51a Lipstick Discipline

The Art of Petticoat Punishment

by Carole Jean

Part 51a - Amber P. and Daphne's Lipstick Discipline

When I was four or five years old, something happened. I must have gotten into my mother’s makeup drawer and damaged some of her cosmetics or perhaps I had used her lipstick to scribble on the sink top, or some other such mischief. I really don’t recall what exactly provoked my initial experience with the shame-based discipline she became so fond of; I do, however, remember my mother’s outrage as she carried me into the bathroom that fateful day.

Mom was furious with me! She screamed and scolded me and — to my horror! — she proceeded to color my lips with a bright red lipstick. There was nothing worse that I could imagine and I can remember crying and struggling to get away, which was pointless considering my age. For the purpose of shaming me, she insisted that I view myself in the mirror. "You want to play with my lipstick? Well, tell me how you like wearing it!"

I fought opening my eyes and looking for some time, but she persisted and informed me in no uncertain terms that she wasn’t putting me down until I opened my eyes and saw myself. She was angry, but she was also laughing. "You’re not getting down until you look at yourself." In retrospect it’s clear that she found my humiliation amusing.

Finally, I gave in and looked. When I finally opened my eyes, I can still recall my grotesque appearance, tears streaming down a red, swollen face, and my lips and face smeared with a bright red lipstick. I remember a flash of light as my picture was taken. After a few minutes she put me down and wiped the lipstick, warning me that this could happen again.

Well, I can reassure the reader that I never again thought of playing with her cosmetics. Not ever!

When that episode passed, my usual routine of punishments returned: to bed with no supper, sitting facing the corner, having a bar of soap used to wash dirty words out of my mouth and the switchings.

I never felt that being sent to bed sans dinner left any truly negative impressions. The sitting in the corner was all right, though it was later modified by my mother making me wear a funny hat. It wasn’t exactly a dunce cap, but more like the kind that jesters wear. It was red, yellow and green and had a tasseled ball at the tip. In retrospect, her intent was to inflict shame and this became a pattern that would repeat itself over and again.

The switchings were used on both me and my brother. When some need for punishment would be indicated, and Mom would tell one of us to go out into the backyard and pick a branch off a group of shrubs. If it was too thin or short, we’d be sent back to get a more hefty growth. We would then have to prepare it by stripping off the leaves before handing it to her. After taking our pants and undershorts down, we’d get it on the buttocks and back of the legs until we both cried. Afterwards, she would hang the switch over the fireplace on two little hooks she reserved for that purpose, a visual reminder of what awaited the next time.

I perceived a theme here that was to become repetitious. There were two phases to this punishment. The first was making us select the instruments of our punishment and the second was the trophy-like display of it afterwards to serve as an embarrassing reminder.

I was somewhat older the first time I got the "bar-of-soap-treatment." I had called my younger brother a little bastard or some such name. I was probably no more than six or seven at the time. Mom overheard this and pulled me back into the same bathroom. "You seem to be having these dirty words coming from out of your mouth." she scolded. "Well let’s get a bar of soap and scrub them out" She used a bar of Dove soap to do the deed, and while she later used Ivory or sometimes even brand X, the scent of Dove still causes my mouth to pucker.

On just about every Halloween I can remember my mother — for some unknown reason — would plead with me to dress up as a female character of one sort or another. She got her way those first few times as she had a small handful of treasured snapshots featuring me in a variety of childish costumes, Red Riding Hood, a ballerina, a fairy princess, that kind of thing.

Once I got old enough to know the difference, however, I invariably declined, usually after a long, drawn out argument that left me in tears and my mother mad as a wet hen. I was all boy, darn it, and I wasn’t about to go around wearing a stupid dress, not even for fun!

Mom proved to be a persistent woman, unfortunately; when I was about ten and my brother was about eight, she talked Dave into dressing as a gun moll and I went along as a gangster. She got him an old wig, painted up his face with rather harsh makeup and put him in a full length cocktail dress, feathered costume hat and added some bangles and ladies’ shoes. He carried a purse in one hand and a gun in the other. A picture commemorating that night can still be found in the family album.

Mom seemed to be delighted with how cute my brother and I looked together, not to mention all the attention we got from our friends and neighbors. Curious but wary, I resisted the temptation to follow my brother’s footsteps. I can’t remember the number of times she pleaded with me to dress as a woman, bolstering her requests by recounting how Dave had done it and survived.

Like I said before, I wasn’t about to be caught dead dressing as a girl and in spite of the all the promises and sweet talk, I never acquiesced.

The incident that really changed how discipline was administered in our house occurred when I was in the seventh grade, making me twelve years old at the time. It was evening and Mom had just got home from her job at the hospital. As usual she wanted to correct my homework. I told her that I had already finished it earlier and packed it in my book bag. She went looking for it and found four packs of unopened baseball cards that she knew I didn’t have the cash to buy. I had already asked for extra lunch money that week, telling her I was broke.

She pulled them out and asked where they came from. At first I lied and said that my friend Jim had loaned me the money to buy them. But for some reason she could tell that there was more to the story. She threatened to call up Jim and ask him what had happened when I finally decided to just come clean and confessed to taking them from the local five-and-dime store without paying.

Well, she grabbed me by the shoulder right then and there, marched me out to the family wagon and we headed for the five-and-dime. When we got there, she marched me by the arm into the store and asked to speak to the manager, explaining that her son had something to tell him.

He came and in front of my mother, the store clerk and the manager I confessed how I had hidden the cards under my shirt and taken them without paying. The store manager looked very stern and said something about calling the police to come take a report. My mother seemed to be in agreement and said that maybe it would teach me a needed lesson. Thankfully, things settled down after I had started to cry and pleaded not to call the police. The final disposition at the store was that the cards were returned and that I was not to return for a full month.

On the ride home as my tears dried I regained some of its bravo. I made some kind of quip about a "five-fingered-discount" at the five-and-dime and the next thing I knew . . .

As I tried to recover from the blow to the side of my face, my mother pulled over to the side of the road and began lecturing me that I hadn’t learned anything, that I wasn’t taking it serious, that something more drastic would have to be done to teach me "evils of stealing" (her exact words, I remember them verbatim). She was literally screaming at me and I was close to hysterics from being hit and yelled at so much. You would have thought that I’d said I’d just murdered someone. She finally calmed down and pulled away from the curb. The rest of the ride home was totally quiet.

Upon arriving home, I was sent directly to my room. I surmised that there wouldn’t be any TV for a while. About thirty minutes later, Mom came into my room and said she had decided how to impress on me the seriousness of my ways.

"If you use your fingers to steal, we’ll just have to do something to them so you remember that this is not a joke. Go into the bathroom and wash your hands and scrub your nails and then come into the living room."

When I arrived in the living room, she had me sit on the floor. Sitting on the end table next to her was a nail file, a box of tissues and a bottle of red nail polish. In front of her was an old pea green hassock that we used to prop our legs on when we read or watched TV.

I knelt in front of the hassock and then placed both of my hands on it. "Hmmm," she mused. "I see you haven’t trimmed your nails in some time. This will be even better than I had imagined. You see, I’m going to have you wear red nail polish for the next week to remind you that your ‘sticky fingers’ are what got you into this trouble."

"Your fingers offended and they will help you pay the consequences," she said as she sorted her tools on the table. "Now give me your hand." She pointed to my right one. She then took her file and began to smooth the edges of my nails and where there was enough length, giving them a rounded contour.

I began to plead with her not to do this and told her that I had learned my lesson and that the store manager had been satisfied. I had apologized and promised never to steal anything ever again. She paid me no mind as she began shaking up the bottle. After about thirty seconds I could hear a bee-bee rattling inside and I knew the polish was mixed and ready. I continued to plead my case and tears came to my eyes for the second time that evening. She paid me no mind and unscrewed the bottle. The distinctive odor of the polish hit my nostrils and it left a last impression that today I still associate with an erotic experience. She proceeded to remove the excess polish from the brush on the rim of the bottle and then she took my hand and placed it so my nails were exposed. As the first strokes of red coated my nails, I even compromised to suggest that she could call the police and report it, rather than do this.

I sat there sobbing quietly as she went from finger to finger, first on my right hand and then on my left. "Pay attention on how I’m doing this," she instructed. "I’ll put on the polish tonight, but after tonight I’ll expect you to keep your nails in proper repair with no chips or smudges."

After all ten fingers were tipped in bright red, she had me keep my hands on the hassock for about fifteen minutes, giving the polish time to dry. Then she took a second bottle, which had just a trace of color to it and gave the each of the nails a second coat.

"This is a gloss coat that will both protect and help the polish shine through." She informed me. Again I was made to sit and wait the fifteen minutes for it to dry. To make matters worse I had to pose with my newly painted digits held high as a picture was taken to memorialize the occasion.

"Smile," Mom ordered as she focused her camera. "The quicker you smile the sooner we can get this over with."

By now I had said everything that I could think of to change her mind and I was left staring down at my hands with their brightly colored nails. The sobbing had given way to quiet acceptance, but a sense of shock still kept me from anticipating how things would play out the next day.

I tried not to look at my nails as we sat and watched TV for another half hour or so before it was time for bed. Now she seemed to be a little bit less angry and had gone to the kitchen and poured me my nightly glass of milk. When I went into the kitchen, I asked if I could have a cookie and she surprised me by saying "yes."
As I reached into the jar, I had no choice but to watch my hands with the red polish disappear inside the rim and then emerge again holding whatever. I didn’t notice what kind of cookie it was; I just couldn’t see anything except for those red, shiny nails. Drinking the glass of milk with the white background only seemed to make the red color starker. It was about then that I realized that if I left for school like this in the morning, everyone who saw me would immediately notice that I was wearing bright red polish.

I lay awake for a long time that night, wondering what would really happen in the morning. I planned to make one final appeal to my mother’s compassion, and thought that perhaps when she slept on it, she would have a change of heart.

How wrong I was. Next morning Mom was adamant that I go to school with my nails painted bright red. What was worse, she had even taken time to sew my pockets on my school pants closed so that I couldn’t hide my hands inside of them. When I saw this, I knew there was no hope she would reconsider.

I asked her what I should tell people, and she said "the truth. Tell them that you like having pretty nails, or just make up some answer. I really don’t care. It’s your responsibility to handle the situation, not mine."

School was the typical junior high, located close to a mile from home. On clear days, I would typically ride my bike. So I loaded my books, notepads and lunch into my book bag, maneuvered my bike around the backyard benches and headed down the driveway, my thumb nails visible as I gripped the handlebars. I dreaded more and more showing up, the closer I got.

To make a long story short, the day turned into a total disaster. Everyone zeroed in on me immediately. How couldn’t they? The reaction of the boys and girls differed somewhat, however. The boys taunted and call me fag and homo, and some asked if I was queer. My friends couldn’t believe that my mother would force me to endure such a punishment and some said I deserved what I got. They gave me a wide separation.

On the other hand, the reaction of the girls ranged from "Oh, isn’t that just so cute?" to "Good grief, talk about a fairy!" More than once I heard "Oh, Greg, you’re just so adorable!" and "Sooo, Mommy’s little girl got caught shop lifting, huh?"

Even Kathy Wade, whom I considered somewhat of a girlfriend, got into the act. "Geez, Greg, would you like to borrow my lipstick? I’m sure it would go just perfect with your nails. You’d really look cute with a little color on your lips."

The teachers surprisingly said nothing to me, but I could tell they were discussing it amongst themselves. Their sidelong glances and amused smiles were enough to make me feel physically ill.
When school was out, I didn’t spend my usual time hanging around and headed straight for home. Once there, Mom was all ears to hear how things had gone. I was torn between not giving her the satisfaction of knowing how humiliating a day it was or maybe pouring my guts out and seeing if I could convince her that one day was enough. I decided to give her the full details and then, once again, plead to be released from of the rest of the week. She actually compromised somewhat and said that she would see how I behaved, and maybe she would suspend the punishment on Sunday. That meant four more days of torment at school but at least it wouldn’t continue into the next week.

Thursday was a slightly less intense repeat of the Wednesday. The taunting and teasing continued, but at a reduced pitch. I stayed by myself as much as possible and most of my friends avoided me either out of their own embarrassment or in commiseration of my dilemma.

Friday was marked by my school locker being decorated by a bra suspended in the ventilation slats. It was white with some lace trim and had cups that contained thickened cloth to give it padding. Handling the delicate lace trimmed garment with my red nails gave me a very strange sensation, almost déjà vu, and seemed somehow right.

I took it down and rather than throw it away, I folded it and placed it in my locker. I didn’t want it being resurrected from the trash bin and returned to hang from my locker. Again at the end of the day, I stuffed it in my backpack and headed straight home.
When I got home I told Mom about the bra on my locker and that I had brought it home. She asked to see it and I gave it to her.

"Hmmm . . . This looks like it’s been worn before. I’ll wash it and then I know just the place for it." She hung it on the mantle over the fireplace, the using the fasteners from which switches were displayed. She pinned a paper label to it that read "Greg’s Bra."

"This will help you remember your punishment after it is over," I was advised. At the time I didn’t ask how long it would remain on exhibition; I knew it would be one or two weeks.

Later that evening she brought out her polish remover and some cotton balls and removed the red color from my nails. I thought that it marked the close of my ordeal but I was reminded that the punishment would end Sunday and only if I continued to behave myself.

I was then sent into her bedroom to pick out a new bottle of lacquer from the top of her dresser and bring it back into the living room. I chose a bottle of lightest color I could find, a pearlescent pink, and took it back to where she was waiting. She then informed me that I was to paint my own nails with the new color, and that if I was sloppy we had all evening for me to practice until I got it right.

First she had me shake the bottle to mix the pigment. On opening the cap, the aroma of the contents hit my nostrils and the imprint was fixed on my subconscious forever after.

Then I had to practice even strokes, keeping the polish from going onto the edges of skin that bordered my nails. I did all right when using my right hand to hold the brush, but was extremely awkward with my left. I was very unsteady and had to repeat the nails of my right hand no less than a dozen times before Mom was satisfied. By that time I was in tears, I was so frustrated and upset, but she just smiled and nodded and then sent me on my way. So once again I went to bed with shimmering nails.

Sunday night Mom let me remove the new coat of polish but she said the bra would remain displayed over the fireplace as a reminder that stealing was wrong and would not be tolerated.

I returned to school Monday morning and there were a few sideways comments, but after a week they had just subsided and I was back to my old status with most of my friends. The bra came down from the mantle about ten days later and I mistakenly thought that it marked the end of my mother’s new form of discipline.

All went well until about nine months later and when it happened it was totally unanticipated.

I had been in an argument — all right, a fight — with my brother and was overheard by my mother telling him to "fuck off." She had been in the kitchen and we were in our bedroom. I hadn’t realized that by the time those words came out of my mouth, I was yelling loud enough for her to overhear it from the kitchen.

I heard my name called from the other side of the house and I knew I was in trouble. "Oh shit!" I said in a much lower voice to my brother. "I’ll get back to you after I see what Mom wants."

I composed myself as best I could and sauntered into the kitchen. My mother was standing there holding a hot skillet she couldn’t set down. Surmising she couldn’t physically respond, I answered in a somewhat sarcastic tone, "Well, what do you want?"

Blam!!! Zap!!! Whatever!!! Next thing I remember was that I was lying on the floor and looking up at her.

"Just who the hell do you think you’re talking to?" she asked, while I was still trying to determine which way was up. "If you were younger you’d be spitting out soap bubbles right now. Are you listening to me?"

"I’ve had it with you and your foul mouth!" she scolded. "Come with me!" She grabbed my arm and led me into the bathroom.

The thought that I was going to get the soap treatment flashed through my mind. If that had that been true, I would have taken my punishment and it would have been that. As it turned out she had another idea that turned out to last all day, and one that would be revisited on me more than once.

When we got to the bathroom, she was still holding my arm with one hand, and with the other she opened her cosmetic drawer and pulled out a tube of lipstick. "Maybe if you have to wear some lipstick, you’ll find that dirty words don’t just come rolling out of that cesspool mouth of yours." With that she spun me around so that she could apply the dark red color to my lips.

"Mom, no, please," I begged. I got a sharp rap on the top of my head for my trouble.

Well, no, I guess I didn’t, so I did as I was told. After carefully painting my mouth with the crimson lipstick, she handed me a tissue and told me to blot. When I had, she looked at the tissue and then told me she was going to reapply it. She left and came back with a white sheet of paper and had me blot my lips a second time. It left a perfect impression of my lips that stood out boldly. Guess where the piece of paper was hung.

"You’re to leave this on until I give you permission to remove it," I was warned. "And be careful you don’t smudge it on your clothes." she added. In fact, you keep this tube and if I think its fading, you’re going to redo it yourself. Here, let me find you a compact to go with it. It has a mirror so you can do it wherever I decide. Put these in your pocket and make sure you have them with you all the time."

"Mom, please, don’t do this . . ." I pleaded. Salty tears welled up in my eyes, which made me feel even worse.

"You’re going to do it and if I hear any more argument I’ll find you a purse to carry for your lipstick and compact. Now, maybe this will teach you it’s unacceptable to use such foul language." And with that comment she turned and left the bathroom.

There I was, standing with the red color just barely visible to my own eyes if I puckered up my lips and looked down. I could smell and taste the distinctive odor of the perfumed lubricant that was mixed with the color. Worse yet, I started to get an erection.

I headed back for my bedroom that I shared with my brother. I knew that I was going be roasted and just decided to get it over. Well I wasn’t disappointed. I was met with the expected girlie comments like "Don’t you look just absolutely delicious?" "Geez, would you like to be wearing a dress?" and so on. It lasted about ten or fifteen minutes before the repetitive taunting faded and then finally came to an end.
It was interesting that I didn’t need to see myself to be almost constantly aware that I was wearing the lipstick. Some of this may have been the texture or scent. I’m not really sure but it was on my mind most of the day.

At dinner I learned why they called it lip-stick. After my first sip of milk, the imprint of my red lips was clearly transferred to the rim of the light blue plastic cups that we used. It stood there taunting me. Did my next drink go over the already stained portion of the rim, or did I go to a fresh area. I just closed my eyes each time I picked up the cup and tried to ignore it. By the third or fourth sip, the shade of the color was almost gone and I ate the rest of my dinner trying to ignore it.

At the end of supper I started to get up to leave and was ordered to sit back down. "We girls usually redo our lipstick after eating," my mother instructed. "Get out your mirror and lipstick and let’s see you try it."

I fumbled for the tools of my humiliation, and got out the compact and tube. I was instructed how to open the compact and hold it in my left hand by the base. Then I was told to use the gap between my index and long fingers of my left hand to remove and hold the cap of the tube.

"Keep the cap there while you apply the lipstick with your right hand." She had me practice this four or five times until I did it to her satisfaction, wiping my mouth with my napkin in between applications.

Then thinking I was through, I again got up to leave. Wrong! I was told that tonight I’d help with the dishes. Mom went to the hallway closet and returned holding a new apron which she helped me put on. I’d never seen this particular apron before, not that I really would have noticed. As Mom held it out for me to slip my arm through the shoulders, I noticed that it had a very full skirt that flared from a wide sash at the waist down to just above my knees. The flare was so full that it hid my legs and feet from view. The sash was trimmed with lace where it was attached to the body of the apron and then trailed off into a solid fabric for tying at the back. She helped me by securing it with a knotted bow. The pattern on the billowing skirt was a repeated print of colorful flowers and butterflies in a random design. The shoulder straps, if that’s what one could call them, where wide and puffy, and trimmed with the same lacy pattern as the sash.

"Well, you look very nice," my mother said, an odd smile on her face, "especially with your lipstick. All you need is something done with your hair and I’d have a sweet daughter to keep me company."

I caught the implication that the apron was more like a dress than one that would normally found in our kitchen. I got to wash while my mother dried. She commented that she wanted all of the lipstick stain removed from my cup before she would accept if from me. When the dishes were done and the sink top scrubbed down, she told me to stand still while she took a snapshot with her camera. I felt like an idiot, but I did as I was told. She then helped me unknot the apron and told me to hang it on an extra hook that was inside the ironing board cupboard next to our stove.

"Just put your new apron next to mine," she said. "I picked it up as a shower present for one of the girls at work, but since it’s used, I can’t use it as a gift. Actually, I should have done this a long time ago. Congratulations, it’s now yours. It’ll be there waiting for you next time we do the dishes together."

True to her word, it became a ritual that Mom and I did the dishes at the end of each day. Worse yet, the frilly garment was a continual reminder of just how easily fate could turn on someone.

The rest of the evening was spent doing homework and watching a little TV. At bedtime, I was taken back into the bathroom and shown how to cream off my makeup. Even when this was done, I thought that I could see a trace of the color still on my lips. Mom said that she thought it was just pink from the wiping and to go to bed. Even though I begged she wouldn’t let me repeat the process.

"I hope that we won’t have to repeat this little lesson," I was lectured. "I’ve decided that if we do, next time you’re going to leave the house and be seen in public. Do I make myself clear?"

I nodded my head and headed out of the bathroom and straight for bed. I tested to see if I could wipe off any additional color onto my pillowcase and was satisfied to find no trace. It was some time before I got to sleep that night.

The next morning, there over the fireplace was the paper with the lip print in dark red, neatly framed and labeled "Greg’s Lips" in bold red lettering. I didn’t even want to know how long it would remain there.

It was near the end of my year in the eighth grade, about a month after my introductory section with wearing lipstick, when this form of punishment was revisited on me. This time it wasn’t for swearing, as I had become very consciousness of what I said within earshot of my mother. Instead, it was for fibbing. Well, okay, lying. There, are you happy now?

Anyway, the house rule was no TV until all homework was completed. Seeing me sitting in front of the TV watching Star Trek, Mom asked if I was clear to be watching TV. Without really thinking much, I said "yes" and continued watching. I didn’t think much of it and later went back to completing my homework. Mom came by my room and saw that I was still at my desk studying.

"I thought you said that you’d completed your homework when I asked you earlier," she said.

"Well, I didn’t say exactly that." I knew what she meant, but I also knew if I wasn’t careful I was in for trouble.

My mother looked at me without blinking. "I asked you a straightforward question and you implied that you’d completed your homework," she said. "You lied to me."

What I should have done was just owned up and agreed with her. Instead I continued to argue the subtle distinction that it wasn’t a lie, not exactly, that is. Big mistake. She became progressively more upset as the conversation deteriorated.

"Seems you can’t tell the difference between a blatant lie and the truth" was the way the conversation was degenerating. Maybe she was premenstrual, who knows. At any rate, I was told to finish my work and then go straight to bed. Not too big a deal, right?

Well, when the morning came, the bomb was dropped. Yep, "lipstick punishment" again, this time for lying. Only there was a perverse twist this time. It was a school day that had just started. I was informed that I would have to wear lipstick to school and then for the entire weekend. I knew from what happened when she made me wear nail polish to school I was in for a hard time and that no amount of groveling was going to get me out of it.

As soon as I was dressed, I was marched into the bathroom and handed a tube of what I thought was the same dark red lipstick that had been used previously. It turned out that it was a long wearing or "permanent" form that once applied, was advertised to not smear or rub off. She had me apply it and blot as usual. Then she informed me of the long wearing property and that if I didn’t try to wash it off, it should still appear freshly applied when I arrived back home. I was ordered not to try to remove it or else.

She handed me a sealed envelope with instructions to deliver it to my homeroom teacher. Then with an unceremonious push out the back door and I was sent off to school on my bike.

This time my reception at school was vastly more brutal, at least from the boys, than just eight months earlier when I showed up wearing the nail polish. This was a different group of kids than had seen me the previous year as there were three different seventh and eighth grade classes at my junior high. The verbal responses I received were "fag," "fairy," "queer," and "homo," this time accompanied by pushing and shoving in a very hostile atmosphere. I had to run into the school to be near the teachers in order to get away from them. I avoided the bullies as much as possible during the day and headed straight home as soon as school was out. I managed to avoid any fights after the first confrontations.

The reaction from the girls was more in line with what I had previously experience. It was pretty much the same comments, like "Hey, Cutie Pie, love you choice of color!" and "Why aren’t you wearing any blush, Darling?" One of the girls went a little too far — in my humble (and frustrated!) opinion — when she said "Care for a little spritz of my cologne, honey?" and then proceeded to spray me with a healthy dose of perfume.

"Listen, this was my mother’s idea because of a disagreement over homework," I explained. "Do you really think I’d come to school like this if this was my thing?"

There was little compassion for my plight, but at least there was no overt hostility from the girls who’d listen. A few actually seemed sympathetic and let me to explain the events that had led to my dilemma. I tended to hang close to a few of the nicer girls at recess and then later during lunch break in order to avoid having to mix with the boys or to sit alone and become a target of opportunity.

The letter my mother gave me to deliver to my first period teacher was an explanation of why I was wearing lipstick. It explained that I was being punished for lying about having completed my homework and requested the school’s understanding and support for this course of action.

I delivered it as directed. Miss Nelson was my homeroom teacher at the time and she called me up to the front of the room while she finished reading the note. "I understand that you lied about your homework last night," she said in a mocking tone.

I had learned my lesson from the prior evening and decided not to argue the fine points and just agreed that I had been caught in a lie. Her next query puzzled me at the time, as she wanted to know if I was wearing anything else. "What do you mean?" I asked.

"Oh, you know . . . like panties or anything?" she came back. The smile on her face shocked me.

She dismissed me with a perplexing comment of, "Too bad. Well, perhaps next time. You can return to your seat now." As I sank back into my seat it hit me that she was enjoying my predicament almost as much as my mother.

When I got home, the lipstick had faded in spite of the claim of durability and Mom creamed what remained off my face. She then presented me with a small maroon purse, telling me that it contained some goodies. She had me open it. I found that it contained a fresh tube of lipstick, a small compact with mirror, and an odd tube of a different cosmetic that I didn’t recognize.

"Remember how I showed you to hold the compact and put on your lipstick?" she asked. Not waiting for me to response that it wasn’t my lipstick, she continued by ordering me to redo my lips with the fresh tube. The color was an iridescent pink tone, more fitting my age, I was told.

When I had complied and blotted with the tissue she handed me, she told me that the other tube was a mascara applicator. Now I was really confused.

"Go on and take it on out and remove the cap. Now I’m going to show you how to use it to darken and lengthen your lashes. This looks much harder than it is," she said softly. She showed me hold to hold the brush and stroke it across my eyelashes. She demonstrated by using her own lashes and then handed it back to me. "Now you give it a try," she encouraged.

I started to say something about all this being stupid, but a glance from my mother shut me up. Rather than argue — See? I wasn’t a complete idiot! — I made contact with my lashes and stroked upward the way she had shown me. It was a lot harder than it looked, but I was pushed to continue. Mom told me to keep going it as it takes 5 to 6 strokes to even out the application and get an acceptable result.

I did and she seemed satisfied. I could feel the weight of the pigment on my lashes as I blinked. The face staring back at me in the mirror looked almost pretty, for a boy, of course. I felt almost sick to my stomach.

"Now put the cap back on the brush and back into your purse. I want to see that purse with you everywhere you go between now and Sunday night, even if you’re just going to the bathroom or getting a snack in the kitchen. See, it has a nice little loop that you can fit over your wrist if you have to use both hands. Did you notice that it has your initials engraved on the clasp? Be sure not to set it down some place and walk off without it or you’ll still being wearing lipstick to school come Monday morning. Now tell me how your day went."

I told her it went like hell, and watched as her eyebrows perked up. "Okay, it went very ugly," I corrected myself. "I got called fag, a fairy, a sissy-boy, and the girls asked what brand of lipstick I thought tasted the best. I was lucky that I didn’t get beaten up. Are you happy now?" I added.

Mom seemed concerned, but only commented that I was lucky that I hadn’t gotten into a fight. "You know my rule about fighting. Don’t you dare let me catch you in a fight! If you do you’ll find out just how much of a sissy I could really turn you into," she threatened.

Then she picked up a hairbrush and ordered me to sit down in front of her. She began to brush my hair, which I normally wore at shoulder length. This was really strange and it took me a few minutes to relax enough almost enjoy it. When the tangles were gone she pulled my hair back tightly and secured it with an elastic band into a short ponytail high on the back of my head.

"You’re less likely to stand out as a boy wearing lipstick when we go out for dinner with your hair this way," she explained as she brushed my bangs out over my eyes.

I’m not sure which upset me more, hearing that we were going out to dinner or seeing my hair arranged in such an obviously feminine style. Good grief! Bangs yet. Just like a stupid girl! Or a fag.

Of course, I had more important things to worry about, too, didn’t I? Like trying to stop my mother from making a complete fool out of me. "Mom, please, you can’t make me go out in public like this!" I begged. "What if the guys see me again? They’ll kill me! I look so goofy, I’ll never be able to go back to school again."

"That’s not my problem," I was told. "It’s your problem. Maybe this will teach you not to be such a liar in the future."

I took a deep breath. I knew I was taking a chance by arguing with my mother, but I was desperate.

"Well, you can go out if you want. I’m staying here." I started to cross my arms in defiance but — WHAPP!! — the next thing I knew I was sitting on the floor seeing stars before my eyes.

"Don’t," my mother said slowly and clearly, as though I had a learning deficiency, "don’t you ever — never! — talk to me like that again. I am your mother, not some feeble-minded old woman. You don’t tell me what you’re going to do. I tell you what to do. If I decide to decorate you like a birthday cake and parade you through the center of town, you’ll do it and keep your mouth shut. Do you understand me?"

I rubbed my cheek and nodded. My fingers came away wet with tears and smeared mascara.

"You better. Remember, sweetie, you’re the one who lied, not me. You’re in the wrong; just like that time you got caught shoplifting. I don’t know what it is with boys today, but I am not going to put up with it. You keep this up and I’ll send you to school looking like Shirley Temple." She grinned at me. "Now, go clean off your makeup and start over again. I want to see fresh lipstick and a pretty smile when you’re done, all right?"

I went to the bathroom and did as I was told. It took me a little longer than usual as I couldn’t stop crying. I finally got my emotions under control, washed my face and re-applied my lipstick and eye makeup. When I was done I look as stupid as ever, and I felt even stupider.

"Not bad. You’re getting the hang of it, I see," Mom said as she inspected my makeup. "Keep it up and you’ll be giving the girls at school lessons. Now, give me a pretty smile. Come on. That’s much better."

My stomach fell as she lifted her little camera up and snapped a couple of pictures. I started to say something, but I knew that arguing was not only useless, but it escalated the risk of provoking her to additional measures. So I did as I figured she wanted me to do: I smiled and pretended everything was just fine. I was then excused to go to my room where I stayed until called to come out and get into the car and go to dinner.

Mom, Dave and I all walked out to the old station wagon and I let my brother get in the front seat while I sat in back. Mom gave me a knowing smile when she saw that I had brought my purse without being reminded. After what had happened I didn’t think it prudent to do otherwise.

My brother had overheard the conversation the prior evening and seen me doing my homework with my makeup on, so he knew what was going on. I was beginning to wonder why he was being spared similar little jaunts into femininity. Besides playing dress up on Halloween for Mom, Dave had been given ballet lessons at from age seven to eight; this was because Mom thought that he’d be a natural since he had a tendency to walk on his toes anyway. To the best of my knowledge, he had been a willing participant and it was never considered a punishment. So, when he lost interest, he was allowed to quit.

Maybe his willingness to dress up had desensitized my mother’s desire to see how he looked as a girl. Or perhaps Mom felt that his ready acceptance indicated that it wouldn’t have shamed him like it had me. Or perchance she just had desired her first born to be a girl, not Dave. Who knew? All I knew was that I was getting penalized for everything while he just sat back and smiled. Even so, he knew better than to overtly taunt me in her presence, lest he risk sharing a similar fate.

For dinner we went to a local McDonald’s that was frequented by both neighbors and kids from my junior high. Mom parked the car instead of heading for the drive-through and again, I knew better than to argue about going inside. While I stood staring at the floor, Mom ordered both she and I garden salads and diet Cokes. Dave got whatever he wanted.

"Us girls have to watch our figures," she taunted when I asked why I couldn’t get a cheeseburger.

The meal went relatively well. I saw several of my friends going through the drive-through and at least two girls from my school came in and got something from the counter and left. I was so scared each time someone I knew appeared, I actually thought about hiding under the table!

Thank goodness, the only people who seemed to notice me were the little boy and girl in the booth beside us who kept peeking over the seat and giggling in my direction. Their mother apologized for their rudeness, and I just grinned an embarrassed smile and told her it was nothing. In retrospect I suspect they were just being silly, but at the time I was convinced they knew exactly who — and what! — I really was.

When we had finished eating, Mom told me to follow her to the restroom so that we could freshen our makeup. At this I finally balked and told her that my going into the women’s restroom with her was just asking for trouble that neither of us wanted. She thought a moment, smiled and then agreed that perhaps I wasn’t quite ready for that step yet.

"Well, if we had gone, I could have shown you one advantage to wearing lipstick. When we would have come back to our table, there would have been no question whose drinks were whose. Your straw is marked with a pinker shade than mine and you can spot this quite clearly. See?"

Having just won a strategic battle over visiting the lady’s room, I agreed with her analysis. No cause to start an argument over something as trivial as that in public. Instead, I settled on retouching my lipstick and mascara there at the table. I felt so ridiculous as I blotted my lipstick on a napkin. The bright pink lip print stared back up at like an accusation.

All along through this Dave pretended not to pay any attention, but I could tell he was having a wonderful time watching me suffer.

We finished dinner and then headed for the market to do some grocery shopping. I kept my eyes on the ground then entire time we were in the supermarket, terrified that I was going to be seen by one of my friends . . . if I had any left, that is. I lucked out and managed to get through the evening with my reputation relatively unscathed. The only person who said anything was the girl at the pharmacy window, who just happened to be the daughter of one of my mother’s best friends.

"Hey, Mrs. Parker, Dave. Oh, college is fine. Two more years to go and I’ll be a nurse, just like you and mom. It’s hard work, but I like it a lot." She looked at me curiously as I tried to melt into the background, but that proved impossible. "Hi, Greg. Oh, my, you sure look different. Are you acting in a play or something?"

I looked at Mom, who was busy writing out a check for her purchases. A long silence ensued. I took a deep breath.

"Uh, no. We’re just, uh . . . I, er . . ." I couldn’t think of anything to say, I was so embarrassed. "It’s sort of a game, I guess."

Mom didn’t say anything, but I could see her smiling as she wrote something in her check register. Apparently my misery was her

pleasure, and she was going to let me dangle no matter what.
Rita smiled. "A game, huh? What kind of game?"

"A dress up game," Dave interjected. His giggling attracted several smiles from passersby. "He does it all the time. See his purse?"

I shot my little brother a dirty look, only to see my mother giving me one of her own.

The teenage girl raised one eyebrow and looked me over with a good deal of interest. "A dress up game, huh? Well, whatever . . . you sure turned out pretty cute. If you hadn’t been with your mom, I’d have thought for sure that you were a girl, especially with lips like those - cute ponytail, too. You know, you’d better watch out. If any of the boys see you, you’ll probably get asked out on a date!" She laughed and gave me a flirtatious wink.

My mother tossed me a sidelong glance and smiled. Everyone was having a wonderful time at my expense. I just blushed and went back to trying to blend into the background.

The ride home was long and tedious. A thousand thoughts went through my mind, worrying me to death. Rita didn’t know any of my friends, but that didn’t make things any easier. I’d known her ever since she babysat me when I was little, and I’d even had a crush on her. For her so see me looking so . . . sissyish . . . well, it made me feel just awful. I wondered how long before she’d tell her mom, or maybe one of her girlfriends that she’d seen me out wandering around in makeup and a ponytail and carrying a purse. All I needed was for my buddies to hear something like that; I’d end up eating lunch alone for the rest of my life.

My mother, of course, had a completely different take on the evening’s events.

"This was lots of fun, don’t you think?" Mom mused as she slowly parked the wagon in the drive. "Perhaps tomorrow you and I can do a more special kind of shopping."

"Well, as I understood it, your reluctance to visit the little girl’s room tonight was based on your fear that someone would recognize that you’re not a real girl. Well, that makes sense, but I’m sure that with a few simple additions to your wardrobe, you’ll look convincing enough to overcome this concern. You heard Rita. She thinks you’re quite pretty, pretty enough to pass as a real girl."

My mother smiled slyly. "Oh, sure. A little mother-daughter trip to Sears, a quick run through the teen’s department, nothing fancy. Afterwards, I thought we could take in a movie. I’ve been wanting to see ‘Romeo and Juliet’ but all of my friends have already gone. I just thought it would be nice if just the two of us did something together for once. Doesn’t that sound like fun? A nice mother-daughter day?"

My breathing became labored as I realized what she was saying. I took a deep breath, and then pleaded my case. "Please, Mom, I really don’t want to get any girl clothes. I mean, can’t you just let me do my time wearing lipstick and see if I haven’t learned my lesson? Please don’t make me wear anything else."

Once again I fell back to begging since arguing seemed to only strengthen her resolve. I didn’t realize it at the time, but pleading probably wasn’t a very effective ploy either, as it underscored my vulnerability to this form of punishment. Had I instead merely given her an "Okay" or "Gee, you’re right, Mom, that does sound like fun," perhaps things would have turned out differently.

"Nonsense," she came back. "You had a legitimate point at dinner and I agree that taking you out as my girl would be less risky if we weren’t worried about people saying anything. You’ll see I’m right. Tomorrow we’ll have an honest to goodness mother-daughter day together all day long. Now I don’t want to hear that you don’t want to do this. You know how stubborn I can get when I know I’m right."

My brother had already gone into the house, and I silently opened my door and got out, still wondering exactly what she had in mind. Did I dare ask her the specifics of what she had in mind to buy me? No, I thought. Better to wait until tomorrow rather than have her commit to something she’d have to deliver on.

The rest of the evening was relatively unremarkable and at bedtime I was allowed to cream off both my lipstick and mascara. I lay awake in bed much longer than usual, torturing myself with the imagined possibilities awaiting me in the morning: Was I going to have to try things on at the store? Probably yes. Mom knew that I hated shopping and trying on regular clothes. Would it include underwear? I had a cold chill as I remembered that my teacher had asked about panties. Could Mom possible be thinking along those lines? If so, would I have to wear a dress or skirt instead of jeans or pants? I certainly hoped not, although after supper she still insisted that I wear that dumb apron when I did the dishes. She wouldn’t force me to wear stockings, would she? How about shoes? If she made me wear stockings, would she still let me wear tennis shoes? The possibilities were endless and so went my thoughts until I was mercifully overtaken by sleep.

The next morning I awoke to the sound of water running in the bathtub next to our room. Finally the water stopped running and Mom came in next to my bed, gently shook me and told me it was time to get up and bathe.

"There's a bottle of shampoo and one of conditioner next to the tub. Use them!" she admonished.

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and slowly made my way to the bathroom. Steaming up was a bubble bath from a tub nearly three quarters full. I hadn’t taken a bubble bath since I had been five or six years old. My dirty clothes went into the hamper and then I carefully stepped into the hot sudsy water, slowly immersing myself until just my head was visible. The bath had a pleasant sweet smell and I could tell that some kind of oil had been added. A bar of Camay was the only soap within reach, so I did what I had to do and pretended it was all right.

When I got out, my skin had a slick feel and a perfumed scent from the soap and oil. Even the shampoo smelled like perfume, and my hair felt kind of funny. So soft and easy to comb, you can imagine how weird I felt about it.

I got dressed — my usual weekend uniform of t-shirt, jeans and ratty sneakers — and went into the kitchen to get breakfast. Mom reminded me that not only had I forgotten my makeup, but that I had left my purse behind in my room. Immediately I went back, found my purse and put on my lipstick. The mascara took a little longer as I made a mess with the first application. Five minutes later and I was looking back at a definitely feminine face.

"Now that’s much better," Mom said upon my return. She gave me an approving wink and a hug. She wasn’t done with me, of course. As I worked on breakfast I could feel her eyes watching my every movement. "Don’t you have some shorts, you know, those cute little white ones I got for you to wear when you took tennis lessons? It’s supposed to be hot today. Go put them on." I nodded. "And those white tennis shoes, remember? The ones you never wear? Last time I saw them, they looked brand new. Put them on, too."

Rather than argue, I did as I was told. I didn’t particularly care for the shorts she was talking about; they didn’t have any pockets and with their wide legs and pleated front, they were a little dressy compared to the jeans I preferred. Likewise, the shoes she wanted me to wear were a far cry from my favorite black Converse basketball shoes; spotlessly white, they’d only been worn a few times before I’d dropped out of my tennis lessons. If wearing them now would keep me out of hot water, then I was game.

When I got back I was greeted with another inspection, which I seemed to pass except for my socks."Get rid of those ugly things. You’ll look just fine without them," my mother insisted.

We both ate a bowl of cereal and had a glass of orange juice. There was that damn pink lipstick stain again. Mom reminded me to soak my dish and glass and leave them in the sink so they could be washed this evening. I started to turn on the television and plop down on the couch when my mother handed me a familiar pearlescent pink bottle.

"Here, sweetie, since we’re making a day of it, why don’t you do your nails," she suggested. "It’ll be a while before the stores open, so take your time."

"Not another word, unless you want trouble." The look on her face was hard for a moment, then it softened. "Do an extra good job, all right? I want you to look nice for our special day together."

My stomach ached as I looked at the jewel-like bottle dangling before my eyes. It was going to be a long day.

I was a little rusty, not having painted my nails for several months. Funny thing, though, even though it took me forever, I only smudged one nail in the process. I actually felt a flutter of pride as I showed them off to Mom, who nodded and said, "Good job. Here, you need to re-do that one, though. Otherwise your hands look very pretty."

As much as I wanted to go into the bathroom and scrub my face and fingers clean, I couldn’t help but sit and stare at them while I waited for them to dry. I felt something twitch between my legs and I was mortified as I realized I was becoming excited. Something wasn’t right about that, but there was nothing for me to do but sit still and hope Mom didn’t notice.

As it got closer to 9:30 am when the stores opened, my mother called me back into the bathroom and again brushed my hair into a ponytail. This time in addition to the little elastic band she used a couple of barrettes to hold the hair against the sides of my scalp. After fluffing out my bangs, she dusted my cheeks with some blush and then had me redo both my lipstick and my mascara. Seeing my shiny fingernails flickering before my eyes as I worked was unnerving, and by the time I was done my face was as red as my mother’s lipstick.

"You look very sweet," I was told. That really made me feel better. Yeah, right.

Once that was all done Mom pulled out a tape measure and measure around my upper chest, a little lower and then at my waist.

As I stood staring at myself in the mirror I wanted to tell her that there was no way in hell I was going through with any more of this, but I knew she’d blow her top if I did. Instead I just did what I did best, which was nothing.

"Are we ready to go have a little fun?" she asked sweetly. I shrugged my shoulders. "Well, girl, fetch your purse and let’s get going!" And off we went.

We left Dave on the couch watching cartoons. I felt bad enough as it was, but seeing him grinning as I paraded through the living room in my girlish disguise made me feel even worse.

"Nice legs," he said, giggling like a fool. I shot him a dirty look, but in turn was given one just as ugly by my mother.

It just isn’t fair! I thought as I sauntered along behind my mother to the car. If any of my friends see me like this, I’ll never live it down. I considered running away from home, but there was no place for me to go, especially looking like a clown with my face and nails all painted up like that. Oh, well . . .

When we got to Sears, we immediately headed for the young teens department. I’d always felt awkward following Mom into the women's areas when she was shopping for herself, and now here I was, in the girls’ area getting ready to look for who knows what. I wished that I could just crawl away and die.

As it turned out there were no other shoppers so early in the morning, which was both good and bad. There were no customers to witness my humiliation, but then we had the sole attention of the clerk, a woman who was about the same age as my mother.

Mom approached the saleslady and asked where we should look for training bras for her "daughter." We were directed to an area off near the back of the department and thirty steps later I was standing in front of racks of boxes containing bras of different sizes, shapes and colors.

"What I’d really like to get for you is a slightly padded 32AAA," my mother commented. "That will save me having to do some sewing later.

"Here we are," the clerk said. Her face beamed as she produced a box showing a young girl wearing a rather fancy white bra with just a trace of development. She pulled it out of the box and handed it over to my mother to examine. "These are very popular with girls your age, honey," she said, tossing me a sly wink.

I’d just assumed the clerk knew I was a boy wandering around in makeup and funny hair, but judging from the way she was acting, it seemed as though she thought I was really a girl. I didn’t know which upset me more: the likelihood that she knew the truth, or that I could be so easily mistaken for anything other than a boy!

Mom just beamed, of course. She knew I was miserable, but she was proud of the torture she was putting me through; I think she thought it was funnier than anything, and with each step she seemed to want to go a little further. I was doomed.

"Look here, sweetie," she said cheerily. "See how this bra already contained a layer of padding stitched into the cups? That’s exactly what I was looking for. We’ll get you three of these for starters. Now let’s find something to go over it and we’ll be all set."

Browsing we came to an area with a number of racks of what looked like t-shirts and blouses. Mom flipped through the hangers looking first for the size that she thought would fit me, and then for whatever style and color she was after. She pulled out three or four, held each up to my chest to ensure a proper fit. A quick stop by the socks yielded several pair in a variety of pastels, and we then headed for the counter. "I’ll take these and I’d like to have her change into these now," she announced to the saleslady. She had set aside one pair of socks, a shirt and one bra box.

"Certainly, you can use the dressing room on the right. Here is the key. Just please make sure you remember to return it before you leave," she replied. "The total comes to $42.53."

Funny that I should remember the exact amount, but I do. It was a very large purchase for thirty years ago, and the fact that my mother was investing a sizable amount of money, and the fact that she bought more than one of the items sent a shiver through me. It occurred to me that perhaps this was about more than being able to pass as a girl for just this weekend.

We went to the dressing room as directed, unlocked the solid door and went into a large closet-like area that had a mirror on the back of the door, a bar to hold hangers and a bench seat nestled into the far corner. Mom set down her bag, and removed one of the bra boxes, opened it and handed me the box while she began removing the tags and labels that were no longer needed. As I looked down at the box, I noticed it describe the contents as a "first bra for her." I read on about how it had "my-secret-padding to give the young figure a bust enhancing confident look."

When Mom had finished, she instructed me to remove my t-shirt. As I stood there naked from the waist up, she had me hold out my arms as she slipped the straps up over my shoulders and then placed the cups in a tentative position next to my chest. She then had me turn around while she hooked the two clasps and began to adjust the tension on the shoulder bands.

"Oh, hush up! You've got nothing to complain about. Would you rather I take you home and wear out your bottom with a switch?"

At that moment a whipping didn't sound like a bad idea. I started to say something smart, but the look in her eye caused me to think twice.

As I felt her adjusting the fit, I experienced a flash of déjà vu. I had been subjected to wearing a similar devise from the time when I was a toddler until I entered kindergarten. It was a halter type restraint for use on young children. Constructed of three leather bands, it was fitted to me in a similar manner as the bra. The thickest strap encircled my chest and bucked behind my back. The other two bands were sown to the main strap in front, just below each nipple then traveled over each shoulder to crisscross the back where they were stitched to the reverse side. They formed a harness that when buckled behind me, was impossible to remove or squirm out of. I remember my mother fitting me into it at home before we would leave to go shopping. She would have me hold out my arms and the slide the front opening up my arms and then over my head. Then she would have me turn around so she could align the straps and finally buckle the harness behind me.

When we got to the store, she would take out a chain leash and I could hear the metal catch click as it was secured to a D-loop behind my back. Sometimes when we were grocery shopping, she would temporarily undo the leash catch so that she could loop the handle through the push bar of the handcart and then reattach it to the harness. I was thereby prevented from straying more than a few steps while she was free to use her hands and ignore my presence, knowing I couldn’t stray. She would use a similar technique to prevent me from roaming when we ate in parks, those times tethering the leash to a bar of the picnic table or some other convenient fixed object.

I was jolted back to the present as she completed the adjustments and had me turn around to look at myself in the mirror. There I was, a thirteen year old boy, wearing his first bra, his face sporting tastefully applied makeup and his hair pulled back into a ponytail. Those silly short tennis shorts didn’t help things as they made my legs look they were a mile long.

Shivering with a sudden chill, I had to admit that I was beginning to look more like a girl than a mere boy masquerading as one. I noticed — to my dismay! — that there was something almost comforting about the snug tightness of the elastic straps that held those soft pads next to my chest. Ironically, where I was a little bit chubby the cups pressed my breasts together enough to make me look like I had . . . well . . . you know . . . a pair of girl's boobs!

Mom then picked out a tiny pullover blouse that was pink and made of soft, thin material. A narrow border of lace decorated the collar and hem, and the image of a kitten playing with a ball of string was embroidered on the front. She had me slip it over my head and then stretch it down as far as it went, which was just above my belly button.

"No, it doesn't. It looks very nice. Now, here, put these on, too," my mother said, handing me the socks she’d kept out for me to wear. They were pink, of course, a perfect match for my new top.

A couple of minutes later I was looking in the triple-paned dressing mirror, horrified by what I saw. My mother’s choice in apparel couldn’t have been better, or worse, depending on your point of view. The neck line of my new top was scooped much lower than any of my boy styles and the material was so sheer and snug that it tended to cling to me tightly, showing off the outline of my new bra. Mom was right: in my white shorts and pink top, bra, makeup and ponytail, no one who give me a second look thinking I was anything but a young girl at the beginning of the transition from childhood into adolescence.

"This top is too small," I complained meekly, tugging at the bottom of my new t-shirt. I didn’t care for having my belly exposed, much less the way the contours made by the bra made the little embroidered kitten stand out. To make things even worse, I could feel that stupid tingling down between my legs again. I was getting another stupid erection! "You can see everything under it," I lamented

"Oh, that’s the way it’s supposed to look," Mom insisted. "Us girls love showing off our curves, right? That top is so sweet on you, and those shorts are just perfect with your legs. It’s really a shame such cute legs were wasted on a boy. Maybe I should get you a skirt, too. What do you think?"

I just looked down and wished I could die. "Whatever you want to do, I guess," I said quietly. At this point I knew it was useless to argue and I was resigned to throwing myself on her mercy.
Fate was kind to me that day. Mom looked me over for a moment, glanced at her watch and smiled. "Well, maybe later. We need to get going if we’re going to make the morning matinee and save a few pennies."

As I gathered up my purse and the shopping bag with my new clothes, I couldn’t help thinking to myself, "Save a few pennies? She spends over $40 on clothes that I’ll never be able to wear and is worried about saving a few pennies?"

On the way out of the store we walked past the jewelry counter and Mom paused in front of it. I kept walking hoping that we could just get out of there. Instead, I was jerked back by an invisible leash when she called out, "‘Pamela’, come here a minute. I want to see how this necklace goes with your outfit."

Pamela. I knew immediately to whom she was calling. She had often told me of how she just knew that her first child was going to be a girl and that she had picked out the name "Pamela". Well, it turned out that "Pamela was born with a pickle" as she so crudely used to phrase it. Was all this her way of getting back at me for being born a boy?

Swinging my purse involuntarily, I meekly turned and walked back to her side. She was looking at gold chain necklaces with hearts and other charms suspended from them. She held up two or three and then asked me which I liked best. I declined to make a choice and was told to choose one or she would choose for me.

"Oh, no, Mother. Go ahead, they all look soooo pretty," I said, a touch of sarcasm in my voice. I looked over my shoulder and prayed the salesgirl might not take notice.

Mom looked at me for a moment. I thought she was going to slap me again, but then she smiled. "Okay, then, Miss Smarty Panties, I’ll just get you this one." It was a gold fairy suspended from a very fine thread of gold chain. "Somehow, a fairy just seems perfect for you," she quipped as she handed it to the girl to ring up. The returned sarcasm was not lost on me; "fairy" was one of the slurs I had told her that one of the boys at school had used the day before.

Having paid for the necklace, Mom told the salesgirl not to bag it as I was going to wear it. She had me turn around and hold up my ponytail. Then she put the chain around my neck and secured the clasp. When she released the clasp, the golden fairy floated down toward those new mounds now protruding from my chest. She came to rest, as if suspended by her wings on my now bare skin, just above the entrance leading to the valley beneath my new blouse.

"That goes just perfectly with your new look, sweetie," my mother said with obvious pride. The clerk nodded in agreement, which made me feel even more stupid. Moving down the counter she began to finger a display of cards to which earrings were attached. "How would you like a pair of earrings to go with your new necklace? I’m sure we can find a set that would match your pretty little fairy friend there," she teased.

"So what? Sooner or later you’ll slip up again and do something wrong, and when you do, I’ll just have you get your ears pierced. Why not just go along and have it done today while I’m in a good mood? Who knows, maybe next time I’ll insist on some large heavy hoops instead of these cute little charms."

I declined and she shrugged her shoulders. "I’m a patient mother. Time is on my side," she concluded as we continued on out the store and back to the car.

As we drove to the theater, Mom told me how "Romeo and Juliet" was one of the world’s greatest romance stories ever and that I should read it so as to appreciate the subtleties not obtained from viewing the movie. She went on and on, but most of the time I was worrying about other things.

The closest parking spot we could find was more than three blocks away from the theater, meaning I got to appear in public for the first time as a girl with no prior coaching. The thin pink kitty-cat top I wore screamed "GIRL!" as did my hair and makeup; on the other hand, my mannerisms and the way I walked mumbled "boy," a surefire combination for disaster.

My mother noticed this discrepancy, of course, and as we walked along she critiqued my every movement, correcting my posture and my gait and everything I did. It was a long walk and she chastised me every step of the way. I remember her being particularly critical of the way I walked, telling me to reduce my stride. I blushed brightly as she threatened to shorten it for me.

"Don’t lope along like some stupid boy. You’d walk a lot differently if I’d gotten you a tight skirt and heels, let me tell you!" I looked at her and realized that she wasn’t at all joking. "And stop staring at the ground. Hold your shoulders back more and tilt your chin up. Only riffraff walk around with a slouch like that," she critiqued.

The funny thing about this situation was that once I gave in and started taking those mincing little steps and doing everything I could to walk and look like a girl, she treated me so much more differently. Her smile, the way she touched my arm whenever she laughed, how she talked to me . . . it was as though she’d never even thought of raising her voice to me. It was . . . well, it was like we were the best of friends!

I hated to admit it, even to myself, but I . . . I kind of liked that part. Well, sort of. As much as a thirteen year old boy could be expected to, I suppose. It was confusing, sure. But it was also kind of nice.

Of course, even with my mother there to support me — if you want to call what she was doing support, of course — I still felt very paranoid. Despite my feminine façade, I just knew that everyone was staring at me and thinking, there goes a boy all dressed up and trying to look like a girl. I started to perspire as the day was warming up and I was stressing out. Do real girls sweat like this I wondered? For once I felt fortunate that I hadn’t yet started to grow much hair under my arms, as I was sure the wetness would have let it show through.

When we finally reached the theater, my mother purchased two tickets. As we walked past the usher at the door and he gave us both a smile. From there we went and found two seats, sitting alone as the theater was not very crowded this early in the day. We chatted while waiting for the lights to dim.

"You may not know this, but in the days when Shakespeare was writing his plays, all the female parts were played by men," she explained. "So for Juliet, a young boy about your age would be dressed and made-up to appear as a young woman. It seems that the men back in those times were so preoccupied with keeping women in their place, that they wouldn’t let them work outside the home not even as actresses."

Something in her voice sent a shiver down my spine, and I tried hard not to show my fear.

My mother continued, "Just imagine how interesting it would have been to be the mother of the boy playing Juliet. She would to teach him how to behave as a girl around the home. She would have the pleasure of introducing him firsthand the indignities that women were forced to endure."

A smile crossed her lips as she spoke of how his mother would have had the privilege of acquainting him to the restrictions of corseting.

"I can picture it now, he would be hung from a lacing bar as she pulls and tightens the laces with each exhalation. She’d be there to see the confused look on his face when he’s first dropped his arms to his side and finds that he can’t catch his breath. She’d be able to remind him that young ladies his age have to put up with such anguish each day to appear presentable. I guess you’re lucky after all that we didn’t live back in those times."

It took me a moment to realize I’d been holding my breath. "Real lucky, Mom," I said hoarsely. "Why didn’t they just have girls play those parts?"

"Sit up, dear. And fix your bra strap. You’re showing. And while you're at it, touch up your lipstick . . . unless you want me to do it for you. "

I did as I was told, blushing brightly in the process. Mom smiled and continued with her lecture. "Because men were pigs even back then, that’s why. They couldn’t stand to give women any influence lest they learn something from them. Don’t get me started on that, but basically men just like to use women and then discard them after they tire of them. Things haven’t changed all that much since."

As the lights dimmed, our conversation ended, but I realized just how deeply Mom had been hurt back when she and Dad divorced. She seemed to carry bitterness even after five long years. Too bad for me, I mused ruefully.

We watched the film with Mom pointing out how authentic the costumes were to the period, or how the picture was filmed almost entirely on location in Italy and how it was suppose to win this or that Academy Award. Sitting there in my girlish brassiere and makeup, I couldn’t help but think about the actress playing Juliet and wondering if I looked anything like she did. I certainly didn’t look like Romeo.

When the picture was over and as we were getting up to leave, my mother asked if I needed to use the bathroom before we headed home.

Not really thinking, I said "yes" before I realized she meant the women’s bathroom.

"Okay, just remember to sit down to relieve yourself," she coached. "Pull off some toilet paper after you finish and pretend you’re wiping. When you come out, redo your lipstick. I’ll be standing next to you doing mine and then we just walk out as if nothing in the world is amiss."

"There won’t be any ‘what ifs!’ Remember, if you act right, you’ll look right and no one will notice or care. You act like a boy in girls’ clothes; you’ll be seen as a boy in girls’ clothes. Is that what you want?" The look on her face frightened me and I shook my head. "You know, now that I’m thinking more about it, I think that color is a little too dark for your age. On the way home let’s stop and get you a lighter pink that’s more fitting for a girl of your age." And with that we both headed for the lobby.

Fortunately, the lady’s room was almost empty and I followed her instructions to the letter. I found I needed to ask her for a tissue to blot my color and she handed me one from her purse. "Another item you should make note to carry," she advised. "Put some in it when we get home."

The walk back to the car was uneventful and I appreciated the safety of the wagon. We stopped at the Thrifty Drug store and Mom made me pick out the shade that would replace the dark pink I was wearing. She insisted that I put it on in the store to make sure that the color was what I really wanted. I started heading for the cashier when she stopped me.

A cold electric shock swept through me as I realized what was happening. The burning scent of some exotic smelling perfume wafted across my nostrils. "Mom, no . . ."

"Oh, hush. I’m just trying something new, all right? You don’t want to stink like some old ugly boy dressed like this, do you?"
I didn’t argue, of course. There was no telling what might have happened if I’d done that. Instead, I did as I was told. I took a whiff, and then stood quietly as my mother sprayed my other wrist with a second scent. She was about to pick up a third when I quickly agreed to the first one. Smiling brightly, she said "Good choice!" and gave me some money to pay for my purchases. I now had two tubes of lipstick in my small purse, along with my mascara and a bottle of perfume.

When we finally reached the sanctuary of home it was after lunch time and we were both hungry. To my chagrin I was told to put on my apron and fix us something to eat. Only the fact that I knew I was wearing an apron separated me from thinking that I was wearing a dress; with my short shorts and pink top and makeup, I looked about as feminine as a child could look as I paraded about the kitchen with the skirt of my apron flaring about, setting the table and following my mother’s careful instructions.

First she had me open a can of tuna, and showed me how to make a tuna salad with mayo, celery and pickle relish. Then she set me to making lemonade and slicing fruit into a bowl. After about half an hour later my entire family had a nice lunch of sandwiches and fruit salad that I had made from start to finish. It was my first cooking lesson.

After lunch Mom carried the new purchases to my room and had me clean out a dresser drawer just for them.

"I want you to keep these folded and stacked neatly in contrast to the way most of your clothes are stuffed in these draws. I haven’t yet decided how I’m going to enforce some new neatness rules for you, but they’ll start right now with your girl clothes always being folded and put away. Any questions?"

I had none as I watched her remove the labels and price tags and then refold my new additions. I just knew that tomorrow was probably not the last I would see of my bras and girl tops.

Before it got dark Mom took me out in the back yard and had me pose for some photos. Unlike the usual ones of me just standing and looking at the camera, she made me sit on the edge of the little fountain in the center of our garden and stand next to a rose bush. In each shot she posed my hands and legs in the most awkward positions, saying that it would look more natural when the final pictures came out.

"And don’t forget to smile," she reminded me constantly. "You look like you’re not having a good time." The pit of my stomach fell a mile, but I did as I was told, or else risk who knew what kind of additional horror.

The rest of the day she had me redo my lipstick and mascara three or four more times for practice or just because it looked faded. I did have to agree that the lighter pink was not as noticeable or out of place as the bright red color I was made to wear to school the day before. By bedtime I was hopeful that I was over half way through the weekend and that my ordeal would soon be over.

As I undressed, it occurred to me that I might need help undoing the bra clasps. I called my mother in and she showed me how to grasp the straps and then pull them down to give me more room to maneuver. She placed my fingers in the correct position and then assisted me with the proper movement to unhook the strap. She had me put the bra and shirt in the dirty clothes hamper and told me that tomorrow I’d be wearing a fresh set of each.

It was a very fitful night with dreams that tortured my imagination. They ranged from being "outed" by my schoolmates while dressed as a girl to being suspended from a rack-like device while my mother turned a wheel that tightened the laces of a medieval corset. Tossing and turning most of the night, I awakened more than once in a cold sweat.

Mercifully, my mother allowed me to sleep in the next morning. When I finally awoke I went to the bathroom to brush my teeth and hair. I debated whether to put my hair up in a ponytail or leave it down straight. I decided against appearing to cooperate and merely applied the mandatory lipstick, then dressed in my usual clothes and went down for breakfast.

I’d elected not to put on my bra and blouse which earned me a curt command to go back to my room and dress correctly. I got out one of the new bras and slipped it into place. Grabbing the rear straps as Mom had shown me last night I attempted to hook it behind my back to no avail. I finally had to slip it off my shoulders, spin it around in front of me, clasp the hooks, then spin it around to its ordinal position.

My mother came in just as I was finishing this maneuver and she said that today I would spend some time to practice doing it the proper way. She helped me adjust the strap tension to a snug fit showed me how to do it myself for the third bra. Then I picked out a powder blue shirt constructed of the same fabric as the one I’d worn to the movie and slipped it on. It was of the same midriff design as my pink one, only instead of a kitten it had a butterfly embroidered across the chest. The white shorts replaced my jeans, along with the white tennis shoes and a pair of powder blue socks.

"Don’t forget your mascara, either," I was warned. "Not unless you want to go through all this again tomorrow for school."

Once I was properly outfitted I went to my mother’s room for final approval. Mom had me turn around a few times; she hummed and thought for a moment, and then told me to sit at her vanity. It was hairbrush time. On this occasion, however, rather than pull my locks back into a ponytail, she opted for something much different. I watched in horror as she parted my hair in the middle and then pulled it into two little bunches, one on each side of my head. A pair of white beaded elastic bands held them in place.

"Now that’s cute," she said as she fluffed out my bangs once more. I winced as she used a pair of scissors to even up the loose edges. "Those little dog ears make you look very girlish. Not at all like an ugly boy."

After breakfast it was obvious that I wouldn't be going outside unless coerced. My smirking brother had gone off to play with his friends and I was left wondering how to kill time for the duration of my "lesson." I had gone into the living room and turned on the TV.

When Mom heard it come on she came in and turned it off saying, "No TV for you, young lady. Now come, let's find something you can do to help me around here." I was given the vacuum and told to do the rugs in the bedrooms, hall, dining and living room.

As I was setting up the vacuum and moving some things around in the living room my Mom stopped me. Giving me a careful looking over, she smiled and nodded in a way that I was beginning to find unnerving.

"Here, sweetie, turn around a minute." I did as I was told, feeling naked as I did. Mom nodded and smiled. "I’ve got an idea. Come along with me, I want to try something."

We went to her bedroom where I stood patiently while she rummaged through her closet. After a few minutes she said "Here they are," and pulled out several pairs of pants.

"I outgrew these a few years ago after your brother was born," she said. "No since in letting them go to waste just because I’m a size or two too big. Here, pick out a pair and try them on. If they fit you can wear them around the house and save your jeans and shorts for school."

I looked at the clothes laid out before me and felt my stomach drop. Of the four or so pairs of slacks before me, all were of obvious feminine design. All of them were made out of a thin, shiny material and had little flared legs with a slit along the side; even more strange, they either zipped up the back or along the side, which I thought was kind of bizarre. One pair was white with blue piping and had a funny little nautical design on the front; another was a bright purple paisley print with shiny decorative silver buttons on either side. At least one pair was bright red with a very feminine pattern embroidered in white along the entire length of the legs, and there was a bright lime green pair that I thought would look awful even on my mother.

"These are called 'Capri' slacks," she explained as I doffed my shorts and slipped into my newest acquisition. "They're supposed to fit snug and show off your curves, but my curves are a bit too much for them nowadays."

At first I thought they were too short because they only reached just past my knee, but my mother said that's the way they were designed. The hip hugger cut left even more of my belly exposed, making me feel extremely uncomfortable, as though they were about to slide down and fall off. I was disappointed to find that while they weren't a perfect fit — at the tender age of thirteen I obviously didn’t have as large a bottom as my mother — I could wear them with no problem at all.

"Don't worry," Mom said as she showed me how to zip up the back, "you'll grow into them."

Standing before the dressing mirror, I wasn't too surprised to see how much more I looked like a girl; from my "dog ears" to the bra showing beneath my blouse to the girlish pants clinging to my legs and bottom, I might have been taken for any of the girls in my junior high class. I was just grateful that I didn't have to carry my purse while doing chores.

Without a word I went back to work. I actually didn’t mind vacuuming and so took my time so as to do a good job. There was some sense of accomplishment in seeing how the carpet was free of debris and I liked how the weave patterns all lined up. The only problem was that I kept having to tug at my clothes; between my shirt riding up and showing my bra and my pants slipping down and exposing my underpants, I was a frustrated mess.

After finishing up my chores I went to my room to sit down and rest. I couldn’t have been alone for five minutes when my mother showed up, a bright grin lighting up her face.

"Hi, sweetie. You did a great job with the vacuuming. After you take a break, how about helping me with the laundry?"

Sighing, I nodded. I’d hoped to be left alone with my comic books, but it looked like that was going to be out of the question.

"That’s my girl. Oh, and before you come down, freshen up your make up a bit. I see a smudge on your mascara. Don’t want to look sloppy, you know."

"Yes, ma’am. I mean, no, ma’am." I shook my head as I started fiddling with my purse.

Mom smiled. "I know, it’s hard to keep up with all this, isn’t it, sweetie? Let me tell you what, you need to make sure to check your appearance every time you go by a mirror, all right? That way if I’m not around and your makeup gets messed up or your hair is out of place you can take care of it. You don’t want to look all mussy, do you?

After sitting there thinking for a bit, I gave up trying to be "normal" and spent a few minutes straightening up my face. While I still wasn’t quite used to looking at my feminized reflection, I was starting to get the hang of how I was supposed to apply my new "face"; between applying a fresh coat of lipstick, blotting and doing my eyes, you’d have thought I’d been putting on makeup all my life. Just thinking about the implications of that scared me.

Down in the laundry room I found myself immersed in a whole new set of responsibilities. Mom showed me how she wanted everything sorted, sprayed, and washed. From the whites to the socks and towels to her nurse uniforms and lingerie, I was drilled on what it took to keep our family wearing clean clothes all week long.

"You’re old enough, there’s no reason you can’t do this for me when you come in from school each day. Just do a load every couple of days, that’s all. Of course, if you let it build up too much, you’ll spend all weekend long washing clothes, and I’m sure you have better things to do than sit around the laundry room every Saturday."

The hardest part about doing the laundry was the sorting and spraying. I never knew how much trouble my mother had taken to keep our things looking neat, especially my and my brother’s underwear. Yuck! I remember standing over the pile of dirty shorts with the stain remover and vowing to do a better job keeping myself clean.

One thing that I had really mixed emotions about was doing my mother’s lingerie. Well, hers and mine, now that I was playing this little game with her. She insisted that all of her bras and panties and things be washed by hand, which made me really nervous. Thirteen year old boys just didn’t do things like that — in my opinion, of course! — and I found myself red-faced and perspiring at the very thought. To make matters even more intolerable, I was getting another dreaded erection.

"Oh, no," I whimpered helplessly. I remember the shame I felt as the oncoming stiffness caused me to squirm involuntarily. "Not, this! Not again!"

Not counting a break for lunch, it took me nearly three hours to get the laundry done. Mom was pleased, especially when she saw me hanging a row of panties on the back porch clothes line. I was caught by surprise when I saw the flash of her little camera, and I stood there stupidly as she took picture after picture of me holding a pair of panties in my hands. I have to admit that my situation was so silly and her smile was so bright it lit up even my own dejected demeanor. I finally broke down and giggled at the ridiculousness of it all. It was either that or cry.

"Very good, ‘Pamela’. We’ll make marriage material out of you yet. You’ll make some young man a wonderful wife." My mother laughed as I fudged about in my girlish outfit. "Now, as I recall, you needed some practice with your bras today, didn’t you? Take off your blouse and then unsnap your bra. Let’s see how well you can do that."

"Aw, do we have to?" I wasn’t too crazy about parading around in a girl’s brassiere, much less being reminded that I had one on. Doing so in the kitchen was even less inviting. The look on my mother’s face, of course, preempted any further discussion of the matter.

I complied with her command to remove my shirt, but was all thumbs when it came to the bra snaps. She helped me position my fingers and had me snap and unsnap the clasps without letting go of the ends somewhere between twenty-five or thirty times. After that we practiced where to grip the straps from a hands-off position, and again I was forced to repeat this thirty or so times before I began to get the feel for it.

"Now, let’s try it from the beginning," my mother said, indicating for me to take my bra completely off. I was mortified when I looked down at my naked chest and saw a white outline around each of my breasts. I'd never noticed until then, but it looked like they'd swollen on me. I glanced up to see her smiling. "Oh, sweetie, don’t worry. The same thing happened to me when I was your age. It's just where the bra was a little tight on you. You’ll get used to it. Trust me, it’s quite flattering. You look like you actually have little-girl titties. How sweet!"

Red-faced and breathing heavily, I tried to ignore the white marks on my chest and concentrate on my exercises. I put on and took off my bra at least a dozen times before I was given the nod of approval. By then my arms were aching from so much repetitive action. I complained that my arms were getting tired and Mom said I could take a break. While I rested, we both sat at the kitchen table and she said "Tell me, do you think you’ve got the knack of this yet?"

When I responded in the affirmative she smiled. "Think so, sweetie? Think you could do it wearing half inch nail extensions?" she laughed. "Well, that’s enough for today. Put your blouse back on and the rest of the day you can do whatever you want. Dressed as you are, of course."

When bedtime came I removed my makeup, bra and blouse. I had found that unhooking the clasps was almost easy. Since I had my fingers positioned correctly, I practiced three or four more times on my own. What the hell was I thinking? The last thing I did before heading to bed was to find the nail polish remover and strip my nails.

By the next morning, things were back to normal, or so they seemed. I went off to school my usual self but with some trepidation because of last week’s experience. A few of my closer friends apologized for their actions and I gracefully accepted them. When they commented on not seeing me over the weekend, I was relieved. None of them knew. My homeroom teacher gave me a close looking over but said nothing. I was hopeful that this chapter was closed, but actually it was just beginning.

School let out a few weeks later and the summer between the eighth and ninth grades took off with an unremarkable start. Mom went to work each day and I did some chores around the house and helped keep things picked up and made sure Dave stayed out of trouble. Mom would hint that in my free time I might try on some of my girlie clothes, but I didn’t bite; she acted disappointed, but it was going to take a lot more than a puppy-dog face and some pouting to get me to go through all that again. As far as I was concerned "Pamela" was ancient history.

It all started the day I came back from hanging out with some of the guys down the street. Mom was at work and I was in charge, so to speak. I know, I know, I shouldn’t have left the house because my little brother was there by himself and I was under strict orders to never leave him alone when I was babysitting. Okay, yes, I messed up, but you know how guys are; I just wanted to see what was going on and I was having a hard enough time fitting in as it was, so I didn’t see anything wrong with it. Besides, I was only gone a few minutes, right? Yeah, sure.

I knew I was in bad trouble when I saw the car in the driveway. As if that wasn’t enough, Mom was standing at the front door, her face as red as a fire truck.

"And just where have you been?" she yelled at me as I sauntered into the foyer. Before I could even say a word — SLAP!!! — I found myself sitting on the floor with stars before my eyes.

"I told you to never, ever leave the house without permission! You left your brother here alone, and you know better than that, don’t you!!! Here you are, almost fourteen years old, and you go off who knows where doing who knows what, leaving your little brother to get hurt or burn the house down! Well, I warned you, didn’t I, but you didn’t listen. You wouldn’t listen. That, little mister, is going to cost you!"

"I’m sorry," I whimpered. I rubbed my face and fought the tears that burned my eyes. Suddenly my stomach wasn’t feeling very good.

As angry as she was, my mother was just getting started. "There’s something else, too. You come with me right now. You’ve got a lot of explaining to do!"

I hadn’t been marched anywhere by having my ear twisted since I was little. But that morning that’s exactly how I was ushered to my room. Mom was even madder than I thought. The problem was that when she came home for lunch and found me missing, she took the opportunity to search my room for contraband. In the process she uncovered my stash of special pictures that I had hidden dead center in the middle of my mattress. I knew that she changed the sheets on a regular basis, but she usually just pulled off the old and tucked in the fresh without disturbing things very much. My hiding place had remained undiscovered for over a year and I felt that it was secure. Wrong!!!

As I looked at the evidence displayed across my neatly made bed, I knew I was really in for it. By now my stomach was doing flip-flops.
"And just what is this young man?" my mother demanded, knowing full well what it was.

Before I go on I have to explain something. If I had a primary choice in the matter, I would have purchased Playboy hands down. However, there was a slight problem in the town where I lived. Playboy and other such magazines were considered "pornographic" and were not sold to kids my age. They could only be purchased in liquor stores and by people eighteen and over, and at that time I didn’t have any such friends to procure copies for me.

So as a substitute, I had found that "Seventeen Magazine," which I could buy at the drug store, provided a reasonable alternative. To me the girls were just as desirable, if not more so, as those in Playboy, only they dressed a little more completely than I would have been my personal preference. But they tended to be more my age. Funny thing, I also enjoyed reading some of the stories as well, but I’d never admit that to anyone.

So when Mom decided that it was time to toss my room, guess what she found?! There was the current issue of Seventeen, along with pictures from prior issues that I had torn out and tucked away with it. I have to guess that she knew what they were doing there because when she found them the "fit hit the shan."

My second mistake — the first one being that my stash was hidden in too obvious a place — was to tell her that I had no idea what it was.

"You mean to stand there and lie to me that this isn’t your stash?" she badgered. I blanched to hear her use such language; it was as shocking to me as it was frightening. "Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’m not stupid, you know. I know all about boys and the things you do. I am a nurse, after all."

The look she gave me was cold and dark. I suddenly felt like I had to go to the bathroom.

"And now you’re going to look me in the eye and insult my intelligence? Didn’t your little experience with lying about homework teach you anything?"

"Please, Mom . . ." I begged. She was working up steam and I knew from experience if she got really mad I was going to suffer miserably. "I just . . . didn’t . . . mean . . ."

She didn’t even pause to listen to my answer or even for effect, she was so upset. She held up an advertisement that featured a teenage girl in little more than a bra and panties and she shook her head.

"This is just wonderful! I’ve raised a thirteen year old pervert who can’t keep his hands from between his legs, much less tell the difference between the truth and a bold faced lie. Just what do you think I should do about that? Have you no shame? You disgust me!" And she continued on until there was just dead silence.

"Go into the bathroom and get in the tub. When you’re done, get dressed in your girlie clothes because we’re going shopping."

This wasn’t good, not at all. I knew if I didn’t say something, she’d go too far . . . and I had too much at stake to keep silent. I mean, I was almost fourteen years old. She couldn’t do that to me!

"Don’t back talk me! You’re the one who wanted this, understand? Since you’re so interested in what’s on those pages of Seventeen, then you’re about to learn firsthand, missy!" With that she left me alone in my room to nurse my wounded pride.

I got into the tub, which of course was filled with bubble bath and oils, slid beneath the water and just laid there worrying about what was going to happen next. From the other room I could hear my mother making a couple of phone calls. One of them was to the clinic saying she was taking the remainder of the day off because of a family problem. All of a sudden I had a distinct foreboding that my life — which had been going so well — was coming to an abrupt turnaround.

After about ten minutes I got out, dried off and went back to my room. I opened my special drawer and pulled out one of the bras and the pink pullover. I hooked the bra behind me as best I could after not having practiced for a number of weeks and then slid the top over it. A shudder ran through me as I rummaged through the selections of pants I had to choose from. Deciding to take a chance, I picked out a pair of jeans and slipped them on.

I then walked into the kitchen where Mom was waiting. When she saw I wasn’t wearing any makeup she went ballistic. She again grabbed my ear pulling me back into the bathroom only to remember that I stored my makeup in the purse kept next to my clothes. She released me to retrieve it along with my necklace and return right back. I did as instructed and when there was told to "put on your face." I reached into my purse and removed the green colored tube which contained my light pink lip color.

"Not that one today, 'Pamela’. Use the other one." She said in an angry voice.

I pulled out the white case with the darker pink shade and then applied it. I didn’t have to wait to be told to put on the mascara and then the fairy necklace. When I completed my task, she grabbed her brush and put my hair up into that silly "dog-ear" style she liked so much, using a pair of pink scrunchies to secure each little ponytail.

"And here, take off those ugly jeans and put these on," she ordered. I looked down at my bed to see the lime green Capri slacks that I hated so much. The white tennis shoes and pink socks lay next to them. "After you get dressed, go get in the car and wait for me."

As I made my way to the car she yelled, "You want to walk like a trooper, ‘Pamela’? You think you’re tough? Well, I have a way to take care of that, and I will!"

The drive was in silence until Mom broke the tranquility by asking how long I had been hoarding the magazines. I decided to play it straight and told her for about a year. She then asked how often I was masturbating. With a red face I whispered that it averaged about once a day.

The look on my mother’s face was of amused astonishment. "Once a day? Every day? You’ve got to be kidding me!" She shook her head as though she’d smelled something bad. "Well, we’re going to put a stop to that beginning today. Where do you do it? Not in your room on my good sheets, I hope."

My face was burning red as I tried to think of what to say. Having my most embarrassing secret discovered was bad enough, but being forced to discuss it was a nightmare. "Uh, no, ma’am. Mostly . . . mostly . . ." I took a deep breath. "I guess mostly in the bathroom."

"In my bathroom? That is so nasty!" She made a repulsive face and shook her head. I’d seen her mad before, but this was something different. It was as though she really was disgusted with me, totally and irrevocably disgusted.

"Those boys you hang around with . . . you haven’t been doing it with any of them, have you? It’d be just like you and your dirty little friends to be jerking off with each other."

Ewww!! I couldn’t believe my own mom was saying stuff like that. "Please, Mom, no . . . it’s not like that. I . . . I . . . I just do it sometimes, when I’m alone." I fought to control my tears. "I won’t do it anymore, I promise."

"Well, that’s a lie if I ever heard one," she said. "Like I said, I know how boys are, little boys and their little toys. You just can’t keep your hands off yourself, can you? How can you stand to do such a nasty thing?" I thought my heart was going to burst; it was pounding so hard to hear my own mother talk like that. "Something’s about to change. There are ways to get this under control. And believe me, we are going to get it under control!"

I didn’t know exactly what she was talking about . . . but I surely knew that I didn’t want to find out, either!

The ride then returned to being hushed for the remaining few minutes. We pulled into the same Sears from which we had made my prior purchases, parked and then headed for the door. My head pounded as I got out of the car and walked alongside my mother. I felt so stupid, so obviously ridiculous, dressed in my girlish pants and top and with my face painted up like one of those prissy girls in my class. Mincing along in my tight slacks and helplessly swinging my purse, I was being careful not to over stride or slouch. Mom didn’t seem to notice, but I didn’t want to pour gasoline on any embers that might still be smoldering.

On entering we headed straight back to the teens’ department and this time she didn’t need to ask for directions. We went first to the lingerie department where I watched in horror as she selected four packages of white panties. Adjacent to the panties was the display of panty girdles. My mouth went dry as she picked out three pairs of brief-sized and three of the long-leg style. Next it was over to the bra counter and four new bras, again choosing training bras with the already padded cups. Then just down the aisle she collected six packages each of neutral and coffee colored stockings.

What’s going on? I thought, panicked. That’s enough stuff for three girls! She doesn’t expect me to spend the whole summer wearing that junk, does she . . .?