if you’d let me.”
“Really?”
“Yes! Want to see?”
“OK.”
“You’ll have to wear the things I get. … Not just once, but regularly, with your other things.”
“OK,” I said, thinking, “How bad can it be to wear things that’ll make me look older?”
“OK, let’s go shopping.”
“What!? Go out in girls’ clothes?”
“Why not, your going to have to do it some time.”
“Yeah, but not around here!”
“We’ll go to Westwood. Don’t be a sissy!”
It was a strange challenge to my manhood, but at 10½ it almost made sense. At any rate, I agreed. Ella put a blue bow in my hair that made me look even younger.
“Why do I need to wear a stupid bow?”
“It’s a distraction, sweetie. It makes you look younger. If the sales lady is thinking about your age, she’s not going to be thinking about whether you’re a boy.”
“Oh.”
Ella drove us to the Macy’s at the Westwood Mall. We took the escalator to women’s wear.
“We’ve been invited to a formal dinner, and I think it’s time my 11 year old starts looking looking more like a young lady,” Ella said to one of the sales girls.
“She’s 11? She looks 8 at most.”
“It’s how she likes to dress. I want to show her the advantage of dressing her age.”
“I see. Well, we have these mother and daughter outfits.”
“They’re nice, but I already have my dress. We’ll have more selection if we just shop for Raye.”
“Of course! We have a fine collection in teen miss – below that sign,” she said, indicating. “Call me when you’re ready to try something. I’m Margret.”
Ella began picking what seemed to be random dresses and holding them against me. I thought a tomboy shouldn’t be happy dress shopping, but I’d promised to give her a chance to make me look older, and didn’t want to be a sissy about it. So I stood patiently, trying not to be embarrassed. After a while, she asked me how I liked one of the dresses. It was purple, and I don’t like purple, so I told her so. The next dress had roses printed all over it. I didn’t want to look that girly – though I thought it’s kind of silly to worry how girly I’d look if I was wearing a dress any way.
Eventually, I looked at the rack and saw a beautiful blue color I liked. I pulled the dress out a little to see it better.
“Do you like that one?”
“Well, I like the color.”
Ella picked it off the rack along with two others she’d selected, and waved to Margret. “Now comes the fun part. Let’s try these on.”
Margret led us to the changing rooms, where Ella helped me. She had me begin by trying the two dresses she’d picked. Trying on dresses made me feel all shivery. They were unlike anything I’d worn, and it was strange to watch the skirts swaying and feel them brushing my legs. I felt like a complete sissy, but no one seemed to mind. Instead, Ella smiled and said how good I looked in each one. When I looked in the mirror, it was like I was different – not just dressed different, but a different person.
The two she’d picked looked nice and fit well, but I liked mine better. It wasn’t just the color, I also liked the smooth, soft material. Ella said it was a knit and the style was a “princess dress.” I liked it despite the name. Ella saw me smile as I looked down at it, but when I looked in the mirror, my smile faded – the top was way loose. I mean you needed even bigger boobs than I had to wear it. (I know now that I didn’t have big boobs, but they sure seemed big then.)
“Oh, sweetie, don’t frown. You like this one don’t you?”
Nodding, I admitted that I did. “But it doesn’t fit right,” I said, pinching the loose bodice.
“Oh, that’s no problem. Women have to deal with that all the time.” Ella went out and whispered something to Margret. In a minute, Margret came back and handed some things to Ella. Soon, I was out of the dress, and out of my training bra. Ella put a lacy blue bra on me.
“Ella, this is as loose as the dress,” I said, pulling at the empty cups.
“Not for long!” She put a little pad in each cup, filling them. “These are called ‘falsies,’ and are a young girl’s best friend.”
Now the dress looked perfect. I couldn’t help but smile at how good it looked on me – and my new boobs made me look at least 12. I turned a little, swinging the skirt back and forth – feeling it brush my legs.
“You like?” Ella asked
“Yes, but I shouldn’t.”
“Why not?” she said with some emphasis.
“Because I’m a boy,” I whispered, starting to choke up.
“Well, you were and will be again, but God’s made you a girl for now, so you might as well enjoy it!”
“You think?”
“Yes, sweetie!” She hugged me. I felt better.
“You like looking older?”
“Yes!”
Ella paid Margret and let me downstairs, still in my new bra and dress.
“12-year-olds can wear kitten heels. Let’s get you some.”
We went to the shoe department.
“If you had lots of shoes, I’d get you blue to match your dress, but as this will be your only pair of heels, we’ll get black.”
We walked around looking at the shoes, with Ella telling me about the different kinds and when to wear them. It was much more complicated that boys’ shoes. Since summer was coming, I left wearing strappy sandals with a kitten heel and carrying ballet flats and pantyhose. I liked being taller, and almost asked for higher heels, but the boy in me rebelled.
I thought we were done, but instead we stopped at the cosmetic counter, and Ella had the girl make up my face. We left with pink lipstick, blush, mascara, and eyeshadow in a complementary case. Ella also gave me A Girl’s Guide to Makeup. It all went into a new shoulder bag.
Instead of going home, Ella drove us to mom’s candle shop. When mom saw me, she said “Raye, you're beautiful!” and hugged me tighter than she ever had. I realized then that there was a difference between a loved son and a loved daughter. I enjoyed the affection, but it left me confused.
Mom closed the shop and took us to our favorite trattoria. (For reasons I never understood, Ella has no Buddhist objections to clam linguine.) I was thinking how wearing a dress seemed to make me different inside as well as changing how mom felt about me. So, I forgot that the restaurant folks knew us. When the hostess saw us, stopped for a second, then smiled broadly and said, “My, what a lovely young lady you have with you tonight.” I knew she recognized me as the boy that usually came in with mom and Ella, but she treated me with courtesy and kindness.
How she treated me made me realize that not everyone thought it was horrid for boys to dress like girls. Being a sissy might be no more wrong than being black. Bullies just like picking on other people. So, I relaxed and enjoyed dinner with my two mothers in my new dress.
The next day was Saturday, and I had a baseball game. Ella wrapped my boobs with an elastic bandage, which was uncomfortable, and I dressed in my uniform. I knew this would be my last game with the team, so I tried my best. I managed two base hits and threw for three outs. Then, I said goodbye to my friends. I lied and told them I was going to live with my dad for a while.
When I got home from the game, I traded my bandage for a bra and felt immediate relief. At the same time, the game made me realize how much I’d miss being a boy among boys. “What would my friends think of me if they saw me in my bra and panties?” I cried quietly, not knowing how I felt. After a while, I pulled myself together and finished dressing. This would be my last day at home.
After a snack, Ella said that now that I was done with my last male activity, I needed some “finishing touches” She began by taking me to the bathroom for “a set.”
.
“I don’t want a perm!”
“A set isn’t a perm, sweetie. Sets go away when you wash your hair. Perm’s don’t. I’m going to show you how to do a set. Every girl your age should know how.”
I was going to say I wasn’t a girl my age, but I kind of was. So, I let her do it. She showed me how to put my hair on rollers and apply setting gel a couple of times, then had me do the rest. I ended up looking like Shirley Temple – my head a mass of short curls. No boy would wear his hair like that, so I wondered if I was still a tomboy.
After lunch, Ella told me she’d bought me a present so I’d remember that she loved me – zircon studs that matched my blue eyes. She got a needle, alcohol and ice, and pierced my ears. I was not happy to have my ears pierced, but the studs were a sign of love. So, I had confused feelings about them. When I looked in the mirror, all I saw was a pretty girl.
I spent the afternoon packing. Ella said some of my boy clothes were OK for a tomboy. Taking them made me feel better. On the other hand, packing bras and panties was weird. So was packing the cosmetics.
When mom came home, she complemented me on my curls and studs, and said no one could mistake me for a boy wearing a bra now. Still, she knew that I was not ready to be a girly girl. Her going away present was four models I could build at Aunt Mary’s. I hugged her hard for remembering I was still a boy. She wanted to take us out for dinner, but I fell asleep before we left.
It was 5:30 AM and mom was shaking me.
“Wake up, we’re going to 6:30 Mass before we take off for Mary’s. Wear your dress and flats or heels – which ever you want. … And, don’t forget to cover your head with a shower cap so your curls don’t wash out.”
When I was awake enough to notice, I saw I was wearing a babydoll set with a matching bonnet covering my curls. I didn’t remember putting any of it on.
My boobies were sore again, so I rubbed on some breast cream and put the jar in my suitcase. Once I was dressed we put my things in the car. We went to Mass at a different parish, ate breakfast at a diner, and hit the road. I slept until we exited the interstate about 2 hours later. Mom drove another hour on two lane highways to reach Springfield, where my aunt lived.
Springfield is a small county seat, built around a town square. At one end is a courthouse and at the other is the town hall. The other two sides have shops, a community church, lawyers’ offices and a small hotel. The square has huge trees, benches, a bandstand and a small play area. Auntie’s house is a couple of blocks over on a quiet street. It’s two stories, white with clapboard siding, a veranda on three sides and a cupola on top. It’s shaded with large trees, and decorated with flowers in front.
We arrived about 11:00 and parked in the back. Auntie was in the kitchen, just putting lunch in the oven. She’s a couple of years older than mom, a little heavier, but with the same blue eyes, reddish brown hair and thin lips that marked our branch of the O’Connor family.
“Hello Susan, Ella, and … Ray – my, aren’t you something!” she said, looking at me with a great deal of interest. “I’ve made sun tea. Would you like some?”
We all said we would (though I had no idea what sun tea was) and sat for a chat. We talked about family and what was happening in our lives when the conversation turned to me.
“Well, Ray, Susan said you have a little problem. May I see?”
Needless to say, I wasn't ready to show my budding breasts to my aunt.
“Don’t be shy now. If you’re to be living with me, I expect that I will be seeing a lot more of you than your tits, dear.”
By now I was red as a beet. Still, I let my mom unzip the back of my dress, unhook my bra, and pull the cups up.
“Oh, my! I see what you mean, Susan. She’s more developed than either of us were at her age. I’ll have to admit – I had my doubts about dressing Ray as a girl, but now I agree – there’s not much choice in the matter.”
Meanwhile, mom was covering my modesty. “I told you, Mary,” she said slightly peeved at being doubted.
“So, the pediatrician said they’d go away in time?”
“Yes, in two years, three at the outside.”
“Well, Raye, it looks like you’re going to be staying with me as my niece for a while. … You can stay in your mom’s old room. I’ll show you.”
We went up stairs to look at one of the front bedrooms. It had a fourposter bed with a handmade quilt, a dressing table, bureau and a small desk. Aunt Mary had boxed mom’s old clothes, but the rest of the room was as mom had left it. Posters of the Beatles and other bands I didn’t recognize decorated one wall and a doll in an elaborate dress sat on the bureau.
“Oh, there’s Rachel,” mom said, picking up the doll. “I was going to name you after her if you were a girl. I guess I still did in a way, calling you 'Ray.'”
I wasn’t sure how I felt learning I was named after a doll, but that was small potatoes compared to standing there in a dress.
We brought my stuff up from the car, and then had lunch. After lunch, there we hugs and kisses all round. Mom and Ella told me to obey auntie and be as helpful as possible. Once they left, I started washing up as Auntie put away the left overs.
“Don’t you have some jeans or shorts dear?”
“I do auntie.”
“Well, then go change. There’s no point in wearing your Sunday best to do housework … off you go.”
I put on jeans, a tee and sneakers. I didn’t feel like wearing a bra, so I didn’t.
“Raye, dear, I know you’re not used to having boobies, but it’s immodest to go braless. I expect you to wear proper underwear everyday. Understand?”
“Yes. Auntie.” I went up and put on a training bra.
When I got down again, Auntie had finished cleaning up. “I appreciate how you tried to help, and in the future, I expect that you’ll do your share. I want to say a few things about what I expect of you.” She explained the house rules, which were much what I expected. The only new thing was that I shouldn’t show my “boy lump” (as I apparently was) when dressed. I was to tuck myself back. If necessary, she’d get me a girdle to help have a flat front. After “fixing” myself, I was sent out to play.
I was shy about exploring the town, so I poked around behind Auntie’s house. Beyond her yard was wood with a small stream. I was watching polliwogs in pool when I heard someone behind me. It was a girl about my age, but a bit taller than me.
“Hi! I’m Joanne Becket. You can call me Jo. I saw you coming out of Miss O’Connor’s house. I live next door, so I thought I’d say hello.” She extended her hand, helping me up from the edge of the pool.
“I’m Raye, her ne… niece. I’m going to be staying with her for a while.”
“Really!? That’s great. This town is full of old folks. There aren’t many girls our age. I hope we’ll be special friends.”
I hadn’t thought that dressing as a girl meant I’d have girls for friends, so the idea was a surprise. The fact was, while I played with a lot of boys back home, none were special friends. “I suppose so. It might be nice.”
She smiled at me. “Want to see my room?”
I didn’t, but it’d be friendly to say I did. “Sure, I’d love to.”
Jo’s house was well-kept, but newer and smaller than auntie’s. It was a one story brick, with a covered porch across the front. When you went in the front, the parlor, as she called it, was on the left, while a door opened onto her room on the right.
“Hi Jo, who’s your new friend?”
“This is Raye, Miss O’Connor’s niece. She’s staying with her.”
“Hello, Raye, I’m Bea Becket, Jo’s mother.”
“I’m glad to meet you Mrs. Becket” I said, shaking her hand more vigorously than a girl would.
She looked at me for a second, but decided to ignore my faux pas. “Well, have fun.”
Jo pulled me into her room. It was much more feminine than my mom’s old room (mine now). The furniture was white and her bed had a pink and white floral quilt. There was also a large play area with a doll house on one side and a play table set for tea in the center. Around it, two large dolls were sitting in chairs.
Jo looked at me, expectantly. I knew a compliment was called for, and thought what Ella would say. “That’s a lovely dollhouse, and your tea set and dolls are beautiful.” It was all true and sincere, if not what Ray the boy would have said. I picked up a unicorn and was impressed by the modeling detail. “I like your unicorn too!”
“His name is Wonder Star. Aster is the in the pink party dress and of course the doll in the blue gingham is Dorothy. ... I’m so glad you like my things. … This is Becky,” she said taking a small doll from a dollhouse bedroom. She’s having a baby soon, so my dad made nursery furniture for my birthday.”
I looked at the crib and was impressed by her dad’s modeling skill.
“Now we have to make a nursery for the new baby. I thought this’d be a good room. What do you think?”
“Where’s the parents’ room?”
“Here.”
“Well, I think it’d be good if the nursery was near it, don’t you? Like maybe in this room?”
“That’s Linda’s room. She’s the big sister. She might get upset, but I think you’re right.”
Soon we were rearranging the furniture in the dollhouse. As we got into it, I started having a good time, not even thinking I was playing dolls. It was kind of like playing soldiers, only without the shooting. Anyway, I was surprised when Mrs. Becket said it was getting late and my aunt would be wondering where I was. I was even more surprised when Jo kissed me on the cheek, but I remembered that’s what girls did, so I gave her one back, which made me feel like a complete sissy.
Auntie made a supper of hot dogs and beans. After washing up, we watched TV, but I fell asleep. Auntie woke me to brush my teeth and change into a nitie.
The alarm when off at 7:00. My breasts were tender, so I used a little breast cream before getting dressed. Auntie had milk and cereal on the table.
“Do you drink coffee, Raye?”
“Not yet, auntie. Ella says I’m too young.”
“Well, I started at your age, so if you want to try it, let me know.”
“It smells good, but not today auntie.”
“OK. … Today I’m taking you over to the school to register you, and then showing you how to get to my shop after school. I usually keep the shop open from 10:00 to 5:00, so I expect you to come there after school.”
“OK, auntie. … Do they know I’m a boy?”
“I have no intention of telling them what’s in your panties. I’ve added an ‘e’ after ‘Ray’ on your transcript, and erased the ‘x’ from the ‘male’ box and typed one in the ‘female’ box. Since no one undresses for physical education, there’s no reason for them know your gender. Most of the staff are gossips – which is another reason for them not to know. Anyway, in no time at all I’ll be sending you home as a boy.”
“Thank you, auntie.” I was glad to hear she shared my goals.
“Do you have a school dress, or a skirt and blouse you can wear?”
“The only dress I have is the one I wore yesterday. Ella bough me jeans to wear to school.”
“Well, the school here does not allow girls to wear pants, so your dress will have to do for today. Later we’ll sew you something more suitable.”
After cleaning up breakfast, we walked to her shop. The sign read “Mary’s Fabrics – Sewing Machines – Seamstress on Staff.” It was on the side of the square nearest her house, sandwiched between a hardware store and a small grocery. A bell tinkled when auntie opened the door. The front of the shop displayed hundreds of bolts of cloth, sewing patterns and books, and some new and used sewing machines. A smaller back room was a combination work room and office. It had a large cutting table, a powerful sewing machine, a rack of assorted dresses, a desk, and a tiny changing room.
“School doesn’t start until 8:30, so I might as well measure you now. Come in the back.”
I took off my dress and stood on a little stool while auntie worked with her tape and notebook. “Since you’ll be growing, I’ll measure you with your falsies so you can grow into your blouses.”
“OK, auntie,” I said, not thinking what that would mean.
When we were done, we went back to the front. She gave me pattern books to pick out the style blouse and skirt I liked. I also got to pick out the fabrics I wanted. It made me feel funny, but creative to pick out my own girls’ clothes – even more creative than model building. Someone else decided how my boxed models would look, but I was creating the look of my new clothes. There were so many choices compared to boys’ clothes!
I picked a pleated skirt that came just above the knee and a blouse that looked like a boys’ short sleeved shirt, but there were other patterns I liked nearly as well. Auntie said that I could choose them later, if I liked.
She showed me how to find the patterns in her stock drawers. By the time I did, it was a little after 9:00, so we walked to the school, which was a block off the square. It was very unlike my old school. First, there were only four classrooms, 1st and 2nd grade, 3rd and 4th, 5th and 6th, and 7th and 8th. My old school had several class rooms for each grade, and only went to 6th. Second, even with two grades per room, there were only about 20-25 kids in each room. My old school had over thirty.
We went to the office. The school secretary, Mrs. Zimmerman, was making purple copies one at a time with something called a hectograph. It had a strange smell. Auntie explained that I was living with her and needed to enroll in school. Mrs. Zimmerman told us that the principal, Mrs. Ross, would be teaching until lunch, so we should come back then. We went back to auntie’s store.
Auntie said since she’d be busy with customers, I needed to help make my new skirt. I picked a blue baseball print, but she said it was too boyish, and suggested a dinosaur print instead. For my blouse she recommended permanent press fabric, so I wouldn’t have to iron it. After showing me how to lay out a pattern, size it, and cut the pieces, she opened her shop to a lady who was waiting out front.
I was busy cutting, when I heard someone say, “And who’s this industrious young lady?”
“That’s my niece, Raye.”
“Raye, this is Mrs. Hodge. She and her husband have a farm a few miles south on highway 37.”
“Hello, Mrs. Hodge.” I was about to shake her hand, when I remembered what Ella taught me and dipped a slight curtsy.
“What a sweet girl your niece is.”
“Yes, she is.”
I went back to cutting as auntie rang up Mrs. Hodge’s purchases.
The same thing happened several more times. Auntie knew each customer personally, as I could hear her asking after their families and things that concerned them. When the store finally got quiet, she came back and showed me how to thread her sewing machine. I spent the rest of the morning practice-sewing scraps of cloth.
At noon, we met with Mrs. Ross. I worried about auntie’s modifications as the principal looked over my transcript.
“Well, everything seems in order. Come in at 8:45 tomorrow and I’ll introduce you to Miss Wells, who teaches 5th and 6th grade. I expect great things from you, Raye.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Ross.” I dipped a curtsy and we left.
Auntie normally went home for lunch, but today we went to the diner, where I was introduced to so many people I couldn’t remember them all. By the time we left I was convinced I’d still be curtsying when I returned to being a boy.
After lunch, auntie showed me how to read the pattern to sew my skirt together. From time to time she’d come back and help me. I had to unsew a few seams, but by closing time I’d made a skirt! I was very proud of myself. When we got home I changed into my new skirt instead of shorts – and admired my handiwork in the mirror.
The next morning I was introduced to Miss Wells and became a student at Springfield Elementary. Jo was in my class and asked if I could sit next to her. So, that was where I sat.
At recess Jo introduced me to the other 5th grade girls: Linda, Estelle and Patty. They all lived on farms outside of town. The four 6th grade girls thought that they were better than us and didn’t talk to mere 5th graders unless they had to. Mostly, they looked at the boys, who generally ignored them.
My new friends had never seen a dinosaur skirt before. They all thought it was cool and were impressed that I’d sewn it myself, even with auntie’s help. Linda asked if I’d make her one. Then, before I could answer, Patty suggested we have a party Saturday and each sew a skirt. Everyone liked the idea, except Jo looked a bit jealous. I think she’d wanted to play with me Saturday. I said I’d talk to my aunt about the sewing party.
As we walked back to class I thought how much friendlier girls were than boys. None of the boys I knew had ever invited me to a party, or even been interested in anything I’d done.
When I told auntie what happened, she was glad that I was making friends. If we came to her shop at 8:00, she’d loan each girl a used machine and teach them how to run it. She’d also supply the fabric at cost.
That night, I invited Jo to dinner to show her she was still my special friend. That cheered her up. After dinner, we went to my room. As the only doll I had was the decorative one on my dresser, I wasn’t sure what we could do that would interest her.
As she was looking around, she said, “Oh! You have makeup!”
“Yes, my step mom bought it for me last week. She took me to Macy’s, had the cosmetic lady make me up, then bought me that stuff. She also got me this book. I’ve used the lipstick a couple of times since, but that’s all.”
“Wow! You’re sooo lucky, Raye. My mom says I’m too young for makeup. I only have nail polish.”
“I don’t have any nail polish.”
“How about I go get mine, and we have a makeup party?”
Before I could respond, she was down the stairs and out the door.
When she came back, we did each other’s nails, then tried different techniques from my makeup book. We laughed and giggled until Jo’s mom called to tell her it was time to come home. After hurriedly removing her make up, we promised to do it again soon. I’d had a wonderful time, but it was confusing to be a boy who liked playing with makeup and having his nails done. I finally convinced myself that I’d just done it to please Jo.
The next morning, auntie complimented me on my pink nails, which I’d forgotten about.
I blushed. “Jo wanted to play with makeup,” I said apologetically.
“Yes, I heard the giggling. Sweetie, there is nothing wrong with enjoying your time as a girl. You should take advantage. It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity.”
“You think so? I feel like such a sissy sometimes.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being a sissy. Be honest. If you like something, then admit you like it – at least to yourself.”
“Really?”
“Yes, dear.”
I’d think about what auntie said.
The skirt making party Saturday was a success. Instead of making myself a skirt, I helped the other girls with theirs. Linda needed the most help, but at the end of the day, she was happy with the result. Since I was sort of the hostess, I went next door to the grocery and bought sandwich makings and punch for lunch. Everyone had a good time, and we promised to do it again. Over the next week, auntie sold two used sewing machines to the girls’ mothers.
I was now accepted as one of the girls, and stopped worrying that I was half boy. It wasn’t that I wanted to stay a girl, rather I just became comfortable being one of the girls.
When school let out, I helped auntie out in her store, and most of the customers knew me on a first name basis. Since I helped teens and pre-teens with sewing projects, aunties sales increased and she began paying me for the hours I put in.
I often took afternoons off to spend with Jo. She was developing, and told me when she had her first period. As far as I was concerned, it was information I didn’t need. Of course, we’d already compared our breast growth (I was a little ahead of her). So she was entitled to brag about being ahead of me with her periods. My only signs of puberty were my breasts, a couple of pubic hairs and an increasing number of zits.
Anyway, I told auntie, and she told me more than I wanted to know about periods. She also bought me a box of pads and a belt to hold them. She said I should wear them for a week starting a month from when Jo started her period. Then I’d understand what Jo was going through better.
“You know, Raye, it’s a good thing you and Jo are so close. You should learn from her. As long as it’s not hurting anyone, it would be a good idea to follow her lead. It will make it easier for you to pass, because, while I know what I did at your age, times change, so I don’t know what girls are doing now.”
Not long after, Jo started being interested in boys, and in David McKinsey in particular. David was a tall boy in our class, a few months older than us. He had wavy blond hair and what Jo called “dreamy blue eyes.” The problem was that David and Jimmy Coragan were inseparable. He would only go on a picnic with Jo if I came to keep Jimmy company.
“Please come and talk to Jimmy so I can spend time with David. Please!”
I had no interest in boys. “I don’t think auntie will let me.”
“Oh, none of our parents know. My mom thinks just you and I are going.”
I didn’t want to disappoint Jo. She was my best friend and had no other way to see David, so I finally agreed.
We arranged to go to a roadside park a mile outside of town. It was beside a little creek and had a foot bridge over it to a meadow where you could spread a picnic blanket. David and Jimmy would bring sodas and hike cross country. Jo and I would bicycle, and bring chicken and potato salad.
We all arrived about 12:30. After eating, Jo and David walked off to find some privacy and Jimmy and I sat on the blanket talking about baseball and model airplanes.
“I’m surprised that you know as much as you do about baseball and planes. Most girls are clueless.”
“My step mom says I’m a tomboy.”
“A tomboy?”
“A girl that acts like a boy.”
“Maybe that’s why I like you, Raye. … That and you have a boy’s name … almost. … Being with you is almost like being with a boy.”
I got a little scared.
“It’s OK. I mean sometimes I feel … well, a little girly – please don’t tell. The kids call me a sissy sometimes.”
I could see that hurt him. “I won’t tell. I understand better than you think. ”
“I guess a tomboy would.”
“I do, really! My auntie says ‘There’s nothing wrong with being a sissy – or a tomboy. Be honest. If you like something, then admit you like it – at least to yourself.’”
“That makes sense.”
“We can be friends, and if you feel girly sometimes, well, I understand better than you know.”
“Gee, thanks, Raye.” He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek, like one girl would kiss another.
Just then Jo and David emerged from the woods. David looked flushed, but Jo looked happy, so I wasn’t concerned.
Later Jo told me that they’d kissed a lot, and she let David put his hand under her blouse and feel her bra. All of a sudden, he tensed up, grunted, and got this strange look. After, he got real flush. She was worried, but he said it was OK.
That night I figured out what happened to him, cuz the same thing happened to me. I was thinking about being kissed, and feeling myself through my panties when I suddenly made a mess in them. I was so embarrassed that I’d wet my panties! I washed them out in the sink and didn’t tell auntie.
The next day, I told Jo what I thought happened to David, but not how I knew.
“You think so?”
“I do.”
“It’s so kewl that we can do that to boys. It makes you feel kind of powerful, doesn’t it?”
“I s’pose it does.” After that I started thinking about my breasts in a different way – not so much as a problem, but as a kind of super power, boys (well most boys) don’t have.
As the summer progressed, Jo and David were spending more and more time together. It was kind of funny in a way – it was like she was his mom, because he seemed to obey her like a little kid. (“Yes, Jo. No, Jo.”)
I mentioned it to her, and she said he’d do whatever she told him. She’d show me next time we were all together. A few days later, we were all in Jo’s room playing Monopoly.
She said, “David, you’re sitting in Aster’s chair. She looks so lonely over there on my bed. Hold her so she doesn’t feel neglected. … That’s it. Now give her a kiss and a hug.”
He looked very embarrassed, but did as she said and held Aster the rest of the game.
Jo looked at me. I knew Jimmy might like holding Dorothy. I winked so only he could see. “Jimmy, you take care of Dorothy. Show her lots of love, just like David is doing with Aster.”
He feigned embarrassment, groaning a bit, but flashed me smile when no one else could see.
I was not the only one that Jo shared her escapades with. She had a cousin Judy who had graduated from nursing school at the beginning of the summer. After visiting one weekend, Jo came back with new-found wisdom and pharmaceutical bounty. Judy’d shared some ways of pleasing and controlling males. She’d also given Jo a bag full of birth control pill packets.
“Here. You can have half of them.”
“Ah, thanks, but Jimmy’s only kissed me on the cheek once. We’re not like you and David.”
“You know I haven’t let David go any further than playing with my boobies! I just don’t want to be the only girl I know taking birth control pills. Besides, Judy said they will help your acne.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“OK, OK. Given ‘em to me.”
Auntie told me to follow Jo’s lead, so after that, I took one every morning.
My breasts had stopped growing about the same time I came to live with auntie. Part of me hoped they’d shrink back to normal for a boy, and I could go back to being my old self. I knew that there were many things I’d miss about being a girl, but I was still ready to return to being a boy.
Now they started growing again, only this time my nipples and the area around them started getting bigger – looking more like Jo’s. So, I was a bit concerned and started using the breast cream again to sooth them. When I put on my nitie, noticeable bumps poked out. Well, auntie noticed anyway.
“Raye, lift up your top so I can see your breasts. … Hmm … Well, they seem to be changing – looking more like mine than when you first came.”
“Is that bad?”
“Well, I don’t know if that’s the way your gynoco-what’s-it is supposed to go. I’ll call your mom tomorrow and see what she thinks.”
The next day she was on the phone with mom for a long time. At the end, she did not seem so concerned. She repeated what the doctor said: they should go back to normal in a couple of years. Until then, I might as well enjoy my girl time. There was nothing else to do.
Meanwhile I discovered I like rubbing myself through my panties and playing with my nipples felt lovely too. I knew Jo let David play with her boobies and wondered if Jimmy would like to play with mine. I suppose you might think that is weird, given that Jimmy and I are both boys, but I’d started thinking of myself as a girl, just like Jo.
Auntie had no problem with Jimmy and I being alone in my room, even when she wasn't home. I wasn't going to get pregnant, so, what was the worst that could happen? Anyway, I started inviting him to my room – to work on model planes at first. Once we’d run through the models mom had bought me, I had a mischievous idea.
“Jimmy, you said you feel girly sometimes.”
He blushed.
“I was wondering if you’d like to try on some of my things?”
“Like what?”
“Like a bra and panties and a dress?”
Now he was really blushing.
“And maybe make up, too.”
“Oh, God, Raye! Don’t tease!”
“I’m not. I bet you’d look cute. I know you’d like it, and if you didn’t you could take it all off. No one would know. I wouldn’t say anything.”
“Really? You’re not kidding?
“No. I thought you’d like to see how it feels.” I went to my drawer and got a lacy bra and panty set. The bra was an A-cup that I’d outgrown. “Here try these!”
“Now?”
“Yes, now!”
“In front of you?
“I won’t mind, but if you want, you can change in my closet.”
He was shy and chose my closet.
“I can’t fasten this bra.”
“Here, I’ll help you!”
For some reason seeing Jimmy in lacy panties, and putting a bra on him was very exciting. It clearly excited him as well.
“Here’s a pantyliner, put it in front. I don’t want you staining my panties.”
He blushed, but did as I said.
“Here’s a skirt and blouse.”
He put them on.
I brushed his hair into a vaguely feminine style and put lipstick on him. Walking him over to the mirror, I said, “What do you think? Do you like it?”
“Oh, Raye! Thank you, thank you!” He kissed me on the lips.
I kissed him back.
He looked a little faint, so I sat him on my bed.
“I, … I have a secret. Can I trust you not to tell?”
“Jimmy, I wouldn’t hurt anyone on purpose. As long as it doesn’t hurt anyone, I’ll keep you secret.”
“Well … I … I don’t usually like girls. I like boys. I like David, but I never told him because he likes girls.”
“Oh, is that all? My mom and step mom love each other. If they could, they’d get married. So boys loving boys and girls loving girls doesn’t bother me.”
“Really?”
“Yep. … Since you told me your secret, I’ll tell you mine … do you promise not to tell?”
“Yes … cross my heart.”
“I’m a boy!”
“What!?”
“Yep, not a tomboy, a real boy … at least below my waist.”
“What do you mean.”
“I mean above my waist I have boobs.” I looked around, then lifted my top and my bra to show him.
“Wow! … How?”
“Well, the doctors have a name for it, but they don’t really know how. They say that in two or three years they’ll go away, but for now I need to wear a bra.” I put mine back. “So, I dress as a girl.”
“Wow! … And I thought I was screwed up.”
“Neither of us is, Jimmy. We just are what we are.”
“Ah … don’t be insulted, but … do you like girls or boys?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never kissed either before. I don’t even know if I like being a boy or a girl better.”
“May I kiss you again?”
“If you want.”
He kissed me ever so sweetly … I felt warm and tingly, and so kissed him back.
“Well?”
“That was lovely. Thank you. You can do it again anytime. … Still, I’ve never kissed a girl so I can’t compare.”
“I have!”
“I thought you didn’t like girls.”
“I like you!”
“I like you too, Jimmy, I just don’t know how yet. … Ah, … did you like my breasts?”
“Yes, they’re beautiful!”
“Would you like to kiss them? Maybe suck them?”
“I would, if you’d like me to.”
“I’d like to see how it feels.”
We laid on my bed and Jimmy spend a long, loving time on my breasts. It felt wonderful. If anyone had walked in they’d have thought we were two girls. I thought of reaching into our panties, but neither of us were ready for that.
Finally, it was time for me to start dinner. Jimmy put his boy clothes back on and came down to help me. I cleaned a few traces of lipstick off his face before auntie came in, but forgot my face.
“Well, it seems like someone’s had a pleasant afternoon,” auntie said as she cleaned smudged lipstick off my face with a kleenex.
We both blushed.
As a result of the many sexual harassment and discrimination scandals, the Fems swept the elections. In no time, they kept their campaign promise and passed the famous Pants Suit Act, more formally the GEA – the Gender Equality Act. With it, gender prejudice became, if not a thing of the past, at least illegal. For example, no one could ask your gender on a legal form or treat you differently based on gender. Mom, who voted Fem, said that was a good thing, so I thought so too.
As far as education was concerned, curricula had to be based on personal potential and disposition, not gender. I started high school just as the act went into effect, and so experienced its full “benefit.” One Monday morning at the end of Summer, my friend Judy and I walked to Katherine Hepburn High to take a battery of tests to determine our “personal potential and disposition.” As we came in, a student took each of our pictures and printed out a card for us. Then we followed signs to the auditorium.
At 9:00, Ms. Davies, the guidance counselor, introduced herself and said a bit about the GEA. Then she told us, “You have each been given a card with your picture and a number on it. To avoid gender bias, you will identify your test papers with the number you’ve been given instead of your names. The first test is a personality assessment. There are no right or wrong answers, so just answer each question honestly. Begin now!”
The test asked a bunch of strange questions: about our tastes, about giving or following orders, and many that I had no idea what they were about. When we finished, we had a break, then took the kinds of tests I was used to – you know – math, science and things like that. At the end, we were given the rest of the week off, except for the guidance appointment printed on the back of our number cards. Mine was Tuesday at 1:00 PM.
I knocked at Ms. Davies’ door, heard a muffled, “Come in!” and entered.
She didn’t look up. “Take a seat, dear.” She sat between two piles of folders, reading one that I presumed was mine. “Please give me a minute, while I finish reviewing your results, Brenda.”
“Brenda?” I thought to myself. “I’m Brendan Hathaway, Ms. Davies.”
She looked up, her face registering surprise. “Of course you are, dear – it just goes to show that we mustn’t have gender expectations – right?”
“I suppose not, Ms. Davies.”
“Good! I’m so glad you don’t.” She continued turning pages in my folder, occasionally uttering “hmmm” or “surprising,” as she worked on her computer. Finally, she started the printer and looked up at me. “You are very lucky, my dear. Last year, I would have assigned you a completely different curriculum – one based on being male rather than your potential and disposition. This year, the law requires that we assign you the curriculum laid out here,” she said, taking my schedule from the printer and handing it to me.
Schedule #139 – Brendan Hathaway
Period Class
1 Math 1H – Domestic Budgeting
2 English 1R – Romance Novels as Literature
3 History 1F – Women in History
4 Physical Education 1D – Introduction to Ballet
5 Lunch
6 Home Economics 1 – Styles and Sewing
7 Health 1F – Hygiene and Intimacy
8 Study Hall
“There must be some mistake, these are girls’ courses.”
“Nonsense, dear. We don’t have boys’ courses and girls’ courses any more. Some of your courses were “historically” girls’ classes, but the GEA requires that we offer them to boys like you.”
“Boys like me? I am not gay!”
“That’s not for me to say. I can only say that you tested as a beta with a nurturing disposition and a low potential for college. The guidelines require that we educate such students for homemaking and child rearing. That is a good thing, dear – it will spare you the humiliation of competing with alphas. It has nothing to do with your attraction to boys.
“Now I have to see the next student. Good luck, Brenda, er… Brendan. Come see me any time once classes are started.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I left. Judy was waiting for me. She was bubbling with enthusiasm as we headed home. “I’m an alpha with technical aptitude and a high potential for college. So I’m in college prep with an emphasis on science and math.” She showed me her schedule. It had advanced math, two science courses, and lots of other heavy-duty stuff. Clearly, we’d have no classes together.
“What’s your schedule?”
“I’m a beta with a nurturing disposition, so I got ‘historically’ girls’ courses. Ms. Davies even called me ‘Brenda’ before she saw that I’m a boy.” I showed Judy my schedule.
“Awesome!”
“Please, don’t tease me, Judy. It’s bad enough that I’m taking sissy courses.”
“I am not teasing you! Remember when we were in fourth grade and I decided we’d get married when we grew up?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I still want to, but I wasn’t sure how it’d work. I mean, you work hard for your grades, but I get much better ones without even trying.”
“I know,” I said glumly.
“Well, after Mr. Saunders told me how I tested, I started worrying. I mean I’ll probably make a lot of money and you’d feel bad that you don’t earn as much. Now, with the Pants Suit Act, it’ll be OK for you to stay home and take care of the house and kids. That’s wonderful!”
“You mean you still want to marry me?”
“Of course, I do!” she said, kissing me on the lips.
I felt much better.
“Now promise me you’ll do your best in your courses, Brenda.”
“Brenda!?” I looked at her.
She was smiling.
“I promise, Judd.”
When I got home mom asked to see my schedule. I was embarrassed to show it to her. After reading it, she sat thinking for a while.
“Did the counselor say anything about your schedule?”
I told her what Ms. Davies said – that I was “a beta with a nurturing disposition and a low potential for college,” and would be educated for homemaking and child rearing.
“I suppose you are, dear. You’re not very assertive and you do enjoy babysitting for the Johnsons – don’t you? Also, you’ve never had high grades, even though I know you work hard. I’m kind of pleased that you’ll be following in my footsteps.”
I was relieved she wasn’t disappointed. “Yes, but I don’t want to take girls’ courses.”
“Well, it doesn’t sound like you have a choice. Besides, from what you said, these aren’t girls’ courses anymore. It’s a new world, dear, and the differences between boys’ and girls’ careers is disappearing. You need to accept the changes.”
“I s’pose.”
“Good! I need to overcome my old fashion thinking as well, so you aren’t the only one who needs to change.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, when I was growing up, parents raised boys one way and girls another. I’ve done that with you – raising you like boys were in the day. That was wrong, and very hard on you, I suspect. From now on I’ll raise you as a beta – teach you how to attract a successful alpha and take care of his, or her, home and kids.”
“But, I’m happy with how you’ve been raising me – and I don’t want to attract a boy – alpha or not.”
“That’s very sweet of you – but it’s not facing the future. Your sloppy clothes and hair will turn any alpha off. Your new class mates will be much more concerned with clothes and appearance than the boys you’ve been hanging with. You’ll need to be more like them if you want to compete.”
“I don’t! … You think so?”
“I do dear. You need to look pretty … er, handsome every day. … I’ll tell you what – there’s no time like the present. I’ll take you shopping so you fit in better with the girls in your class.”
“I don’t want to wear girl’s clothes!”
“Nobody said anything about girls’ clothes – I’m just talking about smoothing some of your rough edges.”
“Oh.” As long as I didn’t wind up in a skirt, I wouldn’t complain.
One way mom saved money was by getting me as few hair cuts as possible. That meant none in late Spring or Summer, and a buzz cut just before school started. So, my hair was pretty long as we entered the salon for my annual school shearing. Betty, who always does our hair, greeted us. I was expecting my usual buzz cut, but mom said, “Bren will be taking home-making courses, so we want to be able to style his hair. Could you shape his hair and show him a few ways to style it?”
I wondered who this “we” was. I sure didn’t want to “style” my hair.
Betty cut hardly any off, but showed me four ways to style my hair. Two required hair pins and one needed a scrunchie. The most masculine style was parting it down the middle without combing my new bangs forward. When I finally got out of the chair, she handed me a floral print bag that looked like a girls’ clutch. In it were a hair brush, colored scrunchies and 200 assorted hair pins.
I wanted out, but instead of leaving, mom took me to the manicure station. I was afraid I’d wind up with red or pink nails, so I was relieved when the operator only trimmed, filed and rounded them. She finished by applying a coat of clear hardener. I was secretly pleased by how neat and shiny my nails looked. Manicure tools and a bottle of hardener were added to my bag.
Finally, at the register, mom bought some expensive shampoo and conditioner for me, which Betty put in a pink shopping bag. I felt like a sissy as we left – holding my clutch in my right hand, and a pink shopping bag in my left.
Discount clothing stores were next. Mom said we needed to replace the worn sneakers, graphic tees and beat-up jeans I’d worn to middle school. She said white, unisex athletic shoes would help me fit in. I wound up with a close-out pair from the women’s department. They could be boys’ shoes, but I knew they weren’t. Next came two pair of slacks that “will keep a crease,” and Oxford shirts in white, pale blue, lavender, raspberry and pink. (Mom said yellow wasn’t my color.)
That night, mom had me brush my hair 100 times before bed and told me keep my nails manicured. Also I was to shampoo, condition, and blow dry my hair every other day. I was unhappy with the hair futzing and brushing. Still, brushing was very relaxing and made my hair like the models’ you see on TV – it had a beautiful shine and flowed like water when I swung my head. I felt very girlish, but spent a long time touching it and looking at it in the mirror. Mom smiled as she walked by.
When I finished, mom called me into the kitchen and gave me hot cocoa. As I sipped it, she said, “Your hair looks lovely!”
I was happy with the compliment, but too embarrassed to admit it, so I just sipped more cocoa.
“I want you to try each of the dos Betty showed you. So, next time you shampoo, try another style. That way you can see which you like best.”
Of course, I already knew – the most masculine one. Still, I did what mom said – I always do.
By the end of the week, my nails were chipped. Saturday morning I was playing Gears of War 4 when mom came in and told me it was time for me to “do” my nails.
“Can I do them latter? I’m in the middle of this.”
“No, you can’t. First, chipped polish is unsightly. Second, putting things off is a bad habit, and, finally, I think ‘this’ is way too violent. I don’t want you playing it again.”
There were so many things I wanted to say I couldn’t pick one. Finally, I said, “I don’t wear nail polish!”
“Of course you do. You’ve worn clear polish all week. Now it’s time your manicure your nails and reapply your polish. From now on a manicure will be part of your Saturday morning routine.”
I was dumb-founded that I’d been wearing nail polish – not even knowing enough to hide it.
Mom showed me how to remove my polish, work on my cuticles and nails, and then apply two coats of clear polish. I was very embarrassed, but when I was done, my hands looked great again.
Sunday morning, my Gears of War 4 game was gone – replaced by Sims 3.
After Sunday lunch, mom said, “It’s time to decide on a hair style for school. All of the styles look so cute, I bet it’s hard to decide! Which do you think is prettiest?”
I did not lie to mom, so I said, “The style with my hair pulled back on one side looks great, but I don’t want my hair like that ’cuz using hair pins makes me feel girly.”
“Maybe it’s not a girlish feeling, but a beta feeling?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. I’ll think about it. … Still, I want to look like a boy – you know by parting my hair down the middle.”
“OK, dear. Still, I think you’d look much prettier with your hair pulled back on the side. Maybe you could wear it like that later.”
“Maybe.”
The closer the start of classes got, the more I’d worried about being the only boy in the sissy track. By Monday morning, I didn’t want to leave the house. Mom would have none of it, and drove me to school. None of the boys going in were dressed as prissy as me.
Still, I worried too much. Two other boys had tested as betas with a nurturing dispositions – Carl Mendez and Michael Larue. That wasn’t many, but at least I wasn’t alone. There was also an alpha with a nurturing disposition, John Jayne. He was in college prep, but took home ec with us.
Carl made no attempt to fit in. He dressed as scruffy as I had in middle school and had a buzz cut. Still, he had a small, pretty face with cute button nose. Michael wore slacks without a fly and a starched white shirt buttoned to the neck. His face was more boyish than Carl’s, but his long, wavy hair was held back with hair pins, revealing small pearl studs piercing his ears. John dressed almost like me, but he always wore white Oxfords and leather loafers. He had lush lashes and thin eyebrows.
The girls in our classes called us “pant-sies” after the Pants Suit Act. It didn’t take long for most of the other kids to call us “pansies.” We did our best to ignore them. Fortunately, the girls in our track were more amused than mean. Still, they insisted on giving us girls’ names – Carla, Michelle, Jane and Brenda – so we fit in better, they said. We had no choice but to accept our new names.
This was the first time most of our teachers had boys in class, and the material they’d developed was hardly co-ed. Even our budgeting course was full of examples geared to girls. For example, one homework exercise required us to visit at least four stores to price out an ensemble of three skirts, three tops and two pairs of heels in our sizes. We were to take pictures of our selections and turn them in with our budget data. The girl (or boy) with the best bargain would get extra credit.
Carla refused to do it as assigned, finding prices on the internet instead. Michelle asked me to go shopping with him to do our assignment. I didn’t mind that he wanted to go to six stores, instead of four. The embarrassing part was that he insisted on trying on his selections while I took pictures with his phone. This drew strange looks from the sales people, but it would have been illegal to discriminate against him because he was a boy. He ignored the looks and was having a great time modeling and posing for pictures.
He suggested I try on my selections, but I was too shy. I was getting the same kind of looks as Michelle, but without having any fun. So, after three stores, I started trying on the skirts and tops I selected while Michelle took pictures with my phone – pretending he was a fashion photographer and I was his model. I got a huge adrenaline rush as I struck various poses.
When we got home we printed out our pictures and put them in our reports. Mrs. Roberts was so impressed that she gave both of us an A and extra credit, even though Joan Mondale found the best bargains. Carla got a D.
That weekend, I was complaining to Judy about taking girls’ courses, using our math assignment as an example. She wasn’t very sympathetic, but took my phone from me to see the pictures me modeling outfits. “Brenda, you look darling in your outfits! Will you model them for me?”
I blushed like a beet. “I didn’t buy them. I was trying them on for homework, not to buy them.”
“But, you picked them out right?”
“Yeah …”
“Well, you have a real sense of style. I wouldn’t mind if you dressed like that all the time.”
“I’d get beaten to a pulp.”
“I don’t think so. No one’s beat on any of you pansies so far. The kids just accept that you’re different.”
She continued looking at the pictures. “Not only do you look adorable, but you look very happy. … I especially like you in this floral top, white miniskirt, and wedge sandals – though you’d look better with shaved legs.”
“Judy! Please don’t tease.”
“I’m not teasing, Brenda. I’m saying you have good taste and I’d like to see you in a skirt.”
I got a tingly feeling in my groin, but didn’t answer.
Our other classes were equally geared to girls. Most of the kids in our class had never read a book, so our “Romances as Literature” course was designed to interest us in reading. We read three Harlequin romances the first semester. I was put off at first, but they had steamy scenes that soon piqued my interest. One day as I was reading silently in class, I found myself identifying with the heroine: imaging myself in the arms of a hunky guy. Shocked, I stopped and shook the feeling off. Looking around I saw the whole class looking dreamy eyed as they read. Michelle was completely absorbed, flicking his hair back in a feminine manner from time to time. Even Carla had was touching his cheek and sighing. I decided not to fight it, and soon imagined myself being kissed by the open-shirted cavalier on the cover.
Our history class had been carefully crafted by Ms. Clarbeau to instill self-esteem and confidence in the girls who took it. In me, it instilled awe and admiration. I no longer saw men as the lynch pins of history, but as the instruments, and even the playthings, of clever and courageous women.
The school supplied our togs for Mr. Reynard’s ballet lessons. So Carla, Michelle and I dressed the same as the girls – not in tutus, but in black leotards, white tights and pink slippers. Again, Michelle was pleased, I went along with it, and Carla was put off. Still, as time went on, we all came to like ballet.
At first my long hair kept getting in my eyes, but when I saw how the girls put their hair in ponytails, I put my hair in a low ponytail. Mr. Reynard was watching us do our movements, then clapped his hands for us to stop. He told me wearing my hair differently was a bid for special attention and detracted from the aesthetic unity of the corps de ballet. I needed to wear my ponytail high, like “the other girls.” That was OK during class, but I’d sometimes forget to take my hair down. Then, I’d go through the rest of the day with a high ponytail, only to have mom compliment me when I got home.
The thing was, no one picked on me for wearing my hair like a girl. I know part of it was because there were severe penalties for bullying – but that didn’t stop gentle teasing like calling us “pansies.” Of course, Judy wanted to see me in a skirt, so I think she liked seeing me with girl’s hair. Still, it was like everyone thought it was normal for me to wear my hair like “the other girls.”
It should be no surprise that Ms. Sangrelli had never had boys in her Styles and Sewing course before. Our first project was an apron.
“I apologize to our pant-sies that your aprons have ruffles, but learning to sew ruffles is a state-mandated course objective. Surely you boys didn’t want to learn to do them by making yourselves ruffled blouses or skirts.”
Michelle leaned over and whispered “I would. How about you?”
I didn’t answer, but it was hard to get the idea of a ruffled blouse out of my head.
When I complained to mom, she said a ruffled apron was no big deal. She’d love to have one I’d made for her. That made me feel better. She asked me to take pics of the fabrics so she could choose one she liked. The next day I handed her my phone to look at the fabrics. The next thing I knew, she said, “You look so happy in a skirt! – and cute too!”
At first I had no idea what she was talking about, then I remembered the pics Michelle took when we were playing dress up for our budgeting homework. “Wait mom, that’s not …,” I was going to say “me,” “… er what it looks like.”
“What it looks like is you having a lot fun pretending to be a girl. … Now don’t tell me you weren’t having fun.”
“I was, but … it was for just class,” I said weakly.
“So Mrs. Roberts assignment was to wear skirts, tops and heels?”
“No, I didn’t mean that. It was just that Michelle was having so much fun modeling his outfits – I felt I was missing out.”
“OK, I understand.”
I wasn’t sure she did, but I was glad to let it drop. “So, what fabric do you like best?”
“I think you should choose, because you need an apron anyway.”
The last class I had to endure was Hygiene and Intimacy with nurse Brown. I learned way more than I ever wanted to know about periods, and the girls learned things about wet dreams and emissions that made them look funny at the three of us. The things we were asked to talk about were too embarrassing to write here – so I won’t.
The only good thing was that no one wanted to talk about that stuff outside of class, except Joan Mondale, who was miffed that Michelle and I got extra credit in math even though she found the best bargains. She asked us if we preferred tampons or pads.
All this was the first week. So, I was very glad when Friday afternoon came. I was relaxing in my room, playing Sims, when mom came home.
“Good evening, dear.” She said as she walked into my room carrying a bag from T. J. Maxx.
“Hi, mom. Been shopping?”
“Yes, dear. I know how shy you are, but watching you this week … I see that you’re really getting with the program. I’m proud of how nice you’ve kept your hair and nails – you look so darling in your ponytail when you let me see it. Then … seeing you modeling those clothes … Well, I just had to show you how supportive I am. These are for you.”
She opened the bag and showed me the floral top and white miniskirt Judy thought I looked cute in. She even bought the wedge sandals. Next came a three pack of cotton panties and a small bra.
“Now, don’t say anything. I know this is very embarrassing for you. … but if you could try these on, I’ll know I got the right sizes. Then – when you are ready – I’d love to see how you look in them.”
“Oh, God, how did this happen?” I thought. Mom must think I’m a complete sissy.
Meanwhile, she walked out and closed the door behind her.
I sat looking at the clothes on my bed. Mom would be heartbroken if I rejected her misguided kindness. At least I could try them on for size. I never had to wear them again. Slowly, I got undressed. I tried the panties first. They were so soft! The only problem was that putting them on made me hard. I laid down and took care of that.
When I was soft, I decided I’d look better if I tucked myself out of the way. I looked in the mirror. I looked very like Karen Kowalski, who had not blossomed yet, and so had a chest as flat as mine. I decided to see what I’d look like in a bra. It was the devil to fasten, but I finally got all the hooks in the eyes behind my back. The bra was padded, so, with my hair and nails, I looked like a complete girl.
It did not take long to put my top, skirt and sandals on. When I finished I got the same rush I had in the store. My padded bra made my top fit the way it was designed to. I did a twirl. My skirt flared out, then came to rest, tickling my legs. Oh God, I loved how I looked and felt.
I sat on my bed, my heart pounding. I wanted to see how I’d look with my hair pinned back on one side. … Perfect! An image flashed through my mind – It’d be even more prefect if I had pierced ears with little pearl studs.
I knew mom wanted to see how I looked, but I was frozen in fear for the longest time. Finally, I opened the door and walked into the living room where mom was sipping wine.
“Brenda!” she said, hugging me.
I’m Joe, and just finished my first year of junior high. It was traumatic. I'm a bright, well-mannered, skinny klutz – not in the least athletic. I was always chosen last for teams. In short, I was a mama’s boy through and through, bullied and teased by most of the other boys and some of the girls as well. I often came home in tears, but managed a happy face by the time my mommy came home – typically about 6:00. So, she didn’t know how unhappy I was.
The last day of school was a half day, and I expected to pass that Friday afternoon alone. Instead, mommy was awaiting me when I got home.
“Shall we go out and celebrate your release?”
“My release?”
“Yes, from that place of torture they call a school. … I know you’ve been very unhappy, darling.”
“How did you know?”
“You’re not as good at hiding your feelings as you think – remember I’m a trial lawyer and used to reading witnesses.”
“Then why didn’t you say something before?”
“Because I wanted you to give it your best shot. I talked to your counselor and teachers, and know you’ve done so. Let’s go to lunch and we can talk.”
We drove to one of those downtown restaurants mommy likes – you know the kind: a valet who knows her name parks her car, and the maitre d’ leads her to a primo table without being asked. A Harvey Wallbanger appears in front of her without being ordered. I was served my usual Shirley Temple, but she winked at the waiter, and it was taken away and returned a minute later. The new one had a delicious bite.
“Is there alcohol in it?” I whispered?
“You know you’re underage, darling.”
Still, the more I drank, the more relaxed I became. When our meal came, mommy asked John, our waiter, to bring me another.
As we ate, she asked about my trials at school and, strangely, I was relaxed enough to talk freely about the bullying I’d endured. Several times her questions opened new rooms in my hall of suffering. By the time I finished, tears we rolling down my cheeks.
“It’s worse than I thought, darling. Still, you’ll be glad to know that you won’t have to endure it longer. I’ve arranged a home schooling program for you in the fall. Most of your work will be on the computer, so you can proceed at you own pace, but a tutor will come in to help you over any rough spots. You’ll also join with others for trips and socialization.
“Also, since you’re turning 13, you’ll start doing your share at home. How does that sound, darling?”
“Wonderful mommy!”
When we got home, I was exhausted. Mommy insisted I take a nap and gave me a lavender tee to wear to bed. The tee was very long, coming to my knees. I didn’t wake until she came in at 5:30.
“Wakey, wakey! I ordered a pizza and put ‘Frozen’ in the DVD player. … Was your new nightshirt comfy?”
“Yes, mommy.”
“They had another one with Princess Elsa. I know she’s your favorite – but I thought you might be embarrassed to wear it. … You shouldn’t be, you know … If you like it.”
I blushed.
“I think you might. Shall I get it for you?”
“I don’t know, mommy.”
“Okay, darling.”
I probably should have said “no,” but Elsa is my favorite Disney character, and it was considerate of mommy to think of getting it for me. Just then, the doorbell rang.
“That must be the pizza. Go potty and come right out.”
“Go potty?” I thought to myself: I’m mot a baby, you know, mommy – but I went and said nothing. As the tee was so long, it was easier to sit to pee than to hold it up while I stood. As she asked me to come right out, I did not change into my pants and shirt after I finished.
Once we finished our pizza, I snuggled against her breasts, and she put her arm around me. About midway through the movie I noticed her pushing my hair this way and that.
“What are you doing with my hair?”
“It’s the same color as Elsa’s. I was thinking that, if we let it grow a little, I could style it like hers.”
“Mommy! I’m a boy!”
“So? Does that mean you can’t have nice hair?”
I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing. Still, I kept thinking what it’d be like to wear my hair like Elsa. That night I dreamt I was wearing it the straight way, but later I looked in the dream mirror and saw it braided.
Saturday morning mommy brushed my hair, trimmed a few loose strands and had me look in the mirror. The part was a bit higher, like Elsa’s, but the difference was hardly noticeable. Then we went to an Italian grocery for subs and sodas. When we checked out, the clerk said how cute my hair looked, which made me feel nice. Finally, we drove up to a little waterfall we like for a hike and picnic.
That evening, I got my first cooking lesson. I chose a cheery apron with a daisy print then learned how to make a dinner with pasta, canned sauce, frozen meatballs and salad mix. I was quite proud of the result, which was all my work. We watched another of my favorites, “The Secret Garden,” as we ate.
At bedtime, she gave me cotton underpants that matched my night shirt. I asked why they had no fly. She said it was because they were part of a sleep set.
Sunday we went to church in the morning, but in the afternoon, she showed me how to sort, wash, dry and fold the dirty clothes because the next day was laundry day, and I’d be doing it from now on. The most embarrassing part was her delicates, but she said she’d do any that required hand washing.
When I did the laundry Monday, I couldn’t help but feel her delicates, which were unlike anything of mine. After dinner, she looked at the clean laundry and complimented me on my work. It felt good to be such a good helper. Still, she had a question.
“Where are the panties from your sleep set?”
“Under my pillow.”
“You should wear fresh undies everyday. How come you didn’t just get a clean pair out of your drawer?”
“I thought of that, but they don’t match the top.”
“Do you want me to buy more like the pair you have?”
“I ‘spose.”
“You only had to ask.”
Tuesday, she came home with two packages of three girls’ panties the color of my nightshirt.
“That should be enough for the week.”
“Mommy, these are girls’ panties.”
“I’m sorry, darling, but they’re the only matching underpants I could find. They’re just like your first pair, but if you don’t want them, I’ll take them back. Do you want me to?”
“Let me see them please? … They do look like the ones I already have. Still, the package says ‘Girls Panties.’”
“If you like them, why should that matter? No one is going to see them but you and me. Do you want to keep them or not?”
“I guess they’re okay. I’ll wear them.” I didn’t want to cause her any trouble, and she was right: no one would know what kind of panties I wore to bed, Still, panties!
Nothing much happened the rest of the week. I did my chores each morning and read, watched TV or played computer games until it was time to start dinner. As I didn’t go out, there was no point in getting dressed when I got up, so I wore my sleep set till noon the first few days, then all day. By Wednesday, my night shirt was pretty gross. Mommy finally asked me if I wanted another one, as she was tired of seeing and smelling that one. Since it was so comfortable, I said yes.
Thursday night, she gave me a blue Elsa nightshirt and a package of matching panties. I really liked it, and I knew mommy wouldn’t tease me, so I thanked her.
“How about a trip to the beach tomorrow?”
“That sounds lovely, mommy.”
“OK, check and see if your shorts from last summer still fit.”
“I tried them last week -- they’re too tight. That’s one reason I’ve been wearing my nightshirts all day – to keep cool.”
“And you look cool in them too,” she smiled. “At any rate, I’ll get you some on the way home. Would you like Bermudas, or short shorts?”
“Is it going to be hot?”
“That’s the forecast.”
“Then, short shorts, please.”
“Do you have a color preference?”
“Well, you know I like blue, purple and lavender.”
“Of course, darling.”
Saturday morning, I woke and found a pair of purple shorts and a lavender tanktop laid out for me. I took off my nitie and put on the top. It was the same color as my panties, so I kept them on as I pulled up my new shorts. New purple and white flip flops completed the ensemble.
Mommy was waiting in the kitchen, and told me how cute I looked. “Do you like your beach clothes, Joe?”
“Oh, yes, mommy – everything goes together perfectly. The top even matches my panties, so I kept them on. … Do you think that’s OK?”
“Of course, Joe … if you like them, wear them. Who’s to know?”
“You’re right, mommy. I shouldn’t worry about such things.”
We went to the Pancake House for breakfast where the hostess said how cute I looked. As I rarely get compliments, that made me happy. After, we went to the shore, rode the merry-go-round, played bumper cars and waded in the surf.
As mommy and I were tanning ourselves, couple of boys my age came over to talk to me. One wanted to play Frisbee, while the other wanted to play in the surf. Mommy suggested that I give each a turn and asked the surf boy to come back in 15-20 minutes. I played Frisbee with Ralph for a while, but as I’m not very good at it, I didn’t have a very good time.
Luckily, Bret came back and saved me from further embarrassment by leading me off to the waves. He was taller and huskier than me, with wavy brown hair. I went in much further than I ever did before, but I felt safe as he held my hand and made sure I wasn’t knocked over and swept away. I lost track of the time, and the sun was nearly down when I heard mommy calling me. Bret wanted my phone number, but mommy told him I was too young to date. It was only them that I realized that he thought I was a girl!
“Did you have a good time, darling?” mommy asked on the ride home.
“I did, but I didn’t know Bret thought I was a girl. Do you think Ralph did too?”
“Oh, yes, darling.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?”
“And spoil your fun? I wanted you to have a good time, and no harm was done. Both the boys had a good time as well – although I think Bret enjoyed himself more. You helped make them more confident young men.”
“Oh.” I was very quiet on the way home, for I had a lot to think about.
I woke up very embarrassed at being with a boy as a girl, even though it was entirely innocent and I was unaware it was happening. I took off my nitie. A pantied sissy stared at me from the mirror. That was embarrassing as well, but not enough to make me change into my jockies. They waited, unused, in my drawer. I put on the shorts and top I’d worn. They didn’t scream “girl!” Still, purple and lavender weren’t masculine either.
I played with my hair, moving the part to the side an inch, and then back. That small change, in my mind at least, was like stepping back and forth over the boy-girl line. Clearly, I was on the edge of the line. I thought of my panties. No one could see them, but perhaps they had some magic effect that inched me over the line to the girl side – an effect Ralph and Bret had seen, though I hadn’t.
I was just about to take off my lavender top and panties when I remembered how much fun I had at the beach. For the first time in as long as I could remember, kids my age wanted to play with me. Then there were the smiles and compliments I’d received at Pancake House. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be a girl, but I knew I liked dressing on that side of the line.
“Good morning darling!” Mommy kissed me on the cheek. “Bacon and eggs?”
“That would be wonderful, mommy, but you drink your coffee and read your paper, and I’ll cook them. I want to do my part.”
“You are a gem, Joe.”
I put on my daisy apron and started breakfast. From time to tine, mommy glanced over and made suggestions – like turning down the heat. We like our eggs over easy, and I broke them all, but mommy still complimented me on my cooking and said next time she’d show me how to glaze the tops before turning them so they wouldn’t break.
As we ate mommy asked, “Have you thought any more about you and the boys yesterday?”
“Yes, I have. I had a really good time with them. They were happy – except Ralph was disappointed that I’m such a terrible Frisbee player – and I had a wonderful time. If it takes boys thinking I might be a girl for them to want to play with me, that’s OK. I mean I didn’t lie to them or anything.”
“No, Joe, you didn’t. Did you find Bret attractive?”
“He’s handsome and strong, and took good care of me. Still, I never felt like kissing him or anything. I just liked him.”
“And if kissed you?”
“Mommy!”
“Well, if boys go on thinking you’re a girl, one is going to try to kiss you sooner or later. Also, in a couple of years, they’re going to want more. So, you need to think about that.”
“OK, I will.”
“Well, you need to put on church clothes.”
“OK, mommy. … Then, after mass, could we go shopping for some fancier church clothes?”
“You mean more feminine?”
“Well, closer to the line.” I blushed.
“I think we could find some cute outfits that are ‘closer to the line.’”
“Thank you, mommy.” I scampered off to change into slacks and a pale blue polo shirt.
After mass we went to Kohl’s. Mommy paired charcoal ponte pants with a white button down blouse. I found orchid shortalls and a boat neck tee in the same hue, but much darker, for everyday wear. It had a daisy, which is my favorite flower, embroidered above the left breast. In the shoe department, I got a pair of loafers with a stacked heel and purple and white sneakers.
I was anxious to go home and try my new things, so mommy told me to go to the car as she had some surprises in mind. When we got home, mommy sent me to change into my ponte pants and blouse, but before I finished she knocked and came in with a little bag. In it was a padded pink training bra. She fastened it around my chest and adjusted the shoulder straps., Then, I put on my new blouse.
I could hardly breathe – not because my bra was tight, but because my reflection looked just like a budding girl. My breasts were small, like most other girls my age – just enough to make two unmistakable bumps on the front of my blouse. Tears streamed down my face. I did not know if I was happy or sad – only that my feelings overwhelmed me and I couldn’t stop crying. Mommy held me close until my eyes ran dry.
“Well, Jo? Do you want to keep your bra, or should I take it back?”
I ran my hands over my ersatz breasts. “Oh mommy. … I want to … to keep it.”
“Then it’s yours, darling. … I got you another present. Here …”
In the bag was A Teen’s First Makeup Kit. When I opened it, there was too much to take in – colors, brushes, tubes, lipsticks, and A Girl’s First Makeup Book.
“That is for you to experiment with, Jo. I also got you a jar of cold cream and some pads to take your make up off with. You can show me what you look like in makeup when you’re ready, but if you’re never ready, that’s OK too.”
I started crying again.
“I think you need a nap, Jo. You can model your shortall set when you wake up. OK?”
“Yes, mommy,” I sniffled. I left my bra on for my nap.
Martha was frustrated. For what seemed like the thousandth time, urine was splattered around the toilet in their little bungalow. For years, she’d ignored her son’s inconsideration and cleaned up after him. Now, energized by the Me Too movement, she felt put upon. Of course, cleaning up after an eleven year old was a long way from sexual harassment, but it was all part of males mistreating women.
“Jerry, come here this instant!”
He strolled in almost a minute later. “Yes, mom?”
“How many times have I told you to be careful when you pee?”
“Lots, I guess.”
“Well, look here. What do you suppose that is?”
“Pee?”
“Yes, but it’s not mine. I sit when I pee and it all goes in the bowl. It’s yours. From now on, I want you to sit when you pee.”
“Like a girl?”
“If that’s how you want to think of it, yes, like a girl.”
“OK, mom,” he said over his shoulder as he walked back to his room.
Two days later, Martha had cleaned up two more sprays and a small puddle. Each time she’d reminded Jerry he was supposed to be sitting. Here was another sizeable splash.
“Jerry, come here this instant!”
“Yes, mom?” he said in an annoyed tone as he sauntered in.
“Don’t you take that tone with me, young man! I’ve asked you to sit to pee and reminded you nicely. This is the fourth time in two days you’ve peed on the floor. What have you go to say for yourself?”
“Well, I’ve peed standing up forever. It’s like a habit – so I just forget. Also, only girls sit and I don’t want to be girly!”
“I see,” said Martha in a cold, determined tone that should have raised Jerry’s alarm bells, but didn’t. “I have an idea that will solve both your little problems. Here, you clean the floor,” (she handed him a sponge and pink rubber gloves) “while I get a few things.”
Jerry felt like telling his mother to go to hell, but sensed that would be a very bad idea. “OK, mom,” he said putting on the gloves and taking the sponge. He he’d just started cleaning when he heard the garage door open, then close. The job wasn’t half done, but his mother was gone, so he returned to his Grand Theft Auto game. About an hour later the garage door cycled again. Jerry turned off his X-Box.
Martha came to his room and put two shopping bags on his bed.
“Come along. I want to see what kind of job you did on the bathroom floor.”
Jerry got a knot in his stomach, but followed his mother.
“Just as I expected. The floor is only half clean. In fact, you’ve smeared pee over an even larger area. If you’d done a really good job – showed you wanted to do better – I might have relented, but as it is, you’ve only strengthened my resolve.”
“I can finish it now,” he said with a bit of trepidation.
“You’ve had an hour. You can finish it later – after I show you what I’ve bought to help to remind you to sit on the toilet.”
Jerry followed her back to his room.
“OK, take off your pants.”
“What?”
“I got you new pants. Now, do as I say. Take off your pants!” She dumped a Walmart bag out on his bed, revealing slacks in light blue, tan and burgundy.
“See – they have elastic waists, so you can easily pull them down to sit,” she said showing him. “And their flies are merely decorative – they have no zippers. So you can’t ‘just forget’ and pee standing up.”
Jerry examined the blue pair. The tag read “Girls Size 10.” “These are girls pants!”
“Of course they are. Boys pants all have zippers in the fly – that’s why you ‘just forget.’ Now you won’t. Put them on!”
“You’ve gone fucking nuts, you bitch!”
Before he knew it, Jerry was over his mother’s knee and had four red hand prints on his rear. His cheeks burnt like fire. Worse, he was in shock – he’d never been spanked before.
“Why … why … did … you … do that?” he said between sobs.
“Because I won’t be talked to like that! I’ve never spanked you because I thought you’d respond to love and kindness. Instead, you’re growing into a spoiled brat. You treat me like I’m your maid – not even doing the simplest thing to make my life easier. And now you’re using abusive language! Well, it’s going to stop! I won’t raise an emotionally or physically abusive man!”
“I’m … I’m … sorry.”
“Not as sorry as you will be! You know what’s in the Kohl’s bag? Girls panties. My first idea was to put you in panties as a reminder to sit. But, after I bought them, I thought wearing panties would be too humiliating. So I looked for unisex pants instead. And what did I get for my trouble? You verbally abusing me! I was going to take the panties back, but now you can wear them! Here!” She threw a pack of cotton panties at Jerry. “Pick out a pretty pair and put them on! Then put all your old pants, shorts and underpants in these bags and bring them to the living room. You have five minutes!”
A few minutes later, Jerry appeared in the living room holding two bulging bags. He was wearing the light blue slacks. His eyes, red from crying, matched his blushing cheeks.
“Is that all of your pants and underpants? Shorts too?”
“Yes, mommy.”
“Good!” She said in a gentle tone. “Put them here, in front of the sofa.”
He did.
“Show me what panties you picked.”
He pulled down his waistband. He was wearing the only white pair.
Martha thought of saying blue panties would go better with his slacks, but decided not to criticize. “Thank you dear! I know this is hard on you, but it’s for your own good.”
“Yes, mommy. … When will I get my boy pants and underwear back?”
“What makes you think you’ll get them back?”
“Will I?”
“Yes, when I decide it’s appropriate … which won’t be for a couple of weeks at least. … Why are you standing at that weird angle? Face me when we are talking.”
Jerry turned to face his mother, revealing his obvious excitement.
“Don’t be embarrassed dear, lots of boys like wearing panties.”
Jerry wanted to defend his honor, but could think of nothing to say. Did he really like wearing panties? “Yes, mommy,” he sniffled.
“Now you’ve had a hard day. Go finish the bathroom floor, then come back and we’ll do something fun.”
A few minutes later, Jerry reappeared.
“Do you want to see if I did a good job, mommy?”
“No, I think I can trust you, dear. Come sit next to me and we’ll watch a movie. I’ve ordered a pizza.”
Jerry sat next to Martha as they watched Matilda. Soon he was snuggling against her – something he hadn’t done for years. He was almost asleep before the pizza arrived. After eating less than a piece he fell asleep against her breast.
When the movie ended, Martha led him the bathroom – where he sat without objection – and then to bed. As there was a noticeable sticky spot on his panties, she helped him into a mauve pair with a kitty print. He was too tired to object.
In the kitchen, loading the dishwasher, Martha reflected on the day. She could hardly be more thrilled. Jerry had gone from a selfish, distant child cursing her to a sweet boy calling her “mommy” and snuggling against her affectionately. Clearly, she was on the right track. She slept contented.
The next day was Monday. Jerry wore his blue slacks to school, and used a stall to take care of his business. No one seemed to notice his new pants, except that Judy, who sat next to him in Social Studies. She was a healthy, athletic girl who wore boy’s shirts and jeans most of the time. He’d been rude to her early in the year, and so she almost never talked to him. Still, she said, “You look nice today, Jerry.”
His first urge was to tell her to shut up. Instead, he said, “So do you, Judy. I like how you’ve done your hair.”
No one else had noticed her first perm, so she was pleasantly surprised. At lunch she asked if she could sit next to him. Jerry had no regular lunch crowd, and was happy for the company. Mostly they talked about how embarrassed Mr. Jenkins, their Life Sciences teacher, was in broaching sex education. Finally, Judy struck a more personal note.
“You have really nice hands, Jerry, but they’d look better if you stopped biting your nails and let them grow a bit. I wouldn’t say anything, but I used to bite my nails, and now look at them.” She fluttered polished nails with rose decals.
Normally, Jerry would have rebuffed her, but, in panties, he was in no position to be nasty. “They’re really cute, Judy. I love your little flowers. Did you paint them yourself?”
“No, silly! They’re decals.”
“Decals?”
“You know, little stickers. They stick to your nails. I have lots more. If you’d like, I could bring you some.”
“Boys don’t use things like that.”
“I bet some do.”
Jerry imagined what his hands would look like with polished nail and decals. Uncomfortable with the thought, he changed the subject. “How’d you stop biting your nails? I have some bad habits, so I know how hard they are to break.”
“My mom got this bitter stuff to put on my nails. Then, every time I put them in my mouth, I hated the taste. So, I stopped in a hurry!”
“Yeah, my mom got me some things to stop a bad habit. I guess it can really help.”
“Oh, what habit was that and what’d she get you?”
“It’s too embarrassing.”
“Well, maybe when we know each other better, you’ll trust me enough to say.”
“Yeah, maybe …” Jerry couldn’t imagine ever trusting anyone enough to say he wore panties. When he broke out of his revere, he heard Judy talking.
“… bring it for you tomorrow.”
It took him a second to figure out what she was talking about. “You mean the bitter nail stuff?”
“Well, … Yeah!”
“Oh, that would be lovely. Thank you.” “‘Lovely,’” he thought. “Where’d that come from? I’m starting to sound like a girl.”
That night his mother, a paralegal, was home to greet him. Usually, she worked late and he let himself in, but occasionally she worked from home.
“How did your day go dear?”
“Good, thanks.”
“No one said anything about your new slacks?”
“No … Well, yeah, this girl Judy, who sits next to me in one of my classes, said I looked nice today.”
“What did you say?”
“I told her hair looked nice.”
“That was very sweet of you, dear.” Martha was both pleased and surprised. Jerry had been in the “girls are yucky” stage and could be quite rude.
“Yeah, she sat next to me at lunch. Maybe we’ll be friends.”
“That would be lovely, dear.” A girl friend might help tone down Jerry’s masculine rudeness.
Meanwhile, Jerry was wincing internally because “lovely” was the girlish word he’d said to Judy. “Yeah, I guess,” he said drifting off to his room. Maybe playing Grand Theft Auto would remedy his creeping sissiness.
When he got to his room, the game was gone. Jerry wanted to go out and shout at his mom, but what could he say? He wasn’t supposed to have Grand Theft Auto in the first place. The problem was, it wasn’t his, but Roger McCarthy’s. Roger was not a forgiving boy. Jerry had “rented” it for $5.00 and it was due back Friday. If he didn’t have it, Roger would beat him to a pulp.
Jerry sat on his bed and began to cry quietly. After a few minutes, his mother came in.
“There’s no use crying. You can’t have that game. It’s too violent – and grown-up – for you.”
“I’m sorry, mommy. Really! … But now I’m going to get beat up!”
“Why’s that?”
“Because it wasn’t mine. It’s Roger McCarthy’s and he’s in 8th grade. He’s going to beat the shit out of me.”
“Watch your language! I know you’re scared, but it is your own fault. If you’d obeyed me, you wouldn’t be in this fix. I found the game when I was looking through your room to see if you’d put all your things in the bags as I asked. I decided to shred it. …”
“Oh no. I’m dead!” Now Jerry was balling his eyes out.
“No, you’re not – if you do as I say. A disk is too heavy for our home shredder, so I put it in my purse to use the office shredder. I’ll give it to you if you promise not to play it again and return it to Roger tomorrow.”
“Oh, mommy, I will! Thank you! Thank you!” He stood up and hugged her as hard as he could.
“OK, OK. Now what about your punishment for disobeying and being a sneak? You deserve another spanking.”
Jerry could almost feel the burning welts on his rear. “Please don’t spank me again!”
“Then what do you suggest?” As a modern parent, Martha felt guilty about spanking Jerry, even though it had been quite effective.
“Hmm … You could make me wear girl’s tops at home for a week?”
Martha was taken off guard. Where had the idea of girls clothes as a punishment come from? Girls slacks weren’t a punishment, but an aid in breaking a bad habit. Then she remembered that, in her anger, she’d added panties as a punishment. He was much sweeter wearing them. Still, she’d spent more than she could afford on girl’s clothes already – especially since she’d be giving them away in a few weeks.
“You’d rather dress like a girl than be spanked?”
“I don’t want to dress like a girl, but it doesn’t hurt like being spanked.”
“OK, but on two conditions: (1) you pay for your new clothes – I spent more than I could afford already – and (2) you help pick them out.”
“I’ll pay for them out of my allowance, but I don’t want people seeing me buying girls clothes.”
“There are very few people at the thrift store at dinner time and no one who knows you. So, is it a deal?”
Jerry had no wish for another spanking. “OK,” he said quietly.
“It’ll be easier if you look like a tomboy.”
Jerry had no idea what kind of boy a Tom was. Maybe it had something to do with turkeys. At any rate, he didn’t object as his mother parted his longish hair it in the middle and bobby pinned the sides.
There were only two elderly shoppers in the store. They were aisles away, looking through a rack of house dresses. The tops were arranged by size, so it didn’t take long for Martha to find a lavender “Princess” in his size. Wanting to leave as soon as possible, he agreed to whatever she suggested. Realizing this, Martha felt a mischievous, and selected two more feminine blouses. One was lavender satin, the other ivory with a lace bodice. She also told him to select a top. He found a yellow “Hello Kitty” tee.
“That’s enough tops for a week.”
“OK. Can we go now?”
“No. No daughter of mine is wearing a top with nothing under it. You need lingerie.”
“Lingerie?”
“Pretty underwear, dear.”
The lingerie bin was an unorganized jumble. Martha seemed to be taking forever going through it.
“Can’t you do this faster?”
“It’d go faster if you helped.”
Reluctantly, Jerry began sorting through the mass of slips, bras and camisoles. He fingered the items gingerly at first, but the silky textures made him forget his shyness. Once he was actually looking, he became intrigued by the some of lace patterns. Martha noticed him lingering over some camis. She said nothing, but adjusted her choices in response. Finally, they had a small pile of possibilities.
Jerry blushed when his mother held lingerie against him for size. She rationalized embarrassing him by recalling that this was supposed to be a punishment, and perhaps he was enjoying it too much. Their final selections were a white satin training bra, a beige push-up, and two lace camis – one cream and the other blue.
“That should do it, dear. Take your basket to the register.”
“Can’t you pay for them, mommy?”
“There’s no reason for a girl your age not to pay for her own things.”
“But, I’m not a girl, mommy.”
“Do you want everyone to know that?”
“No.”
“Then don’t make a scene. I’ll be with you.”
“OK, mommy,” he said grudgingly.
“You’ve made some darling choices. You daughter will look a lot less like a tomboy in her new things. She’s so pretty, it’s a waste for her to dress like a boy.”
Jerry was wondering why his mother picked two lavender tops, and was not listening.
Martha nudged him. “Thank the lady, sweetie.”
“Thank you, mam,” He said, looking at his feet.
“Pay her, dear.”
He extracted crumpled bills from his pocket.
“Oh dear, you don’t have a purse. … Let me throw one in,” she said, turning to a shelf behind her. She put his change in a lavender vinyl purse and handed it to him.
Martha nudged Jerry.
“Thank you for the purse, mam. It’s very pretty,” he said before almost running out of the store.
“Is this his first time shopping?”
Martha wasn’t surprised that Jerry had been made. “Yes, it is.”
“Well, he’s not the only one, you know. Just last week another mother was in with a ‘daughter’ about his age and before that, an older teen – shopping by himself. Your son is very lucky to have such an understanding and supportive mother.”
“Thank you.” Martha wondered if she was either understanding or supportive. She didn’t even know if Jerry wanted to dress like a girl. Would a boy who didn’t become aroused wearing panties, or suggest wearing girls clothes as a punishment? Would he become entranced by the lace lingerie he’d handled in the bin? She vowed to keep her eyes open.
When they got home, Martha told Jerry, “Wear one of your bras under everything – and a cami under your blouse and your ivory blouse.”
“Yes, mommy.”
In a couple of minutes, heard Jerry called plaintively, “Mommy, I need help.”
“What’s the matter, dear?”
“I don’t know how to put this on,” he said holding a bra.
“‘This’ has a name. Please use it.”
“I don’t know how to put this bra on.”
“You mean your bra? The one you bought with your own money?”
“Yes, mommy,” he said quietly.
“Then tell me properly, what you’d like.”
“Could you please help me put my bra on?”
Martha showed him how to hook it in the front and turn it around.
“Tomorrow I want you to practice hooking it behind you back. When I get home, I expect you to demonstrate that how to put it on properly.”
“Yes, mommy.”
Martha went to the living room to wait. Shortly he appeared with the lace top over a blue camisole that coordinated with his slacks.
“That was a good choice of cami, You look very pretty dear.”
“Don’t tease, mommy.”
“I’m not teasing. Go look in the hall mirror and see if you’re not pretty.”
Jerry looked at himself. Martha was right. He looked like a pretty girl with a second-rate hairdo. He was embarrassed, but strangely fascinated. After dinner, he went back to look again, primping for a while before blushing at his behavior.
That night, he was emotionally drained. Unhooking his bra was a struggle, so he just wore it to bed.
On her way to bed, Martha checked on him. The next morning it was a gym day, and she wanted to leave a pair of boy’s briefs on his dresser. There was no missing the bra strap on his shoulder as she tucked him in.
He woke surprised to be wearing his bra, but he was wearing panties anyway, so what’s the big deal? When he took it off, he saw the bra’s outline on his chest! Even the cups were marked! The pattern was still there after his shower. PE was at 11:00 and Jerry hardly heard a word said in class as he worried about his bra marks. Fortunately, when he undressed for gym the outline was all but gone. He put his sweats on quickly. No one said anything.
As he showered after class, he saw Marty Collins looking at him. Marty was a small, quiet boy, who was often picked on. Jerry had stood up for him a number of times. So they got along well, but weren’t close friends. They were among the last to leave the locker room.
“Jerry, boys like us need to be careful on gym days.”
“Er … thanks, Marty.”
“Boys like us …,” Jerry thought. Marty obviously picked up on his bra marks. Did he wear bras too? Jerry didn’t know if he wanted to follow up with Marty. Maybe Jerry had misunderstood. Still, if Marty sometimes wore girls clothes … Jerry was unsure what he’d say, ask or want to share. The image of Marty in a bra and panties like him kept flying around in his head, with no place to land.
At lunch, Judy and he sat together again. She gave him a half full bottle of Mavala, which turned out to be a clear nail polish for stopping nail biting and thumb sucking. Jerry was quite embarrassed by it. First, the idea of wearing nail polish, even clear polish, was another step toward being a sissy. Second, since his spanking, he sucked his thumb at night. He found it comforting. He wanted to stop biting his nails to have nice hands for Judy, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to stop sucking his thumb. Maybe if he put it on all his other fingers …
While he was still thinking about Mavala, he saw Roger McCarthy, and went over to return his Grand Theft Auto disk. He told Roger his mom was making him give it back. Roger called him a wuss, but did him no further harm. When he came back to their table, Judy asked him what that was about.
“Oh. I had his Grand Theft Auto disk, but my mom found it, and I had to give it back.”
“I’m glad you did. That’s no game for a sweet boy like you, Jerry.”
“I guess you’re right. I’m trying to change. My mom’s helping me.”
When he got home, he put on his training bra and Hello Kitty tee. The tightness of his bra started him worrying about whether anyone but Marty had noticed his bra marks. Soon, he was biting his nails. “There’s no time like the present,” he thought, and put Mavala on eight fingers and his left thumb.
After finishing the little homework he had, he decided to make up for his misbehavior, and started cleaning up the kitchen. He was still working on it when Martha came in. She saw her tween working at the sink, bra straps outlined under her, rather his, Hello Kitty tee.
“Oh, sweetie, thank you so much. You’re an angel!” she said, giving Jerry an affectionate hug.
Jerry missed his mother’s hugs and returned it, adding a kiss on her cheek.
After putting her purse away, Martha helped her ersatz daughter finish the extra dishes.
As Jerry was wiping the counter down, she noticed the clear polish on his nails. She quietly checked another box on her mental list.
“Would you like to go out for a burger?”
“Not dressed like this!”
“You look cute! If I did something with your hair, you’d be quite passable.”
“Someone would see me.”
“OK, OK. Maybe another time. I’ll order Chinese.” Over dinner, Martha asked “May I at least show you what I can do with your hair?”
Jerry wanted his mother’s attention. “Maybe … as long as I don’t look like a girl for school tomorrow.”
“It won’t be anything permanent, I promise.”
“OK.”
She thought, “he doesn’t mind looking like a girl as long as no one else sees.”
Martha shampooed his hair in the kitchen sink, finishing with an argan oil conditioner. She patted it, then blew it dry – brushing it up and out. It ended with twice the volume and a faint vanilla smell. She paused to inspect her work, then lifted the ends with her curling iron.
“Go look.”
Jerry knew the child staring back from the mirror was himself, but, still, it was a girl. He reached up and pushed his hair this way and that. Each time, it bounced back into shape. He loved it!
“Oh mommy! It's so pretty! Thank you!”
“You’re welcome dear.” She kissed him on the forehead. “Now, in the morning, wet your comb and the curls should brush out after a few minutes. Then, you’ll look like a boy again.”
The next morning, after five minutes of wetting and brushing, his curls disappeared, but his hair retained its bounce and volume. Jerry had mixed feelings. He liked his new look, but the pointer had moved another degree toward feminine. There was no time to do more, so he shrugged and went to breakfast.
Martha noticed the feminine lilt of his hair, but, again, there was no time to correct it, so she said nothing.
At school he got looks, but most had better things to do than comment on the boy taking another small step in expressing himself. Marty Collins smiled and gave him a thumbs up as they passed. In Social Studies Judy said, “It’s my turn to say I like your hair. It smells good, too. I love vanilla.” Jerry was unaware of the scent because he’d gotten used to it. He was about to say something when class started.
At lunch Judy didn’t mention his hair, but asked, “How’s the Mavala working?”
Jerry had all but forgotten his nails, but he remembered recoiling from the bitter taste of his fingers several times that morning. “I hadn’t thought about it, but now that you mention it, it's working pretty well.”
“I’m glad. The shine already makes your nails look nicer.”
“Thanks, I guess. Is it that obvious? Boy’s aren’t supposed to wear polish.”
“No, it’s not ‘obvious.’ It’s clear after all. Besides, who says boys can’t look nice? Especially sweet ones.”
Jerry blushed.
“By the way, I wish my hair looked as good as yours. What did you do to it?”
“Nothing. My mom gave me a shampoo and used her conditioner. You really like it?”
“It’s gorgeous.”
Jerry glowed inside at the compliment. “Not too girly?”
“What’s it matter? It looks nice, and I know you like it.”
“I do.”
“Would you like to get together after school?”
“I would, but I can’t. I’m … er … grounded this week.”
“That’s too bad. I have a book of hair styles I want to show you.”
He wondered what they could be. Judy’s hair was not much longer than his. Maybe she had some styles a boy could wear. “Maybe next Monday?”
“Sure.”
When he got home, he was going to wear his Hello Kitty tee again, but it was stained from working in the kitchen. His mother never liked him in dirty clothes. He didn’t want to wear lace or satin, so he wore his Princess tee with a training bra. Looking in the mirror, he noticed that its lavender complimented his skin tone. He recalled that the yellow tee had given his face a sickly cast. It was the first time he’d related his clothes color to his complexion. Maybe that’s why his mother picked out two lavender tops. Thinking about it, he realized that the same must be true of make up. For a second he imagined wearing lavender eye shadow, but turned from the mirror in utter embarrassment at this thought.
Again, Martha arrived as he was cleaning up from breakfast. She was very pleased with her daughter’s new-found helpfulness and gave her an affectionate hug and kiss. Inspired by her tee, she said “Thank you so much, Princess.”
Jerry blushed, but was happy Martha was pleased. “Your welcome, mommy.”
His blush made her reflect that Jerry was a boy – but, was he? Really? He didn’t look like one – and he was still wearing nail polish. That wasn’t part of his self-selected punishment. How could she have missed his femininity before? The poor child must have hidden his true nature. She’d help him be more feminine from now on.
The rest of the week was more of the same. Jerry got used to putting on a bra and top when he got home, and enjoyed his new-found closeness with his mother. He even felt a sense of accomplishment when he did his share of the housework.
The following Monday, Jerry’s punishment was over, but Martha had decided to test her son’s inclinations by leaving a present on his bed.
When he got home he found a white box with a pink ribbon. Under the ribbon was a card, “With all my love, Mommy.” Opening the box, he found a lavender panty and bra set with gorgeous lace detail. Jerry knew he did not have to wear it. Still, it was a gift from his mother. He told himself she'd be offended if he weren't wearing it when she got home. Once he had his lingerie on, he knew it was too fancy to wear with a tee. His lavender satin blouse went with it perfectly.
He wanted to look his best for his mom, so he went to the bathroom to fix his hair. He was waiting for his mother’s curling iron to heat when he heard the doorbell followed by a knock. UPS man rang and knocked like that to signal a delivery. As their porch was enclosed with an arch and obscured by bushes, he wasn’t shy about gong out en femme to retrieve packages once the deliveryman left. He opened the door and was about to step out when he saw Judy.
“Hi! You’re as cute as I imagined.”
Jerry froze in the doorway.
“May I come in?”
“Ah … yeah,” he said stepping back.
“I … I didn’t expect you.”
“Oh? Last week you said I could come over today with the Seventeen article on short hair styles.”
“I … did?”
“Yes … don’t you remember?”
He shook his head, no. Tears were forming in his eyes.
“Oh dear! I didn’t mean to embarrass you. … Do you want me to leave? I promise not to tell anyone, … but I do think you look adorable,” she said with all sincerity.
“You … you really don’t mind that I’m dressed like a girl?”
“Of course not, silly.” She kissed him in the cheek. “I’ve known ever since I saw your panty lines last Monday.”
“Panty lines?”
“Yeah, panties have narrow waist elastic. Besides, I have a pair of the slacks you're wearing – only in pink.”
“Didn’t you think I was weird?”
“Well, different fur sure, … but I thought you were brave to wear what you like to school. That’s why I complimented you.”
“I appreciated it. … So, why’d you make friends with me?”
“Because you’re nice. You notice other people and care about them. … Also, I don’t like the boys that pretend to be tough. I’m lot more interested in feminine boys – except Marty Collins. … You do like girls, don’t you?”
“I’m interested in you … I didn’t used to be interested in girls, but I’m not interested in boys like Marty is.”
“Good! … So how long have you been wearing panties and all?”
“Not long. Just since last Sunday.”
“Really? Well, it suits you. You like it, I can tell.”
“Don’t you think I’m weird? … or a sissy?”
“What’s wrong with being a sissy?”
“I don’t know. … People pick on sissies,”
“Well, I don’t. … How’d you start?”
Jerry was relieved to have an accepting friend. So, slowly at first, he told his story.
“It’s so cool that your mom gave you a push and is helping you.”
“Yeah, … I guess it is.”
“Do you have any skirts or dresses?”
“No, just slacks like the ones I’ve worn to school.”
“I could loan you some.”
He imagined his skirt flaring out as he did a twirl. His heart beat faster. “I don’t know if I’m ready for a skirt.”
“Well, think about it. I have some cute ones and we’re the same size.”
Jerry was blushing so hard that Judy decided to change the subject.
“Want to see the short hair styles?” she said holding up the issue of Seventeen she’d brought.
“OK.”
Judy sat on the sofa and patted the place next to her. Jerry felt like a complete sissy, but, strangely, he didn't care. They finally agreed on a style that they both liked and that wouldn't require cutting his hair.
When Martha came in she heard girlish giggling coming from the bathroom. As she peered in, she saw Judy spraying and primping Jerry’s hair. She took a quick picture with her cell. The flash startled the children.
“Mom!”
“Who’s your stylist, sweetie?”
“Ah … This is Judy Michellini … my friend … I told you about her.”
“Hello Judy. You two look like you’re having fun. Have you been behaving.”
“Yes, mommy!”
“I don’t want to lie to you Mrs. C. We did try each other’s bras. I was jealous that Jerry’s chest looked bigger than mine and his new bra is so pretty. My mother says I’m too young for a push-up.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that seems harmless enough. I appreciate you telling the truth, Judy. Do you both have your own on now?”
“Yes,” they said together.
“Well, Judy, you seem to have some talent. Jerry’s hair is very pretty.”
“Thank you, Mrs. C.”
“We’ll be eating shortly. Would you like to join us, Judy?”
“I’ll have to ask my mother, but if she says okay, I would.”
And so began a life-long relationship.
It was a Monday morning and we were eating breakfast when Judy said, “Andy, remember how you helped me out by working with Dorothy on the kitchen remodelling?”
“Yes, Judy,” I said looking up from my soft-boiled egg and toast slice.
“By the way, are you happy with how it turned out? I mean is it everything you hoped for?”
“Yes, it is. All the appliances are wonderful. The new layout saves a lot of time – and the colors are so warm and cheerful.”
“I can tell. It seems to have lightened you mood. You don’t seem as resentful of taking care of the house.”
“Well, I’ve found ways of being creative – I mean with cooking and decorating and so on. Watching those videos you suggested opened my eyes.”
“I’m so glad. While I’ve complemented you on individual tasks and meals, I’ve neglected to say how much prettier the house is, and what an accomplished cook you’ve become. I really appreciate the effort you’ve put into homemaking.”
“Thank you, Judy.” I could not help but feel a warm glow at the complements.
“Back on point, I need your help with another task. You know how busy I am with the Rheinhard case.”
“Of course.”
“I’m thinking of buying some skirts and dresses. They give one a softer look, don’t you think?”
“Oh, yes, they do.” Judy wore nothing but various forms of trousers – pants suits, slacks, and shorts.
“I’m glad you agree. There are some catalogues on my desk. I want you to look through them. Familiarize yourself with the various fabrics, styles and colors and pick out what you like best. I want to please you, and I don’t have much experience with skirts, so don’t try to imagine what I’d like. Bookmark the skirts and dresses you like best. Look up any term you don’t understand, because I want an intelligent discussion this evening. Be prepared to tell me what you do and do not like and why. Ok, honey?”
“Do I really need to be involved? I mean, what do I know about skirts and dresses?”
“You’re always complaining that you want more input into decisions, so I’m trying to get you more involved – just as with the kitchen. Your aesthetic sense is better than mine. You have the time to do the research, while I don’t, and I want to buy dresses that please you.” Judy does not get angry, just impatient, and she was getting impatient.
“Ok. I’ll get to it after the breakfast dishes.”
“Thank you, sweetie.” She gave me a peck on the cheek and left.
I did the dishes, and brought a four-inch stack of catalogues to the kitchen table. After pouring a cup of coffee, I started. They were surprising, as the styles seemed too feminine for Judy. Maybe she wanted to soften her appearance? I looked at the backs and found that all the catalogues were addressed to Sandy Parker, her assistant. Maybe she’d just asked Sandy for some catalogues and hadn’t looked at them.
Sandy was tall, but very feminine – perhaps as a compensation for her height. Still, she was sweet, and I always got along well with her. Looking at her catalogues seemed very intimate – almost an intrusion into her privacy. Still, she must have volunteered them knowing I’d see them.
There were a lot to go through, so I decided to look at the pictures, pick out the few outfits Judy might like, read their descriptions, and then try to understand any unfamiliar terms. The trouble was, I couldn’t see Judy in anything in Sandy’s catalogues. Then I remembered that Judy asked me to ignore her taste and pick things I liked. With that in mind, I found that Sandy and I had similar tastes. I liked almost everything. Now I had a very different task: picking out the prettiest one or two dresses in each catalogue.
About noon I made myself a salad of fresh greens and feta cheese, along with a cup of green tea. I used to eat far more, but Judy was on my case to slim down. I’d gotten down to 135, which made her happy, and I did my best to stay there. You might think that’s a bit light for someone 5’ 7”, but I have a small frame and, even at 135, I have flab on my chest and rear. So, it's a reasonable weight for me.
I speeded up after lunch. By 5:30 I’d managed to get through the pile, bookmarking dresses I liked in each catalogue. I say 5:30, because that's when I start making dinner. By 6:30, when Judy came home I’d set the table with candles and a few flowers from the garden. I met her with a glass of chardonnay for each of us and listened as she told me about her day.
Dinner was baked salmon with dill, snow peas from the garden and rice pilaf, with an apple compote for dessert.
“Another excellent meal, sweetie. You’re a wonder! A born homemaker!”
Now I was both complemented and embarrassed. “I don’t know. I mean before they closed my department, I was in line for a promotion.”
“I know, dear! But you came home every day so tense and stressed out … you even had problems in bed. Don’t you feel more relaxed and creative now? … and I know you’re a lot more fun in bed.”
“I suppose I do … and am,” I said blushing. Judy had taken greater charge of our sex life lately. I enjoyed it, but it was embarrassing.
“I just love how demure you are, sweetie. … Now tell me how you’re progressing with your assignment. Have you found any dresses you want me to buy?”
“Well, I looked though all the catalogues, and I don’t think anything in them is your style.”
“I told you not to worry about that. I want to please you. Have you found anything you like?”
“I understand that. My tastes are different, so I found a number of dresses I liked. I bookmarked a few in each catalogue.”
“I’ll move my chair around while you clear the dishes and get the catalogues.”
“Yes, dear.” I hurried off to the kitchen with the dishes.
“Oh … and bring another bottle of chardonnay, sweetie.”
“Yes, dear.”
Judy kept our glasses filled as I showed her the dresses I especially liked.
She stopped me at one point to ask about a dress that I hadn't marked. “What about this one? Sandy said she bought it for herself and was quite pleased with it.”
“I do like it, but it has a lot of lace, so I didn’t think you would.”
“I told you, not to worry about what I would like. I want to please you! You’ve been doing such a great job.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. … So, if I can summarize, you like A-line and shirtwaist styles, full skirts, demure necklines, floral prints, and lengths from mid-calf to just above the knee. Is that fair?”
“Yes, generally.”
“OK, and what about fabrics?”
“Well, I looked up the fabrics I didn’t know, but it’s hard to choose as I have no experience with most of them.”
“Yes, I should have anticipated that. You need more experience wearing various fabrics before you can form a rational opinion. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes, dear, that sounds reasonable.”
“Good, I think we’ve made a lot of progress on the dress issue. I want to thank you for the good work you’ve done so far.” She reached out and took my hand, leading me to new adventures in the bedroom.
The catalogues were strangely interesting, so I continued to leaf through them for the rest of the week. I also researched fashions and fabrics online. I told myself that as a homemaker, I should know about such things.
Thursday a number of packages started arriving. They felt like clothes. When I phoned about them, Sandy told me Judy asked her to order them. I should put them aside until Friday, when Judy would return from Sacramento.
Judy argued her motions Friday morning, and managed to be home by 3:00. After greeting her, I asked about her trip. She told me the arguments had gone well and she expected to win her motion. I was about to ask about the packages when she did.
“Sweetie, did you get the packages Sandy ordered?”
“Yes, I put them on a shelf in our closet.”
“Well, they’re presents for you. Let’s go open them. I’m anxious to see what she bought you.”
“Presents? It’s not my birthday. … And why did Sandy buy them?”
“Yes I know. I told Sandy what kinds of things to get, but left the specifics to her. You know how busy I’ve been.
“I’ll explain. Remember Monday when we discussed what kind of dresses you’d like me to buy?”
“Of course.”
“You weren’t in a position to decide, because you have no experience with most of the fabrics used in female clothing. So, you agreed that you needed to experience a variety of fabrics.”
“Did I?”
“Yes … So, I asked Sandy to order you clothes made of a variety of fabrics so you could gain that experience, and voila!” she said, gesturing to the packages on the shelves.
I was getting nervous. “Female clothing” and Sandy being involved made me feel faint. I sat on the edge of our bed.
Meanwhile, Judy referred to a list on her phone, picked an over-stuffed envelope and said, “Let’s start with this one.”
I opened it slowly, as though dealing with an unexploded bomb. Inside was a garment of blue knit fabric with an elastic waist. A skirt? Was I being put in skirts? And Sandy knew? I was starting to hyperventilate. I calmed myself, then ripped open the clear plastic inner bag. A pair of slacks revealed themselves. The tag read: “Women’s 6L - 95% Polyester 5% Spandex - Egyptian Blue.” After fretting it might be a skirt, that they were pants was all that mattered.
“Let’s see how they fit, Andy.”
“You mean try them on?”
“Well, duh.”
Embarrassed, I slipped off my jeans.
“Boxers too,” she said while opening a smaller package.
By the time I stepped out of my boxers, Judy was holding a pair of white cotton panties.
“Panties?”
“Yes, size 6. Your boxers would bunch up and show under stretch slacks. So, I ordered you some plain panties.”
“You ordered them? Not Sandy?”
“Yes.”
I didn’t know why, but I didn’t want Sandy knowing I'd be wearing panties.
“Still, panties?”
“You knew you’d be wearing them sooner or later. The day has come.”
Did I? Not at a conscious level, but I supposed it was inevitable. I blushed as I pulled them up.
“Those slacks aren’t cut for boys, so tuck yourself back.”
I took her advice.
“You might as well wear a cami with your panties. Take off your top,” she said, opening another package. I imagined an embarrassing satin and lace confection, but the cami she handed me was like an ivory a-shirt, but with spaghetti straps. It’s cotton-lycra knit clung to my chest, hardening my nipples.
You might think I’d be embarrassed or excited, or both. I wasn’t. I was just numb, or rather overwhelmed with so many thoughts that I stood there like a dumb blond – which I am – blond, not dumb.
“Earth to Andy …” Judy was holding my new slacks for me to step into.
Once I pulled them up, they moulded themselves to my flat abdomen and round rear. The wide legs hung like a skirt. I broke into a smile, realizing I liked them very much.
“I think you like them, Andi.”
“Yes, I do.” I thought about it for a second. “They express who I am now – a male housewife.” I started to walk over to the mirror, when I realized I was stepping on the pant legs. The thought that my slacks might have to go back almost made me cry.
“They’re too long,” I said, my voice almost breaking.
“No, sweetie. They’re meant to be worn with heels.”
“Heels?”
“Yes, Andi. I’ll find them.” Referring to her phone again, Judy searched though the boxes.
“Ah, here we go.” She handed me the box. A shiny pair of black block-heeled Mary Janes greeted me.
“See if these fit.”
“What size are they?”
“9½.”
“I wear an 8.”
“Yes, when you wore men’s shoes. Now you're a 9½. Try them.”
“I need socks.”
“I could get you some peds or lace ankle socks, but you really don’t need socks with MJs. Just slip them on and buckle them up.”
As soon as I gained my balance, I discovered some thrilling things about my MJs. First, they gave my slacks a soft, elegant flow. Second, they made my rear more feminine. Finally, they made me as tall as Judy, who generally wore flats.
The last had a strange effect. Ever since I’d met her, I’d had to look up to see her eyes, and that made me feel … well … small, weak and submissive. Now, suddenly, dressed in lovely clothes, I felt equal at last. Instead of being an inadequate male, I was an adequate me -- whatever that was! A sissy? I didn't care. I was happy and fulfilled being the homemaking he/she I was.
“Judy, let me borrow some mascara, and your turquoise necklace. Then take me to dinner.”
It was a hot July day as I trudged up the hill to my fifth stop – the one furthest from State. The first decided that more money would be had by signing up with Airbnb, two others had been taken by the time I got there (so they said), and the fourth shut the door on me without explanation. Maybe I looked too scruffy.
When I got to the mail box, I could see the house through a tangle of eucalyptus, oleander and roses. It was a 1920s craftsman with short weeds and dirt in place of a lawn, about 100 feet back from the road. As I walked toward it, the roar and rumble of traffic lessened – partly absorbed by the trees and bushes, partly replaced by the whir and rattle of a swamp cooler.
I climbed the steps, pushed the button and heard what sounded like a fire bell in the back. The rusticity of the place struck me as the clip clop of heels approached. The door opened to reveal a brunette in blue shorts and a floral top through the screen. She was in her thirties.
“Good afternoon.”
“Hello, I’m Morgan Ross. I called about the room you’re renting for $100 a week.”
“Alice Beckworth.” She looked me over for a few seconds. “Are you a boy? I thought you’d be a girl.”
“Yeah, I get that a lot, but I’m not.”
“I wasn’t sure,” she smiled. “You see, I’m renting a girl’s room. It was my sister Barbara’s. I doubt you’d want it.”
“I’ve been dragging my suitcase all over town, and I’m really tired. So, I’d like to see it, if I may.”
She unhooked the screen and pushed it open. “The least I can do is offer you some cold lemonade … and you’re welcome to look at the room, but I don’t think you’ll like it.”
It was a relief to walk into the cool, damp air. I followed her through to the kitchen. It had a modern refrigerator, but the rest seemed as old as the house – glass front cupboards, spindle chairs and a enamelled steel table. The stove even stood on legs and had a match box on the side.
“This was my grandmother’s house. I moved in just after the New Year.”
“Its charming.”
“You think so?”
“I really do.”
“A lot of people wouldn’t appreciate it.”
“I’m sure. … I like old things. … They make you feel connected.”
“Here’s your lemonade. Tell me about yourself.”
“I’m 18 – as of today.”
“Happy birthday!”
“Thanks, Ms. Beckworth.”
“Alice, please.”
“Thanks, Alice. … Anyway, yesterday I was a foster child, but today I’m an adult … and my foster family stops getting paid. So, I’m out – looking for a place to stay.”
“That’s rude of them.”
“I think so. … I have a scholarship to State in September. … I get a stipend for room and board as well as tuition and books. In the meantime, I have enough cash for a couple of weeks and I’ll get a job at Mickey D’s or some such to cover the rent after that.”
“Well, the rent is nice, but I don’t really need it. I was hoping for a girl to give me a little company. I work from home, mostly – computer security.”
“I’m sorry I’m not a girl. … Maybe I should go so you can have a girl instead?”
“No, I can’t put you out. You seem nice enough, and I like talking to you. Finish your lemonade and I’ll show you the room.”
The room was most of the second floor, such as it was. I mean the roof cut in on both sides and it had no closet – only a small wardrobe and a chest of drawers. There was a white metal-frame bed, with a pink and lavender quilt, numerous floral pillows and a beautiful bisque doll. The walls were pale pink, the throw rugs plush, and the furniture, including a dressing table, white with gold trim. Degas ballerinas adorned the walls. A computer desk and office chair at the far end broke the feminine decor.
“The mattress is brand new – top of the line memory foam. … Well, what do you think?”
I sat on the bed to try it. “It’s beautiful! I like Degas. Your sister must have loved it!”
“She did.”
“Where is she now?”
“She died when she was about you age. A hit and run. They never caught the guy.”
“I‘m so sorry!”
“It was a long time ago. … So, is the room too beautiful for a boy?”
“Oh. You’d be surprised by the rooms Family Services put me in. So, no, it’s fine. I love that it means something to you – as it must have to your grandmother.”
“You’re sensitive for a boy. … You’ll take it?”
“Gladly! How many weeks do you want in advance?”
“One will do.”
I reached in my sock, took out five 20s and handed them to her. “Here. I’ll get my suitcase and unpack.”
“Oh, dear!”
“What?”
“I’m embarrassed to admit that I haven’t packed up Barbara’s things yet. I mean, it seems silly, but it’s hard … even now.”
“I understand. Look, as you can tell from the size of my suitcase, I really don’t have a lot of stuff. It’ll all fit in one drawer. I’ll just empty one and put her things in the other drawers.”
“No, I’ll do it,” she said softly. “You get your bag.”
When I returned, she had the middle drawer of the dresser half empty. Shorts and tops were piled on the floor. I helped her distribute them to the other drawers.
“I’ll try to do more later. Let me help you with your things.”
I was embarrassed by how shabby my clothes were, but I let her help because – well, I got a maternal vibe from her that I hadn’t felt for six years.
“Look, Morgan, I know it’s not your fault, but you don’t even have enough underwear for a week, and what you do have should be tossed. I know they aren’t very manly, but I found these panties Barb must have bought – they’re white and look like boys’ except they don’t have a fly. I think they’ll fit you. They won’t fit me. Why don’t you take them?”
It would have been rude to say no, and I didn’t have to wear them. “Ah, sure. Thanks.”
She handed me a 6-pack of Hanes Her Way panties. I didn’t expect what happened next. “Here, I’ll toss these for you,” she said, taking my tattered jockeys. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. … If you need more, help yourself – top drawer.”
“Ah, thanks,” I blushed.
“By the way, you could use a bath. You can have Barb’s robe. It’s in the wardrobe. She’d want you to have it. There’s a hamper in the bathroom. I do laundry every Monday.”
Alice was right. I must have smelled disgusting. I stripped to my jockeys. Barbara’s robe wasn’t overtly feminine – a yellow waffle weave. I opened the panties, held one to my waist to check the fit, and put it in the robe pocket.
There was one bathroom, on the ground floor. It had a clawfoot tub and no shower. A small doily-covered table held a soap dish, shampoo and other bath supplies. Washcloths filled its second shelf. Under the soap dish was a note that said, “Try a handful of bath salts.” I poured some into the tub, started the water and put my last jockeys in the hamper – pretty sure that I’d be wearing panties for a while. I don’t spend money I don’t need to.
Did I say that I have long hair? Well I do, and that’s the reason – I mean saving money. The county gave me a personal allowance for haircuts and other needs (like underwear), but skipping haircuts and making do with tattered undies helped me save what I was now spending on rent.
Foster home baths were rushed showers. Someone else always wanted to use the bathroom. So, I relaxed and soaked in the scented salts until the water cooled. For years I’d only used soap on my hair. (My foster parents didn’t “waste money” on shampoo.) It left my hair dull and limp. So, I gladly took advantage of the shampoo and conditioner. It was lilac, but who cared?
Maria, a girl at my last place, told me that I shouldn’t rub my hair with a towel, but wrap it and then blow it dry. So that’s what I did. The results were amazing! My hair’s naturally wavy, and when it was dry and combed out, it looked like I had a perm!
No one would see, so I put on my new panties, tucked myself away and looked in the mirror. Except for my flat chest, I looked every bit a girl – a pretty one. It wasn’t like I wanted to be a girl, but still, knowing I was pretty felt good. Weird!
All of a sudden, I felt embarrassed at the betrayal of my manhood. I untucked myself and immediately tented my panties. I wanted to relieve myself, but was afraid of reinforcing my girlish feelings. So, I put on my robe and went up to put on male clothes.
I passed Alice’s office on my way to the stairs.
“Oh, Morgan.”
“Yes?”
“You look nice. Come in so I can get a better look. … You smell nice as well. You have beautiful hair, dear. You should wear it loose like that all the time.”
“Ah, thank you, but I look like a girl with it this way.”
“Why should that matter?”
“Because I’m a boy?” I said with a hint of sarcasm.
“It’s not like you’re lying about who you are. Looking at you lifts my spirit. You’re like a flower that’s blossomed – and it’s wonderful! God created you to bring joy into the world. Don’t hide your beauty. It would be throwing away a gift.”
“Well, that’s fine, but if I go out like this, I’ll get beaten to a pulp as like as not.”
“That’s easy. When you go out you can put your hair back in your dreary ponytail. When you’re home you can let your beauty shine.”
“You think I’m beautiful?”
“Oh, yes!”
“It doesn’t bother you that I’m a boy who looks like a girl?”
“I wish you’d stop thinking in terms of boys and girls and start thinking in terms of being who God made you.”
“That makes sense, but it’s confusing.”
“I suppose it is. Let me ask you this: Do you like how your hair looks now? Honestly?”
“Honestly, I do,” I blushed.
“Well, then, since we both like it, why not wear it loose at home?”
“Okay, as long you don’t tease me.”
“It’s a deal!
“I’m making spaghetti and meatballs for dinner if that’s okay. It should be ready about 6:00.”
“Sure. Thanks.”
I went upstairs and hung up my robe. I caught a glimpse of an under endowed tomboy in the dressing table mirror as I set my phone alarm. I was wondering why I liked wearing panties as I fell asleep.
When my alarm went off, I put on clean jeans and a pale blue polo shirt that was too big for me. (It was a hand-me-down from a fifteen year-old who’d out grown it). In the kitchen, Alice was opening a can of pasta sauce, dumping in frozen meatballs and boiling spaghetti.
“It’s not fair for you to do all the cooking, Alice. I don’t have a job yet, and my mother taught me to cook before she died. Maria, a friend at the last place I stayed, taught me some Mexican dishes as well.”
“That’s very thoughtful, Morgan. We can talk about it over dinner. … Meanwhile, could you open the salad greens and slice a couple of tomatoes?”
“Sure.”
“I know you’re only 18, but if you like, we could celebrate your birthday and arrival with a glass of Lambrusco.”
“What’s Lambrusco?”
“An Italian red wine.”
“I’ve never had wine, but I’ll give it a go. Thanks.” I could hardly say no to celebrating my birthday.
We discussed my cooking skills over dinner. Most of what I could make was winter fare – chili, soups, pot roast, enchiladas and so on. The only summer dishes I knew, other than hot dogs and hamburgers, were chef, potato and pasta salad. Alice liked pasta salad, so I’d make it for the weekend. We’d buy the ingredients the next day.
“You know, Alice, this is a very special day for me. Yesterday I had little control over my life, and today I feel free. I have my own room. I took a bath that lasted more than five minutes, and I have a new friend.”
A tear appeared in her eye. “I have a new friend as well! Let’s drink to it.” She poured me a couple more inches of Lambrusco and we toasted.
“If you’ll wait in the living room, I have a surprise for you.”
“Okay, thanks.”
She brought out a small cake with 18 candles and sang happy birthday. I cried. She gave me a hug. After a plate of cake and ice cream, I went up to bed, exhausted.
Since it was warm, I just wore panties to bed. I couldn’t help running my hands over the fabric. They felt much better than jockeys. What did that – and my new hairstyle – say about me? Whatever it was, it excited me to a spontaneous climax. I’d had wet dreams, but this was the first time it happened while I was awake. I felt guilty, but after all, I was only wearing panties to save money.
I awoke to the smell of coffee. I put on my robe, and did my toilette. Alice was eating a bagel and reading an actual, paper newspaper.
“Mornin’, Morgan.”
“Good morning, Alice,” I returned, brushing my hair back with my hand.
“Oh, that reminds me, you were pushing your hair back all last night, so I found these for you – nothing girly – stainless steel.” She handed me a couple of hair clips.
I didn’t want hair clips, but I couldn’t be rude. “Ah, thanks.” I scurried off to put them on. They removed any doubt that I might be a boy, but as long as it was just Alice and me, what did it matter?
I poured myself some coffee and put a bagel in the toaster.
“Did you sleep well?”
“Yes, the mattress is very comfortable.”
Just then, the back door opened and a black woman in a beige pants suit entered.
“Hi Alice … and who is this lovely child?”
“Faye, this is Morgan, my new lodger. Morgan, Faye. She’s my across-the-street neighbor.”
Faye poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down. “Morgan, I must say what lovely hair you have.”
“Ah, thanks. That’s very kind of you. … Your suit is becoming as well.”
“That’s very sweet of you, dear. … What do you do, sweetie?”
“I have a scholarship at State this fall. I’m going to major in fine arts and hope to work in a museum or gallery. Meanwhile, I’ll start hunting for a peon job. You know, Mickey D’s or someplace like that.”
“Do you type, dear?”
“On a computer? Sure. Why?”
“I recently bought a medical practice, and old Dr. Stein never computerized his records, so there’s a ton of data to be entered. It requires attention to detail, as the lab results have to be 100% accurate. I just fired a temp who couldn’t cut it. You want to try?”
“What’s it pay?”
“Well, $12 an hour during a trial week, then $17.50 if you can hack it. … what do you think?”
“I think I could do it. I’m kind of obsessive about details. I’d like to give it a try.”
“Then get dressed. I’m leaving in ten minutes and you can come with me.”
So much for my job hunt! Even a day’s work would cover nearly a week’s rent. I changed into my newest jeans, the polo shirt I’d worn the previous night, and my beat up loafers. I finished by putting my hair into my usual low ponytail.
“Oh, Morgan, are you male?” asked Faye.
“I’m afraid I am. Does that mean you don’t want to give me a chance now?”
“No, I said I would, and I will, but you’d fit in better in your earlier hairstyle. I’m an OB-GYN, and a lot of patients prefer an all-woman office. Still, you can wear your hair as you like.”
“I guess as long as it’s only women, it’d be okay. Guys tend to give me a hard time because of my voice, features, and ah, other things – even with my hair like this. … Give me a minute and I’ll brush it out.” Five minutes later, we were humming into town in Faye’s Prius.
Her office was in a stately home on a now busy street. A lawn sign said, “Faye Matthews, M.D., OB-GYN” along with her phone number and email. Inside, I met Bobbie, her grey-haired receptionist, and Mattie, a newly minted nurse-midwife who didn’t look much older than me. She had striking green eyes, flaming red hair and an Irish lilt.
“Mattie, Morgan will be entirely your responsibility. … Morgan, do as Mattie instructs. She’s your supervisor.”
“Yes, doctor,” we both said.
I wanted to dig in, but it was only 8:45 and the office didn’t open until 9:00, so the ladies wanted to chat.
“Is this your first job, darlin’?” asked Mattie.
“Well, my first fulltime job. I worked in the school library and also did some babysitting.”
“So, yer still livin’ at home, then?”
“No, I’m an orphan. Yesterday was my 18th birthday and my first day out of foster care. I’m renting a room across the road from Faye, er, Dr. Matthews.”
“A belated happy birthday to ya, then.”
“We must take you to lunch to celebrate,” added Bobbie.
“Thank you, but you needn’t.”
“We insist!”
“That’s very kind.”
By then the phone was ringing, so Bobbie got busy. Mattie showed me what to do. I’d be working in a corner behind the reception counter. She’d check my work and answer questions when she had a chance. My first task would be to check all the data “the previous girl” had entered.
Faye hadn’t mentioned my gender in introducing me. Now, I was embarrassed to say I was a boy with feminine hair – not to mention panties. It wasn’t lying to let people believe what they wanted.
The morning was busy. I shut out distractions and focused on my work. I found seven errors by “the previous girl.” Mattie had already found four, which were to serve as a test, and was quite impressed that I’d found three more.
The office closed from noon to 1:30. Mattie and Bobbie bought me lunch at a nearby Mexican place. Bobbie left about 12:45, leaving Mattie to have a private chat with me.
“Morgan, darlin’, I’m very impressed by your maturity and work ethic, but there are a few things you need to address.”
“Yes?”
“Well, I suppose you don’t have a lot of clothes. Mightn't it be that these are your best?”
“You’re right, they are. My foster parents didn’t believe in buying a lot of clothes. So, I mostly got hand-me-downs.”
“They aren’t very professional, darlin’. You look like a tomboy – no offense intended.”
“None taken. I’m planning on buying better clothes when I get paid.”
“One other thing – it’s a wee bit personal – but even one as under endowed as you can’t come to work without a bra. It just isn’t done, darlin’. If you mother were alive, she’d be telling you the same thin’.”
I could only blush in response.
“No need to be embarrassed. I’m proposin’ to take you to Walmart and buy you proper office clothes. You can repay me when you get flush.”
“Proper clothes?”
“Slacks, a blouse, bra and decent shoes.”
“Well, I …”
“No excuses. I insist – your dress detracts from the professionalism o’ the practice.”
“Mattie, really, I don’t need a bra. I have noting to put in it, I’m …”
“There’s no need to be embarrassed, darlin’ you’re not the only flat chested girl on God’s green earth.”
“Mattie – please! Let me explain. I’m not a girl.”
She suddenly became quiet, and looked me up and down. “You want to be a boy, Morgan?”
“Well. Whether I want to or not, that’s how God made me.”
“Oh my! I’m sorry darlin’. Me and my big mouth … I thought …”
“Well, you’re not the first, and won’t be the last. I’m taken for a girl more often than not. That’s why I don’t bother to correct people – it’s pointless.”
“So, if it is not pryin’, why are you wearin’ your hair like that?”
“Well, Faye, er … Dr. Matthews came over this morning before I put it into my ponytail, and thought I was a girl. That is when she offered me the job. When she found out I was a boy, she told me her patients preferred an all-female office, and said I’d fit in better with my hair loose. I figured no one would ask.”
“Well, blend in you do, darlin’. It’s not just your hair, sweetie. You have a feminine way with you.”
“Thank you, but that’s not how bullies describe it when they beat me up.”
“Well, there are no bullies here or at the office.”
“I’m glad of that, but I’m still scared of looking more feminine that I do.”
“Still, we have the problem, darlin’. You need to dress more professionally. How about somethin’ unisex?”
“Like what?”
“Scrubs would work.”
“That sounds fine, but I don’t have a lot of money until I get paid.”
“Don’t worry Norris’s, where I shop, usually has irregulars you might afford.”
“OK, I’m in your hands.”
Norris’s was a uniform shop with everything from police to maid’s uniforms. Mattie led me to a rack of scrubs. I was taken aback to see that the tops alone were over $20.
“I don’t know if I can afford this, Mattie.”
“The irregulars are a lot cheaper.” At one end of the rack was a small selection of $12.99 sets. The only small one was “Light Thistle,” a kind of orchid. So that’s what I got. Mattie gave it to me as a birthday present – the first I could remember. On the way back, we stopped at Walmart and she added a pair of $9.99 white canvas shoes. That doesn’t sound like very much, but I thought of it as a five-meal outlay – that’s how many I’d skip to pay for the outfit. I was very grateful.
We walked back to work and I changed into my scrubs. About 2:30, Dr. Matthews was called to attend a birth. Mattie took over the check ups and drove me home at the end of the day.
Alice was concentrating on her work, but looked back to see who’d came in. When she saw me, she swiveled her chair. “You’re really cute in that. The color suits you.”
“Ah … thanks.”
“There’s mac and cheese in the fridge. The directions are on the package. Be a doll and nuke it when you come back down.”
“Sure.”
In my room, I saw how I looked for the first time. I did look cute. Orchid was “my color.” That would have been delightful if I were a girl – but I wasn’t. I changed into jeans and a tee to reaffirm my masculinity before going down.
I set the table and, when dinner was ready, called Alice. She opened a bottle of white cabernet and poured me a glass. As we ate, she asked me about my day. It was nice to have someone be interested in what I did. As we chatted, she kept refilling my glass, so I got over my usual shyness. I suppose that’s why I told her about Mattie saying I needed a bra. It just came out. She chuckled, but then gave me a reflective look.
“I think you’d look much cuter with a pair of knockers, sweetie.”
“Knockers?”
“Boobs, dear … breasts.”
“But, I’m a boy.”
“A very pretty boy.”
By then we had finished our dinner – and the cabernet. “Humor me, Morgan, I want to see how you’d look in a bra.”
“I can’t wear a bra.”
“I don’t see why not. You have a chest, don’t you? Let’s go up and see.” She grabbed my hand and gently pulled me along. When we got to my room, she rummaged through the bureau and found a lacy beige bra – an A-cup I was to learn.
“You can have this one.”
She pulled my tee over my head, threaded my arms through the bra straps, and fastened it behind me. Surprisingly, I filled the cups without padding.
“Not too tight?”
“No, but …”
“But me no buts! … Let’s see … I know.” She rummaged further and found a white knit top. It molded itself to my enhanced chest. “Take a look!” She said turning me to the mirror. “You’re beautiful!”
I saw a girl I’d like to date, but would be too shy to ask.
“Well? Don’t you look good?”
“Yes, but it’s embarrassing.”
“Embarrassing? Why?”
“Because boys aren’t supposed to look ‘beautiful.’”
“But, it is all you, sweetie. Like it or not, you do look this good.”
I started crying. I didn’t know why, but it made Alice decide she’d gone too far.
“I’m sorry, sweetie. I was just having a bit of fun.”
“I know. I’m not mad.”
She helped me out of the top and bra, and back into my tee. “I’m sorry,” she repeated as she closed the door behind her.
The next morning, I got up early and made coffee and pancakes.
“What did I do to deserve this?” Alice asked.
“I wanted to make up for my behavior last night.”
“Your behavior? I was the one that crossed the line. I think I wanted to bring my sister back.”
“No, you were just having fun. The problem is, I was too embarrassed to let you know how I really felt, and why I cried.”
“I’m confused.”
“I was too. Maybe that’s why I cried. Maybe it was because while people have always taken me for a girl, you were the first to make me feel like it was a good thing. … Anyway, what I was too embarrassed to say was … I liked how I looked in the bra and top. But, it was a shock. It broke a lot of self-delusions.”
“Self-delusions?”
“Yes. I told you I was picked on a lot. Bullies called me all kinds of names, but I kept telling myself that they were wrong – that I was a boy who just had the misfortune of looking girlish. … Well, last night, seeing myself with breasts, with knockers, … well I liked how I looked.”
“You looked pretty damned good, Morgan.”
“Yeah … and I liked it … So, I realized that I really am a sissy.”
“’Sissy’ is a pretty harsh word, dear. How about we say you’re ‘feminine’ until we come up with something better?”
“Okay.”
Friday, Faye gave me an advance on my pay. The next morning I opened a bank account and got a debit card. These were milestones for me. I was making my own way in the world.
With a bit of money in hand, I decided to buy some clothes. At first, I thought I’d get jeans and a button shirt, but when it was 10:00 and already in the 90s, I decided to buy shorts instead. I didn’t know that by late July stores are already stocking fall and winter clothes. Bermudas were being closed out, with none in my size. I recalled seeing shorts in women’s wear, and was looking at them when an associate came over.
“These won’t fit you, miss. You’re not full-figured enough. Look in Misses,” she said, indicating an overhead sign.
“Thank you.”
I found a jumble of shorts being closed-out at 3 for $10. They were slimmer than the ones I’d been looking at. I guessed I was an M, and found mauve, navy and white pairs. Since all sales were final, I went to try them. I suppose the dressing rooms were women’s, but no one questioned me. My penis ruined the shorts’ look, but they fit well enough after I tucked myself back. My heart raced at the thought of buying myself women’s clothing. I looked at matching tops, but couldn’t go that far. Instead, I bought some pastel polo shirts.
For the next few weeks, I dressed on the feminine side of androgynous. At home I wore my new shorts and polo shirts. One evening, I tried the bra Alice gave me. She said I looked more natural, and I realized I felt more myself. I never wore a bra to work, and everyone knew I was male. Still, they treated me like one of the girls, and I liked the sense of belonging. I was loosing my balance on the gender tight rope.
I filled in as receptionist when Bobbie took a break or had a sick day. That’s how I met Mary Astoria, a single accountant in her first trimester. Faye had been called out and Mattie had not yet returned. Being the only two in the office, Mary and I started chatting. We shared an interested in art, but she was much more knowledgeable. After her check up, she came over to schedule her next appointment.
“Morgan, there’s a new exhibit at the Bower. It would be a lot more fun to go with a friend. Would you like to join me?”
“Sure, when?”
“Saturday. I could pick you up for breakfast, and then drive into the city?”
“That sounds lovely.”
That Saturday the forecast high was 104, so I wore my white shorts with a lavender polo. When I went down to wait for Mary, Alice stopped me.
“Morgan, dear, you can’t go dressed like that!”
“Why not? It’s going to be too hot for jeans.”
“Two reasons. First, you need to shave you legs. Second, I can see the rose print on your panties.”
“What?”
“Go look in the mirror. You can only wear white, pale pink, or beige under white, dear. Anything darker shows through.”
I ran and looked. You could see the print on my panties clear as day – and my fuzzy legs just looked wrong. “Oh dear! … I haven’t got time to shave my legs. She’ll be here any minute.”
“Run along and do it. I’ll give your friend a cup of coffee and talk to her.”
Ten minutes later, I was back with smooth legs and navy shorts. Mary and Alice were chatting – about me. I wasn’t sure what had been said, but I knew I had to be honest with Mary about who – or what – I was.
As we were walking to her car, I said, “Before we go, I want you to know that I’m really a boy.”
“You mean you have a penis?”
“Well, yes.”
“I didn’t know that, but I think you told me something untrue?”
“What?”
“That you’re really a boy. I’ve met thousands of people and I’d quite clear to me that you’re really a girl, even if you happen to have a penis. … so I hope that is the end of it!”
“Of it?”
“Of you expecting me to think you’re a boy. … Do you have a bra?”
I blushed.
“Well, go in and put it on. Then we can be proper girlfriends.”
I did. It was the first time I left the house in a bra. At first, I was very self conscious, but as the day wore on, I realized that I drew less, not more, attention. No one was trying to figure out if I was male or female. We had a lovely time, and kissed each other on the cheek as we parted.
Soon we were meeting weekly for a movie or an outing to a museum or gallery.
One Saturday we took in an art film after visiting the museum. By the time we finished dinner, we were both too tired to drive back. So, we decided to stay overnight. Mary knew I didn’t have much money, so she invited me to share her room. We hadn’t expected to stay over, so neither of us packed anything. We both stripped down to our underwear for bed. Mary was tired of wearing her bra, and so took it off without hesitation. Hers were the first breasts I’d seen – and they were beautiful.
“You remember I’m a male?”
“I remember we’re both girls, but one of us has some extra bits.”
We shared a bed and cuddled, but nothing more happened.
By mid August, I was coding the last of the old files. Faye, Dr. Matthews, told me that, other than a little filing, she had no more work for me. She’d pay me for the rest of the week, but I needn’t come in after I finished the filing. I’d saved over $1500, and felt quite wealthy. Still, I’d miss Mattie and Bobbie. Maybe we’d have lunch sometime.
School was going to start in two weeks, so I couldn’t commit to another fulltime job. I was thinking of signing up with a temp agency when Mary invited me to go up north with her to visit her parents. We’d take the scenic route and see the coast, which she said was spectacular. I hadn’t gone anywhere since my mom died, so I agreed.
She wanted to leave Saturday at dawn, so she picked me up Friday after she finished work. When she picked up my suitcase to put it in her trunk, she said, “This feels pretty light. What have you packed?”
I told her.
“Nothing to wear out? No nitie?”
“Out? Nitie?”
“Yes, my parents will take us to dinner and you’ll need something nice to wear, and you can’t sleep in your bra and panties – you’ll need nightwear.”
“Maybe I should just stay home?”
“Nonsense! I already told my parents that I was bringing my girlfriend.”
“So they think I’m a girl?”
“Well, you are! I mean we go everywhere with you as a girl and you’re wearing a bra as we speak.”
“Yeah, but I was going to take it off before we arrived. I was thinking of being a boy while we were there.”
“See, the thing is, they’re worried about me, because since I got pregnant and John left, they think I’m alone and won’t be able to take care of myself and the baby. I told them not to worry because I have a girlfriend to rely on.”
“Me?”
“Yes, Morgan, you.”
“No one has ever relied on me before. It makes me feel special.” I teared up a bit.
“Look, I’m not putting anything on you. … Well, I guess I am, but not about me and the baby. … I mean, it would just take a load off my parents’ minds if they thought I had someone down here to rely on. … If you could pretend to be that person.”
“Well, you can rely on me. I'm your friend, and I’ll be here for you when the baby comes.”
Now Mary teared up and hugged me. “Thank you,” she whispered, and kissed my cheek.
We drove quietly for a while before she said, “Then, we’re back to what you’ll wear. Let me take you to TJ Maxx and get you a couple of things.”
“I have money.”
“We both know I have more – and besides you wouldn’t need anything if I hadn’t put you in this situation.”
“Ok.”
We started with a skirt and blouse to wear out in daytime. I wanted one that came below my knees. Mary said I was too young to be so conservative, and insisted I get a mini. We compromised on a fuchsia poplin skort that buttoned down the front. A white sleeveless blouse with a lace bodice completed the outfit. I never felt so girlish before.
“Now you need a dress for dinner. My parents will take us someplace fancy.”
Again, I looked at long dresses, and, again, Mary insisted on something mid-thigh. I found a tie-neck dress the right length, but Mary vetoed it because the color was too close to my fuchsia skort. Instead, she got me an ivory smocked babydoll dress with a sepia floral print. A white pettislip went under it.
The one long thing I got was a pink flannel nightgown with violets.
Finally, we looked at shoes. My white canvas sneakers didn’t go with my dress. Since I’d never wore heels, Mary decided on 2” block heels, and then looked for a black pair, as they’d be the most versatile. I wound up with a choice between pumps and sandals and couldn’t make up my mind. Mary bought me the pumps and I bought myself tan wedge sandals.
I’d need a purse, so I found a tan shoulder bag and a black clutch.
Once we were back in her car, Mary said, “Put your wedges on. You need to learn how to navigate in heels – besides they make your legs sexy.”
I thought we were done, but Mary stopped at Walmart to get me lipstick, nail polish and a manicure set. I liked walking in heels. They made me feel taller, and, like my bra, more feminine. A twenty-something guy even checked out my legs as we walked by – not just a quick glance, like I’d gotten before, but a lingering look.
“Did you see that guy ogling you?”
“Yes,” I blushed.
“How did it make you feel?”
“Honestly? Kind of nice, but weird. … I mean, I like being attractive, but I’m not sure how I feel about a guy wanting me.”
“Well, you’re a real cutie, so you need to figure it out.”
“I suppose so.”
Back at Mary’s apartment, we changed into our nities. She was in a talkative mood – mostly about her baby. Mary was a little afraid of giving birth, but mainly she talked about how different her life would be once the baby was born – how complicated being a single working mom would be. It would be best if the baby were breastfed, but she wasn’t sure how she could do it and work at the same time.
I imagined myself in her place – having a baby, breastfeeding it, and working – or, in my case, going to school. It wouldn’t be easy.
After she talked herself out, she gave me a mani-pedi. I’d be in female mode for a while, so I let her. I wound up with burgundy nails, with a shine like a new car. I was uneasy with my nails, but, by morning, I wondered why I hadn’t done them before. Happily, my new lipstick matched.
We left as the sun was kissing the mountain peaks – headed to Santa Barbara. We stopped at a coffee shop for breakfast, then on to Morro Bay for an early lunch overlooking the bay and the famous morro. It was fun watching the seals play and the pelicans swooping for fish.
Our next stop was San Simeon, the former home of William Randolph Hearst, a newspaper magnate in the 1930s. Given our common interest in art, we had to take the tour and shop. Our group was mostly retired people except for Ron and Don, two brothers from L. A. Ron was in his early twenties. Don looked about my age.
At every stop, they stood near us. Ron was very charming and obviously interested in Mary. Soon the two of them were chatting, ignoring Don and me. I felt sorry for Don. After a couple of stops I said. “It looks like we’re in the same boat.”
“Yeah, I think he’s smitten with your sis. He’s not usually like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like ignoring me. What about your sis?”
“Oh, Mary’s not my sis. She’s just a friend. We’re going up to the Bay area to visit her folks for a couple of weeks.”
“Oh. … I have to be honest … Ron said I should talk to you.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Cuz, you’re out of my league.”
“What!?”
“Yeah, you’re so perfect and probably in college.”
“Why, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m going to be a senior next month.”
“I’ll be starting college, but that shouldn’t make a difference.” I was trying to give him confidence, like a maiden aunt would.
“Really?”
“Of course, you’re handsome and intelligent enough.”
By the time we finished the tour and shopping, it was too late to start the torturous section of California 1 ahead, so we retreated to Cambria for a bit of tourism, dinner and bed. We agreed to eat together after checking in.
As we walked to the restaurant, Don and Mary lead the way. He put his arm around her and she leaned into him a bit. Ron had gotten more relaxed with me and held my hand. It was innocent enough, so I let him. He didn’t say much, but I noticed him sneaking looks at my diminutive breasts and, occasionally, my legs. When he saw that I’d caught him looking, he apologized.
“I’m sorry,” he said, embarrassed.
“Why should you be? It’s kind of a complement, you know – I mean to have someone think you’re attractive.”
“Oh … I’m glad you’re not mad.”
“I’m not – as long as you behave like a gentleman.”
“I want to, but I’m not sure what that actually means?”
I thought for a while about the complaints I’d heard in foster care and during my time in Fay’s office. “I suppose it means asking before touching, or at least taking ‘no’ seriously.”
“That seems simple enough.”
Don and Mary sat on one side of the booth, and Ron and I on the other. It was the first time I’d been so close to a boy (dressed as a girl I mean), and I wasn’t sure how I felt. I mean I liked him so far, and I was glad he thought I was pretty, but, beyond that, I wasn’t attracted to him.
I could see that Don was doing something under the table, and Mary seemed to be enjoying it. I wondered if they would be spending the night together … and if they did, did that mean that she expected Ron and me to share the other room? I could see that Ron was getting anxious as well. After that, it seemed that they rushed through their meal.
“Here, Ron,” Don said as he passed his credit card across. “Why don’t you treat Morgan to dessert. Then you two can spend some time together. I’ll give you a call after Mary and I have had some adult time. Ron and I both blushed, but there was nothing we could do but nod.
“Well, Morgan, what do you want for dessert?”
“I’m stuffed, but you go ahead.”
Ron was a growing boy, so he ordered apple pie a la mode. He finished, paid the bill and we went for a walk on the now quiet street. It was warm, so we sat on a bench and looked at the stars. For some reason, I shivered. Ron pulled me close and put an arm around me. It felt good, not arousing. I smiled up at him. He bent down and kissed me. I liked it. Soon we were kissing passionately. He was fondling my breast through my blouse, and I was aroused. I was about to come in my panties when his phone rang.
“OK. Thanks, I’ll walk her back.”
I didn’t know what I expected to happen, but I was disappointed that it didn’t. When we got to my room, Ron gave me a passionate kiss with a lot of tongue, and I did mess my panties – my first orgasm with another person – and it was with a boy. I was so embarrassed I wanted to hide. I thanked him breathlessly and rushed inside.
“Well, did you have a good time?” Mary asked, before seeing my damp shorts. “Oh, I see you did!
“I am sorry to have pulled that on you, but I hadn’t had a man since I got pregnant. … No chance of that now,” she laughed. “So, have decided you like boys?”
“No, I decided I like being kissed and … well, having my breasts, such as they are, fondled. I didn’t really think about Ron’s … you know.”
“His cock, sweetie?”
“Yes, I didn’t think about it at all.”
“Well, that’s all I thought about with Don. … So, would you have had as good a time with a girl?”
“Well, I’ve thought about sex with a girl.”
“Sweetie, as one who’s shared a bed with you, that’s all you’ve done. I don’t think you want sex with a woman – not like most guys.”
“I guess not.”
“Take your after-sex shower and let’s go to bed.”
“Ok.”
The next morning we met the guys for breakfast, and, after some passionate kissing in the parking lot, headed our separate ways – we up the coast, they down.
We drove up Route 1, taking in the spectacular views. Mary wanted to talk about our recent adventure.
“About last night …”
“Yeah?”
“I’d rather you not mention it to my folks.”
“I wasn’t planning to. Besides, I’d rather forget about Ron and …”
“Why?”
“Because it was gay.”
“Not if you’re a girl … and even if it was, what’s wrong with that?”
“I don’t know. I don’t even know what I am.”
“Well, last night should help you figure it out.”
“I guess.”
“Was that your first time with a boy?”
“It was my first time kissing anyone like that.”
“Would you like to do it again?”
“Well, as long as it didn’t go a lot further.”
“A little further would be ok?”
“Yes,” I blushed.
“But not a lot?”
“No.”
“Do you even know what that means?”
“Well, I know that I’d probably get the crap beaten out of me if a guy got in my panties.”
“Depends on the guy.”
“I suppose so.”
“I notice you’re wearing lipstick today.”
“I ah … Yes, it makes me feel prettier.”
“That a girl! … Should I find you another virgin boy to seduce?”
“I didn’t seduce him … he kissed me.”
“And you kissed him back?”
“Yeah. I didn’t want him to stop.”
“The same with me and Don. … And he fondled your breast?”
“Yes.”
“Without your bra?”
“No, through my blouse.”
“But you liked it?”
“Yes … it made me feel … I’m not sure.”
“Did you want him to?”
“What?”
“Take off your bra?”
“Part of me did, but then he’d know I’m a boy.”
“But, you’re a girl. I keep telling you.”
“Well, I’m made like a boy.”
“Have you ever thought of doing something about that?”
“What do you mean?”
“Growing your tits?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re already wearing a bra. You might as well have decent tits in it. If you like your boyish breasts being fondled, trust me, you’d love real tits. How about it?”
She pulled into a turnout with a magnificent ocean view. “Hand me my purse. … Here take two of these.”
“I don’t do drugs.”
“It’s not a drug – not that kind anyway. Here’s some water. Down the hatch.”
“What was that?”
“Birth control pills – we don’t want you getting pregnant.
“You know I can’t.”
“Of course, but it’s going to help you in another way – growing tits. BC pills are female hormones. … Since I’m already pregnant, they’re no use to me. So you might as well take the lot.” She handed me a plastic case and six foil disks with pills to be punched out. “Take two a day until we can get you a proper prescription.”
I put the pills in my purse. They were so small. I doubted they’d do anything beyond making me feel more feminine. “Ah, thanks.” That was all there was to it. I took two a day as a kind of make Morgan more fem game – not expecting anything to happen.
We arrived at the Astoria house just after 1:00. It was a modest house for the neighborhood, which happened to be a gated community. The Astoria’s place had a pool and backed onto a golf course.
Mary’s parents, John and Kate, looked me over, maybe to see if I was pregnant too, then me greeted warmly. They were more chilly towards her. She’d told me they were very traditional and attended some sort of evangelical church. They weren’t happy that their only child hadn’t remained a virgin, but was bearing “a child out of wedlock,” as they put it. I was surprised they didn’t call their grandbaby a bastard, as that seemed to be how they thought of him/her.
Mary’s pregnancy wasn’t a big thing for me as a couple of my foster sisters had been pregnant. They seemed no better or worse than any of the other kids. Also, a lot of the expectant women in Faye’s practice were single. It might be better to have two parents, but I’d have been happy to have even one.
The greeting set the tone for the rest of the afternoon, which was formal and often strained. I was caught in the middle, with Mary using me as a buffer, while her parents tried to hold me up as a model of virtue – especially after I made the mistake of answering some intrusive questions.
“Morgan dear, where did you and Mary meet?” Kate asked.
“I worked at a doctor’s office and met her there.”
“Well, at least you were there because you got yourself knocked up,” John sniped.
“I don’t think anyone gets themselves knocked up, Mr. Astoria.” I wanted to defend my friend, but still be polite.
“I suppose not,” he reflected.
“I think John meant that you’re not the kind of girl who has sex before marriage,” Kate said, feigning a compliment.
“I suppose not. I’ve only kissed one boy.”
“Good for you dear,” she responded. I wondered what she would think if she knew I was a boy.
“Mary, you should try to be more like Morgan.”
Mary rolled her eyes, but said nothing. I was so incensed that I was about to tell them I was a boy, but remembered my promise to Mary and held my tongue. Later she apologized for her parents.
I suppose they felt they’d made their point. Anyway, they played nice after that. Later we had a home cooked meal with salad, pot roast and apple pie, and the conversation was casual and easy. As we were finishing our pie, John announced that we’d be going out for dinner the following night.
“I have a treat for you as well,” Kate announced. “I’m treating you girls to shopping and the salon tomorrow.”
“Thank you, mother.”
“That’s very kind of you, Kate.”
As Mary and I were dressing for bed, Kate knocked once and came into our room. A few seconds earlier, and she would have seen the bulge in my panties, but I had just put on my pink nitie.
“Morgan, dear, since you’re an orphan and just starting out in the world, I’d like to get you a few things tomorrow. You know, some simple accessories – to make up for my earlier behavior. I wonder what you’ll be wearing for dinner tomorrow?”
“I appreciate the thought, but you needn’t get me anything, Kate. I mean, I don’t wear jewelry.”
“Nonsense! I insist.”
I showed her my new dress and black pumps.
“What a cute dress! It will show off your lovely legs perfectly. … Sleep tight, girls.” She kissed us both and left.
“So, that’s what it’s like to have a mother,” I reflected.
“Yes – both frustrating and endearing.”
We started the next morning about 9:00, driving to the local mall.
“I always get Mary earrings when she visits. A girl never has too many.”
I followed along patiently, not paying a lot of attention. The next I knew I was sitting on a stool in The Ringing Belle having my ears double pierced. It was only when I saw double pearl studs in the mirror that I wondered how I could go back to being a boy with my ears pierced like that.
I was still wondering when we went into Macy’s.
“Morgan, you have a cute dress, but it needs accessorizing. So, I’m getting you a string of pearls – as a memento of your trip.”
I looked at Mary, hoping she’d stop her mother from wasting her money on a pearls for boy.
She smiled broadly. “I agree, mom. A pearl necklace would complete Morgan’s look and they would go perfectly with hi…r new studs.”
Kate didn’t catch Mary’s little slip, but I almost freaked. I emerged from my panic to hear Kate saying “… this one, Morgan?” She was pointing to a strand of pearls in the case. Not having head the question, I replied, “Oh, they’re so pretty, Kate.”
“Then you shall have them!”
“Mrs. Astoria, Kate, I really don’t need pearls. I’d have no where to wear them at home.”
“Nonsense, you can wear them on dates.”
I again looked anxiously at Mary, who only seemed amused at my plight. I left wearing my new pearls. Despite wondering what I’d do with them once I got home, I loved how special I felt and how pretty they made me look.
We had a salad in the food court and then left for the salon, where we spent the afternoon. The operator showed me a book of styles. I really liked one called a braided crown. The picture showed it decorated with little flowers woven into the braid, but she said it would be difficult to care for. It would be best for a special occasion and if I really liked it, I could have it for my wedding day. I blushed.
“I leave myself in your hands, Hanah.”
“Since you like braids, what if I give you a French braid with tendrils?”
I wasn’t sure what that was, but it turned out to be gorgeous. My hair was braided down my back with little curls hanging down over either temple. Unfortunately, she gave me bangs so I couldn’t return to my male ponytail. Still, I couldn’t imagine looking so good as a boy.
When Mary and I got back to our room, I wanted to be mad at her. “Look what you’ve done to me! How can I go back to being a boy with my ears pierced like this and bangs? Bangs! What kind of boy has bangs?”
“The kind of boy who’s a girl. Come on! I saw how happy you were when you looked in the mirror at the salon. And you love your pearls too – studs and all. Tell the truth … You like being pretty, don’t you?”
“Well, yes … But, how can I be a boy?”
“Do you want to be?”
I didn’t answer because I didn’t know.
That evening, I didn't feel at all like a boy as walked into Le Papillon in my new dress, pearls and heels. I imagined how Ron would react if he saw me now. I didn’t have long to wait – not that Ron was there, but a boy my age at the next table couldn’t take his eyes off of me. I was thrilled and exited to be so attractive, but, still, that a boy was attracted was confusing.
I took my pills every morning before Mary and I relaxed at her parents’ house, shopped, or did the tourist thing in San Francisco. Even in summer it’s too cold for a skirt or shorts in San Francisco, so Kate bought me a cute pair of embroidered jeans and a matching jacket that cost her a fortune. Mary insisted on flirting with any boys who took an interest in us. At first, I was shy and embarrassed, but by the end, I decided flirting was fun. It always made me feel pretty and interesting, and reminded me of kissing Ron. It wasn’t that I was attracted to boys sexually, but still, I enjoyed how they made me feel.
Our last night we had a home-cooked dinner and the conversation became serious. Mary’s parents wanted her to come home to have her baby, but she was happy living on her own.
“But, who’ll help you when the baby comes?” Kate asked.
Mary didn’t respond immediately, so I jumped in. “I’m going to go to birthing classes with Mary and be her birthing coach. I can also help take care of it.”
“Yes, that’s the plan. Morgan will be there for me.”
Now it was said and confirmed. You don't really think things out when you're just 18.
We left after breakfast Sunday and took the direct route. Mary dropped me off about 6:00, dressed in short shorts and wedge sandals. I had my pearls in my purse, but my studs needed to stay in until the piercings healed, which wouldn’t be for weeks.
“Well, aren’t you pretty!” Alice said warmly as I walked by the kitchen. “I love your hair – and pierced ears as well. … Sit down, let’s chat. … I’m baking a frozen pizza. … There’s enough for two. … So, did you give up on being a boy?”
“I really don’t know, Alice. I mean it’s not like I want to date boys … or maybe I do, but not let it go too far.”
“Well, that’s easier said than done. You’ve never talked about dating before – boys or girls. Did you have a date on your trip?”
“Well, not a date, but I did spend an evening with a boy and – this is so embarrassing – I had a good time.”
“Well, there you go sweetie. There’s nothing wrong with a boy liking boys.”
“Yeah, but I think I’d have liked being with a girl just as much – if she thought I was pretty.”
“You spent two weeks with your friend Mary. How did that go?”
“We’re not like that. We’re, well … girl friends.”
“I see. … You know school starts tomorrow, and looking at you, I don’t think anyone’s going to believe you’re a boy.”
“I suppose not. … I was thinking of going unisex.”
“Well, you should have thought of that when you got your ears pierced and your hair done – which is lovely by the way.”
“Thank you, I really like how it looks. … Thinking about it’s made me tired. I’m going to bed.”
“Well, you know you’re welcome to any of Barb’s clothes. Good night, sweetie.”
I found some curl clips in the bureau, wound up my tendrils, and crawled into bed.
I woke early. One look in the mirror confirmed that I needed to dress as a girl. My skort was wrinkled, so I remembered Alice’s offer and looked in the wardrobe. I picked out a pale lime blouse and a rose skirt. The colors went well with each other and with my complexion. My white tennis shoes finished a casual look. I was about to go downstairs when I decided to add lipstick. No trace of male Morgan was left.
Faye came in for her morning coffee and agreed to drive me to campus, which was not far beyond her office. Before she dropped me off, she asked me to come by her office when I was done at school.
I had a 9:15 appointment in the Art Department with my counselor, Dr. Whatley. A tall boy coming out of her office held the door for me. Dr. Whatley looked up with a slightly surprised expression.
“Are you Morgan Ross?”
“Yes. Is something the matter?”
“No … well, yes. This says you’re male.”
“Oh, is that going to be a problem?”
“Not if I change it to female. Should I?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, you look female, Morgan. Are you?”
“My friends say I am, but biologically, I’m not.”
“And what do you say, Morgan?”
“I really don’t know.”
“How about I change your gender to ‘Not Given’?”
“Could you?”
“Yes. … It’s done.”
“And later?”
“You can decide. … Now for your schedule – your file says you’re interested in art. Do you want to declare a major?”
“I think so. I want to work in a museum or gallery.”
“Art History is the best we have to offer for that kind of career.”
“Then, that will be my major.”
“Good. You can always change later if you get interested in something else. … Now, for your schedule …”
I left with the standard freshmen courses plus Introduction to European Art, and Aesthetics as a philosophy elective. Outside, a brunette was waiting for her appointment. As she walked by, the tall boy who’d held the door for me stood up. He had mousy brown hair and was so nervous he was almost shaking.
“W-would you like some coffee … or something?”
Spending a few hours with Ron, whom I’d never see again, was one thing, but starting who knows what with a boy I’d likely see all the time was quite another. So, I was inclined to brush him off. Still, he was so shy and vulnerable. He reminded me of the boy me. I didn’t want to shoot him down.
“Sure, I’d love some.” I could let him down over coffee. “What’s your name?”
“Mel Rivers.”
“I’m Morgan Ross,” I said, shaking his hand firmly. “Where shall we go for coffee?”
“Oh, the Student Union is just across the quad. I ate breakfast there this morning.”
I took the conversational lead to help him relax. I never would have as a boy, or before my trip with Mary. Now I found myself flirting with him. When I realized I was, I stopped, but by then the ice was broken, and Mel started telling me some quirky things he’d picked up on that morning. By the time we sat down with our coffee, we were both laughing, and I wanted him as a friend.
“You know, Mel, I like you, but I’m not looking for a relationship … maybe a friend?”
“You’re so pretty, but if you only want to be friends, that’d be wonderful. … I never had a real friend … just people I say ‘hi’ to.”
Now I felt bad. I couldn’t start a friendship with a lie. So many times other foster kids pretended to like me, then turned out to be lying for one reason or another. “Maybe this is a bad idea.”
“What did I say?”
“No, no! It’s not you. … It’s I’m … I’m lying.”
“Lying? About what? You’ve hardly told me anything!”
“It’s not anything I said. It’s … how I’m dressed.”
“I don’t understand.”
I was on the verge of tears – torn between the need to be honest with a potential friend and the fear that I of flushing my entire college experience down the toilet. “I’m a boy,” I whispered.
“No way! You’re kidding, right?”
I could only shake my head. One more word, and I’d break down … and maybe run away. Finally, I pleaded, “Please don’t tell anyone.”
“Geez, I won’t. I swear.” He paused, lost in thought. “Morgan, that’s so brave. You’re so brave! No one’s ever trusted me like that. I hope that we can still be friends.”
Tears were rolling out now. “I think we are.”
We drank our coffee quietly. When we’d finished, I stood up to go.
“When can I see you again?” Mel asked.
“Let me see your schedule. … We’re both in European Art tomorrow. I’ll see you then.” I walked off toward Faye’s office.
Bobbie looked surprised to see me in a skirt and with a French braid. I wasn’t sure she approved. “Doctor said you’d be by. She’ll be free when she’s done with the patient she’s seeing now.”
“Where’s Mattie?”
“On an RFD.”
I knew that RFD stood for Rural Free Delivery – what Mattie called home deliveries covered by MediCal. Bobbie looked busy, or maybe put off by my appearance, so I read a magazine. A few minutes later, Faye called me in.
“I’ve thought for a while that I should give you an exam, and when I saw you dressed in a skirt this morning, I knew I couldn’t put it off any longer.”
“Why? What’s wrong with me – other than being a bit crazy?”
“I don’t think you’re crazy, but I’m pretty sure your hormones are off because you have few, if any, male secondary sex characteristics. There is likely some physical reason for that, and it might be important to find out what it is. I could send you to a urologist, but it might be embarrassing and unnecessary. So, if you’re willing, I could do a preliminary work up for you – gratis. Maybe I’ll find the cause, but I might still have to refer you.”
“If you think it’s important. Given how I’m dressed, I suppose I should have an OB-GYN, anyway,” I quipped.
“Okay, please remove your blouse and bra.”
This was going to be very embarrassing.
“Hmm…, ah …,” she said as she poked, prodded and squeezed my chest. “Squeeze here, Morgan. … Feel how soft that is?”
“Ah, yes.”
“That’s adipose tissue – fat.”
“Okay?”
“Now squeeze here … feel how much more solid that is?”
“Yes?”
“Those are your mammary glands. They are what make the milk babies suckle. Ducts connect them to your nipples. Now see how your nipples get bigger and harder when I stimulate them?”
“Yeah.” My heart was beating faster.
“That’s so baby has something firm to latch onto. Stimulating them also feels good in romantic situations. … The point I’m making is that your breasts are typical of those I see on 11-12 year-old girls … and they respond in the same way. … I’m surprised no one suggested you wear bras before you started on your own.”
I thought of Mattie telling me I needed to wear a bra, and Alice wanting to see how I looked in one, but I said nothing.
“Okay. Put your bra and blouse back on. … Drop your panties, climb up, and put your feet in the stirrups.”
After 10 minutes of more poking, and squeezing, including an ultrasound of my belly, she let me to get down and put my panties on.
“Well, Morgan, you don’t have any ovaries, so you’re not intersexed, at least not to that degree. But, you have the breast development of a 12 year-old girl and ascending testicles, also called acquired undescended testicles. I think your testicles may have led to a hormone imbalance preventing full puberty, reducing your male sex characteristics and allowing your natural female hormones to have more effect than they normally would. Your testicle condition can also cause infertility and increase the risk of cancer. Out patient surgery can corrected it. So, I’m ordering some blood tests and plan to refer you to a urologist.
“Another thing hormones do is change the brain in subtle ways – ways that affect how we feel about ourselves, I mean if we feel masculine or feminine, and also who we find sexually attractive – men or women, or both, or in some cases, neither. So, I’d also like to refer you to a counselor who specializes in such issues.
“We could start with a visit to a urologist to deal with your testicles. They are easier to schedule.”
“Will that cost a lot?”
“No, your MediCal and supplement should cover most of the cost.”
“And when it gets fixed?”
“You should have a lot more testosterone and feel … well, more manly.”
“I see. Thank you, Faye.”
As I walked up the hill to Alice’s I wondered if I wanted to feel “more manly.”
I was still thinking about what feeling “more manly” would be like the next morning. It might seem a simple question, but it wasn’t. I’d never felt that way, so it was kind of like being asked if I like chocolate ice cream, when I’d never tasted chocolate. I could look at other people eating it and see if they liked it, but they had to do their best to like it because they had no choice. Also, once I started eating it, I mean being more manly, I’d be kind of stuck – just like they were. If my voice changed, my body changed and my features hardened – well, what if I didn’t like it and wanted to go back?
Another thing that made it hard was that my world changed suddenly when I was twelve. Before my mother died, I went to one school and had one set of friends, but after she died, I went to other schools and was thrown in with boys and girls I didn’t know. If I’d seen how becoming “more manly” affected the boys I’d known, I might have a better idea what it was about – but I didn’t, and so I don’t.
On the other hand, I was learning what it was like to be a girl. People treated me nicer. They wanted to be closer – to be my friends. Alice, Faye, Mary, Ron, and now Mel all liked the feminine Morgan. Would they like the “more manly” Morgan? I didn’t think so. I was pretty sure Ron and Mel wouldn’t. Maybe some girl would. That was hard to imagine – I mean that literally. Girls didn’t flock around me last year, so I had nothing to base my imagination on – no idea how they would react to a “more manly” me.
Suddenly, breakfast was over, the drive to State was over, and I found myself standing in front of a styleless building. I reached into my purse and pulled out my schedule: European Art, Rm. 217, Snondgrass Mem., 9:10 A. Looking up, I saw “Snondgrass Memorial Hall” in foot high gold letters – probably the most expensive feature of the building. Inside, I jogged up the stairs and found 217.
There, staring anxiously at the door, sat Mel. His face lit up when he saw me. No one lit up when they saw me. Now, someone did – someone who knew my secret … knew my secret and still lit up! Why should I want to change, be “more manly”? I looked in my purse, saw that today’s BC pills were punched out, and smiled.
“Hi, Morgan.”
“Hi, Mel.” I said, sitting next to him.
Mel and I were in three classes together: English Comp, European Art and Psych. We were soon fast friends, studying and eating lunch together. He had a joint major in Computer Science and Graphic Arts and was planning to go into computer art or maybe animation. His father and mother had both been civil engineers, but decided to take early retirement and bought a small vineyard just outside of town.
Because his parents had followed major construction projects, he’d never had long-term friends. He’d no sooner be accepted by one set of kids, than the family would move to another project. Our common rootless childhood allowed us to sense each other’s feelings.
Faye drove me to college most mornings. About a week after school started, she told me my test results were back and asked me to come by her office after class.
“Okay, Morgan, the tests show that you’re basically healthy, but have some anomalies. One is hypogonadism as a result of your ascending testicles – that explains why your, ah, parts are small for an 18-year-old male. Your test results show it in two ways: you have low testosterone levels, and your sperm count is low enough that you’d have difficulty fathering a child. Both of those might be corrected by the surgery I discussed – or they might not.
“The second anomaly is that you have very high levels of estrogen and progesterone for a male. Are you taking female hormones?”
“Do birth control pills count?”
“Yes.”
“Then, yes, I am.”
“How long?”
“Just two weeks now.”
“Well, you shouldn’t, but I can’t stop you. I can only tell you that since hormone therapy can be dangerous, you need to be monitored – have blood work done every three months. Here, I got you a pamphlet for transwomen from a colleague. Ideally, you should have a psychosocial evaluation. Then you could have supervised treatment.”
“Am I a transwoman?”
“Aren’t you? I really don’t know, but it seems likely. You need a proper evaluation.”
“Oh.”
“Remember, I examined your breasts and said they were what I’d expect on an 11-12 year old girl? That’s much more developed than two weeks of birth control pills would explain. Also, your areolas and nipples are large for a male – but not as large as a woman your age would have.”
“So, what should I do?”
“You need to work that out for yourself – with the help of counseling. One of my old classmates does that sort of counseling. I’ll talk to her and see if she can fit you in. It may take a while to find you a slot. As for surgery, I’d wait until you have a clearer idea of where you’re headed, as there’s no immediate danger.”
“Thank you, Faye.”
“You’re welcome, sweetie.”
The next few weeks not much, or maybe a lot, happened. I found a cute outfit every morning, went to class, made some new friends (girls – my life was too complicated for another boy) and worried about grades. I didn’t have time to worry about what I was.
One exception was that some of the girls I met in class invited me to an open house at a sorority. I had a good time, and a few days later, I was asked to join the sorority. I liked the girls I’d met there, but I knew I couldn’t. Also, I’d grown fond of Alice, and didn’t want to leave – or to leave her alone. So, I said thanks, but I was committed to living where I was. My new friends were disappointed, and grew more distant as the center of their social life shifted to the sorority.
The sorority episode had more impact on me that the gradual loss of some of my female friends. Although I liked Alice and living with her, part of me wanted the acceptance being a sorority sister would bring. I imagined it as a replacement for my lost family. Of course, it was impossible, but being impossible did not stop me from imagining it and missing what might have been.
It was impossible because I was a boy going to college as a girl. And, why was I? Because I didn’t see how I could dress like a boy with my bangs and pierced ears. I could have buzz cut my hair, removed my studs, and let my piercing heal. Why didn’t I think of that? I realized it was because I loved my French braid and pretty pearls. What kind of boy loves such things? Or enjoys wearing a cute outfit to college every day?
Mel and I had lunch together most days and, when time permitted, took walks by the stream at the edge of campus. It was shaded by live oaks and had a pool embellished by ferns, cattails and even a few water lilies. It was a great place to cool off in the summer and relax any time.
When we first started taking our walks, I felt like a boy strolling with another boy. I know that’s strange, given how I was dressed, but that’s how I felt. I don’t think Mel ever felt like that. Over time, he reached out and held my hand, and – well, I let him.
Toward the end of September, as we sat by the pool, Mel looked very uncomfortable.
“What’s wrong?”
“God, I wish I knew. I mean, I do know, but the pieces don’t fit, so I don’t really.”
I stared at him blankly. “Well, tell me the pieces.”
“Okay. … Well, remember when you said you wanted to be friends?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I can’t be your friend.”
It was like my whole world collapsed. One second, I was sitting happily with my best friend, and the next tears were streaming down, and I was on the verge of sobbing.
Mel reached out and hugged me. “No, no, it's not like that. … It’s … I love you.”
I looked up, and got a kiss that was both tender and passionate.
“There! I kissed you. I’ve wanted to for weeks. Now you can tell me to go.”
“You can see that I don’t want you to go.”
“You know what? I must be queer because I really love you. The funny thing is, I’ve never been interested in guys. I mean, I’ve seen all kinds in the showers at school, and I’ve never been interested. … But, I know you’re a guy, and I still love you so much I can hardly sleep.”
I didn’t want to say it, but I did. “I love you too, Mel.”
Now my life really made no sense. I was a boy who went to college dressed like a girl, and now I was in love with a boy who was not interested in boys – but he loved me. I was so embarrassed about what I’d said to Mel that I never wanted to see him again. At the same time, I desperately wanted to spend more time with him. More time leading to what? I didn’t even want to think about it.
Alice and I had grown to be more than landlord and tenant. She was more like the big sister I never had. Even so, it was with a great deal of embarrassment that I responded to her question that night after I poured olive oil instead of dish soap into a sink full of dirty dishes.
“Morgan, you seem unusually distracted, even for you.”
“I guess I am.”
“Care to share why?”
“I suppose it’s because I’m in love.”
“That’s great, dear. Is it Mary?”
“No, it's not! It’s … It’s a boy.”
“That’s wonderful dear!”
“No, it’s not! I’m in love with a boy!”
“What’s wrong with that? You’ve kissed a boy before and told me that you flirted a bit on your trip – even said you wouldn't mind dating one.”
“Well, I didn’t date him. He’s supposed to be my friend, and he told me he couldn’t be my friend anymore … because he loves me. And, … and I … told him I loved him too! … and now … now everything is ruined!”
“I really don’t understand, Morgan. Why is everything ruined? You said you might want to date a boy ‘as long as things didn’t go too far.’”
“Yeah. Well, I meant some boy I didn’t know. One that I didn’t care about – someone I could make out with, and it wouldn’t matter … but, Mel … Mel is different. I care about him … he is … was … my friend, and now it’s ruined!”
“How is it ruined? I mean now you can date someone you really care about, and who cares about you.”
“Yeah, but what about when he gets to … you know, and finds out I’m a boy?”
“Well, you have to tell him before he does.”
“I already did at the beginning, and he didn’t care. He was my friend anyway.”
“Well, then he likes boys. No problem!”
“But, that’s it! He told me he doesn’t like boys. I mean, he’s not gay. Hell, I’m not gay!”
“I’m beginning to see. Neither of you is gay, but you love each other.”
“Yep.”
“Well, maybe you should stop trying to put it in a box, and just go with the fact that you two love each other … and see where it goes.”
I hugged Alice and kissed her on the cheek, but by the time I got back to my room, I had no idea what I was going to do.
In the morning, I spent extra time on my makeup and chose a mini and heels to wear to school. Mel and I had no classes together, but met for lunch as usual. When he saw how I was dressed, he couldn’t take his eyes off of me.
“Morgan, you look wonderful today.”
“I wanted to look special for you, … dear.” I couldn’t help but blush at the word. Still, I meant it.
Mel just smiled. We went for our usual walk by the stream, and found a secluded spot to kiss. Soon, both of us wanted more.
“What if we go for a ride? I could show you our vineyard. I know a great view.”
Mel’s car wasn't a chick magnet. It was a tan Volvo SUV that used to be his mom’s and was about twenty years old. Still, it was clean, and more than adequate to the twisting road that led east into the surrounding hills. After about twenty minutes, we turned in under a “Two Rivers Vineyard” sign and passed row after row of vines. A house and outbuildings appeared on our right, but we turned left onto a winding track that hung on the edge of a ravine. As we rounded a curve, the ground broadened to reveal an outdoor table and the stone foundation of what had once been a cabin. Sycamores and live oaks shaded the spot, and, once I opened the door, I could hear water splashing.
“This is the old homestead. Why don’t you take a look around.”
“Ah, thanks, I will.” I followed the splashing sound to a small brook with a 6 or 7 foot waterfall, and knew instantly why some pioneers might build their cabin here.
“What’d ya think?”
“It’s beautiful here. Thanks for bringing me.”
“Yeah, I love it. I used to camp up here. … Come on, I’ll show you the view.”
He led me to the edge of a steep bluff. Below it were the orderly rows of his parents' vineyard, beyond them, rows of hills receding into haze and, perhaps, a glimpse of the sea.
“This is a tremendous spot, Mel.”
He spread out a blanket for us. Soon we were doing more than sitting. Mel’s hands were all over me when I suddenly realized that one was under my skirt, about to reach my crotch. I didn’t want him to stop, but I urgently wanted him to stop.
“No, please, not there!”
Mel looked … I don’t know what. Disappointed? Suddenly awakened? I don’t think he knew, either.
“Sorry,” he said in a small voice.
“Don’t be. I’ll show you something.” I unbuttoned my blouse and removed my bra. There, pointing out into the warm air, were my breasts – breasts I knew belonged on a twelve-year-old girl rather than an eighteen-year-old boy.
“They’re beautiful Morgan. May I touch them?”
“Yes, I want you to,” I said in a husky voice.
Ever so softly, he did. We were sitting up now, so I nestled back against him. He took them in his hands and began making love to them while kissing and gently biting my neck. I was lost in his love when he suddenly stiffened, and realizing what was happening, I too lost control.
“Oh my God! … That was wonderful, Mel.”
I turned and kissed him with all my passion.
When we finally broke, he said, “I don’t care if you’re a boy or a girl, I love you!”
I lay back against him, bare-breasted, until the sun disappeared behind a ridge and the air cooled, as it does in the hills.
As Mel drove me home, I realized that I’d made orgasmic love to a boy, maybe not in the usual way, but I did not regret it one bit.
Suzie
“I’m taking one of your drawers for Suzie,” mom said, moving my underwear, shorts and teeshirts from the second drawer of my dresser to the third.
“Who’s Suzie?”
“I’ll explain later,” she said as she filled the drawer with silky underthings, brightly colored shorts and girls tops from a shopping bag. Finally, she set one of those decorative dolls you see in gift shops on top of my dresser.
When the bag was empty, she left and returned with a load of skirts, blouses and dresses on hangers. She pushed my clothes over a foot or so, and hung them in my closet. “These are Suzie’s clothes. I know that boys are curious and you may want to see what girl’s clothes feel like, so you may touch them. Still, Suzie won’t want dirty clothes, so try to keep them clean. If any get dirty, please put them in the laundry so I can wash them before she arrives.”
“Who’s Suzie? When's she coming? Is she going to be sharing my room?”
“Questions, questions, questions. She’s a girl your age. It’s complicated, but I’ll tell you all about it later. OK? I have work now, and its time for you to start school, so sign on. When you’ve finished, you can play.”
“I guess. I will. I do everyday, don’t I?” I said as she descended the stairs to her office. I wasn’t happy, because it looked like I was going to have to share my room with a dumb girl – a girl mom bought a beautiful doll. For some reason Suzie getting a doll like that from mom bothered me.
I’m smart, so I'd worked my way through the day’s assignments by 11:45. Mom and I always broke for lunch at noon, so I had fifteen minutes to kill. I didn’t want to seem too interested in Suzie’s clothes when mom was putting them away, but now that I was alone, I opened my closet and took a look. There were two blouses: an ivory one with a rose print and a while one with a wide band of lace around the neck ending in a ruffle. There were also two skirts: a navy poplin with pleats and a soft rose knit. Finally, there were two dresses, a dressy peach one, and one with an overall top and a skirt instead of pants. On the floor were a shiny black pair of shoes with a little heal and a pair of pink and white sneakers.
I couldn't get over how different they were from the clothes next to them -- my clothes. While mine were dull and plain, these looked like just putting them on would make you happy. Maybe girls were so used to them that they didn't feel special when they put them on. How could that be? I mean just the few clothes hanging here were all so different, and there were so many more in stores and catalogs. No one could get used to them all.
I reached out and touched the peach dress. As soon as I did, I pulled my hand back like I'd touched fire. It was so soft. Boys shouldn’t touch things like that … but mom said I could. I ran my fingers down the skirt. It was way softer than anything I had. I imagined what it would look like when Suzie twirled in it. If I twirled in it? The thought was hot as my hand burning from its first touch. I slammed the closet shut and ran to my bed.
I looked up and saw the doll watching me, reading my thoughts – thoughts no boy should have. I couldn't let her see me touching Suzie's dresses again. I relaxed and filled my mind with thoughts of baseball (that I sucked at). As I sat, my heart slowed. I didn’t even know it had speeded up. Finally, I was calm.
Why was I even upset? Mom said “boys are curious” and I could touch Suzie’s clothes. I'd just stay away from her dresses. What about the things in the drawer? I shouldn’t touch them. But, what boy wouldn’t want to? “Boys are curious.” Mom said so. Wouldn’t it be okay just to see what they looked and felt like? Of course it would, mom said so.
Two piles of panties were on the left. Unlike mine, Suzie's panties were a rainbow trimmed with lace and ribbons. Most were silky, though some were soft cotton. The top one was bright blue, with three rows of lace across the seat. I reached out to touch it, but pulled my hand back. Next were camis. They weren’t so bright – just shades of white, ivory and pale pink. Beside them were bras like Rosemary Miller wore – then little slips, brightly colored shorts and an assortment of tops.
You might wonder how I know about Rosemary Miller’s bras. Well, I’m not sneaky or pervy, if that’s what you think. Instead, everyday after school (when we had school, before covid) my friends and I would stop at Maria Gonzales’ house to talk, play music and dance. Rosemary just got her first bra the night before and wanted to show all of us – Maria, Lindsley and me. So, she did. She even took it off and let us feel the little cones on her chest. She was the first of us to blossom, so we were all jealous – well, not me, but the girls.
Anyway, I picked up a top. It was pretty – orchid, with sparkles across the top. I held it up. Suzie must be about my size! I did my best to fold it and put it back – slamming the drawer just as mom called me to lunch. As I looked back I saw that the doll had been watching me the whole time.
“Ok, mom, who's Suzie? When's she coming? And why is she going to stay in my room?”
“She’s the daughter of someone I know. I’m not sure when she’s coming, but I'd think in the next week or two. As for why she’s going to stay in your room, where else would she stay? We only have two bedrooms and an office. You have girlfriends – so there’s no reason you shouldn’t welcome Suzie. Is there?”
“Well, I’m a boy and she’s a girl and …”
“And? Do you expect to be taking advantage of her?”
“No, but … I mean she’ll want to change and, well …”
“I know your friends don’t mind changing in front of you.”
“What?”
“Senora Gonzales is not as blind as you seem to think.”
“Oh,” I blushed.
“I’m not mad. I’m glad that your friends trust and are comfortable with you. … Now run along. I have to get back to work.”
I told about Rosemary showing us her bra, but not that my friends sometimes tried on each other’s things – not that I did. Still, they’d ask me how they looked, and which colors suited them. So, I got to be kind of a fashion critic – at least that’s what the other girls said. Well, to be honest, I sometimes picked out things for them to try, because I have a good eye. They even invite me shopping with them – well, before covid.
The reason I have a good eye is I’m kind of an artist. I like to paint and give my pictures away. Rosemary, Maria and Lindsley all have some of my pictures in their rooms – unicorns, knights and fairy queens mostly. Mom framed a picture I did of the mother and girls in Little Women and hung it in her office.
Anyway, since I’d finished my schoolwork in the morning, I planted some petunia seedlings in the back flower bed. They were mixed colors and I hoped they would add some cheer to our isolation. Unfortunately, that didn't take very long. I went up to my room bored and wondering what I’d do next.
I knew Rosemary and Maria would still be doing school, so I got on Zoom with Lindsley. She’s quick like me, so I knew she’d be done by 1:30. Like me, she was in her room, bored. The only new thing in my life was Suzie’s clothes hanging in my closet, so I told Linsey all about the mystery.
“Well, let’s see them Rudy.”
“What?”
“Suzie’s dresses.”
I got the dresses out of my closet and showed them to her – holding them by their hangers.
“They look okay, but you know it’s hard to tell how they really look unless they’re modeled.”
“Well, I’m not going to model them!”
“I don’t see why not … What else have you got to do?”
“Well, they’re dresses and I’m a boy … and my mom is downstairs.”
“You know I never held being a boy against you, and like you said, your mom is downstairs. … Come on. It’s no fun just looking at them on hangers. … Pretty please?”
For some reason my heart was racing. “Okay, but you better not laugh or tell anyone – and just one.”
“Okay, the peach.”
“I’m going to turn the camera off.”
“That’s not fair! I’ve changed in front of you.”
“Okay, okay!” I took my shorts and tee off and started to put the dress on.
“Doesn’t Suzie have a bra you can borrow? I can tell the dress isn’t going to hang right without one.”
“She has three.”
“Let’s see them. … Those two aren’t going to help. They’re just training bras – you might as well not be wearing one. The pink one is padded, I can tell. Put it on.”
“It’s bad enough that I’m modeling the dress. I don’t want to wear a bra too.”
“Well if you’re not going to do it right, there is no point in doing it at all.”
“Okay, okay! How do you fasten these things? I can’t get the hooks to line up!”
“Just hook it in front and turn it around.”
“Oh! That’s a lot easier. Is that how you do it?”
“I used to. Now I can hook it in back.”
“I guess it takes practice.”
“You’ll learn”
I stuck my tongue out at her.
“That’s rude! … That looks right. … Wait! Don’t put the dress on yet.”
“Why not? I thought you wanted me to?”
“You can’t wear a dress over jockey shorts.”
“Why not?”
“Because it wouldn’t be right.”
“What would be?”
“Panties and a slip.”
“Boys don’t wear panties.”
“Some do.”
“Who? Which ones?”
“The ones that wear dresses.”
I blushed.
“Are there any peach panties in the drawer?”
“ … Yes, here’s a pair.”
“Well put them on and get a slip while you’re at it.”
“Why do I need a slip?”
“You don’t -- if you don’t mind everyone seeing through your dress.”
“By ‘everyone,’ you mean you?”
“Yes. … Now put on your panties.”
“They’re not mine! They’re Suzie’s!”
“Well for now, you’re Suzie.”
I imagined what being Suzie would be like … to wear her clothes whenever I wanted – but I quickly put the thought out of my mind. I turned my back to the camera and changed into the peach panties.
“Cute bum, Suzie!”
Next came the slip and dress.
“Turn around! Let’s see!”
I turned and gave a little curtsey, as I'd seen my friends do when modeling for each other.
“You look nice.”
I blushed. “Thanks, I guess.”
“No, really! Peach suits your complexion, and between the padded bra and your cute bum, you have a nice little figure. Go look.”
I looked in the mirror on my closet door. Except for my messy hair, I looked as cute as any of the other girls. Any of the other girls? I meant my friends.
“I thought I was modeling the dress, not playing dress up!”
“Why can’t it be both? … Get a brush and do something with your hair.”
“Like what?”
“Well part it in the middle and brush it down and let’s see how it looks.”
“… Hmm … It’s okay, but you could look better.”
“How?”
“Try brushing your bangs forward.”
“How’s that?”
“Okay, but they’re too long. Do you have any good scissors?”
“Yeah.”
“Cut them across your forehead.”
I wasn’t thinking and did.
“Yeah, like that! You look great now – go look.”
I did and saw a 12 year old girl smiling back at me. She wasn’t a knock out, but she was cute.
When I got back to my laptop, Rosemary and Maria had joined our chat.
“Rudy, is that your dress? It’s so pretty on you!” Rosemary said. She sounded sincere.
“It’s so you, Rudy. I wish I could give you a hug,” Maria added.
“Thank you both. That is very sweet of you, but I was just showing Lndsey what the dress looked like.”
“Is that why you did your hair? Don’t be embarrassed, Rudy, we’re glad to see that you got a chance to look so you, querida.”
“You think wearing a dress is me?”
“Of course,” they all answered at once.
I started crying and logged off without saying good bye. Laying on my bed, I could hear my phone chiming with texts from my friends, but I was in no mood to chat.
I woke up as it was getting dark. Mom was shaking me. Once I realized that I was still in Suzies bra, panties and dress, I started crying again. Mom held me.
“Why are you crying sweetie?”
“Because I’m dressed like this! You must hate me!”
“Why?”
“Because I’m so queer!”
“Because you’re wearing a dress and all?”
“Yes!”
“Well, I wouldn’t have bought you that dress if I didn’t think you’d wear it.”
“You didn’t! You bought it for Suzie!”
“And who do you think Suzie is?”
The doll smiled at me.
Andragyne
After high school, my parents expected me to go to college. My grades weren't good enough for a university, so I attended community college. Some classes were mildly interesting, but none grabbed me. So I was a mediocre student at best. My dad was constantly on my case: I had the IQ to do better and I was wasting my talents. The one thing I liked about college was the girls, but none of them liked me.
In March of my sophomore year, my father was doing yard work when he had a heart attack and died before the ambulance arrived. We'd never gotten along well, but I still loved him. I thought now I'd never be able to make him proud of me. While I hadn't been motivated before, now I stopped giving a shit and wound up flunking half my classes.
My mom was not happy. I was told to get a job. I sat around the house for a month, mostly playing games. One day she yelled at me and told me I'd be doing the all the housework until I found a job. At first I ignored her. When she got home I'd say I forgot. I knew she was serious when she put an ruffled apron on me and told me not to take it off until my housework was done. I found cleaning and cooking were enjoyable and gave me a sense of accomplishment. With just two of us cleaning didn't take long and cooking was a creative outlet. Answering the door in my apron was embarrassing, but no one said anything. Mother could see that I was less depressed and occasionally happy.
As summer ended, I was no closer to a job. One evening, mother was in a bad mood from a rough day. After dinner, I was told to get in the car. She drove to Walmart and stood over me as I filled out an application. A manager said there'd probably be an opening in a couple of weeks and I should expect a call. Neither of mom nor I were happy, but at least I'd have a job. As long as I did my housework, she didn't ride me, and a lovely dinner could put her in a good mood.
The following Sunday she read about a new distribution center . The wages were far better than Walmart and there were benefits. Interviews would be Monday at 8:00 AM. She'd take time off to drive me and to “help” me fill out the application.
Again, mom walked me in. It was like a cattle call with folks on folding chairs filling out applications. Mother looked over my shoulder as I filled out the form. Occasionally she'd correct my spelling or demand that I write a different answer – so I was constantly erasing and rewriting.
I was still erasing and correcting at 9:00 when a strawberry blond woman in a pants suit came out, looked us over and began collecting applications. She collected applications from brawny guys first, then from the better dressed women, and finally from the rest of us. When my application was collected last my mom gave me a sour look and said she'd pick me for lunch.
One by one people were called to be interviewed – more or less in the order the applications had been collected. Some left with large brown envelopes and smiles. Others left empty handed without smiles. As noon approached, I was the last one.
Finally, my name was called. Ms. Harper (her desk plate read “Patricia Harper”) was a younger and prettier version of Hillary Clinton with the same no-nonsense attitude.
“I see from your application that you have been unemployed since you left college. What have you been doing with yourself? Playing games, drinking beer and smoking pot?”
“No ma'am. I mean I like computer games, but I've been keeping house for my mother while I looked for a job.”
“So, you've been a homemaker,” she said, adding a note to my application.
I blushed, and was trying to think of a response when she pressed on.
“That's nothing to be ashamed of, a lot of the women I interviewed today are homemakers trying to enter the job market.
“So, was that your mother with you when I collected your application?”
“Yes, ma'am. She insisted that she come … I mean I didn't ask her or need her to, or anything,” I stammered. “I just needed a ride because I don't have a car,” I recovered.
“I see. So, why didn't she just drop you off?”
“Well, she thinks I need guidance at times,” I said honestly. I could tell there'd be no point in lying to Ms. Harper.
“And do you?”
“Maybe … I guess sometimes I do.”
“I appreciate your honesty. So, when someone who knows better thinks you need guidance, you accept it?”
I thought she might be talking about accepting supervision at work, so I said “Yes, I try to.”
“Do you think I know better than you?”
“Well, you're a manager here, so, I guess ...”
She looked at me with a raised eyebrow. “Only guess?”
“No, … I mean yes, I'm sure you know better than me.”
“So, when I point out that you are creating a poor impression by slouching as you are, would you sit up straight with your hands folded in your lap?”
I blushed again, but sat up and folded my hands. “Er … sorry.”
“Do you find it embarrassing to follow my guidance? I mean you're a big, strong man, and I'm only a ... woman?” She had walked around and sat on the edge of her desk looking down at me.
I felt very uncomfortable, being looked down at. Something else happened just then. I could smell her perfume. It smelled lovely and made it hard to think.
“Well?” she said.
“Well what?”
“Would you follow a woman's guidance? My guidance? Since I know better?”
I wasn't sure if we were talking about work or not. Her perfume confused me. “No, … I mean yes. I accept that you know better than me. I could follow your guidance.” At the same time I thought how my dad was always the one in charge. Men should be in charge. Maybe I could just act like I was accepting her guidance.
“Well, you seem very suitable for a position I have in mind – but not at the warehouse. You're simply unqualified for any job here. I've already offered them to more suitable candidates. Still, I'd like to take you to lunch to discuss another opportunity.”
“My mother's picking me up for lunch.”
“Perfect, she should hear what I have to say. Why don't you give her a call and invite her – my treat.”
I wanted to hint to mom to beg off, but Ms. Harper's look and extended hand made it clear that she wanted to talk to mother herself.
“Hello, Mrs. Robinson? Patricia Harper here, HR manager at Distroverse – where your son was seeking employment.”
…
“Nice to chat with you as well.”
…
“No, we didn't have a suitable position for a person of your son's … ah, gifts. I do have another opportunity for him I would like to discuss over lunch, if you'd care to join us?”
…
“OK. We'll meet at the main entrance.”
…
“Here, she wants to talk to you.”
When I got the phone back, mom told me she was intrigued that anyone was willing to discuss any possibility for me – so I'd better be enthusiastic. When I started to object, she made it clear that “we” would explore any and all possibilities for a future better than Walmart.
We had lunch at an upscale burger place. Ms. Harper ordered me a Boursin and mushroom burger that was the best I'd ever tasted. Once our orders were in, she got right to it.
“Mrs. Robinson, I'm being promoted to facility manager here, and have good prospects for advancement to upper management. As my biological clock is ticking, it's time for me to start a family, but it would would ruin my prospects to take a significant break from work. Still, I think children need a full-time, stay-at-home parent. I think Max could be that parent and would like to explore that possibility.”
I was miffed that Ms. Harper was talking to my mother and not me, and was about to say so when mom gave me a cold stare.
“When you say 'explore that possibility,' what do you mean?”
“I would like to date Max here, and see if he's the person I think. At the same time, Max could see how he likes being with me. So, I'm asking if I might court Max.”
“That might be just the thing for Max. I don't think he is cut out for the business world. He's more a stay-at-home boy.”
“Yes, he told me he is a homemaker – which is exactly what I'm looking for.”
“Hey! Don't I get a say?”
“Max, don't interrupt when I'm having a conversation. Besides, you should be thrilled that a woman is taking an interest in you. So far, your dating success has been less than stellar.
“Max will be happy to go out with you, Ms. Harper.”
“Please, call me Pat. How about dinner Wednesday evening? I could pick Max up at 6:30.”
“Thank you. You may call me Helen. I'll see that he's ready.”
“That would be lovely. See you then, Max.” She gave me a kiss on the cheek and left.
“Mother, how could you! It was almost like you two were settling on an arranged marriage!”
“Calm down Max, it is only a date. I thought you'd be thrilled. Here you are, 19, and the only sex you've ever had is with yourself. Now you'll have a chance to see if you like girls – or not.”
“I like girls.”
“Boys that like girls usually date them, dear.”
“Well, I never found one that liked me back.”
“Now you have. Do you think Ms. Harper, Pat, is pretty?”
“She's gorgeous, but she's a lot older than me.”
“Lots of people marry someone older.”
“Yeah, usually girls.”
“'The times, they are achangin'. Besides, you like homemaking. This could be just the thing for you, Max. I don't want any more argument until you've dated Ms. Harper a while and see how it goes. Do you understand?”
“Yes, mother.”
As she dropped me off at home, mother said she'd be late. When she got home, she'd bought some things for my date – a Burgundy satin shirt, matching tie, and three tank undershirts in red, purple and lavender. I told her I wasn't going to wear them, but she said it was important that I make a good impression and I most certainly would.
After dinner, we went shoe shopping at Payless. I sat patiently while mother looked for “something appropriate.” She came back with shiny black loafers, They looked OK, except the heels were about 1-1/2”. When I complained, she said I needed them because Ms. Harper was tall and would be even taller in heels. They took a bit of getting used to, but soon I did not notice the difference – except for feeling taller.
As our date approached, I kept thinking how about small I'd felt at the interview, and how mother and Ms. Harper had arranged things with no input from me. Maybe I should just refuse to date Ms. Harper. The memory of her perfume and the prospect of sex got my small head talking and I knew I'd go out with her. Still, I could be assertive as my father was. I started thinking of ways to show I was the man in the relationship: choosing the where and when of our dates, opening doors for her, helping with her chair, and so on. Imagining these things made me feel better. I could redeem my poor start.
On Wednesday, mother came home early to make sure I looked nice. I'd shampooed and conditioned my hair before she got home, but she brushed and sprayed it for me. She laid out my new red undershirt, saying nice underwear would make me feel confident. It was softer than any I'd worn before and felt nice. I never saw a man in a satin shirt, so I felt self conscious in mine. The buttons were difficult, so mother helped me with them. Then she took me to the mirror and said it was a good color for me. I had to agree.
She gave me a once over over and came back with tweezers to remove a few eyebrow hairs above the bridge of my nose. She also told me my nails needed work, but it was too late then. Still, I was not to cut them.
“Now, no sex on a first date. We don't want Ms. Harper thinking you're a slut. Still, better safe than sorry – I'm putting a condom in your wallet – just in case.”
“Mother! I couldn't be a slut anyway. I'm not a girl.” I stammered.
“Don't quibble over words. You know what I mean! Now, short of that, I want you to follow Ms. Harper's lead. This is a good opportunity for a boy like you, and I don't want to hear you've messed it up.”
“Yes, mother.”
At precisely 6:30 the doorbell rang . Ms. Harper handed me a bouquet of mixed flowers.
“I thought you might like these.”
I didn't know women gave guys flowers. It seemed strange, but mother gave me the eye. “Yes, they're beautiful, and they smell really nice. Thank you very much.”
“Why don't you put them in water, dear?” mother said.
As I walked to the kitchen to get a vase and water, Ms. Harper and mother chatted.
“He looks lovely, Helen. Did you buy him some new things for our date?”
“Yes. I thought you might appreciate me softening his rough edges.”
“Thank you. I think he looks perfect for a first date. I appreciate any help you may care to give …”
I returned with the flowers nicely arranged and put them on a side table.
“Well, Maxie – I may call you Maxie, mayn't I? You may call me Pat. As I was telling you mother, Maxie, you look perfect. I adore your outfit.”
I wasn't sure I wanted to be called Maxie, but mother told me not to mess things up. “Thank you, Ms. Har... Pat. Actually, my mother picked it out for me.”
“Well, you had the good sense to follow her lead. If you continue to do so, you'll be on the right track. … Shall we go?
“Helen, it was wonderful to see you again. I hope to see more of you in the future.”
When we got outside, Pat took my hand and led me to a red Beamer. She opened the door and helped me in, then handed me the buckle of the seatbelt. I was not familiar with it, so she helped me.
I haven't said how Pat was dressed. She wore soft, cream dress and bolero jacket. A plunging neckline accented her full breasts. The dress ended a few inches above her knees. Matching 3-1/2” heels showed off athletic, feminine legs. Even wearing my heeled loafers I had to look up to her. The combined effect, coupled with her perfume, put me off my assertive game plan.
As we drove, she explained she'd just joined the Downtown Women's Club. Modeled on the men's clubs in English movies, it was a place for professional women to make contacts, and invite friends and clients. While most of the club was members only, the dining room was open to guests.
When we arrived, I was still fumbling with my belt when she opened my door and unbuckled me. I felt like a child, but she said I'd soon learn to do it. She took my hand again and lead me to a porticoed entrance where she opened the door for me.
I was surprised to see that the wait staff was beefy guys in their twenties dressed in hot pants and short kimonos. Pat saw me starring.
“Aren't they delicious? We got the idea from Hooters. Turn about is fair play, don't you think?”
“Er … yes, I guess so.”
“Don't compare yourself to the eye candy. I'm here with you.” she said squeezing my hand reassuringly. The host greeted her by name and lead us to a table. He seated me while Pat took her own chair.
Soon Ronnie, a blond whose six-pack abs peaked through his loose kimono, came for our drink order.
“I'll have a Fiesta Margaretta and Maxie will have a Virgin Mary – he's underage. … Or would you rather have a Shirley Temple, Maxie?”
I didn't know either of them, but a Shirley Temple seemed wrong. “No, what you said is fine.”
Once Ronnie left, I said “I don't mean to complain, but shouldn't the host have helped you with your chair instead of me? And, while we're at it, shouldn't I be opening doors for you instead of vice versa? After all, I'm the guy.”
“Maxie, don't tell me you're sexist? Do you think that just because I'm a woman, I can't take care of myself?”
“No, I didn't mean that …”
“I should hope not. Let me explain it to you. First, I work out regularly and hike. Would I be wrong in saying that you're ah …, more sedentary?”
I blushed, but admitted I didn't exercise all that much. I didn't say so, but vacuuming the house was the most exercise I got all week.
“So, objectively, I should be helping you. Second, you're my guest. I'm to be hospitable, and it would be polite to accept any kindnesses offered you. Lastly, I'm not interested in dating a sexist. If you can't forget the stereotypes, tell me now, and I'll take you home with no hard feelings. Are you going to forget the sexual stereotypes, or shall we call an end to our evening?” All of this was said in all seriousness, but without a hint of anger.
“You're right. I didn't mean to be sexist. I'm sorry.”
“There's no need to be sorry as long as you avoid sexism in the future. Do you think you can do that?”
“Yes.”
Just then Ronnie brought our drinks. I discovered that a Virgin Mary was spiced-up tomato juice – which I'm not fond of. Maybe I should have tried a Shirley Temple. While he was there, Pat ordered herself a steak and me a petite chef salad. I got to choose the dressing.
All this made me uncomfortable, but I figured it was because I was sexist. Other than that, I enjoyed our dinner. The salad was wonderful, if a bit small. Our conversation was enjoyable. Pat brought out stories I'd almost forgotten and responded with genuine sympathy and laughter. I felt like an interesting person.
Her stories were fascinating and often very funny. They outlined a Horatio Alger tale of a woman making something of herself. She had the drive and perseverance I lacked. As she talked, I saw pain occasionally flicker in her expression, but nothing she said hinted at its source.
Eventually, she came to the point of our date. She wanted a family, and a man who was willing be a full time “housewife' and “mother” (her words). Of course, she didn't ask me to marry her, but made clear her hopes for our relationship. I responded that I hadn't thought about children yet, but agreed to think if I'd find such a life fulfilling.
Even though I'd heard Pat telling my mother almost the same thing Monday, I hadn't thought about it. I was too caught with having a date and, frankly, the prospect of sex. Now I thought it might be the same life I was already leading – with sex and cute kids as a bonus.
After dinner, Pat took my hand, led me to her car, opened the door and once more helped with my seat belt. Her perfume and the soft music she played as we drove made me as mellow as if I'd had wine with dinner. When she parked in front of my house, she leaned over and gave me a warm kiss.
“I watched you staring at my breasts all night, Maxie.”
I blushed and stammered incoherently.
“Its OK. After all, dating is sexual, dear. Would you like to touch them?”
I nodded silently.
She took my hand and looked at my rough nails. “I'm not going to let you touch my tender skin until those nails are smooth, but you've been all I could expect on a first data.” She took my hand and put it under her jacket. I felt her erect nipple through her dress. She started my hand in a circular motion which I continued as she leaned over and kissed me – this time with a bit of tongue. I'd never been kissed like that, but leaned back and accepted her invading tongue. The kiss didn't last long – which was a good thing or I would have had an embarrassment in my pants. After that, she walked me to my door, gave me romantic kiss, and waited until I went in.
My mother asked how my date went, and I told her it was nice without going into details.
That night I had confusing dreams. Sometimes I was a guy with a beautiful woman on my arm. Other times I was a housewife in my ruffled apron. When I looked down a cute toddler was holding my cream colored skirt looking back up at me. Finally, I was in bed having sex, but I couldn't tell if I was on the top or the bottom, the guy or the girl. I woke ejaculating – my first wet dream since I was 14. As I came down from my orgasm, I felt I'd betrayed my sex and shouldn't go out with Pat again. Still, I knew I would. I decided to ask mother how to care for my nails.
The next day I hoped for a text or call from Pat, but got none. Maybe she'd just been polite, and really didn't want me. As Friday progressed without a word, I began to panic. I couldn't stop thinking about her, but she seemed not to be thinking of me at all. I knew she wanted someone compliant. Maybe I was too sexist. Maybe my hands were too rough, even through the fabric of her dress. I longed to fondle her breasts, to be kissed again, but never would. It didn't help that mother asked at dinner Thursday, and again Friday, if I'd heard from Pat. She must expect that I would if I'd made a success of our date.
My panic was turning into despair when my cell rang about 9:30 Friday night. Pat said she'd had a busy week and wanted to know if I wanted to join her the next morning. It would not really be a date, just tagging along as she went through her Saturday routine. Of course, I jumped at the chance. She'd pick me up at 8:00 for breakfast.
Mother didn't pick out anything, so I wore a short sleeved dress shirt, black pants and my new loafers. Pat was in blue shorts, a powder blue polo shirt and coordinating athletic shoes. A ponytail dangled from the back of a Dodger's cap. Once again she opened the doors and helped me with little tasks.
We went to a coffee shop where the hostess knew her and sat us ahead of some others who were waiting. This time she asked what I'd like, and ordered for both of us. She chatted about a problem she'd resolved with the union, and asked me what I had done since our date. My only notable accomplishment had been making paella for Friday dinner. She treated it as an equal accomplishment and hoped I'd make it for her one evening. I knew it wasn't as important as union negotiations, but appreciated her making it seem so.
Pat said we had a 9:00 appointment at her nail salon. I was afraid that I'd leave with bright red nails, but I didn't. Instead Lin, the tech, simply scolded me before pushing my cuticles back and buffing my nails smooth. She ordered me not to mess with them, so they'd be longer next time. As we walked out, Pat and said now my hands wouldn't damage to her tender skin. My resulting erection gave my manicure a sexual edge.
Our next stop was Ross. Pat said she appreciated my patience and would reward me with a mountain picnic. There'd be a short walk to the spot. Since I wasn't dressed for a hike, she'd found me shorts, a polo shirt and shoes matching hers. I couldn't criticize them without criticizing her, so I accepted them.
It was easiest to change in the store. Once I did, I had nowhere to put my things because the shorts had no pockets. When she suggested a messenger bag, I drew the line.
“I'm not carrying a purse!”
“OK. What's your solution?”
I thought for a minute, but nothing came to mind. “I don't have one.”
“Then don't get all sexist and say you're not carrying a purse when it's the sensible solution.”
Here was the “sexist” card again. I didn't want to be sexist, so I wound up with a black shoulder bag. I paid for the clothes, but the bag was Pat's gift – so I wouldn't have to tell mother I'd bought myself a purse. I thanked her and told myself it wasn't really a purse, but a messenger bag. Still, it looked like a purse.
After a stop for Italian subs and bottled water, we arrived at the trail head. Pat put her sandwich and water in a day pack. Mine went in my purse, which I decided to call a “satchel.”
The walk was uphill, but not too strenuous. At the end was a picturesque little waterfall. A couple sat watching their children play in the pool at its base. They greeted us with “Good afternoon ladies.”
I didn't know what to say, but Pat stopped to chat before suggesting we climb to the top, where she knew a private spot.
When we were alone again, I said, “See, that's what comes of carrying a purse. They thought I was a woman!”
“Did it cause you any harm?”
“Well, no.”
“Then why do you care whether people think you're a guy or a gal? I think you're cute, and that's all that should matter when you're with me.”
I wanted to say something decisive, but nothing came to mind.
At last we reached a secluded meadow next to the stream. It was a gorgeous spot. Pat spread a blanket on the lush grass. The brook and birds played a symphony as we ate.
After lunch, Pat took off her shirt and suggested I do the same. She asked if I'd like her to put sun screen on me. Of course I did. She started with my face, ears and neck, then did my legs and stomach. When she got to my chest, she got behind me, reached around and rolled my nipples between her thumbs and fore fingers while cupping my flab with her hand. At first I was surprised, but the more she did it the sexier it felt.
When I leaned into her, she said “You like that Maxine, don't you?”
I wanted to tell her not to call me Maxine, but that is not what came out. “Yes, don't stop.”
Finally, she did stop. “Now it is my turn. Would you like to take off my bra?”
“May I?”
“Of course, or I wouldn't have asked.”
I hadn't seen a woman's breast since mother weaned me, so my heart raced as I tried to figure out the hooks. Once I had it off, I my eyes widened in amazed awe. I wanted to kiss her nipples, or perhaps a frustrated infantile instinct was urging me to nurse. Sill, I applied sunscreen to her in the order she'd followed. When her nipples hardened at my touch and she leaned into me, I lost control. My hands stopped moving and I involuntarily pinched her teats as I pulsed in my shorts.
“Ouch!”
“Sorry,” I said in a thick voice.
“Did Maxine have a little accident?” she said as she faced me.
I could only nod.
She pulled me against her breasts and said “Good girl!” Then she gave me a French kiss to die for.
“Do you want me to do anything for you?”
“Not this time, Maxine. Let's just relax and soak up some rays.”
I was soon asleep. When I woke, the stain on my shorts was drier and less noticeable. As we walked back, I realized that from now on I'd be her Maxine. What would Dad have thought?
When I got home mother noticed my stained shorts. “It looks like someone had a good time.”
I could only blush.
“And a new purse, too?”
“I's not a purse! It's a messenger bag. These shorts don't have pockets, so Pat got it for me to carry my things in.”
“That was very nice of her, don't you think, Max?”
I was half expecting her to call me “Maxine,” so it took me a second to respond. “Yes, I suppose it was.”
“But the main question is why you're not wearing the clothes you left in?”
Soon, my mother had the whole story out of me. I even admitted Pat called me “Maxine.”
“How do you feel about that?”
There was no point in lying. I'm horrid at it. “I thought I'd hate it, but it is kind of nice to have a pet name. I just hope she doesn't call me 'Maxine' in public.” For some reason I started crying. Maybe it was emotional exhaustion.
My mother held me. “It's OK, Maxine.”
Pat was busy during the week, but the following Saturday, we repeated our date. She insisted I carry my purse and wear my new shorts and top. (Yes, she called it a “purse.”) Lin shaped my now longer nails into neat ovals. We went to our private spot where I had another “accident.” Of course, it wasn't an accident, but something I'd looked forward to all week. This time mother insisted I wear a panty liner – so it wasn't as embarrassing.
The third Saturday, Pat told Lin, “I think Maxine's nails are long enough to need nail hardener.” Hardener turned out to be clear polish. I objected, but Lin knew who called the shots. Later, at our private spot, Pat whispered in my ear how pretty my hands looked as she massaged the front of my shorts.
I expected mother to object to my nail polish. At first, she said nothing, but later she complimented me on taking better care of my hands. Sunday, she bought lotion for me to use after washing dishes and before bed. I hadn't noticed before, but using it made me realize how irritating dish water can be. I knew Pat would appreciate softer hands, giving the lotion a sexual charge.
The next Wednesday, Pat took me to her club for dinner. She insisted I take my purse, even though my slacks had pockets. We had a lovely dinner, and Ronnie was a lot more attentive to me than he had been. Part of me found his attention creepy, but another part enjoyed it, as I was usually ignored.
This time Pat shared a bottle of wine with me. I know it's strange for a near twenty year old, but it made me feel very grown up – like I was almost her equal. As we shared a tiramisu, she got serious.
“Maxine, we've been going out for a while now, and I'd like to take our relationship to the next level. How do you feel about that?”
“I really enjoy being with you, especially our private time,” I blushed. “But sometimes it's a little embarrassing – carrying a purse and being called 'Maxine' in front of people.”
“Is being with me worth the embarrassment?”
I'd hoped that mentioning my embarrassment would make her back off. Instead, she asked if I was willing to accept it. I wanted to say no, but I'd accepted it so far, and the only two important people in my life – mother and Pat – were fine with me being … well, a sissy. I worried about where it might go. Still, I was a lot happier with Pat in my life. “It has been so far,” I answered.
“Good, then how would you like to be my steady girl?”
“You mean 'steady guy'?”
“No, I mean steady girl, just as I said. You know I treat you like a girl, and I think you love it. Don't you Maxine?”
I didn't want to admit it, but we both knew I did. “I guess I do,” I said quietly.
“Only guess, Maxine?”
“No, I really like being your girl, it's just hard to say.”
“I appreciate it, but it's for the best. So, do you want to be my steady girl or not?”
“Yes, I want to be your steady girl,” I whispered.
“Good!” She leaned over and kissed me.
“You deserved to be pinned. This is my sorority pin. I want you to wear it to remind you whose girl you are. OK, Maxine?”
“Yes, dear.” I felt like such a sissy. The sad thing was being pinned as Pat's “steady girl” made me as happy as I'd ever been.
When I got home, mother noticed the pin right off. She soon had the story out of me. I was so embarrassed, but mother was really happy for me.
“It's the best thing that could have happened for you. I'm so happy you're finding your niche in life!”
I wasn't sure about that, but was glad she wasn't making me feel more ashamed.
Nothing more was said until Friday evening, when mother gave me a box with a bow. It contained several sets of very feminine panties and camisoles.
“Now that you're Pat's steady girl, things may get more intimate, and it is important to have nice lingerie.”
“Mother!”
“Yes?”
“I don't need lingerie!”
“I think you do. Now go change and let me see how it fits.”
I went to my room, and tried on a pair of panties. They were lavender with a lace front panel and a bow at the waist. I should have hated them. Maybe my big head did, but my little head signaled instant approval. The matching camisole was cut for a girl with a small top. It fit all too well – making my flabby mounds embarrassingly prominent. Reflexively, I ran my hands over them. As I did so I imagined Pat fondling my breasts as she called me “Maxine” and “my pretty girl.” My nipples were soon as erect as the rest of me.
“Max are you coming out?”
My mirror showed a flush face with bedroom eyes. God! I couldn't model my lingerie for mother like this. “I er .. have to adjust things a bit first.”
“Well, take your time. I knew you'd love them. When your done 'adjusting,' put on a fresh set and let me see the fit. .. and don't forget to rinse your panties in cold water.”
Arousal, embarrassment and guilt bombarded me. My relief came without conscious assistance – and with it came a glimmer of contentment.
I woke Saturday morning in a pink panty and cami set. I felt like a complete sissy. I resolved then and there to take charge of my life and be a man! I began by throwing all my lingerie in the wastebasket followed by my purse. After I showered, I decided not to shave my mustache – nothing shows manliness like facial hair. As I stepped into my jockeys and pulled a sweat stained tee over my head, I thought, “Today I'll make dad proud!”
Sipping my morning coffee I imagined my new, manly self on my date with Pat. Breakfast was fine, but when I imaged Pat and me at the nail salon, the mental discord began. How could I be a manly man with Lin putting a new coat of polish on my nails? I'd just skip my manicure and hang out at the hardware store while Pat got hers. I'd inspect left-handed what-cha-ma-call-its and discuss a plumbing problem with the clerk. No sissy would do that.
Then the imaginary clerk saw my rounded, shiny nails and snickered as he suggested a pair of lady's work gloves. Worse was Pat recoiling when my rough hands and broken nails scratched her bare breasts. Soon, I was hyperventilating. Worse, it was 7:55 and Pat would soon be here. She wouldn't like her steady girl wearing a ratty tee and sporting a nascent mustache.
I ran to the bathroom, but mother was in it. Panicking, I hurried to my room to pull my purse and lingerie out of the trash. A cream cami and pantie set were on top, so I put them on. Before I could put my shorts and top back on, mother finished in the bathroom, and I ran to shave my mustache.
“I see I got the right sizes for you, dear, but your body hair detracts from the image.”
“I don't have time to do anything about it now. Pat's almost here and we have to finish breakfast in time for our nail appointment.”
“I want you looking your best, so I'll talk to Pat and make breakfast to save you time. I want to see a clean chest and underarms, and smooth legs when you come out.”
As soon as I closed the door, I heard mother greet Pat. I could hear them talking, but not what they were saying. Meanwhile, I shaved my upper lip and began on my under arms. I was almost finished when mom came to the door to tell me to use my lotion when I was done.
In my rush, I'd forgotten my shorts and top. So I had no choice but to walk into the hall in my lingerie. Our living room sofa faces straight down the hall. Of course Pat saw me. I tried to make it to my room, but she called to let her see me.
“You look so pretty Maxine!” she said pulling me onto her lap and pressing the tip of her tongue between my lips. Her right hand ran over the curve of my breast, making my nipple stand to attention. “And you fill the cups beautifully. I could just eat you up.” Her left hand glided down my satin camisole and over my pantied bum. She glanced at my smooth legs. Soon her fingertips were running over them.
I wanted to be embarrassed, but I couldn't. I was her steady girl, and I'd obviously stirred her passions. I melted into her arms, ready to be taken there on mother's sofa.
“We'd better stop before your mother wants to arrange a shotgun wedding. Put your clothes on Maxine, and we'll continue later.”
I suddenly realized that dressed in my lingerie, I turned Pat on even more then she turned me on. Until then, Pat held all the cards. Now I realized that the prettier I was the more of a tease I could be. It was an astounding discovery. Before then I'd always thought only he-men could turn women on. Now I realized a pretty sissy could too – at least with Pat.
Mother made us a lovely breakfast of bacon and eggs. When Pat went to the restroom, she told me that I was following the right course and looked much happier than when I was trying to be macho and failing. “Are you happy dear?”
“Yes, very, mother.”
“Good, I love you, and want you to enjoy your new self.”
…
As Pat and I were walking to the salon, a mother came out holding the hand of a curly-haired blond boy, red-faced with embarrassment. He looked 13 or 14. As we got closer, red toenails drew my attention to his feminine sandals. Matching nails glistened on his fingers. He was looking down and didn't see us.
“We both know you love dressing up and wearing nail polish, so stop being embarrassed, and be proud of who you are, Dorothy.”
“Yes, but everyone will laugh at me.”
I knew exactly how he felt, and my heart went out to him.
“Excuse me, but I am going in to have my nails done. I wonder if I may have a word with Dorothy?”
His mother glanced back and forth between us, finally deciding I looked harmless enough.
“Yes, if you think you can help.”
“Dorothy, I want to say how pretty you are. I'm like you. I like dressing up,” I pulled my collar aside to reveal the lace of my cami, “and I have my nails done every week. This week, I am going to get the same color as you, since it's so beautiful. What color is it?”
“Passion fruit,” he said in a quiet voice.
“Well it's gorgeous! Do you like it?”
“Yes, but boys aren't supposed to like being pretty.”
“That's nonsense – and sexist too! We can be as beautiful as we want – can't we Pat?”
“Yes, Maxine – and I am so glad you're pretty for me, dear.”
Dorothy stopped blushing and seemed to relax. “Really?”
“Yes, really!” Pat and I said together.
“So, just be happy your mother is helping you, just as my mother is helping me.” I was about to go in when Dorothy's mother asked if we could exchange numbers. We did.
When Lin picked up the clear polish, I asked if I could have Passion Fruit instead. She was surprised, but smiled broadly. “I saw you talk to Dorothy. You like her color?”
“Yes, but mostly I promised him I'd wear it to make him feel better.”
“You nice man. Free today.”
I gave her a very generous tip.
Pat was very pleased as well. When we got back in her car she said, “Instead of our usual today, what if I take you to Merle Norman to get make up? I think you'd look even lovelier if you wore just a bit.”
I didn't know if I was ready for make up, but at least a specialty shop would be more private than the cosmetics counter at a department store. “Do you really think I'd look prettier?”
“I think so, but we'd need to experiment a bit to find the best look for you. So, are you willing to try?”
“Would it please you?”
“I think it would, but mostly, it would help you accept your feminine self.”
“You mean being a sissy?”
“Well, 'sissy' has connotations that don't apply to you, but yes, you're a very loved sissy.”
I should have thought about being a sissy, but what struck me was 'very loved.' Pat had never said she loved me before. “You mean you love me?”
“Of course, Maxine, I wouldn't have asked you to be my steady girl otherwise.”
“Well, a girl likes to hear it, Pat.”
“I love you, Maxine, with all my heart.”
“I love you too, Pat. I want to be everything you want in a girl.”
“Then you're ready to try a little make up?”
“I already have Passion Fruit nails, so why not?”
The consultant at Merle Norman was busy with another customer, and suggested we come back in 15 minutes. Pat took me to a jewelry store. She wanted me to have birthstone earrings for being “so wonderful.” My birthday is in June, so I left with pink pearl studs in newly pierced ears. No one could think they were masculine, but I remembered what I told Dorothy and loved them anyway.
I sat at the Merle Norman's counter with my Passion Fruit nails and pink pearl earrings, and put my purse on it. Anyone looking knew I was a sissy, but I wasn't embarrassed. I was just the way I need to be to be a happy, sexy tease for Pat.
“How may I help you dear?”
Pat was about to answer for me, but I touched her leg to stop her and spoke for myself. “I'm hoping you'll teach me some tasteful make up techniques to improve my appearance, so I can get this lady to make an honest man of me.”
Glancing at Pat, I could see that she was surprised and taken aback. I might not be manly, but at least I'd taken charge of my life.
I
As a result of my session at Merle Norman, I had a collection of basic makeup, but more importantly, I had an understanding of how to use it. Pat had said that I'd have to experiment to find a good look for me, and that point was repeated by Marian Gray, the consultant who helped me. She began by sending Pat away – saying the magic would work better that way. Then she created two looks for me.
The first one was dramatic evening makeup. When she said “dramatic” I thought I'd look like a drag queen or maybe Marilyn Monroe in Gentleman Prefer Blonds. Marian was too good an artist for either. Somehow, the result was just me, but better. Concealer and foundation perfected my natural complexion. Blush contoured my face while being almost invisible. My eye shadow, liner and mascara subtly drew a lover's gaze. My lipstick was incredible – promising things even I couldn't imagine. Looking in the mirror made my heart race and panties bulge. Luckily the counter maintained my modesty.
The second look, which I wore out of the store, was day makeup. The best way to describe it was to say it made me look clean and “fresh” – like unblemished fruit with highlights. Strangely, my day lipstick was brighter and my eyeliner darker – just the opposite of what I would have expected. Marian explained that the bright summer sun washed out features, so, they needed more emphasis. On gray days or if I was going to be mostly indoors, I should tone it down, as the light wouldn't be as harsh. Finally, adding gloss would make my lips a magnet for kisses and more.
As our session ended, I felt I had a friend and resource in Marian, and would be a steady customer. I gladly paid the hefty bill. (Fortunately, my dad had made me a partial beneficiary on his insurance.) I left glowing with new confidence. I don't know what Pat expected, but when she saw me, she was speechless. I pulled her head down and kissed her. When I finished, her face was flush and she was panting. I was aroused to, but I also felt a sense of power. I'd turned the no-nonsense manager who'd interviewed me into an animal lusting to get into my panties.
I was starting to think like a woman. Yes, I wanted desperately to have sex with Pat, but I also wanted to be more than her sex toy. What I'd said to Marian was true – I wanted Pat to make an honest sissy of me – her wife. I remembered the old saying, “Why buy the cow, when you can have the milk for free?” I loved Pat, but she wasn't getting free milk.
So, when a flushed Pat asked if I'd to go back to her place, I said I was emotionally exhausted and wanted to go home. When we got to mother's house, I stayed in the car, kissing, fondling and letting Pat feel me up, but stopped short of either of us climaxing. When I got out Pat still had bedroom eyes.
She'd come to think of me as a passive sissy. The initiatives I'd taken with Dorothy and the consultant at Merle Norman made her think there was more to me than she'd imagined. The change was subtle at first, but obvious to me. Before, I was a male bimbo – nicely treated, but a bimbo nonetheless. She wanted me to feel respected, but deep down, she felt I needed “guidance.” Maybe I did, but now I was closer to a self-guiding moral equal – maybe not equal yet, but much closer than before.
I was not a decisionmaker yet, but my opinions were worth considering. Before, I rarely heard from her between dates. Now I got regular texts and calls. Some of it was sexting, but a lot was about her private and professional life, and asking my opinion. I'm not sure how much what I said mattered, but at least I was being asked. I was no longer confined to one compartment of her life.
Meanwhile, a manager from Walmart had called to set up an interview. I'd heard they weren't very particular. As long as you didn't have two heads and were willing to work for peon wages, you were sure to be hired. As the store was on a bus route, I didn't need mother to drive me.
I wore my new loafers, black slacks and a short-sleeved dress shirt. Of course, I was not about to take off my pink pearl earrings or lovely nail polish. I'd learned a subtle makeup that looked good in florescent lighting. I arrived fifteen minutes early and sat patiently with good posture and my hands folded in my lap. About five minutes after the scheduled time a harried manager hustled past me, did a double take and went into his office. He called his admin in after him.
She came out and said, “Mr. Hanson told me to say 'One of the associates changed her mind about leaving, so the job is no longer available. Thank you for your time.'
“Just between you and me, I think that stinks, and you look very pretty. I wish my son looked as nice. I am sorry this happened to you.”
“That was lovely of you to say. Thank you.” I should have known. Still, I was ready to do something with my life, and having a job, any job, meant a lot more to me than it had a few weeks before.
Meanwhile, Pat and I started dating more frequently – three or four times a week. She wanted to consummate our relationship and I wanted a proposal, so however intimate we got, I kept my panties on. One Sunday afternoon, she came right out and asked “Don't you want to have sex with me?”
“Of course I do – more than almost anything.”
“Almost anything? What do you want more?”
“You'll have to figure that out for yourself.” Women can be so dense sometimes.
That led our first argument. Pat thought that I should just tell her what I wanted, and I wanted her to ask me to be her wife her without being told. The argument got hotter and hotter. Finally, she called me "a stupid sissy bimbo." I ran off crying and took a cab home. Mother wanted to know why I was crying, but I just ran to my room, slammed the door and sobbed until I fell asleep.
About 8:00 mother came in with a sandwich and lemonade, and sat on my bed. Without much prompting I told her the story of our argument and how I was a stupid sissy bimbo now. No one wanted to marry a sissy, so my life was over. Maybe it was a little melodramatic, but it was how I felt.
“Maxine, you are a lovely, smart sissy, and Pat knows you're the perfect wife for her. Sometimes it just takes people a while to figure out what they really want. Since you're more in touch with your feelings, you figured it out sooner than Pat. The same thing happened with me and your father. It took him forever to figure out he wanted to marry me. Just give Pat time and she'll work it out.”
After mother left, my cell beeped. I had four texts from Pat. I didn't read them. Later that evening, she called three times, but I was in no mood to talk to her. Monday her texts and voice mails continued to pile up and I continued to ignore them. She should know what I want. After all, me becoming her wife was her idea. Maybe she was having too much fun dating. Whatever it was, I was too pissed to listen to anything she had to say.
It was about 5:30. Mother was watching the news and and I was cooking pasta puttanesca when the door bell rang. It was Pat. I would have slammed the door in her face, but mother let her in. She was crying, making it hard for me to stay angry.
“I'm sorry Maxine. I was horrible, yelling and calling you names. I'm an idiot.”
“Yes, you are!”
“Well, I figured it out.” She took my hand and knelt on the living room floor. “Darling Maxine … Max Robinson, will you be my wife?”
I was already crying “Yes, Patricia Harper, I will love, honor and obey you all the days of my life.” I pulled her up and kissed her as hard as I could. Pat broke our embrace to reach into the pocket of her pants suit for a ring box. In it was a one carat solitaire that she slipped on my ring finger. It fit perfectly. Suddenly, I felt faint. Pat caught me and carried me to the sofa.
A couple of months before, I had no idea who or what I was. Now I was a pretty, confident sissy on my way to being the wife of a successful business woman, and, hopefully, a mother. As a prospective wife and mother, I wanted to be more responsible, but my new persona made that difficult. There's a lot of prejudice out there. So, I still had no job or real hope of one.
The Tuesday morning after Pat proposed, I got a call from Victoria Winters. I had no idea who she was.
“You're Maxine Robinson, right?”
“Yes, I am.” How many people knew that?
“I'm Vikki Winters … Dorothy's mother – from the nail salon. Remember?”
“Oh, Dorothy's mother! Of course I remember Dorothy. How could I forget? She was so sweet! I hope she's alright?”
“Well, she is, and isn't. That's why I'm calling. I mean she's physically alright, but emotionally, it's another story.”
“I'm so sorry to hear that … but why are you calling me? Is there something I can do?”
“I'm not sure. She talks about you all the time. You're her heroine. So, I thought … maybe … if we could meet … I don't know.”
“Well, I'd like to see her again … and help, but I don't have a car.”
“That's OK, my sister could pick you up. When are you free?”
“Most any time … now, actually.”
“Oh, good!” She seemed relieved.
I gave her our address and she said her sister would be there in half an hour.
I changed into my burgundy satin blouse, black slacks and healed loafers. There was no time to do more than touch up my face. I had barely finished when Dorothy's aunt rang.
I answered the door to brunette in shorts, sandals and a tank top. She didn't look like she'd even had time to fix her lipstick. I felt overdressed. I could tell from her face that she was struggling between curiosity and respect. She seemed to be at a loss for words.
“Ah … I'm sorry. You must be Mr., … ah, Ms. Robinson?”
“And you must be Dorothy's aunt?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Well, Dorothy's aunt, you may call me Max, or Maxie or Maxine – whatever you're most comfortable with. What may I call you?”
“Excuse me, I'm so sorry! I'm Vanessa Winters. Everyone calls me 'Nes,' Maxie.”
“Glad to meet you, Nes,” I said extending my hand, which she shook warmly. “I understand you're here to drive me to see your sister and niece? She we go?”
As we drove I asked Nes if she knew what was going on and how I could help. She only knew that Dorothy had been been bullied, had few friends and was clinically depressed. His mother was very worried about him. She wasn't sure how I fit in, but Vikki had asked her to pick me up before she got ready for work. She wanted to help, but her job as an airline attendant meant she was often out of town.
She parked in front of an imposing colonial in an upper middle class neighborhood and escorted me in. After exchanging kisses and hugs with Vikki, she left. I thanked her for the ride.
“Thank you for coming, Ms. Robin …”
“Maxie.”
“Thank you for coming, Maxie. I know I wasn't very clear, but I'm at my wit's end. Dorothy left a spot of polish on and was bullied at school. I'm afraid his, … her friends weren't brave enough to stand up for her. Now she's alone and depressed. Yesterday, her counselor told me she's having 'suicidal ideation.' I freaked out. I don't want to leave her alone. I'm wondering would you … I mean she likes you and you were so kind to her …”
“What, babysit her?"
“She's too old for a babysitter. I was thinking … paid companion and, well, … governess?? I mean if you'd leave whatever job you have … I'd make it worth your while. Dorothy is my life since her father left. I don't want to loose her.” Her voice dropped and tears started flowing.
Instinctively, I moved next to her and put my arm around her. “It'll be okay,” I said quietly. I waited while she composed herself. Finally, I said, “A lot of managers are reluctant to hire … people like me. So, I could use a job, but even if you didn't pay me, I'd do what I could for Dorothy. She's so sweet.”
“Oh, thank you! Thank you!” She hugged me, then let go, embarrassed at her display.
To lighten the mood I asked, “If I'm going to be a governess do I need a long black skirt, a puff-sleeved blouse, high-laced stub heels, and a bun?”
She smiled. “I don't think that will be necessary.”
“More seriously, there are some things … First, I don't have a car, and from what I understand, your sister isn't always …”
“We can work it out. I'll buy a car today! How about a Prius?”
“A Prius would be fine … but I was going to say, I need to know how Dorothy feels about me being her, ah … governess. Where is she, anyway?”
“If Donald is being Dorothy, he, she runs up to her room whenever the doorbell rings. Shall I call her down?”
“I'd rather go up and talk to her alone, if you don't mind.”
“If you think that would be best ...”
“I do.”
“Donald's door is the second on the right, and Dorothy's the third.”
“So, which should I try?”
“Dorothy's.”
I knocked on the closed door.
“Who is it?” a quiet voice said.
“Maxine.”
“Max...?” I heard running steps and Dorothy yanked the door open. She was dressed in a sparkly violet tunic, lavender leggings and white wedge sandals. Her unkempt hair and red eyes told a sad tale. She threw her arms around me. I hugged her back.
“We need to talk sweetie.” As we walked over to her canopy bed, I explained that her mother wanted me to keep her company and make sure she was safe. How did she feel about that?
“Oh, Maxine! I'd love it. You're the only one that understands me. I'm such a freak, and I'm so lonely.” For the next few minutes, her tears stained my blouse as I cuddled her.
When she recovered, I said, “So, tell me what happened. I don't believe you accidentally wore polish to school.”
Dorothy blushed. “No, it was a stupid, on-purpose accident. I liked Jonathan Valenti. He's so cute … curly blond hair, blue eyes … big, strong arms. He smiled and winked at me … I thought he liked me. I wanted him to know I was a girl … I thought if I left some polish on … well, maybe … but he … ” She started crying again. I waited.
“What happened?”
“He called me awful names, pulled my pants down to show everyone my panties, and shoved me down. Everyone calls me a sissy, a fag and a cock sucker. Mommy took me out of school. I'm such a freak! I want to die!”
I held her again. “Love is hard, Dorothy, but you can't find it unless you're alive.
“Look, we can't spend all day in your room. You have to help me pick out a ride so we can go fun places. Who knows, maybe there's a cute boy out there looking for a girl like you!”
“You think?”
“Yes, haven't you seen all the same-sex weddings on the news – they're all people who found each other and fell in love. You think any of them found their true love locked in their room?”
“I guess not,” she sniffled.
“OK, go wash your face, and I'll help you look pretty. We have a car to buy!” When she came out I brushed her hair and put a bit of mascara on her lashes.
“Do you have lipstick?”
“Mommy says I'm too young.”
“Well, I'll see if I can change her mind.”
…
At the dealership, Dr. Winters (she was a heart surgeon), got prompt attention by announcing she wanted to pay cash for immediate delivery of a Prius. The only snag was Dorothy and I insisting it be painted orchid. The dealer would pick me up at 8:00 the next morning to take delivery.
When I got home, I texted mom and Pat that I had a job, leaving the details for later. Pat was taking me to her club Wednesday, and we'd have time to talk over dinner, and maybe later.
When mother got home, I told her everything. She hadn't heard about Dorothy before and told me that she was very proud of me for being so kind at the salon. Then, we discussed what my job might be like over dinner. Halfway through, I could see that an idea had struck her.
“Maxine, when you're single and independent, how you look is your own affair. But, when you're responsible for someone else, even parttime, you need to take them into account.”
“I agree, but what do you mean?”
“I mean right now you look like a very pretty sissy, but if you're Dorothy's governess, people are going to look at you and wonder about Dorothy. Do you plan to take her places in girl's clothes?”
“Yes, I thought it'd help build her confidence.”
“Well, then I think you should look either all girl or all guy. Being a sissy is just going to draw attention. You might like the attention, but it will make Dorothy very uncomfortable.”
“You're right, mom.” I imagined all kinds of awkward situations in which Dorothy suffered the fallout from being with a sissy. “Well, I still have all my male clothes, I could just wear them.”
“Scrub and cut your nails, stop wearing the pearls Pat bought you, and get a buzz cut? I don't think that's you anymore, sweetie. Besides, I don't think Pat would like your new look when she takes you to dinner tomorrow.”
“What should I do?”
“Well, if you can't go right, go left. The main reason you don't look female isn't your face. With make up, your not a beauty, but you're certainly passable. The main problem is your flat chest. That makes people look twice and then figure out you're a boy. With a modest bust, you wouldn't get a close examination. People would just assume that you're an average 19 year old girl.”
“A modest bust?”
“Yes, not too big and not too small. Most of us are B-cups. So, you should be too. Then you could work on your voice. You've started speaking softer and sounding more feminine since you have been dating Pat, but you need to work on it more. Right now it's barely passable – OK as long as your don't say much.
“After dinner, we'll go to Target and get you a few bras, and balloons you can fill with water. When we get back. We'll look for breast forms on the net.”
…
The next morning, a shy boy, dressed in a red blazer like the salesmen at the dealership, knocked at my door. “I'm here to pick up Max Robinson,” he said gaping at me.
“That's me, … Robby,” I said, reading the name on his jacket. “I'm ready.”
Once we were on our way, I could tell he wanted to ask me something, but was too shy. “You look like you have a question, Robby.”
“I don't want to be rude, but Karl, the salesman who sold the car, said you were a guy and snickered. He wouldn't tell me why. Now you look like a cute gal, and you're wearing an engagement ring. Are you gay?”
“No, dear, I'm engaged to a woman. I'm going to be her wife.”
“Her wife!?”
“Yes. She has a good job and wants a family. She needs a wife and mother to take care of her home and children – I'm the lucky guy,” I said, smiling broadly.
“That's awesome! I took care of my mom's house and watched my step-brothers and sister. Now I've got this crappy job working for my uncle. I wish I was you. I even like how you look. … How did you find your lady?”
“She found me.”
Robby drove quietly for a while.
“I wanted to try my mom's things, but I never did. You're really brave.”
“No, I'm not … I mean I got a lot of encouragement from my mom and the lady I'm going to marry."
“Do you still live with your mom?”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe you could tell her how you feel and she'd buy you some things.”
“I'm not that brave.”
“Well, I'm starting work as a caretaker for a 13 year old who dresses in front of his mom. If he can be that brave, I'm sure you can.”
“Maybe ...” Robby was lost in his own thoughts for the rest of the drive.
When we parked, he said, “Thank you for talking to me, Maxie. You gave me a lot to think about.” He offered me his hand to shake, but I kissed him on the cheek instead.
Despite the promise the car would be ready when I arrived, I didn't get to the Winters' until 10:00. Dr. Winters expected me at 9:00 and had to ask a colleague cover for her. She wasn't happy. Fortunately, I called to explain. So her anger was directed at the dealer.
We'd both thought of new questions. I wanted to talk to Dorthy's counselor and know what was being done for her medically. A meeting with her psychologist would be arranged. She was on anti-depressants and testosterone blockers. Vikki was embarrassed to say so, but wanted a criminal background check on me. I agreed that was very sensible. I asked if I could help Dorothy be more feminine. I could as long as she wanted it and it was age appropriate. Did Vikki know Dorothy liked boys? She'd suspected it and added that no daughter of hers would have sex before their late teens at the earliest. I said that was wise, but wondered what would actually happen.
All this was hurried because Dr. Winters was running late. Still, I was encouraged that we saw things the same. Lastly, we agreed that Dorothy needed some fun to help her out of her depression before she'd be ready to start home schooling.
Vikki called her down, kissed her goodbye and left.
“Well, would you like to see the sissy mobile?”
“The sissy mobile?”
“Yeah, our lavender ride!”
“Oh, sure! Let me change into boy's clothes.”
“Why, do you feel like a boy today?”
“No, I just don't want people thinking I'm a sissy.”
“I think that train has left the station.”
The Good Samaritan
A variation on the classic parable.
Finding William
Friday night I’d had a late dinner in Vegas. It was almost 11:00 when I turned onto Amboy Road toward 29 Palms. As I drove through Sheep Hole Pass, mud on the highway told me we’d had recent flash flooding. I slowed down – the road is unlit and prone to washouts. I didn’t want to overdrive my lights. Rounding a curve I saw a little campfire ahead. Actually, a car was burning just off the road. Slowing, I saw skid marks in the mud leading to a 3’ washout on the right. A girl was trying to crawl from the car, but seemed hung up on the window. I ran and pulled her away.
“Is there was anyone else in the car?”
She shook her head. As she did, the gas tank exploded with a surprising bang – throwing debris and burning gasoline in all directions. The girl’s legs seemed broken. I tried calling 911, but the cell reception on Amboy is spotty at best. I’d take her myself. She screamed then fainted when I picked her up.
I set a flare before the washout and started for the hospital. The only one in 29 Palms is the Naval Hospital, but I was sure they’d take an emergency case, so I drove there. They came out with a gurney and wheeled her in – still out cold. I parked and called 911 about the washout and the car fire. Finally, I went in and waited to give my statement. While I was telling the deputy what I’d seen, she got a call saying the fire was out. The car was a burnt out shell that would be cleared Monday.
The deputy left and I was collecting my purse and coat when a woman with a clipboard stopped me. She insisted that I take responsibility because the patient had been given morphine and couldn’t sign any forms. I said I didn’t even know her, but signed as “friend.” I went home, had a rum and coke, and went to bed.
The next morning about 11:00 I got a call from the hospital asking me to pick my friend up. I tried to explain, but the discharge planner said it would save a her from the bureaucratic nightmare of discharging an indigent civilian from a military hospital. She seemed a nice person, so I relented. I’d just take her to one of the motels in town.
“He’ll need some shorts because his jeans were cut off when he was treated and he can’t wear long pants over his casts.”
He? His? Surely, not. Maybe she’d never met the young woman and was confused. Now 29 Palms is not the fashion capital of the world. We only have a couple of small dressmaker’s shops. Coming up with shorts on an hour’s notice wouldn’t be easy in July, but in February, it’s impossible. My shorts would be huge on her.
My sister Sandy, 13, was continually fighting with our mom over styles. She’d “accidentally” leave anything she considered juvenile at my house at the end of her visits. As a result, my guest room held a collection of shortalls, cutesy dresses and infantile shorts Sandy had “forgotten.” I chose blue sailor shorts with white piping and two rows of brass buttons as the best of awful alternatives.
I got to the hospital about 11:30. My first surprise was that the discharge planner was not mistaken. The person I’d brought in was indeed a man – one named William Mannette. I went to his room. His legs were in casts, his face and arms battered by the airbags, his hands bandaged and he was zonked out on pain killers. I knew I couldn’t take him to a motel and dump him. He’d never be able to care for himself. They say no good deed goes unpunished.
I’m not fond of men. It’s not that I’m a lesbian, but I’ve had enough bad – make that horrible – experiences to avoid them. Still, this one seemed safe enough. I’m 5’ 11”, 160 (OK, a bit more) and he looked to be 5’ 5”, 115. Anyway, I’d had no difficulty lifting him the night before. So I figured I’d have no problem dealing with any trouble he might make even if he was sound of limb – which he definitely was not. He could stay in Sandy’s room. I’d get Juanita (my part-time maid) to take care of him for a day or two, by then his family would come for him. I’d taken in stay cats as a child. How different could this be?
As I looked at him I could see why I’d taken him for a woman in the dark. Not only was he small, but his facial contours were quite feminine. He wore an inexpensive woman’s sports watch, diamond or zirc studs in his ears and shoulder length blond hair. Even now, battered and bruised as he was, he looked like a flat-chested young lady.
The nurse was trying to wake him. “William you have a visitor.”
“A visitor??”
“Yes. Hi. I’m Lindsey James – the lady that brought you in last night.”
“Not just brought me in, but saved my life. Thank you! Thank you!” He struggled to sit up and held out bandaged hand for me to shake. He winced when I grasped it.
“I just did what anyone would do. Don’t worry about it.”
“I don’t know how to repay you.”
“You don’t have to. Look, they asked me to come and collect you. You can’t stay here – it’s a Navy hospital and they don’t take civilians except for emergencies. Besides you don’t need to be in the hospital any more. They asked me to bring a pair of shorts. I did the best I could – there wasn’t time to buy any. I hope you don’t mind wearing a pair my sister left. I promise not to laugh.” I handed a paper bag with the shorts to the nurse. “I’ll get my car and meet you out front.”
The nurse stopped me. “Ms. James, Lindsey, before you get your car, you need to meet with the discharge planner for instructions.” I met with nurse Crotchet – no that wasn’t her real name. She went over the points of care like a German officer issuing orders. William would: (1) have to stay in bed for three days, and start exercising his legs in 2 weeks; (2) “we” could use a bed pan or incontinence pants (she recommended the latter unless there was a trained nurse on duty); (3) he would be unable to use crutches for some time because he had no good leg to put weight on; (4) he needed lots of fluids to help the kidneys deal with pain medication and a high calcium diet, etc., etc. I signed saying I’d been informed and received printed pages.
When they helped him into my car, I almost couldn’t help laughing. Between the sailor shorts and the bulky diaper he was obviously wearing, he looked like an overgrown toddler. Luckily I kept my composure. They gave me a bag with his things and a prescription for painkillers. I drove to the pharmacy, then my place. My house isn’t exactly handicapped accessible. I had to carry him up ten or so steps and over the threshold like a blushing bride.
I’d tried talking to him as I drove, but he kept nodding off. Now I sat him on the sofa and told him we needed to talk. Did he have any relatives to come and get him? His mother’s sister lived in Indonesia with her husband who worked for an oil company. Friends? Not that would come for him. I was stuck with him.
He hated to mention it, but he had to go to the “potty.” “Potty?” Really, “potty”? Come on! Anyway, I put him on an office chair and wheeled him to the “potty.” There I had to take down his shorts and loosen his diaper. Thankfully, it was clean and dry. I admit it. I checked him out – without staring. He wasn’t huge, or tiny either. I helped him onto the seat. I was going to tell him to call me when he was done, but he could not sit without his casts being supported. I sat on the floor and held them. I’m not sure which of us was more embarrassed. Later I found a crate to rest his feet on.
After he’d “gone potty,” I tried calling Juanita. She was visiting relatives and wouldn’t be back until Thursday. So much for plan A. I guessed I was plan B. It wasn’t that I had somewhere to go. I’d just finished a gig in Vegas and didn’t have to go again until the following week. Mostly I worked from home over the net. (I’m a cyber security consultant.) So I could care for William until he could hobble around on his own.
I helped him into bed, and asked if he was hungry. He wasn’t. I gave him a pain pill instead. I relaxed until he woke about 6:00. I wheeled him to the “potty,” put his bottom on it, his feet on the crate, and left him to it. After, I helped with his diaper and decided leaving his shorts off was more practical. I replaced the sailor shorts and his turtleneck with a unicorn nitie Sandy had never worn. The turtleneck needed washing anyway.
As I changed him, I noticed a complete lack of muscle tone. Though he was little over 100 pounds, a fair amount of his weight was fat. Little wonder that he’d had such a hard time getting out of his car. His arms were soft and feminine, and his chest quite flabby. He seemed very self-conscious about his body and relieved to have it covered – even by a girlish nitie.
I poured pre-mixed salad and nuked potpies for dinner. He had a hard time eating the pie with a fork, so I broke it up and gave him a tablespoon. Watching him spilling food down his front reinforced the toddler image I’d formed earlier. I put a bib on my mental shopping list. I had a well-deserved Chablis, and had him drink two large glasses of water, per instructions. I started Breech on the DVD, but he soon fell asleep. After the movie, I wheeled him back to bed and told him not to wake me to take him “potty.” I was too tired. He should feel free to use his diaper. I have to admit that I was a bit angry at being imposed upon, and not very sympathetic.
Running off the Road
I had been working as a bus boy and waiter in Las Vegas for a couple years when the economy fell apart and I lost my job. Maybe I could have found another. Some people think I am cute, and that can open doors in Vegas, but I didn’t like what was on the other side of them. Stacy, my apartment mate, knew I was tired of Vegas life and had a cousin who was a maitre d’ in Palm Springs. There was a job for me if I could get there by Saturday. So, I packed up my old Toyota and took off reluctantly after a tearful farewell. (Stacy is so emotional, and her crying is contagious.)
I left late and took the shortest route. The map showed a secondary road leading south from the I-15 through Joshua Tree National Park to the I-10 east of Palm Springs. I planned to stay in Twentynine Palms, see the park in the morning and arrive Saturday afternoon. The weather was mild for February, so I put the windows down a little and let the wind blow through my hair. (I usually wear my hair in a ponytail, but I like to take it down when I’m alone.)
I was almost dozing off from monotony when suddenly, half the road was gone in front of me. I braked, but the pavement was slick with mud. I spun, skidded into the hole, bounced off the road, and slammed against something hard. The airbags banged into me. Recovering my senses, I saw a flickering light from under the car. The floorboard was heating up and smoking. I loosened my seat belt, but the door was jammed. As I pushed against it, I felt a horrid pain in both legs. The driver’s window was broken. I got most of its glass out with my elbow and fist. I cut my hands, but managed to pull my body out. I was in agony as my feet caught on the frame. I had to get away or I’d be dead at 23. It was one of those dreams where you know where to go, but can’t seem to get there. Meanwhile, a car and a pickup drove by without stopping.
Finally, a car did stop and a lady ran toward me. She grabbed my arms and pulled me to the road. She asked if there was anyone else in the car. I shook my head no. Just then I heard an explosion. Flaming gas engulfed my car and the surrounding scrub. She tried calling an ambulance, but there was no cell service. She asked if she could drive me to the hospital. I nodded. She picked me up. It hurt so much I screamed, then passed out.
I woke up in the hospital. I had an IV in my arm and the doctor was wrapping one of my legs. I tried to talk, but I could only mumble. The doctor said I’d had an accident and broke both legs, but that I should be fine once they mended. I vaguely remember being moved. The next thing I knew a nurse was waking me for breakfast. I sipped a bit of coffee, then fell asleep until the nurse woke me to tell me I had a visitor – the lady who brought me in. I knew she did more than that – she saved my life.
The lady’s name was Lindsey James. She was 28 – a tall, athletic brunette. Her face was more handsome than pretty, but still feminine. Her hair was close cropped. She wore tennis shoes, jeans and a man’s shirt that pulled across her full breasts. Diamond studs in her ears and a mannish watch were her only jewelry. Since she’d brought me in, they had asked her to pick me up. I thanked her the best I could. I owed her my life. She had a bag of her sister’s shorts with her and apologized as she handed them to the nurse. Then she left to get her car.
I was about to be really embarrassed. They had me on a catheter. When the nurse took it out (ouch) she put a bulky diaper on me. She took a pair of sailor shorts with brass buttons out of the bag Ms. James had brought. When I saw them I knew why Ms. James had apologized – they were styled for a 9-year old girl. Pulling them up over my diaper, the nurse admired her handiwork. “You look sooo cute I could eat you up, honey.”
She took a few minutes to brush my hair – that felt good – then took me out in a wheelchair. An orderly helped her put me in Ms. James’ car and I was off. Ms. James tried to converse, but I kept nodding off. We stopped at a drug store, then drove out of town on a dirt road.
Her house is on a small hill on the border of Joshua Tree. It is a four-bedroom adobe with a carport. Steps lead from it to her door. She is so strong, she just picked me up and carried me in her arms. I mention that because it made me fell small, weak and dependent. As we crossed the threshold, I pictured a groom carrying his bride – but I was the bride – another blow to the masculine self-image I’d been trying to nurture.
She put me on the sofa and asked who could come to get me. I had to tell her there was no one. I had a few friends in Vegas, but except for Stacy none were close, and Stacy’s SO was moving in as I moved out. Realizing how alone I was made me want to cry, but I saved it for when I was by myself.
Meanwhile, the urge to go potty was growing. I did not want to use the diaper, so I asked Ms. James to take me. It was really embarrassing for both of us and unpleasant for Ms. James to be exposed to the smell. She was so nice to me – she held my feet up so I could sit and cleaned me because I could not use the TP with my hands bandaged. After, she tucked me in to bed.
I woke in time for dinner. Ms. James put me on the potty again, but this time she had a box to put my feet on and left me too it. She suggested that I not wear the sailor shorts as getting them on and off was a pain. I had to agree. She took off the turtleneck I was wearing and put me in a unicorn nitie. It was even more embarrassing than the sailor shorts. Still, she did not laugh at me, but treated it as a normal thing to wear.
She is a lovely person, but one thing she is not good at is cooking. For dinner we had premixed salad greens and microwaved chicken potpies. I told her how yummy it was, but decided to make her a good dinner as soon as I could. She had me drink two big glasses of water with dinner because the instructions said to.
After dinner we started watching a movie, but I fell asleep. She put me to bed. I was so sleepy I forgot to ask to go potty. She was tired and asked that I not wake her – use my diaper if I needed to. So far I had not. About 11:30 I woke up needing to potty. I tried to hold it. I couldn’t. Wetting was a strange experience. I felt embarrassed and infantile, but my warm, wet diaper felt oddly comforting. I fell back asleep until 3:00 when the other glass of water wanted out and I wet again. This time the bed got wet.
About 8:00, Ms. James came to see if I was awake. I heard her and woke up cold, soggy, and very uncomfortable. At first she was all smiles, but when she smelled the pee she started to frown. “It smells like someone needs a diaper change.”
I blushed. “I didn’t want to wake you.”
“I appreciate that.” She got a fresh diaper and pulled back the covers. When she saw that the bed was wet, she got mad. “You’ve wet Sandy’s bed! Couldn’t you control yourself at all?”
“It was all that water at dinner – and I forgot to ask to go potty before you put me to bed.”
“Only babies ‘forget to go potty.’ If you’re going to act like I baby, I can treat you accordingly.”
“I’m sorry.” I felt very infantile in a wet diaper, nitie and bed. Since I was already feeling very alone and vulnerable, I started to cry.
She softened just a bit, but was still mad. “Well, let me change you.” She pulled off the wet nitie and changed my diaper. She must have done it before because she seemed quite expert. The baby powder smell brought back vague, pleasant memories. While embarrassed, I felt cared for.
When I was changed, she put me in a wheeled office chair to wash my legs and back. Finally, she rummaged in the bureau until she found an infantile nitie – pink, with a skirted Care Bear. “Here, this suits you!” In my state of mind then, it did. What upset me most was the warm, tingly feeling wearing it gave me.
She wheeled me into the kitchen and left me in front of a bowl of Frosted Flakes, an empty glass and a carton of milk. My bandages made it hard to pour the milk, use a spoon, or even hold a glass. When I was done there were milk puddles on the table, dribbles on my nitie and splatters on the floor.
While I was struggling with breakfast, Ms. James was stripping the bed, washing the sheets, and hauling the mattress out to the patio. She still looked mad as she walked past. She saw the mess I’d made and said, “You really are a baby. You need a bib and a bottle.” She got a wet cloth, cleaned the front of my nitie, the table and floor. Then she went out to work on the mattress.
I sat feeling sorry for myself and guilty for all the work I was causing Ms. James – I was a big baby. I’d wet my diaper and the bed, and made a mess any toddler could be proud of. I wondered what wearing a bib and suckling a bottle would feel like. Maybe it would not be too bad. Meanwhile she was on the patio working on the mattress with club soda and towels. As she worked, I could see her calming down.
When she was done, she came in to talk. “I’m sorry that I got mad and made you cry sweetie.” (It was the first time she called me “sweetie.”) “I know it wasn’t your fault. You’re zoned out on painkillers, and I gave you all that water and told you to use your diapers. Monday I’ll buy you plastic panties and a waterproof sheet. Also, it wasn’t your fault that you made of mess of your breakfast. Still, we’re going to have to do something about the spills.”
“I wish you did not have to. I’ll pay for whatever you get. By the way, do you know if they got my bag out of the car?”
“The deputy said everything burned to ashes.”
“Oh God! I had all my money in my bag – over five thousand I got from my grandma! … and other things from mommy and grandma.”
“Didn’t you have a wallet? They gave me a bag with your belongings.” She got it and handed it to me.
“Yeah, but I wasn’t going to carry all that cash around. I only have about $100 in my wallet.” I looked – there was $116.00. I started crying again – not so much for the money as because it was from my grandma. It hit me how alone and dependent I was. Lindsey came over and hugged me to her breasts.
“Look, sweetie, I make more than I’ll ever need, so I’ll front you till you get on your feet.”
“Thanks.” What else could I do? I sniffed and tried to stop my tears. She continued to comfort me, rubbing my back silently until I relaxed.
“William, sweetie, when I stripped the bed, your pillow case was really dirty. I don’t think they washed your hair after the accident. Do you mind if I give you a shampoo? My sister Sandy enjoys me washing hers. She says it’s really relaxing.”
“I would like one if it is not too much trouble.”
“It’ll make up for my getting mad at you. Let’s go out on the patio. It’s nice out and you can relax on the chaise while I wash your hair.”
“OK if no one will see me. The way I am dressed is really embarrassing.”
“Sorry about that, but there is no point in changing now. No one lives close or looks down on my house. Don’t be embarrassed. It’s just us and I think you look cute.” I blushed. Whenever women complimented my looks I was always “cute,” never “handsome.” The sole exceptions had been my mommy and grandma who said that I was pretty – “too pretty to be a boy.”
It was not quite 70°, but the sun was shining and there was little breeze. I was very comfortable as she shampooed my hair. Once my hair was rinsed and conditioned she let it dry in the sun for a bit, then wheeled me in to blow dry it.
“My grandma used to do this for me, Ms. James.”
“Look, if you don’t start calling me Lindsey, I am going to put you over my knee!”
I was not sure if she would really spank me or not. She was certainly strong enough and she had a temper. “I’m sorry, Lindsey.”
“Did you live with your grandma then?”
“Yes, mommy was single and we all lived together. Mommy died when I was in eighth grade. Then my grandma and I took care of each other till I was 20 and she died. She used to say I looked just like mommy when I was her age.”
“Do you have any pictures?”
“Yes, in my wallet. You can look. … That is my grandma, mommy and me when I was little. Here is mommy in pigtails when she was small.”
“I agree with your grandma, you look very much like your mom, sweetie.”
I was feeling dreamy with the painkillers, the sun streaming through the patio door and Lindsey brushing my hair as grandma had. I reminisced. “Grandma liked to brush my hair like she’d done for mommy. She would braid it or put it in pigtails … mommy’s I mean. Her brushing my hair sounds weird, but it made her happy and I liked the attention. We would talk as she did it. It was a special time for us. … Oh God now you think I am a freak!” I twisted around, but Lindsey looked moved, not freaked out.
“I’m glad you had those special times with her. I don’t think it’s freaky at all. I just didn’t know boys enjoyed things like that.”
“I did – so I guess I’m not much of a boy.”
“Maybe not, but it makes me like you better than the men I’ve dated.” She brushed on silently, and I relaxed – feeling more accepted than I had since my grandma died. I’d never told anyone about my hair time with grandma, but I was glad I told Lindsey. “Would you like me to do that for you?”
I was almost asleep. “What?”
“Braid your hair or put it in pigtails?”
“That would be weird.”
“Not to me.”
“Boys don’t wear pigtails.”
“I’m sure some do.”
I had imagined grandma giving me pigtails when I was younger. Ms. James – Lindsey could not know that. Still, the idea made me blush.
“You’re blushing, sweetie. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I just thought you might want to see how much like you mother you really do look.” After that she stopped asking me if I wanted pigtails. She parted my hair in the middle, but did not put it in a ponytail, so it kept getting into my eyes. At some point I fell asleep. I woke briefly as she lifted me onto the sofa. “Sweetie, I have to get some things. I put a towel under you and the sofa is leatherette, so don’t worry about wetting. Have a nice nap.” She kissed me on the forehead and left. I felt warm and accepted as a fell back asleep.
My Charge
My mind raced as I lay in bed after my day with William. What I had gotten myself into? I never thought pulling someone from a burning car would end with me wiping his rear. I missed that class in hero school.
I couldn’t get William’s “package” out of my mind. The last penis I’d seen was Kerry Martin’s as he was trying to date rape me when I was 20. I’d fought him off, but hadn’t got over it. I’d been so sure Kerry was a gentleman. I hadn’t dated since because I didn’t trust men or my judgement where men were concerned. Still, seeing William had gotten my juices flowing – until I had to deal with the unpleasant reality of him “going potty.”
That was another thing. What kind of man talks about “going potty,” cries so openly, or wears girlish shorts, diapers and nities without complaint? William was probably a momma’s boy – the kind who would’ve been called a sissy in school. I wondered what he’d look like one of Sandy’s childish dresses. Would he wear one for me? The whole idea was fantasy. Still …
Strangely, or maybe not so strangely, William’s femininity was endearing, not repulsive. It was almost like having my own little girl – except for what was between her legs. But did he even like women? Or was he dreaming of being in the arms of a strong man?
I’d been alone so long; I needed someone in my life. William did too. Still, taking care of him was a lot more work than I anticipated or wanted. I fell asleep torn between anger at being put upon and the desire to end my loneliness. My dreams were equally turbulent. By turns I was lovingly dressing my man dolly in lace and Mary Janes, taking out my anger by paddling his bottom, and wantonly using him to fill my needs. I woke after a restless night.
I made coffee and set out breakfast. I drank my coffee, waiting impatiently to see what the day would bring. At 8:00 I decided to wake William. I found that he’d wet not only his diaper but the bed as well. I flipped out. After changing and washing him, I found Sandy’s most infantile pink nitie to dress him in. He let me put it on him without protest. The whole experience left me thinking of him as a 110-pound baby.
I’m not a domme. At least I’d never been dominant, but William’s submissiveness sent a surprisingly sexual thrill through me. I’d been living in secret fear of men, and now one, at least, did as I told him. Breaking free of my fear was liberating. I didn’t want to abuse William, so I wasn’t sure I liked this new side of myself. Maybe if I could be dominant without being abusive … But, where was the line?
After I sat William down to breakfast, I went out to clean the wet mattress on the patio. Working in the sun and crisp air gave me time to think. I was wrong to get mad over his bed wetting. Between the painkillers, the water at dinner and telling him not to wake me, it wasn’t really his fault. Still, he hadn’t complained when I told him to use his diaper – or when I dressed him like little girl for that matter. Was he afraid of me or did he enjoy being submissive, even feminine? How much of a sissy was he? How much did I want him to be?
As I walked back into the kitchen, I saw the mess William had made – puddles on the table, dribbles on his nitie, and cornflakes and splatters on the floor. It reminded me of little Katie – a two year old I used to baby sit as a teen. My anger re-ignited. He needed a bib and a baby bottle and told him so.
Another annoyance was his calling me “Ms. James.” I’d asked him to please call me “Lindsey” several times. Still, he persisted. In my angry mood, I told him that if he didn’t call me Lindsey, I’d put him over my knee. From then on he called me “Lindsey.” Did he really think I’d spank him? I imagined doing it and got the same erotic shiver dressing him in the Cheer Bear nitie gave me. My mixed feelings returned. I didn’t want to be abusive, but I was happy my sexuality had woken from its long slumber.
I don’t stay angry. After a bit more time cooling off on the patio, I came in and apologized. He needed his hair washed. Sandra, my mom and I all washed each other’s hair. It was relaxing and a good time to talk. Shampooing his could make up for my earlier outbursts.
The shampooing relaxed him and he began a kind of stream of consciousness. His grandmother had washed and brushed his hair. He reminded her of his mom. She used to braided his mom’s hair and put it in pigtails. Why did he mention that? Did he secretly wish she’d done it for him? The idea of a pigtailed sissy hadn’t occurred to me, but it made me moist. I suggested that I give him pigtails. He kept giving me reasons not to, but never said he didn’t want them. I filed the idea away. He fell asleep before I finished and I took advantage of it by putting barrettes in his hair. What would he say?
He’d be pretty if his face wasn’t bruised. I laid him on the sofa to finish his nap, kissed his forehead and left. After shopping at Save-A-Lot, I drove out to the crash site. Searching the area, I found the charred remains of a suitcase in a clump of creosote bushes not far from the car. Perhaps his inheritance wasn’t gone.
William was asleep, but the towel under him was wet. He woke as I made lunch. I changed him. For the first time, he responded to me wiping his equipment. I rewarded him with a bit of baby oil but stopped before anything happened.
A Princess Ariel nitie looked darling on him. I thought about how much laundry a baby generated. Since he’d made such a mess at breakfast, we ate on the patio. I gave him plastic bib and a baby bottle I got at Save-A-Lot. He asked if he had to use the bottle, but once I said yes, he did. He looked adorable and I told him so.
As we ate he told me that he felt like a baby girl dressed as he was. I asked him if there was anything wrong with being a girl – after all, I was one. He didn’t know what to say. Then I told him he shouldn’t worry about being a baby now. As it couldn’t be helped, why not relax and enjoy it?
“You don’t think the less of me? I owe you so much. I want you to like me.”
“I can hardly be mad at you for using a bottle I gave you, or wearing a bib and nitie I put on you. Don’t you feel cute?”
“Boys should not feel cute.”
“Nonsense! Besides, when I was doing your hair you told me you aren’t much of a boy anyway. That is one of the things I like about you.” He blushed. I was not sure, but I thought he batted his lashes at me – probably just my imagination.
We finished our lunch with smiles, but not saying much more.
If I was to bring out his sissy side, my conscience demanded he know his actual situation – that he was not totally dependent on me because he still had his inheritance.
“After shopping, I went to the crash site and found your suitcase. It’s a bit charred. Would you like me to open it for you?” I put it on the patio table. The zipper was melted, so I used shears to cut it open. His clothes were smoke stained and some were charred along the edges, but a photo album, an envelope of money and a jewelry bag had survived. He thanked me profusely. I’d wash his things and see what survived.
“Well sweetie, now that you have your money, you have some options. You don’t need to stay with me.” He looked like I was about to throw him out.
“Don’t worry, I’m not throwing you out. Having you here has shown me how lonely I’d become … without even realizing it. I’d like you to stay. The thing is, I really don’t like men – not he-men anyway. That’s one of the reasons I’d like you to stay. I don’t think it’s an insult to say you’re a bit of a sissy, sweetie. … Am I right?”
He fiddled with his hair, feeling a barrette with his finger tips, but leaving it in place. “I must be,” he said quietly, looking down.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Some boys are born to be he-men, and some aren’t. You’re blessed with a delicate body and a pretty face. When I changed you and did your hair, I felt you liked big strong Lindsey taking care of you. You do, don’t you?”
He nodded, avoiding my gaze by straightening the hem of his nitie.
“Despite my little outbursts, I like taking care of you, sweetie. I’d like to help you blossom.”
“Blossom?”
“Yes, into the pretty flower you are inside.”
“I don’t know. Mommy never dressed me like a girl, but she did dress me in fussy clothes. The children at school made fun of me. I hated that.”
“Which, the clothes, or being made fun of?”
“I didn’t mind the clothes when it was just mommy, grandma and me. The teasing made me cry.” Tears welled up in his eyes.
“I wouldn’t let anyone make fun of you.” I hugged him to my bosom. “The question is would you like to be pretty while you’re here?”
“I’ve been trying to be more of a man since my grandma died.”
“For yourself, or because other people expect it?”
“Well, when I first started working in Las Vegas a lot of guys wanted to pal around with me. One asked me if I’d like to hang with him. At first he was really nice and we had lots of fun. Then the asked me to see The Crying Game with him. When it showed Dil was a boy, he started rubbing my leg and crotch and tried to force my head down onto his … you know, his organ. I had to struggle to get away. So, I stay away from guys now. I don’t trust them. I don’t want them hitting on me. So I try to act more – well masculine.”
“I had a similar experience and don’t trust guys either. But, would you want to be with a man if you met one who respected you?”
“No, I like girls, but none of them ever liked me … I mean romantically.”
“I think I do.”
“Really?”
“Yes, but part of what I like is you’re not a he-man. In fact, I’d like you to be pretty for me. Would you like that?”
“I’m really not sure. I want to please you – to do as you want. But, part of me keeps saying I am a boy.”
“I’m not suggesting that you become a girl – I’m not lesbian. In fact, since I first saw your … ah, parts, I’ve been very interested in the boy part of you, but not enough to want a he-man. I’d like a pretty boy who’s interested in women – well who’s interested one woman – me. What do you think?”
“I am interested in you. I am not saying no. I just don’t know. I need time to think.”
“That’s fair enough. In the meantime, I think ‘William’ is too formal. Do you mind if I call you ‘Billie’?”
“That would be OK.”
A New Road
Lindsey working in the kitchen woke me. As I shook my drowsiness, I realized my nitie was cold and wet. That surprised me. Last night I had wet my diaper while awake and reluctantly. This time I had wet in my sleep. I had not wet the bed since I was 14, stressed out by mom’s death. Grandma had put me in diapers. She was very nice about it, but I felt like a baby and she treated me like one – not letting me change myself and putting me on the potty. Yes, “the potty,” as she insisted I call it. Secretly, I liked the attention, but it did not help me feel very grown up, especially as I was small for my age.
Grandma had me grow my hair out. She was on social security and quite frugal. She said hair cuts were an expense we could avoid. Besides she enjoyed shampooing and brushing my hair. She also economized by having me wear a lot of my mom’s old things. Not dresses or skirts, but shorts, tops and nities – even panties. Sometimes I felt that she was confusing me with my mom. Grandma never embarrassed me by sending me out dressed like a girl – not on the outside, anyway. I came to like wearing mom’s old things. It made me miss her less. I never felt proud of my masculine image, but when grandma dressed me in them, I looked and felt good. Grandma understood that, and sometimes she would put lipstick on me or paint my nails. I never asked her to, but when she did it I would I would leave it on until she took off. Once, when she was out, I tried a training bra and my mom’s prom dress. I looked beautiful, but felt so guilty I never tried them again.
While I was thinking all this, Lindsey was changing me like a baby. Suddenly I realized that even though my mind was occupied, my body was responding to Lindsey’s ministrations with an embarrassing woody. I was humiliated at obviously enjoying my diaper change and put my hands over my face. Lindsey did not tease me, but for the first time she rubbed a baby oil on me “to prevent rashes.” She stopped before I lost control. Part of me was glad I had not cum all over myself, but part of me wanted her to continue no matter how embarrassed I would be.
At lunch I got good news. Lindsey found my suitcase. My clothes were mostly ruined, but my photo album, inheritance and a case of jewelry from mommy and grandma had survived. Almost as good was that Lindsey liked me. The bad news was she wants me to “blossom.” I had been struggling to be a manly man. I was already in diapers and nities. Today she gave me a baby bottle at lunch. I should have resisted, but I wanted to see what suckling a bottle would feel like. It was comforting, but I did not tell Lindsey.
I told her I liked her too, but was not sure I wanted to be more of a sissy than I already am. I said I’d think about it. A real man would have just said no, but she knew I wasn’t much of a boy before we started the conversation. I also agreed to let her call me “Billy.” “William” is more dignified, but it is hard to feel dignified in diapers and a girl’s nitie.
On the third day, I finished my painkillers and graduated to Tylenol and ibuprofen. Also the doctor unwrapped my hands and I could use my fingers a bit to eat without making a mess. In a week, my bruises were fading and I was starting to feel almost normal except for my legs.
I still could not use the potty without help because I could not lift my bottom with my legs still in casts – nor could I change my diapers. Oh yes, my diapers. Lindsey said it was a lot less work to change my diaper than to take me to the bathroom and lift me onto the potty. Also, my calls broke her concentration working. She told me to just wet my diapers and she would change me when it was convenient for her. She still took me to poo when I needed to. I stopped thinking about peeing and started to find myself wet without remembering doing it.
Lindsey did not seem to mind my infantile behavior. For sanitary reasons she had shaved my diaper area clean, so that I looked like a little boy. She also started “rewarding my patience” at waiting to be changed by increased applications of baby oil rubbed in by her soft hands until I lost control.
After I started looking forward to changing time, she started using it to ask me if she could do things to help me look cuter. The first time she stopped as I was on the edge and asked if she could put my hair in pigtails. Part of me had hoped that she would do it without asking, but now I had an excuse so, I agreed with feigned reluctance. A few days later, before she changed me, she got a childish dress out of the closet and told me that if I wanted my baby oil “treatment” I should ask her if I could please be allowed to wear it.
The next week, she sat me at the vanity and said she would be pleased if I painted my nails pink and applied matching lipstick. Later the same week, I was given a makeup video and told to work on my eyes.
About a month after the accident, Lindsey took me to the doctor in a dress suitable to a 14 year old. The doctor seemed unaware that I was a boy. She put rubber feet on my casts and told me that I could put weight on my legs and use crutches. Now I could use the potty without help. Lindsey gave me cotton panties in place of my diapers, but I could not keep them dry and went back to diapers before the end of the day. The next morning, Lindsey told me that if I wet my panties during the day I would be spanked. I really tried not to, but wet twice because had gotten into the habit of wetting without thinking. True to her word, Lindsey spanked me each time and it hurt! By the end of the week I had been spanked at least ten more times, but was dry during the day. Lindsey continued to diaper me for bed, using baby oil, and giving me a bottle to go to sleep with.
Once I was able to get around on crutches, I started helping around the house – cleaning, doing laundry and cooking. Although I had never told her that I wanted to be her sissy, my behavior made it abundantly clear that I had accepted my role in life.
Slowly, Lindsey replaced the childish things Sandy had left behind with more adult, but still very feminine, clothes. Finally, my casts were removed. My legs were stiff and emaciated, but at least I could move them. Lindsey spent a lot of time walking with me and helping me recover.
At last I was healthy and could care for myself. Lindsey took us both to Palm Springs to celebrate. We began with a hair appointment. I got an elegant perm, and Lindsey had hers done in a vintage 1920’s bob. We went on a tram excursion and finished at a four star restaurant for dinner. It was the very one where I was to have had a job. I wore a cream linen dress and my mommy’s pearl earrings. Lindsey was in a blue crepe pants suit. After dessert, she got down on one knee, asked me to be her wife and presented me with a ring. I could not speak, but nodded yes through my tears. Everyone applauded. I knew I had blossomed.
Bobby's daddy, desparate for work, takes a job with Ms. Meisterfrau, whose family is a bit "different."
Hi, my name is Bobby Coleman and this is my story. Dad had been out of work since the museum had its budget cut. He was worried. Final demands from the landlord, the electric company and the water company lay on our kitchen table. We ate pan cakes without butter or syrup for breakfast, ramen noodles with dandelions for lunch and the cheapest hot dogs and beans for dinner. He’d set aside a little money for a tent because we’d soon be homeless. I wanted to pitch in, but wasn’t even 11, so there was little I could do beyond helping at home.
Everyday he walked to the library to use the computer to look for work. Three days before we were to be evicted, he came back looking hopeful. He had a job if he passed the background check. There was no reason he shouldn’t pass it, so maybe our worries were over. I asked him what kind of job it was. It was helping a rich lady with two boys my age. If he got the job, she’d provide room and board, so we could save most of his pay to get back on our feet.
The next morning a lady detective came by. She poked around our apartment (which didn’t take long – it was just one room with a kitchen area and a bath). Then, she sent me into the hall while she questioned dad. Finally, she asked me how I got along with the boys and girls at school and the kinds of things I liked to do. She didn’t make any faces when I answered, so I thought I did OK.
When she left, dad told me the rich lady would call later to say if he was hired. He looked nervous, even embarrassed. I hugged him and told him not to worry. I loved him no matter what and knew he loved me the same. He was doing his best, and that was all that mattered. About 4:00 his cell rang. It was the rich lady. He’d gotten the job. A Lyft would come for us at 9:00 the next morning. After packing our stuff in a couple of boxes and two suitcases from the Goodwill, we went to Wendy’s to celebrate.
The next morning we were at the curb by 8:45. Ten minutes later we were on our way in my first Lyft. I felt like Indiana Jones getting in the plane to Mongolia. On the way, dad talked to me about his job.
“You should know that this lady and her boys are ‘different.’ I want you to be very polite to everyone as this job is important to us. No matter what, you shouldn’t worry. No one will make you do anything you don’t want to do. Besides, it will only be until we’ve saved enough money to make a fresh start.”
I wasn’t sure what he was taking about, but promised to be nice to everyone and not worry if things were “different.”
The Lyft drove into the hills and up a narrow canyon to a large, 1920s Spanish style house on top of a hill. Clearly, the lady dad would be working for was rich. Her name was Martha Meisterfrau, a lawyer I’d seen on the news. She’d sued a chemical company for poisoning people or something. Anyway, she met us at the door with a warm smile.
Ms. Meisterfrau was full-breasted and tall, towering over dad and me. She wore a power blue pants suit, and had short, but feminine, auburn hair. Behind her, holding the door open, was Inez, her Hispanic housekeeper. Inez wore a black dress with a white lace apron and was a bit shorter than dad. She had a nice smile as well. I was sure this would be a nice place for dad to work and me to live.
“Hello, Billy,” she said extending her hand to my dad. “You must call me Martha. A governess is part of the family. … and you must be little Bobby. I hope you’ll be very happy here.”
“Governess?” I thought. It must have been a slip of the tongue. “Thank you, Ms. Meisterfrau. You have a beautiful home.”
“You’re very polite, my dear. ‘Ms. Meisterfrau’ sounds very formal. You may call me ‘auntie’ if you wish.”
“Thank you, ah, auntie.”
“Which bag is yours, Billy, and which Bobby’s?”
Dad pointed them out.
“Inez, would you take their bags to their rooms? … Now let me show you around.” She showed us the ground floor and pool. There was a huge living room, a library with books and computers, an audio-visual room that used to be a projection room for the silent film star who built the house, a large office and a kitchen big enough for a restaurant. The floors were Spanish tile covered with occasional area rugs. Behind the kitchen were rooms for servants. Two of the rooms would be ours.
Outside was a patio and pool. The pool had a cabana and was surrounded by lounges, tables and an enormous barbecue.
“The house is much larger than I need, but the view is magnificent, and I got a real bargain on it. Mission architecture is out of vogue, and the house can’t be torn down because its on the Historical Register.”
We took in the view of the city. You could see the ocean and barely make out Catalina in the distance.
“Do you swim, Bobby? If so you can use use the pool, but never alone.”
“I know how to swim, ah, auntie, but I don’t have a bathing suit.”
“Then we must get you one. In the mean time, you may borrow one from Sandy or Randy. You look their size. I’m sure they’ll share, if you ask. … In fact, Billy, ah, your father, needs to prepare himself, so why don’t you introduce yourself to the boys. Their room is upstairs, the second on the right. You can play together until your father is ready. … Billy, if you’ll follow me …”
I climbed the stairs, heard voices coming from the boy’s room, and knocked on the door.
“Come in!”
I opened door to a pink room with a king sized canape bed and white furniture. Two girls were sitting on the floor in front of a doll house almost as tall as me. The girl on the right had red hair and wore lime shortalls and a white blouse with matching sneakers. The one on the left was dressed the same except her hair was blond, and her shortalls and sneakers pink. Both had pigtails tied with bows the color of their shortalls.
“Hi,” I said, uncertainly.
“Hi,” said the blond, “I’m Randi. You must be Bobby.”
“Yes.”
She came over and gave me a hug and a peck on the lips.
“And I’m Sandy,” said the red head. Following her sister’s lead, she also gave me a hug and a quick kiss.
“Oh, excuse me, but Auntie Martha – your mother – said you were boys.”
“We are!” they said in unison.
“Are you a boy, Bobbie?” said Randy.
“Yes, I think so.”
“Good! … We were just rearranging furniture in our doll house. Sally’s pregnant,” he said holding up a Barbie with a bulge under her skirt. “So, we’re setting up a nursery.”
“What do you think?” chimed in Sandy.
I looked at the nursery. None of the furniture was plastic. It was all miniatures made of fine wood and fabrics. “Wow!” I said, impressed by the workmanship. I compared it to Mrs. Barnham’s nursery. She used to be our neighbor before dad lost his job. “Ah, it looks like you need a changing table for Sally’s baby.”
“You’re right. We have one, but we can’t figure out where to put it.”
“I’m good at fitting things.” It always seemed like I could get more into a space than my dad. I moved the crib, dresser and vanity, and soon there was space for the changing table.
“That’s great, Bobby!”
“Yes, thanks! You should be a decorator!”
“You think?” I said with a bit of surprise.
“Sure!”
People didn’t usually appreciate me, so I started liking these strange boys.
“What would you like to do, Bobby?”
“I’d like to try your pool, Sandy. Your mother said you’d loan me a suit, but it’s kind of cool yet.”
“Yes, later is better.”
“How about a tea party?” suggested Randy.
“My mother used to have tea parties with me sometimes – when I was little, before she died.”
“That’s sad – that your mother died. Would you like to have one with us?”
I remembered my dad telling me to be polite. “Yes, it might be fun.”
Sandy asked, “Do you have anything to wear?”
“Well, these are my best jeans – the ones I wear to church.”
“No, I mean to play dress up in. Like a party dress?”
I was about to say I wasn’t a sissy, but that would’ve been very rude, so I just said, “I don’t have any kind of dress.”
“That’s too bad. We only have one party dress each.”
They both thought for a while. Then Randy said, “I know! He can dress like mommy. We can lend him a pants suit!”
“Well, he doesn’t have the complexion to wear green, so, he’ll have to wear yours, Randy.”
Randy laid out a peach dress for himself, and a pink pants suit and white turtleneck for me. Sandy got a silk green dress from his closet. As we changed, I saw that Randy and Sandy both wore panties matching their shortalls. Seeing them in panties gave me a funny feeling that wasn’t like the one I had when they were just wearing girls’ clothes.
I was starting to put my sneakers back on when Sandy said, “Those don’t go. You need heels.” He and Randy had already put on black patent Mary Janes with lace ankle socks. They gave me pink pumps with kitten heels. Finally, Randy put my hair in a high ponytail and tied it with a ribbon matching my outfit.
Feelings I’d never had and can’t describe filled me as I walked to the boys’ play table. By the time I sat down, Inez came in with a tray of tea and little cakes called “petit fours.” I was very embarrassed to have her see me in girls’ clothes, but she just smiled as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Since you’re dressed like mother, you be mother.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you’re the hostess, so you serve.” They coached me through being mother at a tea party. I was so intent on doing it right, I forgot that we were three boys dressed like girls.
When we’d finished the cakes and tea, Randy said, “You wanted to try the pool. I think it’s warm enough now. Let’s change into our suits. Which do you want.” He’d opened the closet to reveal several bikinis ranging form black to pink polkadot.
“Black, I guess.”
Randy picked a silky blue one and Sandy a rose print on a pale green background. It didn’t take them long to change and hang up their dresses. When they turned back toward me, I was surprised to see that they were flat in front. I wondered how they did that.
I just put on the bottom of mine.
“You can’t just wear the bottom, Bobby. If anyone sees they’ll think you’re going topless. Also it’s rude to have a bulge in front.”
“Who’ll see? And, most boys have a bulge in front when they wear trunks.”
“We have nosey neighbors. They’re not very nice.” Sandy pointed out the window to a house on a higher hill. “Also, mommy thinks it’s rude for boys to show bumps in their pants. Take your bottoms down and tuck it back between your legs like this.” He showed me. I copied what he did. It wasn’t as uncomfortable as I expected. Reluctantly, I put on the top, which was slightly padded. Finally, Randy handed me a bathing cap to protect my hair from the chlorine. I looked as much like a girl as my two new friends.
Sandy passed around the sunscreen. It felt strange to help the boys put it on – like I was putting it on a girl. I was glad I was tucked away, otherwise my reaction would have been very embarrassing. When we finished, we ran down the stairs in a very unladylike way and cannon-balled into the pool. We swam, splashed each other, tossed a volleyball and had a great time. I completely forgot that I was wearing a bikini.
Eventually, Inez came out to say it was time to get out of the pool. We lay on lounges and drank lemonade. Suddenly, Randy was shaking me awake and we went back up to change. Once my top was off, I noticed that I had a bikini tan – like a bra painted on my chest. The boys had them too, but their tans were deeper, so the bra impression was more obvious. I wondered what dad would think of my girlish tan.
“Thanks for the loan, boys,” I said as I handed the bikini back.
“It was new. We never wore it, and black is too dull for us. So you can have it.”
I wasn’t sure I wanted my own bikini, but I wanted to be polite. “Thanks, Sandy … Randy. … I better go and unpack. See you at dinner?”
“Yes, we eat at 7:00.”
As I put my stuff away, I couldn’t help but compare my clothes to the boys’. As opposed to the dark jeans and dull shirts in my closet, theirs were filled with colorful tops, shorts, slacks, skirts and even dresses. Instead of drab jockies, they had pretty panties. I knew they’d be called sissies and worse at my old school, but here, no one minded. I’d worn girls clothes most of the day and my only regret was a tan no one would see unless I took off my shirt.
I’d just finished unpacking when I heard my dad’s door open, followed by his floor creaking. I knocked. A woman opened the door.
The woman who opened my dad’s door had short sandy hair with blond highlights, thin brows, dangle earrings and a ruffle front silk blouse. Modest breasts met me at eye level. Looking down I saw teal slacks and pumps with 3” heels. She was too tall to be my dad, but I slowly realized that her heels would explain that. I looked up into her eyes and saw the embarrassment in them. It was my dad.
“Dad?”
“Yes, it's me, Bob.”
“Why?”
“Come in and I’ll explain. Martha, Ms. Meisterfrau, wants to raise her boys in a way that will prevent them from ever becoming ‘macho asses,’ as she put it. So, she doesn’t want them exposed to macho males. I took this job – being their ‘governess’ – on the condition that I would present, that I would dress, in a feminine manner. I'm so ashamed! I really don’t want to look like a woman, but it’s the only job I could find.” Tears were running down his cheeks, streaking his mascara.
“It’s OK dad,” I said hugging him tightly. “I know you’re doing your best – what’s best for us and I love you even more.”
“Thanks.”
“By the way, you make a beautiful woman, he he.”
“And you make a cute girl,” he said, flipping my ponytail. I’d forgotten to take the ribbon out of my hair.
“Oh! It’s a long story.”
“I’m sure it is. … So, now that we both know, what do you think? Should we call it quits?”
“No. You need – we need – this job. Everyone seems nice enough – don’t you think?”
“Yeah, I haven’t picked up on anything sinister. … Do the boys seem happy?”
“Yes, they love being sissies. … I guess I shouldn’t use that word. They love wearing girls' things and acting like girls.”
“Do they feel they’re really girls, but in the wrong bodies?”
“Not that I could tell. They told me they were boys. So, I don’t think they feel like girls inside.”
“But, they’re happy. Interesting.”
“How long are you going to keep this job, dad?”
“I committed to a year, minimum.”
“Will we have enough saved by then?”
“I think so. It depends on the job market.” He looked as the woman’s watch on his arm. “It’s almost time for dinner.”
Dad went to Ms. M’s office. I went to the dinning room, where Inez showed me my place on one side of the table. The boys came in next, wearing pleated skirts and blouses. They sat opposite me. Finally, dad and “auntie” came in, sitting at either end of the table.
“Boys, this is Mr. Coleman, who’ll be your governess for at least the next year. I want you to obey him as you would me or Inez. In addition to what you’ve been studying, he’ll be teaching you French, drawing and art history. You’ll continue to study ballet and music at the Academy. Please introduce yourselves.”
“Hello, Mr. Coleman, I’m Randy Meisterfrau.” He smiled, dipped a curtsy and sat down.
“Hello, Mr. Coleman, I’m Sandy Meisterfrau,” he said in similar fashion.
“Hello, boys, it's a pleasure to meet you. I hope we’ll have a fruitful year.”
“Now, Bobby, as I am sure your father's told you, you’ll be studying with Randy and Sandy, but you need not dress as they do – unless you wish. I do see that you’ve chosen to wear you hair in a ponytail. I think it's very becoming that way.”
Damn! I’d forgotten to take the ribbon out of my hair. “Ah, thank you, auntie.”
She led us in grace, then we all tucked in. The dinner was the best I could remember: hot fresh bread, Caesar salad, chicken Cordon Bleu, roasted potatoes, snow peas and strawberry shortcake. Inez certainly knew how to cook. I made a mental note to see what I could learn from her.
At 7:30 the boys were told to get ready for bed. Ms. M followed them up. They came down in baby dolls and lay on the floor as we watched Matilda. I was on the sofa. Sandy’s panties got twisted and a diaper showed at their leg. Randy, had a diaper peeking out at his waist. When they got up after the movie, Sandy’s baby dolls had a small damp spot.
When we got back to our rooms I told dad what I saw. He said Ms M didn’t want the boys growing up too fast.
The next day was Sunday and we all went to Church – the boys in dresses and me in my good shirt and jeans. After church, Ms. M said that she didn’t think jeans and sneakers were suitable for church and gave dad money to buy me something dressier. He was wearing a skirt and blouse, so I was afraid I'd wind up with the same. I needn’t have worried as he bought me blue boys’ slacks and black Oxfords.
When we got back to the house, everyone was out by the pool. Dad changed into a maroon one-piece bathing suit. As he did, I saw his breasts. They seemed to be part of him. All I could do was stare with my mouth open.
“Oh, my breasts,” he said. “Don’t they look real?”
“Yeah!” I continued to stare.
“They’re made of silicone and glued on. The edges are blended in with waterproof makeup. Want to feel them?”
I did. “They feel warm, like they’re real.”
“Yeah, they warm up after you wear them a while. I’d let you try them, but they wouldn’t fit your chest.”
“Ah, no thanks, dad. I’m not ready for tits!”
“Well, you seem to be ready for bras,” he said – looking at my bra tan and grinning.
“It’s from this dumb bikini! The boys said I wasn’t supposed to wear it without the top – it would shock the neighbors.”
“Well, you should have told me when we were shopping. I would have gotten you a boys’ suit. … By the way, you look as cute in a bikini as any girl your age. … You want me to put that ribbon in your hair?”
“No! I told you, I forgot it was there.”
“OK. OK! I was just pulling your chain.”
That didn’t stop me from remembering how cute I looked with a ponytail. … Anyway, we swam, had a good time and my bikini tan got deeper. When I got out of the shower the next morning, the boy in the steamy mirror seemed to be wearing a bra.
Each day we had class in the library: academic subjects in the morning, drawing and art history in the afternoon, and swimming for PE at the end of the day. Instead of feeling normal in my pants and shirt, I felt out of place. I was the only male without a skirt. It was weird: how could a boy, dressing as a boy, be out of place? Worse, once I had my bikini on I felt part of the group.
One morning, while I was combing my hair, I decided to tie my hair in a high ponytail like Randy had the first day. Everyone, including dad, said how nice I looked. It made me feel more like I belonged.
It didn’t help that dad went to the salon every Saturday and came back more beautiful each time. He started wearing makeup all the time, and his nails became more feminine: first shaped, then sporting clear polish, then a deep red gloss and finally extensions. His hair style evolved until he came home with a perm. I still loved him, but he felt more like a mom than a dad.
Then, one Saturday evening, he went out alone. He came back a little tipsy with his makeup smeared and a funny smile. After that, he got larger breast forms and a revealing cocktail dress. Many Saturdays he didn’t come home until late Sunday morning.
Ms. M didn’t seem to mind. When I told her I was worried about him, she said, “Every girl needs a little fun. Don’t worry, he won’t get pregnant.”
Meanwhile, I’d worn out my underpants, which weren’t new when we’d arrived. I asked Inez to buy me new ones. She said she would, but not till next week. She did have some panties in her cupboard, as she’d mistakenly bought too many. I could have them immediately if wearing them didn’t bother me. This was all matter of fact, without questioning my masculinity.
I didn’t see the harm, so I said “Thank you.”
“Let me know if they fit.”
I told her the panties were comfortable, and soon panties replaced my jockies.
One Saturday night, when dad had gone out, I was feeling lonely and went up to play with the boys. They wanted to play family, with them being the mother and auntie, and me the baby. It was late, so they wanted to get me ready for bed. They had their own baby bottles they took to bed. I laid down. They gave me a bottle of chocolate milk to nurse while they diapered me. I thought they were just pretending, but they actually powdered and diapered me. They were about to put a baby doll set on me when Ms. M came in to get them ready for bed.
When she saw me diapered and nursing the bottle, she asked “Would you like to sleep with the other babies tonight?”
I was lonely, so I said “Yes, please.”
She checked my diaper and tightened the fit. Then she put us all in baby dolls and had us get in the bed -- which was more than big enough for three. She said a prayer with us, gave us new bottles and kisses, turned off the light and left.
“I need to go to the bathroom before I go to sleep.”
“Were not supposed to get out of bed till morning. Why do you think you're wearing a diaper?” asked Randy.
“And why do you think she gave us bottles to nurse?” asked Sandy.
“You mean she wants us to use our diapers?”
“Well, duh!” they both said.
“That’s gross.”
“Babies aren’t gross, and this is our baby time. We have baby time every night from bedtime to breakfast.”
“Doesn’t it bother you to wet?”
“No, its nice. You’ll see,” said Sandy.
I didn’t want to see, but I couldn’t stay awake. I started wetting during in the night and woke up. It wasn’t as bad as I expected. In fact, Sandy was right, it felt nice. When I got more awake I felt Randy curled against my back with with his arm around me. Sandy was facing me with his thumb in his mouth. I didn’t feel lonely. I relaxed and wet a bit more. Then I fell asleep again.
In the morning, Ms, M came in and woke us up. She removed our diapers and cleaned us with baby wipes. Then we were sent, one by one, for showers. My turn was last. When I came back, Sandy and Randy were in big girl dresses, ready for church.
“I see that you’re wearing panties now, Bobby. Would you like to wear a dress to church like the other boys?”
I wanted to belong, so I said, “Yes, please, if I may.”
“Of course you may, dear. It’s entirely up to you.”
She brushed out my hair and got out a couple of ribbons. “Do you want your usual ponytail, or pig tails like Sandy and Randy?”
“Pig tails please.”
Ms. M put pink lipstick on each of us and we all went down to the car. As I passed the mirror I knew that I was a perfect sissy.
Charlie is an introvert married to an alpha female. What will happen when work plus homemaking becomes too much for him?
Charlie is an introvert married to an alpha female. What will happen when work plus homemaking becomes too much for him?
I’m Charlie Hobson and this is my story.
A few years ago I was at Columbia, waiting for a lecture on the origins of the craftsman movement, when a clever looking young woman sat next to me. We nodded, but nothing more. She took computer notes throughout the talk. I couldn’t help but suggest occasional corrections. Talking to a girl was unusual for me – I’m small and shy around women – and men for that matter. If I’d been looking at her rather than her notes, I would’ve been mute. Her looks were out of my class – and she was 5” taller and 40 pounds heavier than me.
After the lecture Dr. Goodhall, my adviser, came up. “Charlie, would you and your friend like to come to the reception?” Guest receptions were usually for only faculty and donors, but the crowd was sparse. Maybe that’s why he asked.
I turned to her, looking for some sign of interest.
“Sure,” she said. “Thank you for inviting us.”
“Lovely, it’s upstairs in 234.”
I figured if we were going to the reception together, we should at least know each other’s names. “Charlie Hobson,” I said extending my hand, “sophomore in art history.”
She shook it and smiled. “Sally Purducci, freshman in poli sci. Shall we go up?”
“So why were you taking all the notes?”
“I’m taking Intro to Fine Art. There’s extra credit for a report on the lecture. Every little bit helps when you’re aiming for law school.”
“Oh,” I said, marveling that she already knew what she wanted to do.
Since all the other guests were 40 plus, we spent most of the time chatting with each other – sipping glasses of what proved to be very strong wine. The one exception was when Sally asked the lecturer if the craftsman movement had any European counter parts – which sent him off on a long discourse about the uniqueness of early 20th century American culture.
Sally seemed as shy with boys as I was with girls. She felt too tall to be attractive and only sat next to me because I looked “safe.” Now, fortified by the wine, she thought I was “cute and bright.” After we left, she gave me a passionate kiss and asked, “Would you like to come back to my room? My roommate’s out for the night on a heavy date, and thinking about it’s made me horny.”
I’d never had a passionate kiss before, but the wine gave me the courage to say “I’d love to."
Sally led me straight to her bed – where she rode me to heaven.
We married when she started law school – each keeping our own last name. I made enough to cover minimal living expenses by working for an art dealer. There were good commissions to be had, but being introverted, I worked behind the scenes: writing catalog descriptions, verifying provenance, etc.
Law school was very demanding – classes in the day, study group late into the night and, later, the law review. So, I not only worked all day, but did the housework as well. I didn’t mind. We’d married as equal partners. So I had no expectation that she’d be minding the house while I worked – as my mother and father had. We’d each do whatever was needed.
After law school, Sally got a job with a top firm, and studied for the bar. Then, there were the extra hours to establish herself as an associate. Meanwhile, I’d become a proficient homemaker. I perfected a system of housework that saved hours a week. While I was proud of our beautifully decorated and well-kept apartment, I started feeling put upon.
One night Sally looked up from a candle-lit dinner I’d made and saw me pouting. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m getting tired of working all day, then doing all the housework. … It’s not fair,” I said petulantly.
“I know, sweetie! You’ve been a champ, and you’re right – it’s not fair. … Look, I have my review next month. After that, my probation period will be done and I can relax a bit. Then, I promise, I’ll pitch in and do my share of the housekeeping. … How’s that?”
“Sound’s great!”
She sealed the deal by leading me into the bedroom and riding me to an explosive orgasm.
Sally was true to her word. Once her review was done (and it resulted in a big raise) she pitched right in – doing random household chores when she came home each evening. The problem was she often did something I’d just done or had scheduled for later. Or, she just didn’t know how to do it. Like she washed a new red table cloth with our whites so I wound up with pink underwear – a fact that didn’t pass unnoticed at the gallery. Another time, she ruined a set of decorative tea towels my mother gave us by using them to clean under the stove. Correcting her mistakes actually increased the time I spent doing housework. Sometimes I didn’t get to bed till after midnight.
Sally and I were constantly bickering. It wasn’t just over housework. Things I’d hardly noticed before became the focus of huge rows. I wanted to leave at ten minutes early, she wanted to cut it close. I wanted to launder the sheets, she to sleep in. I kept the closet organized, she threw her things anywhere. Often she’d steam off, slamming the door behind her, and I’d collapse in tears. We still loved each other – very much – but it was getting near impossible to live with each other.
About then Sally got third chair on the Jane McGuire case. Her client was accused of killing her husband. It meant that Sally would appear in court for the first time and was an important step in becoming a defense attorney. The pressure increased both Sally’s stress level and our bickering. One day she came home and said, “Charlie, if we keep yelling at each other, we’re sure to get divorced. We might even kill each other. We need counseling. I talked to Rose Parker – you remember she does family law – and she recommended Dr. Jane Richenbach. Are you willing to go?”
“Yes. I love you and don’t want a divorce, or worse – so sure, I’ll go.”
“Good! I thought you’d agree, so I already made an appointment for Thursday at 7:30.”
I was miffed that she’d made the appointment before talking to me, but that didn’t change my determination to improve our relationship. So, we went to counseling.
Dr. Jane began by having each vent by telling our stories. You’ve heard mine. Sally felt there was no pleasing me. She changed her life to meet my “demands,” and all she got was criticism. I tried to justify my criticisms, but Dr. Jane told me justification was not the point – I should be quite and listen to how Sally felt. Similarly, Sally should try to understand my feelings.
In the second session, Dr. Jane asked us each of us to explain how the other felt. Jane said I felt it was unfair to work all day, then come home and do the housekeeping all by myself. That’s why she’d started helping. Now she felt there was no pleasing me. Again, I tried to justify my criticisms, but Dr. Jane cut me off and made me say how Sally felt. I said she felt she was in a no-win situation. That night, Sally brought me to bed for some tender make-up sex.
In our third session, Dr. Jane said that since the problem started with and revolved around homemaking, we should offer possible solutions.
Sally began. “Well, one option is going back to the way things were before I started pitching in – Charlie could do the homemaking and everything would be done the way he liked. We weren’t arguing all the time then, so while not ideal, it would be much better than the way things are now.”
I said, “It’s not right for the man of the house to work all day, then come home and do all the housework.”
Dr. Jane interrupted, “But it would be alright for a woman?”
“Well, that’s the way my parents did it, and it worked for them. I know men and women should be equal. Still, it's not manly to be the main homemaker. I mean, it was okay doing it when Jane was so busy, and I needed to, but now that Jane has time, me working full time and doing it all isn’t fair.”
“I understand Bob. I think ...”
“That’s good Sally, but our time's up now. Maybe you two can continue this productive conversation at home. I’ll be gone to a conference and then on vacation for the next three weeks – so shall we continue this on the 24th?”
We were both a little disappointed as we seemed to be making progress at last, but of course we agreed.
When we got home, Sally suggested doing her housework under my supervision. There was less conflict, but I was unhappy with her work and she was chaffing under my continual correction. We both knew that wasn’t the solution.
Thursday night Sally said, “Charlie, I’ve been thinking about our situation since our session with Dr. Jane. The way I understand things: (1) You’re never going to be happy with my housekeeping. (2) It’s unfair for you to work all day and then do all the housekeeping. And (3) it’s unmanly to be the homemaker. Is that it?”
“Yes, I guess it is.”
“Do you have a solution that satisfies all your concerns?”
“No, I can’t think of one.”
“But you do love me and want us to want stay together?”
“More than anything!”
“Good, I love you too. Since you can’t find a solution, would you trust me to find one? Would you abide by it?”
“I do trust you – so I’ll abide by what you come up with as long as we stay together. I know you’ll do your best. Still, it’s scary to commit without knowing what I’m committing to.”
“Sure. Still, I think I have a solution. I’ll tell you what – if you commit to try my solution, if it is not working after a week or two, we can stop and try something else. How’s that?”
“OK. I’ll try it. What is it?”
“It needs a little more work, so I’ll be home late tomorrow – maybe 9:00 or 10:00. I’ll catch a bite out. You eat without me. When I come home I’ll explain everything. OK?”
I didn’t like eating alone, but I had to trust her. “OK.”
She gave me a kiss, and led me to bed …
I’d hardly eaten a bite of the chicken salad I’d made as I sat nervously waiting for Sally. It was 9:57 when she came in carrying a couple of stuffed shopping bags.
“Hi, sweetie. I’m sorry I’m so late, but I wanted to do this right.” She gave me a warm hug and a tender kiss. “Sit down and I’ll show you what I got.”
I sat to see her purchases, but was confused about how doing so could help solve our problems. Still, I knew Sally planned things very carefully, so I should go with the flow.
She held up a pink and lime floral print dress. It was scoop-necked with a short skirt flaring out from an empire waist. “Do you like it?”
“Yes, its very stylish and colors are to die for.”
“Good! I thought you’d like it.” She laid it on the sofa and pulled out a pair of white, cork sole, wedge sandals. “How about these to wear with it?”
“Yes, they’re perfect for Spring – and Summer too. Soo cute!”
“That’s why I got them!”
Next was a delicious lavender baby doll set with eyelet trim. It was short enough to be sexy, but opaque enough to be demure. It was complimented with matching mules. A burgundy satin blouse paired with black crepe slacks and 3” pumps followed.
“What about this set for work?”
“A knock-out! The blouse is so eye-catching!”
“I have a lot more to show you, but that can wait. Which do you want to try on first?”
“Try on?” I said, stunned.
“Of course! This is part of my solution and you promised to try it.”
“But, … but, … I don’t see what my wearing a dress would solve.”
“Why your main objection – the source of our problems – that homemaking is unmanly. It’s time for you to admit that you’re the farthest thing from manly, Charlie. Your manliness fantasy is the source of our problem – and a change of wardrobe will solve it.”
“That’s very cruel!” I said, starting to cry.
Sally hugged me to her breasts and kissed my forehead. “I love you more than anything, Charlie, but the truth is that you’re one of the most feminine guys I know. The problem is that you won’t admit it – even to yourself.”
“Why do you say that?” I sniffled.
“Lots of reasons. Its hard to explain, but you give off a feminine aura. I sensed it when I came into the auditorium that first night and saw how prissily dressed you were. It wasn’t that you were in women’s styles, just that your clothes were so much more coordinated and put together. After we made love that first night, I knew you were feminine and just what I wanted in a partner.
“Before I slept with you, I was very confused. I thought I might be bi. I’d experimented with a couple of girls in high school. They were sensitive and considerate, but our love making felt incomplete. They were missing the essential part I wanted in me when I make love. On the other hand, the guys I dated just wanted to fuck, notch their belt, and move on. You were – and are – perfect. You’re as sensitive and loving as any girl, and you fill me up – physically and emotionally.
“I didn’t know you were with anyone before me.”
“You must have realized I knew the ropes that first night a lot better than you.”
“I never thought about it.”
“There’s no need to. Since our first night, I’ve never been interested in anyone else.
“I’m not the only who thinks you’re femme. After the office Christmas party, Clive, my paralegal (he’s gay you know), asked me if I’d mind him asking you out – he thinks your “darling.” He figured I was your beard. Later on Susan, one of the partners I introduced you to, asked if I was interested in coming to her place for a soak in her hot tub. Everyone knows she’s a lesbian. So, after meeting you, lots, if not most, of the office assumed you’re gay and I’m probably a lesbian.
“So, that’s the first reason, you give off a feminine aura – and you make love like a girl.”
“I’m not so sure about that. I mean I’m the one with the penis.”
“I’m not talking about plumbing, Charlie. When you want sex do you approach me aggressively, or do you make a romantic dinner to put us both in the mood?”
“I make a candle lit dinner.”
“What’s you favorite position?”
“On the bottom with you on top … I guess your right.”
“Next, you’re a natural homemaker. You criticize the way I help because I’m not nearly as good at homemaking as you. Our place looks nicer than most anyone else’s. Women compliment me whenever they see it. I always give you the credit. Then they give me a funny look – like men don’t or can’t be that good at homemaking.
“Sweetie, you enjoy homemaking – anyone can see you're proud of the result. The only reason you’re unhappy is the sheer amount of work you do. If you did less total work – say about the same total hours as me – you’d be very happy. Isn’t that so?”
“Yes, I guess so.”
“So, here’s my solution. You give up the silly idea that your manly, and cut back your hours at the gallery. I figure you spend about 15 hours a week on housework, so, you work 15 hours less at the gallery. With my raise, we don’t need the money, you’ll be much happier and we’ll have more time to spend together. How’s that sound.”
“Mr. Phellps [my boss] won’t agree.”
“I already talked to him. He said with the recession he was thinking of laying you off. He much prefers keeping you and cutting your hours.”
“Oh.” Things were spiraling out of control.
“So, are you going to keep your word and try on these outfits?”
“They’re women’s clothes. Can’t I just admit I’m not manly and forget wearing women’s things?”
“If you admit that you’re feminine, there’s no reason not to wear these things. Refusing to shows you’re holding on to your masculine fantasy.
“Are you manly?”
“No, not really.”
“And you’ve already told me you like the clothes I picked out for you. You do like them, don’t you?”
“I thought they were for you.”
“That’s not answering the question. Do you like this dress?”
“Yes, it’s gorgeous.”
“Then it’s time to put it on.” She reached in the other bag and handed me a pack of nylon panties and a white lace cami. “Put these on first.”
“What, no bra?”
“Do you want a bra?”
I blushed. “No, I was making a little joke.”
“Well, if you want a bra later, we can buy some – and breast forms, too.”
I imagined having breasts and wearing a bra. The idea was utterly embarrassing – the more so when I realized it held some attraction. Sally waited for me to take the panties and cami from her. Reluctantly, I did so. I sat there holding them – immobile.
“Well, don’t just sit there put them on.”
I opened the package of panties and selected a white pair with a cute little bow in the front. I laid it and the cami out next to me on the sofa and started taking off my shoes and socks. Soon I was standing naked in front of Sally. I’d done so many times, but this was different. I was about to cross an invisible line.
“You won’t hate me? Be disgusted?”
“No, sweetie, I’ll respect you more for having the courage to accept who you are.”
“OK,” I said stepping into the panties. They were ever so much softer than my jockies. I’ve learned since that wearing panties gives lots of guys an erection. Not me. Still, I had a powerful reaction. I knew I was crossing a line. Part of me was emerging from the womb and another part dying. When I had the panties on, I saw an unsightly lump. I reached down and pushed it back between my legs. I looked at Sally. She gave me an accepting smile.
Anxiously, I put on the cami – my cami. Its satin felt so luxurious as it brushed my breasts. There are no words to describe how alive wearing lace made me feel. Only the scant hair on my chest detracted from my elation. It had to go.
Sally handed me the dress. I unzipped the back and stepped into it. Once I zipped it up, a sense of calm satisfaction overcame me. The dress – my dress – felt “right.” I had no doubt that Sally’d nailed it – there wasn’t a shred of masculinity in my being. It was all in the discarded clothes scattered over the floor.
Now I wanted to try my wedges. They only had a 2” heel, but still, they took getting used to. I felt like a child in her mother’s shoes as I tottered to the full-length mirror in our bedroom. The image was not at all a woman. I was definitely a man in dress. Still, I liked what I saw. This was the real me.
“I need to shave my chest and legs,” I said to Sally as she looked over my shoulder.
“And your underarms. I got Nair for your legs and chest. Why don’t you get in the tub and I’ll help you.”
Half an hour later I emerged hairless below my neck except for my neatly trimmed pubes. Sally helped me into my new babydolls, then led me to bed for a session of truly satisfying lovemaking. Before we went to sleep, she said “I made an 8:00 AM appointment for you, so I’m setting the alarm for 7:00. Love you! Sweet dreams.”
At 7:00 the alarm woke me from the sweet dream Sally had wished me. I don’t remember the details, but when I realized I was in babydolls, it seemed as though my dream were continuing. Slipping on the mules (which have a little heel) I caught site of myself in the mirror. I was ashamed of my legs – they’re too thin to be masculine – but coming out of my babydolls, formed by the heels I was wearing, they looked … I guess “sexy” is the only word. I stood admiring them for a minute, until I heard Sally asking if I were up yet. A diaphanous black peignoir lay on the chair next to the bed. I wore it into the kitchen, where I was greeted by the aroma of fresh coffee and a tender kiss from Sally.
“You said I had an appointment?”
“Yes, at Merle Norman. Carol agreed to see you before opening so you wouldn’t be embarrassed.”
“Merle Norman?” I said not quite awake yet.
“You know the place – I get my makeup there.”
“I’m getting makeup?”
“Of course. You want to look you best, don’t you?”
“I s’pose, but I hadn’t thought of wearing makeup – or going out in a dress. I thought I’d just wear my dress at home.”
“If you only want to wear dresses at home that’s fine – but a bit of a waste.
“As for thinking of makeup – that’s what you have me for. You can wear your slacks, blouse and pumps. Now have some coffee and toast, then get dressed. I have a motion to finish writing this morning, so I’ll meet you after your salon appointment.”
“Salon appointment?”
“Yes at Margret’s – three doors down from Merle Norman – 9:00. You have nothing to worry about. They know what to do.”
“How could they when I don’t?”
Sally gave me a wry smile and patted me on the rear. “Be sure to shave close. Now, get going, you don’t want to be late.”
Not only did I want to be late, I didn’t even want to go. Still, I’d promised Sally to try her solution for a week or two. As I took off my peignoir and babydolls, I thought a bit of black lace at my neckline would tie my outfit together, so I wore a black cami and matching panties. One thing I wasn’t going to do was wear heels in public. I’d wear my white canvas shoes in stead of the pumps Sally’d bought. The trouble was that flats made my cuffs drag. The slacks were cut to wear with heels, so I had to wear the pumps.
When I was dressed, I clickity-clacked unsteadily back to the kitchen. “These slacks have no pockets. Where am I going to put my phone, keys and wallet?”
“In your new purse.” I followed her into the living room where she handed me a black Coach shoulder bag.
I was almost scared witless as I prepared to leave our apartment.
“You’re very brave, Charlie. Now go get your colors done and I’ll see you in a while. By the way, I expect you to spend well over $100 on your makeup – Carol works on commission. Have fun!” She gave me a quick kiss and pushed me out the door.
Thankfully, no one was up to see me walking to my old Kia. Once in it, I had to push the seat back to compensate for my heels. It was a short drive to the shopping center, so I didn’t have much time to think. Once I got out, the sound of my heels clicking on the pavement was unnerving – a constant reminder that I was a man in women’s wear. Despite my paranoia, I attracted no stares from passersby. It was just after 8:00 when I reached Merle Norman. The sign said “Closed” and the door was locked, but when I pulled on it, a woman reading at the counter looked up and smiled at me.
“Are you Charlie?”
“Yes,” I said hesitantly.
“I’m Carol. Come in! I was expecting you. Sally told me all about you! You have lovely skin dear! It will be a joy helping you.” Her tone and manner seemed genuine and, slowly, I felt more at ease.
Over the next hour I learned I had a cool alabaster complexion and how to complement it with makeup for various occasions and conditions. It was almost as complicated as Algebra II. Fortunately, Carol videoed our session so I could review all she did and told me whenever I wanted. I left in light daytime makeup that made me look fabulous! I felt more confident than I ever had in my life – feeling that it was worth every cent of the $160 I’d spent.
I was still floating in air when I walked into Margret’s Magic. A number of women customers looked up – some staring rather rudely. In my new-found confidence, I returned their stares with a warm smile and they looked away. Some even blushed in embarrassment at being so gauche. By then, Margret met me.
“Charlie Hobson?”
I nodded.
“Rita!” she called. “Take good care of Charlie. … Rita does Sally’s hair and she’ll take great care of you.”
“Thank you.” I followed Rita back to her station, ignoring the women who watched as I passed by.
“I’m going to give you a pixie cut. When your hair grows out more, you can have a perm and a wider range of styles. After I’m done, I’ll give you to Sandy for a pedi-mani. OK?”
“Is that what Sally suggested?”
“Yes.”
“Then I put myself in your hands.”
As she worked she said, “By the way, I love your makeup – its so ... artful, so you! I don’t think I could have done so well in such a short time.”
“Well, I hope to do it like this in the future, but Carol over at Merle Norman did it for me.”
“She’s such an artist, isn’t she?”
“Yes, she made me feel like a million! I’m so confident with my new look, I can’t believe it.”
“I can see how confident you are. I expected you to be all shy and embarrassed like.”
“Well, I was when I stepped out of my car. Now I feel almost high!”
“Would you like spit curls?”
“What are they?”
She showed me a picture in a book.
“Soo cute! Sure, give me some!” I wondered what had gotten into me? For a second I thought, “Maybe Carol cast a spell on me” – then I decided that she had – with her makeup skill. I was going to study her video frame by frame so I could always feel this good about myself. As I came out of my reverie, Rita was taping the last curl to my head.
“You can come back to me when Sandy’s done with you.”
Sandy, it turned out, was a very cute, nut-brown boy of about 16 or 17 – dressed much as I was: in a blouse, slacks and heels. His hairdo was quite was professional, but after what I learned, his makeup colors were all wrong. I followed him back to his station. He put my fingers in a bowl of dish detergent (?) while he worked on my toes.
“I’ve never met anyone like me before – you know, a pretty guy that’s still a guy. May I ask you some questions?” he asked in a sweet, soft voice.
“Ask away, sweetie.”
“When did you come out?”
“Well, I didn’t so much come out, my wife put me in a dress and made me realize I’d been fooling myself – thinking I was masculine. That was last night.”
“Only last night! Wow! You seem very confident for just having come out.”
“I wasn’t earlier today. Then Carol at Merle Norman did my makeup – and I sort of blossomed – like she cast a spell on me.”
“Merle Norman? I’m more a 99 Cent Store person.”
“You look quite nice, considering.”
“Considering?”
“The limits of 99 cent makeup.”
“Oh – well, I do the best I can. … But, your right, you look great! I wish I looked as fab …” he trailed off wistfully.
“So, how long have you been out?”
“Since I was 14. My folks threw me out the next day.”
“That’s tough.”
“Yeah, it was tough, but Margret found me sleeping out back and took me in. Now I make so much money I’m thinking of buying my makeup at Walmart.” He smiled. Now he was working on my fingers. “Want extensions?”
“No, I want to grow mine out.”
“OK, what color?”
“Same as my lipstick.”
He worked quietly, then put my hands in a drier. When they came out, my nails had a deep and brilliant color with a shine to die for.
“You do amazing work. I’m going to give you a big tip – on one condition.”
“Are you hitting on me? You don’t need to tip me, cuz I like you already.” He touched my arm softly.
I smiled at his touch. “I think you’re adorable, but I’m not hitting on you. I just want you to feel as good as I do. The condition is you take my tip, go over to Merle Norman and ask for Carol. You’ll come out looking absolutely fabulous, sweetie – and learn so much about makeup. Will you do that?”
Tears formed in Sandy’s eyes. He barely got out “Yes,” before his voice broke. He kissed me on the cheek as I got up to walk back to Rita’s station. I returned his kiss, leaving a lip mark on his cheek.
When I paid, I added $20 for Rita and $100 for Sandy. Margret promised she’d take him over to see Carol and add a bit if he needed more.
I walked out of Margret’s to find Sally sitting on a bench enjoying the Spring air.
“You look so cute!” she exclaimed. “Turn around so I can see the back. … You’re gorgeous! I love your spit curls too. … And your nails! I could eat you up.”
Sally’s praise made me glow – increasing my confidence even more.
“Let me take you shopping, Charlie.”
“Yes, I need a pair of strappy sandals to show off my toes. Sandy did such a great job! … I tipped him $100!”
“That’s very generous. Why so much?”
“It didn’t feel right enjoying my Merle Norman makeup while he had to make do with 99 Cent Store crap. I want him to feel as great as I do.
“Aw … you’re so sweet! That’s why I love you.”
I left my car there while Sally drove us to the mall. We started at Macy’s, where I found a pair of floral wedge sandals for only $44.50. They’re so cute … I couldn’t believe it. In place of a bow at the toe, they have a flower. I wore them instead of my pumps the rest of the day – displaying Sandy’s work on my toes to the world.
Macy’s was crowded with Saturday shoppers and I attracted a lot of stares. Instead of being embarrassed, being the center of attention made me feel so pretty!
We went to the perfume counter next. I selected Chanel Chance Eau Tendre as my scent. I dabbed some on my wrists and behind my ears.
Sally wanted to buy me diamond studs. I told her I appreciated the thought, but probably wouldn’t wear them much. I wanted dangles, as I always admired them. I selected three pair.
While the girl was piercing my ears, Sally wondered off toward high-end jewelry. Since we were poor when we married, we decided to defer buying me a wedding ring until we could afford it. To make a long story short, I wound up with a diamond solitaire engagement and wedding band set. Sally explained, “After all, I asked you to marry me.”
When we finished at Macy’s we went to Clara’s, a high end dress shop, where Diane helped us. I’ll not bore you with all our other purchases, but they included two new dresses, slacks, and a myriad of tops. One thing I hadn’t expected to buy was hot pants. Being ashamed of my thin, unmanly legs, I never wore shorts. I was very reluctant, then, when Sally and Diane suggested I try short shorts. Standing in them and my heels before the mirror revealed a pair long, shapely legs. I bought 3 pair.
Finally, Sally wanted to look at breast forms and bras. I was tired by then, but mostly I wasn’t interested in becoming or passing for a woman. I liked how I was – very feminine, but still male. I wanted to be me – not something else.
When we got home, Sally threw herself, exhausted, on the sofa. “Charlie, you seem like a different person.”
“Well, I’m wearing women’s things and makeup – and have a sweet do! So, I suppose I am,”
“No, that’s not what I mean. That doesn’t make you different. As I said yesterday, you’ve always been femme. … What I mean is that you were so introverted, now you’re almost strutting around, enjoying the attention your new look is attracting.”
“I’m sorry! Am I embarrassing you?”
“No, not at all. I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself. … I’m just surprised.”
“Hmm … well, I guess I used to be ashamed of myself … Deep down I knew I wasn’t much of a man. I got called a sissy a lot when I was younger. So, I wanted to disappear. Now I know I’m a sissy, very pretty one – even gorgeous, and … well, I’m not ashamed of myself anymore. Instead of being a poor example of a man, I’m a great example of a sissy! So, I want to be the prettiest sissy I can be and I want everyone to know it.”
“That makes a lot of sense, Charlie. I just need to get used to the new you.”
Sunday I woke up in baby dolls and threw on my peignoir as though it were completely normal. Sally and I spent the day relaxing, with me modeling my purchases and she taking me to bed – three times. After the third time, I couldn’t get it up, so Sally introduced me to the lesbian arts.
We ordered pizza for dinner. I shocked the delivery boy by meeting him in a black cami, hot pants, and my floral sandals. The poor lad responded with an obvious erection. I offered him a kiss, but he stepped back, flushed in embarrassment. He almost left without being paid. Later I regretted embarrassing him so, but I was still getting used to my super powers.
Monday, my anxiety at appearing feminine in public returned – specifically, I was worried about arriving at the gallery in my make up, blouse and heels. Would Mr. Phellps fire me one the spot? Or, perhaps, send me home like a child to scrub my face and change? I voiced my concerns to Sally.
“Don’t worry dear, once you have your makeup on, you’ll feel as confident as you did Saturday. And, if you do get fired … well, we can make it on my new salary and the bonuses I expect.”
“Yeah, but we sill have a lot of college debt. I could avoid the whole thing by dressing as I always have.”
“No! You’re not doing that! … And that’s the end of it! … Now go put your make up on. You know it’s going to take you a while to reproduce the look Carol gave you. … I have to get going … an early meeting on the McGuire case.” She gave me a warm kiss and left.
It did take me a while to do my make up. I put my laptop on the bathroom counter and careful repeated every step Carol had shown me. When I finished, my confidence returned.
I pulled on rose hipster panties and matching cami, a fuchsia button-down blouse, and plum boot cut stretch slacks. The only men’s item I wore was a pair of gold cufflinks for my French cuffs.
It was barely 9:00 when I got in my Kia. The gallery didn’t open until 10:00. As I sat thinking, some things that Sally’d told me started bothering me. I decided to stop by her office for a little test of my super powers before going to the gallery.
I’d never been in her workplace before, so I wondered around a bit before I found her office. All the while I was getting stares. Finally, I saw Clive in his cubical outside of Sally’s office.
“Hi, Clive, dear!”
He looked up. “Oh my God! Charlie!? Is that you? You look … fantastic! … Sally’s in a meeting.”
“Yes, I know. Actually, I’m here to see you.”
His expression brightened.
“By the way, thank you darling! You’re quite a hunk yourself,” I said, eyeing a physique I could never attain. “Last week, Sally said you’d asked her if you could date me. I wanted to tell you how flattered I am – and that I appreciate you asking Sally first. I thought you deserved a face to face response.”
“First, if I were interested in going out with a guy, a darling hunk like you would be on my A list. Sadly, for you, I’m only interested in Sally. So, I hope we can be friends?”
Clive seemed strangely moved. “Charlie, that was the nicest let down I’ve ever had! If there’s anything I can do for you, just ask.”
“That’s very sweet of you, Clive.” I kissed his cheek – leaving a clear red imprint. “For now I just need to know where Susan’s office is.”
He told me with a goofy smile – not realizing that I’d marked him.
I clickity-clacked down the aisle to find Susan. The door was open, so I walked in before her secretary could stop me. She was bent over a document, so it took her a while to realize I was staring at her.
“Who … Is that you Charlie?”
“Yes, Suzie. If I ever hear of you hitting on my wife again, I’m suing your G-string off for sexual harassment. Is that clear?”
She stared at me with an open mouth.
“Is that clear?”
She nodded.
“Good.” I turned and clicked past Bea Ramon, her secretary, who was standing dumb founded in the doorway.
When I was back in my Kia, my heart was racing, and I wondered if I’d just gotten Sally fired. Maybe I should be more careful with my super powers.
I arrived at the gallery just as Mr. Phellps was opening up.
“Is this your new business attire Mr. … Ms. … Ah, Hobson?”
“Yes, I suppose it is.”
“It is unacceptable. … You know that our dress code does not allow open collar shirts! Go home and get a bow, a scarf or even a tie. Then come back properly dressed!”
“Yes, Mr. Phellps. I wasn’t thinking. Sorry, sir.”
“Off you go,” he said in a kindly voice.
I had no neckwear that went with what I had on. So, rather than going home, I went to Clara’s. There, Diane found a deeper tone fuchsia scarf that complemented my blouse. She showed me how to tie a lovely sissy bow with asymmetric tails. I promised to return later to buy others to go with my other blouses.
Back at the gallery, Mr. Phellps smiled at me when I returned. A short time later, Judy, the business manager, knocked on my office door. With her was Joanne, our main sales person. Both women were in their forties.
“Well, don’t you look lovely this morning Charlie!”
“Thank you, Judy.” I said blushing.
“Very professionally put together,” added Joanne.
“That is very kind of you.”
“It’s the truth. I’m jealous. I’ve never looked so good. So, is it Ms. Hobson now, darling?”
“No, Joanne, I’m not planning on becoming a woman. I’m just expressing myself. Sally made me try on a dress Friday and … well … you see the result.”
“So, is this something she’s making you do, dear?” said Judy with a bit of concern.
“No, I just needed a push to get over my hang ups. I’m quite happy in makeup and dressed as I am. I s’pose I was always a sissy, but was afraid of admitting it, even to myself.”
“‘Sissy’ is such a harsh word, darling.”
“Only if you take it as an insult. I don’t know another word for a guy who feels happiest in women’s clothes. … Do either of you?”
“No.”
“No, I suppose not.”
As I became more relaxed with the women I moved my hands from my lap to the top of my desk.
“Oh Charlie, what a lovely ring. May we see?” They both ooed and ahed over my new solitaire.
“Sally got it for me Saturday. We could even afford a wedding band for me when we married … the engagement ring reminds me that she proposed to me. Isn’t it stunning?”
“Yes, it really is,” they chorused.
“You’re a very lucky girl … boy … sissy,” added Joanne.
“Thank you, dears.”
“Well, we just dropped in to say how lovely you look, how brave we think you are, and to offer our support.”
“I really appreciate it. … I’m open to any guidance either of you have to offer.”
After they left, I went to see Mr. Phellps,
“May I have a word, sir?”
“Of course, ah … Hobson. I must say how professional you look, now that you’ve attended to your neckwear.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Now what is this about?” He said, indicating my presentation.
“Well, sir, Sally and I have been having some difficulties over our marital roles and I’ve ...”
“Decided to be the wife?”
“In a manner of speaking … to be the main homemaker in any event.”
“So, are you here to resign and become a housewife … er … homemaker?”
“No. … But, working full time plus the hours I put in on house work are becoming a strain – threatening my marriage. So, I wonder if I could work fewer hours – say 25 a week, if possible?”
“Before we get to that … When I hired you -- and in fact up to last week -- you were very introverted – lacked confidence. I'd hoped that you'd get over that, so you could assume greater responsibilities – perhaps a sales role. Your inability to assert yourself had led me to think that I was mistaken in seeing the potential for advancement in you and lately … well, I've been considering letting you go and giving someone new a chance. …”
My heart sank. I was about to be sacked. Despite the difficulties my hours caused, I liked working at the gallery, and I was going to miss my job.
“… and so, if you’d rather work just 25 hours a week, I think I can accommodate you.”
“Pardon?” I’d obviously missed something important.
“Charlie, for what ever reason, your new presentation seems to have given you a confidence I’d despaired of seeing. So, for the time being, I want to keep you and see if my confidence in you will be rewarded.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Of course, I expect to see you presenting in as professional a fashion as you have today.”
“I’ll do my best. Thank you again.”
Mr. Phellps and I agreed to1:00 to 6:00 as my new hours. Once I settled in, there seemed little reason to work longer. I kept up with my old workload, only taking less time to do it. So, things went along pretty much as they had, except that Judy and Diane admitted me to their little circle and I learned to chat, and gossip, in the women’s circle.
Meanwhile, with Sally’s cooperation, I generally finished my housework by 9:00. I loved wearing my dresses at home, but was becoming bored. The morning TV shows held little interest for me, until I found Quilt in a Day. Making and piecing quilt squares is a wonderful creative outlet, and shopping for fabrics became a minor passion. I bought a used sewing machine and spent an hour or two each morning on my new hobby. After a few months I had a collection of place mats, table toppers and bed quilts for every season as well as a huge stash of fabrics.
At the gallery, I’d been working on trying to establish the authenticity of a possible George Catlin which was unsigned and uncatalogued. From time to time, Mr. Phellps trusted me enough to send me to minor estate auctions with a $1000 bidding limit. At one such auction I happened upon a beautiful sketch, a study really, of the very painting I’d been researching. In the corner were the initials “G C.” It would provide the provenance to confirm that our painting was a genuine Catlin.
I placed an opening bid of $50.00, realizing that the value of the sketch was well over my $1000 budget – about $1500, I estimated. I quickly found myself in a bidding war with a minor dealer. He’d been to other auctions with me, and knew that I generally had a $1000 limit. So, he jumped to $1100 for his second bid in an effort to close me out. I pressed on, much to his surprise. Figuring I must really want the sketch, for reasons he could not fathom, he continued bidding – well beyond my $1500 estimate. My final bid was $2100, at which price he let me have it.
When I got back to the gallery, I figured I’d either get a commendation or a reprimand. The worst case was that I’d just bough myself a sketch at an inflated price. Fortunately, Mr. Phellps recognized that the study increased the value of our questionable painting – by $65,000 as it turned out. Instead of a reprimand, I was asked to make a sales presentation to a well-known collector and earned the commission plus a $20,000 bonus. (Judy told me later that the collector was gay and Mr. Phellps thought I might have sex appeal as well as expertise.) The next week, I was promoted to “buyer,” though that only meant that I was sent to more important auctions with a higher bidding limit.
My commission and bonus, with Sally’s earnings, gave us enough for a down payment on a three-bedroom suburban bungalow. One spare bedroom would be Sally’s office and the other my sewing room.
When we moved I wore lady’s jeans and white canvas shoes. Most of the neighbors ignored us, but Dorothy Brown, from across the street, came over to introduce herself, welcome us to the neighborhood and ask if she could help. She’d thought we were a lesbian couple, but when she found out I was a sissy, she was unfazed. Toward evening, she brought us a bottle of wine and a casserole for our first dinner.
Dorothy was single, but quite pregnant. She made her living by selling a variety of goods on Ebay. Sometimes she’d be out on a buying trip, but when she wasn’t, she invited me for morning coffee. Our clatch was rounded out by Bea, an aging feminist with a hippy background, and Juanita, a Guatemalan whom I suspected was undocumented. What we mostly shared was being despised by our largely white evangelical neighbors. With the exception of Juanita, who preferred a low profile, we fought back with with an unending series of liberal yard signs that made our Republican borough look like a Socialist bastion.
At any rate, once we became friends, Dorothy asked if I’d be her birthing partner. I discussed it with Sally, who was quite supportive. So, every Thursday evening, Dorothy and I went to birthing class with about 20 other mothers. One was accompanied by her lesbian partner, the rest by manly males. Of course, I dressed down – in jeans and tees – but my hair, nails and makeup left no doubt that I was a sissy. Many of the men smirked they looked at me, but I ignored them. Dorothy wanted to defend me, but I told her it wasn’t necessary.
Part of the curriculum was an evening on the importance of breastfeeding infants. It was so powerful that Dorothy, who felt nursing would interfere with earning her living, was converted. While the woman lectured on, I imagined what suckling a child would be like. I was quite attracted to the idea. Of course, it was quite impossible. Even if I got breast implants, I’d never lactate.
One morning, after our coffee clatch, I was sewing a quilt for Dorothy’s baby when she called asking me to take her to the hospital immediately. My friend needed me. I grabbed my purse and ran across the street. I only realized what I was wearing when Dorothy said, “That’s a gorgeous dress Charlie.”
I’d never been out of the house in a dress, but it didn’t matter. “Thank you, Dot. Where’s your bag?” I grabbed it and hurried to my Kia.
Dorothy followed, carrying a large towel. Only then did I realized she was bleeding.
I must have broken every traffic law on the books speeding to the emergency entrance. Fortunately, the bleeding had stopped by the time the doctor examined Dorothy; however, she was in labor. While I waited for the doctor to complete her exam I called the gallery to say I wouldn’t be in, and Sally to say what was happening. Eventually, I joined Dorothy in the labor room.
Her labor was six hours. While I coached her breathing and encouraged her, I formed a very strong empathetic bond – almost as if I were having the baby. Finally, Dorothy was taken to the delivery room and I gowned up. She delivered a healthy 6 lb., 7 oz. girl. Indescribable maternal feelings washed over me as I held the baby for a brief time.
After Dorothy was asleep in her room, I went home, exhausted. Sally was waiting with Chinese take out. She greeted me with a warm kiss, slightly surprised that I’d worn a dress out of the house. I ate a few bites, then went to bed.
I slept for 10 hours. When I woke, Sally had already left for court. I dressed for work, but stopped by the hospital for a brief visit. Dorothy had named her baby Charlene after me. As I held Charlene, strange feelings again overwhelmed me. I found myself crying. Embarrassed, I returned the baby and gave Dorothy a kiss on the cheek – as women do – before hurrying off to the gallery.
I visited Dot a couple of times a day, then drove her home. Sally saw how much I cared for her and the baby, and asked “Charlie, are you in love with Dorothy?”
“Yes, but only as a sister – and an auntie to Charlene.”
“I thought so, but I had to ask.”
Once she was home, Dorothy felt a greater sense of urgency about supporting the two of them, and asked me to babysit each morning as she went off in search of goods to sell. Charlene was a wonderful baby, but when she got hungry, she wanted a breast, not the bottles of expressed milk her mother supplied for her. Turning her head from the bottle I offered, she would mouth my nipple though my bodice or blouse. Although it left a wet spot, I allowed her to do it because it comforted her. Still, I was starting to rethink this when, after a week of almost daily babysitting, my nipples became sore and swollen.
Of course, I would change tops before going to work. It was quite a surprise, then, when Judy came in my office and closed the door.
“Charlie, you seemed not to have noticed but you have a bit of a problem.”
“I do?”
“Yes, you have milk stains on your blouse.”
“Milk stains?” I said, looking down. There were two wet patches on my blouse. Thinking I’d forgotten to put on a clean blouse, I blushed. “Oh, when I babysit Charlene, she often mouths me.”
“No, dear, it’s milk. Trust me, I know. The stains have gotten bigger since you came in.”
I opened the top of my blouse and pulled back my cami. A drop of watery milk formed on my nipple and ran down my breast. “Oh my God! How did that happen?”
“You didn’t take anything so you could nurse Charlene?”
“Hell no!” I was in a complete panic. “What am I going to do?”
“Well, when I had your problem, some 20 years ago, I made sure I fed Mary before coming in, and carried extra pads for my nursing bra.”
“I don’t feed Charlene – not like that anyway. And I don’t wear bras.”
“Well, I suppose you could get a breast pump. But, I’m not sure how you can keep your blouse dry if you don’t wear a bra and pads. In any event, you need to go home and change before anyone else sees your little problem.”
I went home and wrapped an ace bandage with some tissues around my chest, but, rather than helping, the pressure forced out more milk. I rewound the now damp bandage very loosely. I measured my chest, and went Target to buy a nursing bra. I hoped to get an A or even an AA, but the smallest cup they came in was B, so I left with two 36-B nursing bras and a box of 100 pads. No one paid special attention to me, so I suppose they thought I was a rather masculine woman.
When I got home and tried on my one of my bras, my flabby chest formed breasts that almost filled the cups. With the pads in place, the cups fit wrinkle free. Looking in the mirror, I no longer saw a sissy, but a plain looking woman who took care of her appearance.
It was embarrassing to go to work dressed like that. As a sissy, I felt honest. Now it seemed as though I were pretending to be a woman. When I told Judy how I felt, she straightened me out.
“Charlie, you are still being honest. You’re dressing as your body is saying you must. It’s not as though you woke up this morning and said ‘I think I’ll wear a bra today.’ Your wearing one because it’s the only reasonable thing to do.”
“I suppose so, but it still doesn’t feel right.”
“You’ll get used to it dear.”
When Sally got home, she was surprised to see me filling out my blouse. When I explained what happened, she was more than sympathetic.
“You look very nice with a bit more figure. The flat chested look didn’t really do justice to your clothes.”
After I cleaned up the dinner dishes, Sally had me sit on her lap. After some passionate kissing, she unfastened my bra. “Time to take these girls out for a test drive.”
At first I felt very awkward, having Sally sucking and tonguing my nipple. Then I felt something I never felt before – having my milk come down. I did not have much, but while Sally suckled at my breast, I had the most indescribably delicious feelings – almost sexual, but still not sexual. Once my milk was gone, Sally took me to bed to complete our love making.
In the morning, Sally asked, “So, are you going to be nursing Charlene now?”
“I don’t know if I should.”
“I don’t see why not. Lot’s of children have wet nurses.”
“Maybe, but they usually aren’t men.”
“I thought you were past that – thinking of yourself as a man.”
I blushed.
“I expect you to discuss this with Dorothy and see what she thinks.”
Full of mixed feelings, I said, “Alright, dear.”
I went to Dororthy’s coffee clatch after my morning housework. There, my new bra was the first topic of conversation. I was among friends who’d shared very intimate details of their lives, so I wasn’t embarrassed to share my tale.
When I finished, Dorothy asked, “Would you like to nurse Charlene?”
That was an embarrassing question, but I summoned the courage to say, “Yes, I’d like to try.” So, I sat with my blouse open, nursing Charlene for a few minutes while the conversation continued with no more interruption than if Dot were nursing the baby. It was a wonderful, maternal feeling. I was sad when my little milk ran out and I handed the baby back to her mother.
With the ice broken, I nursed Charlene at every opportunity, until she was weaned at nine months. Since my nursing opportunities we irregular, I had to use a breast pump to relieve the pressure when I couldn’t nurse. The regular production of milk caused my breasts to grow and toward the end my experience as a wet nurse, I needed C-cup bras.
Once Charlene was weaned my breasts shrunk, but only to small, well-defined Bs. Now there was little point in not wearing dresses out, as even in shorts and a tee, my breasts screamed “female.” Established customers at the gallery knew I was male, but new customers invariably called me “Ms. Hobson.”
As Charlene grew into a toddler, she began calling me “Auntie Char,” and we remained close. Still, I missed having a baby to nurse and tried to persuade Sally to start a family. She was willing in principle, but the time never seemed right. There was always some case or appeal that demanded her time and attention. Also, we seemed to be drifting appart.
Then, one day, Sally said she was pregnant. I was overjoyed. Sally not so much. She was even thinking of having an abortion. I told her that if she had the baby, I’d do all of the child care. As far as she was concerned, it would be “launch and forget.” Reluctantly, she agreed. Shortly after Charlene’s fourth birthday, Sally delivered a 7 pound 4 ounce baby boy. We named him Leslie, after my grandfather.
Not long after, Sally filed for divorce. We parted as friends. She’d fallen in love with Susan at work, and they moved in together. Neither were interested in children, so I got full custody of Leslie.
Meanwhile, Dorothy was having a hard time making ends meet. I persuaded her to sell her house and move in with “Auntie Char.” At first we had a sisterly relation, but in time, our relation blossomed into something more fulfilling. We married a year after my divorce was final. In time we had our own baby, Mary Lu.
Leslie is almost 12 now. He’s his father’s son: he likes to play with his sisters and wear pretty things. It’s entirely his own choice, but he’s much happier now than when Dot and I tried to make a boy of him. Like me, he wants to stay male, albeit a pretty one.
I was a happy child. My father was a naturalist who taught at the Yonkers Academy, and my mother an earnest Christian who often nursed the sick and helped the poor. David, my older brother, loved me dearly, and took no notice of my being a girl. He was my idol and model. Our parents cherished both of us and instilled us with their respective passions. We would as often accompany father into the field as mother on her charitable rounds.
In the spring of 1840 yellow jack came to Yonkers and my happiness abruptly ended. I had just turned 8. My mother tried to help the afflicted, but soon she, then my father, and finally David, took the disease. I worked hard under mother’s direction to aid them, but to no avail.
Reverend Myers found me alone, and delivered me to the Yonkers Christian Asylum for Orphans. There I spent the next eight years of my life. The Asylum was not a Dickensian workhouse. Almost fifty years had passed since it had sold a child to be apprenticed in the cotton mills. It was merely a woefully under-funded institution with an overworked staff. Mrs. Adele van Hoff was the superintendent. Miss Jane Wright taught us everything from arithmetic and geometry to history and poetry. Finally, Mr. John Smyth served as handyman and kept the boys in check – often with the cane. Together, they cared for forty-odd of us.
Most left the Asylum when they reached 14 – the boys apprenticed to a local tradesman, the girls married off or sent to a family in search of a cheap maid. I know not if the boys received any special tuition, but when a girl approached 14, Miss Wright took her aside and explained how to please men (and women) if that should be her fate. She had even instructed us in the use of sausage casings to avoid both the pox and being gotten with child. Of course, we held such instruction in strict confidence, as it was not part of the curriculum prescribed by the Board of Elders and enforced by Mrs. van Hoff.
While many of the girls looked forward to being taken my a man, I did not. So, I availed myself of an alternative. Some girls remained at the Asylum until 16 – bathing and feeding the infants, and changing their napkins. Margaret and I had chosen that course. We were neither fish nor fowl – neither staff nor inmates. We were paid a pittance – less than those who went into service. Our real recompense was Miss Wright’s tutelage in French and Latin. Our child care fit us to be nannies, but our languages opened the possibility of being governesses. We also had limited freedom.
Being slightly older than Margaret, I had my choice of service times and had chosen night duty – leaving her the day, for which she was quite grateful. My choice left me free to resume the explorations of my youth – venturing into the woods and glades to observe and enjoy the mysteries of nature. Father had often spoken of “the two books” – the Book of Revelation and the Book of Nature – which we must read with equal openness and reflection. I studied both with relish.
On one foray, picking my way along the steep bank of the Hudson, I chanced upon an isolated hut. Outside of it a woman was spreading herbs on a colorful blanket to dry. This was Agnes Cohan, a descendant of Tish-Co-Han, the famous Leni Lenape chief. I had never met an Indian before, so I was anxious to make her acquaintance. I approached, but watched in silence as she finished her task. Then she looked at me.
“Hello, I am Nancy Winston,” I said, extending my hand.
“Aren’t you afraid of me?”
“No, should I be?”
“No, but many are – that is why there are so few of us.”
“I am sorry to hear that. Is that why you live alone out here?”
“Partly, and partly to be one with nature.”
“Oh, I love being one with nature. My father used to take my brother and me out to be one with nature all the time.”
“Are they near?”
“No, sadly, both are dead. I am alone in the world.”
“Then we have two things in common – our love of nature and being alone in the world.”
“I suppose we do,” I said, with a sad smile.
“You know I am a witch?”
“Father said there are no witches.”
“I am not the kind of witch your people mean. Our witches are healers. Among the Leni Lenapi there are two kinds of healers. First, the nentpikes, who heal the body by the spirit in plants, animals and the earth itself. Second, the meteinu, called by some medew, who know these things, but also how deal with the manetu – the spirits that inhabit the earth. I am a meteinu. Your people call us witches, but we do not draw on the power of evil, the evil matantu – what you call Satan and his minions. Instead, we use the power of the dream world.
I reflected that Joseph also understood the dream world and had interpreted the Pharaoh’s dreams to the benefit of the Egyptians. So, such lore could not be evil. Indeed, father taught me all knowledge could be used for good. “My father often told me that Indians knew many things we did not and hoped one day to learn this wisdom.”
“Your father sounds like a wise man. Do you wish to learn as well?”
“Could I?”
“Yes. You are a little old to start, but I am also old and must pass my medicine on before I join the spirits of my people.”
“I would be honored if you would teach me,” I said earnestly.
“If you wish to learn my craft, I will teach you, but I cannot teach you this and that. You must become one of us. It will take many moons.”
“Well, I will be here two more years, God willing. Is that enough time?”
“It will have to be, will it not?”
The next day, I began my training by purifying my spirit in the pimewakan or sweat lodge. After fasting 24 hours, I striped to my drawers and entered a small pit covered with skins. In it were red hot rocks. Agnes poured water on the rocks until steam filled the pit. I left my body and had dreams that were not dreams. Suddenly, Agnes threw cold water on me, and I returned to my body. I told her what I had seen, and she told me what it meant as best she could. Much was left for me to figure out. Still, I understood my spirit as I never had before. Finally, she gave me a secret name. I would say more, but these things are sacred and can only be shared with another meteinu.
Agnes instructed me to rest the next day, so it was two days later when I resumed my training. She took me to learn how to gather black cohosh. Father had taught me this plant, Cimicifuga racemosa. He would gather its roots to help mother with her monthlies. Agnes taught me the meteinu way to gather it. I could see better than Agnes, so I was the first to spy one. She told me to go to it, but not to dig it up. Instead, I was to address its spirit, telling it that I was glad for it – glad that manetuwak, the Great Spirit, had created it – and that I must gather some of its kin to help cure my people. I was to bury a small sacrifice on its east side, then, leaving it untouched, gather what I needed from its brethren.
When we returned to her hut, I learned how to prepare and use the roots. As father knew, they could help women with their monthlies, but they could also reduce fever, help the old with joint pain, and make the bosom larger in both men and women. As I was small of bosom, she suggested that I make a salve for my chest and also drink a tea -- both prepared from the dried roots compounded with a powder extracted from the effluvium of a pregnant mare. This helped so much that Margaret, who was amply endowed, soon became envious. As I dared not risk the charge of witchcraft, I did not share my potion with her.
Agnes did not keep her herbs and potions in her hut, as it had been violated several times by town boys. Instead, she kept them in a cave opening onto a steep bluff overlooking the Hudson. The inside was commodious, and the entrance obscured by thorn bushes. It also had the advantage of being cool in the summer and warm in the depths of winter.
Over the next year, I learned to treat various pains, staunch bleeding, deal with snake bites and prevent sepsis. This was the lure of the nentpikes.
Shortly after I ended my 15th year, Agnes began instructing me in the spirit lore of the meteinu. I began this new training by returning to the sweat lodge, for to treat other spirits according to the will of manetuwak, one must first understand His will for your own. I emerged with a deeper understanding of, and renewed confidence in, myself.
The first spell was what I came to call “the fierce visage.” It begins by centering yourself, then projecting a vision of your power outward. Its purpose, like that of all meteinu spells, was not to harm others. Rather, the fierce visage lets enemies know who they were dealing with – making them think twice about doing you harm. I learned the fierce visage out of respect for Agnes, just as I had learned to address plants, not out of conviction of need – for I had no enemies.
Once I mastered the fierce visage, Agnes taught me about the dream world. The dream world was a different realm – always present, but hidden. There were many ways to help a person enter the dream world. Some used herbs, but the simplest is to relax a person until they hear your voice alone. To aid me, Agnes gave me a singular stone. It was like a moonstone, but run through with dark veins. If you held it one way, the veins suggested a face, another way some beast, or perhaps a mysterious symbol.
Margaret volunteered to let me practice on her. I always told her that she would feel wonderful just before I brought her back. So, she always did. She so liked it much that she often came to me after a hard day and begged me to relax her. As a result, I became quite proficient.
The lore of the dream world is not so much about getting there, as about what you do once you arrive. That is what Agnes spent the rest of my training teaching. In the dream world one could discover the reasons for special fears, or lay bare things a person had hidden even from themselves. I learned to make them to do things long after they awakened. All during my training, Agnes cautioned that the dream world was too solemn and sacred to be used for my benefit or amusement. Its use must always be for the benefit of others.
At the beginning of 1848, Agnes told me that her time was approaching. She would depart the first day of Spring for a secret place where she would go to the spirits of her ancestors. I was not to follow her. I might cry (and I did), but I was also to rejoice, for she would rejoin her family.
In the week before she left, Agnes revealed a last secret. She was a two spirit – a person with the spirit of both man and woman. She showed me her body – it reflected both her spirits.
In winter the house on the hill rested like a crown on a silver-haired queen – its columns, shining spires – its lights, glittering diamonds. All the girls of the Asylum dreamed of living in it as we toiled to earn our keep. It was owned by a Knickerbocker named Karl de Peyster, who had lately returned from the late war to become Chairman of the Board of Elders running (and under-funding) the Asylum. Elder Karl was rumored to be the illegitimate scion of a Manhattan de Peyster and an upstairs maid he had set up in a mansion just off of Park Ave. No one dared say this aloud. Still, he had served honorably in the war with Mexico and earned the rank of captain.
Soon I would finish my 16th year and be on my own – something I relished and feared. Miss Wright had warned us of the fate that awaited girls, and boys, who could not make their own way. I had studied as hard under Miss Wright’s tutelage as I had under Agnes’s, for I desired to fit myself for the position of nanny, or even governess, in a respectable house.
I was well experienced in the care of infants. Like Margaret, I had tended the nursery, but, unlike her, I had also wet-nursed more than a few infants. This is how that came to pass. I was near my fifteenth year, sitting outside Mrs. van Hoff’s office, waiting to tell her of the need for more napkins. Inside, she was prevailing on the Elders to hire a wet nurse. I heard little of what was said, but I did hear Elder de Peyster say, in a clear voice, “The Asylum was hardly bereft of buxom lasses who could be pressed into such service.”
You may wonder why I was chosen. I am plain: big-boned with a square, mannish face. However, my black cohosh potion had made large of bosom – though in proportion to my frame. After the Elders left, I went in to tell Mrs. van Hoff of the shortage of napkins. She looked at my chest for a moment, and informed me of my new duty. I was assured that wet-nursing was an honorable calling, and that she had found nursing her own children quite gratifying. (Eventually, I found it delightfully so.) I rejoined that I had no milk, but she assured me that nature would provide. Later that day, I consulted Agnes, who taught me the required potion. From then on I provided this service whenever required.
Having thus fitted myself for a number of honorable callings, I looked forward to my departure with but one regret – Little Edward. He was not, as you may suspect, a boy of my age, nor did I have romantic feelings for him. My feeling for him entirely maternal. While I was soon to be a woman of 16, Edward was approaching the end of his 11th year, though his figure gave little indication of it.
Eddy was hopeless as a boy – mercilessly rounded upon by his peers. He was small of stature, “ran like a girl,” and could not hold his water at night. For the last reason, he was still assigned to the nursery. Margaret, who had to deal with his wet napkins each morning, judged him unready to be breeched and kept him in dresses – the oldest in the nursery. This was as much a punishment for the work he caused her as for anything else.
This came to a head in the Fall when he was plugged or soaked three times in a single stick ball game (such is how a player running the bases is “put out”). He had suffered a contusion upon his thigh, two broken ribs and was staggering from a plug to the head before Mr. Smyth roused himself intervene. I was in tears to look upon him, and, with the support of Miss Wright, prevailed upon Mrs. van Hoff to move him out of the nursery to my room. Mrs. van Hoff objected that a boy in my room might threaten my virtue. I had little interest in boys, but Miss Wright saying that that Little Edward hardly counted as a boy got laughing agreement from Mrs. van Hoff.
As chance would have it, I had weaned my previous charge the week before. Poor Eddy could not stop weeping, both from his injuries and his despair. I dosed him with willow bark tea, and held him on my lap and rocked him, but he was not consoled. Meanwhile, my bosoms ached from pent up milk. Miss Wright had taught that one should not seek two solutions when one would do. So I gave the poor dear my teat. After some reluctance, he took it and suckled contentedly until sleep overtook him.
After a few days of my ministrations, Miss Wright saw him to be thriving, and suggested that he remain in my care. He followed me everywhere but to the privy – often clinging to my hand or skirt. I arranged his locks in sausage curls – making him a pretty dolly indeed. The other boys made remarks, but none dared assail him as long as he was with me. Eddy himself was as content to be my pretty boy as I was to have a living dolly.
As he basked in my maternal affection, Eddy’s nocturnal soiling became so infrequent that he no longer required night napkins. I was very proud of him indeed. Still, I was fearful that he would be the target of his peers when I departed. I weaned and breeched him – events that made him both proud and sad – for he delighted in his dresses, curls, and, I think, napkins. Still, he accepted the necessity of this.
As the end of my service approached, I placed notices seeking employment in the Yonkers and Manhattan broadsheets. I received two letters of enquiry, but no firm offers. In this uncertain state I was called to Mrs. van Hoff’s office on my last Sunday at the Asylum. Elder de Peyster was with her.
“Miss Winston, Mrs. van Hoff has kept me informed of your splendid progress here – in particular your accomplishments with Master Edward, who was placed in your care. I have observed him, and you, each Sunday at services. At first I was afraid that he had developed a disabling dependence upon you, but last week and even more today, I saw a new independence.”
I was in shock that Elder de Peyster had attended to me, let alone Little Edward. I could not imagine where this was leading, so I responded with a noncommittal, “Yes?”
“Yes, indeed! Miss Winston, I believe you uniquely qualified for the care of my nephew, Master Alexander de Peyster, whose disposition is not unlike that of Master Edward.”
The offer of a position was in the air! Miss Wright had cautioned against an undue show of enthusiasm. “I see. Could you expand on Master Alexander’s situation?”
“Yes, but I prefer to do so privately. … Mrs. van Hoff, I wonder if you would grant us the privacy we require? I assure you her virtue is in no danger.”
I could see the disappointment in her eyes. Perhaps she was hoped for a crumb of advantageous scandal. Still, she withdrew gracefully.
“You see, like Master Edward, my nephew has an infantile and epicene character, which my brother-in-law finds an intolerable embarrassment. The poor lad is shortly to be sent to a strict boarding school. My sister and I agree that his temperament is unsuited to such a situation. As an alternative, I have offered exile to the Yonkers hinterland, where I am prepared to have him nurtured in a manner more congenial to his nature – whatever it may turn out to be. That nurturing I propose to put in your unique and capable hands, Miss Winston.”
“How old is the lad?”
“He has recently completed his 11th year.”
“I see the delicacy of your case, Elder. And, how would I be compensated for my ‘unique and capable’ service?”
“I am proposing room, board, $40.00 per month and Saturdays free. Of course, there would be no housework. I have staff for that.”
$40.00 a month was a princely sum – far more than I had hoped. Still, Miss Wright had advised us never to take up the first offer. “Surely a woman as unique and capable as myself is worth $50.00 – with an advance so that I may acquire a wardrobe befitting my new position?”
The Elder smiled, seemingly pleased at my self-assertion. “Shall we say $45.00, and the advance?”
“We are agreed, Elder. When shall I begin?”
“Why not tomorrow? You could acquire your wardrobe and supervise the furnishing of the nursery. Then, on Friday, we shall take the New York and Harlem to bring my nephew to his new home.”
“If Mrs. van Hoff is willing, I have no objection to Monday. I do, however, suggest that I take the train to Manhattan on Monday to purchase my wardrobe, and visit your sister on Tuesday. I wish to gain her insights and meet my charge. Then I will better understand the requirements of his nursery.”
“Splendid! As for Mrs. van Hoff, it is already arranged. Your suggestion inspires me with confidence, Miss Winston. I will provide you with expense money and make arrangements at a respectable hotel near my sister’s home. You need only provide me with an accounting on your return. Can you come to my residence at seven of the clock tomorrow morning? I will have all you require then.”
After we parted, I went to Miss Wright to discuss my plans, for I had never been on a train, purchased a dress, or stayed in a hotel in my life! She warned that Manhattan could be dangerous. Not only were there Nativist, German and Irish gangs in various precincts, but the new Municipal Police Force was corrupt. On no account was I to be out alone after dark. As a parting gift, she gave me a formidable 6” hat pin.
I arrived at the house on the hill with my belongings in a well-worn carpet bag just as the clock struck the hour. A handsome gentleman of military bearing greeted me. This was Sergeant O’Neill, late of Company G, 1st U. S. Dragoons. He showed me to Elder de Peyster’s library.
“Cap’n, Miss Winston.”
“Good morning, my dear. ‘Miss Winston’ is quite formal for a member of my household. I wonder if I may call you Nancy?”
“Of course, Elder de Peyster.”
“In return you may call me Karl in private,” he smiled.
“Thank you, … Karl,” I said hesitantly.
“Now as to your arrangements. Here are your train tickets, a purse with your advance, a journal for your accounts, and a letter of introduction to my sister, Mrs. Emily van der Leyden. I have telegraphed the Waverly House, a modest but respectable hotel at 56 Broadway – not far from my sister’s home. They admit unaccompanied ladies, which most do not.”
He unfolded Williams’ Map of New-York and Brooklyn. “I have marked everything on this map. A horsecar follows the line I have marked in red. There are a number of shops along the way which should accommodate your needs. The hotel concierge can be most helpful, so I suggest you check in as soon as you arrive and consult him on your requirements.”
“Thank you,” I said – a bit overwhelmed.
“Sergeant O’Neill will show you your room and answer any questions you may have. Then, you must hasten if you are to catch your train. Have an productive and enjoyable excursion, Nancy.”
“Thank you, Karl.”
I found the Sergeant seated in the entry, chuckling over Washington Irving’s The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon. On seeing me, he rose, “Miss Winston.”
“You may call me Nancy.”
“That would not be proper, Miss. A governess is a member of the family. Cook, maid and I are not. You are to be Miss Winston to us.”
“I see, Sergeant. Pardon my error. I am not used to such formality.”
“It’s alright, Miss, you’ll learn the drill soon enough. Let me introduce you and show you your quarters.”
“That would be lovely.” I met Mary O’Grady and her daughter Constance, who served as cook and maid respectively. Constance was about my age. I hoped to find a friend in her, though she seemed quite shy.
My room was on the second floor with the family quarters. It was well furnished and had a thrilling prospect of the Hudson and of the Jersey shore beyond. The Sergeant showed me a cunningly concealed compartment in the wardrobe for my valuables -- had I any.
A door led to a large adjoining nursery. Constance was still cleaning it. It had been furnished by the Elder’s late wife to receive an infant, but her child was stillborn. I would have to refurnish it in a manner suitable to an older child. I wondered aloud what my budget would be. The Sergeant responded, “The master leaves that to your discretion. The rule is: ‘Quality without extravagance.’”
I placed the clothes I would not need in the wardrobe and most of my herbs and potions in the concealed compartment. Then, I returned to the entrance hall. Meanwhile, the Sergeant had harnessed Becky, the mare, to a sporty trap. The air was mild, and I enjoyed the ride to the railroad station enormously. He offered precautions for my safety illustrated with anecdotes from his service in the late war. Most important was a confident demeanor, even in challenging circumstances. Second was vigilance of my surroundings.
The train ride was less enjoyable. Rattles and screeches assailed my ears and bones the whole distance. It was a marvel the carriage stayed on the track. Further, the rank smell of the unwashed and cheap tobacco assailed the nose, while opening the widows admitted plentiful quantities of smoke and cinders. Such is modern travel.
The steam line ended at 32nd St. I descended to the platform wearier than I had anticipated. So, I determined to hasten to Waverly House to refresh myself.
I had looked forward to seeing the city, but it was not the jewel I anticipated. Never had I seen so many people in one place – half a million I was told. Each was set upon their course in virtual oblivion of the others. None exchanged greetings or returned mine. Gentlemen did not smile or tip their hats, though a number fixed their gaze upon my bosom. The women, though fewer, were more noticeable. The veritable rainbow of their garb and narrow waists minded me of my dull grey frock and want of corseting. (The Asylum Elders frowned on luxuries.) My figure was quite mannish in comparison.
While a sulfurous haze perfused the station, beyond its portals I was greeted by the rank odor of excrement. I marked several men whose sole occupation seemed to be the removal of horse offal. As a ward against this foulness, I purchased a rose from a young girl. Near her, two doxies, scandalously clad, plied their trade with passing men. A nearby policeman was oblivious. Meanwhile, my ears rang with the clatter of wagons on cobbles, punctuated by steam whistles and the curses of teamsters. I recalled the Sergeant’s advice, assumed an air of confidence, and made my way to the horsecar line.
As the Elder said, innumerable mercantile establishments, selling every imaginable ware (and a few I would never have imagined) lined the way. The other women in the car exhibited a complete indifference to the more egregious displays. I affected to do the same.
A few stops down a petite lady of striking delicacy boarded and chose to sit next to me. She could not have been five feet tall. I said “Good day,” with no expectation of a reply.
To my mild surprise, she responded. “Good day to you, my dear.”
I smiled back.
“I wish to compliment you on your eschewal of feminine convention. So many women dress to attract the gaze of men. You do not. Still, you cut a handsome figure.”
I was unsure what response to make. I had never been called “pretty.” I supposed “handsome” to be a complement. Doing so warmed me. “Thank you. You are possessed of an admirable beauty. Your golden curls are particularly fetching,” I said, responding in kind.
“You are very gallant. I am Caroline Bloome, lady’s companion.”
“Nancy Winston, governess,” I said, extending my larger hand.
We chatted of weather and the shops we passed until we neared her stop.
“Perhaps you would like to share lunch?”
“I would, but my schedule is full. Could we arrange another time? I expect to be free on Saturdays. If you give me your address, I will dispatch a note.”
“I look forward to it.” Caroline gave me her card and got off at the next stop.
After registering at the hotel, I refreshed myself with coffee and cold mutton – at an exorbitant price – in an dining saloon reserved for the fairer sex. I then asked the concierge to recommend a reputable establishment for women’s apparel. He directed me to a nearby seamstress. On my way out, a charwoman stopped me, saying he was paid to refer me there. Better prices were to be had at Mrs. O’Malley’s in the next street, and, if I did not mind used goods, I could find serviceable items some blocks further. I gave her a penny for her help.
In passing the shop recommended by the concierge, I saw a satin and lace gown in the window. It was neither to my taste nor budget. The shop recommended by the charwoman was better suited to my needs and means. I would have missed it but for a small sign above its door: “Mary O’Malley, Seamstress.” Upon entering I was greeted by a middle aged woman. She was red-headed and had a tape measure draped around her neck.
“G’day, may I be of assistance?”
“I am to be a governess and need a Sunday dress and at least one other for daily wear, of sturdy fabric and moderate cost.”
“Of course, but I note that you do not follow the fashion of wearing a corset. Did your mother not start you?”
“Unfortunately, I am an orphan. My mother died when I was but 8.”
“I am so sorry, darlin’! That explains it. Most train their daughters to the corset beginning at 11 or 12. We must begin with a corset, or my measurements will be useless. Fortunately, you are still young enough to train your figure.”
“Must we?” I said, recalling Mrs. van Hoff’s and Miss Wright’s complaints regarding their corsets.
“’Tis the fashion, darlin’.”
“Very well.”
Ten minutes later I was laced so tight I could not breath and still had two or three inches to go.
“This is intolerable! I refuse to do it!”
“But, darlin’, I can’t make you a fashionable dress if you don’t wear a corset.”
“I’d rather endure a lack of fashion than a lack of breath. Some think me quite handsome as I stand,” I said, recalling Miss Bloome’s compliment.
For some reason a strange look crossed Mrs. O’Malley’s face. “If that is what you want, darlin’ … but the gentlemen prefer a tiny waist,” she said in a last effort.
I wanted out of the infernal contraption. “I care not for gentlemen or what they prefer!”
She got a look I did not quite understand, but gave me my head. “Very well. Let’s get you unlaced, and I’ll measure you as God made you.”
“I am sure the Lord will appreciate that.”
She chuckled and her mood changed. The rest of our business went easily. I ordered two dresses for $12.00 -- $7.00 for the Sunday dress and $5.00 for the everyday dress. I would pick them up Friday.
I proceeded to a district crowded with second-hand shops. I found a decent pair of lady’s boots for $1.00, but, given my height and lack of corset, no dress to fit me. I was returning to the hotel when I saw a sign in a narrow street, “The Special Woman, Larger Sizes, Alice Cunningham, Prop.” Racks of larger dresses, none with wasp waists, lined its walls. Hearing the bell, the shopkeeper came from the back where she had been helping another patron. Both were large of stature. As she came into the light of the shop window, I was astonished to see that, despite her hair and dress, Alice was a man – a two spirit, I supposed.
“May I help you?” she said in a passably feminine voice.
I now understood that, with my mannish shape, I had stumbled upon a shop for two spirits. I reflected that Little Edward and possibly my new charge might one day patronize it.
“Why, yes … thank you, madam. As you can see, I have an unusual figure. I am looking for one or two dresses. Do you have anything suited to my occupation of governess?”
“I am not sure what is suitable to a governess.”
“I am,” said the refined voice of the other patron. “I was raised by a governess. She was the only one who accepted me as God made me, Alice.” This patron was a two spirit as well, but far more feminine than Alice. “Would you like me to show you a few?”
“Yes, I would. Thank you very much. I am Nancy Winston,” I said, extending my hand.
“Paula van de Graaf, nee Paul Anderson,” she said, shaking my hand in the feminine manner. A wedding ring adorned her left hand.
Paula found a lavender and a rose dress. They were not of a style I had seen in the torn copy of Peterson’s Magazine Margaret and I shared, but they fit me well enough. Alice asked $3.25 each, but after a dour stare from Paula, said $5.00 would do for the pair. Another $2.50 went for small clothes.
After paying, we exited and I thanked Paula for her assistance. “Paula, I wonder if you might be willing to help me further?”
“In what manner, Nancy?”
“This is my first service as governess, and my case is rather unusual. My charge is said to be particularly epicene. He is such an embarrassment that he is to be sent away. As an alternative to a boarding school, I am to take him to Yonkers. You said you were raised by an understanding governess. I beg your advice.”
“Then our meeting is providential, for I would do anything to spare a child the suffering I endured. Would you be comfortable accompanying me to public house frequented by androgenes such as myself? It is in the Village. I assure you, you will be safe.”
I paused to reflect on the dangers I had been warned to avoid. Trust in so singular a stranger would be high among them. Against this was duty to my prospective charge and a profound sense that Paula was a kind and honorable person. “I trust your judgement, Paula.”
To my surprise, Paula whistled shrilly once and, after an interval, again. Shortly, a cab appeared. The cabbie hardly gave us a second glance. As we entered, Paula gave the driver an address and we were off.
The shop was in a tenement basement, but surprisingly well-appointed. In late afternoon, there were few other patrons. At one table was woman of about 30 in a shirt and trousers chatting with a stylish older woman. At another was a well-dressed man of affairs holding the hand of an androgene like Paula.
I ordered coffee and Paula a pint of stout. She began by asking what I thought of “the city” (as though there we none other – and perhaps there is not its like in the world). I recounted my experiences and impressions, many of which caused a chuckle. When I described my encounter with Caroline, Paula asked my how I felt about it. I said I was glad to make a friend, and she made me feel special.
“Did you have an intimate friend at the Asylum?”
“No, I always felt plain compared to the other girls and shared not their obsession with boys.”
“I see. Well, Nancy, Caroline may see you as a potential beau. You would as be handsome in a shirt and trousers as our friend yonder,” she said glancing at the woman so dressed. “The disciples of Sappho often call strong women such as yourself ‘handsome’ or ‘gallant.’ Heaven knows, there is nothing wrong in being so desired or enjoying such attention. Still, it is good to know what one is about.”
I blushed. “Thank you for telling me. I am not sure what to think now.”
“Did you enjoy her attention?”
“Frankly, I did.”
“Would you like to kiss her?”
I felt a strange stirring. Caroline was beautiful and made me feel esteemed. “Perhaps. I do not know.”
“In time you will know yourself better. Just take care not to break her heart if there is no chance with you.”
“I will.” It had not occurred to me to place myself in Caroline’s position.
“So, Nancy, have you had experience with an epicene boy.”
“I think so, but I am uncertain.” I described my experience with Little Edward.
“Well, Edward probably a strong streak of lavender.”
“A streak of lavender?”
“You, know a womanly inclination – like me.”
We turned then to Paula’s history.
“I always felt unlike the other boys. I did not like their rough games. I preferred playing family with my sister. We took turns playing mother as it was the role we both liked best. Mother accepted our play, but father beat me, and sometimes mother, whenever he caught me. When I was 14, I told mother I was a girl. She told father and I was beaten and banished from our home.”
My eyes filled with tears on hearing her sufferings.
Paula went on, her eyes directed at the table. “After that, I starved on the street until I discovered that certain men would pay for my favors. In time, I was taken into a Molly house. All this was in Albany. That is where I met John. He took me back to New York with him and introduced me as his secretary.” At this point he looked up and saw my tears. “Don’t cry Nancy, for all ended well. Last year I married John.”
“Really?” I was stunned.
“Yes, in church before a priest of John’s faith. I wore a lovely dress and had three bridesmaids. My sister was Matron of honor. Our marriage is even registered at the Hall of Records.”
“I am so happy for you. How was it arranged?”
“The priest is also an androgene. As for the registration, John is a well-connected. So he made me an
honest woman at last!” she said with a wry smile.
I leaned across and hugged her to my bosom. “I am so happy for you!”
“Thank you Nancy. I feel a true friend in you.”
“I feel the same.”
“I should see you back to your hotel. Here is my card, should you wish to correspond.” It read “Paul Anderson, Confidential Secretary to John van de Graaf, Esq.”
I looked a bit puzzled, for I had come to regard Paula as fully a woman.
“Such is how the world knows us, dear. Usually I dress as you see me, but in business, I wear male garb.”
“I understand.”
I had a light repast at the hotel, and retired to the lady’s lounge, where worn copies of Godey’s Lady’s Book and Peterson’s Magazine were to be found laying on a sideboard. Finding nothing of interest in them, I climbed the stairs to my small chamber, made my ablutions and went to bed.
Attachment | Size |
---|---|
The New York and Harlem RR | 67.07 KB |
The next morning I rose with the sun, put on my new lavender dress, and went for a brisk walk. I passed a victualing-house where shop girls and men of business were breaking their fast. I asked a girl my age what she was eating.
She had her mouth full, but pointed to a sign: “Bagels and Lox … 5c.” “You order at the counter,” she mumbled.
I thanked her and ordered bagels, lox and coffee for only 8 cents! I was quite delighted and determined to dine so again.
After finishing, I took a stroll, gazing into the shops. An apothecary with a sign, “Cosmetics for Ladies and Gents,” drew my attention. I had seen many respectable city women with rosy cheeks and reddened lips – Caroline among them. Feeling adventurous, I desired to imitate them. A girl my age was arranging displays. Her presence ended my remaining hesitation. She explained how the effect was achieved, sold me lip balm and rouge, and helped me apply them. She cautioned that over-use would make me appear a fallen woman. Looking in a mirror, I fancied myself prettier, or at least more mature.
Hearing the clock strike 8:30, I hastened to the hotel and settled my account. They would hold my bag until I finished my business. I took a cab to the brownstone where Elder de Peyster’s sister resided and knocked just as the clock struck 9:00. A formally attired butler opened the door.
“Miss Nancy Winston to see Mrs. van der Leyden.”
“Follow me,” he said in an affected an English accent. Leading me to a parlor, he knocked, opened the door, and announced me.
“Thank you, O’Leary.”
I was shocked that Mrs. van der Leyden looked quite unwell – her eyes dark and sunken. She waited until the door closed, then beckoned me closer. “You are come from my brother?” she asked quietly.
“Yes, here is my letter of introduction,” I said, extracting it from my purse.
“No time for that. In what regiment did my brother’s man serve in the late war?”
“The 1st U. S. Dragoons, Company G, as I recall.”
“Good!” She relaxed ever so slightly. “You must take Alexander to Yonkers in all haste. He is in danger.”
“What?”
“The tale is too long to tell, but it is true. Are you willing?”
“Of course.”
She pulled the tassel of a broad brocade strip hanging from the ceiling. I heard a distant a bell tinkle. Meanwhile, she handed me a sealed document for her brother, which I put in my purse. “That makes my brother Alexander’s guardian.” A maid appeared.
“Prudence, would you bring Master Alexander to meet his new governess?”
“Yes, mistress.”
Turning again to me, she instructed: “Say you are taking him to the park. I will give you both scarlet capes. When no one can see, reverse then – they are lined in grey – and exit the park on the far side. Go to immediately to the depot. The hotel can send your baggage after you. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
At that moment Prudence reappeared with a reedy child in a brown velvet skirt and jacket, white cotton trousers with lace trim, silk stockings and a lace chemise. His head was covered in elaborate curls and his waist seemed unnaturally thin. He ran to his mother and exchanged earnest kisses and hugs.
“Here is my pretty boy now … Alexander, this is Miss Winston. She is to be your new governess. You are to obey her in all things, as you would me. Do you understand?”
“Yes, mummy. Good day, Miss Winston,” he said with a little curtsey.
“I have an idea. Miss Winston, why don’t you take Alexander to the park so that you two may come to be acquainted.”
“That would be delightful, but I fear that there is a chill in the air and my baggage is not to arrive until later.”
“You can wear my wrap! … Prudence, would you fetch the scarlet capes for Miss Winston and Master Alexander?”
“Yes, mistress.”
When we were alone again, she hugged Alexander hard, kissing him many times. “Remember, you must do whatever Miss Winston says. Promise?”
The child looked puzzled, but said “I promise mummy!”
Prudence reappeared and helped us with our capes.
“We’ll be back in about hour,” I said as Prudence escorted us to the door.
“See you then!” Mrs. van der Leyden called out.
I strolled at a leisurely pace, holding Alexander’s hand tightly. At the end of the block I looked back. No one was behind us. At the end of the next block, I saw a man in a grey suit 100 yards back. He kept pace with us as we entered the park. I took a curved path through a stand of high bushes.
“Alexander have you ever played hide and seek?”
“No, Miss Winston.”
“Let us do so now. These cloaks make us easy to find. Let us wear them inside out and hide.”
In a few moments the man in grey appeared. After a brief glance around, he hastened on.
“He is one of stepfather’s men,” whispered Alexander.
“He is the one we are hiding from.”
“Oh,” he said with trepidation.
I went back the way we came, then took another path out of the park. On the far side I whistled as Paula had. A cab stopped. As we entered I saw the man in grey some distance away looking up and down the street. In the city traffic it was impossible to see if anyone was following us, but there was no sign of our pursuer when I paid the cabbie.
As I purchased Alexander’s ticket, he asked, “Why are we going to Yonkers?”
“You are to live with your uncle, where I will take care of you, sweetie.”
“And mummy?”
“She will visit when she can.”
His eyes moistened, but he said nothing more.
Our train would not leave for forty minutes. I stopped in the telegraph office to send a message informing the Elder of the change in plan. Having done so, we went to a shop selling coffee and oly koeks, which some call “doughnuts” – though they taste nothing like nuts. We took a booth in the back from which I could see whomever passed. Alexander had never had an oly koek, and enjoyed two. After 10 minutes the man in grey looked in. I lifted my cup, obscuring my face. He passed on. My heart raced.
Alexander saw me become tense. “You look scared. What’s wrong?”
“The man from the park is here. I think he means to harm you, but there is no need to fear. I will take care of you.”
“What can you do? You’re only a girl!”
I pulled my hat pin out of my hair.
“Oh my. That would sure hurt!”
“Yes, it would – so do not fret,” I said with a confidence I did not feel.
We left the shop with just enough time to board our train. There were few people about and no sign of our pursuer. I held Alexander’s hand firmly as we hurried along. Midway down the platform, the man in grey stepped from behind a pillar and yanked Alexander from my grasp. Alexander resisted, giving me a chance to trip the man. He stumbled. While he was recovering his balance, I drove my pin through his arm, making him release Alexander. I pushed the lad behind me. The thug righted himself and pulled a knife. I did my fierce visage. It succeeded only to the point that he took a single step back to square off against me. In doing, so he stepped off the platform in front of an arriving train.
I looked around. No one had seen what transpired. The squeal of the train’s brakes covered any scream. Alexander, clinging to the back of my skirt, had missed the sickening scene.
“Where is the man?”
“He is gone.”
“Good! He really scared me.”
Alexander had a puddle about his feet, but his skirt was dry. Taking a last look, I saw the man’s knife on the edge of the platform and took it.
I sat in the back of the carriage where I could observe all. A woman and a girl about Alexander’s age sat several rows up – the girl fidgeting on the hard seat. Finally, she got up and wandered the aisle.
“Excuse me mam, but would your daughter would like to play with me?”
“Why don’t you ask.”
“Would you like to play? We could play Cupid’s Coming or Taboo.”
Alexander looked to me, perhaps hoping I would forbid him. “Go ahead, you could use some fun.”
With little choice, he said “Alright.”
The children took a seat a couple of rows up. Soon they were both giggling. The mother looked back.
When she saw me alone, she came back and introduced herself.
“Anne Cummings,” she said, extending her hand.
“Nancy Winston,” I said, taking it.
“That’s my daughter Peggy playing with your … Is the girl your sister? You look too young to be her mother.”
“No,” I laughed, “I am his governess.”
“Oh, excuse me. I am so sorry! I thought him a girl.”
“It is quite understandable. He has soft features, is not yet breeched and his mother likes him in curls.”
“I see. … I must say you look a little shaken.”
“We had quite a scare on the platform.”
“A scare?”
“Yes, we barely escaped from a ruffian.”
“Oh, dear! The police aren’t very diligent in pursuit of purse snatchers.”
“I wouldn’t know, as this is my first time in the city.”
“So, you are a governess? I’m a potter in White Plains. It was my husband’s trade, but since he passed, it’s mine. I’m returning from selling my wares.”
“A successful trip, I hope?”
“Yes, quite. When I return, I shall hire an apprentice.”
“If you have no one in mind, may I suggest you look at the Yonkers Asylum for Orphans, where you will find bright and willing girls.”
“Thank you, I will.”
We chatted on. Meanwhile, Peggy and Alexander were happily playing with her doll. As the train neared Yonkers, we exchanged addresses.
The Sergeant met us at the depot with the trap.
“Where is your baggage?”
“Left in Manhattan. I will tell you all, but first we need to visit the dry goods, as Master Alexander has had a mishap and needs dry trousers.”
“Of course,” he said smiling kindly at Alexander.
At the dry goods, I was surprised to find boys’ trousers in several sizes, shirts and even waistcoats, so I bought what was needed to dress him in a masculine manner.
On the way home, I told the Sergeant my tale.
“Show me your toad sticker – you know, your pin.”
I did.
“It takes real grit to face a knife with that.”
“I did not know of the knife.”
“Still, if you’re not a real Bill Newcome, I’ll be damned! … Oh shit! … Pardon my language, Miss.”
“Your language is but a pip to the rest of the day, Sergeant.”
“I s’pose it is at that!”
“Now, who is Bill Newcome?”
“A smooth-cheeked lad who soldiered with us in New Mexico. Turned out Bill’s given name was Elizabeth! … Then there was Sarah Bowman, the heroine of Fort Brown. I don’t care what they say ’bout her. She could stand her ground – just like you Miss!”
“Thank you,” I blushed.
“Put you in tongs, and you can fight along side me any day!”
“Tongs?”
“You know, trousers.”
“Oh.” I blushed more. It was the second time in 24 hours that someone suggested I wear trousers.
We rode in silence for a while. “I forgot to say, you look nice with a bit of color, Miss.”
“Thank you.” All I could do was blush that afternoon.
After a while, I said, “I almost forgot, I took the man’s knife.”
“May I see? … Hmm, ‘Sheffield.’ These are English made. A couple of lads in my company had them. If you press here, it folds to go it in your pocket – or purse … and if you press on the pen blade – like this – it springs open. Press again to unlock it to fold.”
“That is very cunning!”
“How did your attacker hold his knife? Close to his body or not?”
“Close to his body, pointing out – like this,” I illustrated.
“Then he knew what he was doing. That is the best – most dangerous – way. … Fold it and put it in your purse – spoils of war for you.”
I did.
Alexander was asleep when we got to the mansion. When the Sergeant handed him down, I saw the seat of his skirt was newly wet. He woke before we got to the door and blushed at his infantile state.
“Come along and I will take care of you.” I led him up to the nursery. He followed with apprehension, but relaxed when I placed him on the infant table. He was too long for it, but there was no other place to clean him. It would take an hour for Mrs. O’Grady to heat a bath. When I removed his chemise and skirt, I found him laced into a corset.
“Why do you wear a corset, Alexander?”
“Stepfather told me pretty boys need to be trained to the corset, Miss. So Miss Grundel, my last governess put me in one.”
“Pretty boys?”
“Yes, step says I am a pretty boy, or sometimes a gal-boy.”
“And are you a pretty boy or gal-boy?”
“I must be. Miss Grundel always said how pretty I was. Even mother says I am pretty.”
He was indeed prettier than most girls his age. “We will take you out of your corset while I consider your case.”
“Thank you Miss, it is awfully tight.”
Once he was undressed, I was sorely distressed to find his derriere criss-crossed with bruises, red welts and blood blisters.
“Who treated you so?”
“Miss Grundel gave me ten of the cane whenever I did not hold my water. Since I wet twice, I would have twenty by now.”
“I will not do that – I promise. Wet day or night, I will not cane you.”
“Thank you ever so much Miss,” he said – his eyes moist with grateful tears.
I anointed his nethers with mixture of rose oil and tincture of laudanum.
“What are you doing, Miss?”
“Doesn’t that smell and feel nice?”
“Yes,” he blushed, confirming in words what was evident from his petite appendage. “But why are you doing it?”
“To help heal you and prevent a rash from wet napkins.”
“Napkins! I’m not a baby, Miss.” He started crying.
“Are not napkins better than canings?”
“I suppose,” he sniffled.
“When you no longer need them, you will no longer wear them. For now, you are my baby. No one will mock you. Do you trust me?”
“Yes Miss.”
I finished pinning him. “Now that feels nice, does it not?”
“Yes, Miss,” he said in a small voice. His appendage had only grown harder.
“Good. You have no night clothes, so you can wear one of my chemises. Then no one will see your napkins but me.”
“Thank you, Miss.”
“There is no proper bed for you. Can you curl up in the crib for now?”
He did so without complaint. A few minutes later, he was sleeping with a thumb in his mouth and his other hand on his napkins.
I gave Constance his soiled clothes to be laundered, then knocked at the library door. Karl and the Sergeant were conversing within.
“Nancy? Come in. … I am ever in your debt – and ever so sorry! If I had known the danger, I never would have allowed you to go. Sending you alone was unforgivable!”
“They say, ‘all is well that ends well.’”
“I fear it my not have ended. I owe you a complete explanation. Please sit. … I have reason to believe that Alexander’s stepfather plans to do away with both him and my sister Emily, but I have been unable to convince her of this. She trusts her husband and believes only that he finds Alexander an embarrassment. Her actions today may indicate that she is coming to accept my suspicions.”
“Pardon me, she also gave me this document for you.”
He broke the seal and read it. “This is most helpful. It may even save Emily’s life! ... It makes me Alexander’s legal guardian and … I must tell you more so that you understand. Our father set up trusts for Emily and me. Under Emily’s trust, if she dies, her money passes to Alexander, not his stepfather. Van der Leyden only inherits if both she and Alexander die before the boy comes of age.”
“I see. So that is why the man in grey pursued us and tried to take Alexander?”
“That is my theory, and if it is so, the danger to Alexander continues.”
“Will van der Leyden not try to kill your sister?”
“Making me Alexander’s guardian lessens her peril. The trust provides her with a stipend upon which van der Leyden depends. Now that I am Alexander’s guardian, if Emily dies, her allowance would come to me for the boy’s benefit.
“That brings me back to you. Being Alexander’s governess has placed you in mortal danger. I release you from all obligation. I will give you six months wages and an excellent reference. I may even be able to find you a new position.”
“Karl, I am not one to run and hide. Alexander needs my care. His last governess beat him mercilessly. I have given him my pledge it will not happen again!”
“I told you she was a real Bill Newcome,” volunteered the Sergeant.
“Yes. ... I see. Then you may stay. … Still, I must consider how to provide for your safety,” he added reflectively.
“Thank you.”
“Now tell me all that transpired since you arrived at my sister’s home.”
I repeated my story to him. When I finished, I broached a new subject.
“Alexander was being trained to the corset. When I asked him about it, he said it is because he is a pretty boy or a gal-boy, but I do not know if that is his nature or it has been forced upon him. I would like to discover his true nature, and rear him accordingly – whether he be masculine or epicene. Do you have any instructions in this matter?”
“Nancy, I know nothing of these things. In retaining you, I placed my trust in you. Raise him as you think most conducive to his happiness. I give you a free hand.”
“Thank you, Karl.”
Before retiring, I checked Alexander and found him shivering in wet napkins. “Are you cold?”
“Yes, and scared and hungry, Miss.”
I changed his napkins and gave him my last chemise.
“Feel better?”
“Yes, but I’m still scared. I dreamed that man was hurting me. Why did he grab me?”
“It is a long story, but you are not to worry. I know how to take care of little boys. Would you like to sleep with me?”
“Ever so much, Miss!”
I put him in my bed, and crawled in next to him in my chemise. The poor thing was sucking his thumb, shaking with fear. I opened my chemise. His eyes went wide.
“My teat is ever so much nicer than a thumb.”
He soon latched on. We both slept well.
I woke with the sun. Alexander’s napkins were still dry. I roused him and put him on the chamber pot before he could embarrass himself again.
“I am very proud of you for keeping your napkins dry. You deserve a reward.” I opened my chemise.
“Come and get it, then.”
He blushed furiously but came straight to me.
I put him next to me and guided him to my teat. I sang to him quietly as he nursed.
When he finished, I asked, “Do you feel scared this morning?”
“Not with you, Miss.”
“Good. I think one reason you soil yourself is that you have been scared. Is that not so?”
“Yes, Miss.”
“Would you like to tell me what scared you, sweetie?”
“Well, of being caned – but not just that. Miss Grundel and step did other things too. I did not like them.”
“What else did they do?”
“She told the children at the park I could not hold my water at night, so they laughed at me. She gave me horrid medicine to make me sleep. It made my feel all funny and sick. Last week I woke up cold and wet. Step was on top of her. Her dress was up and they were making animal sounds. When I told mummy, she discharged Miss Grundel. Later, stepfather caned me. Monday he said since I had Miss Grundel sent away, I should do her service. He started undoing his trousers when mother came in. Then he stopped.”
“I see,” I said in a state of shock. “… I need to ask you another question. You said you are a ‘pretty boy.’ Do you want to be pretty?”
“Oh yes, Miss. People like you better if you are pretty – except street boys – they call me names.”
“I am sorry they do. Did you mind being thought a girl yesterday on the train?”
“No, Peggy was nice and meant no harm.”
“I mean, would you be a girl if you could?”
“Step said I am a gal-boy. Is that what you mean?”
I was making no progress. I thought of taking him to the dream world, but he might take my questions as suggestions. So, at an impasse, I changed the subject. “Your clothes from yesterday are not yet dry. I bought you new clothes at the dry goods, but I need to know if you sometimes can not hold your water during the day?”
He looked at the napkins under the infant table. “No, Miss – just when I am scared. Please, I do not need napkins during the day.”
“Very well, but if you get ‘scared’ too often, you will be wearing napkins until you can hold your water.”
“Yes, Miss.”
After I dressed him, he complained, “These clothes are rough, Miss. I like my silkies better.”
“Most boys dress as you as you are now. If you do not want other boys to round on you, you should dress so. If you want to dress as a girl, I can get you chemises and skirts. Which would you prefer?”
“Boys should dress as boys, but silkies feel nicer and look prettier.”
After breakfast, Karl said he would teach Alexander chess. I was to receive instruction from the Sergeant for my safety. Unsure what the Sergeant would teach me, but always anxious to improve myself, I followed him.
Opening a drawer in the entry hall, he withdrew an enormous gun. “This is a revolver, Miss – a Colt Walker. See here? There are six charges in this cylinder, so it can be fired six times without being recharged. You need to know how to use it.”
“What!?”
“Yes. That is what the Capt’n decided. As you saw yesterday, the danger is real. Of course, this is my pistol, and if something happens, I will be the one to use it. Still, if one falls, another must come behind. It may come to you, Miss. Come outside, and I’ll show you the drill.”
We walked some distance to a row of bottles sitting on a log. The pistol was as heavy as it looked. Four and a half pounds – a horse pistol, not a side arm – the Sergeant explained. Patiently, the Sergeant showed me how to hold, cock, and fire it. I was to hold it with two hands, line the sights up with the target, and slowly squeeze the trigger. On my first try, I hit just below the bottle I was aiming at. The ball went clear through the log – it was a foot thick, at least – but the main effect was I was knocked on my rear. My shoulders ached and my arms reverberated, but I did not complain.
The Sergeant laughed heartily. “I should have warned you to brace yourself.” He helped me up. “Here, try getting down on one knee.”
I did.
“You shot low because you yanked the trigger. Just squeeze it gently,”
I did. This time the bottle burst into hundreds of shards without me ending on my seat. Still, my arms and shoulders fared no better.
“That’s wonderful, Miss – better than most troopers their first day. I’m sure you’ll only improve.”
“I would, if my arms could take more, but I fear they can’t!” I said, rising. My hand was also bruised.
“Look, your dress is muddied! I should have put more thought into it, Miss. I’m sorry. Let’s call it a day.”
Back at the mansion, Constance promised to do her best to get the stains out of my dress. I apologized for the extra work I caused her.
After lunch I took Alexander to town, ordered a new bed, and bought him another shirt and trousers. I spent the rest of the day starting him on French.
That night, put the horror at the station returned to haunt me. The best way to get it out of my mind was to think of Caroline Bloome. I could imagine no one more beautiful. What kind of friendship did she desire? What kind did I? The prospect meeting her again filled me with a physical excitement I had not experienced before. I found my hand exploring my womanhood. In this state I wrote her, saying I would be at the Waverly House Lady’s Dinning Saloon Saturday at noon, and would be pleased to have her as my guest.
In the morning, the Sergeant was gone, and the Elder quite busy. When I had my pistol lesson the day before, I had observed wild berries in season. Alexander and I spent the morning gathering (and eating) them. He appreciated his sturdy tongs as a ward against the thorny canes. I wished I were similarly clad as my dress snagged repeatedly.
That Friday, I completed my sixteenth year. Having left the Asylum and obtained a position, my dreams for the day were already fulfilled. I was very surprised when Mary brought out a cake, and all sang in honor of my birthday. Karl led us into the library, and presented me with a silver comb, mirror and brush set in remembrance of my birth. I could not help but cry. (Some Bill Newcome!) The Sergeant presented me with tongs and a shirt so that I need not soil my dress when my lessons resumed, and Alexander gave me a bouquet he had picked himself. Karl also indicated a polished wooden box on the mantle I was to receive later.
We spent most of the day in celebration. Karl astonished me by playing airs on the pianoforte. I learned several new songs and was complimented on my dramatic contralto – very rare among women, according to him. Also, I had my first wine – a delicious Madeira. Being a novice, I drank more than I should, and became lightheaded and silly, but no one criticized.
After dinner, I was recovered. I put Alexander in his napkins and laid him in the crib. When I returned downstairs, Karl and the Sergeant were in the library, sipping brandy and smoking cigars. They poured me a taste, but did not offer me a cigar (nor did I want one – for they smelled foul indeed).
“Nancy, the Sergeant told me how well you did with the Colt Walker, but that it was not proportioned to your strength.”
I nodded in silence.
“Yesterday, I sent him to Manhattan to find something more effective than a hat pin to defend yourself – and Alexander – with. In this box is a Colt Patterson pocket revolver. It is .28 caliber instead of .44 – giving it much less kick than the Sergeant’s Walker. Also, its barrel is only an inch and a half, so you can carry it in your purse. Once you learn to use it, I want you to carry it whenever you are out with Alexander until we are sure the danger has passed.
”
“Of course.” I looked in the box. In addition to the pistol, there were many accessories. Most I was not yet familiar with. One, however, was an extra five shot cylinder.
The next day was Saturday. Constance agreed to mind Alexander in my absence. I said I needed to go to Manhattan to get the dresses I had ordered.
The Sergeant was kind enough to take me to the depot. Before we left he showed me how to harness Becky, and, on the way, how to drive the trap. He sat by me, but his closeness was not displeasing, for he was a perfect gentleman. In fact, I quite enjoyed it.
Having made the train journey before, I arrived without incident. At Mrs. O’Malley’s shop I tried my new dresses. The work was exquisite, so I added a generous gratuity. She was quite grateful, and called Molly, a homely girl, from the back to receive my compliments. Then she gave Molly the whole gratuity. I quite was pleased at this liberality, and pledged my future custom to her shop. I left in my new Sunday dress – violet cotton with lace accents. I arranged to have the rest delivered, as the boxes were quite bulky.
As noon was approaching, I walked to Waverly House. A stand in the lobby displayed a weekly broadsheet headlined “Man Dies Under Locomotive.” I paid my penny and read an account of Tuesday’s events. Other than a man in a grey suit being killed, the story bore little relation to reality. It suggested suicide and embellished the scene with the screams of horrified on-lookers. Since no one had claimed his body, my assailant was buried in a pauper’s grave – without benefit of clergy. I must admit to enjoying the image this conjured of him roasting in hell.
Just before noon told, Caroline entered the lady’s lounge and beamed a smile at me. We joined in a warm embrace, then retired to the lady’s dining saloon. A gratuity to the hostess ensured a quiet table overlooking an indoor garden. Caroline viewed me with evident admiration.
“What a lovely spot for luncheon, Nancy. I have only eaten in victualing houses open to the street. Have you eaten here before?”
“Yes, I dined here last Monday. The prices are extravagant, but I thought you might enjoy it. Consider it a celebration. I have a new position, and the anniversary of my birth was yesterday.”
“Congratulations on both counts! May I ask of how many years you are?”
“Yes, I am 16.”
“Really? I am 18, but admire you as a woman of strength and maturity.”
“That is very kind.”
She was about to go on when the serving maid asked our order. Caroline looked at me in some puzzlement, so I ordered for both of us: salads, cold mutton and parsley potatoes, and, by way of celebration, two glasses of Madeira.
When the maid left, Caroline whispered, “What is Madeira?”
“A lovely wine. I had some yesterday to celebrate the anniversary of my birth. You will enjoy it.”
“Wine? I never had wine. Being with you is such an adventure, Nancy!” She paused. I could see timid reluctance in her eyes. “I want to begin our friendship in honesty. I am of low birth. I would understand if a governess, such as yourself, would rather not associate with me.”
“There is no need for that. I like you as you stand.”
“Still, you must hear me out.”
“Of course.”
“I am the natural daughter of a banker and a maid of his household. My father has always shown mother and me kindness, but has not acknowledged me. Still, when I came of age, he secured me a position as companion to Mrs. Sarah Wells, a widow of advanced years.”
“I care not about your birth! I am orphan, and while my parents were wed, many I called ‘friend’ were foundlings.” I embraced her as a sign of acceptance.
She returned my embrace with affection. “Thank you!” Spontaneously, she kissed me soundly on the lips.
When we were recovered, she said “Tell me of your new position, and of your previous occupation.”
I told her of briefly of my family and orphaning, of my service as a nurse at the Asylum, and of being retained as a governess – ending that I began my new occupation the very day we met.
Caroline wanted to know more, and asked about my first week. I had received little attention until recently, so her interest was gratifying. As I recounted my tale she was gripped with concern and peppered me with interjections of anxiety and admiration.
“May I see your armory?”
“My armory?”
“Yes, your hat pin and knife.”
“Oh, here is my pin, … and my knife.” I pushed the pen blade and the stiletto sprang open with a click.
“Oh my! The man in grey threatened you with that?”
“Yes.”
“You are truly amazing Nancy! I would feel safe with you anywhere.” Her eyes were filled with esteem.
I chose not to mention my new Colt, fearing it would test her credulity.
We dined well and enjoyed our wine (though I found it inferior to that Karl had given me). When we finished our mutton and potatoes, the attendant asked if we desired a dessert. She supplied each of us with a card listing Ice Cream, Sherbets, and Roman Punch made by the chef d’ cuisine – who claimed to be from Paris.
They were terribly expensive, and Caroline urged me to decline. I wanted to impress her, so I ordered Roman Punch – having no idea what it was. The maid brought us goblets containing a dollop of toasted meringue floating on a golden elixir of lemonade, orange juice, Champagne and rum. We were both quite silly when we finished.
We left arm in arm. Caroline had a strange, languid look in her eyes and urged me to accompany her to her rooms – where she assured me we would have the utmost privacy. Despite a feeling that I was behaving unnaturally, I was drawn to her, and about to agree when I realized that the last train to Yonkers would leave in thirty minutes. Caroline was devastated that I declined. She pulled me into the doorway of a shuttered shop, pulled my lips down to meet hers, and gave me such a kiss as I had never experienced – pressing her body into mine and invading my mouth with her tongue. My breathless excitement made departing all the more difficult. Still, I pulled away, promising to spend more time with her the following week. My voice was unexpectedly hoarse.
As I hurried to the horsecar stop, I received bemused stares from passersby. My reflection in a shop window revealed the reason – my face was smeared with red lip balm.
The Madeira and Roman Punch had their final effect on the ride back to Yonkers. I fell asleep and would have missed Yonkers had the conductor not woken me. My turbulent dreams had been filled with images of Caroline and me, some in a state of undress. Thus, my face was flushed as I alighted.
The faithful Sergeant was there with the trap. “I must say, Miss, you are so flush that, did I not know better, I would swear you were returning to camp after a spin with a doxie.”
“I fell asleep on the train – besides I do not have the equipment for it, Sergeant!”
He chuckled, but continued to gaze at me, finally picking a golden hair from the shoulder of my dress.
“And here is the proof!” he said jovially.
I blushed. “I dined with a new friend. … Sergeant, you are such a tease!” I was ever so glad I had repaired my lip balm.
“I meant no disrespect, Miss Nancy. It is just how it struck me. I had a couple of pints while I was waiting.
I should o’ kept my yap shut.”
“I am not offended, Sergeant – after all, we are comrades in arms,” I said lightly.
“Yes, good ones,” he said embracing me with one arm as he drove.
When I returned, Constance told me Alexander had been quite anxious at my absence – to the point of wetting himself. Having soiled himself twice, he ended the day in napkins. I was sad to hear this, and resolved to keep him from services the next day to avoid any public embarrassment. Since the O’Gradies attended Sunday Mass at 6:30, Mary volunteered to mind Alexander while the rest of us attended Protestant services at 9:00.
As the Minister droned on, I spotted Miss Wright amongst the congregation. After services, I called out, “Miss Wright!”
“Hello, Nancy. Now that we are of equal station, please call me ‘Jane,’ dear. By the way, that is a fetching dress!”
“Thank you, … Jane. I had it made and picked it up in Manhattan yesterday. May I walk with you?”
“Of course, my dear. I am anxious to hear your news.”
“And I am anxious to relate it – and have your opinion.”
“The apples are in bloom. Shall we stroll by the orchards?”
“I can think of no better place.” We would be guaranteed privacy there.
I wanted neither to boast nor to raise her anxiety, so I made no mention of my harrowing encounter. I did say that Alexander was believed to be in danger and the Sergeant was training me to arms.
“Good for you! I always thought you a new model female, Nancy. I am glad my efforts to liberate you from the constraints of tradition have succeeded.”
“Thank you Jane, but I seek your advice rather than your praise.”
“How may I advise you?”
“Miss … Jane, from what you taught about relations with men – and women – I suspect you are a woman of experience … I hope my presumption does not offend you.”
“It does not as long as you do not bandy it about.”
“I would never do so. I am about to share a secret that will seal my silence.”
“Yes?”
I told her of meeting Caroline, my luncheon with her, and most especially of the excitement and confusion that she roused in me.
“Nancy, when you were at the Asylum you showed no interest in boys – aside from Little Edward. So, I have long suspected that your affections were inclined toward the fairer sex.”
“Oh!” I blushed. “Surely that is unnatural?”
“Think as I taught you, dear. God gave you your nature, whatever it may be. How can your nature be unnatural? The very idea is an oxymoron!”
“You are right … yet such affections are said to be unnatural.”
“Yes, by people who do not share them. I think you know that the opinions of society are no sure guide to virtue.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Many consider relations between women to be more spiritual than those between men and women.”
“I see. … Thank you, Miss … Jane.”
“You are welcome, Nancy.”
We strolled on in silence for a while. As we did so, I saw Constance with the blacksmith’s boy, hurrying off into the orchid. Jane had not seen them, and I said nothing. We walked on.
“I must pause. It is my time and I am having cramps.” We sat on a fallen log.
“I am so sorry, you should have told me.” I looked in my purse. “Here is a bit of witchery that may help.” I handed her a packet. “A tea of willow bark can ease pain. If you chew a bit and sit a while, you will feel better.”
“Thank you, Nancy.” After a while her countenance relaxed. “You are a wonder, Nancy. Thank you ever so much.”
“You are welcome, dear. In my room, I have a potion that helps with monthlies. I will bring some later and instruct you in its use.”
“Wherever did you learn these things?”
I revealed my apprenticeship under Agnes as we strolled back to the Asylum. There we said our goodbyes.
“Nancy, you are a very surprising young woman. It is well that you are discreet about your witchery, for many prefer ignorance to the benefit of mankind.”
That night I wrote to Caroline, praising her beauty, looking forward to our next visit, and expressing the hope of exploring our mutual affection in the privacy of her rooms. My flesh grew flush and my heart quickened as I wrote.
One of my joys was spending time in Karl’s well-stocked library. On Sundays after services and when Alexander was in his bed, I retired to the library. I particularly liked books on travel and natural history. I read the Lewis and Clark’s Journals, Irving’s A Tour on the Prairies, and Dickens’s American Notes – all imagining myself as one of the adventurers. I was appalled by Dickens’s first-hand account of slavery in the South, and recalled that it was only twenty years since the last stave was freed in New York.
In natural history, I enjoyed the colorful plates of Audubon’s The Birds of America, but was also able to make way through Cuvier’s Théorie de la terre, which improved my French, and Lyell’s Principles of Geology. Both seemed convincing, so I was unable to decide between visions of past catastrophes and the slow, monotonous grinding of time. Perhaps there is merit in both views. Of course, Karl had read both Cuvier and Lyell, and they provided fodder for amiable and animated discussions well into the evening.
The Sergeant was a bit put off when we retreated to our “ivory tower,” but Karl and I grew in mutual admiration and fondness – he surprised at my understanding, and I at the breadth of his interests and depth of his knowledge. I was reminded of the conversations on natural history my brother and I had with my father.
In the following days, the Sergeant instructed me on my Colt. The kick of my Patterson was quite tolerable compared to the Sergeant’s horse pistol. Besides marksmanship, I learned to cast balls, to load and cap the chambers, and to change the cylinders blindfolded – no easy task as it involved disassembling and reassembling the pistol. I drilled on this until could do it in 29 seconds. I would have thought this pure foolishness if the man in grey did not still haunt my dreams.
Once I was proficient, I carried my revolver, extra cylinder, and changing key everywhere in my purse. Meanwhile, the Sergeant continued to school me in self-defense.
I wore my tongs and shirt for these exercises and put my hair up, out of the way. In the beginning, I wore my dress to breakfast, then changed into tongs, but Karl and the Sergeant convinced me this was foolish. So, I dressed in tongs on rising, and put on my dress to give Alexander his lessons. This seemed to confuse him.
“Miss, why are you a man in the morning?”
“I am not a man in the morning, I just dress like a man for my lessons with the Sergeant – I am still a woman underneath.”
“So, women can dress like men?”
“Well, many would say we should not, but yes, we can.”
“So, can boys dress like girls?”
“Again, many would say they should not, but yes they can – and some do.”
He did not carry the conversation further. I did not to press him, but left him to his reflections.
Frequently, I took Alexander on an outing – to the square to play with other children or along Hudson to commune with nature. In town, he generally played graces and hop scotch with the girls. I tried teaching him to play ball so he could play with the boys, but he could not catch or hit for the life of him. The very ball seemed to scare him – just as it did Little Edward.
One day the boys particularly rounded on him. The girls defended him, saying “Stop teasing Sandy! She’s a tomboy in her brother’s old clothes – that’s all.”
Walking back to the house, he asked, “What kind of boy is a tomboy, Miss?”
“No kind of boy at all – rather a girl that dresses or acts like a boy.”
“Oh,” he blushed.
“The town girls are not the first to take you for a girl. Peggy on the train did as well. Maybe if I cut your curls, you would not be taken for a girl.”
He looked up at me in horror. “Mummy said my curls are so pretty, Miss. I don’t want to lose them!”
“Yes, they are a most becoming frame for your face. We could go the other way.”
“‘The other way,’ Miss?”
“Yes, since the girls think you a lass, the boys would not round on you if you wore a dress. Would you like one? You have already worn a skirt, a corset and my chemises.”
It was hard to interpret his expression – perhaps a mixture of excitement and fear.
“Well?”
“I don’t know, Miss.”
While not an affirmation, this was far from an objection. “I will let you think about it.”
“Uncle Karl would be mad.”
“I assure you, he would not be.”
“Also, the seamstress will laugh at me.”
“I could make you a dress.”
“What color would it be?” These were not words of reluctance.
“You could choose. We could go to the dry goods, and you could pick a fabric for your dress.”
“I don’t know, Miss.”
“Well, just remember: you would have far less trouble with the town boys if they thought you a girl.”
That night I wrote to Paula, telling her what happened and asking her advice.
Thursday, I received reply from Caroline. She would meet the train Saturday morning and show me to her rooms, where she promised to provide luncheon.
Paula’s response came the next morning. She approved my methods and progress, saying that it is hard for epicene boys to admit they prefer dresses, and it is a kindness to “make them” be more feminine. She also offered suggestions to lessen Alexander’s embarrassment at acknowledging his nature – among them that he receive a feminine name. As the girls already thought him a “Sandy,” I decided to see how he would respond to being called “Alexandria.”
“Alexandria, let’s go into town and pick out a fabric for your dress.”
“For my dress?” He did not balk at the femininization of his name.
“Yes, as we discussed. Then I can make you pretty one. You would like that, wouldn’t you?”
He said nothing, but his face grew flush.
“Come along, then – before the day grows warm.”
We walked in silence, which was unusual for the boy, who was usually full of chatter and questions. When we got to the cottages marking the edge of town, he stopped.
“People will laugh at me.”
“Why?”
“Because boys don’t wear the same kind of cloth as girls.”
“I have the cure for that.” I took a blue ribbon out of my bag and tied a bow in his hair.
He raised a hand to feel it.
“Now there is no doubt that you are a tom boy.”
His body relaxed a bit, and he smiled slightly.
“But, I am a boy.” He said quietly.
“That is only a tiny part of you. What is more important – your body or your soul?”
“My soul.”
“And do you have a boy’s soul of or a girl’s?”
“A girl’s.”
“Finally! So, let’s forget all the nonsense and dress you as you should be.”
She smiled broadly.
That afternoon, I put Sandy back in her corset, lacing it snugly, but not tightly, and measured her for her first dress – in a style she had found in Peterson’s Magazine.
I was already abed Wednesday, when I heard a faint knock on my door. I turned up my lamp, opened the door, and found Constance in an agitated state.
“Constance, what is wrong, dear?”
“Oh, Miss! I don’t know what to do. I can’t talk to mother, she’d kill me!”
“Kill you? What ever for?”
“I’ve miss my monthlies twice now.” Tears were streaming down her face. “I must be with child.” She broke into loud sobs that would surely rouse the household.
“Come in,” I said, grabbing her by the arm and quickly shutting the door. “You must control yourself or you will wake everyone.”
“You’re … right.” Her breath was catching with muffled sobs.
“What can I do for you?”
“I … I don’t know. I just needed to talk to someone. I don’t know what to do.”
“I assume the father is Liam Pendergast, the blacksmith’s apprentice?”
“Yes. … How did you know?”
“I saw you going into the apple orchard together.”
“Oh. … Yes, he’s the only one I’ve been with.”
“Well, I could have told you how to avoid getting with child, but it is too late now. … So, have you told him?”
“No, I have been scared.”
“Well, you must. Do you think he will marry you?”
“Oh, yes! We talk of it all the time. He has finished his apprenticeship, but needs $100 for tools to set up on his own. Until he does he can't support a wife. He's only saved $47, and I $16.”
“Hmm … I do not have anywhere near enough to make up the difference, Constance.”
“I wasn’t asking …”
“I know. … Let me think. … When I was waiting for the train, I saw a notice nailed to the station. They are looking for a blacksmith at the railway shops in White Planes. The position may still be open. Maybe you could tell him?”
“Thank you, miss.”
“In the meantime, you must tell your mother. She was your age once and will understand.”
“I don’t know …”
“Be a brave girl.”
“Alright, I will.”
Saturday, I returned to Manhattan – flush in anticipation of my rendezvous. Caroline awaited me on the platform, not far from where I had faced the man in grey. We greeted each other with a warm embrace – not unusual for two women.
It was a fine Spring day. So we opted to walk rather than take the horsecar. Near where we first met, we turned onto a side street. A few doors down we ascended the stoop of a modest townhouse. Caroline used her key to enter, and led me to the parlor. I was introduced to Mrs. Wells, a woman in her seventies and perspicuously hard of hearing. Then we ascended to Caroline’s chambers – a small sitting room and a smaller bedroom.
“Oh Nancy, I’ve wanted to be alone with you since I first saw you on the omnibus,” she said as we sat on a small settee. Soon she was across my lap, teaching me to kiss as the French do. I had the most delicious feelings – first in my bosom as she caressed me and then in my nether region. As a result, my milk came down and, for fear of staining my dress, I took my bodice down,
“Oh my, you have milk! May I taste it?”
I guided my teat to her moist lips. Soon, she fell into the role of infant, calling me “mommy.” I felt drawn to the maternal role, just as I had been with Edward and Alexander – but now my maternal feelings were accompanied by a lascivious excitement. As Caroline tongued and nibbled my teat, she changed positions. Soon, her hand made its way under my skirt – progressing up between my thighs. Suddenly, I was convulsed with waves of pleasure such as I had never felt. I cried out uncontrollably as my body arched in spasms of ecstasy. Caroline looked up in seeming gratitude at my response.
When I recovered, I apologized in embarrassment for my outcry.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Wells can’t hear a thing, and I have heard far louder cries from the neighbors – especially from Mrs. Johnson when her husband is absent and her gentleman caller has come.
“Now, it’s my turn. I have not yet come to ecstasy …”
“What must I do?”
She led me to her bed. I followed, anxious to return the pleasure I had experienced. There she schooled me in feminine intimacy.
When we finished, we were both exhausted – and famished. We dressed and descended to the kitchen. As we passed the parlor, Mrs. Wells asked if I was enjoying my visit. When I responded, “Yes. Very much,” she winked. I became crimson with embarrassment.
“She knows. I thought you said she could not hear?”
“She can’t, but she is a woman of the world, Nancy.”
Over a luncheon of cold chicken, bread and cheese, we each discussed our week. When I told her of my wearing tongs, she became newly animated.
“Could you dress-up for me?”
“What do you mean? My tongs are in Yonkers.”
“Oh, that is no problem. Mrs. Wells has asked me to dispose of her late husband’s wardrobe, but I am yet to do so. Shall we see if his things fit you?”
They fit surprisingly well, except over my bosom, which spread the shirt buttons in an unseemly fashion.
Caroline corrected this by binding me with a length of flannel. Once I donned a waistcoat and jacket, I looked every bit a man from the neck down. Next she removed of my lip balm and rouge, rearranged my hair and covered it with a felt hat. Finally, she took a snippet of my hair and fashioned a thin moustache and goatee with the aid of gum. I was stunned by the young man staring back from her glass.
Caroline was quite taken with the new me, and I played the role of a seductive beau for some time – a role I found strangely natural and satisfying. Alas, neither of us had attended to the tolling of the hours. When I finally did, there was insufficient time for me to both return to my womanly persona and catch the train. In a panic, Caroline put my feminine attire in a shopping bag while I transferred the contents of my purse to Mr. Wells’ shoulder bag.
As I left the house, Mrs. Wells said, “Well, if you’re not the man about town! Caroline is going to have a severe scolding for entertaining a gentleman in her rooms!” Then, she doubled over laughing.
I could only blush and hurry out the door – carrying the shopping bag and wondering where I could change back into a woman. At the station the conveniences were clearly labeled “Gentlemen” and “Ladies.” Neither would serve my purpose. I reflected that the WC on the train was open to both sexes and determined to make my metamorphosis there.
As before, I sat in the last row of the rail carriage – this time not to observe, but to escape observation. Unfortunately, a man in a cheap suit sat beside me, foiling my plan. He was a most unpleasant gentleman – unshaven and reeking in both body and breath. I opened the window even though the air was far from warm and cinders would rain upon me.
Once the train started, he turned to me. “Where ya goin’?
“Yonkers.”
“Me too – never been there. You know a hotel?”
“There is a tavern with rooms across from the station. I hear the rates are good and the food passable,” I said without turning towards him.
He seemed to be waiting for me to continue the conversation. Instead, I retrieved a copy of Irving’s The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon the Sergeant had lent me and started reading.
After a few minutes, he said, “Funny you being from Yonkers, I’m going there to look for my little cousin. Maybe you have seen him? Here’s his likeness.” He passed me a daguerreotype of Alexander.
I hoped he did not notice my initial shock. I composed myself and studied the image for a while. “Ah, yes. I recall the lad. Rumor is he and his governess went to Boston a couple of weeks back.”
“That’s hard to believe. I’s told he was stayin’ with his uncle, just outside of town.”
“I would not know. It was just something I heard.”
He grunted.
I sat silent a while, pretending to read while my heart pounded and my mind raced. I wished I could bewitch this man as I had the man in grey. Then a thought occurred. I opened my shoulder bag and took out my dream stone.
“Since you were kind enough to share the image of your cousin with me, I thought you might like to see an interesting stone I have. See … if you hold it one way if looks like a face, while another way, it seems to be some kind of beast. Here, look closely – deep into the stone. Many feel quite relaxed as they look … even sleepy. I can see you are tired. Your eyes look heavy. You should close them …”
Shortly he was deep in the dream world.
“Why do you seek the boy?”
“I was sent to look for him.”
“Who sent you?”
“Clive van der Leyden.”
“And what are you to do if you find him?”
“Grab him if I can. If not, kill him.”
“And, if you can do neither?”
“Report what I have learned.”
“You will go straight to the tavern in Yonkers. You will ask no one about the boy. Tomorrow, you will take the noon train back to Manhattan and say that you could not find the boy in Yonkers, but several people told you he and his governess went to Boston.”
I thought for a while. The story was too vague. “You will say you talked to a man on the train, the station master, the postmaster and the innkeeper. All agreed that the boy had gone to Boston. Say also that you spied the house and saw no sign of the child. … Now tell me what you will report.”
He did. It seemed credible. I had one more thought. “Give me the daguerreotype. You will not notice it is gone until you are on your way back. Then you will think it lost.” I woke him with the usual good feelings just as we were pulling into the station..
“You better wake up, we are at Yonkers.”
“Oh, thank you. I must have dozed off.”
“You are quite welcome.”
It was only when I stepped off the train and saw the Sergeant that I realized that I was still dressed as a man. There was nothing to do but make a joke of it. I walked up to him. He was looking past me for my feminine self. “Excuse me sir, could you direct me to a hotel?” I said in a deep voice.
“Try the tavern over there,” he said, pointing, while still scanning the platform.
“Thank you.”
“Say, you did not see a husky young lady with brown hair on the train?”
“No, but let me introduce myself. Bill Newcome is the name,” I said extending my hand.
He looked at me, then did a double take. “What the shit!? Miss Nancy!?”
We shook hands and both roared with laughter.
“I’ll be damned. I looked right past you. You pulled a good one!” he said, putting an arm around my shoulder as he shook in a hearty laugh. “Please excuse the barracks language, I had a few pints while waiting.”
“And I am not exactly a lady today.”
On the ride back, the Sergeant asked, “Where’d you get the duds for your gag?”
“’Duds’?”
“You know, clothes.”
“Oh, from my friend Caroline. She is the companion of a widow. These belonged to the lady’s late husband.”
“Well, they fit you good! … And the moustache and beard – how’d you do that?”
“Caroline used a lock of my hair and a bit of gum.”
“Well, you sure had me fooled!”
“I’ll change back as soon as we get to the house.”
“No, you mustn’t. We’ve got to let the Capt’n see!”
When we got home, the Sergeant announced that he’d met an old friend at the station – Bill Newcome. When I walked in, Karl looked completely puzzled. I looked nothing like Bill Newcome, but Karl could not figure out who I was.
Finally he said, “Nancy? Is that you?”
“Yes, Karl, I am afraid it is.”
We all had another laugh. Then I changed the subject.
“I have something terribly important to report.”
Since I was dressed like a man, Karl insisted that we all discuss my report over brandy. This time I received a full snifter, rather than a taste. I recounted my encounter with the man on the train. When I told of bringing him into the dream world, they seemed incredulous. "I assure you, I am telling the unvarnished truth."
"I believe you are speaking in earnest," said Karl. "Give me a moment to think. ... I recall reading something that may be related to your ‘dream world.’ Franz Mesmer, a German physician, did something like it. He called it ‘animal magnetism.’ More recently, James Braid, a Scot, called what Mesmer did ‘hypnosis.’ Nancy, I wonder if you might demonstrate it for us?”
“On whom?”
“On Constance, or perhaps Alexander?”
Thinking of her romp with the blacksmith’s apprentice and delicate condition, I said, “I would not want to intrude on Constance’s privacy. Alexander would be better.” This might be an opportunity to disclose her feminine constitution.
Shortly, Constance brought Alexander to the library.
"You're a man again, Miss ... Sir? ... with a moustache and beard!"
"It is just a bit of witchery. ... I will be a woman again later."
“Alexander, dear, I wonder if we could try a little experiment on you.”
“‘Experiment’?”
“Yes, a trial. I promise it will not hurt. When it is over, you will feel quite nice.”
“If you think it best, Miss.”
He entered the dream world faster than anyone before. I asked him about his experiences with Miss Grundel. They were far more extensive and brutal than he had told me.
Hearing of them enraged Karl. The account of van der Leyden’s betrayal of Emily and subsequent behavior toward Alexander raised his anger to high peak. I could see the veins in his forehead clearly as they stood out. It was a terrible countenance -- one that made me imagine him at war.
I gave him a moment to compose himself. Then said, “Karl, I want to show you one more thing – something Alexander would be loathe saying awake. … Alexander, remember last Friday on our way to town – you told me what kind of soul you have. What kind is it, dear?”
“A girl’s soul, Miss.”
“And what kind of boy are you, dear?”
“A tom boy, miss.”
“What name do you prefer?”
“Alexandria.”
“What happened at the dry goods, Alexandria?”
“We looked at Peterson’s Magazine, and I showed you the kinds of dresses I like. You said you would make two for me. I picked out organdy and calico for them.”
“And did that make you happy?”
“Very, miss.”
“Ok, shortly you will wake up and not remember what we talked about, but you will feel lovely and loved …”
“I need some moments to calm myself and reflect,” said Karl.
I took the occasion to put Sandy to bed.
When I returned, Karl said, “I am not surprised to learn that that Alex … Alexandria has a girl’s soul, and, as I told you, I leave it to you to rear him as seems best -- I know nothing of raising children.”
The Sergeant seemed very agitated by this. “It just isn’t right to put a boy that age in a dress.”
“Even if his mother dressed him so?”
“Well, women don’t always know …”
“Perhaps,” said Karl, “but, as Alexandria said, she has a girl’s soul. Even you must admit to that, Sergeant?”
“I s’pose … Yeah, he don’t act like any boy I seen. … Still, it don’t seem fittin’.”
“It is the hand we’ve been dealt. So, it is the hand we shall play. … Nancy, how did you come to learn about your ‘dream world’?”
I told him of my training under Agnes.
“You are indeed a gem, Nancy. Your actions on the train may well buy us time. Obviously, providence has sent you to aid us in our hour of need.”
I could only blush.
“We have learned much tonight of our continuing danger. We should sleep upon this news before making further plans; however, Sergeant, I want you to keep your Colt ready to hand, not in the entry hall. The same goes for you, Nancy.”
I withdrew my pistol from my shoulder bag to show Karl I was prepared.
“Good! Let us finish our brandy and retire.”
Over the following days, Karl and the Sergeant worked out a plan of defense. My part was simple. I was to take “the child” and withdraw to my room – barricading the door behind me, and standing ready with my Colt. It was also decided that, for the present, I would not take “the child” to town, but confine our excursions to nature.
After Karl outlined his plan, he became quite serious. “While I am confident in our plan of defense, one should always consider the worst. It may come to pass that you will need to flee with the child, If so, the Sergeant will accompany you.” He outlined a well-conceived design for this eventuality and finished by handing me a belt concealing gold coins and notes drawn on Mr. Hamilton’s Bank of New York. I had never seen such notes, but Karl assured me they were “as good as gold.” I put the belt in the secret compartment of my wardrobe against the contingency of flight.
Instead of taking Sandy to town, I split our mornings between nature excursions and teaching her to sew. The berry season was over, so I started teaching her plant lore and the reverence for nature I had learned from my father and from Agnes. Wednesday, I wanted to instruct her about willow bark. A fine specimen grew on the bluff of the Hudson. As it happened, the path to it led by Agnes’ cave.
As we passed the cave, I thought it would make a secure meeting place should Sandy and I be separated in a time of danger. I led Sandy down the bank, pointing out landmarks, to the hidden entrance. Agnes had left candles and a flint and steel, so I was able to show her the interior, with its deeper hiding places.
Thursday morning Sandy sewed a bow to the neck line of her everyday dress, finishing it. I helped her put it on. I had never seen a child blush so! Still, she radiated happiness – swinging back and forth letting the skirt brush her legs – all the while staring into the glass at her reflection. I had no doubt of her being a girl in her soul.
After her French lesson, Sandy was worn out, so I put her down for a nap. As Mary was in town purchasing supplies, Constance and I had a chance to speak privately. She had told Mary she was with child. After an initial peak of anger and disappointment, her mother had embraced her and assured her of her continuing love.
Liam, her beau, had taken the train to White Plains and obtained the position of boilermaker and assistant blacksmith. Once he found them a home, they would be married – perhaps in a month or two. Meanwhile, Mary had arranged for their priest to announce the banns.
I was relieved to see Constance’s “problem” on its way to resolution.
Anne Cummings had written, saying she would come to Yonkers Friday to seek an apprentice at the Asylum. Since I knew the girls, she asked if I would be kind enough to accompany her. After checking with Karl, I agreed to meet her Friday morning. Constance would watch Sandy while I accompanied Anne.
I rose early Friday, harnessed Becky to the trap as the Sergeant had showed me, and drove to the station. Just as the train steamed away, I saw Anne and Peggy on the platform.
“Peggy hoped she might play with Alexander, but you have not brought him.”
“He is being attended by Constance, the maid. We can stop by the mansion on our way to the Asylum.”
“I am sure that would please Peggy – would it not, dear?”
“Oh, very much, mother.”
“Before you see Alexander, I must say that since he has a feminine soul, and she is to be raised as a girl – named Alexandria. I hope that will not cause either of you upset.”
“Oh Miss Winston, Alexandria always was a girl to me. He never acted like a nasty boy.”
“I am neither surprised nor shocked. I have a distant cousin in a similar situation. For whatever reason, God gives some girls the body of a boy,” added Anne.
Jane and Mrs. van Hoff met us at the door of the asylum. They had gathered the three girls approaching their fourteenth year for Anne to interview. I knew them well. Alice Witmore was hard working, but not quick of wit. Penelope Smyth was very immature and flighty. Fortunately, Cora van Duff was both quick-witted and industrious. I sat in silence, letting Anne interview each to form her own opinion. Then, the four of us convened to discuss the matter. As I expected, Cora was chosen, and arrangements were made to pick her up in three weeks, on her birth date.
I was driving back to the mansion at a leisurely pace, enjoying the air and chatting with Anne, when I heard four booms, interspersed with sharper cracks. The booms were the unmistakable report of a Colt Walker.
My heart raced as I whipped Becky to a gallop. The trap rattled on at a frightening speed as I retrieved my colt from my purse. Anne was ashen as she hung on for dear life. At the last bend, I stopped and urged her to hide for her own safety.
“My death is nothing if Peggy is gone.” Her face had transformed from ash to stone.
I snapped my Sheffield open, handed it to her and urged the tired mare to one last effort. Both trap and horse almost overturned as we careened to a stop in front of the broken door. I approached cautiously, my Patterson held with both hands. Two ruffians lay in the hall with horrible wounds, doubtlessly from the Sergeant’s Colt. Beyond, the Sergeant lay bleeding – his colt still smoking. I ran to him, but to no avail. He was dead. I could not hold my tears.
“Peggy!?” called Anne.
Now was not the time for tears. I hardened my heart and gripped my pistol tighter. In the library a man lay run through by a saber – and the captain, wounded in the chest. Thank God, he was still alive!
“I’ve sent Constance for Doctor Robinson,” he wheezed. “Find Alexander and flee with the Sergeant … as we planned.”
“Yes, sir.” I could not bring myself to tell him the Sergeant lay dead.
“Anne, hide Becky and the trap while I bind the Captain’s wound. There is a meadow behind those trees.” I tore strips from my petticoat and bound his wound as best I could, then gave him a draft of laudanum. Having done what I could for him, I ran upstairs to gather my bag, potions and money belt.
Anne returned as I came down. We left to search for Alexander and Peggy. As we stepped out of the kitchen we saw Mary O’Grady laying dead of a bullet to the back.
“Oh Lord! What more? … Anne, whoever shot Mary might still be lurking. Keep a sharp lookout!”
“At least there is no sign of my Peggy ... or Alexander.”
“That, at least, is good news. I know where they may have gone.”
I concealed my carpet bag in some bushes before leading Anne stealthily through the woods, my Colt still cocked and ready. We broke out of the trees onto a prominence overlooking Agnes’s cave.
“There is a cave hidden behind that thicket.” I whispered. “I told Alexander to use as a refuge. Hopefully, he and Peggy are within.”
“Peggy! Alexander!” Anne shouted. “It’s mother, dear!”
There was no answer. I picked my way down to the cave, but could see only blackness as I peered into its mouth. I bent down and went in. A voice cried “Look out!” I shot deafened me. I saw stars, and collapsed. Hands were squeezing my throat. Then, all was black.
I’d been shot and was dying. Still, I was not afraid. I saw mother first, then father and David. They said nothing, but I could feel their welcoming love. Behind them were the Sergeant, Agnes, and a tunnel of light, which beckoned me. I was moving toward it when mother, without saying anything, said that my task was not complete. I must go back. Reluctantly, I agreed. As they faded away, I knew that I would never be alone.
When I awoke, Anne and the children sighed with relief. Sandy hugged me so hard I could not breathe. My hair was matted with blood and bound with strips torn my petticoat. My head ached terribly. Turning, I saw a man’s body by the entrance with my Sheffield still in his back.
“What happened?”
“You were shot in the head and then choked. Luckily the shot only grazed your skull – Peggy threw a rock that spoiled his aim. I’m afraid I tore more strips from your petticoat to bind your head – it was ruined already. I hope you do not mind.”
“Mind? No, I am grateful to you! … The children have escaped unharmed?”
“Yes,” said Sandy, “we escaped. Peggy and I were playing with her jumping rope behind the mansion when we heard a crash and shooting. Mrs. O’Grady came running out and shouted for us to run. That man,” he said pointing to the body, “came out and shot her down. We hid in the berry thicket, but he was beating the bushes with a stick, looking for us. I remembered what you said. So I grabbed Peggy’s arm, and we ran for the cave.”
“We lit a candle and sat quietly,” Peggy continued. “After a while we heard crunching and branches breaking.”
“I took Peggy and all the candles and hid over there – where you showed me.”
“Yes, and I blew our candle out,” Peggy added. “Then we saw him come in. We both stayed real still – even when we heard mother calling.”
“He lit matches looking for us, but they burned out before he found us.”
“When he heard mother calling, he went back to the entrance. We could see him holding his gun.”
“We didn’t know what to do. Peggy got a rock to throw at him. When I saw you coming in, I shouted, and Peggy threw her stone. When it hit him, his gun went off. We thought you were shot dead.” He started crying.
“Then he bent down, and started to choke you. I got another rock, but before I could throw it, mother came in and stuck a knife in him – and kept sticking him until he fell over and did not get up.”
“You were both very brave and smart. I’m proud of you,” I croaked, then passed out.
We spent the night in the cave. I slept while Anne kept watch. At first light she woke me.
“What shall we do with him?” she said, indicating the villain.
“We could leave him here to rot, or throw him into the river.”
“Ick! Don’t leave him here, he’ll stink up the whole cave. Throw him away like trash!” said Sandy.
I agreed. A killer would defile Agnes’s cave. Anne was indifferent. I retrieved my Sheffield, wiped it on his waistcoat, and offered it to her, but she would not touch it. I put it in my bag. Searching him, we found a second, discharged, derringer in his pocket. His shoulder bag contained caps, powder and ball; chewing tobacco; and an envelope with five $20.00 banknotes and a plan of the mansion. An arrow pointed to the nursery.
I offered Anne his pistols, which she accepted. I charged them for her, and suggested she put one in her purse and the other in her stocking.
We dragged him to the cave mouth and shoved him. He rolled down the bluff, catching here and there, but ending in the water. The current carried him away.
Anne helped me up the bluff, as I was still dizzy. Avoiding the house, we found Becky, hitched her to the trap, and left Yonkers.
I was dizzy, sleepy, and a little nauseous, so Anne drove. We had not eaten since yesterday morning, so we stopped at the Dobbs Ferry tavern to break our fast. Anne and the children ate well, but I could not keep my food down and rushed out to disgorge the little I had eaten by the side of the building.
Anne came out behind me, looking very concerned. She gave me a few sips of water and some bread to settle my stomach. After feeling my head, she said, “You have no fever. Could you be expecting?”
“Not unless the Holy Spirit has come upon me!” I said in a failed attempt at humor. Meanwhile, my head was aching ever more severely.
I woke in a strange bed. Peggy was nearby, sitting in a rocker, mending a dress.
“Mother, she’s awake!”
Anne and Sandy rushed in. The three of them looked exhausted, with bloodshot eyes.
“Thank God! The doctor said you might never wake.”
“Where am I?” I was still croaking.
“In my house, in White Plains. You have not stirred in three days. … Peggy run over to Dr. van Dorn, and tell him Miss Winston is awake. … Sandy, fetch her a bowl of soup.”
“Could I have some water?”
“Yes, of course.” She poured me a beaker. The water had a different taste from that in Yonkers. Still, I wanted to gulp it down. Anne made me sip it slowly.
“The doctor said he thought your brain was bleeding, and it might kill you – even days after suffering your wound. How does your head feel?”
“Still sore on the outside, but I have no headache.”
“He said that would be a good sign.”
“Then I am well. Sandy and I must flee. Staying here puts you and Peggy in danger.”
“There will be no ‘fleeing’ for at least a week. Dr. van Dorn drilled a hole in your head!”
“What!?”
“Yes, and he shaved off a good part of your hair to do it.” She handed me a mirror.
My head was bandaged, but, even so, I could see that all the hair on the back of my head was gone. I may be handsome, but I am not beautiful and my hair was my finest feature. I cried.
I was sitting in bed, eating a bowl of barley soup when there was a knock at the door and the doctor entered. He was a short, stout man of about sixty with a warm smile.
“You are eating and alert – both very good signs. … I am Dr. Hendrik van Dorn, by the way.” He sat beside me and felt my wrist, looking at his watch. “A steady pulse. You gave us quite a scare, but are on the mend, young lady.”
“Anne said you drilled a hole in my head?”
“Yes, a very small one. You would have died had I not. You had an intracranial hematoma – that is a bleeding brain. There was blood in your skull pressing on your brain. It would have crushed the life out of you, so I just drilled a little hole to let it out.”
“I never heard of such a thing.”
“Oh, surgeons have been doing it for thousands of years. Even Galen writes about the procedure. He was an ancient Roman, you know. I have personally done it several times when I was at the New York Hospital … perhaps you’ve seen it if you have been to Manhattan – it is on Broadway at Church. Anyway, I am glad to say that almost half my patients survived.”
“Over half died then?”
“Unfortunately, yes … but would all have died without the operation. That is why I was so concerned for you.
Do not mourn for them, most were miscreants of the worst kind. … Now as for you, young woman. Mrs. Cummings told me what happened … although rumor of the incident arrived before you did.”
“Do you know what happened to Captain de Peyster? Is he alive?”
“Yes, my college, Dr. Robinson, had him taken to the Orphan’s Asylum, where they are caring for him. I understand he is on the board there. He has a serious wound, but will recover unless sepsis takes him.”
“There is hope then.”
“Yes, but the outcome still hangs in the balance. … As I was saying, Mrs. Cummings told me about your plan to flee with the child,” he grimaced in a disapproving way, “but there can be no running for you for some time. Too much exertion and your brain may bleed again – and then who would take care of the child? For the present, you are safe. I have told no one you are here, and Mrs. Cummings has told people the child is a cousin come to visit.”
The days passed slowly. I could not stay abed, and so I sat with Anne as she worked at her potter’s wheel. She showed me how to “throw” a bowl and a vase, and let me help with firing and glazing. I wrote Caroline, expressing my love and sorrow that I may not see her for some time, and to Paula, telling her in detail what had happened and seeking her advice.
Both wrote back, but it seemed that Caroline's ardor was fading with my absence. Paula wrote that she would use her connections to find out what she could and help me as opportunities may occur.
About a week after I awoke, I was surprised when Constance came to Anne’s house near the crack of dawn.
“Hello, Miss. I am living with Liam now, though we are yet to be married. I saw Alexandria playing outside a few days ago, and reckoned that you must be hiding here. I would have stayed away, but last night Liam told me that a man has been asking around town for you two and thought you should know.”
“Thank you, Constance! I am so glad to see you and so sorry about your mother," I said embracing her. "Anne … Mrs. Cummings, … ah … made sure sure the man who killed her will never harm anyone again. … I have something that should be yours – a kind of dowry.” I gave her the five $20.00 banknotes that had been paid to the murders.
“I can’t take this!”
“You can and will – it is the price of your mother’s life, and is yours by right as compensation.”
We chatted a bit more, then she left. I found Anne and told her what happened.
“We must flee. The Captain devised a plan that I must follow. But I cannot go as I am. With my hair as it is, I am too memorable. You must cut it for me, so I look like a man.”
She did. That night she drove us to Dobbs Ferry, where we awaited the steamboat to Albany.
----------------------------
I see that the readership and kudos of this story are declining. I planned for it be the story of Nancy and Sandy's journeys: both geographic and psychological. It takes a lot of time to research what happened where and when. I am wondering if there is enough interest to warrant the effort.
It would be safest if Sandy and I fled in disguise. Of course, Sandy was already dressing as a girl, but few, even in Yonkers, knew that. Equally, few knew that I had managed to pass as a man before, or that I regularly wore tongs and a shirt during my morning exercises with the poor Sergeant. With my hair cut short and my mannish frame, I looked disturbingly like a lad – even in my dresses.
I had lost my petticoat to the necessity of bandages. Further, my Sunday dress, which I had worn on the day of the attack, was too bulky for my bag. I gave it and my old grey dress Anne. This made room for two dresses Peggy had outgrown when she blossomed. These were now Sandy’s.
Dressed in Mr. Wells’ old suit, and with my bosom bound, I had arrived in Dobbs Ferry as a strapping lad of 15 or 16 years. Sandy was my sister, and we were on our way home to Albany after a visit with our Auntie Anne. We thus faced no questions when we broke our fast shortly after dawn in the tavern’s public room. My suit was out of style, but I looked no more odd than any lad my age wearing his father or grandfather’s hand-me-down.
After breakfasting on porridge, cream and coffee, we walked down to the ferry pier. After a brief wait, Sandy spied a plume of black smoke hastening upriver. I recalled the sweet pine smoke that curled out of steamboats when my father had taken David and me to see them sailing the river. They had moved at a leisurely pace. Now the boat raced toward us at 20 miles an hour! The price of this advance was the cloud of sulfurous smoke that settled around us in the cool morning air.
At the foot of the ramp stood the conductor, whom I learned is called “the purser” on a boat. I paid him our passage ($2.80 for me and $1.40 for Sandy), and boarded. All was a rush, for the boat was not docked more than a minute before bells rang and sweat-soaked men on either side began shoveling coal into the very furnaces of hell. Valves opened and closed, hissing steam and causing enormous pistons to rise and fall. An ingenious system of links and rods turned giant wheels on either side. The river churned, boiling up mud, and the boat backed out. Soon more bells rang, an officer threw levers, and we moved forward at an increasing pace.
I was fascinated and tried to work out how the whole was arranged to its end. Sandy, on the other hand, quickly grew bored and wandered off in search of something more to his amusement. My neglect soon came upon me and I went in search of my charge. In front of, and behind, the engines are two large accommodations for the passengers, with rows of benches. Each has a kitchen and a counter arranged much like the victualing-houses I had seen in Manhattan. There one can purchase, at exorbitant prices, food and drink to be carried back to one’s bench.
Sandy was in the forward accommodation hall, playing with two other girls. Remembering what the Sergeant had taught me about “situational awareness,” I scanned the hall. Most of the passengers seemed men of business, but there was a scattering of families, and most peculiarly, a group of women engaged in energetic and purposeful conversation – I might almost say debate. A raven-haired lady of about 40 had a lap desk and noted down points of agreement. As I observed them, a somewhat younger brunette looked at me for a moment, smiled and when back to their common business. Sitting by a window, not far from them, sat a smaller group of men amiably playing cards and smoking cigars. From the occasional glances exchanged between the groups, I took these to be the ladies’ husbands.
These groups were singular in another respect. One of the women, who seemed to be accepted as an equal, was a negress, and one of the men, treated similarly, was a well-dressed freedman. I had never seen such a thing.
Perceiving no immediate danger, I returned my attention to Sandy and the girls, who were playing Cupid’s Coming. The girls, perhaps 9 and 12 years old, were dressed to match, so I assumed they were sisters. As I arrived they had evidently been playing “C” for some time. Cupid was coming “Charming," “Chanting,” “Careering,” and so on. Sandy was keeping her own when the younger sister could think of no word.
“Rose, I always lose! You only know more words than me because you’re older – and so is Sandy. It’s not fair! We should play something else!” she pouted.
“Like what?”
“Like dolls.”
“Violet, that would be mean because Sandy doesn’t have one!”
“Oh, but she does,” I interjected.
“Mi… Billy?” Sandy looked questioningly at me.
I opened my bag and dug to the bottom where I had the doll my mother had made me. “Here you go, dear.”
Sandy took it with a quick “Thank you,” and went back to her play.
“My, aren’t you a lovely big brother. I’m Sara Goodhill, these girls’ mother.”
“William Newcomb,” I said, extending my hand. “I suppose you’ve met my sister, Sandy? I was looking at the steam engines, and she got away from me.”
“Don’t worry, its perfectly natural for a young man to be interested in such things. What has happened to your poor head?”
“Oh, it looks worse than it is. I got hurt through carelessness in exploring a cave.”
“I suppose boys will be boys,” she said, returning to her sewing.
At that moment, I had a sudden sense of loss, for I had left the community of women, which I enjoyed with Jane, Caroline and Anne. Even my adulthood had slipped away. In this woman’s eyes, I was not a person of the world, but merely an older boy accompanying his young sister.
I read quietly and watched the scenery pass while Sandy assumed her new persona as if she had never been a boy. From time to time, I would see her playing with my doll and reflect with vague dread and uncertainty on my new status. I had thought that passing as a boy would give me a new freedom, but so far it was yet to be realized.
I thought too of Caroline, whom I might never see again, and wondered how I could find someone like her, now that I had given up my dress for tongs. A young woman might be attracted to the new me, but it was unlikely that she would share Caroline’s inclinations – and impossible that I would be able to meet her desires.
I was lost in such thoughts when Sandy interrupted my reflections. “I am hungry! Can we not buy some food?”
“Yes … I am sorry. Let us see what they have.” We settled on sausages with mustard on fresh buns -- washed down with lemonade.
Sandy fell asleep on the bench with his head in my lap. The day had grown hot and the river air was humid, so I rolled my jacket as a pillow for Sandy and went to the bow to enjoy the breeze. Suddenly, the brunette from the women’s group was at my side.
“Excuse me,” she said.
“Yes?”
“I thought you needed to know something.”
“What is that?”
“Your disguise is incomplete and sure to be penetrated.”
“My disguise?” I said, trying to hide my alarm.
“Yes, as a boy.”
I was at a loss for words. I could hardly deny her perspicacity.
“You see,” she blushed, “whenever I see a man – or a strapping lad – I can’t help but look at his … well, at his manhood, and you do not have any, my dear. Women are sure to notice – and some men too, I dare say.”
“Oh!” I did not know what to say, but clearly she was right. It was an obvious blunder on my part.
“I assume that you have good reason for your incognito. You have a wound to your head – and I observed how you took in all parts of the room when you entered. … I am Abigail Cummings, by the way,” she said, extending her hand.
“William … no, Nancy Winston, governess.” I decided to trust her, as she was obviously trying to help.
"Sandy, the child with me, is my charge, and we have already evaded two attacks. So, we are fleeing west.”
“You plan to take a canal boat then?”
“Yes.”
“So do my friends and I. We are on our way to Seneca Falls. It might be to your advantage to accompany us -- that far, at least.”
“I do not know where Seneca Falls is.”
“Oh, I should have said. It is near the canal in the Finger Lakes country.”
The Sergeant had taught me that some plan is better than no plan, so I agreed.
When I returned to the hall, Sandy was awake and playing dolls with Rose and Violet. Shortly after, we arrived in Albany – a mere seven and a half hours since we began!
Abigail had introduced us to her friends as William and Sandy Winston, and said we would be joining them for dinner. So, we were gathered together on the foredeck as the boat approached its dock. Scanning the pier, I saw a scattering of people standing with joyous countenances, awaiting their friends and families. To one side a man sat whittling on a piling. He drew my attention because he alone had an indifferent, even bored, expression.
The purser was the first one down the ramp and took his station at its foot. The piling man approached him and conversed briefly. The purser shook his head slightly and was given a coin. Then, the man returned to his piling, from which vantage he watched the passengers depart. Sandy and I stayed close to Abigail and her friends, and he took no special note of us. Still, I was concern as he followed us over the bridge. I was relieved when he turned at the foot of the bridge while we continued down State Street toward the Capitol.
Albany is a city of about 50,000 – one of the ten largest in the country – and is the furthest point one can reach by sailing up the Hudson. Still, it is unlike Manhattan in many ways. As we approached it, I saw mills with vast piles of lumber along the shore, and instead of the smell of horse and human offal so prominent in The City, the dominant, almost overpowering, scent was beer! Here, breweries converted the harvest of the interior to liquid form and innumerable barrels of their product sat on the docks awaiting passage.
The group, numbering almost 20, walked to Stanwix Hall, a magnificent five-story marble building on North Broadway, topped by a large dome. They had reserved rooms there, but, as the legislature was not in session, the hotel easily accommodated Sandy and me. Once we were settled, there was a knock at the door, and I opened it to admit Abigail.
“I hope that we may have a frank discussion.”
“I have already given you my confidence.”
“Good. Then you must tell me your situation, so that my friends and I may assist you, if we can.”
I paused to consider how open I wished to be. “I will tell you whatever you wish, but the more you know, the more the danger, not only to Sandy and me, but to you and your friends.”
“Nancy, I think that you will find that we are made of stern stuff. We are not just a group of friends on a summer holiday, but are en route to reform the very foundations of the republic. I told you that we are on our way to Seneca Falls. I did not say that our purpose there is a Woman’s Rights Convention.”
“Women’s rights?”
“Yes, we will demand the legal right to do all that men can do: hold property, make contracts and, most importantly, vote!”
“Vote?” It had never occurred to me that women might vote – if only the law allowed us.
“Yes, why should we not? Has God not endowed us with the same inalienable rights as men?”
“I suppose He has. … Still the idea is … I don’t even know the word.”
“A good one?”
“Oh, indeed! But, more than that … revolutionary! The kind of thing people fight … and die for. I see that you and your friends are not at all timid doves, but mighty eagles.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” she demurred. “Still, we will stand up for what is just.”
“I have no doubt. What do you wish to know?”
“You said you evaded two attacks, tell me about them.”
I told her how I came to be Sandy’s governess and of the man in the grey suit.
She recalled reading of a man dying under a locomotive.
Then I told her of the raid on Captain de Peyster’s mansion and how I came to be wounded.
“Yes, there was an account of the attack in the broadsheets. It said his nephew had been kidnapped by his governess.”
I cast my eyes toward Sandy, who had fallen asleep.
“Oh, I see.”
“The child is not merely in disguise, but is epicene – his soul is female through and through.”
“Is that possible?”
“It is how God has created him.”
“Well, that is a discussion for another time. For the present, let us say he is in disguise – as are you.”
“As you think best.”
“So, what is your plan? You said you intend to take a canal boat.”
“Yes. Captain de Peyster has an old army friend at the Jefferson Barracks in St. Louis. He wrote him warning him that we might flee to him.”
“But surely, he could not have expected you, who are not yet twenty, if I am any judge, to have taken Sandy all that way?”
“He did not think I would be going alone. His Sergeant was to have accompanied us.”
“And where is the Sergeant?”
“Dead. Fallen defending us when the mansion was attacked.”
“But, surely, you cannot be expected to take Sandy alone.”
“I am more capable than you imagine. I no longer have to defend us with a hat pin,” I said, showing her my Colt.”
She was taken aback.
“The Sergeant taught me that when one falls, another must take up his task. You are in a struggle for the equality of women. Surely, if we can vote, we can do more.”
“I had not thought through what equality implies.”
“Nor I.”
“May I tell my friends of your situation?”
“If you trust their discretion.”
“I do.”
Still in my suit, I brought Sandy to join our new friends for dinner. It was served in a private salon, bright with gas light. Abigail greeted us as we entered.
“I would like to introduce my new friend, Nancy, traveling, for the present, under the nom de guerre William Newcome, and her charge Alexandria. Nancy has survived two attempts on her charge, so I am sure you will all respect her incognito.”
I was surprised and gratified by the warm and unquestioning welcome we received. Abigail showed us to our places at a long table, set with linen, china and silver such as I had not seen. Four candelabras added to its festive character.
At one end sat Lucretia Mott, a Quaker minister in her mid-fifties from Philadelphia. She seemed the de facto leader of the group. At the other end was her husband James, a lawyer who treated her as at least an equal. My expectations were twice shattered by her: first, that she was a minister, and second that she led, with her husband in support. It was an astounding group that I had fallen in with.
On either side of Mrs. Mott sat Mr. Fredrick Douglass, for so the freedman was called, and his wife Anna, together with their children. He was a handsome gentleman of about thirty years, and Anna somewhat younger. Further down, and closer to me, was the woman who had been taking notes on her lap desk, Mary M’Clintock. Abigail sat opposite me and Sandy.
The dinner conversation started with the usual social pleasantries, but quickly moved to the issue of the upcoming convention in Seneca Falls, which had been called by one Elizabeth Stanton of that city. As I listened to the discussion, I came to see that my life, as turbulent as it had been, was sheltered with respect to the larger issues of the world. Mrs. Mott explained to the younger women how Mrs. Stanton had struggled for years with the legislature in this city to secure women’s property rights. Mr. Douglass, in turn, spoke briefly of his three attempts to escape slavery, finally succeeding with help from Anna, and of how his freedom had only been purchased by friends the previous year. His story moved me to tears.
As dessert was served, the conversation turned to the lighter topic of our immediate schedule. The Motts been to the docks and chartered a packet boat, which was yet to be cleaned and provisioned. It would not be ready until the following afternoon. So, it was suggested that we tour the city (principally the Capitol Building) in the morning and go down to the docks after eating lunch.
After dinner, Abigail took the Motts and Douglasses to one side. After a brief consultation, they invited me to join them in the Mott’s suite. Mary M’Clintock would attend Sandy and the Douglass children.
Their suite was much grander than the narrow room Sandy and I shared, comprising a capacious sitting room and a large bedroom, both with a fine prospect.
“Now dear,” began Mr. Mott, “tell us as much of your story as you are comfortable in relating.”
I gave a frank account of the situation Sandy and I found ourselves in, including the attacks we had survived, until meeting Abigail. I said little of my wound other than it having necessitated cutting my locks.
Mr. Douglass, familiar with the necessities of flight, commended me on my actions so far. Then the group considered what course of action to recommend.
“So, dear, other than fleeing danger, what is your purpose? Do you propose remaining in Albany, and if so, have you the means of doing so?” asked Mrs. Mott.
The Captain had enjoined me to speak to no one of my money belt, so I evaded that part of her query. “It would not be safe for us here. I already saw a man at the dock whose sole purpose seemed to be spying arriving passengers.”
“I observed him as well,” interjected Mr. Douglass.
“I suspect he is an agent of Sandy’s stepfather. I fled White Plains when an agent appeared there. So, I hope to carry out the plan Captain de Peyster devised for our contingency. As I have already told Abigail, I intend safely to deliver Sandy to an army friend of the Captain at the Jefferson Barracks in St. Louis. That gentelman has been sent notarized papers appointing him Sandy’s conditional guardian. He will be there until at least August 23rd, as he is to be married on that date.
“Have you advised this officer of your intentions and progress?” asked Mr. Mott.
“No. I had not thought to do so.” I was embarrassed at my stupidity. “If I were to write him now, the letter might arrive after we do.”
“Quite so! Still, there is no need to fret. Last year, a telegraph line from this very city to St. Louis was completed. The office is along the way to the Capitol. We shall stop there in the morning and I shall help you dispatch a message.”
“Oh, I have sent a telegram before.”
“Good, for you!”
“Now, we need to consider your route and security.”
“My route? I thought I would take a canal boat.”
“Yes, but there is a slightly faster alternative. A rail line goes as far as Schenectady. Taking it and then a packet boat would hasten your journey.”
“Oh.”
“I should advise against that,” cut in Mr. Douglass.
“Why?” asked Mr. Mott.
“Because it is virtually impossible to escape a pursuer on a moving train. If one of the stepfather’s agents should board with you … You and the child could hardly survive jumping from it.”
“Yes, I see. So, what do you suggest Mr. Douglass?”
“A packet boat, as you originally thought. The question is, should you accompany us?”
“And why should they not?” asked Mrs. Mott with some indignation.
“Because a gaggle of political women and negro abolitionists is sure to draw attention.”
“Ah, of course,” she said.
“Still, it is the best plan,” concluded Mr. Mott.
“Why?” we all asked.
“First, because attention to political women and dark-skinned abolitionists is not attention to a fleeing child and her governess. Second, because of the difficulty of maintaining Miss Winston’s male persona on a packet boat for days on end. How, for example, would she relieve herself? Like a man, off the side of the boat? I think not!”
“So, I should return to my female self?”
“Yes! If you had a cabin on a steam boat, you could travel as you are, but on a packet boat there are no cabins, only men’s and women’s communal sleeping areas. Both would be unsuitable as you are.”
“Of course -- you are right,” I said in exasperation. “There is so much I do not know. … But, what of my hair?”
“That is easily solved, I shall give you my bonnet, and obtain another from a milliner in the morning,” offered Abigail. “Do you need a dress as well?”
“No, thank goodness. … I could pay you for the bonnet,” I offered.
“Don’t you dare!”
“Then we are agreed! You will travel with us, at least as far as Seneca Falls. Sleep well and meet us in the morning in the same dining salon. We break our fast at 7:00.”
Back in my room, I found Sandy already asleep in her camisole. Mary M’Clintock must surely know her secret. What might that portend?
I was exhausted, but I could not sleep, for it came upon me how absurd it was for a girl not yet of seventeen years to undertake the arduous task before me. Reflection on the stories I heard at dinner made me think how much better equipped true adults were for such an undertaking. By what right did I consider myself fit for it? This was not what the Captain had intended. The task was to have been the Sergeant’s – mine merely to attend to Sandy.
I had thought, briefly, that I could attain the freedoms accorded to men by dressing and acting as a man. These women sought to do the same while staying women. I had played recruit under the Sergeant’s tutelage, but had never done more than stick a man with my hat pin. In fact, I had almost died in attempting the role of warrior. All the while, images of the dead Sergeant, the wounded Captain, and poor Mary with a bloody hole in her back came unbidden to me. I desired the warm embrace of Caroline, but each day took me further from her. It was with such self doubts, painful memories and confused feelings that I fell into a fitful sleep.
With me dressed once again as a woman, Sandy and I descended to the dining salon. There we breakfasted on fruit, beans and sausages, before settting off for the Capitol at a leisurely pace. Mr. Mott pointed out the telegraph office, and waited without for Sandy and I to dispatch a message. I wrote, “In Albany. Bringing de Peyster child via canal, river. N. Winston.” In less than a minute, the message’s receipt in St. Louis was acknowledged. Over a thousand miles and back in a flash! If only we could travel as fast.
I found the Capitol building impressive, but the tour not to my interest except for the New York State Library, where I wished I could spend days. After the tour, most returned to the hotel, but Mr. Mott suggested that Sandy and I might accompany a small party to the Albany Academy to see one of the true wonders of the world.
“What is it?” asked Sandy.
“Let it be a surprise, but I assure you it will astound you.”
We walked a short block from the Capitol to a large school building on Lafayette Street. Mr. Mott made a donation to the headmaster and a student was called. The boy guided us to a demonstration room, where an apparatus sat on a table. On each side were jars, called “cells,” with copper and zinc plates immersed in a weak acid of some sort. Connected to them by copper wires was something like a scale beam made of iron – except it had no pan and was wrapped with wire. Where the pans would have been stood iron posts.
The student urged us to move a lever. Sandy, being the youngest, was given the honor. When she moved it, the beam began rocking back and forth, making a loud clacking sound. Whenever it came in contact with a post, sparks issued forth. Soon, an acrid smell filled the air. When the lever was returned to its original position, the apparatus came to a sudden stop.
“What is it?” I asked.
“It is Mr. Joseph Henry’s electric motor – the first in the world – invented right here almost 20 years ago. Someday its descendants may power boats and trains just as steam engines do today.”
I recalled how the rise and fall of the pistons had powered us up the river to Albany at 20 miles an hour, and knew I had seen the future.
We stopped at a victualling house for lunch, picked up our baggage at the hotel, and walked down Columbia Street and across the bridge to the canal dock. There we boarded the packet boat Mr. Mott had chartered.
Our boat was older and shorter than many, only about sixty feet long, and fourteen or fifteen wide. It was singular for having been gaily painted by its Portuguese Captain. Most of its length was occupied by a low cabin. Within were long settees on either side, men’s and women’s sections divided by a curtain, and a kitchen in its center.
The crew consisted of Bartolomeu Lavrador, the captain, who insisted on being addressed as “Bart,” his wife Ines, their son João or John, about my age, and daughter Matilde, slightly younger. There were a number of younger children so active that it was difficult to even count them. John told me with pride that his father, a carpenter, had come to this country first, saved every cent he could, bought and repaired the boat, which had been a derelict, and then sent for Inez.
We were not long on board before Bart signaled a little steam boat, called a “tug.” It took us in tow and put us at the head of a line of fright barges and a “line boat,” which is a passenger conveyance without the appointments of a packet. The tug towed us through a large area of water, past innumerable docks crowded with warehouses and piled with goods. These were alive with men, wagons and horses. The curses reaching our ears made a few of the ladies blush. I did not, as I had heard similar profanity in Manhattan.
All my life I had heard jocular references to "Clinton’s Ditch." I had also heard that the canal was an engineering marvel and an American Wonder of the World – a source of national pride. Still, in my imagination, it was a ditch like any other but longer, wider and perhaps deeper. I was somewhat surprised, then, when the tug pulled us through a gate with imposing doors into a smaller body of water. I supposed the gate to be a defensive work, perhaps to defend the canal from the British fleet.
Imagine my surprise, then when the gate closed behind us, and the water in the basin began slowly to rise – lifting all the boats with it. Mr. Mott, seeing my surprise, explained that we were in “Lock Number 1” and that there were eighty-three such “locks” on the canal. Their purpose was to raise and lower the barges – because Lake Erie was not at the same level as the Hudson River. Besides, there were ridges and prominences to be crossed. By the time he finished his explanation, a gate at the far end had opened, and we were being towed into the next section.
There the little tug detached from us, stopped at each barge to collect its fee, and steamed back whence it came. In its place, teams were attached to each barge. Since we were a packet boat, we got a team of three horses. The line boat behind us got two and the freight barges one or two horses or mules.
Once our team was harnessed, Captain Bart gathered us together and explained that many of the bridges over the canal were exceedingly low. If we were on deck, we should get down as we passed under them. This was very important as some years ago a woman had fallen asleep on another boat and had been crushed between a low bridge and the cabin roof.
So we proceeded along the canal. Our boat made five miles an hour and quickly left the others behind. The men returned to playing cards, and the women gathered in their circles sewing and conversing. I had no sewing, so I sat near the front taking in the sights and teaching Sandy French. When he was not duty, John, the captain’s son, often joined us. Occasionally, we would be interrupted by the call “Low Bridge!” and find a need to double over, or even lay down. After about six hours we reached a station where fresh horses awaited. It was but the work of a moment to exchange them and their driver, called a “hoggee.”
As the sun lowered in the sky, an unfamiliar but delicious aroma wafted from the kitchen as Ines and Matilde prepared to introduce us to Culinária Portuguesa. About 8:00, the boat’s bell sounded, calling us to supper. The curtain dividing the men’s and women’s sections had been removed and a table running the length of the cabin in place.
The table was set with silver plate, although nothing to compare to that at Stanwix Hall. The difference was more than made up by the hearty fare Matilde placed before us. We began with a crusty corn and rye bread called broa (that they pronounce bro-e), butter, and a soup called caldo verde, made from potato, onions, garlic, greens and a kind of sausage. Some turned up their noses at these unfamiliar offerings, but changed their minds after a few tentative bites. Large jugs of red wine were spaced along the table. Most of us enjoyed them, despite sour looks from the advocates of temperance. We went on to a spicy main dish of cod fish and tomatoes, and ended with cheeses and a kind of rice pudding with cinnamon. Everyone was well-sated, and complimented Ines and Matilde.
It was quite late when we finished supping. So, the crew, including the smaller children, worked to clear the table and prepare the cabin for sleeping. The table was taken down and the curtain separating the sexes replaced. The settees converted to cots. Boards and bedding were placed above them making three levels of beds on each side.
Once we were preparing for bed, Mary M’Clintock took me to one side and lectured me on the Biblical prohibition against men dressing as women, and, by implication, against women dressing as men. She intimated that while the disguises Sandy and I employed might save our earthly lives, they could cost us eternal souls – which were far more important.
I gave her the respectful hearing an elder deserved, and agreed that our souls were indeed most important. Nor, I did not voice any of the many points of rebuttal that occurred to me. I did explain that changing Sandy into male attire now would be a serious risk, and she begrudgingly agreed. I thanked her for her advice and concern, and hoped to myself that ended the matter.
While our conversation, and the restraint it required, made me restless, the wine and rhythmic clopping of the tow teem brought on a restful repose.
We woke to the aroma of fresh bread and strong coffee. After our morning ablutions, Matilde drew aside the curtain. Those who wished took hot coffee and a small cinnamon custard tart out to watch a glorious dawn. Meanwhile, the cabin was prepared for our morning meal. We again had fresh bread, this time with butter, jam, slices of cheese and ham, and jugs of milk still warm from the cow.
The fresh milk surprised me until I learned that farm wives stationed themselves along the towpath to sell their produce. After Matilde bought a basket of eggs and vegetables, she told me that her mother varied the menu to suit their purchases.
Thinking I might learn to prepare the dishes Ines served, I followed Matilde to the kitchen to watch her mother. There I saw an astonishing variety of herbs and spices – most of which I had not heard of. Ines was kind enough to let me taste and smell a broad selection. I decided her art would require a full apprenticeship, not just a few shared days. Still, I learned the use of a few of her herbs and spices.
So our days went. For some incomprehensible reason John took pleasure in my company and seemed to spend most of his free time with me – especially if Sandy was otherwise engaged.
One night, while I was abed, the boat lurched and came to a halt. Hearing muted voices, I arose, put on my dress and went on deck to see what had occurred. The hoggees were exchanging tow teams by lantern light on an otherwise black night. John was at the rudder. I went to stand by him and observe. As there was a chill in the night, he put his cloak over my shoulders and pulled me close. Perhaps his feelings toward me were more than friendship?
I was reflecting on my plainness, John’s behavior and my feelings toward the opposite sex when I discerned what may have been a movement on the foredeck. Unsure of what, if anything I had seen. I excused myself and went forward to investigate.
Unsure of what I had seen, I pulled my Colt from my dress pocket. I felt my way forward using the cabin roof to guide me in the dark. The lanterns carried by the chatting hoggees cast a faint light on the foredeck, revealing a huge black shape – like a man laying against the rail, but too large to be one.
Assuming my fierce visage with some trepidation, and not wanting to wake the sleeping women, I whispered “I have a gun! Get up!”
“I can’t – them patter rollers ull see me.”
“Patter rollers?”
"You knows, catchers -- slave catchers."
I glanced at the hoggees, two men in the shadows behind them were questioning them. Then it came upon me, this huge black man was an escaped slave and slave catchers were hot on his trail.
“Crawl into the cabin,” I whispered.
The inside was lit by a single low-trimmed lamp. My bunk was on the lowest level – part of the converted settee. The bedding was stored was under it. I lifted the base, helped him into the compartment, and put my French grammar on the edge to admit air. Having restored my bed to its position, I removed my dress and laid myself down. I was almost asleep again when the clamor of hobnail boots on the deck and stairs jarred me to full wakefulness.
“Wake up! Wake up! There’s a fugitive aboard!”
“Get out of here! Can’t you see that this is the women’s compartment!” shouted Mrs. Mott.
I felt under my pillow for my Colt. Captain Bart burst through the curtain with an old blunderbuss, followed by Messrs. Mott and Douglass, and other men of the party.
“What is the meaning of this?” asked Mr. Mott.
“We’re slave hunters.”
“Let me see your warrant!” demanded Mr. Mott. Meanwhile, someone turned up the lamp and lit others.
“According to this, you are seeking a slave called Henry, who is described as of 17 years, ebony skinned, 6’ 6” tall and weighing 190 pounds. As you can see, no one here matches that description. You are welcome to look in the men’s section, and forward and aft lockers – after which you must leave. You are not on land now, but on board a vessel involved in international commerce. If you commit violence against any person on board, I will charge you with piracy. If you do not get off when the captain orders, I will bring mutiny charges. Both are hanging offenses. On the other hand, if the captain shoots you, he has the legal right to repel boarders. Do I make myself clear?” He said this in a lawyerly, but icy manner.
The demeanor of the two slave hunters immediately changed. They conducted a rudimentary search and departed. Immediately thereafter, we were underway. The men went on deck and watched the intruders fade into the distance until a low bridge obscured the view.
“Alright. Where is Henry?” asked Mr. Douglass.
“In the compartment under my bed. I know it is a violation of your hospitality, but I could not let those men have him.”
“You know you are a felon now? You hid an escaped slave and, in doing so, violated the Fugitive Law of 1793,” said Mr. Mot in a somber tone. “Congratulations!”
I received applause from all present.
“Come out Henry, for you are among friends!”
“Thank you! Thank you all, especially you Miss!”
“You look hungry, Senhor. Come, Ines will feed you.”
They went to the kitchen where Ines gave him a broa, and some of the caldo verde she kept on the back of the stove. Matilde sat next to him as he ate, peppering him with questions.
I stopped Mr. Mott. “Is all that about piracy, mutiny, and repealing boarders true?”
“Ha ha! Not a word of it, my dear. It would be if we were on the high seas, but not on a canal in up-state New York. Men like that fancy themselves lawyers, but they do not know a word of admiralty law, and so are easily outwitted!”
“But, isn’t lying a sin?”
“Only if you are seeking to do harm. Augustine says, ‘Love, and do what thou wilt.’ Our Lord Himself said, ‘Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. This is the first and great commandment. And the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself. On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.’”
“Yes, I know that one.”
“Tonight you broke the law. Do you think our Lord is upset with you?”
“I suppose not.”
“Good! Legalism is for court, love is for life.”
We all retired for the rest of the night. As I fell asleep, I reflected on how fortunate I was to have such teachers as Miss Wilson and Mr. Mott.
In the morning, and for the rest of the voyage, Henry remained in the cabin. I was invited to sit in as we discussed how to help him.
Captain Bart began, “I usually take these fellows to a steamer to Heaven. Its captain is a conductor. There are thousands settled up there. But, you chartered me to Seneca Falls and back. So, I ain’t going to the lake – and ifen I did, he’d be the only bundle. With those patter rollers on the canal – well, it’s too dangerous to move baggage.”
“Yes, of course,” said Mrs. Mott. “I know the stations and conductors along the Philadelphia line, but not up here.”
“I do not think we have any choice but to take him to Seneca Falls. Elizabeth will know station masters to put him on the freedom train,” opined Mr. Douglass.
“Well, I don’t see how,” interjected Mary M’Clintock. “The lad is six and a half feet tall and black as coal – we can not just put him in our midst and hide him from view. Those patter rollers are bound to have told constables and marshals who they are looking for.”
“True enough!” conceded Mr. Mott.
“Everyone knows that you are all abolitionists. What if I got off before you – at some other point -- and took Henry with Sandy and me. We could go to Mrs. Stanton’s at night. You could draw me a map of her house.”
“We don’t want to involve you further.”
“It is too late for that, Mr. Mott. You yourself said I am already a felon.”
“Well, that might work. There is a bridge over the canal fifteen miles outside of town. I will give you money to hire a wagon.”
“Henry -- he’d need freedom papers,” said Mrs. Douglass.
“I can make some pretty convincing papers -- notarized and all. I have done it many times. Being a lawyer has some advantages….”
It was the afternoon of Henry’s second day aboard as we approached our literal “jumping off point” – for we were to jump off the boat onto the towpath near the bridge when no one would be looking. Ideally, the hoggee and his team would be on the other side of the bridge where he could not see us, and there would be no other boats in sight.
Our baggage would go with the main party. We would only carry the broas and dried sausage Ines gave us to eat along the way.
The Motts and Douglasses had tried to convince me to leave Sandy with them, but she was my charge, and I could not leave her in other hands, no matter how trustworthy.
I would wear my male garb. A young woman, a colored man and a child walking alone would surely be suspicious. Two young men with a young girl tagging along would be much less so. As I removed my tongs from my carpet bag, I saw the Derringers I had given Anne. I knew she had been reluctant to take them, but had not expected to see them again. I decided they might be of use to Henry.
“I ain’t carrying no guns! I get catched with dem, an’ I get hanged! Maybe worse – skinned alive!”
“I am sorry. I was not thinking.”
“Your heart is in de right place, but sometimes you don’ know nutin’ girl!”
“You are right. … How about a knife?”
“You a regular armory, girl! … Maybe a knife be alright.”
I gave him my Sheffield and showed him how to open it.
“Ain’t that the damnest thing. Where’d you git dis?”
“It is a long story. I will tell you along the way.”
When the time came, Sandy was afraid to jump, so I went first and Henry threw her to me. We immediately scampered into the brush by the towpath. Once the packet was out of sight, we crossed the bridge and walked briskly down a wide country lane surrounded by prosperous farms. The lane was bordered by field stones and weedy shrubs, so we were mostly obscured from sight.
As we walked, Henry and I exchanged tales, finding a bond in our common experience of flight and evasion. Henry had escaped from a farm in Virginia, using the gourd to find the North Star, which guided him. When he got to Lancaster, Pennsylvania he ran into abolitionists who helped him North on what they called the “underground railroad” – which was a succession of helpers and refuges along the route to freedom.
Eventually, they concealed him on a freight barge making its way to Erie. All had been well until the slave catchers we had encountered boarded it, and he jumped into the canal -- even though he could not swim. Luckily, the canal is only four feet deep. After that he was on his own and hid until our boat had run into the shore as we were changing teams.
In return, I told him an edited version of my story, leaving out that Sandy had been born a boy. Occasionally, he would be impressed by my experiences – which only embarrassed me as they were nothing compared to his own.
After half an hour, the lane became mere wheel ruts and trampled vegetation – with an occasional stump where trees had stood too close to allow the passage of a wagon. There was no chance of our being seen – only a chance of the trace fading into non-existence. The day was hot, so we paused by a small stream to refresh ourselves and eat before proceeding.
Several hundred yards further we heard men shouting. We worked our way through the woods until we spied a ramshackled cabin surrounded by a weedy corn field. The two patter rollers who had boarded our boat were arguing with a farmer holding a shotgun. They had both drawn their pistols. In the doorway behind the farmer cowered a colored girl about Matilde’s age.
“Giver her to us, you cocksucker, or you’re a dead man!”
“Fuck you both!” The farmer lifted his shot gun to his shoulder.
The man he aimed at shot one of his pistols, hitting the farmer between the eyes, but not before he fired.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! I got a leg full of buckshot, Brad.”
“Yeah, but the girl is ours. … Come here, bitch!
The girl, visibly shaking, came slowly forward.
Brad pushed her down and lifted her skirt. It was too much for Henry. He ran forward screaming. The wounded man aimed his other pistol. I found my Colt already in my hand and fired, striking the man in the left shoulder. He turned to shot me and I fired two more times – missing once and shooting him through the heart the second time.
“Stay down, Sandy!” I ran forward.
Henry was already on the rapist – his arm wrapped around the man’s neck. The man was reaching for his own pistol. I had two more shots, but the rapist was between Henry and the girl – so I couldn’t shoot. His gun was out. He was trying to point it at Henry. I heard a sharp crack – and the man went limp.
“Jus’ like wringing the neck of a chicken,” said Henry with satisfaction.
I looked at the man I had shot – and also felt no remorse. Was this how Karl and the Sergeant felt after a battle in Mexico? I was not sure. Our battle had lasted only thirty seconds, theirs hours.
Henry pulled the dead rapist off the girl and helped her up. She was crying and shaking. He wrapped her in his arms, comforting her.
“What’s your name? Are you alright?”
“Becky. … I’s been b-better.”
“Is that your husband?” I nodded toward the dead farmer.
“No, de son of Satan catched me like these two wanted – to have his way with me.”
Sandy appeared at my side. “You did good, Miss – again. I want to be like you when I grow up.”
“Thank you, dear.”
Henry and I discussed hiding the bodies, but could see no point. The farm was off the road and Becky said they never had visitors – that was how she had been held captive. None of them deserved a Christian burial. We consider throwing them in the privy pit, but it was too much trouble. So we decided to let the animals have them.
While I sat on the porch and changed the cylinder of my Patterson, Henry and Becky went into the cabin to collect her pitifully few things. Then, we were on our way.
Like Henry, Becky had escaped. She had been a house servant and came north as a maid for her master’s daughter. A freed woman in Philadelphia told her where to jump (at the same bridge as us) and to go to Seneca Falls for help. She was hiking down the trace when the farmer, who had been driving his wagon north, caught her. That was about 3 months ago. Now, she was pregnant.
We all walked on for another two hours when the trace started looking more like a lane again. It was almost dark when the town came in sight. I stopped to consult the map Mr. Mott had made, and spotted the Stanton house. Then, we waited until dark.
I told Henry and Becky to stay hidden while I made sure it was safe. There was a sliver of moon, so Sandy and I had no trouble getting to the door. I could hear voices inside. I knocked and shortly a lady radiating confidence came to the door.
“Mrs. Stanton?”
“Yes.”
“I am Nancy Winston and I have two bundles for you.”
“Thank God you are safe! … Two bundles you say?”
“Yes, we picked up one on the way.”
“I’ll have my husband help you stow the bundles.”
“Hello, I’m Henry Stanton, Elizabeth, my wife said that you had two bundles you needed help with.”
“Yes, I do.”
He extended his hand, which I shook heartily, in the male fashion. “My wife failed to mention your name, young man.”
“Oh, I am Nancy Winston.”
He stopped and stared at me in the most unseemly manner. “Oh,” he responded hesitantly.
“Follow me, I left the bundles there,” I said, pointing at the wisteria in which my companions were hiding.
Mr. Stanton led us to the stable, where a small room was hidden by a pile of feed bags and hay. Within were a minute table, stools and four cots ingeniously arranged as two pairs of one above the other. As on the boat, there was a curtain, or rather an old blanket, to divide the men’s and women’s sides. He lit a candle and told our “bundles,” “Wait here, and I will have a meal sent as soon as it can be arranged.” Then he led Sandy and me to his home.
Most of the party had disbursed to neighboring homes but the Motts and Douglasses were sitting at a large dining table conversing with Mrs. Stanton. Sandy and I were shown places. The housekeeper stood by the kitchen door.
“Clara, our new guests must be famished. Would you serve them and then take care of the two bundles.”
“Of course, Beth.”
I was shocked by such familiarity, but said nothing – other than to thank Clara when we were served.
Once we were settled, Mr. Mott asked how we came to acquire a second bundle. I was hesitant, as I did not know the Stantons, and was unsure what crimes I might be confessing to. Seeing my hesitancy, he said. “I assure you that our hosts are entirely trustworthy. Henry here is a lawyer like myself, and Beth is as versed in the law as either of us, though not admitted to the bar. Anything you say will be held in the strictest confidence.”
I rehearsed what had happened at the farm.
“Well, that is quite a tale, and well told. Have you any detail to add?”
“No … but are we guilty of murder?”
“Legally, neither of you are. The law permits deadly force to prevent a felony – though a jury might not see it so – given that a negro killed a white man merely having his way with a negress – and an escaped slave at that. As for you, we might succeed with a plea of self-defense, but the prosecution might argue that you were interfering with a lawful process. … It is best that it not come to trail. Do you not see it so, Henry?”
“Yes, James, I agree. I would add that John Ritten, the farmer, was not well liked. That could weigh one way or the other depending on what a jury might be led to believe.”
“Elizabeth?”
“My expertise is with property, not the criminal law. Still, I agree with Henry as to the danger. Abolitionist sentiment runs high here, but there are enough who believe otherwise that there is a danger a jury might convict.”
Mr. Mott paused to reflect, then said, “James, I suggest you and I ride out to the farm tonight and examine the scene.”
“I could accompany you,” offered Mr. Douglass.
“Given that patter rollers were killed, that might lead to unforeseen complications. It would be best if you remained and continued planning the meeting.” With that the two lawyers left.
Turning to me, Mrs. Stanton said, “You have had an exhausting day my dear. I would like to give you a bed, but the neighbors are long abed, and we only have the fainting couch in the parlor and the floor.”
“Either will suit. I will let Sandy have the couch and I will be most grateful to curl up on the floor before the fire.”
She gave me a feather pillow and a quilt and I was soon dead to the world.
When I woke, Clara was clearing the table, but interrupted her work to set a place for me. I had only begun my coffee when eggs, griddle cakes and a rasher of bacon were set before me. Being famished, I ate with such unladylike ferocity that even Miss Wilson would have called me to task. Looking around, I saw Sandy in the parlor playing some sort of board game with the three Stanton boys.
When I reached my sufficiency, Messrs. Mott and Stanton pulled up chairs on either side of me.
Mr. Stanton began, “We found the bodies as you described. Nothing we saw would place you, Sandy or Henry at the scene. The one called Brad had six warrants in his breast pocket. We took them all except that for Henry, which already been shown around the area. There was none for Becky – or any female for that matter. Without them, no one will be able to obtain to a writ of replevin to return the escapees.”
“A writ of replevin?” I asked.
“It is the document you need to remove run-away slaves.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, a good night’s work, I dare say!”
Mr. Mott continued, “We also found money to compensate Becky and Henry and help them establish new lives. They will be given it when we send them on.
“That brings us to you and Sandy. This morning the constable told me he had just received notification that a certain Miss Nancy Winston, aged seventeen or eighteen, had abducted Alexander van der Leyden, aged 11. She is believed to be fleeing to St. Louis via the Canal and riverboat. Barges are being stopped and searched. You cannot go further by canal.”
“What shall I do?”
“Well, as you know, we are in the railroad business, and I am sure we can provide tickets as far as Buffalo. Once there, you must make all hast to leave the state. I suggest that you board the lake steamer with Henry and Becky, but get off at Erie instead of going on to Fort Malden.”
“Fort Malden?”
“Yes, in Canada.”
“Oh.”
“As I was saying, from Erie you can take a stage coach to Pittsburgh. There, riverboats leave daily for Cairo, in Illinois. Cairo is a major port. You will have your choice of boats going up river to St. Louis.”
“I see. That is most helpful.”
“You have sufficient funds?”
“Yes, I think I do. Thank you.”
“If you will excuse me. I have to help my wife prepare for the Conference.”
“Of course.”
I asked Clara, the housekeeper, where I could change, and took a few moments to don my dress. When I came out, Mrs. Stanton, who insisted I call her “Beth,” was waiting for me. She took me for a stroll along a lane lined by summer blooms.
“This is one of my favorite walks.”
“It is very beautiful.”
“I wanted to have a chance to talk to you privately, my dear.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Last night, and this morning, you appeared as a young man. I understand the need of disguise, so I was neither shocked nor surprised. Be that as it may, you more than appeared to be a young man, you were a young man, my dear. I have seen this – a woman being a man – before – in New York, in London and especially in Paris. You may not have seen it before, and so it may concern you that you are not as other women. I wanted to say that you are not alone and that there is nothing wrong with you. Miss Margaret Fuller has written a book, Woman in the Nineteenth Century, in which she explains that no one is all masculine or all feminine, but that we each have differing amounts of masculine and feminine energy. I see in you, my dear, a great deal of masculine energy, but alloyed with indomitable feminine energy.”
“You almost know me better than I know myself. I have not as much knowledge of the world as you, Beth, but I met, in New York, men who dress and live as women, and seen women dressing as men.”
“Then you know.”
“Yes, I know of such things, but I have not found where I fit, or indeed, where I want to fit. So, for the present, I concentrate on my task, which is to deliver Sandy safely to Captain de Peyster’s friend in St. Louis. Still, as I progress I learn – about the world and about myself.”
“I can see that in you. I think you will be one of the bright beacons.”
“That is very kind of you to say, but I do not see myself so,”
“Time will tell.”
“I suppose it must.”
When we returned to the Stanton home, I made my way discretely to the stable to visit Henry and Becky. I found them at the little table finishing their luncheon. Becky stared for a moment, wondering who I was.
“How are you two faring?”
“We’re well, thank you, Miss,” said Henry.
“Beg pardon, but is you a man or a woman?” asked Becky.
“A woman. Like you, I am running, So I dress like a man to hide sometimes.”
“Oh. No disrespect, but you a good looking man. I’s thinking I could go wit you.”
“Ah, thank you.” She was a handsome girl, now that I could see her at my leisure.
“I just wanted to say that we came in the middle of a Conference, and so we will not be going on for two or three days yet.”
“A conference?”
“Yes, a kind of meeting. It will start tomorrow and last two days.”
“Oh.”
“Then where is we going?”
“To Buffalo and then by lake steamer to Fort Malden in Canada.”
“Canada is Canaan?”
“Yes.”
He smiled broadly. “When I a chil, my mother, she tell me her dream. She see a mayya help me run. She say I know this mayya because she care like a woman and fight like a man. That be you.”
“A mayya?”
“Umm … a witch. You be a mayya – a good witch.”
The next day, July 19th, was the beginning of the Conference. At breakfast, I also learned that our “conductor” was due that day and we should be prepared to leave on short notice. So I packed our things before taking Sandy to join the others in walking to the Wesleyan Chapel.
The first day was to be women only (with a few exceptions). I was surprised to see a crowd that I was told numbered over 300. As it was to be a women’s day, Messrs. Mott and Douglas stood to one side until Elizabeth announced that Mr. Mott would chair the meeting so the principle women could all speak. Mary M’Clintock was appointed recording secretary.
Once the meeting was called to order, Mrs. Stanton orated upon on the present state of women in these United States. I recognized a number of ideas from Miss Fuller’s book, which I had finished the night before. Mrs. Stanton spoke of “the wearied, anxious look of the majority of women” and their “long-accumulating discontent,” with such vehemence and indignation that I was deeply stirred.
A number of speakers followed her, pressing home various points she had made. These included Mrs. Mott, Martha Coffin Wright (Mrs. Mott’s sister), Mary M’Clintock, and Jane Hunt, a member of the M’Clintock family through marriage.
Once the speakers finished, Mary M’Clintock read a series of resolutions, which had been prepared in advance. All met with hearty approval until she came to the 9th, “It is the duty of the women of this country to secure to themselves the sacred right of the elective franchise.” This was met with murmurs and vocal objections, such as “Outrageous,” “We have husbands to vote!” and “Who ever heard of such a thing?” As this resistance was unexpected after the morning’s orations, and the noon hour was almost upon us, Mr. Mott deferred the vote and recessed the meeting for supper.
The supper was a pot luck held in the church basement. As Sandy and I ate, we saw the principles in animated discussion. Obviously, they were devising some stratagem to win approval of the suffrage resolution, which was their chief objective for the Conference. I could tell from the worry in Elizabeth’s face that their whole program was about to be defeated before it began. At last, they seemed to resolve upon a course and began nibbling at their cold meals.
The afternoon session began with Mr. Mott announcing that Mr. Douglass wished to speak and that the executive committee had voted to allow him to do so. He began by telling of his slavery and repeated attempts at escape. The story had intrinsic interest, but in Mr. Douglass’ telling, it became alive. All eyes were fixed upon him. Having established, by vivid example, the immorality of slavery, he went on to build, brick by brick, with relentless logic and full depth of feeling, the parallel between the situation of colored slaves and that of the 19th century woman. He appealed to the words of Jefferson, that all men were created equal, and said that the only way to make these sentiments real was to stand and be heard. Finally, he concluded that the main way to be heard in a democracy was to vote.
When he finished, I expected applause, but there was only silence. Then one lady in the second row began clapping, a second, near her, seemed to awaken and joined her. Soon the trance was broken and the chapel resounded with a thunderous ovation. Elizabeth, striking while the iron was hot, moved the previous question. The ayes narrowly defeated the nays, and the resolution passed!
I sat astonished and turned to see Sandy with tears in her eyes. Clearly, she considered herself female now. We were still basking in the glow of the moment when a young girl came in and said we were wanted without. There, we were greeted by Mr. Stanton, who said that the conductor had arrived and I should hasten to change into male garb.
A few minutes later we climbed on a heavy freight wagon of the kind made in Conestoga, and resumed our journey west – drawn by a team of eight oxen. Henry and Becky lay in a compartment cunningly concealed under six tons of freight, and accessible only through the tool box.
Our conductor was Mr. Wheeler, a dour man with calloused hands and a grizzled beard, who spoke little other than to exchange news with other teamsters as they passed. From them, we learned that a constable was inspecting barges at Lock 33, just east of Rochester, and after that there were none. So, it was decided that we would go to a “station” in Rochester and be conducted on the Canal from there to Buffalo.
Thus, our travel plans changed instantly. At first, I found this a great annoyance, but on reflection I realized that such changes made it virtually impossible to intercept us.
Another source of annoyance was the slow pace of the wagon. We made perhaps four miles in an hour on level roads and as little as one or two on grades – to say nothing of the fact that the road did not follow a straight course, but snaked back and forth to climb and descend. In addition, and necessarily, we stopped every few hours to let Henry and Becky out to stretch their legs and see to the needs of nature.
It was late at night when we stopped at a capacious farmhouse which served as a station. The farmer and his wife were gracious, but declined to give their names for fear of the authorities. We were fed bread and a hearty bean soup, then Sandy and I were given a bed to share, as were Becky and Henry – separated by a bundling board. In the morning we had eggs, potatoes, ham and fresh milk before being sent on our way.
The next night was much the same except that the farmer and his wife were Italian and served us stringy noodles called spaghetti with a delicious sauce of tomato and lingua, which I learned was beef tongue. In the morning we had bread dipped in eggs and herbs and fried with our coffee. Like the Lavradors, they provided us with bread and dry sausage for the journey, but differently spiced from the Portuguese kind. This was called pepperoni and spiced with seeds and hot pepper flakes. Sandy did not like the pepper, but the rest of us were well pleased.
That evening we arrived at the station in Rochester, a warehouse by the canal. We entered though a large gate which was closed after us. The four of us were led to a room with a long table and chairs where we waited. The proprietor came in, greeted us warmly, and said he had sent to a nearby victualing house for food. Shortly, a woman in a white apron followed by a boy came in and served us stew, bread, butter and beer. None of us had tasted beer before, but we all enjoyed a mug or two and found our spirits lifted.
After dinner, we were shown some hard cots and rested. About midnight, we were awoken and shown to a freight barge loaded with Pennsylvania coal for the lake steamers. Becky and Henry were led through the crew cabin to a secret room under the coal. I was to pass as a crewman and Sandy as my sister.
We arrived in Buffalo early the next evening. Becky and Henry remained at the coaling station while Sandy and I were free to find lodging nearby. As we were alone at last, Sandy took the opportunity to confide in me.
“After seeing the ladies speaking in Seneca, I decided I want to be a woman, Miss.”
“Are you sure?”
“Oh, yes! I used to think women were weak like mother. Now I know that they are brave like you and strong like the women at the meeting. So, I don’t feel bad about wanting to be a woman anymore.”
“I don't think your mother is weak. She is just in a difficult situation. It took a lot of strength to send you off with me. Still, it sounds like you have thought about this quite a bit.”
“Oh, I have, Miss. … But there is one thing I am sad about.”
“Yes?”
“I wished I could have a bosom, like you and other girls.”
“And if I said you could?”
“You mean I can?”
“Yes, I can make a magic potion for you,” I said smiling. “The problem is, it tastes really
nasty.”
“But it will help me grow a bosom?”
“Yes.”
“Then I don’t care how nasty it tastes.”
Lit by the waning moon, and dressed in tongs and a shirt from my role as bargeman, I led Sandy up from the docks in search of our night’s lodging. After a few blocks, we saw a large home with a sign: “Mrs. Hoffmeister, Rooms and Board.” For 50 c we got a room larger than ours in Stanwix Hall, but more cheaply furnished. Our supper was mostly thin cabbage soup and coarse bread, followed by a thin slice of mutton and a boiled potato. The bed was of the cheapest kind, with sagging ropes. We awoke early, itching with bed bugs bites. Breakfast was thin coffee, watery porridge with skimmed milk and burnt toast – dry. Needless to say, we did not linger.
Our steamer, the Sultana under captain Calvin W. Appleby, was due to arrive that evening, but would not be coaled and ready to depart until 10:00. As it was Sunday, Sandy and I dressed our best and availed ourselves of the opportunity to attend services. There we were treated to dreadful hymns and a homily on hell fire and damnation. These were redeemed, to a degree, by the social that followed. There, I drew the attention of two hopeful young women my age, one a maid and the other a shop girl, but lost their interest when they learned I was in transit.
Meanwhile Sandy was talking to a shy boy of perhaps thirteen years, who seemed smitten by her. There was an animation and glow in her that I had not seen before. I reflected on the difficulties she would have in finding suitable companionship, and, eventually, a partner. I certainly had no intention of using Paula’s tale as a guide by sending her to a molly house to find a man of suitable inclination.
When the social ended, I followed the suggestion of one of the girls I had conversed with and walked to the staircase locks, a series of five ascending and five descending locks that transited a ridge between the town and the interior. It was very different watching them from land than from the deck of the coal barge. Even Sandy, who has little interest in mechanics, found them fascinating.
Afterward, we luncheoned at a hoffbrau or German tavern near the docks. The food was unique, as the Germans seem to relish all things sour. We had sauerbraten (beef marinated in vinegar) with sauerkraut (fermented cabbage) and potatoes. Again, we had beer, which made Sandy rather silly.
Before our dessert, our places were cleared by an epicene boy. He had a dainty manner and sweet face marred by a swollen bruise on his left cheek. He reminded me of Little Edward, but older.
“What is your name dear?”
“Hans, mien Herr.”
“Do you speak English, Hans?”
“Yes, they teach English in school, but most I speak Deutsch.”
“I see.”
“What happened to your poor face, dear?”
“My vater, he hit me.”
I could tell this was a source of embarrassment to him, as he sped his clearing of our places. So, I decided not to question him further – not that I had much chance as he hurried off to the kitchen with our dirty dishes.
After a delicious cherry cake with a long German name, we went down to the lake front, as the stores were all closed for the Sabbath. There families were picnicking and children playing in the water under the watchful eye of their parents. A mother came up and asked if my sister could play with her daughter. I helped Sandy with her shoes and stockings so she could wade in the lake. Then I settled in the shade of a tree to read a book Mr. Mott had given me. It was Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus, a strange tale of a doctor who believed he could return life to the dead.
“Is that an interesting book?”
I looked up to see a pretty young woman addressing me.
“Well, it is a very unusual tale, and … yes, it is very interesting.”
“You will forgive me for being so bold, but I have been observing you for some time, and have come to a rather startling conclusion.”
“Yes?”
“I hope you will forgive me if I am wrong, and I mean no offence, but I think you are a woman. Am I right?”
I was shocked, but saw no point in lying to one so perspicacious. “Yes, you are right.”
“Do you enjoy being a man?” This was a very direct person.
“I do, but the joy is not unalloyed.”
“I can imagine. I too have thought of cutting my hair and binding my bosom as you seem to have done … but I have never had an example before. That is why I had to approach you. I hope you will forgive me.”
“I do.”
“Do you find the advances of men … annoying, perhaps repulsive?”
“Let us say that I have yet to find them attractive.”
“Yes, precisely! Women are so much more … attractive.”
“Yes, some are.” I was beginning to feel stirred as I had been with Caroline.
“Of course not all men are equally unattractive. For example, a man like you is particularly attractive. I wonder if you would you like to come my rooms and share some … refreshment?”
“I would, but alas, I have a charge to watch over,” I nodded to Sandy, “and will be on a steamer west tonight. Still, I would like to know your name.”
“Gertrude Hobbs. Isn’t that a horrid name? I so wish it were Guinevere – or even Gary.”
“I am Bill when so attired, nee Nancy. … You know, you could change your name.”
“I am not so brave.”
“I find you very brave! How else could you approach a complete stranger as you have?”
“Perhaps you are right, but I have my family to consider.”
“Being an orphan, I have no such considerations. So, perhaps you are no less brave than I.”
“Perhaps. I wish we come be … closer. Still, meeting you has provided me with an example. I feel myself changed, as though a spell had been cast … no, lifted. … Yes, as though some invisible chains had been broken!”
We chatted on, sharing feelings and verbal intimacies almost as close as physical intimacies. We only ceased when Sandy ran up.
“I’m hungry, Miss, … er, Bill.”
“Shall we go back to the hoffbrau for another dessert?”
“Yes, that would be wonderful!”
“Well, I better let you feed your charge. Here is my address, should you care to write.”
“Thank you, Gwen.”
Having no where else to go, we stayed at the hoffbrau until it closed. After, we sat in the dark on a nearby bench waiting for the steamer to begin coaling. To pass the time, I told Sandy the story of Doctor Frankenstein as far as I had read.
Suddenly, my narration was broken by high pitched screams, the sound of slaps and muffled threats. I had Sandy hide, drew my colt, and went to investigate. I crept along in the shadows until the moon, in its last half, revealed a large man dragging Hans by his ear and the back of his pants. Hans’s tear stained face glistened as he cried “No!” and “Please!” to no avail.
“Ye’ll make a fine bummboy. Ye may not like the idea now, but soon ye’ll be cravin’ a big cock up yer arse. Anyways, yer mine now. I paid a fin for ye – but I don’t begrudge old Goebbels a dime – ye’ll make me a hundred times as much.”
I stepped into the moonlight so my colt could be seen. Assuming my fierce visage, I said in a deep voice “Unhand the lad. I have five shots here, and killed a scum like you a week ago, so drop him now and raise your hands.”
Fortunately, he did, as I did not know if I could have shot him in cold blood.
“I know you have sleeve guns.” (The Sargeant had warned me.) “At four feet you might kill me, but at this range you have no chance. Drop them one at a time and kick them over.”
I was rewarded with a pair of Derringers.
“Hans, stand over there, to the side. … you, take off your cravat and braces. … Lay on your stomach and cross your hands behind your back. … Hans, tie his hands with his cravat.”
With him so disabled, I approached and tied his hands to his feet with his braces. Finally, I stuffed his handkerchief in his mouth and pulled Hans back into the shadows. We found Sandy, then rounded the corner and ran for the coaling station.
We arrived just as the Sultana was pulling in. Henry and Becky were waiting outside the office and greeted us warmly.
“Who da boy?”
“Hans, another escaped slave.”
“But he be white?”
“Yes, but he was on his way to slavery nonetheless.”
“Miss Nancy?” said Becky.
Hans looked at me startled, but said nothing.
“I’s thinking. I’s got money now and Mr. Mott, he make me freedom papers. I don’ wanta go to no Cannan. I wanta go to St. Louie wid you.”
“Why ever would you want to do that?”
“Cuz I need to take care o’ my chil that is comin’. I know how to do hair real pretty and I bet lots of ladies in St. Louie would pay me to do it. I don’ know nutin’ bout Cannan or Canada or whatever in the hell it is. So, can I come? I can pay my own way.”
“You know that if you go to St. Louis, there is always a chance you could get sent back?”
“Yes m’. I’s willin’ to take my chance.”
I did not know how to deny her. “Alright, you can come.”
“Good, I be Sandy’s maid till we gets there.”
“What about you Henry?”
“I’s on my way to Cannan an' not turnin’ back.”
“Good for you, dear!”
Henry took my Shefield out of his pocket. “This – it have your makamashi.”
“My makamashi?”
“Mmm … it story be story of you. It makamashi keep me safe. Now you take back for keep you safe.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, in Cannan, I be making my makamashi.”
“Alright. Thank you.”
“What about you, Hans? As you heard, we three are on our way to St. Louis, and Henry is going to Canada. Do you wish to come – or stay?”
“If I stay, that man will take me, aber ich habe kein Geld, um dorthin zu gehen. Er … I haf no money to go.”
“Can’t you go home?”
“No. Vater, he throws me out. He says I vill never come back.”
“Then you shall come with us – at least for now.”
“But I haf no money.”
“I have money.”
Just then a young ship’s officer appeared to arrange the coaling and, as it happened, to conduct Henry and Becky.
I paid Hans’s fare out of my wages, for I could not use the money Captain de Peyster entrusted to me for Sandy. I got a cabin for Sandy and me, but let Hans sleep on a bench in the common area. There were some boiler repairs to be madie, so we were not underway until midnight. All the while, I scanned the dock for Hans’s abductor. He never appeared.
Once we were underway, Captain Appleby sent for me.
“I know about Henry and am told you plan to disembark at Erie. Why is that?”
“I need to go to Pittsburgh to catch a riverboat.”
“Then you had best disembark at Conneaut as there is a corduroy road from there to Pittsburgh which is better in every respect than the road from Erie.”
“Unfortunately, I might have mail awaiting me in Erie.”
“We will be discharging and loading cargo in Erie, and the post office is in sight of the dock. So you should be able to get to the post office and back before the ship departs again. ... Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No, you have been very kind and helpful. Thank you very much.”
“Sleep well, young lady.”
Satisfied on every point, I fell into a deep sleep.
I woke early as the Sultan was rocking badly in a Summer storm and soon found myself disgorging my dinner over the rail. I determined then never to travel on the Lake – or worse the ocean – again. Yet, as the sun rose the lake calmed itself as though to greet the day with proper decorum. My stomach calmed with the waters and reported itself, much to my amazement, famished.
Breakfast was being served, or rather a buffet had been opened. So, I looked in on Sandy, but found her still fast asleep. Climbing the ladder (for so the steps are called on a ship) to the dinning area I found a forlorn Hans sitting by the entrance.
“Hans, what is the matter?”
“Ich bin … I am hungry.”
“So, eat! Breakfast is being served.”
“I haf not the ticket. They say it does not pay for food, only passage.”
“Let me see.” It was a Steerage Ticket, and across the bottom was written “Passage Only.” I compared my Cabin Ticket – “All Meals Included.” “I see. Well, I did not mean for you to starve. I will pay for your meals. Come along!”
“Danke … thank you.”
I offered him my hand, led him in, and arranged for his admittance to the buffet. After piling our plates gluttonously, we sat at a small table by a window. As we were both famished, it was a long time before we said anything further.
“Ich muss … I must thank you.”
“You already did.”
“No, not für das Frühstück ... for the break fast, but for last night. Dat man, he vanted to make me eine männliche Hure. I don’t know how to say in English.”
“No need, I know what he wanted to do with you. … How did you get in that predicament?”
“Predicament?”
“Um … situation, fix, state?”
“Oh! It is a shame for me.”
“I want to be your friend. There is no need to be ashamed. I will not think less of you.”
“My fater, my papa, he trow me out of his house.”
“Yes, you said yesterday. … but why?” I could see that he was embarrassed, but he felt that he owed me an explanation.
“He see me küssen my friend, Otto. He says I am a ... Tunte, eine Königin ... I do not know English vord.”
“You mean you like boys instead of girls?”
“Ya … I can not help I like boys. It is big shame for my family. So, papa say I muss gehen – leaf.” He hung his head down and tears formed.
“I know men like you. They are fine men, good men. There is no shame in how God made you.”
“You tink Gott, God, He make me zo?”
“Yes, of course … and God is not ashamed of His work.” I smiled at him.
“Are you eine Königin alzo?”
“No, I will tell you about me later! … You finish your breakfast – take more if you like. I have to go and get Sandy.”
“Sie ist your Schwester?”
“My sister?”
“Yes, I mean sister.”
“It is complicated, but for now, she is my sister.”
Hans looked puzzled, but did not pursue the matter.
I woke Sandy, had her wash, and gave her a fresh dress. Then I took her to breakfast. By now there was a long line at the buffet. An older couple was behind us.
“Is that your sister? She is so pretty!” began the wife.
“Yes, and yes, I think she is the prettiest sister I’ve ever had,” I replied warmly.
“Excuse my wife – she does like to talk. I am Frank Carpenter and this is my wife Abigail.”
“Glad to meet you. I am Bill Newcome, and this is my sister Sandy.”
“Where are you going?”
“We are on our way to see an uncle in St. Louis. So, we will be getting off in Conneaut to take the stage to Pittsburgh.”
“Getting off in Conneaut to take the stage to Pittsburgh?” Me. Carpenter seemed incredulous. “Why ever would you do that?”
“Captain Appleby of this vessel, said that there is a superior road from Conneaut to Pittsburgh.”
“I have a lumber mill in Conneaut, and know the road well. It is a fine road, but is a freight way, crowded with heavy wagons and – most importantly – with no stage service. The only stage that goes through Conneaut runs from Cleveland to Buffalo and is used mainly by folks that live along the lake shore as the steam boat is faster for long trips. Here, it is clearly marked on the map.” He pulled out A Traveler’s Map of the Northeaster States and Canada, which showed all canal, rail and stage routes in its area.
I was shocked that the Captain could have so misinformed me, but there was no reason to doubt Mr. Carpenter or his map.
“I wish I had this map when I started!”
“Well, we are ending our tour, so please take it.”
“Thank you very much. … I have already eaten, I wonder if you would watch over Sandy as I go and inform my friends of the change in plan.”
I had my little company finally marshaled at the gangway as the ship tied up at the Erie dock. The storm has passed, and it was a fine day, with the town looking freshly scrubbed. Once we were ashore, I saw the post office a few hundred feet from the end of the pier. On the way, we passed a general store with an assortment of goods in the window, including clothes and fire arms. Poor Becky looked like a ragamuffin in her worn dress, while Hans was quite the worse for wear, and shivering in the cold lake breeze.
“If we are going to be allowed on the stage, you two will need new clothes – and traveling bags as well.”
“But, I haf no money,” complained Hans.
“I do,” replied Becky with a new-found haughtiness.
“Yes, Becky, and do you not think the store owner will immediately wonder how you came by it?”
“I ‘spose so.”
“So, for now, I will say you two are our servants, and you will let me bargain.”
“Yes, m’”
“Vatefer you say.”
“Good! Follow me.”
The storekeeper was seated behind the counter, reading his local paper. He seemed to have a mixed reaction to us – looking pleasantly on Sandy and me, and with askance upon Hans and Becky.
“I have hired these two as servants, and need to purchase them appropriate clothes. I saw ready-made garments in your window, and wonder if we could arrange a trade?”
“Yes, I’ve clothes on consignment – mostly things that young people have outgrown – all freshly laundered, mind you. … What kind of trade did you have in mind?”
“Well, I was not expecting to hire servants, but these two needed positions, so I employed them. Out of an abundance of caution, my father gave me a brace of Derringers to protect myself and my sister.” I reached into my shoulder bag and produced two pistols. I really do not need them. My father said they cost $100.”
He examined them. “Perhaps they did when new, but I doubt it. These are of inferior manufacture. See, this part is rusted, and so made of plated iron, not German silver. Besides, they are scratched, see here and here. I’ll give you $20 each.”
“Give me $25 each, and I’ll take the extra $10 in trade.”
“Done!”
We got Hans a slightly worn suit, a felt hat, tongs, a couple of shirts and small clothes. Becky got a Sunday and a work dress, heeled boots, stockings and pantaloons. Two battered traveling bags, horehound pieces and ribbons for Sandy rounded out our purchases. Hans and Becky took turns changing into their “new” clothes in the stockroom. When we left, I gave the remaining money, almost $40, to Hans.
“Now you have money.”
“Ich kann nicht … I can not take your gelt.”
“It is yours, Hans, from the man who was trying to take you. Those were his guns.”
“Danke schön … tank you very much.”
“You are very welcome. Now, if you and Becky would go to the stage office and find out when the coach leaves for Pittsburgh, that would be most helpful.”
They left while Sandy and I continued to the post office. There, I asked if there was a letter for Bill Newcome. The clerk gave me one from the Captain.
Dear Bill,
I hope this finds you and your companion well. I am recovering under the care of Miss Wilson, who has been most attentive. Indeed, we have developed a mutual affection.
You will be gratified to learn that the Sgt. is recovering as well, although still quite weak. We both owe our lives to Dr. Robinson, who honed his trade as a naval surgeon in the war with the British.
I have had as visitors two of your comrades. The first was a potter who informed me of your progress and plans. That person also gave me a scrap of paper with a plan of the mansion. I immediately recognized the hand upon it as belonging to my beloved brother-in-law.
The second was a unique lady from Manhattan, married to an influential man there. She offered her husband’s assistance in dealing with the family problem we have previously discussed. Her offer has already borne fruit in correcting certain rumors and charges that had been spread concerning your person and actions. Her husband has also discussed our case with an official who may help us resolve everything.
I must stay here to assist my sister in her difficulties, so I beg you to proceed with the endeavor as we have discussed it. Please be alert to the possibility of telegrams at Pittsburgh, Cincinnati, and your destination.
Gratefully Yours,
Karl
I was filled with delight with the news. First, that the Sergeant had survived. I was sure that he was dead, but thinking back, I had not really stopped to ascertain his true state. Second, that Karl was recovering, and had formed an association with Jane. It had always struck me that the Captain suffered from the kind of melancholia than comes from the lack of a life’s partner. And finally, that Alice and her husband had been working one our behalf in Manhattan, and especially, that I was no longer a fugitive felon in the state of my birth. That, with time and distance, reduced considerably the danger to Sandy. There were now too may places at too many times for her stepfather’s agents to intercept us. Still, they seemed to have intercepted my telegram from Albany, and knew our destination. That was a danger for the future.
I thought for a minute about “paper with a plan of the mansion,” and then recalled that I had left the plan discovered on the ruffian in the cave on the bed table at Anne’s. She must have taken it to the Captain on one of her sick calls. Now it might serve as evidence against Sandy’s stepfather.
Turning my thoughts to the present, we faced no especial dangers from that quarter. We had only the common dangers of the sort already encountered. Rapists and patter rollers for Becky, kidnappers and mollyhouse keepers for the all-too-pretty Hans, and the common run of thieves and cheats that prey on travelers for the whole party. I determined to discuss the situation with our new friends as soon as possible.
As Sandy and I continued toward the stage station, I reflected on Karl and Jane’s good fortune in forming an association – which reminded me how alone I was. Sandy was a ward, not a companion. Caroline was in Manhattan, and I had no expectation of seeing her again. My encounter with Gertrude, with whom I had a perfect sympathy, only heightened my loneliness. It seemed that circumstance ever doomed the blossoming of the kind of alliance I longed for.
As I was so reflecting I looked up just in time to avoid colliding with Hans and Becky.
“You aright, sir? You seems in a nuther world.”
“Sorry, Becky, I was thinking. … what did you two find out about the stage?”
“Oh, dere’s plenty o’ dem. One left jus now. One is leavin at 10, an’ a nuther ‘bout noon. De one at 10, it go straight through to Pittsburgh an gets dere ‘bout 11. De noon one, it stos for de night some place in between.”
“In Mercer,” interjected Hans.
Becky gave him a sour look for interrupting and correcting her. “Anyways, it go on to Pittsburgh in de mornin, an get there ‘bout noon.”
“If we get to Pittsburgh at 11:00, we will be hard pressed to find lodging. But, if we spend the night in Mercer, our lodging is assured. So, let us take the noon coach.” Each of my companions nodded in assent.
“A letter awaited me at the post office, which informs me that the danger to Sandy and myself has abated; however, you two still face the same dangers from which I rescued you. In the bottom of my bag are two pocket pistols. I propose to give one to each of you so that you may have some protection against kidnap. What say you?”
“I don’ know how to use no pistol.”
“I alzo do not know how.”
“We have time for a lesson. Let us walk down the shore to those words, and I will show you.” I had only a small number of balls for the flintlock pistols Anne had placed in my bag, so I let Becky and Hans each fire twice and recharge twice.
“Hans, you can carry your pistol in your pocket. Becky, you can hide yours in your stocking. Also, you should both hide your money.”
“I’s hid it already.”
“Vere can I hide it?”
“Let me see what you have. … these three $10 gold pieces are small, so we can hide them in the leather of your suspenders, and most of the rest you can put in your shoes or socks.”
As we walked back to town, I spied a stand of Cimicifuga racemosa – the black cohosh – by the path, and stopped to gather a considerable quantity to make good on my promise to Sandy. When asked why I was gathering the herb, I replied that it would help Sandy with her figure.
We bought food for the journey and arrived at the Stage station as 11:30 tolled. A company rule forbad colored persons riding within the coach, but the fare for riding atop was half as much. So, after Sandy and I had purchased our tickets, Hans and Becky purchased tickets to ride alfresco.
As with the Sultana, the advertized hour of departure bore little relation to the time made good. The coach arrived shortly after 1:00 tolled. The horses were exchanged in short order, but the continuing passengers visited the grocery and privy, and took their time in returning. I pressed for a timely departure, but the agent informed me that the company placed revenue ahead of schedule. So 1:30 tolled as we left the town precincts.
Our fellow travelers were a Jesuit priest on his way to St. Louis to teach science at the university there, a lady dressed rather immodestly but appropriately for her presumed profession, a man selling fire insurance, and master blacksmith traveling west in search of a place to set up his shop. The priest sat by me while the blacksmith and the salesman seemed happy to sit next to the lady of the evening. On top with Becky and Hans were two roustabouts hoping to find work in Pittsburgh.
While not quite plying her trade, the professional lady continually enticed her seat mates in the most scandalous way despite disapproving looks from the father and myself. Eventually Sandy fell asleep, and the priest and I decided that the best course was to ignore the behavior opposite and converse between ourselves.
The priest, one Joseph Albright, was returning from a scientific conference in the east. He asked me about our journey so far. I, refraining from any account of Sandy and myself, told him of my falling in with a group campaigning for women’s rights. He was particularly interested in Mr. Douglass, who was beginning to make a name for himself among abolitionists. In return, he told me how his order had opposed slavery since the 1500s and was largely responsible for its abolition in the Spanish colonies. This surprised me as I had heard nothing of the Spanish but tales of the Inquisition and Jesuitical plots. He provided no response beyond, “Judge us by what you see.”
The driver seemed mad to make up time, driving the horses much faster that the Sergeant or I had ever driven the trap on better roads. Still, the ride was tolerable. After about 40 miles we stopped to change horses and all climbed down to stretch out legs and visit the privy. I took the occasion to ask the driver about the ride. He pointed to the straps suspending the coach. “It’s a Concord coach. If them straps were iron springs, you’d have a sore ass and a jarred spine by now young sir, but them straps rocks the coach like a cradle.” The straps not withstanding, all aboard took ever opportunity to rest their posterior parts.
After the first stage, my conversation with the priest turned to science and the idea that, in previous eras, strange creatures inhabited the earth. He described extinct creatures great and small, whose remains he had seen in New York, Philadelphia and Washington. Explaining how this happened, he said, was one of the great problems facing 19th century science.
I was fascinated, but, being unschooled in science beyond geometry and the little botany my father taught me, I had little to contribute. Then I remembered Mr. Henry’s electric motor in Albany. The good father had met Mr. Henry at number of scientific conferences and explained to me, in the clearest manner, Mr. Henry’s discovery of “electric induction,” which is the making of magnetism by electricity. The conversation made me wish that I could study under such men.
When I said so, and that I was going to St. Louis, Fr. Albright asked what languages I had. As I responded French and Latin, he continued in Latin, which I managed to stumble through. He seemed well pleased, and urged me to apply for admission to the University, saying that he would recommend me if I did. I replied that I was not a Papist, which he said was not required. Being unable to say I was female, I agreed to reflect upon it.
The sun was low on the horizon when the coachman called out “Mercer! Night’s stop.” We found ourselves before an inn made of logs piled one upon another with the chinks filled with dry mud. Within were two long tables, set with clayware and iron utensils. The walls were lined with beds in twos, one above the other, such as I had seen on boats. The fare was simple but hearty: boiled greens, beans with salt pork, and rhubarb and honey pie for dessert. Ample quantities of cold milk and whiskey stood on each table. Becky and I each took a dram of whisky, which lightened our humor and soothed our weary bodies. Hans and Sandy did not find it to their liking and drank only milk.
After supper, we took four beds together. I slept well until strange sounds woke me. I finally understood that our fellow traveler was plying her trade with one of her seat mates.
We arose at dawn and breakfasted on white corn meal, eggs, bacon, coffee, milk and whiskey. No one over-indulged and all behaved civilly, if one excepts the midnight fornication. Soon, we were under way again, and, with one more change of horses, arrived in Pittsburgh in the early afternoon. We passed 20 or more steamboats of various descriptions at the public landing.
The final stop, after 18 hours of travel, was a tavern in the center of town. All of our fellow travelers except Fr. Albright disbursed. The five of us went in to buy dinner. The good father asked about my companions. I explained, without details, that they had been abused, and I invited them to travel with Sandy and me for their protection. He seemed to comprehend more than I had said.
“Then you must be careful which boat you embark upon. I have traveled west from here twice before. Some captains are pro-slavery Southerners who would sell Miss Becky down the river papers or not. Others are Ohio men – abolitionist through and through. As to your young German friend, he should be safe enough as long as he stays aboard the boat, but some of the river towns are wild, with corrupt constables or marshals.”
“What about St. Louis?”
“Its population is mixed. Lots of Southerners, but more men of the North. Still, there have been riots. The colored survive – and many prosper – but care must be taken,” he said looking at Becky.
“Corruption?”
“No more than usual for a city of the size. The merchants want a modicum of safety so that they may prosper.”
“How shall we choose a boat?”
“There are a number of agents selling passage, but I would recommend Cordelia Cloverfield, a Wesleyan of impeccable character and propriety. Her establishment is at Third and Liberty Sts. Here, I will draw you a map.”
Following the map we came to a small office with an apartment above. The sign read “Steamboat, Stage and Theater Bookings. Cordelia Cloverfield, Prop.” Entering, we found a woman of about 60 years seated at a roll-top desk, surrounded by bound files and papers. Maps papered the walls. Beneath them a bench and two wooden chairs were placed to accommodate patrons.
“May I help you?”
“We wish to secure passage to St. Louis. Sandy,” I said indicating her, “and I wish a cabin, but our friends can only afford steerage. We have a special concern for Becky here, lest she be taken and sold. A Jesuit, Fr. Joseph Albright, recommended you as being of impeccable character and propriety.”
“Yes, I have helped the good father before in similar circumstances. Does your friend have her freedom papers?”
I was concerned that the issue should arise, but asked Becky to comply.
“These are very good. You should have no trouble with anyone honest, and with the dishonest, not even real papers would suffice. … So, what special concerns have you Miss?”
“Miss? Is my incognito so bad?”
“No, not at all. In fact it is very good,” she said glancing between my legs. “It is just that I am so discerning,” she smiled.
Meanwhile, Hans stood staring at me slack jawed.
“Well, since you see all, I am Nancy, Sandy’s governess. I am dressed as I am to evade certain persons who are searching for us, and to deliver Sandy safely to a certain officer in St. Louis. Thus, I need to know if it is feasible for me to continue as I am or if doing so would surely lead to my discovery? Second, I am concerned that my friends be safe and well treated.”
“Then you have come to the right person.”
“Before we proceed, may I ask how you penetrated my incognito?”
“It was no great feat on my part. Weeks ago, a man was in town searching for you and Alexander. He left this bill with me,” she said, extracting a handbill from a pigeonhole on her desk. “You and Sandy fit the descriptions except for your sexes. So, I simply observed you closely, noting that your hips are a bit broad for a lad, you lack a beard, and have no Adam’s apple. I assure you, had I not received the bill, I would have accepted you as you appear. … Your companions were not mentioned in the bill.”
“May I see it?”
“Of course.”
I examined the circular. Sandy and I were described with our true names and sexes, and a reward offered for telegraphic communication leading to our apprehension. The address for correspondance was that of the van der Leyden mansion in Manhattan. After reading the Captain’s letter, I realized papers could be evidence of crime, so I asked, “I wonder if I might prevail upon you to send the bill to my employer, who is Sandy’s uncle and guardian? I will pay the post.”
“Of course, dear.”
I wrote the address. “Now, for our present business. Given our circumstances and goal, what boat shall we take?”
“There are a number of considerations. First, and chiefly, you want an honest captain with abolitionist sympathies. Many are pro-slave, while others are scrupulous about the fugitive slave act. Some tolerate cheats and thieves. Others have abandoned passengers who have gotten off to lighten a vessel stuck on a sand bar or snag. A few have even rammed other boats to revenge supposed slights. That narrows the field considerably.
“Second, is the matter of privacy. The better boats provide chamber pots for cabin passengers. The others require all to use the common privies – continuous benches with holes above the water by the side wheels –women on one side, men on the other.
“Third, is the question of deck passage (for so ‘steerage’ is known on the inland waters). The deck fare is a mere fraction of cabin passage, $3 or $4, but you ride outside with the freight and animals in whatever space you can find. Of course, you bring your own food – while cabin passengers have food and drink provided.
“The problem is deck passengers, men or women, must assist with loading fuel wood along the way as a condition of passage. In other words, deck passage requires bartering of one’s labor. Given Becky’s delicate condition, hard labor for her is out of the question. Your male companion – what is his name?”
“Hans.”
“Yes, Hans … seems rather reedy for the work as well. Fortunately, there is a third, little considered, option for passage. One may take personal servants. Some boats have staterooms with offices attached for one’s servants.”
“That sounds terribly expensive.”
“It can be, but those with servants invariably want passage on the newest and most fashionable boats. In consequence, older boats so equipped often sail with the offices unoccupied. I typically book them for cabin passengers with children. Depending on the children’s ages, two to four can be accommodated in an office.”
“And is food provided for them?”
“Yes, they may eat whatever is left by the cabin passengers. However, they are allowed to get food for their masters and bring it to their cabins, and who eats what in one’s cabin, no one knows.”
“I see.”
“There are other advangages of an older boat. Without offense, your dress would be terribly unfashionable on a newer boat, causing you to be snubbed. Also, the river is very shallow in the
Summer, and smaller, older boats draw less water – they take less water to float -- an advantage in avoiding snags and sawyers, so they tend to go faster when the river is low.”
“Snags and sawyers?”
“Oh. Yes, trees that have fallen into the river and can catch and even pierce a the hull of a boat.”
“This happens often?”
“Not too often. Maybe once or twice a year for a boat – mostly in the Summer. In the Spring a paddlewheel is more likely to be broken. Do not let it worry you. The Ohio and Mississippi are quite safe – most boats go four or five years before sinking.* The Missouri is a different matter – boats only last a couple of years on it. Anyway, most boats are lost to explosions, not snags.”
This seemed very often and her attitude quite sanguine, even cavalier.
“As I was saying, my recommendation would be a stateroom with an office for servants on the Lewis F. Linn. It’s an older boat, built in ’44 – I know the builder personally – with a seasoned and honest captain, Hiram Burch.
“And how much would that be?”
“$39 to Cairo – versus $30 for a simple cabin. You would need another boat from Cairo to St. Louis.”
“Cairo?”
“Yes, at the southern itp of Illinois, where the Ohio joins the Mississippi – 981 river miles from here.”
“I see, and how would we find a suitable boat in Cairo?”
“That is less important. St. Louis is a day trip if you leave Cairo in the morning, So, you would not be charged for a private cabin unless you wished. For $5-$7 your party could ride on the hurricane deck, or in the Lady’s or Gentlemen’s common cabins.”
“Hans and Becky, what say you? $3 each for deck passage or $4.50 for a bunk ans victuals?”
“I don’ wanta load no wood. So I say $4.50.”
“Hans?”
“Vat Becky says is gut.”
“When does the Lewis F. Linn depart?”
“It is being repaired and should leave sometime tomorrow.”
“Have you a recommendation for lodging?”
“I can write a note to Captain Burch, and you can stay in your cabin – but you will need to eat in the city.”
“Very well. So, Mrs. Cloverfield, do I pay you or the purser on the boat?”
“You pay me, and I pay the purser.”
My friends started to get their money, but I thought it better that it remained concealed. “I will collect from you two later.” I used two of the Captain’s banknotes to pay our fares and received $1.00 back in silver.
“Where might we eat?”
“There are shops catering to boat crews and mechanics along Front Street. They serve wholesome fare at moderate prices, but will not be open until the mechanics end their day – say 7:00. In the meantime, you might want to see Dan Rice’s circus, which is in town. He has set up near the public landing.”
“Thank you.”
Everyone knew of Dan Rice, the most famous entertainer in America. He started as an animal trainer with a pig named Sybil who could tell time and do other tricks, but came to do feats of strength, singing, dancing, acting and telling stories. Now he owned the greatest show on earth (or so it was said), and had put it on a “show boat” so he could visit the river towns.
As we walked down to the riverfront, the din and screech of machinery was deafening. I was surprised to see, on the far side of the river, yards building not only steamboats, but tall-masted ocean-going ships.
Rice’s circus was on a large flat boat. We paid 10c each for admission and found it well worth the money. Sandy and Hans sat next to me while Becky sat on the other side of Sandy. Mostly, we laughed so hard it was difficult to catch our breath. Yet, the mirth was punctuated by perilous feats of horsemanship and knife throwing. More than once I found Hans hanging onto my arm during these a acts.
After the show we were quite hungry and made our way along Front St. On the way, Becky noticed a sign showing a razor and scissors, and asked me to read it. “Barber and Hair Dresser Supplies. Cosmetics for Men and Women. Pierre Du Roi, Prop.” Excited by the display in the window, Becky insisted that we enter.
I greeted Monsieur du Roi in my best French, to which he only replied ‘Bon jour,’ with a terrible accent. Still, his stock was extensive and his dealing honest. Becky haggled over her purchases, managing a shrewd discount based on her signigificant outlay. She left with a flour sack containing an assortment of clay and willow curlers, steel and tortoise hairpins, boxes of curl clasps and hair crimpers (12 to a box at 75c), curling irons in various sizes, scissors, a razor, bone and tortoise combs, and various brushes.
“Now I can work on the boat, instead of waiting till we gets to St. Louis” she said, beaming.
We were all well pleased for her. While her purchases were quite professional, carrying them in a flour sack was less so. Further down, we passed a purveyor of luggage where I purchased her a shellacked pasteboard case for 65c.
After a dinner of greens, potatoes, mutton, beer and wiskey, we made our way to the public landing and found the Linn. I showed our tickets and Mrs. Cloverfield's the note to the officer seated at the gang plank. He signaled a deck hand who called a colored maid. She lead us from the cargo deck to the second, cabin, level. The men’s day cabin was forward and the women’s aft. The staterooms, so called because they were named after the states, opened onto the men’s and women’s rooms on the inside and onto the promenade on the outside.
“Which cabin would you like?” she asked.
“Which is furthest from the boilers?”
“The Alabama.”
“It has a office attached?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then we will take it.”
She opened the door and handed me the key. "I empty de slop pots every mornin durin breakfast. Dere's water in the ewer, but I's not be drinkin it. It comed from de river, what people poo and piss in. You'd best be drinking coffee, tea and beer, or mix your water wit wiskey. Dem that does spends less time in the privy."
“Thank you!" I gave her a 5c piece and she left.
"Becky do you mind sharing the office with Hans?”
“No, he be more a girl dan you be, Miss Nancy.”
“Perhaps.” I had thought the same thing earlier.
Once we were settled, we decided to go up to the hurricane deck to watch the sunset. The crew had their quarters there, leaving a large open space. Hans stayed close by my side while Sandy and Becky drifted off.
“Why are you staying so close, Hans?”
“You mach … ah, make, me feel funny, miss.”
“Feel funny?”
“Ya, like my freund Otto. Ich, … I never feel like dat mit einem Mädchen, uh, wid a girl before, aber … but you are zo stark, ah strong. I vant to be near you.”
I was unsure what to say, but gave him a reassuring hug across the shoulders.
Once the evening light faded, we retired. I slept poorly as work on the boilers proceeded through the night.
* The average life of an Ohio or Mississippi River steamboat was 4-5 years. Disasters were common, horrific, and accepted. http://genealogytrails.com/ark/greene/SteamboatDisasters.htm provides detailed accounts of innumerable accidents. Explosions usually resulted from boiler over-pressurization or the water above the firebox boiling away, allowing it to become red hot and soften. There were no government inspections before 1852.
Having slept fitfully, I woke at first light and went on deck to watch the dawn. “Red light at morning …”, I thought. It is going to be a stormy day. The hammering that persisted through the night had given way to random clinks. I went down to the cargo deck to see the workmen reassembling the starboard, or right, boiler under what had been the light of lanterns and torches. The deck was cluttered with tools, rusted and scaled iron plates, and pieces of pipe. A bleary-eyed officer was overseeing the work.
“Good morning,” I called out.
“Mornin’ to ye, young lad. Ye be up early.”
“I am an early riser, I suppose. How is the work going?”
“Be done in two shakes of a lamb's tail. We should be ready for boardin’ in an hour or so.”
“Is there time for me and my party to go ashore to break our fast?”
“Ye can eat with the crew, if it please ye. We chow in the galley on the hurricane in 30 minutes or so. Rouse yer crew and ye can join us.”
“Thank you very much.” I went back to the cabin, woke a very sleepy Sandy, and knocked on the office door until Becky responded, “We be out soon as Hans be dressed.”
In a few minutes, I heard the office door to the promenade open followed by the muffled voices of Becky and a whiney Hans outside. Meanwhile, Sandy was still buttoning her first boot. “Hurry up! I am starving, and they are not going to wait on us.”
“Alright, alright, I’m working as fast as I can.”
“Don’t say ‘I’m’! It is not ladylike. ‘I am.’”
“Alright, I am working as fast as I can.”
Being impatient, I took my button hook to her other boot, and still finished before her.
“Come along!” I locked our cabin door and turned to see a colored and a white woman standing on the deck. It took me a second to recognize the white one as Hans in Becky’s other dress and bonnet.
“Hans?”
“She be Hannah now. I ain’t havin’ people say, ‘Becky, she be sleepin’ wid a white boy.’ So, I says wear my dress o’ sleep outside.”
“Hans?”
“Becky, she make me. I not ask für to vear dress.” He was blushing furiously, but the way he straightened his dress hinted at something more.
“I tol’ you he be a girl.”
“Well, we do not have time to sort this out now. … Hans, or Hannah, you do not sound like a girl, so keep quiet. If you have to talk, speak softly. I will say you have just come from Germany and do not speak much English.”
Some crewmen were still entering the galley as I told the captain the engineer had invited us to eat with them.
“And welcome you are.”
The victualing was quite egalitarian with colored firemen sitting at the same table as white officers. The only sign of rank was that the captain sat at the head with his officers, while the crew sat further down. Sandy and I were invited to sit by the officers, while Becky and Hannah sat at the far end with the maid who had shown us aboard. The maid looked closely at Hanna, but said nothing of his new persona. I noticed that Hannah’s effeminate manner drew less attention in female attire than in tongs.
“Where you headed to?” asked the captain. So began a pleasant conversation and breakfast, with the captain recounting stories of his life on the river.
He started as a cabin boy and, on his first trip, the boiler blew up. Luckily he escaped unharmed and managed to save a passenger who later died of gruesome burns – begging in his final hours that the captain put him out of his misery. He swore that if he were ever a master, he would attend most closely to his boilers and their crew. Since the engineer of the destroyed boat was “drunk as a pig,” none of his crew is allowed a drop on board.
On his most recent trip up river, he had rescued “the Apostles,” for so he called James and John, the colored firemen seated with us. They had been wrongly enslaved on the Wheeling and jumped overboard when she stuck on a snag. Captain Burch stopped to pull them from the water, but refused to pull the Wheeling off. He now expected trouble from her captain on the down river trip.
At the end of the meal, Captain Burch bade us a pleasant trip, and turned to a discussion of the day’s business with his officers. As we descended to the cabin deck, passengers were beginning to trickle aboard. Becky wanted to meet the ladies to offer them her hairdressing services, while Sandy ran off in search of playmates. That left me alone with Hannah.
“You look quite comfortable in your dress.”
The poor lad could only blush.
“Have you worn a dress before?”
He looked even more embarrassed.
I decided that such direct questions would be of no avail.
“I think you need to relax a bit, you seem tense.”
“Tense?”
I mimicked tension for him, then eased my shoulders to convey the idea of relaxation. He seemed to understand.
“Would you like me to help you relax?”
“Ya, I vould.”
“This is my witching stone. Look into it. Can you see a face or an animal in it? No? Look deeper and relax.” He easily passed into the dream world.
“Quiet yourself. I am your friend. You know that, right?”
“Ya.”
“How do you feel about Becky making you wear a dress like a girl?”
“Shame dat Becky sees me.”
“Sees you in a dress or sees that you would like a dress?”
“Dat I like dress.”
“It is not bad to like wearing dresses. I like them sometimes.”
“Aber, you are eine Frau … a voman.”
“Alright, but I dress like a man and like that too.”
“I alzo like you dress like a man.”
“Thank you – danke. … Do you mind that Becky gave you a girl’s name, Hannah?”
“Ich bin .. I am Hans, aber Hannah is a gut name.”
“Yes, Hannah is a pretty name.”
He smiled.
“Would you like me to call you Hannah?”
“Ya. I like ven you call me Hannah.”
“Then I will.”
“Danke.”
“Are you a girl inside, Hannah?”
“Nein! Ich weiss nicht, kein Mädchen, kein Junge.”
“I do not understand, English please.”
“Not a girl. Not a boy like de oter boys – a boy who vants to vear de dress of eine girl ist not a boy.”
“Have you worn a dress before?”
“Vone time I tell mama I kranke, sick, ven my family, it goes zur Kirke … to de church. Den I vear my sister dress.”
“Did that feel good?”
“Ya. I not bin für pants made – für dresses. Ich hoffe, eines Tages eine Frau zu sein.”
“English please.”
“I hope … I vill be a vife one day.”
“That is possible.”
“Möglich?“
“It can be.”
“Nein. I vant a vife für you to be, aber it never be zo.
“Well maybe not me, but someone will love you.”
“In dress?”
“Yes.”
“Nein, I vill go to Hölle ... hell. Mein fater, he says.”
“God will not send you to hell for being how He made you. If He made you to be a wife, He will be happy when you are a wife.”
“Is truth?”
“Yes, is truth. If you like dresses, wear dresses and be happy and proud, Hannah. ... Now, you will wake slowly and feel wonderful.”
He slowly returned.
“How do you feel Hannah?”
“Wunderbar!”
I hugged him and got a warm hug back.
“Hannah, you need to pay Becky for her dress and bonnet.”
“I vill.”
I looked at him. You look a little pale dear.” I found my lip rouge and put a touch of color on his lips and beardless cheeks.
Putting his arm on mine, I said, “Let's go for a walk on the deck before it gets too hot.”
Shortly, pistons hissed, the side wheels started turning and the Linn backed into the Ohio. Half a mile ahead I saw a boat with “Wheeling” on its side turning downstream.
Because of his slight build, Hans was already an alto, but the cadence of his voice was epicene rather than feminine. If Hannah was to be accepted, her intonation would need to be more feminine. I spent an hour walking the promenade of the cabin deck with her, helping with her voice. It would not erase years of habit, but progress was made. At the end, I escorted her to the lady’s cabin, where she could listen to the piano and singing while taking refreshment.
Becky soon followed, driven in from the awning between the women’s and men’s cabins by a torrential downpour that broke upon us. She looked discouraged, for her hairdressing offers had either been met with disdain, or politely rejected.
“I have an idea, Becky. You need a subject to exemplify your work.”
“I don’ understand dem big words.”
“Well, if the ladies saw you working on someone – who turned out beautiful – they might give you their custom.”
“Who do dat? Your hair be way too short.”
“He, he. No, not me. Sandy or Hannah, or maybe both.”
“You got sumpin der girl!”
“I’ll get Sandy.”
She was playing a board game, Pope and Pagan, with three girls and a young boy. The game aimed to instill children with both Christian virtue and a horror of papism and the religions of the East. After my experience with Fr. Albright, I was uneasy at this line of education, and so had no scruple in interrupting.
“Sandy, your hair is a mess, I want to let the colored woman have a go at it.”
She looked puzzled, then got the idea. “Yes, my curls are strung out. Do you think she could fix them?”
“I believe she could – and she is only charging girls 25c. … If you girls like how she does Sandy’s hair, you could ask your mothers if she can do yours.”
The girls seemed excited at the prospect and watched closely as Becky washed and used her tongs to curl Sandy’s hair. When she was done, they ran to find their mothers. Later, I repeated the performance with Hannah.
When the rain ceased, I went to the bow to take in the river. About noon, the Linn reached Wheeling, Virginia. There it loaded three heavy wagons with its steam boom while their oxen were herded up the gangway. Meanwhile, the Wheeling passed out of sight downriver.
I luncheoned in the men’s cabin – a most unpleasant experience during which I almost choked on cigar smoke, much to the amusement of the older men. Finishing as quickly as possible, I took a mug of tea to the bow, only to find the stench of manure unbearable. Eventually, I found a wonderful vantage on the roof of the crew’s quarters near the pilot house. The master, sitting on a stool near the pilot, nodded at me and returned to his business.
The view was magnificent as we passed 100 feet under the first cables of the bridge Charles Ellet was building for the National Road – the longest in the world at 1,010 feet.* I felt proud to be part of a country making such progress, and wished I could contribute more to it.
As the Linn gathered speed, the rushing wind refreshed me. My hair blew as only a boy’s could. I wondered, would I ever go back to being a girl? I was lost in my reverie when I heard a voice next to me.
“That’s a nasty scar there on the back o’ yer head, lad.” It was Captain Burch.
“How?”
“The wind kicked yer hair up, I hope yer not mindin’ me askin ’bout it. … How’d ya come by it?”
I thought how I should respond. “You saw Sandy at breakfast. I am the child’s tutor. I was shot in a kidnap attempt.”
“Oh, so that’s why you have that lump of a gun in yer trouser pocket. … Yes I saw it when you was in the galley, but I says ‘Maybe the lad has his reasons.’”
“Yes, Sandy’s uncle gave it to me to protect the child.”
“Well, so long as it stays in yer pocket.”
“I have no plan to use it.”
“Good! … You seem interested in the river.”
“I am.”
“Would you like to see in the pilothouse?”
“Very much.”
“You may, but only when I invite you – an’ only if you don’t ever talk to the pilot or to me when I’m busy.”
“You are the master!”
“That I be.”
The pilothouse was dominated by a many-handled wheel to guide the boat. It was so big – maybe 6 feet across – that the deck was cut away to accommodate its lower portion. Next to it was a pedal to sound the whistle. Above were wires running across the roof from left to right ending in pull rings. These sounded bells to signal the engineer of his duty. I thanked the captain for his kindness and returned to my place.
Shortly, the rain returned with a vengeance and I retired to our stateroom for a nap. I was awakened when Becky and Hannah brought us supper from the lady’s table.
“Look at what dey’s cooked,” Becky enthused. There was fish, two kinds of meat, vegetables, potatoes, muffins, pie slices and more on the tray she carried – too much, I feared, for the four of us. I was wrong, for we were ravenous and consumed the lot! I felt at once quite sated and guilty for my gluttony.
During dinner, Becky dominated the conversation. “I’s goin’ be rich! Look here! I make $1.50 t’day. One lady, she want me for to be a maid, but I says no – cuz I be makin more dis way. Besides, when she see I got me a baby inside, she be firin' me.”
“I am very happy for you dear.”
“Thank you Miss Nancy! I’s got you to thank!”
“I just got you started. You did the work.”
After dinner, Sandy brought out a deck of cards he had been given and taught us a card game her mother had taught her, called "whist." We played a number of hands, with Sandy and I, as partners, winning most of the early ones and Becky and Hannah winning more later. We played until it was too dark to read the cards by the cabin lamp, then retired.
In the morning, I again rose at first light. The Linn was tied to some trees along the north bank and the captain was using a speaking trumpet to direct the crew in freeing the boat. This did not require going ashore as the ropes had been looped about the trees with both ends secured to the vessel. So, they had only to loosen one end and pull in upon the other.
Once we were safely underway, the master invited me to join him in the galley. He directed Johnson, the colored cook, to bring me ham, "grits" or white corn meal, and eggs as he consumed thick coffee.
“So, how old be you, Bill?”
“Sixteen years, sir.”
“And where be yer parents?”
“Both dead, sir – taken by the yellow jack along with John, my older brother, when I was but eight years.”
“That be sad. I lost my wife and daughter to cholera last year.”
“I am sorry to hear of it,” as I truly was.
A wave of emotion passed over him, but he was soon in control again. “So, what are you thinking of doing by way of a trade – once you have done yer duty by the child?”
“I do not know, sir. Maybe be a private tutor as I am now, or teach in a school. I met a priest on the way to Pittsburgh who offered admission to the university in St. Louis – if I can afford it.”
“That seems a tame life for an adventurous lad like you.”
“Perhaps, but as we passed under Mr. Ellet’s bridge at Wheeling, it put me to mind that I want to do something to build this country. If I knew more, I might.”
“A noble thought lad. … I can see it in you that you like the river.”
“I do. The water … it turns in ways almost magical.”
“You know, steamboats be the life of this country – from Pittsburgh to N’Orleans – and into the Missouri country, we be what ties the country together.”
“I can see that.”
“So, I was thinking …” He paused almost in embarrassment. “Maybe – when yer duty be done by the child – being as you are an orphan and all – you might want to ’prentice with me?”
“I am honored by the offer. I will need time to consider it.”
“Of course! Of course! … Here’s my address in Cairo. You can write me there.”
“I will, regardless of what I decide.”
“Well, you best see to your litl’ crew. When yer done, you can join me in the pilothouse if it suits you.”
My three girls were sharing breakfast in our cabin. I chatted with them a while. Then Sandy when off to play and Becky to meet a woman she had been unable to serve the day before. Poor Hannah did not know what to do when I suggested she stroll among the deck passengers where I heard German spoken. So, I was left free to join the captain in the pilothouse.
He smiled broadly when he saw me – almost relieved that he had not alienated me. He spent the morning teaching me the rudiments of river reading. A vee in the water betokened a snag. A pattern of ripples, up-welling and smooth water signaled a bar, and so on. In the afternoon he schooled me in the engine bell and whistle. For example, five short blasts called the crew to quarters for an emergency while five long blasts called aid to a vessel in distress.
We passed innumerable landings, only stopping when someone flagged us or a passenger was to be put off. These stops took only a minute. The Linn would gently run aground, holding herself in place by slow turns of her great wheels, lower her gang plank for maybe 15-30 seconds, then back off and be on her way once more. About 8:30 or 9:00 we again tied up as navigating low water on a moonless night was dangerous.
We had a longer stop in Cincinnati where we unloaded the wagons and their oxen, and took on machinery for Paducah. That gave me time to visit the telegraph office. There I found a message from three days earlier.
Van der Leyden arrested. Proceeding St. Louis via your route. Karl.
Once we were underway again, the captain told me about the Falls of the Ohio at Louisville. These are not a fall like Niagara. Instead, the river drops 22 feet in a series of rapids – although during low water a single drop of four feet was exposed. In the past, boats had unloaded above the Falls at Louisville, and reloaded below it. Now, there was a canal we would lock through. He invited me to join him in the pilothouse to take all this in.
As we approached, I was back in the pilothouse. From my vantage I could see a chain of islands ahead with white water on either side. The captain lent me his glass to examine the scene. Scanning, I pointed out a man on a point spying us.
“That’s the mouth of Beargrass Creek, where boats wait their turn to enter the canal. We shall be there shortly.”
As the captain said this, I saw the man running back from the point, waving his arm to signal come ahead. We were nearly to the creek mouth when two black plumes shot up over the trees. Soon the Wheeling emerged under full steam -- headed straight for us.
Captain Burch yelled, “Bastard! Hard a port! Sound the alarm.” The pilot spun the wheel as fast as he could, and stomped five short blasts. Meanwhile, the captain yanked the engine bells. The left engine hastened, while the right machinery screeched, emitted a great cloud of steam and halted. The Linn’s timbers shuddered and creaked as her starboard wheel stopped. The captain rang again and slowly, but with increasing speed, the right wheel reversed. The bow swung toward the mid-river islands, then passed into open water on the Indiana side. The engine bell rang again, the engineer responded with a short blast of his ready whistle, and the right wheel reversed once more. I could hear John and James swearing as they hurled log after log into the furnaces. Jets of flame shot from our stacks as we sped forward faster than ever before. My tension faded at the captain’s adroit avoidance of collision.
My relief was short lived. The Wheeling was in full pursuit and our speed was alarming – faster than the train to Manhattan. How could that be? Looking down, the river’s smooth passage to the sea had become a tumultuous boil sweeping us irresistibly on.
Meanwhile, as the Wheeling passed the head of the island chain, both its wheels shuddered and reversed. They spun back mightily, but to no avail. The current swept her after us.
Why were we not fighting the current as was the Wheeling? Instead, the captain and pilot worked the helm furiously: first right, then left, as our wheels drove us on. I prayed that God guide our passage. In my prayer it came to me that we could only steer by going forward. This was confirmed when the Wheeling emitted five long whistle blasts. Her stern was moving left and her bow right. Her wheels stopped and began turning forward, but it was too late. Her bow struck an outcrop and held fast. As her stern swung round, the current tipped her sideways, submerging her left boiler. It exploded with such force that fragments of her works rained down upon us – 300 yards away. I could only pray for those aboard as steam enveloped her. Then, a second explosion echoed the first.
Ahead, a thin line of boiling water extended from bank to bank. The Linn’s bow passed over it with a horrid scrapping before we, like the Wheeling, were held fast – our foredeck hanging four feet in the air. Our timbers moaned their death knell. If only I could swim! I prayed desperately as the Linn gradually tipped forward – despite her bulk being above the falls! The impounded water lifted our stern and then, suddenly, shot us over and drove our bow into the river. A huge wave carried away all that was loose on the foredeck. I was commending my soul to God when the bow rose, the water drained, and the river calmed. Ahead, two rapids ruffled, but did not boil, the river. The pilot stood alone at the wheel as Captain Burch rang the engines down to standard and sent the second officer to inspect the boat.
------------
* John Roebling, who competed for the Wheeling bridge contract and later designed the Brooklyn Bridge, predicted that Ellet’s bridge would fail in high winds. Shortly after 3:00 PM on May 17, 1854, it did. http://www.historic-structures.com/wv/wheeling/wheeling_susp...
I remained unnoticed in my corner of the pilothouse to watch the Linn navigate the lower rapids. After my previous terror, their passage was unmemorable – no more than a quickening of our pace. I was about to check on my companions when the second officer returned.
“Damage report, sir.”
“Yes?”
“A number of hull planks in the bow section cracked and leaking, but the steam pump is keeping up. The worst is a four-foot crack along the keel with a break on the bottom. Four joining ribs cracked as well. The grain in the hold is soaked and ruined.”
“Is there immediate danger?”
“No. I have deck passengers throwing the wet sacks over. The carpenter and his mate are shoring the frame, but he says she needs yard work. Also, he requires more sawn lumber for temporary repairs.”
“Thank you, Jim. We’ll put in at Portland. Go below and supervise the work. I’ll come down when we’ve landed.”
Turning to the pilot, he ordered. “Put in at Portland. Be easy with it – we want no further damage.”
“Aye, Aye.”
“Bill, you might as well come with me.”
The captain took his speaking trumpet and went to first to the gentlemen’s cabin, as it was just below, then to the portico, the lady’s cabin and finally the cargo deck. In each place, he addressed the passengers:
“We experienced difficulties and were swept into the Falls, but are safe now. Another boat, the Wheeling attempted to come to our aid, but was lost to the boiler explosions you heard. We are putting into Portland to effect temporary repairs. Thence, we shall proceed at half speed to Cairo and up the Mississippi to St. Louis, where there are yards able to put the Linn right. In other words, we shall not go to New Orleans as planned – nor shall we stop again before St. Louis unless forced by circumstances.
“So, any passengers not wishing to go to St. Louis should depart the vessel. Those doing so will receive a pro rata from the purser. Those wishing to go to St. Louis may stay aboard at no additional fare.”
After hearing him speak so the first time, asked, “Why did you say the Wheeling had come to our aid?”
“Two reasons, lad. First, one should speak no ill of the dead. Second, if there were an inquiry, the apostles might be returned to their former condition.”
“So they were not held illegally?”
“Only by God’s law, Bill. … So, take care what story you tell ashore. Remember, Kentucky is a slave state.”
“Aye, aye. I will.”
I saw a shaken Hannah in the portico, clinging to the arm of a sturdy Teuton. Blond and at least 6 feet, he was of about twenty years. Except for the general confusion, he could not have been there, for his shabby suit marked him a deck passenger. After beckoning to her, I followed the captain to the lady’s cabin to find Sandy and rejoin my friends.
While my little crew wished to go on to St. Louis, most of the other cabin passengers disembarked along with half of the deck passengers. Those who remained were mostly Oregon bound and glad to be taken further gratis.
That settled, I asked Hannah about her new friend.
“You say go find German deck folk to talk. I vas talking mit two girls ven one, she says I am boy in dress. Den, some boys call me names. I am crying. Fritz, he come and tell dem not be doing dat. Den, he puts arm on my shoulder and take me ven begin die Aufregung.”
“You mean when the trouble started?”
“Ja. He holds me tight ven de boat front unter vater goes. So, I ein Kuss him give.”
“Does he know you are a boy?”
“Ja. He like me zo. He says I am schön – pretty. I alzo like him. He ist ein hübscher mann – handsome. He goes to Oregon.”
“Does he want you to go with him?”
“Ve muss better to know – Fritz und me.”
“Know each other better?”
“Ja.”
“I hope he is nice. Be careful.”
“I alzo hope. I vill.”
As I had no idea what to do with Hans when we reached St. Louis, I hoped Fritz would prove kind. Perhaps real shipboard romances happened as they did in books.
It took the better part of a day to make temporary repairs to the Linn. A train of sweaty men, accompanied by a cacophony of hammering and sawing, carried heavy timbers up the gangway and down below. The temperature on deck was 100, and the air a soup of humidity and mosquitoes. I was driven back in my one trip below by even more intolerable conditions.
I went to my perch on the hurricane deck in search of a breeze. There was some slight relief, but I still had to take off my jacket and waistcoat to dry my soaked shirt. The captain was in the shade of the pilot house going over a set of plans with the ship’s carpenter. When they finished, he looked up and saw me.
“Bill, dear, if you are going to remove your jacket, you will need to wrap some towels about your waist, for you have given away your secret, lass. Your shoulders are broad and your hair short, but your waist could only belong to a girl.”
“I am sorry sir, but my incognito was needed for Sandy’s safety. … Well, that is not the whole truth, for once started, I found I prefer being a boy. ... But, I especially regret having deceived you.” I hung my head in shame.
“Buck up, lad! I told you I lost a daughter. I did not say she was a tomboy who preferred my old cabin boy uniform to any dress her mother sewed. She spoke constantly of wanting to master a boat as I do. I loved her as she was. So do I you. … The offer to ‘prentice stands.”
Tear rolled out of my eyes. “Thank you, sir.”
In the meantime survivors, casualties and bodies from the Wheeling kept coming in. Most of her crew were stationed near the boilers, so the few who survived were mostly cabin attendants.
I spread Captain Burch’s tale of the Wheeling’s heroism. The townsfolk readily accepted it, but the surviving crew were quite skeptical as they knew their captain well. Still, nothing they saw contradicted the story.
Many from the town and both boats, including Sandy and I, attended a Presbyterian service mourning the dead, praying for the wounded and giving thanks for those who survived. At the same time, a German pastor held a similar service outdoors for his compatriots.
One of the survivors was a baby of six months named Anna Zimmerman. Its parents had attached blocks of cork to her basket for the crossing from Germany. So, she floated away unharmed. The parents were less fortunate. Her father was fatally maimed and her mother could not be found. Hannah’s Fritz knew the parents from the crossing. So, when no relative stepped forward to take the child, he felt obliged to do so.
Passengers and townsfolk contributed clothes and napkins for Anna. Hannah, in particular, responded to her maternally -- taking charge of her care. She even attempted to nurse Anna in her office, but to no avail. On seeing this, I gave Hannah some doses of black cohosh and explained how to make more of the potion.
The next day the bow was sufficiently reinforced for us to proceed.
What to do about Sandy?
Helen Manotti had tried everything – roughhousing, spending hours playing catch, Little League, even a martial arts class. The last ended when she found him in tears over the idea of possibly hurting someone. Since then, she’d twice had to collect him from school with wet pants because he was afraid to use the boys’ room. The first time someone told him there were giant roaches in it. The second time it was spiders eating the roaches. Helen put him in pull-ups to avoid further embarrassment, and he’d wet them more than once. In the end, home schooling seemed the only choice.
Along with home schooling, Helen decided that Sandy needed to start taking some responsibility around the house. He was given list of chores. While the weather was bad, these were be indoor jobs like dusting, dishwashing and simple laundry, but he was told that, come spring, outdoor tasks would be added.
It was a lovely spring day and she’d decided to take his lessons out under their backyard maple. Sandy wouldn’t sit on the grass without a towel under him because there were “things crawling in it.” That was when Helen finally decided he was a hopeless sissy, and protecting him from reality wasn’t doing him a favor. If you have lemons, make lemonade, she mused. During Sandy’s afternoon nap, she worked on a project using a photo of him, catalogue cut-outs and a post it glue stick.
The next day, they were under the maple when a caterpillar dropped on him. He started screaming and dancing around hysterically until she caught him, brushed it off and held him tight. By then he had wet himself.
She led him to the bathroom and laid him on the counter, where she removed his wet shorts and stained underpants. As she cleaned him up with baby wipes, she said, “Sandy you’re a complete sissy. Only a little girl would act like you just did. I’ve been negligent letting you get away with it. Starting now, each time you act like a girl, you’ll dress a little more like a girl so you can see just what a sissy you are.”
“I’m not a sissy. I’m just scared of bugs.”
Helen silently led the half naked boy to her craft room. “I’m putting this poster on your bedroom wall. It will help you decide what kind of girls’ things you want. Here, in the middle, is you.” She showed him his face and body with a tee shirt, underpants, shorts, and shoes pasted to it. She removed his shorts and underpants and placed them on the left to reflect his current state of dress. “Here, on the right, are cutouts of girls’ clothes, hair and accessories you can choose from. Now choose the girl’s item you want, and then you can put the appropriate boys’ clothes back.”
“I’m a boy. I don’t want girl’s clothes.” Tears were forming in his eyes. A funny feeling started inside of him as he looked over the clothes on the poster, imagining for the first time that he might be wearing them.
“I know you want to be a little girl because that’s how you act. Of course, you don’t have to choose. I can choose for you. Here’s a lovely pink dress you might like and here’s a tunic and Capri set you’d look darling in. Now do you want me to choose, or will you tell me what you want to wear.”
Sandy went to the poster and pasted tops, shorts and shoes over his body, trying to decide what would look less girly. Finally, he said, “Panties.” No one could see them under his boy clothes.
“‘Panties’ is not a sentence. Now tell me in a complete sentence what you want to wear.”
“I don’t want to wear anything.”
“You can’t go around nude. I think you’d look pretty in a tunic and Capri set, don’t you? Last chance, is there anything you want to wear for mommy?”
“I want to wear panties.”
“That’s better. The only problem is that I don’t have your size panties because I never thought you’d want to wear them. So, we need to buy some.”
“Can’t you just buy them while I stay home?”
“I could, but then I might get a kind you wouldn’t like.”
“I’d like any kind of panties, mommy, really,” the frightened boy said without thinking.
“Well, that’s good to know, but if you’re going to be wearing panties, it’s best if you learn about the various kinds.”
“I’m scared. People will laugh at me if they see me buying panties.”
“You’re always scared. Are you so scared that mommy should put you in pull-ups?”
Sandy gave it serious thought. He was almost that scared. He imagined wetting himself while panty shopping as everyone laughed. Still, wearing pull-ups at age 8 made him feel like a sissy. “I don’t know,” he said half to himself.
“Well, if you don’t know, better safe than sorry. Go potty, put on a pull-up and shorts, and come right back.” He relaxed. It was much nicer when mommy decided for him.
Helen drove to a shopping center near their home. When they arrived she told him, “If you behave and don’t complain, I may buy you a new toy. If you misbehave, not only will you not get your toy, I’ll buy you the frilliest dress I can find. Do you understand?”
“Yes, mommy.”
“Good, now hold my hand and stay near me. I don’t want you wandering off.” Sandy felt like a toddler holding his mother’s hand – a feeling reinforced by the pull-up under his shorts. He was scared, even though he didn’t know what he was scared of. He was happy Helen held his hand reassuringly.
Helen grabbed a cart and pushed it against the flow of exiting shoppers. Among them, Sandy saw Steve Rudger, 9, a boy from his former school, coming towards him, holding a bag. “How sweet, baby San-dee, holding mommy’s hand like a good little sissy. Are you wearing your pull-up, baby?” Sandy’s face flushed with embarrassment. He was about to make a rude remark when he felt his mother’s hand tighten.
“None of your business, Stevie,” he said in a polite tone. His mother didn’t know Steve hated to be called “Stevie.”
Just as things were about to escalate, Steve’s mother came up. “Steve, leave that little girl alone. I don’t know what you said, but it obviously embarrassed her.” She grabbed his hand and pulled him along toward the exit.
“I’m proud of you, Sandy.” He’d gotten away with tweaking “Stevie,” but came out on the short end by being called a girl by his mother. Could Steve really tell he was wearing a pull-up? Mommy was right, he was a sissy.
“Mom, Steve’s mom thought I was a girl.”
“That’s because you act like a girl.” Meanwhile she’d pushed her cart though the girls’ department to the underwear shelves. Helen looked at a sizing chart, then at the selections and prices. Sandy thought she’d choose without him, but once she found several packages that suited her budget, she handed them to him to select which panties he wanted. “OK, Sandy choose. Which do you like best?”
“Can’t I have boy’s underpants?”
“No, you told me you wanted panties. Where you lying? The longer you put off choosing, the longer we’ll be here. Now pick some and tell me why you like the ones you choose.”
At first he just wanted to throw a package in the cart choose as quickly as possible. Then he realized that he’d be wearing whatever he chose, and surprised Helen by looking carefully at each of five or six packages. He rejected the package of floral print panties. “These are too girly.” A package of nine had two pair with butterfly prints. ”I like the butterflies on these, mommy.”
“So, you want to wear what is in this package?” He did not notice that the nine panties came bundled with 4 camisoles.
“Yes, mommy,” he said quietly.
Helen felt she’d stressed Sandy enough and was proud of his lack of complaint. He was very relieved when they left girls’ clothing and headed for toys. Sandy had some Lego Sets, but had never played with them. Helen saw the “Friends” series of Legos for girls, and put the Heartlake City Pool and Andrea’s Bedroom sets in their cart. Sandy didn’t complain, as he didn’t want to upset his mother. On the way to check out, an end cap had Jr. Miss Makeup Sets for ages 7 to 10. Helen took one.
When they got home, she asked, “Honey, did you wet your pull-up while we were shopping?”
“No, mommy. I almost did a couple of times, like when I saw Steve Rudger and when I was choosing the panties.”
“I’m proud of you. You’re too big to be wearing pull-ups and they’re going in the trash along with your old underpants. I expect you to keep your new panties clean and dry.”
Sandy blushed. “But, mommy, what if I get scared and wet?”
“That’s something a big boy wouldn’t do. If you wet, you will choose another item on your poster. Now pick a pair of panties and put them on.” He picked a mint green pair with red and magenta butterflies. They felt nice. Once he pulled up his shorts no one could tell he was wearing panties, so he relaxed and forgot about them.
Helen had ordered pepperoni pizza, and they watched a DVD of “Annie” as they ate. It was only 8:00 when the movie ended, but Sandy was exhausted. He usually slept in his underpants, but Helen gave him a camisole as well. It was plain with pink trim and a little bow at the neck.
“I don’t want to wear this, mommy.”
“When you chose your panties you said you’d wear what was in the package and this was in it.” Sandy felt cheated winding up with two items on the poster, but did not want to whine like a little girl. He put on his cami. Helen kissed him on the forehead and he went to sleep.
In the morning, Sandy came down to breakfast in his underwear, per usual. Helen reasoned he was a sloppy eater and there was less washing if he didn’t get dressed until after breakfast. His reason was he was he woke up hungry, and dressing only delayed eating. Of course, this morning his underwear was green panties and a pink trimmed cami. He didn’t seem to notice or mind, so breakfast went on as usual.
As Sandy was finishing his cereal, the doorbell rang. It was May Kowalski from across the street. May was a substitute teacher, and had a daughter, Shannon, 5-1/2, whom Helen watched when May worked. Sandy and Shannon got along well enough, though they usually played separately. She shared whatever treats her mother provided with Sandy. So she was one of the few children Sandy wasn’t scared of. Nor was it unusual for Shannon to come into the kitchen while Sandy was eating breakfast in his underwear.
“Hi, Sandy. Are you a girl today?” she asked innocently. Sandy suddenly realized he was wearing a cami and panties.
“My mom says I’ve been acting like a girl, so she bought me these things,” said the blushing boy.
“Those are really pretty panties. All mine are plain colors. I wish I could have butterflies like you.” Sandy’d been worrying about being caught in girl’s clothes, so the idea of Shannon wishing she had such nice panties came as a surprise.
“Thanks. I chose these because I like butterflies.”
“You’re so lucky. My mom says I’m too little for print panties. Maybe when I’m six or seven, she said.
“So, you are a girl now, Sandy?”
“Sort of a girl, mommy says I’m a sissy.”
“A sissy! Will you be my sissy? I don’t have any brothers or sissies, so I’d really like to be sissies. Will you be, pretty pleeeze?”
Sandy had a kind heart and didn’t want to disappoint the little girl. “We could try it for today.”
“Thank you, thank you!” Shannon threw her arms around him and gave him a kiss on the cheek.
Helen had been listening in the dining room and now came into the kitchen. “Maybe Shannon would like to play with your new Legos?”
“What new Legos?”
“I bought you two new ‘Friends’ sets yesterday. Don’t you remember?”
“I guess my head was full of panties.”
“Well, I did. They’re on your dresser. Why don’t you put on blue shorts so Shannon and you match?”
“OK, mommy.”
“Mrs. Manotti?”
“Yes, dear?”
“Can I wear a cami like Sandy’s, then we’d really look like sissies?”
“If Sandy’s willing to share. Sandy, may Shannon wear one of your new camisoles?”
“Yes, mommy.” For some reason, he was glad Shannon wanted to wear his things, and she was thrilled to be dressed like her new “big sissy.” Of course, the cami was big on Shannon, but then dress-up clothes often are.
Sandy was disappointed that his new Legos were girls’ sets, but, again, part of him was happy to have something to share with Shannon. At first, he played along with her imaginative stories about the Lego girls, but soon had ideas of his own. When Helen came with milk and cookies at 10:00, both were giggling and talking for the Lego dolls.
After they tired of Legos, they worked on Shannon’s Disney Princess coloring books until lunch. After their nap, Shannon wanted to play with Sandy’s sissy poster, dressing him in various ways, and saying how lucky he was his mommy wanted to get him such pretty clothes. Sandy had mixed feelings, but for the first time appreciated that the cutout clothes looked nice, even if he didn’t want to wear them.
At 3:00, Shannon changed back into the top she came in and gathered her things. She gave Sandy a kiss, told him that he was “the bestest big sissy in the world” and looked sad to go. Shortly, May showed up and saw Sandy in his cami for the first time.
“Why is Sandy wearing a camisole?”
“Remember, I told you how hard I’ve been trying to help him be more manly. Nothing’s worked. So now when he’s girlish, he has to choose a girl’s item to show how feminine he acts. It’s not a punishment, just helping him see the meaning of his behavior.”
“It’s a bit weird, don’t you think?”
“Well, yesterday, Sandy screamed like a girl and wet himself because a caterpillar fell on him. What would you have done? I let him choose a girl’s item he wanted to wear, and he chose panties. When we bought them, he chose a package with nine panties and four camis.”
“So, he’s wearing panties too?”
“Show Ms. Kowalski, Sandy.” The embarrassed boy pushed down his shorts until his panties showed. Despite herself, May could not help laughing.
“Is it doing any good?” May asked.
“I don’t know that it’s helping him be more of a boy, but he was certainly nicer to Shannon today. Instead of just ignoring her, they played and giggled all day today.”
“Is that right Shannon?”
“Yes, mommy. We had the mostest fun. Sandy is my big sissy now!” she beamed.
“It’s definitely weird, Helen, but it seems to be turning out well. So I guess it is OK.
“Look, Helen, they want me for the rest of the week, maybe longer. Could you watch Shannon? I’ll pay you.”
“Shannon’s such a doll, there’s no need to pay me. Maybe I’ll ask a favor later?”
“That’d be lovely. Thank you so much.” With that May and Shannon left.
“Sandy, did you have a good time with Shannon today?”
“Yes, mommy. I really did. She pretended we were sisters. I was the big sister and got to decide what to do. I liked that … I mean being looked up to, not being a sister.”
“You could have played with her like that last week, before you started wearing panties.”
“It didn’t seem right. I mean boys don’t play with little girls like that.”
“But, today you did.”
“Well, I was wearing my cami, and Shannon wanted to dress like me. It seemed natural, not like I was a boy playing girl games.”
Helen mused that whatever the reason, dressing as a girl was making Sandy a happier child. “Whatever it was, I’m proud at you for being a good big sister and making Shannon happy. By the way, if you want, you can take off your cami and put on a tee-shirt.”
“I wore it all day. There’s no point in changing now.”
“OK, sweetie.”
Things went smoothly until Helen asked him to put the scraps in the trash after dinner. “Eeek! Oh, oh!” The panicked boy screamed. His mother turned to see him wetting his shorts.
“What is it?”
“A mouse! A mouse!” Looking, she saw a dead mouse in the trap she’d placed by the wastebasket. Sandy was breathless and shaking.
“It’s dead, dear. It won’t bite. You’re acting like a little girl again.”
“I don’t care. Take it away! Take it away!”
She held Sandy by the shoulders, and turned him toward her, holding him until he calmed down. “Sandy, I’m going to give you a chance to be a big boy. If you do what I say, you can stop wearing panties. But if you don’t you’ll have two girl items to add to your wardrobe. Do you understand?”
“Yes, mommy,” said the breathless boy.
“OK, if you pick up the trap and the mouse and throw them in the outside trash, you can go back to boy’s clothes.”
“Pick up the mouse!?”
“Yes. So, do you want to be a big boy or a sissy?”
“I don’t want to touch it!”
“You do not have to touch it. You can use a paper towel to grab it. OK?”
“No, I don’t want to touch it. I’ll wear a dress. Don’t make me touch it. Please!”
Helen was furious. What would her dead husband think of how she was raising his son? She’d given Sandy a chance to stop being a sissy, and he’d rather wear a dress. Disgusted, she picked up the trap by its edges and threw it out. She felt like spanking him and humiliating him by parading him in public in his wet shorts. Fortunately, her maternal instincts were stronger than her anger. She remembered how sweet Sandy’d been with Shannon, and decided that “manning him up” was hopeless. It was best to let him be a sissy and see what good might come of it. By the time she was changing him on the bathroom counter, the peak of her anger had passed. Still, she couldn’t help thinking of him as a baby girl. Maybe she should put him back in diapers – he’d wet himself twice this week. Maybe it was just her anger and disappointment urging her to humiliate him. She’d decide when she was calmer.
Either way, she already had a plan to deal with his sissy behavior. Here were two new acts. The first had been spontaneous, and might be forgivable, but the second had been a deliberate choice to wear a dress rather than be manly.
“You said you wanted to wear a dress. I can get you one and something else for screaming and wetting like a little girl, or I can let you off with some shorts and top sets – including a skirt. Do you really want a dress?”
“No, mommy. I just didn’t want to touch the mouse. I’ll wear the shorts and tops.”
“You know that one of the shorts will be a short skirt?”
“Yes, mommy.” Sandy’s heart was racing. He was scared of someone seeing him shopping for girls’ clothes. Still, after playing big sister to Shannon, he was curious to see how it would feel to dress more girlish. A skirt was both repulsive and strangely alluring. Wearing one would cross a line boys didn’t.
Helen left him in his cami and added denim shorts. He felt very self-conscious leaving the house for the first time in girls’ clothes. His clothes might have let him pass for a girl, but he’d combed his hair like a boy and looked very much a sissy. They went to Ross instead of the big box store where they’d bought his panties. Helen explained about colors and sent him find three pair of inexpensive girls’ shorts and coordinating tops while she watched from a distance.
The store wasn’t crowded. Still, at least three other mothers and daughters were looking through the same section. While two simply stole glances and whispered, a husky girl his age watched him unabashedly while her mother wondered off to women’s wear.
“I never saw a boy shopping for girls’ shorts. Are they for you? Nice cami, by the way.” Her tone was friendly and not mocking. Nevertheless, he felt like a deer caught in headlights as he held a pair of pink knit shorts.
“Yes. They are. I’m a sissy. I mean I’m afraid of things boys aren’t supposed to be and scream like a girl a when bugs get on me. My mom said since I act like a girl, I should dress like one. Tonight I screamed about a dead mouse in the pantry. I wouldn’t pick it up and take it out when she asked me. So, now I have to buy myself three sets of tops and shorts.” He wasn’t sure why he was telling her, but she seemed nice and his story seemed to come out almost by itself.
“Do you mind? Wearing girl’s clothes I mean?”
“They seem nice enough. I just don’t want people laughing at me.”
“Then why did you comb your hair like a boy? The rest of you could be a girl, but not your hair.”
“I didn’t think about it.”
“May I fix it?”
“Yes, please.”
“You’re a very polite boy, sissy. Do you have a name?” She said as she gave him a feminine hairstyle by parting his hair in the middle and combing his bangs forward.
“Sandy.”
“Hi, Sandy. I’m Joanne. Do you want to show me what you picked out so far? One of the fun things about being a girl is shopping together. Do you mind if I shop with you?”
Sandy looked two aisles over to his mother, who feigned disinterest. “I, I guess it would be OK as long as you don’t make fun of me.”
“Oh, I won’t. You’re too interesting to make fun of. So, what have you picked out?”
“I found these blue shorts with brass buttons, and this white and blue striped top to go with them.”
“That’s a scooped neck tank top and it really does go with the shorts. You have good taste for a boy,” she said with a reassuring smile. “What else?”
“I was looking at these pink shorts. I know boys aren’t supposed to like pink, but they’re such a happy color. I mean if I’m going to wear girls’ clothes anyway, why not? But, I can’t find any pink tops to go with them.”
“Things don’t have to be the same color to coordinate. They can be contrasting. You know about the primary colors: red, yellow and blue?”
“Yeah. I mean yes. We studied them in school.”
“Well, that pink is a red tone, and so a mix of blue and yellow is a contrast. Blue and yellow make green, so let’s see if there’s a green top to go with your pink shorts.” Joanne found a lime and white print crop top with little pink buds. “How about this?”
“That looks great together! Thank you, Joanne! You’re right! It’s fun to shop with a friend. Do you want to be my friend? Someone might laugh at you for having a sissy friend.”
“You’re not a sissy friend, Sandy. Just a friend.” Sandy felt warm inside. No one had ever called him a friend before. Truth be told, Joanne was often made fun of because of her weight, and was equally happy to find an accepting friend.
“Well, I need to get one more set, then have my mom help me find a skirt,” he blushed.
“None of your tops have sleeves. How about we start with a top this time, and find shorts to go with it?”
“I never thought of that.”
“That’s why you need a shopping buddy, Sandy. I saw an embroidered white top I would have bought, but they didn’t have it in my size. I think you’ll love it. … Here, do you like it?”
“The embroidery is so pretty. I love the green leaves and pink flowers. I really must be a sissy!”
“Who cares! If you like it, get it!”
“OK. I will. Now I need white shorts to go with it.”
“Not so fast! I don’t want to embarrass you, but do you wear colored panties?”
Sandy blushed deeply and nodded.
“Well, colored panties will show right through most white shorts, so you need to be careful. Your blouse is a western style. You could wear it with denim shorts like you have on.”
“I don’t think my mom will let me wear these – they’re not very girly.”
“Trust me, there are lots that are.” She led him to a rack of denim shorts and found a embroidered pair that went with the blouse.
“OK. That’s three sets. I have to go show my mom. Thanks for helping,” he said sadly as he pushed his cart toward his mom.
“Can’t you introduce me?”
“Do you want me to?”
“I do if you want me for a friend.”
“Oh. I do!”
“Alright then.”
Sandy introduced Joanne to his mother, saying how she helped him. Helen explained that while he was shopping, she’d found Sandy a lilac mid-calf skirt and white cap-sleeve blouse. He needed to try on their selections, as some were not returnable. Joanne asked if she could see him model his new things. Surprisingly, Sandy wanted her opinion. Nonetheless, he blushed when he emerged from the dressing room in his embroidered blouse and denim short-shorts. He relaxed when Joanne said how cute he looked.
The last outfit he tried was the skirt and blouse his mother had selected. Joanne loved it, but thought his Nikes spoiled the effect.
Helen agreed. “You’d look much nicer with proper shoes, dear. Would you mind if I got you a pair?”
“No, Nikes look silly with a skirt.” Joanne asked if she could bring a pair she’d seen and returned with black Mary Janes.
It was nearly closing, so they rushed to check out with Sandy still in his skirt, blouse and Mary Janes. The checker was unsure of Sandy’s gender, but only said, “Enjoy your purchases.” Outside, Joanne and Maria Sanchez were waiting for the Manottis. Introductions were made, phone numbers exchanged, and a tentative play date was set for the following Saturday. It was not clear if Mrs. Sanchez realized Sandy was a boy.
It was way past Sandy’s bedtime when he got home. Still, he took a minute to look in the mirror. With the hairstyle Joanne had given him, and dressed in his skirt, shear blouse, cami and Mary Janes, he looked more girl than boy. So far, dressing as a girl had been a positive experience – first with Shannon and now with Joanne. He twisted back and forth, enjoying the feeling of his skirt caressing his legs. Pleased, he brushed his teeth and went to bed.
He slept well and woke early – in time to shower and dress for breakfast. He liked the colors of his new clothes so much that even if he went back to boys’ clothes, he’d wear bright colors from now on. He tried combing his hair as Joanne had, but couldn’t. Helen was surprised to see him come down to breakfast early and fully dressed. It was a shock to see him in pink shorts and a lime crop top, but she couldn’t help noticing how cheery he was. “Do you like your new clothes?”
“I must be a sissy, because I really do. These colors make me happy.” Helen could relate to that, because some of her clothes lifted her spirits, especially after Sandy’s father had been killed in Afghanistan.
“I just wish my hair looked better,” he continued.
“I could work on your hair, or I could make a salon appointment for you.”
“I’m not ready for a salon appointment. Couldn’t you just brush it like Joanne did last night?”
“I’ll see what I can do after breakfast.”
Because of his early start they finished before May and Shannon arrived, giving Helen time to cut his bangs and brush his hair into a feminine do.
As Helen cut his bangs, she wondered if she were doing the right thing. Clothes could be easily changed when Sandy realized he was a boy. Styling his hair seemed more of a commitment. This wasn’t working out as she’d planned. She’d thought putting him in girls’ clothes would make him realize what a sissy he was – and he’d react by becoming manlier. Instead, he seemed increasingly happy with his new clothes. In fact, he was happier than he’d been since his father died. She was glad to see him alive and energetic, but fretted over where dressing as a sissy would lead.
Sandy was watching Power Puff Girls when May arrived. She had a doctor’s appointment, and asked if Shannon could stay until 5:00 instead of 3:45. Helen readily agreed, and Sandy was glad to spend more time with his newfound little sister. Shannon complimented Sandy on his hair and clothes, but wanted to dress alike, so they both changed to camis. The day went much like the previous day, with the children laughing and giggling over Legos and coloring books. After their nap, Sandy tried jumping the rope Shannon had brought, getting more exercise than he had in quite a while. As the day wore on, Helen suggested a backyard tea party.
So it was that the children were having a tea party when Steve Rudger and his sidekick Evan Wilson came through the alley gate to make fun of Sandy.
“Gawd, I can’t believe what a sissy you are Manotti. Playing tea party with a 5-year-old girl! All dressed up in a girls’ top, pink shorts and pretty shoes. I always knew you were a wimp, but I never thought you were a fag!” By now Evan was laughing at Sandy. Sandy was too surprised to react. What could he say? He was dressed like a girl from the skin out, and he liked it. Shannon, on the other hand, knew exactly what to do. She charged Steve, beating him with her fists.
“Leave my big sissy alone, you meanie! All you want to do is hurt people. Bully!” she shouted as she continued to rain blows on him. Steve wasn’t being hurt, but found her annoying and shoved her to the ground. Seeing Shannon attacked set something off in Sandy. You might call it manly resolve, or you might call it maternal instinct. Either way, Steve was going to be sorry. Using the one move he’d learned in martial arts, Sandy gave Steve a karate blow to the solar plexus that doubled him over gasping for air. Shannon, who was still on the ground, saw Steve wetting himself.
“Baby Stevie needs a diaper,” she taunted. “Go home and have your mommy change you, Betsy Wetsie!”
Evan now started laughing at Steve, who ran off in fear and humiliation at being bested by an 8-year-old sissy and wetting himself. Sandy turned toward Evan, who was barely 8, and smaller. “I’m sorry I laughed, really!” he said as he ran for home.
Helen had been upstairs when she heard Steve bullying Sandy and had hurried down to protect her charges. She reached the back door just as Steve shoved Shannon. She was stunned to see her sissy boy deck the much bigger Steve. Something was not quite right with this picture. Here was Sandy, who only a few days before had become hysterical and wet himself over a caterpillar landing on him, fearlessly attacking a much huskier boy 3” taller. She watched in silence as first Steve, and then Evan, ran off with their tails between their legs.
Sandy stood shaking as Shannon hugged him and told him what a good big sissy he was. “I’m sorry mommy. I know that fighting is no way to settle things. I just couldn’t let Steve hurt Shannon.”
“You did just the right thing. I’m very proud of you” -- and she was. Still, she was totally confused as to what kind of boy her son was. He was very much a sissy, but clearly, that was not all there was to him.
That night Mrs. Sanchez called to say that Joanne was signed up for a beginner’s sewing class Saturday morning. It would last two weeks and each girl would make herself a sundress. Would Sandy like to go with her? After being seen by Steve and Evan, Sandy no longer feared people knowing he was a sissy. The feeling was very liberating. Learning to sew like a girl, and better, making his own dresses, excited him.
Sandy was wearing his embroidered blouse and shorts when Mrs. Sanchez picked him up. The class would be two hours, and he and Joanne were partners. They learned to make measurements, select a pattern, and find a suitable fabric. He picked out a bright bird and flower print, while Joanne found a rose print that complemented her skin tone. As he was having his yardage cut, Sandy decided to buy enough to make a matching dress for Shannon. By the end of class, they’d cut all the pattern pieces.
Maria took them out for burgers. Joanne had a diet coke and Sandy had the same to be supportive. They showed Maria their patterns and fabrics and talked about how they’d look in their dresses. Sandy said he wanted to see how a sundress would feel. Maria was surprised that he’d never worn one before.
“Boys don’t get to wear sundresses, so this’ll be my first,” he said innocently.
“Boys? Are you a boy, Sandy!?” Maria said, raising her voice involuntarily. Joanne tried to signal him to say he was a girl, but failed to catch his eye.
“Yes, I was getting my first girls’ clothes when I met Joanne.”
“It is a sin for boys to wear girls’ clothes. Doesn’t your mother know anything?” With that she started in on Joanne in rapid and excited Spanish. Soon Joanne was crying and yelling at back her mother in Spanish. Finally, Maria reined her temper in. “I am sorry I made a scene, but it is a sin for boys to act like girls, and I can’t let Joanne see you again. Come along, I’ll take you home.”
By now both children were in tears, but Maria was unrelenting. She drove Sandy home, but did not get out of the car. As soon as he was in the door, she drove off with Joanne.
When he told his mother what happened, she cursed Maria as a bigoted bitch. He stared at her in wide-eyed amazement. He’d never seen her so angry or heard her using such foul language. Finally, she calmed down. “Sandy, it’s not a sin to wear whatever makes you happy. Maria comes from a very conservative culture, and doesn’t have any idea of what God really likes. I’m sure He loves you more and more everyday, just as I do. What’s really sad is loosing Joanne as a friend.”
“I miss her already,” Sandy said as tears rolled down his cheeks.
After they gathered themselves, Helen asked how the sewing class had gone. He showed her his pattern and what he’d accomplished so far. He also showed her the extra fabric to make Shannon a matching dress. Again, she was impressed by her son’s sweetness and consideration.
“Well, I don’t think you’ll be going back to that sewing class. How about I show you how to use the sewing machine, and help you finish your dress? Maybe tomorrow we can work on Shannon’s?”
“That’d be great, Mommy.”
Helen showed him how to thread the machine and practice sewing straight seams on scraps of fabric. When he finally sewed his dress, he sewed one panel wrong side up, and had to pull the threads. After that, things went easily. He was very excited by having made his very own dress and put it on immediately – twirling back and forth.
“Mommy, there were so many pretty fabrics at the store. I want to make lots more dresses! Can I?”
“Sandy, can I ask you something. Do you want to be a girl?”
“Why would I want to be a girl?”
“Lots of reasons – like you could wear beautiful clothes, marry a nice man.”
“I don’t want to marry anyone. I don’t even like any boys I know. I like Shannon and Joanne – they’re ever so much nicer than any boy.” His eyes watered thinking of Joanne. “Also, I get to wear pretty clothes now. I like being a sissy. Is that OK?”
“Yes, sweetie.” She gave him a hug and a kiss, but secretly worried.
“So, can I make more dresses?”
“As long as you wear them.”
“Thanks, mommy. Can we get more patterns and fabrics after we do Shannon’s dress tomorrow.”
“We’ll see if there’s time.”
Things went smoothly for the next two weeks. May worked regularly and Shannon was thrilled to have a dress that matched her big sissies’. Eventually, Joanne started bicycling over after school a few days a week. Sandy and she accepted each other as they were and became fast friends.
Evan came by to apologize. Helen invited him in. He was no longer paling around with Steve Rudger. In fact, he’d told Steve if he wanted what happened kept quiet, he’d better leave Sandy alone. He also said Sandy was very brave to wear what he liked. Sandy forgave him and they parted friends, but nothing further came of it because they had few common interests.
One thing that happened was that the house next door got new tenants – a forty-ish car salesman and his twenty-something girlfriend. They stayed to themselves, but Sandy often saw her from his bedroom – bulging out of her bikini as she sun bathed in her backyard. He hoped she was using sun block – otherwise she was asking for skin cancer.
Saturday morning the second week they were there, there was a knock on the door. A thin boy stood looking down when Sandy answered the door. “Ah … my dad’s girlfriend, Alison … she said there was a kid here my age. I should play with him,” he said without looking up.
“How old are you?”
“Eight ... and a half,” he said looking up for the first time and seeing Sandy in one of his new sundresses.
“Well, so am I. We can play if you like. Do you want to come in and have a cookie?”
“I guess so.” Uncertainly, the boy followed Sandy to the kitchen.
“Please sit down. Do you want milk with your cookie? I’m Sandy Manotti, by the way, and this is my mom. What’s your name?”
“Yes, please. I’m Paul O’Malley. My dad moved in next door. This is my weekend to visit him, but he’s working and Allison is too busy to watch me. She told me to go and find someone to play with. She said you were a boy.”
“I am.”
“But, you’re wearing a dress.”
“Yes, I made it myself,” said Sandy doing a twirl. “Do you like it?”
For the first time, Paul looked closely at Sandy and his dress. “Yes, it’s really nice ...”
“Thanks.”
“… but, if you’re a boy, why are you wearing a dress?”
“Because I like dresses, don’t you?”
“Yeah, yours is pretty, but I never thought boys wore them.”
“Anybody can wear what they want, if they really want to. Don’t you think?”
“I never thought about it.”
“Well, now you have. How’s your cookie?”
“It’s delicious.”
“My mom and I made them yesterday,” said Sandy as he bit into his own.
“You’re very different, Sandy.”
“I’m a sissy. If you don’t want to play with me, I’ll understand.”
“No, I like you. It just takes a while to get used to a boy wearing a dress.”
“I understand. Do you want another cookie to finish your milk with?”
“Yes, please. I wish my mom made cookies with me. Right now, she can’t stand males. She says I remind her of my dad. So, she doesn’t talk to me much.”
“Whatever your dad did is not your fault, Paul,” said Helen.
“I wish she knew that.”
“I’m sure she does in her heart, but it might take her a while to realize it. Why don’t you two go play now.”
Sandy led Paul up to his room. “Do you want to play Monopoly or Yahtzee? I have Legos, and my mom got me a jewelry making set. You could make your mom earrings, a bracelet or a necklace.”
“Could I?”
“Yep, here’s a necklace I made,” said Sandy putting on a coral necklace. “It was easy.”
“Sandy. Could I ask you? … Um, what’s it like to be a sissy? At school when kids get called a sissy, it’s an insult … but you seem so nice.”
“Well, I used to be afraid of everything, like I’d scream if a bug got on me. My mom said boys don’t behave like that, and started dressing me in girl’s clothes cuz I was acting like a girl. But, when I started wearing girls’ things, I started being happier. I made more friends, too, because I wasn’t trying to be what people thought I should be. I’m not even afraid of bugs as much as I used to be.”
“So, wearing dresses makes you happier?”
“Yeah, it does. And since I make my own, I can wear whatever color I like.”
“I’m not very happy, Sandy. Do you think wearing a dress would make me feel happier?”
“I don’t know Paul. Everyone is different. It might just make you feel silly.”
Paul played with the jewelry set a while, looking at the various beads and fittings in a halfhearted way.
“Would you let me see?”
“See what?”
“If … if wearing a … a dress would make me feel happier?”
“You want me to loan you a dress?”
Paul was blushing furiously. “Yes, please.”
“Well, I loan camis to Shannon when she visits, so I guess I could loan you a dress. Which one would you like?” he said, opening his closet.
“How about the yellow one with the butterflies. That looks happy.”
“Sure. Do you want to wear panties under it?”
“Panties?”
“You know, girls’ underpants.”
“Do you wear them?”
“They were the first thing my mom gave me when she started dressing me in girls’ clothes. Do you want a pair?”
“Yes, please.”
“Here. You can change in my closet. I won’t look.”
In a couple of minutes a very red-faced Paul emerged from the closet in a yellow sundress.
“Well, do you like wearing it?”
“It feels different. Even the panties feel different.”
“Here, give it a little twirl back and forth to see how it feels on your legs,” said Sandy, illustrating.
“That feels strange, but nice.”
“Look in the mirror and see how you look.”
“We look like 2 girls, except my hair isn’t right.”
“I’ll make you some pigtails and tie them with yellow ribbons to match your dress ...”
“Now I really do look like a girl.”
“Do you like it?”
“Kind of, but I keep thinking boys shouldn’t wear dresses.”
“OK, then take it off.”
“Do I have to?”
“No, but you need to make up your mind. Do you want to wear it or not.”
“OK, I will, for a little while. It makes me feel nice inside.”
“OK. So, now that you’re dressed pretty, what would you like to do?”
“Can I still make something for my mom?”
“Sure. I’ll make something for my mom too.”
The boys had worked quietly for an hour, when Helen looked in to check on them. “Why is Paul wearing one of your sundresses?”
“Because he wanted to see how it felt, and he likes it.”
“You shouldn’t be loaning your clothes to boys, Sandy.”
“Why not, Shannon wears my camis all the time.”
“Well she’s a girl, so it’s OK.”
“But, I’m a boy, and you said it s OK for me to wear dresses.”
“I’m your mother. I’m not sure Paul’s mother wants to let him wear dresses.”
“Maybe she would. She’s not very happy I’m a boy.”
“I’m just afraid people will think I like putting boys in dresses. I don’t want any trouble.”
“You didn’t do it, and I won’t tell anybody I was wearing a dress. Can I please keep it on till I have to go home?”
Helen was running out of things to say. “Well, I don’t see what more harm can come of leaving it on. Just be sure to take it off in plenty of time to go home – and don’t put any makeup on.”
“Thanks, Mrs. M.” When she left, Paul asked, “Do you wear makeup too?”
“Just a little, but not usually. Mom says I’m too young to wear it daily.”
“Can I try some?”
“Not now, my mom just said no.”
“Next time I come?”
“I don’t know. Maybe if you don’t leave it on long.”
Paul knew he’d be back to wear a dress again and see if he could try makeup.