The Art of Petticoat Punishment

by Carole Jean

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

Lipstick Discipline
by Amber P. and Daphne
Illustrations by Daphne


Chapter 11 — A Very Strange Day

It was so early the next morning when my mother got me up the sun hadn't even thought about shining. 5:30 a.m. to be exact. Mom told me to go to the bathroom and wash my face while she laid out my clothes for the day. When I came back I was distressed to see a complete girl's outfit waiting for me, including the polka dot dress she’d bought me, a slip, fresh bra and panties, hose, heels and another long-legged girdle.

"Change quickly, now," my mother instructed. "I have to leave for work in a little while and you have to make breakfast and help me get dressed."

While Mom retired to the bathroom, I did as I was told. Tears filled my eyes as I dressed myself. This wasn't going to stop, I realized. She’s going to make me dress like a girl for the rest of my life!

I did the best I could, considering how early it was. The girdle, of course, was the worst part; I thought I'd never get it on, but I wasn't about to have Mom come in and help me; I knew I'd never hear the end of it if I did. And I wasn't about to give her reason to complain. I managed to get my hose on without snagging them and I even brushed out my hair and put on my makeup without being reminded. I figured I may as well. Considering how I was dressed, I'd look pretty goofy without it.

When I got downstairs I went ahead and started the coffee and toast, taking time to slip my apron over my dress to keep from making a mess. Mom arrived soon after and after giving me a long look and a nod, she smiled and kissed me on the forehead as though I'd done something right for a change.

"You might want to go put on a different lipstick, sweetie," she said with a wink. "Save your red for when you go out or maybe you're doing something special in the evening."

Darned if you do and darned if you don't! Chagrined, I clomped upstairs and removed my red lipstick and replaced it with pink. I had to touch up my mascara a little bit, also, from where I smeared it. So many rules, so many things to remember . . . I was beginning to realize being a girl was a lot harder than it looked.

Still in her gown, Mom sat at the kitchen table and chatted and sipped coffee and read the paper while I worked on breakfast. She talked me through scrambling the eggs and frying the bacon, and I managed to butter the toast and set the table on my own. I even took the time to spread jam on her toast for her, a gesture that caused her to smile as though I'd performed a miracle.

"It’s so nice having a pretty ‘daughter’ waiting on me for a change. I might just get used to this," she said as she enjoyed her meal.

"Please, Mom, don’t tease me." I made a pouty face, not at all pleased with my new role. "This isn’t funny at all."

"You’re right. It isn’t funny." She looked over her coffee cup at me and smiled. "But it is fun, though."

Even though I wasn't too hungry at the time (the new girdle I wore was even tighter than the other one and I was afraid to put anything in my stomach for fear of bursting something) Mom insisted that I sit and have a cup of coffee with her while she ate. I wasn't too much of a coffee drinker, but with enough milk and sugar I put together a concoction that was palatable. I then took my seat across the table from my mother.

Mom paused for a moment and waved her fork at me as though I'd messed up something. "No. No, that wasn't right. Try it again."

"Uh, what wasn't right, Mom?"

"The way you sat in that chair. Try it again. This time, don't just plop down. Take your time and ease yourself into it. Carefully, as though you're afraid you might break something."

I stared at her for a moment and then shrugged my shoulders. "Umm, okay."

Leave it to my mother to turn sitting in a chair into a lesson on acting like a girl. I did as I was told, so I thought, and I was again criticized. This time I was told to tuck the skirt of my dress under my bottom with my free hand as I sat, to keep it from bunching up.

"That's better," my mom said, chewing her food thoughtfully. "But not good enough. Do it one more time."

As you can imagine, I repeated the act of sitting down at least a dozen times. Finally, my mother told me to remain seated and to drink my coffee.

"You can practice some later today, after you finish your chores. If you're going to wear a dress you're going to have to learn how to properly manage yourself."

As dumb as I felt, I was grateful to know that no one else could see me or would even know what I was doing. A thirteen year old boy sitting at the kitchen table, dressed like a teenage girl and sipping coffee with his mother . . . what a ridiculous sight I would have made for my friends at school or on the ball team! It was like a scene in one of those girl movies or a bad play, but with me in the title role! As quiet and calm as the world was at that moment, inside my head I could already hear the laughing and name-calling that would have gone on had my secret been exposed.

Before finishing her breakfast Mom cited to me a list of chores that she wanted done before she came home that afternoon. Most were already written down on a notepad lying on the kitchen table, but she had me add a few more while we chatted. In addition to finishing up the ironing and the laundry, she wanted me to vacuum the living room, hall and bedrooms, dust the furniture and clean all of the bathrooms.

"You might want to take off your dress when you do some of these," she suggested. "Some of the cleansers may cause spotting or stains in that fabric."

My pulse raced with hope. "Then I can put on my boy stuff?"

"No! You can not put on your boy stuff! Pay attention, unless you want another slap in the face!" Mom talked to me in a stern, careful voice, just as she would a little child. "Just slip out of your dress when you’re doing something messy, then put it back on. I want the house clean . . ."

"You mean, wear just my . . . underwear . . .?"

"Yes, just your underwear! Don’t interrupt! Anyway, I don’t want you ruining your pretty clothes. And don’t make such a face. Girls and women often run around the house in their undies. It’s not a big deal . . . unless you make it that way." She gave me a careful look. "Either way, I’ll hold you responsible for both how the house looks and how you look at the end of the day. And don’t even think about putting on your jeans or any other pair of pants. You do and I’ll know. Trust me, I will."

With each new rule I could feel my freedom slipping away, and I wondered if the rest of my summer was going to be like this.

I certainly hoped not!

After breakfast was out of the way Mom told me to come upstairs and help her get ready for work. I wasn't sure what this would entail, but I nodded and did as I was told.

"Here, sweetie, make my bed for me if you would. I want you to do this every day, along with yours and Dave’s as well. Do a good job, or you’ll just have to start all over again."

Mom’s standards were pretty high, so I had to do it twice, of course. This was exhausting considering how I was dressed; it’s hard keeping your balance on high heels when you’re all bent over and trying to flatten the wrinkles out of a mattress pad. That stupid girdle was cutting into my sides and several times I had to pause just to catch my breath.

Once the bed was made I was then given a fresh nurse's uniform and told to take it off the hanger and straighten out any wrinkles and then lay it on the freshly made bed. I was also given a brush and some white polish and told to touch up her shoes. While I did this my mom took off her gown and proceeded to slip into her underthings.

I tried hard not to pay attention, but I couldn't help it. Despite her years my mother was quite elegant in the way she handled herself. It was fascinating to watch out of the corner of my eye as she slipped into her brassiere and her panties, sliding the silken garments over her skin as though it was part of a dance. Even putting on a girdle — an act of humiliation as far as I was concerned! — seemed second nature to her and the way she adorned her legs with her stockings was even more interesting to me than watching a no-hitter at the world's series. Heaven forbid, but I found myself thinking "So that's how that's done!" and "Why is that so easy for her and such a pain for me?" as I finished up polishing her shoes.

With her slip and dress in place, Mom sat at her vanity to put on her makeup. Seeing me standing there doing nothing, she smiled.

"Are my shoes ready, sweetie?" I nodded dumbly. "Here, then, why don't you slip them on my feet while I put on my face. Would you do that for your poor old mother, please?"

The next thing I knew I found myself kneeling before my mother and sliding her shoes over her nylon-clad feet. The whole scene was so surreal, like a weird dream, but I took a deep breath and managed to finish my task without embarrassing myself too badly. A couple of days before, if you'd even suggested that I'd be doing something like that I'd have said you were nuts. Now, well, it just seemed like the thing for me to do.

"Here, hold still a minute," Mom said when I was done with her shoes. I was still kneeling there before her, struggling to maintain my breath in that tight girdle. She dug around in a drawer for a moment, and then I felt something being placed on my head, something tight and sharp, clamping down on either side of my head like a spring or something.

"There, that looks nice. That hair band will keep your hair out of your face while you're doing your chores. It makes you look very stylish as well."

I looked in my mom's makeup mirror and blinked. There it was, a white plastic hair band, just like the girls at school all wore, clamped tight across the top of my dark brown hair. Mom fluffed out my bangs a bit and spit a little on her fingertip and smeared it into a stray lock over my ear. If I hadn't known it was me, well . . . I probably wouldn't have recognized myself.

Just before she left for work Mom reminded me to wake Dave up by eight o'clock so he could go swimming with his friends. I was to fix him breakfast if he wanted; otherwise I was to work on my chores.

Digging the toe of my high heel in the carpet, I took a deep breath. "Uh, Mom, before you go, you know . . . you know I’m supposed to have ball practice tonight down at the park. We’re having a game this Saturday, too. I can still go, can’t I?"

Mom looked down her nose at me. Her nose wrinkled like she smelled something bad.

"Baseball? This afternoon? I don’t think so!"

My heart pounded. No baseball? She couldn’t do this to me! She had to let me go . . . the team needed me. More importantly, I had to get out of those clothes. I didn’t want to look like a nerd all summer long! I struggled in vain to contain my frustration. "Please? I mean, I am the second baseman, after all. Coach is expecting me to show up and help out, you know. I’ll do an extra good job with my chores, I promise!"

My mother shook her head. She never was a big sports fan and I could tell that ball practice didn’t fit into her plans for me. That was just great as far as I was concerned. I’d do anything to get out of wearing that stupid girdle!

"Please?" I smiled my most innocent smile. I couldn’t even begin to imagine how ridiculous I looked.

Mom sighed and nodded reluctantly. "We’ll see. You do have an obligation to your team, I guess. As long as you get your chores done, I suppose it’ll be all right. But you have to pass my inspection. AND . . . you are to come straight home, understand? I’m not having you out getting into trouble again."

Shaking my head up and down frantically, I assured her I would be on my best behavior.

"Meanwhile, just make sure you stay in the house while I’m gone," she warned, shaking a firm finger in my face. "If I find out you snuck off again like you did yesterday, there will be no baseball. That, and you'll wish you weren't even born."

As the front door slammed shut I found myself wondering just exactly what it was my mom was thinking. Stay in the house? I turned and stared at the feminine figure reflected in the hall mirror. Why in the world would she think I might even consider leaving the house, I wondered. I'd be an idiot if I did! It was bad enough that I had to look at myself dressed like a girl, there was no way I was going to let anyone else see me!

I had a while before Dave got up, so I went into the living room and plopped down on the couch. I kicked off those stupid high heels and crossed my arms over my padded breasts. I might have to dress up like some fairy all day long, but that didn't mean I had to act like one!

Even though I knew I’d be playing ball that afternoon, I was still pretty upset. I pouted and fumed for almost an hour, sitting alone in the living room in my punishment clothes. There was little else I could do, considering the spot I'd found myself in. Frustrated and bored, I turned the television on to some cartoons and pretended I was on somewhere else.

Around eight I woke up Dave and offered to fix him breakfast. All he wanted was a bowl of cereal, which I told him to fix for himself. I then went down to finish cleaning the kitchen.

"Mom said you were supposed to fix my breakfast," Dave said as he came into the kitchen. The smart aleck look on his face made me want to punch him out. "Aren't you going to do it?"

"Fix your own," I snapped. "It's just cereal. You arm isn't broken . . . yet."

"Uh-uh-uh!! Mom told me to tell her if you didn't follow the rules. You're supposed to fix my breakfast and stuff, just like mom does. If you don't, she's really gonna let you have it when she gets home tonight!"

That did it! I wasn't going to take any crap from the likes of that little tattletale! I turned around and made a fist and shook it at him. My painted fingernails made it look less than threatening.

"Oh, just shut up, you little brat! Just shut up and get your own damned breakfast and go on, go swimming with your buddies. I hope you drown, you little bastard! You don't have to put up with all this stupid stuff like I do. Why don't you just shut the fuck up and leave me alone!"

Dave backed off for a second. He looked at me for a second, and then he grinned as he reached for his cereal. In spite of my blow up he decided I wasn't about to lay a finger on him. And he was right. All I needed was for him to go running to Mom with some story about how I was picking on him again. Even if he was lying through his teeth she'd find some reason to take up his side, I just knew it.

"I don't have to do what you say, ‘Pamela’," Dave said in a lilting, singsong voice. "I'm not the one wearing panties and lipstick." The giggle he gave hurt worse than a slap in the face from my mom. "You're the one who better watch out. Mom's not gonna very happy when she hears about how you're talking to me."

I resisted the temptation to punch him out and concentrated on getting him out the door instead. I had a lot of thinking to do and the sooner I was alone the better.

Dave's ride came at nine. By then it was time for my movie, so I plopped down in front of the television with a glass of milk and some cookies, and for the next couple of hours tried to forget that I was dressed like a complete dork. At one point I looked down at the glass I was drinking out of and saw that familiar pink lip print standing out against the white milk. Disgusted, I wiped my mouth clean on my arm and took another drink. No sign of pink this time. While I was at it, I pulled that dinky little hair band out of my hair, tossed it and mussed up my hair. There. That felt a lot better. Munching another cookie, I felt at least a little bit vindicated.

I was thinking about changing into my boy clothes when the phone rang. My jeans sure would feel good about now, I was thinking as I slid across the hardwood floor in my stocking feet — not a very ladylike maneuver, but what did I care? Mom won’t know and I can change back before she came home from work. This might not be so bad after all!

"Yeah?" I answered the phone in a less than pleasant manner. I waited for a moment, but there was nothing on the other end of the line. "Hello? Who is this?" I raised my voice a little louder, frustrated to be taken away from my show.

"Hello? ‘Pamela’? Is that you, dear? What's that I hear?" There was a moment of silence, then . . . "GREGORY PARKER!!! Do you have that television on?"

Darn it! It was my mom!!! I looked down at the cookie in my hand and my stocking feet and I suddenly felt as though I'd been caught doing something evil. I nearly tripped over the coffee table in my hurry to turn the volume down on the TV set.

"Uh, oh . . . hi, Mom. Uh, yeah, I just had it on . . .you know, for noise. It's kinda quiet in the house. You know, what with you and Dave being gone all day."

"Hmmm . . . I see. Well, turn it off. I know how you are when you’re around the TV. How far along are you on your chores? You've got a lot to do today. I better not find out you've been slacking off."

I bit my lip. "Uh, I'm doing all right. I'm about done with the ironing and stuff. I still got the vacuuming and the bathrooms to do. I thought I'd do them this afternoon."

"No, they need to be done this morning. I'm coming home for lunch and I may have some errands for you to run this afternoon." There was a pause and I found myself feeling sick in my stomach. "I want everything done by the time I get home. If not, there'll be hell to pay. Do you understand me, little miss?"

"Yes, ma'am." I took a breath. "Um, can I still go to ball practice this afternoon?"

There was a pause. "We’ll see. It all depends on whether you get your errands run. And remind me when I get home, we're going to have to do something about your telephone manners, too."

Home for lunch? Errands to run? What the heck was going on? I was as confused as ever as I hung up the phone. Looking down at my polka dot dress, I couldn't help but shiver. This stuff was getting out of hand!

A quick look at the clock told me that I had little more than an hour to do a day's worth of housework. Plus, I had to fix my face and hair back into some semblance of a girlish look.

And where the heck were those high heels? And my new hair band!

Stupid television!! Stupid me!!! If Mom ever found out what I was doing, I’d never even get to watch another game of baseball, much less play in one!

Before I got started I slipped out of my dress and hung it up in the kitchen; if nothing else, I knew I better look good when my mom stepped through that front door. Clad in little more than my slip, undies, heels and hose, I then went to work, finishing the ironing in record time, my previous experience proving invaluable. I did a passable job of folding the laundry and putting it away, cramming my things in my drawer to be folded when I had more time. The vacuuming I kind of skimped on, doing just enough to make it look like I'd done a good job. The dusting was a little more demanding, and I'm not even going to talk about the bathrooms. They were disgusting!

I felt so stupid running around the house in my lingerie, but there wasn’t much I could do about it. I didn’t dare change clothes ‘cause I wasn’t sure what Mom had done to spy on me; knowing her she had a secret camera stashed somewhere to make sure I didn’t go against her rules. Who knew for sure? Stuck between a rock and a hard place, I did take the time to make sure all the blinds were pulled in case any of my buddies came by.

Anyway, in spite of my embarrassment and discomfort I got it all done, sort of. I somehow managed to make it look as though I’d made an attempt on my chores. Not that it mattered. The way I figured it, she'd probably make me do it all again anyway, so why worry too much about it.

When I heard the car pull into the driveway I grabbed my dress from it hanger and ran upstairs. I was in the bathroom touching up my makeup and hair when the front door opened and I heard my mother's voice. I was sweating like a pig — a pink pig! — I was so scared. Worried that she might see something she shouldn't — Oh, gosh, did I leave the TV on or not? — I spritzed myself with a healthy dose of perfume and hurried as quickly as possible downstairs, my heels clip-clopping on the hardwood steps like a big old horse or something. The overwhelming scent of the cologne took my breath away, but I thought maybe if Mom noticed the extra effort I put into my makeup she wouldn’t be so hard on me.

It wasn't until I was near the bottom of the steps that I realized she wasn’t alone.

"Oh, well, there's my darling daughter now. ‘Pamela’, you know Mrs. Johnston, don't you? Glenda, this is my lovely ‘Pamela’."

I about died! Standing there at the bottom of the steps with my mom was her friend, Mrs. Johnston. Actually, her best friend, I guess I should say. Mom and Mrs. Johnston worked together at the clinic and Mrs. Johnston had become something of an aunt to Dave and me after Dad left us. Her daughter, Rita — you know, the one who saw me at the pharmacy that first night Mom made me wear lipstick in public? —she used to baby-sit us when we were little. I guess between Mom and Rita I shouldn't have been surprised that Mrs. Johnston knew all about what I was going through.

"Well, hello there, ‘Pamela’! I'm so glad to finally see you. Your mother talks about you all the time, especially this morning. I bet your ears were burning. On the way over here all she did was brag on what pretty . . . daughter . . . she has. I just had to see for myself."

Mom put her hand on my shoulder and gave me a kiss on the cheek. "See? And here you thought I never had anything good to say about you."

Mrs. Johnston took my hand and gazed into my eyes, as though she was trying to read my thoughts. "Mmm . . . you smell so good! Honestly, Marilyn, he . . . or should I say she? . . . is quite stunning! Much more so than I imagined! What a difference a bit of lipstick and a nice dress make on a cute boy. If I'd seen him out in public I'd have never known this was your Greg!"

Mom beamed to hear her friend fawning over me like that. I, on the other hand, felt a sharp pain in the pit of my stomach.

"Oh, he's a sweetie all right, some of the time. Other times, well . . . I just had to do something about his behavior. It seems that putting him in lipstick and a girdle makes all the difference in the world."

Mrs. Johnston looked me up and down as though she was sizing me up for her dinner. "You're teasing me. A girdle? Really. Now that's interesting. Now where did you come up such a wonderful idea?"

"Oh, it was Greg’s originally. I found his secret little collection of fashion magazines and thought maybe he’d like to find out how the other half lives."

Our guest nodded as though she’d heard all this before. Her eyes never left mine throughout the entire conversation. "I see. So you like looking at fashion magazines, sweetie? That’s so cute. How old are you, now, anyway?"

I gulped, just like in the cartoons. "Uh, thirteen. Almost fourteen."

"Almost fourteen! I swear, you look every bit of sixteen, all dolled up like that. Marilyn, you know, with the right dress and shoes, he could pass for seventeen, eighteen easily. Just look at those luscious lips and those big blue eyes . . ."

Needless to say, I was mortified to be the subject of such talk. And right there in front of me, like I didn’t even exist! The good news was that Mom was so busy entertaining her friend that she just glossed over inspecting the house and praised me royally on my domestic accomplishments. I was so relieved that she didn't look in my lingerie drawer (where I'd crammed everything in my haste to finish up) that I didn't mind so much when Mrs. Johnston said I would "make someone a wonderful wife."

Before we did anything else Mom took the opportunity of Mrs. Johnston’s presence to get a couple of "mother-daughter" pictures taken.

"I don’t have a single one of me with my favorite daughter," she said. "This would mean so much to me."

Before we started I was sent upstairs to put on my fairy pendant and change to my red lipstick. "For the pictures," Mom explained.

When I got back my mother made a big show out of positioning my pendant carefully between the swollen mounds formed by the bra I was wearing. Talk about humiliating! I couldn’t believe it as I was then led out onto the front porch and posed next to her in my polka dot dress and high heels. A handful of shots were taken, including at least one with Mom giving me a kiss on the cheek.

"Come on, Greg; let's get one of you kissing your mom, too." Mrs. Johnston was ecstatic in her role as photographer and she wouldn't take no for an answer. The worst part was that she made sure that I smiled in each and every shot. Like I was having fun or something! Geez! With all that attention, I felt more like running away, but I knew the sooner I did as I was told the sooner it would all be over with.

When we were done Mrs. Johnston reached out and touched my earring, holding it gingerly. "Oooo, so pretty! And they’re pierced, too! How neat! I'm really proud of you, Greg, you know that? Experimenting with your looks and all. Not many boys are brave enough to do something like this."

Brave? Yeah, right. I fidgeted in my dress and kept my mouth shut. It wasn't like I had much choice in the matter, was it?

After a quick lunch of tuna salad and tomatoes — which I prepared, of course! — Mom told me to get my purse and touch up my makeup. I did as I was told, blushing under the scrutiny of our guest, who watched my every move with great interest.

"Well, Greg, I am certainly impressed!" Mrs. Johnston said as I snapped shut my compact and replaced it and my lipstick and mascara in my purse. Mom then pulled out her makeup kit and dabbed at my cheeks with a bit of rouge, causing both women to giggle like children. "Or should I say ‘Pamela’? You’ve become quite the young lady. You'd make any mother proud. Maybe you'd like to come live with me for a while? I would love having another pretty girl running around my house."

Purse in hand, Mom put her arm around my waist and laughed. "Oh, no you don't, Glenda Johnston! I've worked too hard to let her up and run off. ‘Pamela’ and I have a lot of catching up to do. A lot of catching up to do. Besides, you already have a daughter. You'll just have to settle for a niece instead!"

Everyone had a good laugh — except me, of course! Trapped in my mother’s grasp, I just sort of stood there and felt about as stupid as you might imagine.

After waiting patiently and listening to my mom and Mrs. Johnston chatting, I started to excuse myself to go and clean up the kitchen. Instead, Mom tightened her grip around my waist and I found myself being led to the front door as though we were all leaving together. I tried to pull away as she drug me out onto the porch, but it was too late. The door was locked and we were heading for the car.

I was in a panic! "Uh, Mom, what's going on? I thought you were going back to work? I’m not going with you, am I? Please . . . I can't leave the house like this!"

"Oh, sure you can. I've got an errand for you to run while I go back to the clinic. And don’t worry, you look just fine the way you are. Trust me, no one will have the slightest idea that you're a boy, will they Glenda?"

"Not a chance on earth," my 'aunt' said, watching me carefully as I slid into the back seat of my mom's car. "Not unless you tell them, of course." She smiled a crooked smile and gave me a wink that made my heart sink.

It turned out that the errand Mom had for me was pretty simple. One of her older friends, Mrs. McCuddy, was having trouble getting around on her own, and Mom wanted me to spend a couple of hours helping out around the house and make sure the old lady was taking care of herself. The fact of the matter was I'd already done this before on several occasions, you know, taking out the trash, moving things into the attic and such. The only problem was . . . well, pretty obvious, I would think.

"But I got ball practice this afternoon!" I pleaded desperately. I couldn’t help tugging at the hem of my dress. "You promised!"

"Oh, don’t worry; you’ll have plenty of time. When you get done you can walk back home and change clothes in time for your silly practice. It's not that far, so don't give me any heartache about it, all right?" The look on my mom's face told me the matter was closed.

The next thing I knew I was dropped off in front of Mrs. McCuddy's house, left standing there in my polka dot dress and heels and holding my purse in my hands like some sort of simpering girl. My dilemma was taxing; I could either stay there, out in plain view of everyone passing by, or I could go in and face the music. Glancing down the street, I saw a group of boys approaching on bicycles. The choice was made for me.

Actually, it wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. Well, considering the circumstances, I guess. Mrs. McCuddy was a very sweet old lady and when she saw me standing at the front door her face lit up and she welcomed me into her house as though there was nothing at all wrong with the way I was dressed. It turned out that while she was expecting Marilyn Parker's son, Greg, she just naturally assumed that I was the daughter instead. I went along with the charade, telling her (with a sheepish grin) that my name was ‘Pamela’, and I proceeded with my chores as though it was the most natural thing in the world for me to be doing.

Please keep in mind that while I was pretending to be my mother's daughter, I was still perfectly aware of who I was and how ridiculous my situation was. For a thirteen year old boy to spend his afternoon in heels and hose and entertaining an old lady by prancing around the house like some silly French maid or something, well, it was almost more than I could endure! My face burned bright red the entire time I was there, and a funny tingling caused me to tremble all over.

By the time I was done I was uncomfortable, sweaty and worn out! In addition to taking out the trash and moving boxes of old magazines to the attic, I was asked to clean up the hall bathroom (yuck!) and put some old clothes into bags for Goodwill. As I placed the bags on the front porch for pickup, I thought ruefully that I was lucky my mom hadn't gotten the chance to go through them; no doubt she'd found this a gold mine in terms of adding to my girlish wardrobe.

I did take time to go to the toilet while I was there, a major chore considering the difficulty I had with my girdle. Like the rest of her house, Mrs. McCuddy’s bathroom was as frilly and dainty as anything I could imagine. With mirrors and little statuettes and scented soaps everywhere, it was like a small curio shop than a bathroom. Sitting there in the middle of all those knickknacks, my skirt up about my waist and that stupid girdle tangled down around my knees, I started to appreciate the surreal nature of my predicament. I couldn’t help but stare at the reflection of the pretty girl opposite me, and I found myself visibly shaking with excitement as I realized this was probably what girls looked like when they used the toilet.

My final chore of the day was to take Mimi, Mrs. McCuddy's toy poodle, for a walk. Needless to say, I felt faint at the prospect of dragging such a prissy little dog about the neighborhood while dressed just as silly myself, but Mrs. McCuddy insisted.

"Oh, he won't bite you, dear, I promise. I usually let him out in the back yard, but he's starting to get fat. The walk around the block will do him good. Go ahead, if you please. I'm too old and it would mean so much to me if you would."

And so, there I was, Greg Parker, soon-to-be ninth grader and little league second baseman extraordinaire, clad in my newest polka dot dress, bright red lipstick, white heels and purse, being led down the sidewalk by a hyperactive, yelping curly-haired boy poodle named "Mimi." I felt so self-conscious as I stepped out onto the pavement. I tried not to cry as I knew that would only smear my mascara; nonetheless, tears burned my eyes and I had to stop at least twice to blow my nose and repair my makeup.

As I minced down the sidewalk I wondered how far I might get before being found out. I soon found that hardly anyone gave me a second look. After coming across some young children playing in a yard and a couple of women pushing baby carriages about, I realized that Mom was probably right; as long as I acted the part, people just assumed that I was what I appeared to be, in this case a young, pretty girl walking her poodle. All I had to do was nod and smile prettily whenever I passed someone, and that was it! Easy as pie!

It was unnerving to pretend to be happy about my predicament, but I forced myself to smile in spite of my embarrassment. I had to; at one point I was so upset that the look on my face caused a lady working in her yard to ask me what was wrong. I screwed my pout into smile and shook my head, but she persisted, asking if she could do anything for me; I stammered out something about it being hot outside and the next thing I knew the worried woman was offering me a seat in the shade and a glass of iced tea. I declined, of course, saying that I had to get back.

Talk about being confused! I mean, running around in public without any pants on and with polished nails and a face with lipstick and rouge . . . what boy wouldn’t be ashamed? On top of that, my adrenaline was flowing so thick, my nerves were so on edge that my entire body was tingling with electricity! My legs rubbing together in their nylon stockings and the occasional gust of wind playing havoc with my skirt was extremely distracting. My senses were so overwhelmed that I found my body having the most unladylike reaction underneath my girdle. My poor thirteen year old penis was as hard as it had ever been, and all because I was made up to look and act like such a priss! It was just downright awful! Though it was unlikely that my boyish erection would be seen through the tight girdle my mother made me put on, I was actually glad I was wearing such a puffy dress!

The worst part, though, was trying to keep Mimi’s leash from tangling about my legs; more than once she almost caused me to trip, a miracle considering how much trouble I was having in my new heels.

As soon as I got Mrs. McCuddy's house in sight I felt a huge burden lift from my quivering shoulders. My relief was short-lived. It was nearly four o’clock by the time I was through with my chores and I still had to walk back to my house all by myself. I thought about calling a cab, but that would mean having to explain myself to the driver.

"No," I thought, "I just walked that stupid dog around the block; surely I can make it home without humiliating myself."

After bidding Mrs. McCuddy good day — and promising to visit again soon! — I headed off for home. The walk was about a mile, more than six blocks. I'd done it dozens, probably hundreds of times in my boy clothes; in my hose and heels, though, it seemed like a trip to the moon by comparison.

I wasn't out of sight of Mrs. McCuddy's house when I found myself being followed by some young children on bicycles. Three boys and a girl — all between eight and ten, about Dave's age — they seemed very curious about who I was and where I was going. Terrified that I might give myself away, I mostly smiled and nodded in answer to their questions, keeping my voice low whenever I needed to speak.

"Do you live near here?" was followed by "Are your Mrs. McCuddy's granddaughter" and "Do you know my mom?" I nodded and shook my head accordingly and pretended to be in a hurry, but my new friends were persistent. Soon the conversation became more personal, taking on such topics as "Do you have a boyfriend?" and "My brother’s about your age. Maybe you go to high school with him!" The little girl even asked if I’d stop and play for a while.

The questions were as embarrassing as they were funny, and I tried to ignore the worst ones, but that only caused the children to repeat them over and over again, each time louder than before. I finally gave in and started making up answers, for no other reason than to keep my entourage from attracting too much more attention.

"My name’s ‘Pamela’ . . . no, I don’t have a boyfriend." "I’m fifteen . . . no, I don’t want to go out with your brother. Because, that’s why!" "No, I don’t go to high school here. I’m just visiting my Aunt Glenda." And so on and so forth. My answers, of course, only fueled their curiosity, and the more I talked the more they wanted me to talk. I ended up wishing I’d just kept my mouth shut.

It felt weird leading this little parade of children along the sidewalk, but I kept up my pace and vowed not to stop. That was quite an accomplishment considering how my legs and feet ached from wearing high heels all day long. In addition to their questions about who I was and where I lived, the boys shyly let me know they thought I was quite pretty. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry as I found myself the subject of such attention, and I resigned myself to smiling and saying a simple "Thank you" with each compliment.

My biggest fear, of course, was that they would follow me all the way to the front door of my house. I was desperately trying to figure out what to do when I was suddenly told that I would have to walk the rest of the way home; it seemed that the Maple Street intersection was as far as my escorts were allowed to go. I made a pleasant show of waving good-bye, but I was never so glad to be left by myself!

The remainder of my walk went without incident. I was pretty miserable by the time I got to the house, what with the heat and my poor feet. My girdle was just as tight as ever and I couldn’t wait to take it off and get into my baseball clothes. Heaven, I thought to myself, was only a few minutes away!

Or so I thought. As I click-clacked up the sidewalk and onto the front porch I suddenly had a thought.

How was I going to get in?

I couldn't believe it! After all I'd been through, after the humiliation I'd suffered, the front door was locked . . . and I didn’t have a key! I was so mad — and so upset! — I couldn’t help bursting into tears. I looked through my purse a dozen times and tried the back door and even tugged at a couple of windows, but it was useless. I was stuck, and there wasn’t a thing I could do but sit down and cry.


Chapter 12 — An Even Stranger Evening

By the time Mom got home I was pretty much over my crying spell and more concerned about making it to ball practice in time. Mom, of course, thought nothing of the fact that I'd spent more than an hour waiting on her to show up, and she seemed more interested in hearing what happened at Mrs. McCuddy's house than she was about my being late to practice.

"That's not my concern," she said, aloof and cold. "If you want to go hang out with that bunch of rednecks and hooligans, I suppose I have to let you. You do have an obligation to the team, I suppose. I won't stop you. Now, did you do everything Mrs. McCuddy asked? I’ll find out the truth when I talk to her later tonight, so don’t lie to me."

After assuring her that I’d done all that had been asked of me and promising that I would fill in the details when I got back, I was released to go to ball practice. I changed clothes in record time, doffing my dress, lingerie and heels in favor of baseball pants, t-shirt and accessories. I ran down the steps and was on my bike before my mother could stop me.

At last, I was free! YA-HOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!

I never feel more happy than that moment, heading down the street on my bike, dressed in my boy clothes, thinking boy thoughts and psyching myself up to do nothing but boy things! I know it sounds silly, but I was never so glad in my life to be wearing a pair of jockey shorts!

I still had one more obstacle to overcome. Mom wouldn't let me take off my nail polish. I guess she thought that would discourage me from going. But I outsmarted her; I still had my batting gloves and I figured hiding my painted nails would be a cinch, especially after I dragged them through the dirt a few times.

The great irony of all this is that after all of my hard work and planning, practice wasn't all it was cracked up to be. In fact, it was one of the worst days I’d ever had. First thing, Coach Wasser kept looking at me kinda funny, and I couldn't understand why he substituted in Spanky Cleveland on second and sent me to left field. Nothing ever happened in left field, and I got the feeling that the coach was mad at me for some reason or other.

The next thing that happened was that Spanky and Chris Wasser — the coach’s son and our star shortstop — kept looking at me and giggling. I couldn't figure out what their problem was until I accidentally wiped my mouth on the sleeve of my t-shirt. A smear of red caught my eye, and I suddenly felt sick.

"What's the matter with you guys?" I said in my most challenging tone of voice. "See something you don't like? Try looking in a mirror!"

"What's that you're wearing, Gregor-ina?? Your momma makin' ya wear lipstick again, pretty boy?"

My stomach did a flip-flop. After all this time they still remembered about my mom sending me to school with lipstick on. I’d always thought people had forgotten about that. I wanted to go punch them out, but I decided to take a more subtle route instead.

"It ain't lipstick! It's Kool-Aid! My mom made some for me before I came here, you freaks . . ." My voice trailed off as the echo of laughter surrounded me. I wiped my mouth again, leaving a huge trail of bright red waxy stuff on my sleeve. This just wasn't working out the way I'd planned . . .

The straw that broke the camel’s back came when Mikey Curtis was pitching and he hit me upside the head while I was at bat. Oh, sure, I was on my second strike and hadn’t hit anything all night, but that was no excuse to bean me with the ball! Mikey was a better pitcher than that and it sure looked to me like he’d done it on purpose.

I couldn't help crying all the way home from practice that evening. My life was falling apart and I didn't know what to do. Coach Wasser and Coach Stanton had ridden me all evening about keeping my mind on the game and not picking fights with the other guys; I was furious because they didn't see how every time they turned their backs one of the other boys would pinch me or call me a fairy or something equally hurtful. Finding a "Barbie" sticker stuck on my bike after practice topped everything. Baseball was fast losing its appeal to me, and as I got closer to home I wondered if I should even try to go back.

When I entered the house Mom and Dave were sitting on the couch. Mom was reading aloud to my brother, and for the first time in a long time I found myself jealous of the attention she was showing him. I thought about how earlier in the day she'd put her arm around my waist and bragged on me to Mrs. Johnston, and I wondered if it was all right to think that was good.

Without mentioning a word about baseball, Mom ordered me upstairs. The look in her eyes told me that something was wrong . . . something deadly wrong. I gave Dave a glance. Just from the way he smiled at me — dog-gone it! — I knew I was done for.

I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes as I sauntered up the stairs. The little brat . . . he'd squealed to her about the fight we had that morning. I knew it from the grin on his face! After all I'd been through, after doing my chores and helping old Mrs. McCuddy and everything, I was still in trouble. Damn it! It just wasn't fair. I started to say something, but my mother gave me another cold stare; I did as I was told, silent and fearful of what the future might hold for me.

I went into my room and undressed. I looked at my baseball shirt for a moment and wondered if I would ever get to wear it again. I then tossed it in the hamper with the rest of my dirty clothes. I looked at the freshly laundered girdle lying on my bed and I started to cry.

Mom showed up just as I was putting on my bra. I looked about for something to cover myself, but I was out of luck. The look on her face was one of wry amusement. I found that scary.

"Well, if it isn’t my son, the big man." A chill went down my spine. This wasn’t going to be good, not at all. "Oh, look. He’s back from his wonderful baseball practice. Did you have a good time? Well, little mister, I hope you did, because that might just very well be the last baseball practice you ever go to."

Salty tears burned my eyes as I stood nearly nude and helpless before my mom. Just from the way she was looking at me I could tell she was looking for a reason to punish me and if I wasn’t careful I was about to get the beating of a lifetime. For some reason I found it hard to breathe. Between sobs I promised myself that I would do whatever it took to keep her from getting even angrier.

Too late.

SLAP! I broke out crying as I nursed my inflamed cheek. To make things even worse, my nose started running. The taste of salt on my tongue made me cringe. I felt just awful.

"I understand you and Dave had a little fight this morning? Is that true? I also understand that you said some pretty ugly things to him. Is that true, too?"

WHACK! I almost fell, but I kept my balance. I frantically nodded my head. There was no use denying it. Even if he was lying, she’d take his side.

"Yes, ma’am, that’s true. I-I-I’m sorry, Mom. He j-just . . . he just kept making fun of me. I’m sorry I lost my temper, but he made me mad. I won’t do it again, I promise, I won’t."

My mom looked at me and blinked. The look in her eyes was almost a happy one. For a moment I thought she was about to give me a hug, but then . . .


"Did you actually tell him you hoped he’d drown? Did you? Don’t lie to me; it’ll just make things worse!"

I was nearly hysterical. Drowned? What’s she talking about? I covered my face with my hands but my mom pulled them away. Oh, God, did I say that? I did! Oh, geezus, I did say that, didn’t I? How could I be so stupid!?


Desperately, I admitted that I’d said it, pleading that I didn’t mean it. I tried to tell her it was just some stupid thing guys say. That didn’t make things any better. With her open hand my mother rained blows all over my nearly naked body, slapping me across the face, on my lycra-covered bottom and my legs. With each blow she told me how evil I was, how thoughtless I was and how ashamed she was to have me for her son.

I remember wondering how much worse things might have been had I lied.

At last she paused to catch her breath, leaving me kneeling on the floor with my hands covering my face, which was hot and wet with tears and snot.

I quickly begged for mercy. I knew it was probably my only chance. "P-p-please, Mom . . . don’t hit me anymore . . . please! I’m sorry, I really am! I’ll do whatever you say, I promise. I’ll do whatever you say! I-I-I promise!"

My mother raised one eyebrow and made a face. "Promises are cheap, and I don’t think you have a very good track record. I’d like to believe you. I really would, but you’re probably lying to me. Again! Want to know why I think that way? Come here, I want you to explain something to me."

Bra straps askew, my bare skin tender and stinging from being slapped all over, I watched helplessly as my mother pulled open the drawers to my dresser. The way she reached in and pulled out my new underthings and scattered them about scared me. To see the air filled with flying panties and girdles was nothing to laugh about. I knew that things were about to go from bad to worse.

"See all this? You were supposed to fold them up. I trusted you, but you lied to me. You told me you had your chores done. But you didn’t, did you? You lied, and then you took off to your ball practice anyway. What else have you lied to me about? What am I supposed to believe?"

"Nothing, I . . ."

SLAP!!! The palm of her hand caught me just right and I lost my balance, falling to my knees about as fast as tears burned my eyes. I braced myself for another blow, but instead felt her getting a grip on my hair. I stood up as quick as I could to keep her from pulling it out.

"I won’t tolerate your bullying your little brother and I will NOT put up with your lying, do you understand me? Especially the lying. Lying is the one thing I will not endure, from you, from your brother, from that good for nothing father of yours . . . not from anyone! Do you hear me!!!???"

Balancing on my tiptoes, I opened my eyes just in time to see a strange smile come over my mom’s face. "Now, what else have you lied about? Tell me, or so help me I’ll take you out in the back yard, pull your little panties down, get me a switch and whip you so hard you’ll wish you were never born!"

Sobbing hysterically, I confessed how I’d goofed off that morning and spent more time watching television than working on my chores. I told my mom that I’d thought I had all day to do my housework, not just the morning, and that I meant to do them. I just didn’t have enough time.

"Typical man," she said, her voice tinged with disgust as she rapped me on the head with her knuckles. "Sounds just like a man talking. Always going to put it off ‘til later and then lie about it when it doesn’t get done. You are most certainly your father’s child all right. That’s for damn sure!"

In my defense I did explain that I did everything else that day just the way she told me. I went to Mrs. McCuddy’s and cleaned her bathrooms and did all of my chores, just like I was supposed to. I even told her how I walked the dog around the block, as much as it pained me to. Judging from the sparkle in her eye she believed me, even though she threatened me with another beating if she found out otherwise.

"Come with me, little man. I’m going to show you what’s going to happen every time I catch you in a lie."

Padding barefoot into the bathroom, I watched with dread as Mom opened up a fresh bar of Dove soap, one of those small candy bar sized ones you take on trips. My stomach did a flip-flop as she handed it to me. It felt waxy in my hand and the scent of perfume sent a shiver through my body.

"Remember this?" I nodded. "Good. You ought to. I want you put that in your mouth. Go ahead, the whole thing. Do it, if you know what's good for you."

"But, Mom, I . . ."

SLAP!!! The blow against my face stunned me, bringing out a fresh batch of tears.

"Do you want to continue playing ball this summer? You do? Do you want me to send you to a game in lipstick and a dress? Oh, you don't? Then do as I say! Put that soap in your mouth and eat it. The whole thing. I want you to wash out every last dirty, filthy, nasty word in that mouth of yours, and then I want you to wash it again, just to make sure you got them all. Do you understand me?"


Nursing my aching cheek, I took the hint. As bad as I knew this would be, I’d rather eat an entire bar of soap that have my mother hit me again.

"You better do a good job, little mister, or I'll find some other way to make you sorry."

I was miserable and sick by the time I was through. The good news was that it was a small bar of soap and I was able to get it down fairly quickly. The bad news was I thought I was going to die, my stomach hurt so bad. It was a good thing I hadn't had supper or I might have thrown up. Between the bits of soap stuck between my teeth and the suds that found their way up my nose and my sinuses, I was nauseous to the point of gagging. Mom just stood over me and watched, her face a stone mask as I sputtered and spit into the sink.

"Keep it up, sonny boy, and you'll find yourself dealing with more than just some soap for your dinner. I've other ways to catch your attention, and I'm more than willing to use them. Now, take a bath and get ready for bed. You've a long day ahead of you tomorrow, and I want you fresh and ready to go at the crack of dawn."

I was lying in bed, nursing a gurgling stomach when Mom came to check on me. I think she was surprised to lift the sheet and see me wearing my bra and girdle. After the beating I’d gotten I’d put them back on, just in case. I didn’t want any more problems between us.

"Good girl, 'Pamela’. I see you remembered my little lecture last night. Remember what I said about keeping your hands from between your legs," she warned. "If I find out that you’re back to your nasty ways . . . well, it’s not going to be pleasant.

Mom then handed me a glass of water and told me to take sip. The smell of Dove soap still burned my nose. While I washed away the suds in my mouth she sat on the edge of my bed and began brushing my hair, as though nothing at all was wrong or ever had been between us.

While Mom played with my hair she told me she’d talked on the phone to Mrs. McCuddy. To my relief she’d gotten a good report on "Pamela’s" behavior. My mother seemed quite impressed by what she heard and she actually laughed when I told her my version of what had happened. When I said Mrs. McCuddy thought I was a real girl, she grinned from ear to ear.

"Sweetie, she may be old, but she’s not stupid. She knows you're a boy. Why shouldn’t she, she’s known you all her life, you silly thing. She just didn’t want to hurt your feelings when you showed up in that polka dot dress and your little purse. She said you were very cute."

I felt my face burn with shame. How could I be so foolish? I thought things went too smoothly. "She knew? What . . . I mean, did she wonder why I was wearing . . . a dress?"

Mom’s eyes lit up. "Oh, sure. She was really curious about that. I just told her this is a little game you’re playing for the summer. She said you could come over as ‘Pamela’ any time you wanted. In fact, she wants you to come over at least twice a week to help her with her chores."

Great. Now I had people thinking I was dressing up like a girl because I wanted to. Perfect.

"So, if she could tell I was a boy, then what about everybody else?"

My mother smiled. "Everybody else? Like who?"

I went on to tell Mom about taking Mimi for a walk around the block and how nobody seemed to pay much attention to me. She said that was probably because they didn’t know me like Mrs. McCuddy did, so they just assumed I was a real girl. That made me feel a little better.

"Even if they did recognize you, well, that’s just something you’d have to deal with. You’re the one who got himself in this pickle, you know. You're a good liar, make up something. It shouldn't be that hard for you to explain to people why you're wearing a dress."

My mom’s haphazard air about me wearing girls’ clothes in public worried me. Even more bothersome, she was really curious about how I felt about it and she questioned me thoroughly on the subject. When I told her it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be, she smiled in a way that made me smile back. She kept asking about things like how I felt walking around in my new dress and how did I manage the dog’s leash and my purse and did I like fooling the people I met; I finally confessed that I had fun — well, a little bit, I guess — which was exactly what she wanted me to say all along.

"Now, see! Dressing up in sissy dresses and panties and wearing nasty old lipstick isn’t so bad after all, is it? Girls can have fun, too. Pretend girls especially! Wasn’t it fun to go around in disguise like that, knowing that everyone you met didn’t have a clue as to who you really were? That had to be pretty exciting!"

I felt my face turning red. Mom was right, and she knew it. She knew and I knew it; as much as I hated to admit it, I’d actually enjoyed our little game, if only for a bit. But that was all it took.

There was a scary tightness under my panty girdle. I about died as I realized my erection was coming back! This was getting embarrassing, to say the least! I shrugged my shoulders and rolled over on my side to keep my mom from seeing anything that might get me in trouble.

"I guess it was fun. A little bit. Do you think I really fooled them all? It was pretty strange, the way people treated me. They acted like I was really fragile or something. Like they thought I might break if they talked too loud."

"Sounds to me like you answered your own question. They wouldn’t have acted like that if they knew you were a boy, would they? I mean, how do you think they would have acted if they knew you were a boy in a dress?"

I blushed even more deeply. "Uh, I guess they’d point at me and laugh. Or at least give me a funny look."

"And that didn’t happen, did it? That’s because you not only looked the part, but you played the part. That’s even more important, playing out the part of the girl. Let’s face it, sweetie. You make a much better girl than you do a boy. Much, much better. Ask Mrs. Johnston. She thinks I ought to keep you in dresses all the time. Too bad this is just for the summer."

Before she could go any further I suddenly excused myself and ran for the bathroom. The soap, it seemed, had run through my system, and a series of sharp spasms gave me just enough warning to keep from embarrassing myself. I remember Mom standing at the door as I sat on the toilet, moaning and groaning in agony. She said something about me being old enough to get the cramps, but I didn’t pay much attention at the time. I was in too much pain.

"When you get through, sweetie, get some sleep," she said with a soft smile. "We’ll talk about this some more later."

Moaning and crying quietly, I spent the remainder of the evening perched on the toilet and wondering when all this was going to come to an end.


Chapter 13 — A New Regimen

The days that followed were as rigid as they were long. Each morning I had to get out of bed before everyone else, wash up and get dressed and then get my mother up in time for her to eat and get ready for work. Since this was during summer vacation my little brother got to sleep in late every day, of course, but I was expected to fix his breakfast as well my mother’s, and with no fussing, either.

It took a while for me to get used to clip-clopping around in my girdle, bra, dress and heels each day, but with all the chores I had to get done I had a lot more to worry about than what I was wearing. For instance, preparing breakfast was only a small part of my morning routine. While the coffee was percolating and the toast was browning, for instance, I’d have to iron Mom’s uniform for the day and hang it on her bedroom door. Sometimes I’d have to touch up her shoes; if they were scuffed too badly this would take a long time and I’d have to be careful not to get white polish on my dress and hose.

Getting Dave out of bed sometimes meant getting into an argument with him, and I’ll be darned if I didn’t get yelled at by my mom every time it happened. After all I’d been through, ‘Pamela’ still didn’t rate over my little brother, and so I learned to negotiate and cajole as part of the process, thus avoiding any unnecessary shouting matches, and in turn getting yelled at or my face slapped for being mean to my brother.

While she ate breakfast Mom always updated her list of chores and errands for me to take care of while she was at work. I learned to take careful notes as she continued to be quite unforgiving when it came to my usual boyish forgetfulness. I don’t want to bore you with all the details, but if you’ve followed along this far you might be interested in some of the things she had me doing. A typical list would include some combination of the following:

-Clean up morning breakfast dishes, take out trash
-Sort, start laundry (at least one load per day, depending on need)
-Dust living room, dining room, Mom’s bedroom; make all beds
-Vacuum carpets in all rooms
-Clean bathroom, mop bathroom floor
-Hang up laundry; iron blouses, dresses and skirts
-Bake casserole (prepared night before with Mom’s help)
-Touch up makeup, fix hair; wait at front door for Mom to show up
-Set table, serve lunch
-Clean up lunch dishes, mop kitchen floor; finish ironing
-Pick up, clean my room and Dave's room (Oooooh, how I hated this one!)
-Make salad, put meatloaf in oven, fix stuffing mix, and make tea
-Pick out evening clothes (dress, heels, jewelry)
-Take bath, put on makeup, fix hair, get dressed
-Set table
-Greet Mom at front door
-Serve supper; clean up supper dishes
-Pick up dirty clothes in Mom’s bedroom, put lingerie in to soak
-Spend time with Mom
-Go to bed


Of course, a typical day didn’t necessarily include everything on this list, but sometimes it sure seemed like it did . . . and then some! Sometimes Mom would give me an impossible list of things — apparently in hopes that I'd mess something up and in turn earn some sort of punishment — but I always managed to get everything done. Things were bad enough that I was determined to avoid getting into any more trouble. I felt a peculiar sense of pride each time my mother complimented me on my work and treated me such things as a bowl of chocolate ice cream just before bedtime.

"Isn’t this nice, 'Pamela'?" she’d say as we’d sit in the kitchen and enjoy our desserts together. "I think we’re really on to something here, don’t you? I said it before and I’ll say it again, I should have done this a long time ago."

As upset I was about the way my life was going, I had to admit it, chocolate ice cream tasted a heck of a lot better than Dove soap.

Mom seemed to sincerely enjoy spending time with me, and I found her at my side every moment of the day when she was home. Our afternoons and evenings usually consisted of sitting at the kitchen table and doing our nails and listening to her talk about work or her friends or her friends’ friends. One of her favorite things was have me experiment with her makeup, and I have to admit that I even had a little fun trying out different colors of eye shadow and lipsticks, even if they did make me look pretty goofy.

Mom also enjoyed going through her magazines and catalogs and talking about the new fashions. She’d often suggest that we should take another shopping trip together, which I always begged against; she knew I was terrified of going out in public again in a dress and she often teased me about how much fun I’d have at the mall, trying on this or that outfit. Instead, I rarely, if ever, left the house.

I did get to watch television with my mom, but that was always some stupid musical or old black and white romance that I could have cared less about. Programs about home and garden projects were among her favorites, as were soap operas and ice skating shows. As distasteful as I found most of those programs, it was television, so I never passed up the chance to watch, no matter how boring it might be.

My weakness for television, in fact, was turned into a horrible joke when Mom started making me keep up with her daily "stories" for her. Every afternoon I had to watch a two-hour block of soap operas and then give her a detailed briefing in the evening about what was happening with each storyline. Talk about tedious!!! It took me two weeks to just figure out the characters alone. And keeping the plots straight was a nightmare! Still, Mom insisted, and each night after supper I found myself giving her a briefing about the various divorces, love triangles and pregnancies that went on, followed by an intense question and answer session to make sure I didn’t miss a minute of each show.

In retrospect I suspect my mother couldn’t have cared less about the soaps; she made me go through all that grief mostly out of meanness, and perhaps as her way of keeping me from getting into any boyish mischief. Remember, this was long before the advent of video recorders and cable TV; in order for me to do all that she asked, I actually had to sit through tortuous hour after hour of melodrama and detergent commercials when I could have been sneaking out and playing ball with my friends. The fact that Mom’s stories were on at the same time as my own favorites was no doubt by design, too, forcing me to miss out on all of the action adventure shows boys my age were expected to watch.

It became obvious that my mother was keeping me under her thumb to keep me from getting into too much mischief during the long summer days. It was also pretty clear that she was doing everything she could to keep me alienated from my friends; or, as she so eloquently referred to them as "those little bastards." She did let me stay on the ball team, but she never attended any of my games and in fact she often made me late because of one reason or another. She also made sure I never had time to practice pitching or batting at home, saying that she had more important things for me to do around the house. Coach Wasser made note of my tardiness and my inability to keep up with the other boys, and it wasn’t long before I found myself permanently assigned to left field.

"I don’t know why you even bother," Mom said when I complained about the other boys making fun of me during one particular game. I’d struck out every time I was at bat, and Coach put me on the bench for most of the innings. "It’s dirty and nasty and I don’t like you doing it. I think next year I’m going to get you piano lessons instead."

"But even girls play softball," I whined.

My mom considered my response for a moment, then shrugged. "Then maybe you should try out for their team instead. At least you’d have more in common with your teammates."

Mom obviously didn’t have too high an opinion of the boys I hung around with that year and she was determined to make sure that I didn’t spend any more time with them than necessary. If I wasn’t playing ball I was confined to my "girlie clothes" as she so fondly referred to them. More than once I hid in my room, clad in whatever dress my mother had picked out for me, petrified with terror as my friends pounded away forever on the front door, hollering for me to come out and play. There was absolutely no way I was going to answer the door — if they’d seen me in my borrowed frock and girdle, I doubt that I’d have lived through the shame to write any of this for you to read.

The one good thing about being worked so hard was how quickly the days went by. Oh, sure, I’d fuss and complain and sulk when Dave would plop his butt down in front of the television or run out the door to play with his friends. Of course, I didn’t have time to fret too much since Mom would be home in a few hours and there was still a floor to wax or ironing to be done. And I would do anything to avoid another scolding or a slap across the face!

Ultimately, keeping up with my chores always earned me the greatest dividends, the most valuable being my mother’s approval. I grew fond of seeing her smile at me, and there were those increasingly frequent hugs and kisses that caused me to just melt. Even if it meant looking and acting like a complete nerd, I was willing to do pretty much anything she wanted if it meant keeping peace in the family.


Chapter 14 — Homework after Housework!

After those first couple of weeks my mom started making me do some really weird stuff. Uh-oh, I know what you’re thinking, but it wasn’t anything like that! What I’m talking about was much more subtle yet just as effective in changing the way I thought and the way I saw the world.

On days when my workload was light — and there weren’t many of those, believe me! — I was put to work studying. Yeah, that’s right, studying! As if that wasn’t bad enough, the really bad news is that my mother didn’t have me working on stuff like math and geography. Instead, she’d hand me the latest copy of "Seventeen" or sometimes one of her women’s magazines like "Glamour" or "Ladies Home Journal" and instruct me to read at least one article, sometimes three or four, depending on my workload.

"There’s a lot more to these magazines than the pretty pictures," she explained. "I want you to understand that. They weren’t meant for dirty little boys to jerk off to. They were meant females to learn from and to enjoy. This will be a wonderful way for you to understand what it takes for women and girls to get along in this world. Too many men take the female species for granted and that’s not going to happen in this house."

I looked at the stack of magazines lying on the dining room table and blanched. A shiver ran down my spine as I tried to imagine wasting my time actually reading such drivel. I’d much rather spend time with my "Spiderman" comics.

"But, Mom, do I have to? This stuff is boring! I’m not a real girl, you know."

My mother smiled. "No, you may not be a real girl, but you certainly do look like one, and you’re starting to even act like one, too. I want you to know how a girl thinks, as well. Oh, quit pouting, I don’t know what your problem is. Look at it this way, sweetie. You’re getting to do something none of your little ruffian friends will ever do. Just think how much fun it’s going to be to learn all our girlie secrets. I bet none of your buddies have the slightest idea what it takes to make a girl happy. You're actually very lucky."

"Oh, that’s just great, Mom. Lucky me." My sarcasm was pretty obvious, but my mother just smiled. She knew she’d won . . . and there wasn’t a darned thing I could do about it!

Naturally, Mom always picked the articles I read, usually on something really dumb like "Rules for Summer Fashion Success" or "10 Easy Ways to a Clearer Complexion" or "Recipes for the Hot Days Ahead." It would be my responsibility to memorize as much of the information as possible and prepare to be quizzed upon her return that evening. That's where the studying came in.

Picture a thirteen year old boy in a dress, lipstick and heels, seated at the dining room table and poring carefully over the latest "Seventeen" or "Glamour," taking notes and checking facts as he would a final exam at school.

Yeah, that was me, all right. While my friends all ran around outside and rode their bikes and played baseball, I was busy learning about color coordination, moisturizers and conditioners, and how to fix a chicken dinner in half an hour.

At first my mom's quizzes were oral, conducted while she sat at the kitchen table and sipped a cup of coffee and I worked on the evening meal. If I did good, I’d get a pat on the head and a smile or sometimes one of those expensive chocolates she kept in the cupboard; if I didn’t do good, my punishment might range from a scolding to a fierce slap across the face for being "lazy" and "good for nothing."

What happened next was my own fault. There’s no other way to describe it. You see, in my effort to please my mother, I worked hard on my studies and went out of my way to make sure I could answer each and every question during her quizzes. I was hoping she’d realize I’d learned my lesson and could be trusted in the house alone. From there I hoped to be allowed back in my boy clothes and out on my own. Unfortunately, things backfired. Mom decided that since I was doing so well I should do additional "research" for "extra credit."

It wasn’t long before I was writing essays — yeah, that’s right, essays! — on ridiculous topics such as "Stockings or Pantyhose: Which is a Girl’s Best Friend?" and "Why My Favorite Lipstick Color is . . ." The length of each essay varied, but none were shorter than two handwritten pages. I think the longest was ten. All I know is that my hand was often cramped from so much writing.

The first couple of assignments were literally painful for me to do. Mom insisted that each essay be written with enthusiasm as well as knowledge of the subject matter, a difficult task for a thirteen year old boy who’d rather be flying model rockets than comparing nail polish colors. Penmanship as well as writing style was graded, which made things even more difficult; elaborate curly-Q’s and I’s dotted with hearts became the order for the day. As a result, it took me nearly a week to get two stupid pages written about the proper way to apply lipstick. I must have written fifty pages in all, with my mother trashing each draft at the sight of the simplest mistake.

Mom handed back my latest effort, her nose up in the air as though she was disgusted. "This sounds more like you’re writing instructions for painting a house than your lips. I know you’re just a boy, but surely you can do better than that. You’ve been wearing lipstick for a long time. Think about all you’ve learned and try it again."

"But, Mom . . ." I tried telling her I was doing the best I could. The truth was I was just fudging, hoping that she’d give up and I wouldn’t have to give in to such ridiculous talk . . . and thoughts.

My strategy failed one evening when my mother read my latest and worst draft. I’d purposely written it pretty badly, a final attempt to convince her that I wasn’t going to be able to produce the kinds of thoughts she expected. She was so upset she lost her temper and slapped me silly and sent me to bed without supper. The next morning I gave in and pretended that wearing lipstick was the most fun thing in the world . . . the result was an essay that made my mother beam with pride.

Here are a couple of paragraphs from that essay. This is from a page in my mom’s scrapbook, written with a fountain pen in all of the appropriate flourishes:

"The best way to put on that first coat of lipstick is for me to put my lips together and push them out like I’m getting ready to blow a kiss. I put the tip of the lipstick against my lips, right where they meet in the middle. I then press, first against the upper left lip, and draw the lipstick along, leaving a nice bright thick coat of red that outlines the kiss. I then put the tip back in the middle and do the upper right side.

"The bottom lip is done the same way. I sometimes make a pouty face by sticking out my lip way out. I then drag the lipstick back and forth several times until my lip is nice and bright with color.

"It’s important to repeat each movement several times to make sure your lips are properly coated. Look closely in the mirror and touch up any uneven edges that might ruin a pretty smile!

"Blotting is lots of fun because I get to see the pretty prints my lips make. My two favorite ways of blotting are ‘the kiss’ and ‘the bite.’ The kiss is easy — just kiss the paper like you would someone you really like! To do the bite fold the paper and gently wrap your lips around it and press. Unfolded, the paper leaves a nice print that shows off your pretty mouth!"

See what I mean? Pretty disgusting stuff, huh? Can you imagine a thirteen year old second baseman writing something like that? Of course not! Some of what you just read was actually dictated to me by my mother, plus I stole some stuff from one of my fashion magazine. The rest I came up with. Of course, I had to rewrite it so many times I found myself mouthing the words with each draft and in turn adding more of my own ideas. Which, in retrospect, I’m sure was my mom’s plan all along.

The main reason I hated writing about stuff like this was I had a very real fear that I might actually start thinking that way. And guess what? I was right! The moment I gave up resisting my mother and started writing my own little essays about fashion and makeup, I started thinking that taking part in such feminine rituals wasn’t so bad after all. I even started adding little smiley faces in the hearts I drew, just for fun.

"Very good, sweetie," Mom said after reading one of the essays that would eventually find its way into her scrapbook. "If you keep this up we just might turn you into a real girl after all."

I gave her a practiced smile and nodded. Inside, I felt sick . . .

I was doomed.


Chapter 15 — Secret Games

Before I go on I have a confession to make. It's kind of embarrassing, but considering the stuff I've already told you, I guess I may as well and tell you everything.

In the course of my 'studies' there was one article in 'Seventeen' magazine that caught my attention. Well, there were several, but one for sure stood out among the rest. It was about kissing, or how to practice kissing, to be more specific. When I first read it as part of my assignment I thought it was the dumbest thing I’d ever read. But once I realized what it was saying . . . I found myself fascinated . . . not to mention aroused beyond belief.

In a nutshell, the article talked about the different ways boys and girls kissed, what was appropriate in which situation, and how to conduct yourself when presented with the chance to kiss the beau of your dreams. I wasn’t at all comfortable with all that talk about kissing boys — that was just plain disgusting! — but kissing girls was something else. I soon found myself drawn in by the images of red and pink lips coming together and the little bits of intimate information such as how to tilt your head so that you didn’t bump noses and what to do if you feel your partner open their mouth.

You have to understand that up until that point it never occurred to me that you might actually open your mouth when you kissed a girl. My imagination went overboard trying to create that sensation in my mind, and my life suddenly had a purpose!

The part that really caught my eye was how to practice kissing. Yes, that’s right . . . in one of my 'Seventeen' magazines there was actually a brief tutorial on how girls practiced kissing! Oh, you know, like at slumber parties and such. Don’t look so surprised; they publish even sillier stuff than that now, you know.

The procedure was quite simple, really. You just found a mirror, either handheld or over the bathroom sink or wherever. The first thing you did was bring your face really close to it. Then you were supposed to stare into your own eyes like you would your boyfriend’s eyes and pretend to listen to him sweet talking you. And then you were supposed to move closer to the mirror, as though the two of you were coming together. As your nose touched the glass of the mirror you tilt your head slightly, press your lips against the glass . . . and give it a kiss!

Pretty stupid, huh? Well, I thought so, too. At first. Then . . . well, I was working on my essay and I started thinking about it. Like I said a minute ago, I couldn’t bring myself to thinking about kissing a boy, but I was definitely interested in kissing a girl. That’s what got me thinking. I looked down at the polka dot dress I wore and I realized . . . I looked like a girl . . . which meant my reflection would look like a girl!

I ran upstairs as quick as my heels would let me and I found myself staring into the bathroom mirror. Omigosh! I thought to myself. What I saw was amazing!

Although I’d seen myself in the mirror countless times before, while putting on lipstick or touching up my mascara or scrubbing my face clean, I’d never really — really! — looked at myself . . . not like this. After reading that silly magazine article I was entranced, caught up in an illusion that wouldn’t let go. The wide blue eyes, the long lashes and red lips, framed by a thick crop of dark bangs . . . the very thing that haunted me suddenly became a source of excitement . . . and pleasure.

I couldn’t believe it. I was hard as a rock beneath my panties and girdle. As excited as I'd ever been in my entire young life. And it was painful, let me tell you, being constricted under all that Lycra and spandex like that. Despite my mother’s warning to the contrary, the urge — and the absolute need! — to relieve myself was overwhelming.

You wouldn’t believe how much I wanted to do it. But I was afraid. Terrified is probably a better word. If Mom even suspected that I was jerking off again, especially in my girlie clothes, there was no telling what she’d do to me! Still, as I stared into that mirror and into those deep blue eyes, I knew I had to do something. Either that, or else go crazy from the frustration!

The solution came as an accident. It turned out that I didn’t even have to do anything. The way I’d been practicing my kissing provided the answer. All I had to do while I was kissing my reflection in the mirror was to press my hips against the countertop, which put pressure on my satin and lycra-covered erection. The resulting sensation, combined with the fantasy of kissing a beautiful girl, was enough to make me tremble all over!

To make a long story short, for that first week or so following my discovery I must have spent an hour a day in the bathroom, staring at the adorable creature before me and admiring her shy, disarming demeanor. I bumped noses with her, looked deep into her half-closed eyes . . . and lightly kissed her ruby lips. Her breath was fresh and sweet and the taste of her lipstick was sticky sweet, making me squirm as I pressed my hips against the countertop until I was faint with pleasure. Afterward I watched as we pulled apart; her face red with embarrassment and a shy smile causing her lips to pull apart, revealing a row of lipstick-stained teeth. So delicate, so coy, so feminine . . . so sexy . . .

Before Mom would come home I’d clean up the mess I made — both on the mirror and in my panties! — and ponder my little game. More often than not I'd get excited again, and pretty soon I was holding my erection in my hands, staring at my reflection and masturbating until I was worn out and aching.

Well, once the floodgates were opened — so to speak — I was back to my old habits. Only this time I wasn't masturbating just once a day; it was more like two or three times a day, depending on the chores I was given. And, of course, the clothes.

I know all this sounds gross, but if you've ever been an adolescent boy, then you know how difficult dealing with something like masturbation can be. Male hormones make things bad enough, trust me. Being a nurse as well as a mother of two boys, my mom knew that much. Now, add to that something as exciting as feminine clothing, especially feminine under garments, and you have the recipe for complete and utter chaos! I don't know what it was, but somewhere between the lipstick and the panties and the perfume, I was in a constant state of arousal. It used to be the mere thought of a girl in a pretty dress or the glimpse of her underwear was enough to send me to the bathroom for half an hour; but now the sensation of slipping into a dress and a pair of panties nearly gave me a heart attack.

If my mom suspected what was going on she never said a word. In retrospect I think she knew perfectly well what I was doing, but she deliberately chose not to say anything; I sincerely believe she wanted me to become addicted to my new wardrobe, and what better way to do it than associating ultimate pleasure with my new regimen? By keeping it forbidden and threatening to punish me at the slightest sign of giving in to my nasty, boyish tendencies, she made masturbation even more enticing, and all that much more rewarding! The between the adrenaline rush and boyish hormones, I was hooked! I just had to come up with more creative ways of not getting caught.

Eventually, of course, my little habit would prove my undoing, leading to my being trapped even tighter in my mother's grasp . . . and my new way of life.


Chapter 16 — The Facts of Life

The days passed fairly quickly and the next thing I knew the summer was half over. Mom was in an extremely good mood, the best I’d seen her in a long time. And, strangely enough, Dave and I were getting along pretty good. Everything was going great except for one thing.

I was still stuck in those stupid girls' clothes!

Oh, I mean, things could have been worse, I guess. But then again, they could have been a heck of a lot better. Sure, I’d had some fun (though I didn't dare admit it!) and I was managing to stay on my mom’s good side by letting her do whatever she wanted with me. But let's face it, as far as I was concerned the entire summer was a complete waste. The baseball season was practically ruined, I never got to watch hardly any television — at least not the kind I wanted to see! — and I never got to see my friends. I mean, things were so bad, the one time my dad tried to take me on vacation he got called back to the office because of some emergency.

"Sorry, son," he said to me over the phone from his office more than a thousand miles away. "Maybe we try again later this year."

To say I was disappointed was a tragic understatement. My fourteenth birthday was coming up and I was hoping to spend it fishing and hiking with my dad, as far away from anything feminine as possible. Instead, it looked like I was going to be stuck in the house, probably doing dishes or some stupid thing. My mom didn’t say anything about Dad backing out, but the look on her face said "I told you so."

Then one day something really scary happened.

Mom came home early from work with one of her 'sick headaches' and went straight to bed. With all of my chores done I puttered about the house and pretended to keep busy. Dave was out playing with his friends, so I couldn’t watch television or anything. Bored out of my skull, I wandered to my room and sat at my vanity and touched up my makeup and hair, just in case anyone was in a mood to criticize my appearance; when Mom was feeling bad she was usually quick to take her frustration out on me and I’d do just about anything to avoid that!

I picked up one of the girls’ magazines I’d been assigned to study and settled down to learn all about the latest back to school fashions (yuck!). A short while later I was called into my mother’s room. I was surprised to find her lying on the bed in her nightgown, a wet cloth on her head.

"Here, sweetie, take this list. I want you to go to the store for me and pick up a few things. I haven’t been feeling too good today, so you’ll have to manage on your own. There’s a prescription that needs to be filled. Just tell Rita to charge it to our account."

I started to say something, but thought the better of it. The last time I’d hesitated to do as I was told I nursed a bruised cheek for two whole days. Still, I was terrified to go out by myself as 'Pamela'. Dressed to do housework, I was clad in that horrid orange shirtwaist and my black heels, my hair clipped back over my ears. My mind worked feverishly to figure out a way from my dilemma. I had to think up a safe, but effective excuse.

I looked at my mom lying on the bed and it came to me. "Mom, I’d love to go, but I’m . . . I’m kinda feeling sick, too. Maybe I got what you got."

"Don’t be ridiculous! Whoever heard of a boy having a period . . .?" My mother pulled her wash cloth from her head and looked at me for a moment. The scowl on her face sent a shiver through me, but then it softened into a warm smile. "Well, now . . . maybe you do have what I have, sweetie. You’re old enough, I suppose. Is your belly hurting you at all?"

Taking my cue, I nodded. I then swallowed deeply, took a breath, and proceeded to whine softly about my 'upset stomach'.

The sympathetic smile turned to concern. Mom put her hand on my forehead, and then on my belly. I moaned and mewed like a weak kitten, hoping that she would reconsider. There was absolutely no way I was going to leave the house in that stupid orange dress!

Whimpering quietly, I said something about waiting until Dave came home. Maybe he could run Mom’s errand for her. She acted as though she hadn't even heard me.

"When was the last time you went to the bathroom, sweetie?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "I dunno. A day or two ago, I guess."

"You haven’t been sneaking snacks have you? Eating stuff you shouldn’t?" I shook my head, giving her my innocent look. She poked and squeezed my belly carefully. "Does that hurt? Tell me the truth, now."

I made a pouty face and nodded. Anything to keep from walking to the shopping center in that stupid dress!

"Hmmm . . . tell you what. Go to my bathroom and sit on the pot. See if you can go. If not, I’ve got just the thing to fix you right up."

Of course, it took me five minutes to get my girdle down and by the time I did Mom showed up, sipping a cup of coffee and taking some aspirin. I felt self-conscious sitting there with my dress hiked up around my waist and my undies tangled about my knees, but she acted as though the scene was completely natural. I pretended to try to go, but couldn’t, of course; even if I could I wouldn’t do it in front of my mother. That would have been totally disgusting!

After sitting and listening to my mom lecture me about eating right and taking better care of my body, I finally conceded that I just couldn’t go to the bathroom. I moaned a little for effect, hoping to get a little more sympathy and maybe win a reprieve from my errands.

Mom rubbed my forehead affectionately. "Poor thing. I know just how you feel. It’s called having your period. That's why I had to come on home. Why don’t you go undress and I’ll draw you a nice bubble bath. The warm water will help your cramps. They always do for me."

Yes! I had to fight to keep from grinning. Not only didn’t I have to go to the store in my girlie clothes, but I was getting out of that awful girdle, too! My mind spun with excitement. If I was lucky, maybe I’d get supper in bed!

It took me a few minutes to get everything off and put away properly, and by the time I was back in my mother’s bathroom she was finished filling the tub. The room was steamy and smelled of perfume and soap. I watched with curiosity as Mom rummaged through the cabinets and started laying some things out on the counter. I wrinkled my nose when I saw a large red rubber bag with a funny looking hose attached; a really strange nozzle — long and fluted and with all sorts of holes in it, like some sort of water sprinkler — was stuck on the end of the hose. It was weirder than anything I'd ever seen before in my life. There was also an oddly shaped rubber bulb with smaller version of the odd-looking nozzle. Most alarming was the large jar of petroleum jelly and a glass thermometer.

What the heck?

For some reason I was suddenly glad I’d put on that silly housecoat she’d given me. I tied the belt tight and pulled the collar snug about my neck as I tried to figure out what all that queer paraphernalia was for.

A loud "snap" woke me from my reverie. My mother touched me on the shoulder and smiled. I was surprised to see her slipping her hands into a pair of thin rubber gloves. The kind they used down at the clinic.

Uh-oh . . .

"Before you get into the tub I want you to go and bend over the sink for a minute. I need to check something." Not sure what she meant, I went over and put my hands on the edge of the countertop. I winced as she gave my bottom a playful pinch. "No, silly goose, I mean bend all the way over."

A funny feeling came over me. With great reluctance I did as I was told, resting my arms on the counter and laying my head down like I was going to take a nap. Mom took a towel and placed it under my head like a pillow. If I wasn't so scared it would have been nice. I then felt the hem of my robe lift up, exposing my bare bottom.

What happened next was so shocking, I couldn't believe it! I thought for a moment I was in some nightmare and that any moment I would wake and find my dad standing over me and saying something like "Hey, gonna sleep the day away?"

Instead, when I opened my eyes all I saw was the reflection of my mom standing behind me . . . and those dreaded rubber gloves!

"Now try and hold still, honey. This might tickle a little bit."

The next thing I knew I felt a firm hand spread my cheeks wide apart, baring my most sacred secret body part to the world! I couldn’t believe it! Why in the world would she be looking there? This was the most horrible feeling I’d ever had in my entire life!

I remember thinking "This is what I get for lying!" No doubt I would have been better off keeping my mouth shut and going on to the store, dress or no dress.

But it got worse. I heard something like a jar lid being removed . . . and then I almost ran my head through the wall as a cold, slippery finger touched that spot between my cheeks, smeared its slipperiness around a bit . . . and then pressed inward.

I gasped for air. "Oooooh, Mom . . . no! Please, not this . . ."

"Hold still, now," I was warned. "I'm checking to see if you're stopped up. Don't worry; we do this all the time down at the clinic. It'll feel funny, but some of our patients enjoy it."

Enjoy it? Not hardly! I started to stand up, but a sharp WHACK! on my bare butt reminded me who was in charge. Instead, I squirmed and whimpered as my mother explored my bottom with a professional thoroughness that left me stunned. Before she finished it felt as though she'd slid her whole hand up inside me!

"Hmmm . . . you are definitely stopped up," she said. We were waiting for the thermometer in my bottom to warm up. "Not to worry, though. I can do something about that very easily. We’ll have you feeling better in no time, sweetie."

I felt my entire body shiver as the thermometer was pulled from my bottom. My temperature was normal, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t sick, Mom said. She insisted on 'taking care' of me, in spite of my contention that I was beginning to feel better.
"This is something we needed to do anyway. 'Pamela' is going to be fourteen soon, and all girls that age have to learn to take care of their bottom ends. Don’t worry. It might seem a little uncomfortable at first, but you'll feel so much better afterward. Who knows, you might even think it's fun! As much as you like playing with yourself, something like that wouldn't surprise me at all."

I shook my head. "I hate it! It hurts and I hate it!" I whined desperately.

"You can’t prove that by me." Mom grinned and pointed. I looked down. It took me a second to figure out what she was showing me. And then, to my deepest disgust, I realized what was so amusing.

To my horror I realized I had a full blown erection! Talk about being ashamed!

"Looks to me at least part of you is having a pretty good time," Mom said, her voice oozing like honey. "Maybe instead of jerking off, you should have been playing with your other end, sweetie pie."

The gloating in her voice hurt me worse than any slap to the face.

With my arms still resting on the countertop, I turned my head over and watched with morbid interest as my mother filled the sink up with hot soapy water. I was amazed as she took the pink rubber bulb and dipped the nozzle in the water and squeezed. After filling the bulb she then took a rubber gloved finger and dipped it in the petroleum jelly. As she smeared the jelly on the nozzle it suddenly occurred to me what was about to happen.

Oh, God . . .no!!!

"This is called a douche," Mom explained. "Women and girls do this to keep their bottom ends clean. Of course, we do it in the front, in our vaginas. You don’t have a vagina, but we can easily pretend you do. You’d be surprised what will fit up in that little hole of yours."

My bottom was spread once more and I felt something hard and slick probe that spot. I strained against letting the nozzle inside me, but it was too slippery and my mother was too quick; she slid it in like an expert. My eyes nearly popped out of my head as the long, curved nozzle squirmed and slithered its way up inside my body. I was shocked to feel the warm sudsy water filling my bowels, and I started crying as the soap started burning my insides.

To my horror Mom repeated this process several times; I lost track of how many exactly. All I knew was that she kept sliding the nozzle in and out of my bottom, over and over again, filling that little bulb up in the sink and then filling me up until I was miserable with cramps. To make matters even more complicated, my erection was tingling as though an electric wire had touched it. All that poking around with the nozzle was making me excited, in spite of the fear I felt. Much more of this and I’d make a mess and really embarrass myself. I buried my face in my towel and prayed for a miracle.

Finally Mom stopped, saying that should be plenty to get me started. She insisted that I rest for a few minutes to let the douche do its work. While I struggled to hold in my water I watched with dreadful curiosity as she filled up that huge red rubber bag with more of the hot soapy solution and hung it from the towel rack.

At long last I was allowed to sit on the toilet and relieve myself. It was undignified and awful, but I was happy to do it, grateful that the pressure on my bottom was easing up.

"Think you can do this by yourself, sweetie?" Mom handed me the bulb syringe and grinned. I held it as though I was touching a venomous snake. "Take a good look. It's something you're going to have to learn. You’re old enough, you know, and all girls have to do it eventually. Even pretend ones."

I just blushed and shook my head. I thought about how she used to make me cut my own switches before a whipping, and later made me put on my own lipstick and nail polish. It didn't satisfy her to do things to me; she wanted me to do them myself, as though it was at least partly my idea. She seemed to really enjoy that for some reason. Well, this was just going too far! There was no way I could ever do something like that to my own body!

"I . . . I don't think so, Mom. I . . . I can't."

"Oh, sure you can. Girls your age do it all the time, sometimes even younger. I started my period when I was twelve and my sister started hers when she was eleven. It all depends on how your body matures. Anyway, you'll know how to do all this stuff before you leave this bathroom today. Like an expert. I'll make sure of that." She gave me wicked smile, one of those that made my stomach churn with dread. "But you're the one who's got to do it after today. I can't keep doing everything for you, you know."

Needless to say we weren’t done. While I finished up on the toilet a towel was spread out on the floor. I was directed to kneel on it while Mom took up position on the fuzzy toilet seat lid. The look on her face frightened me; she seemed to be having an absolutely wonderful time, she was smiling so big!

"The douche was to get you started. Now you’re about to get an enema. This will really clean you out and make you feel all better. By the time I’m through with you there won’t be a dirty spot on you, inside or out!"

I whined and begged and whimpered, but it was no good. The little towel pillow I'd been using was placed before me. I was told to kneel face down on it and stick my bare bottom up in the air. Mom dipped her slippery finger in between my cheeks, taking my breath away. Her finger was forceful as it probed my shame. I felt my erection respond to her touch and I tried to think about something else. Something ugly, dull . . . boring. It didn’t work. The intrusive finger worked its way deep inside me and pressed forcefully on a secret, sensitive spot. I thought I was going to black out as my penis let go its boyish load, making a pearl-colored mess on the tile floor. The pressure kept up until I was empty, and I found myself trembling with exhaustion . . . and shame.

"M-mom . . . I . . . I’m sorry." I struggled to catch my breath, braced for the spanking I knew was coming.

That first blow never came. I looked up and saw my mother shake her head. "Funny, how those little things like to be touched from behind like that. God’s got a sense of humor, I guess. That’s why I put that towel there. Boys can be so messy when they get poked."

Huh? She's done this before? I said to myself. I wondered how many other boys she'd touched like this, but before I could go too far I felt the new nozzle pressing against my bare bottom. Long, thick and with an alarming curve to it, that fluted ivory monster was considerably larger than the first, opening me up and sliding on through as though it was a living thing. A wave of unexpected pleasure swept through my body, putting me into a frightful panic. I was shaking with fear as the little valve was opened and I felt that first blast of hot soapy water filling my bowels.

To make a long story short, I was completely drained when she was done with me. Figuratively and literally! After flushing me out repeatedly my mother did exactly as she promised; there wasn't a part of my body — inside or out! — that hadn't been poked, probed, washed, scrubbed, rinsed and polished to perfection. Beyond that, true to her word, Mom made me practice a couple of times with the little douche bulb, the whole bit, from mixing the soapy solution to injecting it in my bottom to cleaning up afterward. The whole process seemed ugly and distasteful, but she insisted that I follow through. I couldn’t believe it when my penis started tingling again!

"I want you to do this every morning for the next few days. A girl's period usually lasts about five days, depending on her metabolism. If you do this, you'll feel so much better and it'll help keep your cramps down. I'll be checking on you, so don't try and skip out of it."

"But . . . it's disgusting!" I said, my eyes burning with frustration. I thought about the sensation of having something long and slender moving around inside me like that. I didn’t dare say that I was afraid that I might like it . . . too much! Instead, I bit my lip and blurted out "I hate it!"

Mom smiled. "I know, sweetie, but you have to do it. I've been trying to tell you, all along. There is so much more to being a girl than you think. Boys think girls are all so pretty and fragile and everything. They think being a girl means being a helpless little sissy or whatever. Well, let me tell you, we girls have to do a lot of things that would scare the pants off most men."

Didn't I know it!

After my bath Mom had me sit on the edge of her bed and she held me in her arms like I was her baby. While I whimpered and pouted, she got out a couple of bottles of lotion, poured a generous dollop of each in her hands and smeared the sticky concoction all over my nude body. After all I'd been through it was hard for me to put up more than token resistance.

"Mom . . . please, don't . . ." was about the limit of my indignation. My mother just smiled and continued with the ritual, moving from lotion to talcum powder. To my dismay, she brandished the huge feathery puff like a weapon of some sort, and nary a nook or cranny of my body was left untouched. I felt so weird, all sticky from the lotion and the fragrant powder tickling my nose. By the time she was done I was shivering and reeking of a smell that obliterated the last vestige of my masculinity.

Coated with lotion and baby powder and otherwise feeling completely miserable, I lay down next to my mom and quietly cried. She rubbed my empty belly and comforted me and told me how happy she was with me. I'd just taken my first real steps to being a woman, I was informed, and I'd passed with flying colors. Gee, that's wonderful, I thought sarcastically. What's next? Changing my birth certificate?

Despite my hard feelings, my mom seemed sincerely proud of what we'd just done, as though we'd shared something really special. I had absolutely no idea what she was talking about. As I laid there and thought about how humiliated I felt, Mom went on to explain that this was her 'time of the month' and that's why she came home early. Sometimes women got sick, either with bad headaches or between their legs or in their bellies, sometimes in other places as well. That was what happened to her that day, only she’d run out of her medicine.

She went on to tell me all about menstruation and the things that went with it. I found myself blushing bright red when she reminded me that girls usually had their first periods when they were my age and even younger. I about died as she went into great detail — as though I really was her daughter — telling me about tampons and pads and stuff and how women and girls used them. I tried not to listen too much to what she was saying, but she figured out what was going on she smacked me on the bottom and told me to pay attention.

"I'm going to be asking you some questions in a few minutes and if you haven't been listening I'm going to get out my belt. Understand me?"

As a result, I was told to imagine what it would be like to go through the things she described, especially the part about wearing tampons! Talk about sick! Who in the world thought up something like that??!!! The thought of it was too much for my boyish brain, and my mom laughed when I told her so. Having my bottom poked and washed was bad enough; I couldn't imagine having to walk around all day with something stuck up in there!

Mom was tickled to hear my opinion, and she gave me a wicked smile in return. "Oh, if you think that's bad, then think about what it would be like to go to bed with another boy . . . or a man. If you think having that little bitty douche nozzle up in your bottom was uncomfortable, try to imagine what it's like to have somebody's penis inside you."

"Mom, no!" I protested. I couldn't believe she was saying stuff to me like this! "Can't we talk about something else?"

"Hush up, ‘Pamela’!" she commanded. "We're just saying 'what if', that’s all. Don’t be such a prude. Just listen. As I was saying, a man's penis can be quite large, large enough to make the first few times agony for some poor girls. That’s why brides are so nervous on their wedding nights. In fact," she said dramatically, "it's not uncommon for their bottom ends to bleed first time or two."

I'd never thought about things in those terms and just the mere thought of any of those things happening to me was enough to make me tremble. To have something like a penis up my bottom, and for it to be so big it would make me bleed? The thought stuck in my mind like a bad dream. "I . . . I'd never go to bed with a man," I said, making a solemn vow. "Or a boy, either. That's nasty!"

My mother laughed. "That's what a lot of girls your age say, sweetie. But it keeps on happening, and so do the babies and everything else that comes with them. You just keep thinking like that and, well then, we'll see what you end up doing. You're still young. Never say never."

I tried to imagine what she was talking about, but it was just too horrible. To have a man or boy touch me like that? Something as ugly as a penis . . . inside my bottom??!! It was just awful to even think about! I felt sick to my stomach.

While I worried about losing my virginity, Mom kept lecturing. By the time I came out of my trance, the conversation had shifted to the consequences of having sex. Which, I soon discovered, was even worse than I imagined.

"Sex isn't the worst part, sweetie. Believe it or not, you get used to that. There are worse things to worry about."

I shifted uncomfortably and winced. "I can't imagine!"

Mom gave my bottom a playful slap. "Hush, 'Pamela’. This is important. Now, let's just pretend you did get married and you went to bed with your brand new husband."

I made a 'yuck' sound and she giggled for a moment, just like a school girl.

"It could happen, sweetie. Stranger things do. Anyway, after he puts his penis in you and you have sex and all that, then you have to worry about getting pregnant. Of course, that would probably be a miracle since you're a boy, but just think for a moment. If you were pregnant, your belly would grow until none of your clothes would fit. Then, after nine months of carrying it around, imagine having a ten pound baby passing through that precious little hole of yours? Oh, say about the size of a small melon? You think a penis would be uncomfortable? No, sweetie . . . having children is uncomfortable! Believe me, I know that from painful experience."

It took a second for me to realize I'd stopped breathing. After what I'd just been through in the bathroom, the thought of a baby passing through my poor bottom was . . . well, unthinkable!

"I . . . I'd die," I whispered.

Mom hugged me. "No, you wouldn't, honey. It happens all the time, to girls and women all over the world. That's why moms are so protective over their children. We go through a lot of agony to have our babies and we want our pain to be worthwhile. That's why I'm so hard on you. I want you to be a good person, not turn out like some pervert or criminal. I didn't go through the pain of childbirth for you to end up like that."

The conversation trailed off from there. While Mom dozed I lay there trying to imagine going through all the things she told me. A lot of it made sense. Most of it was scary. No, that’s not true — all of it was scary! No wonder girls are so screwy, I thought. No wonder they get so upset and crazy. If I had to worry about the things they worry about, I'd be a nervous wreck, too!

The rhythm of my mother's breathing calmed me down somewhat. I tried to go to sleep, but it wasn't easy. My bottom tingled as I dwelled on the images in my mind. It was as though I'd been given access to a treasure trove of secrets in some dark, veiled society. As frightened as I was, I was equally fascinated. I was also relieved. As I slipped away, I remember thinking I'm sure glad I'm not a girl for real!

After a short nap Mom woke me and asked if I felt good enough to go to the store. She was feeling worse and needed her medicine. I hesitated, but when she suggested that maybe another session with the douche bag would help, I changed my mind. Getting out of the house suddenly became my main goal in life, even if it meant parading around the neighborhood like some sort of stupid fairy!

I went to my room and put on the clothes my mother laid out for me. The orange dress was in the hamper, but what took its place wasn't much better — a short white puffy sundress trimmed with yellow flowers, my "favorite" white heels, the prerequisite panties and brassiere. Instead of hose there was a pair of knee high socks that matched the dress. To my relief there was no girdle of any sort in sight.

The dress fit me snug about the bodice, emphasizing my chubby breasts encased in the padded bra. The skirt flared out from the high waist, stiffened by some netting sewn within, forcing the hem to stand out well above my knees. Without a girdle the effect was to make me feel like I was practically naked from the waist down; after all I’d just gone through, that wasn’t such a pleasant feeling, let me tell you!

When I was ready I went to tell Mom. I hoped she’d change her mind about making me go, but she didn’t. Instead, she smiled at me from where she lay on the bed and told me I looked very pretty. I looked in the mirror just before leaving the house. I disagreed. I thought I looked like a complete dork!

"One more thing, sweetie, I want you to go into my bathroom and look in the cabinet. There's a box of pads there."

"Pads? What kind of pads, Mom?" Hey, remember, I was just a thirteen year old boy. I didn't have the slightest idea what she was talking about.

My mother smiled. "Feminine pads, honey. You know, sanitary napkins, like the ones I told you about? Get one out and put it in your panties. Under your bottom, sweetie. You don't want to have an accident in your pretty dress, do you?"

It took me a few minutes, but I figured it all out. Weird thing, it kinda made sense, too. My stomach was still gurgling some, and I'd been to the bathroom a couple of times to 'pee' out the rest of all that soapy water. With just a pair of silk panties on, they seemed like just the thing, just like Mom said.

So that's what they're for! I felt dumber than a stump as I read the label on the box. Man, being a girl is a pain in the butt! I thought ruefully.

I took a deep breath as I opened the front door. Then I sighed. It was no picnic as I stepped out into the bright sun and looked up and down the street. If anyone recognized me dressed like a priss . . . well, the consequences were just too horrible to imagine.

Fortunately, I’d grown a little wiser in my old age and in addition to my purse, I’d gathered a couple of other accessories chosen for their value as part of my disguise rather than fashion. A pair of sunglasses and a white sunhat were donned before going out the door, and I added a bright yellow scarf around my neck as well. I had to be careful not to get the scarf tangled in my hoop earrings. I’d seen Mom with similar accessories on many occasions and I thought between those three things there was little chance anyone would suspect that I was really me; I hoped they’d forget all about 'Greg Parker' and see an anonymous girl instead.

The walk to the shopping center took about twenty minutes. It wasn't the most comfortable walk I'd taken, thanks to my high heels and that stupid sanitary napkin stuck up against my bottom. I had to fight the urge to reach under my skirt and adjust where the pad was tugging against those skimpy panties I wore; I worried constantly that it was either going to fall out or that my panties would fall down or some other horrendous accident would happen. I made sure to take careful, deliberate steps, just in case. The effort was wearing me out, but the adrenaline flowing through me was enough to keep me going, barely.

I was fortunate in that the only people I met along the way were a few mothers taking their afternoon walk with their children. Most of the kids I saw were little ones, playing in their front yards, too busy to pay me any mind. I guess I looked too grown up to be bothered with. That was what I was hoping. Each time I did pass someone I smiled and nodded, holding my breath inside, fearful that at any moment someone would point a finger and say "I know you!" Even when I passed Mrs. Henderson, the young lady who moved in next door with her little boy Timothy and her husband Robert, I managed to keep up my charade and we parted company with little more than a "Good afternoon."

As smoothly as my walk went, inside the store was another matter. The list I was given shocked me as much as it did confuse me. Most of the things I had no trouble with, like headache medicine and lipstick. But tampons? Maxi-pads? Douche kits? What the heck? After what I'd just been through I knew all about what these things were for, that was for sure. Nevertheless, the idea of having to actually buy them, much less pick out the right ones, was something that I was not looking forward to!

After spending the longest time trying to decipher the packages and make the right decision, I was about to give up and go home. Mom wasn't going to be happy, but what could I do? Then I found an unlikely ally to help me out. Rita Johnston, of all people, appeared at my side, her face shining with glee to see me standing there looking like a complete idiot.

"Greg? Greg Parker? Oh, gosh, that is you! In a dress, yet! I can't believe it. I mean, I guess I should, I suppose. Are you still playing that crazy dress-up game? I just wasn't expecting to see you like this. Is your mom with you?" She looked around and seemed puzzled that I was alone. "She’s not here? Well, what in the world are you doing out on your own dressed up like some sissy girl? What’s up with all that, anyway?"

My face was hot and I felt kinda dizzy. "It’s just a stupid game she likes me to play. My mom, I mean. She isn’t feeling too good and I . . . uh, I had to run an errand for her. She sent me to the store to get some stuff for her." I was surprised that I managed to stammer through my lame explanation without actually hurting myself.

Rita stared at me for a moment. She then looked me up and down. "You walked here all by yourself? Dressed like that? You nut! You’re either crazy or you’re a lot braver than I thought. I’m impressed! Really, I am!"

I blinked. For a moment I thought she was kidding. But then I realized she was being serious, maybe. "Really? You’re impressed? You . . . you don't think this is dumb?"

She grinned and nodded. "Oh, yeah, it’s dumb all right, absolutely. It is one of the silliest things I've ever seen in my life. You're taking an awful risk. But you know, I don’t know of any other boy who could pull it off. This is so neat! You’re sure you’re just thirteen? You look a lot older in that dress and those shoes."

I blushed. "I do? Well, I’ll be fourteen this weekend. How old do I look?"

My friend looked at me carefully and then winked. "Oh, maybe sixteen, fifteen for sure. Oh, my goodness . . . you're barely a teenager. Already you look like that? With pierced ears, yet. Gosh, what in the world is your mother going to do with you when you get older . . .?"

I started to ask her what she meant, but thought the better of it. We were drawing a lot of stares as it was and I didn’t want any more problems.

If Rita thought it was funny that I was wearing a dress, she considered it hilarious when she discovered I was buying such intimately feminine paraphernalia. Between helping me choose the right size tampons and showing me the various hot water bottles to choose from, she grinned like a Cheshire cat. Occasionally she would make some remark about "a boy as pretty as you" this or "a cute boy like you" that . . . which only added to my shame factor.

At the checkout lane my new friend made a big show out of ringing up my purchases, naming off each item in a voice so loud as to be heard by all of the other cashiers. Giving me a mischievous wink, she rubbed it in good, acting as though I was her favorite customer.

"Now, if these tampons are the wrong size and you need to return them, Miss Parker, please feel free. The same goes for your panty-liners and pads. I hope you enjoy your lipsticks and mascara. Your business is important to us and we want you to be happy with your purchases. Bye, Miss Parker! And, please, tell your mom I said hello!"

Blushing brilliantly, I managed to gather up my purchases and mince out of the store without making a scene. Pretty good, considering that I wanted to kick off my high heels and run away as fast as I could!

I was furious as I clip-clopped my way home. Rita was right. This was insane, me running around the neighborhood dressed like some teenage girl, buying makeup and feminine hygiene products and junk! I was a boy, doggone it! I should be at the arcade or playing football or riding my bike! Not worrying about tripping in a pair of high heels or how my lipstick looked!

The ironic thing was, of course, that the madder I got, the sillier I probably looked. There I was, in my puffy little dress, clacking my heels along the sidewalk, my purse in one hand and a pink shopping bag in the other. I was so angry I even forgot to put on my sunglasses, a fact that struck me when I bumped into Mrs. Henderson, who just happened to be standing in her yard as I approached my house.

I thought about going on down the street and coming back later, but where would I go? I could try sneaking about to the back yard, but not in those heels! Sighing a sigh of despair, I swallowed my pride and turned into the path leading up to the front porch of our house. "Maybe," I thought, "she won’t pay any attention to me . . ."

"Hi, Greg! Nice outfit!" I stopped in my tracks and turned. Mrs. Henderson waved and smiled as though seeing her neighbor’s thirteen year old son running around in hose and lipstick was the most natural thing in the world. I was so shocked all I could do was croak out a hoarse "Thanks."

Mom was waiting for me in her room, the lights low and her head still covered with a wet cloth. I gave her the medicine I bought and fetched her a glass of water. I thought about it while she took her pills and went and got a fresh cloth for her head. The smile on her face made everything worthwhile.

"Here, sweetie, take two of these," she said when I got back. She handed me a pair of salmon colored pills. "Dr. Richardson down at the clinic gave me a prescription of these for you. I want you to take them every morning, all right? They'll make you a little sick for a couple of days, but then you'll feel a lot better."

Nodding, I did as I was told, sipping from the same glass my mom used to take her pills. When I was done she had the strangest smile on her face. Like she knew something I didn't. I would have screamed with horror had I known the truth.

I started to put away the rest of my purchases in the cabinet in my mom’s bathroom. I remember seeing at least two more large rubber bags with hoses attached already in there, and I tried to imagine what in the world she needed so many for. It turned out they weren’t all for her.

"Here, sweetie, take these and put them in your bathroom." Mom handed me the sack of feminine hygiene items I’d purchased at the drugstore. I felt a chill run through my body. "Those are for you to use. Remember, now, if you run out of anything you’ll have to remember to put them on the grocery list. I can’t do everything for you, you know."

My hands trembled as I arranged everything neatly in the cabinet under the sink. My bathroom was already looking like a girl’s room, what with all the lipsticks and lotions and makeup scattered about on the counter and shelves. The boxes of tampons, pads and douche supplies made it official.

It was a couple of hours later that my mom came downstairs and sat down on the couch next to me. She looked at the magazine I was reading — I’d finished my fashion essay and was reading an article about girls who had 'boy trouble' — smiled, and then kissed me on the side of the mouth.

"You know, sweetie . . . we might not get along perfectly all the time, and you probably hate me for treating you the way I do . . . but it’s times like this that makes it all worthwhile." She squeezed my hand and kissed me again. "Thanks for getting my medicine for me. I’m feeling a whole lot better, thanks to my little angel of mercy."

I shifted about and smiled a weak smile. "Uh, nah . . . that’s all right. It was kinda fun, I guess. Rita was there. She helped me get your stuff for you."

"That’s nice. She’s a good girl. I know she likes you, all right. Did you know that?"

No, I didn't know that. Mom went on about Rita and what a great daughter she was and how wonderfully she and Mrs. Johnston got along. I swear, I thought if I heard the name 'Rita' one more time I'd scream.

The next few days were strange. Just as she said, the pills she gave me caused me some nausea, and I didn't have much appetite for a while. I spent a lot of time with a heating pad on my stomach, languishing about like a menstruating teen girl. I even cried some, which was weird. I never cried, well, not until recently. It was like I was going through some strange change or something.

Under my mom’s careful scrutiny, I also followed up on my new hygiene routine to the letter, for the next five days straight. As much as I hated to do it, I imitated everything she taught me about douching and enemas, cleansing myself in a manner that most boys would find as shocking as it was degrading. While I knew girls were different, I never, ever knew that boys’ bodies could be touched that way. Who would have known?

This was even more confusing considering my continued erections. All I had to do was just think about douching and I’d get so excited I’d mess my undies. I thought for sure that my mom would fuss, but she said it wasn’t my fault. As long she thought I wasn’t jacking off, she didn’t seem to care. Maybe she knew, but wasn't saying anything. Regardless, she just gave me some pads and panty-liners to keep me from ruining my girlish underthings.

"I told you it wasn’t so bad, didn’t I?" she teased me one day. I’d just finished my morning enema and was stepping into my bubble bath. "After all that crying and fussing. And here you are, carrying on like a high school girl. Didn’t I tell you it would be fun?"

And to be honest, she was right. It took me a while, but I actually started looking forward to my sessions in the bathroom, almost as much as I used to enjoy playing with myself the old-fashioned way. My only fear was that my mom might figure out just how much fun I was having.

Then again, she probably already knew! 


Continued on Page 51c


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