The Art of Petticoat Punishment

by Carole Jean

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

Lipstick Discipline
by Amber P. and Daphne
Illustrations by Daphne

 

Chapter 17 — The Birthday Girl!

That Saturday I was allowed to sleep in late. When I finally did get up Mom sent me to the bathroom to cleanse myself and take a bath.

"Today's a special day, sweetie," she said cheerfully. "I want you feeling and looking your best. I laid out your stuff for you. Including some tampons. You're fourteen today, old enough to try one. I don't want to hear any argument. It's not that hard. Just douche and then sit down and read the instructions and try it. If you need help I'll come in and give you a hand."

Following my mother's orders to the letter, I douched until my bottom was "sparkling clean," as she liked to say. It wasn't nearly as bad as that first time, and I'll tell you now that I had a smile on my face the entire time I was doing it. It actually was more fun than jerking off (well, I couldn't help it . . . it was!!!) and I probably poked the nozzle around inside my bottom a lot longer than I needed. Of course, I would have died before letting my mother know how much I'd grown to like playing with myself like that.

While I was sitting on the toilet I did as I was told and read the little booklet that came in the tampon box. To say that I was shocked is an understatement! After all I'd just experienced you'd have thought I'd have been prepared, but after reading about how everything worked and looking at the diagrams, I was speechless. It was weird enough to be washing my bottom like a girl, but . . . well, to be wearing a wad of cotton up there . . . all the time? My god, for a fourteen year old boy who was more at home building model tanks and reading comic books, that was unthinkable!

I remember looking in the mirror, eyes red with tears and hands trembling with fear. "When is this going to stop?" I thought to myself. It was like a nightmare that had absolutely no end in sight!
I about jumped out of my skin when a harsh knock announced my mother's arrival. She stood looking at me moment, glanced at the little booklet and smiled. "Not done yet? Better get to it. We've got a big day ahead of you today."

I gave my most pitiful (and sincere!) pouty look. "Do I . . . Oh, Mom . . . do I have to?" I nodded at the little pink and white paper packet in my hand.

"Yes, you have to. If you don't, I'll do it for you. But I'm sure you don't want that." The look on her face reinforced what she was saying.

"But," I swallowed anxiously and took a deep breath, "It's going to hurt."

Mom shrugged her shoulders. "It's not going to hurt any worse than if I have to whip your bare bottom. Don't be such a baby. Girls your age and younger use tampons all the time. I don't know what you're making such a big deal about it for."

I paused for a moment, and thought seriously about saying "No!" But sitting on a toilet in your birthday suit isn't exactly a position from which hold a debate. I nodded and tore open the little packet . . .

I won't bore you with the gory details, but suffice it to say that it took me quite a while to get it right. It just took a little petroleum jelly and a lot of patience. Those stupid tampons are so hard to hold on to with slippery fingers, but I finally got it in; I knew my mom wouldn't let me go otherwise.

Sure enough, when I was done she insisted on checking me, and I remember blushing like crazy as she made me bend over and then tugged on the little string drooping between my cheeks. The only words she said to me were "Good job, sweetie-pie," but the look on her face was one of complete and utter triumph.

I do have a confession to make before going further. As much as I may have hated my predicament — and myself, for getting into such a mess — it, uh, really wasn't all that bad. As a matter of fact, it . . . uh, well, it felt kinda nice. I mean, I suppose I should have been screaming bloody murder, but by the time I was done I was feeling giddy and silly.

Well, I couldn't help it . . . it tickled!

So anyway, after my bath and toilet I slipped into my outfit for the day, bra and panty girdle, knee socks and flats, a skimpy little flowered midriff top and my pink pleated mini-skirt. I then made up my face with the usual mascara, lipstick and rouge, taking time to put my hair up in twin ponytails just for the heck of it. I looked in the mirror when I was done. My hoop earrings dangled conspicuously on either side of my head, and I giggled as I turned my head from side to side, making them swing outward. I used to hate the way that felt and looked. For some reason now, though, it seemed like fun.

Hey, don't blame me . . . I was bored!

When I came downstairs I found a leisurely lunch already laid out, after which Mom sat down with me at the kitchen table and chatted while I worked on my nails. I'd hoped that maybe I'd get to spend my birthday as "Greg," but as I carefully painted my nails bright red I figured that was a lost cause.

When I was done Mom sent me to fetch my purse and told me we were going out. I looked at her for a moment and started to protest. The short top and skirt set I wore was enough to make any girl blush, much less an adolescent boy. The idea of going out in it scared me to death. Still, I didn't say anything; after all I'd been through that week I realized it didn't matter who saw me dressed like a goof. I'd just as well give up and try to enjoy myself. It wasn't like I could do anything about it.

The ride in my mom's car was short and sweet, though I did get a little uncomfortable sitting with that stupid tampon irritating my bottom like that. At one point Mom asked "do you have ants in your pants, sweetie?" I was squirming so much. I just shrugged and said something about being restless.

Imagine my shock as we finally pulled into the parking lot of the salon where my mother got her hair done. Then imagine my expression when I was told to get out of the car and follow her inside. It was a long walk from the car to the front door.


Inside the salon I was introduced to Phyllis, my mother's stylist, and a couple of the girls who worked for her.

"And so this is Gregory?" Phyllis took my face between her hands and gave me a careful look. "I understand your mom is trying to help you satisfy your curiosity about girls, is that right? Well, it sure looks like you have a great head start, sweetie. Did you do your makeup yourself?" I nodded sheepishly, causing one of the other girls to giggle.

"Wow!" enthused the assistant. "And you're a boy? I sure wouldn't have thought so. That outfit is so cute on you. Look, he's even wearing nail polish!"

I remember hearing everyone laugh as I stared down at my hands; with no pockets in my skirt there was no place to hide them and I found myself picking at the trim along the hem.

I don't remember much about what happened there except to say that by the time I left I was proudly sporting a new haircut. Funny, it seemed like Phyllis cut almost all of my hair off, judging from all that fell before my eyes and that covered the floor; but when I looked in the mirror it actually looked like my hair was longer. I know now it was because she'd completely reshaped the silhouette, giving me a sharp pageboy look reaching just past my ears.

The torturess/beautician seemed to be really enjoying herself; she even gave me a quick lesson on the use of hot rollers "for a more girlish look."

"Oh, how darling," Mom said as my hair was brushed out and teased into shape.

The crowning glory, of course, was the severe set of bangs that brushed my eyes. Like the earrings that dangled and tickled the side of my face, the constant flutter of my dark lashes against the tips of my bangs were a sore reminder that I'd somehow lost control over who — and what — I was.

Phyllis topped it all off with a pair of yellow plastic barrettes, which she clipped on either side of my head. Great, I thought to myself. Now I really do look like a girl!

"Now that's perfect," my mother said as I was presented to her. "It's funny what a little haircut will do for your appearance, not to mention your attitude."

"Maybe next time we'll give him a real perm," Phyllis suggested. "That is, if he hasn't outgrown this phase he's going through.

Mom glanced at me and winked. "Oh, I doubt this is something he'll outgrow. I know he's acting kind of shy, but he's really excited about the way he looks. I think we're going to stick to this little game all summer, so we'll probably be back for a new look. You know how kids are."

Back at the house I found myself wrapped in that goofy apron, which, coupled with my hairstyle, made me look like a total idiot. My new look, of course, delighted my mother to no end. She was so thrilled with my new hairstyle, she was talking about taking me shopping for new clothes and maybe even getting a mother-daughter outfit for us to wear when we went out!

Not that I had much time to worry about my future; I was kept busy for nearly two hours running around the kitchen and dining room like the hired help, cleaning vegetables, mixing batter and setting the table. Between my tampon tickling my bottom and the smell of perfume and the aroma of cooking food and my new bangs constantly brushing against my eyes, I felt as though I was walking around in someone else's shoes . . . which I guess I was, come to think of it. Even after all I'd been through, this was still an alien environment to me, surrounding me with so many unfamiliar sensations and feelings. This wasn't part of who I was or who I was supposed to be. Not at all what a boy was like, right?

Some birthday . . . I wondered what my dad would think if he could see me right then; the image that came to mind made me cry . . .

As soon as the chicken was in oven I was sent to my room to get change clothes. "Put on what I laid out for you," my mother instructed. "Oh, and change your tampon. You need to do that every four or five hours, honey. If you need any help give me a yell. You should be able to manage by yourself, though."

My heart was in my throat when I saw what was waiting for me when I entered my bedroom. Lying across my bed was a brand new party dress! I couldn't believe it! I remember thinking "Where in the world did this come from?" Mom must have bought this when I wasn't looking. My stomach dropped as I realized it was the slinkiest, frilliest thing I'd ever seen in my life. Coral pink with a wide, full skirt and a lace bodice and spaghetti thin shoulder straps, it sure wasn't the kind of thing any of my teammates would be wearing to the tournament that season.


Accompanying my new dress was a fresh bra, panties, long-legged girdle and sheer hose. There was also a slip. On the floor was a pair of pink sequined three-inch heels. What in the world? The entire ensemble lay there ominously, looking as though they belonged to someone — anyone! — else but me. Surely I wasn't expected to wear such a ridiculous-looking outfit to my birthday supper . . .

After staring at it for a while I shrugged my shoulders and gave in. What the heck, I thought to myself. I look dumb enough as it is, what do I care if I look any more stupid? Maybe if I can just get through this night, things will be better tomorrow.

It took me almost half an hour to change, most of that spent struggling to get out of my girdle, which I still thought was much too small for me. Of course, getting into the new one was a fight, too; it seemed even tighter than the one I just got out of! In between I changed out my tampon — yuck! — and by the time I finished I was exhausted.

The dress was as difficult to manage as it looked. I hated it. It had to be buttoned up the back, which I could barely do without dislocating my shoulder, plus it was very snug, around my chest as well as about waist. As you might suspect, it wasn't all that easy to get into.

The puffy slip forced the hem about an inch or so above my knees and made the skirt extremely wide, forcing me to walk carefully about the house for fear of knocking things over. The taller high heels didn't help matters at all! I thought I was about to tip over with every step I took. Oh, and in keeping with the silliness of my attire, there was a jacket that went with the dress, a skimpy little short sleeved thing, useless except to give me something else to get tangled up in.

Pulling and tugging at the tight material, I felt like my bosom was just huge. And from what I could see in the dressing mirror, it was. Well, for boy, I guess. I mean, between the brassiere and the tight bodice of the dress, my chubby breasts had more cleavage than ever before! Not exactly the kind of thing most boys have to worry with. Faced with that thought, I felt so ridiculous I could have cried.

"Oh, that outfit looks nice on you," Mom said as she entered my room. I was buttoning up my jacket and moping about as usual, wishing it was time for bed. "Even better than when I first wore it. Here, undo the jacket, sweetie. We don't want to hide that cute figure, do we?"

I felt my stomach drop as I realized my mom was talking about my boobs, or what I had that passed as boobs. Feeling like a complete idiot, I stood perfectly still as her fingers fiddled with the buttons and opened up the front of my jacket. She then cinched the belt as tight as she could, emphasizing my bustline even more so. I could have died as she tugged at my bra, adjusted my budding bosom, nodded and then grinned.

"Very nice. Oh, yes, that's much better. You look so grown up like that." Her eyes glistened as she primped and poked at me. "I was sixteen when I first wore this and I have to say you look even prettier than I did. Now, touch up your make up and then put on another coat of nail polish. Oh, and while you're at it, dust yourself with a bit of rouge here," she said, tracing her fingertip across my chest. "Our guests will be here in about twenty minutes. You've plenty of time, but don't take forever."

I sat patiently as she removed the girlish hair clips. She then got out a brush and a can of hairspray and started touching up my hairdo.

A lot of information was coming at me faster than I could deal with. I took a deep breath and swallowed. "What . . . what do you mean 'guests', Mom? You mean somebody's coming to visit? Tonight?"

Tugging sharply on my locks, my mother glanced at me through the dressing mirror and gave me that look — the one that said "Mind your own business." After arranging a mother of pearl comb in my hair, she placed a pearl necklace about my neck and a matching bracelet on my wrist. A small jewelry box was presented to me and I was told to pick out some rings for my fingers. She then told me not to forget to touch up my mascara before leaving me to ponder my fate.

I was waiting for my nails to dry when the doorbell rang. In fact, they were already dry, if the truth be known, but I was killing time, unwilling to go downstairs any sooner than I had to. As nervous and jumpy as I was, I actually got kind of frustrated when I realized the doorbell was continuing to ring and that no one was making an effort to answer it.

"Someone's at the door," I yelled. My voice cracked a bit, still a bit hoarse. I called out again, but no one answered.

The ringing went on and on, until I made my way carefully down the stairs in my new shoes and the poufy dress. Not an easy task for a fourteen year old second baseman, much less an aspiring astronaut.

My brother Dave was in the living room, sitting on the sofa watching cartoons, completely ignoring the incessant ringing that was going on.
I fussed at him from the foyer as best I could, considering my ridiculous appearance. "What's the matter with you? Why aren't you answering the door?"

"Mom told me not to answer it," he said, his eyes glued to the television. "She said it was your job, 'Pamela'!"

"We'll see about that," I said with a growl. Dave looked and me and grinned. It's awful hard for a guy to act menacing when he's wearing heels and lipstick.

By the time I got to the door whoever was there was pounding away like there was no tomorrow. Pausing a moment, I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and said a little prayer, opened them . . . and then opened the door.

 

Chapter 18 — Party for a Debutante!

It could have been worse, I guess. I don't know how, but I suppose it could have been.

When I pulled the door around I was both relieved and worried to see Mrs. Johnston, my mom's friend from work. She seemed so glad to see me that it was only natural that I open the door and let her into the house.

What I wasn't prepared to see was her daughter coming in behind her.

You remember Rita don't you? Rita, from the pharmacy? Of course you do. I certainly remembered.

Anyway, neither Mrs. Johnston nor Rita made a really big fuss over me when they saw me, not in the way I expected. Instead of laughing and making fun of the little boy in the stupid dress, they acted as though what I was wearing and how I looked was perfectly natural. It was kind of eerie, the way they talked about me. I can't tell you how uncomfortable I felt standing there before those two women in my new dress and heels, reeking of perfume and teetering on the edge of tears. All I can say is that I felt . . . well, really, really weird.

"You look very chic, Gregory," Mrs. Johnston said sweetly. She gave me a warm smile, the kind that makes you feel as though your entire soul is open for examination. "And I like what you've done with your hair. I like long hair on boys, especially if they take care of it like you've done. It looks so poufy and femmy. You look so sweet like that."

I mumbled something like "Thanks" and wished I was dead.

Rita's reaction to my appearance bothered me even more so. Instead of laughing or pointing as I'd expected, she kept looking at me with the most curious grin.

"So, how do you like wearing that bra?" she asked coyly. "Pretty neat, huh? I bet that's not something you get to do every day, is it? Or is it?"

I just shrugged my shoulders, prompting a laugh from everyone, including my mother, who'd just entered the room. That was pretty difficult to take, considering that I didn't have any pants on and that stupid tampon was irritating my bottom like crazy; I'd never felt so vulnerable in my life!

"Such a shy thing, my little 'Pamela’. Nothing at all like that awful Greg. Look at her, so sweet and demure . . . isn't she the cutest thing you've ever seen? I'm so proud of her."

I stopped in my tracks and looked at my mother for a moment. Her eyes were glowing and tone of her voice was sincere for once. That's when it hit me . . . Proud of me? My mom was actually proud of me? For real? How could that be?

I mean, you have to understand, for just about my entire life my mother had never, ever said a positive thing about me! Not once could I recall her saying she was proud of me or anything I'd ever done. And then suddenly, there I was, dressed in an outfit that screamed GIRL! . . . my face painted with mascara and lipstick and my hair looking all puffy and goofy . . . and she was saying how proud she was of me?

Geez . . . no wonder I was such a mixed up kid!!!

Our guests both nodded their approval, and for the next few minutes I found myself subject to the most humiliating scrutiny as they discussed my outfit in the greatest detail. All along I was subjected to knowing glances from my mother, who seemed to be saying "I told you so" with little more than her eyes.

Mrs. Johnston was quite polite about it all, and she made no qualms in regard to her enthusiasm for the way I was dressed. "Oh, I'm so sorry . . . 'Pamela’, is it then? I forgot. Well, you know, 'Pamela’, that outfit would be perfect to wear to the theater or the ballet. Have you ever been to the ballet? No? Well, we'll have to change that! You look so sophisticated, we'll have to take you out and show you off to the world! What do you think, Rita?"

"Oh, I think our little 'Pammy' better watch out," my former babysitter said with a lilting tone. "If my little brother ever sets his eyes on you, he'll be camped out on the front porch just dying to ask you out!"

My face turned bright red to hear such talk, but my tormentors all laughed uproariously. It seemed that 'Pamela' was in for a long night.

Indeed, supper was a long, tortuous event for me that evening. Everything was so formal, a rarity in our household until that fateful day. In addition to me wearing my new party dress, Mom wore one of her best evening dresses and Dave actually wore a shirt and tie. Our guests fit right in with their dresses, and all of the women and girls — yes, including me, I guess — were impeccably made up and coifed beyond perfection.

"Well, what do you think of your big sister, little man?" Mrs. Johnston asked Dave at one point. I glared at him, but the smile on his face dimmed not a bit.

"I think he . . . she . . . is pretty silly." I noticed Mom watching him carefully, as though she'd coached him in what to say. "Pam's always hogging up the bathroom and playing with her clothes and stuff. I'm sure glad I'm not a girl!"

Everyone laughed at my little brother's remarks, and Mrs. Johnston ruffled his hair, as though he was the most adorable little thing. I just sat there and plotted my revenge.

I tried to remain in the background as much as possible, but it seemed to be a game with everyone to entice me to talk. And talk I eventually did. Between questions from Rita and Mrs. Johnston regarding my makeup and attire, and the constant prompting from my mother about little, nitpicky things — I nearly died when she told our guests that I collected and read 'Seventeen' magazine! — I found myself drunk with confusion and emotion. Rita seemed to enjoy my predicament as much as my own mother, as demonstrated by the attention she showered on me throughout the evening.

"Oh, Mama!" she gushed at one point near the end of our meal. Taking my hand in hers she held it up for Mrs. Johnston to see, very nearly pulling me across the table in the process. "Look at the color 'Pamela' picked out for her nails. I just love that shade of red! I should get some like that, don't you think? It's just scrumptious!"

Mrs. Johnston nodded and smiled at me warmly. "It's very nice. You did a good job applying it, too, sweetheart. Do you help your mother with her nails?" I shook my head timidly. "Well, Rita does mine quite often, ever since she was a little girl, in fact. That's a really fun mother-daughter thing to do. You should try it sometime. I just know your mom would appreciate the extra pampering."

My mom laughed out loud enough to make my face turn bright red. "Oh, tell me about it! To be pampered by my beautiful, loving daughter . . . why, I think that would just be wonderful! What about it, sweetie? Would you mind taking care of your dear old mom?"

Everyone laughed while I just sat there and grinned like an idiot.

When everyone was done I started to excuse myself to clear off the table. Mom stopped me, saying that she had a surprise for me. I remember looking around the table and seeing smiles all around me.

"Rita is going to take you into the living room for a few minutes, sweetie. Mrs. Johnston and I have a couple of things we need to get ready for somebody's birthday surprise!"

I let Rita lead me out of the dining room like a little kid. As soon as we were alone she pushed me down on the couch. Then she sidled up to me and bumped against me with her hip.

"Hey, there, pretty boy! Funny, last time I saw you like this you swore up and down you were just playing a game. Looks to me like this is more than just a silly game." The look on her face caused me to feel weak in the knees. It was bad enough being paraded around in front of my mom's friends in such sissy clothes, now I was being humiliated in front of a girl more closer to my own age. The feeling was just awful!

"Honest, Rita, this isn't my idea," I said hoarsely. "My mom made me put this on. I told you before; it's just a goofy game she likes to play with me. You're not going to tell anybody are you?"

"Oh, come on, Greg! Or is it 'Pamela’? You don't expect me to believe that. Your mom didn't do all of this. C'mon, you goofy thing, tell me the truth." She took my hand and looked me in the eye. "Are you turning gay or something? You can't look this good in a dress and then blame it all on your mother. There's stuff you're not telling me."

I was shocked! I knew what gay was and very idea was enough to make me sick. Boys kissing each other . . . and worse! YUCK! It had always worried me that people might really think I was gay if I dressed up; being a sissy, a wimp and a crybaby was bad enough, but gay . . . as far as I was concerned that was the ultimate insult! And for my ex-babysitter — who just happened to be the most beautiful girl I knew — to think I was queer, well, I realized I'd better come up with something quick.

The problem was I didn't have anything to say.

"Please, Rita," I said with tears in my eyes, "I'm not a . . . a fag." Just saying that word made me upset. "I got into some trouble with Mom and, well, this is how I ended up. It was all her idea, see. I never wanted to wear a dress. Please don't tell anybody, okay? Please? It's bad enough that my mom teases me about stuff like that . . . I just don't want anybody else doing it, either."

Rita made a face and poked me in the ribs. "Oh, calm down. And don't say 'fag'. It's rude. And don't say 'queer', either. That's just as bad. 'Gay' sounds so much nicer, don't you think?" My tormentor smiled while I felt sick to my stomach. "Anyway, I don't care if you're gay or not. Being gay isn't bad. It just . . . well, it just is. I know a lot of gays and they're okay. You'd be surprised."

That didn't make me feel much better. "But Rita, I'm not gay!" I insisted.

Rita shrugged her shoulders. "You coulda fooled me. You look awful comfortable dressed like that. The way you do your lipstick and nails is so girlish . . . how nice you smell . . . and the way you walk in your heels; I've got girlfriends that never manage getting around in a dress like that. There's more than meets the eye with you, 'Pammy'." The grin on her face was bright and contagious. "Too bad you weren't dressing up a couple of years ago, back when I was keeping you. We could have had a lot of fun, you know. You'd look really cute in some of my old babydolls."

All I could do was blush and pray that the evening would come to a quick and uneventful end.

"Really, Greg," Rita continued, "what did you expect me to think? It's hard to believe you're actually a boy beneath all that makeup and that sissy little dress. I mean, just look at your hair . . . it looks just perfect. Who did it for you? It couldn't have been your mom."

I told her about Phyllis cutting and rolling my hair. She seemed excited by the idea of a boy going to a beauty parlor.

"Wow . . . that is so neat! Maybe next time your mom will let me go with you to get a perm! I'd love to see that!"

Get a perm?!!! What was going on with everyone? I started to explain that a perm was the last thing I wanted, but from the look on my friend's face I decided to keep my mouth shut.

Rita took advantage of the silence, a sly grin spreading over her face. "Can I ask you a question? Well, that's silly. I don't know why I always say that 'cause I'm going to ask you anyway. You're wearing stockings, right? So, tell me, what are you wearing to hold them up, a girdle or a garter belt?"

I thought my head was going to explode, I was blushing so hard. "A . . . a girdle," I slowly confessed. "My mom . . . she made me . . ."

Rita cut me off. "Hmm . . . a girdle. I thought so. You've got a really cute figure and the way your bottom looks through your dress, it looks like you're curved in all the right ways."

Guilt and shame flooded my eyes as I looked down at myself. "You . . . you can see through this thing?" The pressure of my tampon caused me to squirm right then. Oh, God! I thought in a panic. What if she asks me about that!!???

"Oh, not that way, silly! I mean, the way the dress hangs on you. I can tell — most girls can see this and you will, too, eventually — by the way you move under your dress that you're a perfect size 3 and that you've got really cute little boobies. They're a bit small, but they're shaped just perfect!"


I would have grinned if I wasn't so scared.

Rita held out her hand and smiled. "Come here, sweetie. I've been wanting to do this all night."

My whole body trembling, I took her hand and let myself be drawn close. I remember looking up into her violet, almost purple eyes, and for an instant I thought she was going to kiss me. Instead, I found myself being pulled into a warm, soft hug, oh, so brief, but long enough to cause me to melt all over. As we pulled apart I did get a quick peck on the cheek, a sisterly kiss, the kind girls give each other all the time.

For some reason my knees felt awful weak and I tingled like wildfire between the legs.

"You are so cute! It's almost impossible to believe you're really a boy. I mean, you look like a girl, you smell like a girl, you sound like a girl. You even feel like a girl." I tried to dodge as she gave me a friendly slap on my bottom. "Come on, Greg, sweetie, admit it . . . dressing up isn't all that bad. I bet that girdle feels pretty neat, doesn't it?"

"It feels stupid," I said softly. I didn't want my mom to hear me, but I wasn't about to let this pretty girl think I liked dressing up as prettily as she did. "I hate it!"

Rita considered me for a moment and then smiled. "Oh, pish-posh! You probably don't know what to think, wearing all that girlish stuff. Boys like that kinda stuff, believe me. It's all so sexy and rousing for them, they just can't help it. They just don't want to admit it, that's all." She grinned at me again. "Now admit it . . . don't you think it's kinda sexy? Just a little bit?"

"Uh, I guess so." I shrugged my shoulders. "I mean, sure, maybe. I don't know. It just makes me feel dumb, that's all."

"I can understand that. You feel dumb, but you feel nice, too, don't you?" Eyes wide with bewilderment, I nodded. "Well, you've got absolutely no reason at all in the world to feel dumb. You make a wonderful girl and I think you ought to dress up more often. I mean, Greg's okay, I suppose, but 'Pamela' is a lot more fun. Promise me you will? Okay? Promise?"

All I could do was nod.

"Good. Oh, and by the way . . . that thing I said about my brother Kevin? Well, keep him in mind if you ever want to go out with somebody. I know, I know, he's a boy and you're a boy. Still, as cute as you look, I just know he'd go wild over you. Trust me. I really think the two of you would have a great time together."

I thought I was going to faint to hear such talk!

We chatted for a few more minutes, then my mom appeared at the door. I blushed to see her smiling so brightly. The last time she smiled like that I was humiliated beyond all belief.

"Come along, birthday girl. It's time to see what the gift fairy brought you." I felt my face burn to hear the tone in her voice.

Following my mother's instructions, I closed my eyes and let her lead me back into the dining room. I wavered slightly as I was led to a chair and order to sit. When I was finally allowed to open my eyes I couldn't believe what I saw.

"Happy birthday, 'Pamela’, sweetie!" A wet, lipstick drenched kiss was planted on my cheek as I stared in awe at the elaborate birthday cake and packages laid out before me. Everyone joined in on the "Happy Birthday" song for 'Pamela' — my little brother singing the loudest, of course! — and I probably looked like a complete fool as I tried over and over to blow out the trick candles that decorated the cake.

The party was a blur. In addition to the cake, I was treated to a handful of very girlish birthday cards and several embarrassing presents. There was a package containing a very feminine panty and bra set from Mom and a very pretty nightie from Mrs. Johnston. Most surprising was a girl's bikini bathing suit from both Rita and her mom. I about died when I was how tiny it was; decorated with hearts and a touch of lace, it looked more like underwear than something to go swimming in.

"Hold it up so I can see it, 'Pamela'," Mom said. I felt my face burning fiercely as I did as I was told. "How adorable! It looks like something you'd wear on Valentine's Day. Isn't that cute, sweetie?"

"I just couldn't resist." Mrs. Johnston's voice oozed with warmth. "We were going to get it for Rita, but when she tried it on it was way too small. Greg, I mean, 'Pamela' immediately came to mind, so we got it for her instead. She can wear it to the beach or at the pool."

"You're going to be very popular," Rita assured me. "The guys will go wild when they see you wearing that."

The very thought of such a thing happening made my stomach churn with nausea. Everyone chuckled as I said something along the line of "No way!"

Mom presented me with several pieces of jewelry, including a pair of expensive looking earrings — these with little cupids hanging beneath — and a charm bracelet that she'd worn as a young girl. I was in a daze as she locked the bracelet on my wrist. Dave even gave me a small bottle of perfume, and I was so confused and mixed up I gave him a kiss — thanks to my mom's prompting. He grinned like a big goof, sitting there with my lip print on his cheek.

The fact that I was a boy wasn't completely forgotten. I ripped open one present with my real name on it. I'd asked for some baseball cards and comic books to add to my collection; I was stunned to see instead copies of 'Mademoiselle', 'Seventeen' and 'Glamour'. To my horror the subscription labels all said 'Greg Parker'. Mom said she thought it was probably the most appropriate gift she could give me, considering how much I liked looking at the pictures.

"But, Mom . . . they're addressed to my . . . boy name!"

"So? Who was I supposed to address them to? Surely not to your little brother. They are yours, after all."

I squirmed in my seat. "But . . . what if one of them falls into the wrong hands? What if any of the guys from school see them?"

"Hmmm . . . well, I guess I can see where that might cause some concern. Then again, it's not my problem now, is it?"

I started to say something but then stopped. Nothing I could think up would change her mind, that was for certain. Instead I fretted about how humiliating it would be for something like a copy of "Glamour" to be passed around school with my name all over it. I'd have to keep close hold on all my new magazines if I didn't want my reputation ruined.

The last gift was also the most embarrassing. No, make that humiliating. Okay, maybe devastating is more appropriate. Whatever. Giggling like a fool, Rita pulled out a gift-wrapped tube almost a yard long. Fearing the worst, I opened it up carefully, as though I was afraid of getting bit.

"This is going to be great," I heard her say to no one in particular.

The tube turned out to be a poster. The rippling giggles grew into a wave of feminine laughter as I unrolled it across the dining table. When I realized what it was . . . well, I almost cried, it was that shameful.

The poster showed four smiling bodybuilding-types sunbathing nude on a beach. Men, unfortunately, not girls or women. Lying side-by-side in the sand, their tanned bodies oiled and glistening in the tropical sun, their naked bottoms were in perfect alignment beneath a flashy sign that said 'Hot Buns'!

"Ew!" a lone voice said. It was my little brother, not surprisingly. It very well could have been me.

While this was probably a teenage girl's dream come true, it certainly wasn't for me. More like a nightmare. As I stared at the row of fleshy buttocks laid out before me, I thought they were the grossest thing I'd ever seen! I mean, really! I actually felt sick to my stomach.

"Happy birthday, girlfriend!" Rita gushed. "I thought maybe you could use a little spice in your life now that you're a woman!"

My stomach churned as I realized everyone in the room was looking at me looking at my new present. Mom was all smiles and Dave had his hand over his mouth, barely able to keep from busting out laughing. I couldn't blame him for acting like an idiot; I probably would have been even worse if I'd been in his shoes.

"Good grief, Rita! Don't you think that's a bit much?" Mrs. Johnston shook her head in disgust. "All of those ugly naked butts . . .! Where in the world did you get such a thing?"

My former babysitter beamed with pride. "One of my friends had it in her dorm room at college. They made her take it down and so I grabbed it up for the birthday girl here."

"Gee, thanks, Rita!" I said with as much sarcasm as I could muster. "It's just what I always wanted."

As my embarrassment diminished I started getting angry. Who did she think she was anyway . . .? This wasn't the least bit funny, in my not-so-humble opinion.

My frustration only served to amuse Rita, though, who turned and flashed a bright smile at me. "Glad you liked it, 'Pamela'!" she said cheerfully. "There are plenty more where that came from if you want more."

I started to say something ugly when my mom interrupted.

"Well, I think it's just perfect! I used to dream about men like that when I was your age. But I know better now." The women all laughed. She then looked directly at me and said in a syrupy-sweet voice, "I don't know why you're embarrassed, sweetie. This isn't any different than all those girlie pictures you used to keep under your mattress."

As soon as she said that there was a strange exchange of knowing smiles around the table and I decided it might be best if I just kept my mouth shut.

After dessert Dave excused himself to go to his room and play. Mom directed me to fetch coffee for our guests, and then I started cleaning up the dishes as usual. I was somewhat surprised — and concerned — when Rita offered to help.

"We've got a pool, you know," my former babysitter said while we worked. "I know my mother wouldn't mind if you came over. How about it? Maybe if you ask your mom you can? I'd love to see what you look like in that bikini . . ."

Our guests stayed for another couple of hours, which meant I had to endure several more rounds of well-intentioned compliments and pinches on the cheek, in addition to having to serve several cups of coffee and a second helping of birthday cake. I also had to learn to play bridge, which was a tedious process as I hated card games; like everything else that evening, I ended up swallowing my pride and immersing myself the best I could. The result was that my mother and I lost every game we played that night, though each round was an improvement on the last.

"Don't take it so seriously, honey," Mrs. Johnston said when we lost our final game. "You'll get the hang of it. The important thing is that you know the rules. The next time we come over who knows? It might be your turn to win."

Rita laughed. "Besides, this isn't a boy's or a man's game. Nobody really keeps score. My mom pays more attention to the gossip that's going on than she does the game. Loosen up a little. Only men get all worked up over a silly card game."

By the time Rita and her mother left I was exhausted. Mom went in to check on Dave and I undressed. Without being told, I made sure to hang up my new dress, sure that I'd catch heck if I did otherwise. I took off my slip and stockings and put them all in the hamper.

Mom stuck her head in the door. "Don't forget to change your tampon, 'Pamela', sweetie. Tomorrow is the last day of your period. It won't hurt you to sleep with one in tonight."

"Yes, Mom, I'll take care of it." A boy's work is never done . . .

I slept fitfully that night, trapped in my bonds of satin, Lycra and lace, my dreams filled with images and sensations that frightened me. I remember dreaming that I was in school, standing at the front of the classroom, completely naked except for one of my mom's brassieres, which hung haphazardly from my shoulders. My face was made up with lipstick and mascara and my nude body was covered with some sort of perfumed powder. As I struggled to cover my shame, the kids in the room all chanted "Greg is a fairy! Greg is a fairy!" over and over again. Helpless and mortified, I started to cry . . .

The next thing I knew, I was standing on a beach, trapped in the middle of four tanned and oiled bodybuilder-types. Men, unfortunately, not girls or women. When I looked down I saw that they were all completely nude. I could also see that I was wearing the little hearts and lace bikini I'd gotten for my birthday. Bright eyes and flashing smiles came my direction and a low, masculine voice was whispering in my ear. "C'mon, sweetie, you wanted to play with the boys, didn't you?" I remember feeling a sense of horror as a string was pulled loose and the bottom to my bikini fell away . . .

Suddenly I was wide awake; a warm stream of semen was spewing from my penis, soaking the panties and girdle I'd worn to bed. I shuddered as the pressure of that silly tampon in my bottom drove me crazy with passion, triggering another spurt of boyish spunk. It was a fantastic, scary feeling, so intense that it repeated itself again almost immediately.

Laying in a tangle of brassiere straps, sheets and tears, struggling to catch my breath, I thought this was the most frightening, disgusting, and yet wonderful thing that ever happened to me. After all I'd been through, nothing like that had ever happened before. Never. The pleasure was so powerful, so intense that it almost hurt.

The funny thing was that, despite the agony and confusion I'd just gone through, I couldn't wait for it to happen again.

 

Chapter 19 — Summertime Fun

Resigned to my fate, I tried to pretend the world of "Greg" was lost to me and I focused on pleasing my mother as best I could as "Pamela, my favorite daughter." It wasn't easy, though; there was a lot more at stake than just smiling prettily and doing housework.


For instance, I had to help redecorate my room, which consisted of putting most of my guy stuff in the attic, tossing the models on my desk and replacing them with jewelry boxes and perfume bottles, and adding the obligatory feminine bed sheets and covers.

I also had to force myself to not say a word when Mom took that ugly beefcake poster Rita gave me for my birthday and hung it up in my room. It really hurt to watch as my Atlanta Braves poster was torn down and thrown away, but even more alarming was the quartet of bare-bottomed musclemen on the wall opposite the foot of my bed, right where I'd see it before falling asleep every night. Mom thought it was hilariously funny, of course, and she made several snide remarks about this being payback for jerking off to my girlie magazines.

"Maybe now you know how disgusted that made me feel. Hiding pictures of half-naked girls under your mattress . . . you want to look at naked people? Then fine! We'll just leave that up and see how you like having 'the boys' keep you company for a while."

The smile on her face was evil. "Who knows, maybe you'll have more fun looking at them than you did with all those yucky girls."

I blushed as I remembered the dream I had . . . You can understand why I often thought that she could read my mind.

In addition to redecorating my room I also quit the ball team, which went practically unnoticed by the Coach. Between the scoldings and getting slapped around whenever I was late coming home, it just wasn't worth it. Then again, it wasn't easy, giving up baseball and fishing and running around with my friends for ironing and primping in front of my mom's vanity, but what choice did I have? Between my daily chores and my 'lessons' and being confined to the house all the time, I was cut off from anything resembling boyish activity. Worse yet, my only forays to the outside world were our weekly mother-daughter outings and an occasional visit to the library.

While I hated being stuck in the house all summer, I had mixed emotions about 'mother-daughter' day, which took place each and every Saturday. Mom would think up something fun to do — well, fun for her, at least — like driving across the city and seeing a movie or shopping or visiting a museum. Sometimes Dave would go with us, but most of the time he'd spend the day with a friend, leaving me at my mother's mercy.

With each trip Mom became even more bold, making sure I wore the prissiest outfits wherever we went and not caring who saw me: for example, the afternoon matinee or a shopping trip to the new mall called for a cute midriff top and a skirt and my hair tied up in 'dog ears'; dinner at a fancy restaurant meant the aqua mini-dress and a mother of pearl hair clip decorating my locks; museums required me wearing that awful red suit, the one with the dress and jacket. Hose, heels, jewelry and purse were always prerequisite, of course.

My greatest fear, of course, was being seen by my classmates. Especially any of the guys I knew. I always figured if it ever happened it would be the end of the world. The very thought of all the humiliation and shame was absolutely unnerving . . .

"What's the matter with you?" my mother fussed. "Get out of the car. For god's sake, girl, I don't want to stand here all day!" The car door was open and she was waiting impatiently for me to get out. The problem was that I couldn't.

"Please, Mom, don't make me do this. I look stupid. This dress . . . it's awful. People are going to laugh." I tugged at my skirt and looked about for anyone who might recognize me. I glanced at the rearview mirror and saw my face painted with lipstick and mascara. It was going to be a long day.

"They will certainly laugh if they see me pull you over my knee and give you a good spanking," Mom said. Her face was dark with malice and her voice was growing loud enough to attract the attention of passersby. "Get out of that car right now before you make me angry! I'm not putting up with your foolishness, 'Pamela'!"

It turned out that most of the world couldn't have cared less that a boy in a dress visited the city museum that day. With my tresses parted in the middle and decorated with a silver hair band and my bangs fluffed out over my eyes, I looked pretty much like any of the other young girls wandering the halls with their parents. A little more dressed up, perhaps, in my bright red dress with its matching jacket, three inch white heels and matching purse. I thought my outfit was loud and obviously contrived, but Mom assured me that the color was fine, just perfect for her cute teenaged 'daughter'. The fact that she was similarly dressed in a cream colored suit, complete with hose and a white purse and heels just like mine made it all official: we were the perfect 'Mother and Daughter' couple. Looking back I now realize that together that day we made a rather charming pair in our dressy ensembles; at the time, however, I was amazed at how people nodded and smiled at us as though we were looking to buy the place. It was all so very surreal, and I fought to keep from giggling out loud, I was so nervous.

I remember my lessons well and held my head high and my shoulders back, carefully taking short, mincing steps; to do otherwise in such a tight-fitting dress would have been impossible. Mom was so proud of how well I conducted myself, she literally glowed as she led me about, her arm locked around mine, chatting incessantly about the works of art scattered about as though I was her best girlfriend. Occasionally she would squeeze my shoulder or brush back my bangs, giving me a whisper of encouragement as she did so. In turn I would grin stupidly and pretend to listen as she went on about this portrait or that sculpture, but my thoughts were more focused on how uncomfortable I felt in my girlish disguise.

The practice I'd gotten from wearing dresses around the house came in handy as I managed myself without too much embarrassment; sitting and kneeling were my biggest challenges . . . well, that and dealing with a pair of high heels that were a bit too tight. My main problem was feeling like I didn't have any pants on. Panties, girdle and hose are no substitute for a pair of good old jeans. I tried to keep from squirming, but it was difficult.

Then it happened. I'd gotten ahead of Mom and was just rounding a corner going from the major impressionist paintings to the main hall and a couple of boys came running the other way. One I recognized right away as being on one of the teams I'd played against earlier in the summer . . . the other I wasn't too sure about. Anyway, they were goofing around and stuff and the next thing I knew there was a collision and I was sitting on the floor. I was a sight, my purse twenty feet away in one direction, a lost high heel in another, and my dress all askew and mussed.

We hit so hard the wind was knocked out of me and for a few seconds I wasn't sure what had happened. When I finally did look up I saw one of the boys standing over me and the other sitting opposite me. Both were looking at me . . . well, at my dress and where it had ridden high up above my knees. Confused, I just sat there, exposed underwear and all.

"Dang, sorry, 'bout that . . ." The boy on the floor began. "Didn't mean to run ya down . . ."

Before he could say anything else Mom lit into him like I'd never seen before. "You little hoodlum! I saw what you did, knocking my daughter down like that! You should be arrested, running in the museum like that." She looked around for a guard, rapping me on top of the head with her knuckles at the same time. "Knees together, 'Pamela’. No sense giving him a free show, too."


"Omigosh!" I clenched my legs tightly together. I had plenty to be worried about. It took me a second, but I quickly realized that I was showing off my slip and girdle to a couple of guys who would beat the crap out of me as soon as they figured out who I was. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to get up and run away, scream bloody murder or just sit there and hope to die a quick death.

Faced with the wrath of Mom, the standing boy looked down at my exposed undies, gave me a quick grin and then took off like a bullet. Imagine my confusion when the other boy — the one I knew from baseball — got up, dusted himself off, and then helped me to my feet. Apparently my mom was blocking his way, so he felt obliged to at least try and set things right.

"Here you go . . . sorry about that . . ." He gave a sheepish grin. "You're okay, right?"

It felt strange having him hold my hand like that, and even stranger as he used his free hand to press against the small of my back, right on my bra strap. His hand lingered there for a long time, but I was too speechless, too terrified to say anything. Why doesn't he start yelling and laughing? I kept thinking to myself. Can't he tell I'm a boy? Doesn't he recognize me? I thought about pulling away and hiding behind my mom's skirts, but that would have only made things worse. Besides, she was making a nasty enough scene as it was, and within a minute of the mishap the offender was gone . . . but not forgotten.

Mom's reaction to our outing was nothing short of ecstatic. We were enjoying a treat at the museum café when she gloated over her latest success. "Now, see, 'Pamela', isn't this fun? I knew you'd enjoy yourself if you just gave it a chance. I think we should do this more often, don't you, sweetie? Maybe next time we'll bring your brother. Won't that be nice?"

It was all I could do to keep from sinking into the floor and dying.

**************************************

While the trips to the city with my mom were nerve-wracking enough, going to the local library in a dress was the kind of thing that inspired nightmares. Funny, the first time it happened was my brother's fault. Dave had checked out some books and we got a call at the house saying they were long overdue. My brother was nowhere to be found, of course, so Mom pulled me from behind the ironing board and we drove over to turn them in.

"Here, take these to the librarian and give her this money for the fine. Be sure and get the change, all right? I'll wait out here in the car so we don't get a ticket."

I looked at my mother like she'd lost her mind. "Me? Go in? Like this? Mom, I can't go in there! Not dressed like this! Somebody will recognize me!"

That was a good possibility. The short white pleated skirt and the thin yellow 'Barbie' top I wore while doing the household chores didn't look much like anything I'd ever worn into the library before. I was absolutely sure I'd never make it out alive; if any of my buddies saw me dressed like that, especially with my hair up in twin ponytails and ribbons and my face painted in my girlish makeup, I'd be forever branded in shame. None of that compared, of course, to the rigid look on my mother's face.

"You have a choice, 'Pamela'," she said, her voice cold as ice. I winced as she reached over and gave a harsh tug on one of my ponytails. "You can either do this simple thing for me and make me happy, or I go cut a switch from that tree over there and wear out your bottom right here and now. Or maybe you'd rather I take you to the park where your friends are probably playing ball? I'm sure they'd love seeing you in your girlie clothes."

The tears in my eyes did nothing to move her. The next thing I knew, I was clip-clopping up the marble steps, books in hand, skirt tugged down about my legs. I remember taking a deep breath and shyly approaching the librarian help desk. Except for my voice squeaking from feeling so nervous, I managed to turn in my brother's books and pay his fine without causing a scene. The look on my mother's face as I click-clacked down the front steps belied how happy my little performance made her.

To make a long story short, this was the first of many such visits to the library. It turned out that very few, if any, of my regular friends wasted their time at the library during the summer. There were a handful of older teens, mostly summer school and college students doing research, but they had better things to do than bother with a teeny-bopper running around in training bra and ponytails. Realizing that the library was a fairly safe environment for me, Mom decided that I would make regular trips there, whether I liked it or not.

"I want you to go to the library this afternoon and get some things for me," my mom informed me one day at lunch. She'd finished up the chicken salad sandwich I'd fixed and was touching up her lipstick before going back to the clinic. She gestured to a piece of pink note paper on the dining room table. "Here's a list. There are a couple of textbooks I need, plus I've included some books I want you to read this week as well, something to keep you out of trouble while I'm at work."

I brushed back a braided pigtail and fidgeted nervously. The flowery sundress I wore had been driving me crazy all morning with its short hem and skimpy design, and the little ribbons that hung from my short braids kept tickling my bare shoulders.

"This afternoon? Oh, Mom, can't I wait until this evening, when you get home? You can take me down after supper, can't you? I don't want to go by myself"

"Not tonight. The library closes early and I'm going to a Tupperware party. You'll have to go this afternoon. I can drop you off if you want a ride. The walk back will do you good."

I dropped my eyes for a moment and considered the bright silken material that covered my body. I never could get used to how my breasts made such interesting curves beneath the clothes my mother insisted I wear; I wasn't fat, she kept telling me, just pleasingly plump.

"Can I change clothes first? Please?"

Mom paused in her tracks, looking from her makeup mirror to me with an air of suspicion. "Absolutely not. Why do you want to do that? You look fine the way you are. I know what you're going to do. You think you can put on your boy clothes and go sneaking off with those idiots you call friends, that's what."

"No, Mom, that's not it. I promise, that's not it at all. I just don't want people seeing me dressed like this. Everyone's going to laugh at me."

My mother went back to her lipstick. "That's not my problem. You should have thought about stuff like that before you decided to become a liar and a pervert."

I remember feeling my face turn bright red. The very thought of going out in public in my new sundress was mortifying; going it alone was incomprehensible!

"Can't . . . can't I at least wear some shorts, then? Or maybe my Capris? This dress is awful . . ." I struggled to think of the proper word.

"Oh, it's not awful, it's cute! That's what it is." Mom grinned as she finished up her lipstick. "You look very sweet in that dress, 'Pamela'. It's a shame you're just pretending to be a girl. I think you really fill it out quite well."

I looked down at the fairy pendant resting between my breasts and shivered. "But, Mom, please . . .?"

"I won't hear another word about it. Now, touch up your lipstick and get your purse, girl. I'm due back at work in a few minutes. I've just enough time to drop you off."

The visit to the library that day was a traumatic event for me. I trembled with fear from the moment I stepped out of the car and began that perilous journey up those marble steps. Fighting to keep from crying, I managed to find my way inside the building and into an empty study cubicle in record time.

I hid in the cubicle for a little while, sitting and waiting for someone to come up to me and yell, "Why Greg Parker, what in the world are you doing in that dress?!!! What a cute little fairy you've become!"

That never happened, thank goodness. In fact, as I worked up enough nerve to venture out among the stacks I got more than my share of pleasant smiles and nods from several of the library patrons. A man from the library staff made a point to check on me quite often, which was actually very nice. I noticed that he treated me a lot better as 'Pamela' than I was used to as 'Greg'.


My new grown up friend also took up the habit of putting his hand on my bare shoulder or on my arm and calling me "honey" every time he saw me. And a couple of times he even touched me on the knee, though he always acted as though that was an accident. And if being touched like that felt kind of weird, I really got the shivers when I saw how he kept looking at me from across the room. (When I mentioned all this to my mother that evening she said, "Get used to it, sweetie. Men do that kind of thing all the time." When I told her I didn't like it, she laughed for the longest time. From to look in her eyes I had a feeling I'd be spending a lot of time at the library that summer . . .)

Anyway, back at the library it didn't take me long to find the things on my mother's list. Like she said, two of the titles were for her, some sort of psychology books, part of the night schooling she took to get a better job at the clinic. The others were a variety of girls' books; a Nancy Drew mystery, the classic novel 'Little Women' and a teen romance novel that Rita apparently recommended. There was also a book on ballet, which got me to wondering if my mom might be thinking about making me take lessons. I certainly hoped not; my life was certainly complex enough!

When it came time to check out I discovered I had an embarrassing problem. My library card said 'Greg Parker', not 'Pamela'. It took me several minutes of stammering and stuttering to explain that I must have gotten my brother's card by mistake. The librarian was very understanding, actually, and within minutes he set everything right.

I walked home in a daze. I couldn't believe it! Oblivious of the passing cars and the sounds of the other children playing along the street, I was trying to make sense of what happened. I don't know if it was the combination of being trapped in nail polish and a dress in full public view or the agony in my feet from walking such a long distance in a pair of ill-fitting high heels, or what . . . all I knew was that I felt like I was drunk.

No . . . yes, it was true, all right. In just a few seconds that kindly librarian made a huge, significant difference in my life. You see . . . thanks to his efforts, as far as the public library system was concerned, my name was 'Pamela'. 'Pamela Parker'. Aged 14. Brown hair. Blue eyes. Currently residing on Crescent Avenue.

Just like it said on the little card with my picture on it!

**************************************

Probably the most shocking event for me that summer took place the day the Johnstons invited us over to swim in their pool. Wary that this might not be such a good idea, I whined and hinted and made all sorts of excuses why I should stay home. Mom, of course, wouldn't hear a word of it.

"I don't know what's gotten into you, but stop it! We are going to visit the Johnston's and we're going to have a nice time and you're going to like it! Do I make myself understood?"

To my horror, I quickly found myself heading for the front door, clad in little more than my new 'Valentine's Day' bikini bathing suit and a pair of high heeled sandals. Oh, don't forget my newest purse and my daily application of lipstick and mascara. My mom sure didn't forget!

I felt like an idiot, of course. That stupid little bikini was about as modest as the bra and panties Mom made me put on every morning under my punishment clothes, only I was expected to wear this thing outside where everyone could see me. Granted, I didn't have the most masculine body, especially where my baby fat gave me curves in all the wrong places — for a boy, that is — and with my hair tied up in little bunches with brightly colored elastic scrunchies, I looked just exactly like a fourteen year old girl, or so my mom told me about a hundred times that morning. Needless to say, I was convinced that I looked more like a silly boy running around in girls' underwear! Nevertheless, I had my orders and I knew I'd catch hell if I didn't do as I was told.

Before we left the house I lost track of the times I stopped in front of the dressing mirror and stared at myself. As disgusted as I was with how I looked, I was also strangely fascinated. The top acted like a little push-up bra, gathering up my ever-swollen breasts and squeezing them together to give me a rather unboylike profile. A little heart pendant nestled in my cleavage only added to the illusion; I had to be careful not to touch myself for fear of getting caught.

The skimpy bikini bottom was just as bad; made of similar stuff as my panty girdle; it held me just as tight, hiding any sign of my poor privates under a flat elastic panel. The cut was rather sparse, the little triangle of hearts and lace leaving most of my abdomen exposed in the front and barely covering my cheeks in the rear; plus, the little strings that held it all together on the sides didn't exactly inspire confidence. I found myself constantly tugging the edges of the bikini panties over my bare bottom and checking the ties to make sure they didn't come loose.

Combined with my silly hairstyle, makeup and the hoop earrings Mom made me wear all the time, well, I guess I did look more like a girl than a boy, a girl about to burst out of her skimpy clothes, bashful and vulnerable and trembling with nerves. The fact that Rita had worn the suit before had not escaped me, and the very idea of being so close to her voluptuous body gave me so much pleasure it made my head hurt.

After about the tenth time in front of the mirror, I snuck into the bathroom and undid my bikini bottom and proceeded to masturbate. I knew I'd catch hell if my mother caught me, but I couldn't help it. I was so excited from looking at the little girl in the little heart-sprinkled bikini I was literally about to pop; seriously, if I hadn't done it I would have made a mess anyway and who knew what kind of trouble that would have gotten me. Don't ask me why things worked this way; even though I knew it was me, well, the figure in the mirror looked so cute, so helpless and so naked, I couldn't help myself. The orgasm that followed was so intense it hurt.

I quickly cleaned myself up and gathered my composure. When I emerged from the bathroom my mother gave me a funny look. She knew what I'd done — I could tell from the way her eyes pierced through me — but she didn't say anything outright. She just stared at me for a few minutes, smiled, and nodded.

"Come along, little boy," she finally said. "You can admire yourself some other time."

Following my mom out of the house, I felt so weird. It was like she expected me to react this way. I mean, the idea of a fourteen year old boy running around in bikini panties and a bra was completely laughable, and to be trapped in such a revealing thing was my worst nightmare. There was hardly anything for me to hide behind, which made the job of deception all that much more humiliating, and my mom knew that. Boy, did she ever! Either I looked like some fairy boy and would never able to face my friends for the rest of my life, or I'd look — and act! — like a proper young girl and never be able to face myself. I wasn't sure what I wanted except to get through the next few hours without making a complete fool of myself.

Just driving over to the Johnston's was a near disaster in itself. We hadn't been on the road for five minutes when the family car pulled into the local market. Mom had offered to bring lunch and there were snacks and drinks to be purchased. Grabbing my hand, she dragged me out of the car and inside we went.

I felt practically naked, walking about pushing a grocery cart while wearing that ridiculous bikini and carrying my little purse. I'd the foresight to put on my sunglasses, thinking that maybe that would make it at least a little harder for any of my friends to recognize me. All that did was draw even more attention to me. We weren't there two minutes when it became obvious that a couple of boys my age seemed taken with the image I presented. Mom pointed them out to me, her smile almost as unnerving as their gawking. I recognized both boys from school, one from a couple of classes I had. It didn't matter; it would only take one blabbermouth to ruin me forever.

As I minced about the store my audience watched my every move, not even trying to pretend they weren't. I stayed close to my mother in case they tried to speak to me. A lot of good that did.

"Don't I know you from school?" One admirer managed to maneuver himself between me and my mom. Great. It was Gary Lowe, the one I had class with. He looked me up and down and grinned with delight as he questioned me. "Didn't we have social studies together last year?"


I was so scared I could hardly speak. The truth was, we did have gym together, not social studies, but I certainly wasn't about to tell him that! I pulled my sunglasses snug against my face and forced a smile. "Um, I'm pretty sure we didn't," I managed to croak. "I'm just in the seventh grade," I lied.

"No way!" my friend said. "You look like you ought to be in high school!"

To my shame, his eyes were all over me, like invisible fingers, curious and bold. I thought about what my mom had said about boys and the thoughts that went through their minds when they saw a pretty girl. The way he fidgeted about made me uncomfortable, and I wondered if he was going to jerk off later that evening while thinking of me.

Why am I even thinking about that? I wondered. I glanced down at the other boy’s crotch and shivered to see his pants had a familiar 'tent' in the loose material. The ensuing images in my mind disgusted me as much as they roused my curiosity. Do real girls think about this kind of stuff?

Confused and panic-stricken, I wanted to cry out for help, but Mom just stood by and ignored the situation, leaving me to fend for myself. She really seemed to enjoy my misery. I squirmed and stammered through a largely one-sided conversation for at least ten minutes while she stood nearby thumbed through a fashion magazine and studied the cosmetics.

The one thing I remember was how both boys focused their eyes somewhere between my breasts and my bikini bottom, only looking me in the eye occasionally; oh, how I hated that! I fumbled with my purse and tugged at my earrings to keep from punching them both in the nose! By the time my admirers left I'd nearly broken out in a rash, I was so upset. Mom, on the other hand, was nothing but smiles.

"You really had that one boy eating out of your hand, girlfriend!" Mom teased as we stood in the checkout line. "I think that shy little 'Miss Priss' act you do so well really caught his attention."

"It's not an act! It was horrible! Oh, Mom, please, don't make me do that again. I was terrified he'd figure out I was a boy."

"Is he anyone you know?"

"Ummm . . . he was in one of my classes last year. I thought for sure he was going to recognize me."

My mom grinned. "But he didn't, did he? Imagine that. I wonder why?"

"I don't know!" I fidgeted between crossing my arms over my breasts and holding my hands together in front of my privates; either way was inadequate, and standing around like that in the middle of the supermarket only made me feel even that much more exposed.

"I didn't like the way he was looking at me. Didn't you see him? It was like I didn't have any clothes on."

Mom gave me a harsh pinch under my arm and laughed. "Well, what do you expect, princess? Boys only have one thing on their minds. You, of all people, should know that. I just want you to know what it's like being on the other side, so get used to it, sweetie."

I wasn't sure what upset me worse, the way I'd been treated by that boy or the delight my mother was taking in that whole situation.

When we arrived at the Johnston's Mom put me to work right away, fixing the food and serving drinks. Rita and her mom seemed quite impressed, I think, the way I dove into my chores, fixing cups of ice and pouring lemonade and preparing the pimento cheese sandwiches. Mrs. Johnston laughingly referred to me as her 'slave for a day'.

"Too bad you won't come over and help out around the house more often," she said. "Having such a pretty child around really lights up everything! You'd make a wonderful little maid, you know."

"Maybe I should go get him a little lace apron," Rita teased. "With those heels he'll look the part!"

My face must have been ten shades of red, judging from the smiles I saw before me.

Rita offered to help, but I said I would manage just fine by myself. The truth was I was terrified and I wanted to keep busy, to keep my mind off my worries. In a way I was relieved; if anything, I surely didn't feel like undergoing one of Rita's interrogations. I was having a hard enough time just managing myself in my lingerie-swimwear.

I spent as much time in the water as I could that day and I actually had a pretty good time. Mom and Mrs. Johnston even joined in the fun, splashing and playing like children themselves. For once I felt happy as I played with my mom, like this was the way things were supposed to be.

The late afternoon was spent lazing in the sun. Mom pulled out the lotion and called me over to where she was sitting. Following her instructions, I knelt before her and let her cover me up with the sticky white stuff, listening ruefully as she preached the evils of "too much sun." I about panicked when she pulled the shoulder straps off my suit and tugged down the front, completely exposing my swollen breasts. Even though I was a boy, I was still pretty self conscious about my body and I wasn't too crazy about letting just anyone see me like that; I mean, even as 'Greg' I rarely let anyone see me without at least a t-shirt on. Rita and her mom laughed good-naturedly as I crossed my arms over my partial nudity. Mom just rolled her eyes and lathered me up with lotion like it was an everyday occurrence.

In turn, I was then tasked with putting lotion on my mother. Following her example, I squeezed a puddle of the white goop in my palm, smeared some on my other hand, and went to work. Ever the perfectionist, Mom told me where she wanted me work, guiding my every move with the same precision and firmness that she established when teaching me how to do my chores at home. Almost immediately I realized that there was something exciting about touching a woman's body, especially when being controlled by a woman like my mom.

Mrs. Johnston was next. I felt my mouth go dry as I knelt down next to where she lay. Smiling at me with those bright red lipstick painted lips, Mrs. Johnston was as particular as my own mother in telling me where she wanted me to put the lotion. She didn't move a muscle as my fingers danced across her skin. I tried desperately to avoid certain areas that I thought were off limits, and when I did I could see her mouth twitch, grinning at my inexperience and caution. I thought I would croak when she undid the back of her suit and let it fall forward; she laughed and said it was all right, it was 'just us girls'. She bade me to put lotion on the tops of her breasts to keep them from getting burned. My stomach dropped as I felt something tingling down between my legs. Glancing at my mom, I could see her watching me carefully. I didn't say a word, but I've no doubt that the blotchiness on my own chest had nothing to do with the sun.

By the time I got to Rita I was a nervous wreck. She had me start at her feet and work my way up. At nineteen years of age, she had the body of a movie star and I relished the chance to touch her in ways that few, if any, boys had done. I about died when I got to her thighs and she casually took my hand and guided it all the way up to the edge of her suit; I mean, here I had my hand between her legs, mere millimeters away from her crotch, and everyone seemed to accept it as naturally as the clouds that passed overhead.

Like her mother, Rita also dropped her top. I had to look away to keep my eyes from popping out. Seeing my shyness, she put her hands on mine and guided them to her breasts, helping me work the lotion into her skin while I fought to keep from having a spasm. I remember my mom looking at me with a raised eyebrow, as though she was judging my performance. I couldn't breathe and my face was hot and my body trembled so. Even worse, I could feel my erection straining against the tight elastic of my bikini panties, so much that I was practically in pain; I wanted desperately to jump in the pool to conceal my shame, but that would have been impossible to explain. The look on Rita's face let me know that she was fully aware of what was going on.

When I was done Mom told me to lie down and catch a little sun. "A little tan will do you good as long as we're careful. This is one of the best parts about being a girl."

I had just made myself comfortable, lying on my back, when I felt a pair of hands tugging at my bikini bottom. I looked up to see Rita — still topless — bending over me, a great big smile plastered on her face.

"Here, 'Pamela', it looks like you missed a spot," she said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "You don't want to get burned, do you?"

She then began rubbing lotion on the tops of my legs and up under my bathing suit bottom. The next thing I knew the ties on either side came loose and half of my suit was off. Quickly and desperately, I rolled onto my stomach, but not before everyone got a look at what I'd been hiding between my legs. I glanced up and behind me to see my tormentor holding my girlie bikini bottom over her head like a trophy of some sort.

Mom and Mrs. Johnston both laughed and clapped their hands. It was like I was trapped in some silly, girlish ritual, something that went on between sisters or girlfriends, not unlike the horseplay that goes on between the guys. In this case I just happened to be the little sister, the quiet, younger girlfriend who had a lot to learn about hanging out with the big girls. In keeping with that role, I couldn't help but cry — well, just a little — and beg for my bikini bottom to be returned. Rita held it behind her back and grinned.

"Come and get it, 'Pamela' darling. I dare you!"


Well, needless to say, I wasn't about to get up and do anything. Instead, I kept the front of my body plastered against my beach towel and fussed and whined about how "it's not fair!" This prompted a scolding from my mother to hush up.

"Oh, Greg, honestly! Don't be such a crybaby," she warned me. "She's just having a little fun with you. I can't believe how you're acting!"

"That's right, sweetie, just a little fun." Rita grinned. "I'll tell you what. I promise to give it back if Kevin and his buddies come back. We wouldn't want those old boys looking at your little bare bottom, would we?"

"No," I sobbed softly. "You promise to give it back?"

The blond teenager raised an eyebrow. "We’ll see. Now, lie back down and relax before I turn you out into the street in nothing but your birthday suit!"

And so I remained bottomless, as well as helpless to do anything about it.

The rest of the day was spent lazing in the sun, browsing through magazines, napping and sipping iced drinks. I dozed off and on throughout, waking up long enough to pull my towel over my exposed bottom every once in a while; likewise, Rita — or Mom or probably even Mrs. Johnston, for all I knew — would tug the towel down, leaving my bare buns exposed to the hot sun. The next day I'd have the strangest suntan; a red and aching butt, contrasted with the white lines on my shoulders, back and chest from wearing a girl's top.

What a way to end the summer . . .

 

Chapter 20 — Back to School

When I went back to school in the fall, it was like having a new start. I was entering high school and there were over 2000 students on campus and only a few of those from last year would be in my classes. Everyone had a clean slate and unless I made an issue of it, I believed that my sissy image was a thing of the past.

A few things stood out like Mom insisting that I not get a haircut. It would ruin my teenage girl look for when I needed correction. In addition to dressing up around the house, there were a number of episodes where I again had to wear lipstick and girls’ clothes out in public, but they lasted only a day or two and I was allowed to resume my normal routine. When these occasions did occur and we were out, Mom would frequently buy me little bracelets or charms to wear.

Just before dinner one evening Dave was excused to go to his room and Mom and I had a long talk.

"I know just how embarrassing this will be for you if I make you go to school like this," she started. I looked down at myself and nodded. Wearing a pink mini-skirt and a short silk t-shirt with a fairy embroidered on the front at the time, I agreed that I probably was in violation of the school dress code. At least as far as boys were concerned. "And while part of your punishment is to be shamed, I certainly don’t want to place you in any danger. So I have an alternative that I want you to consider. That is, unless you do want to wear lipstick and dresses to school."

Eager to hear her plan, I shook my head from side to side; the twin ponytails dangling from the sides of my head reminded me of how much was at stake. Anything, I thought, is better than going to school dressed like a total geek.

"That's what I thought. Here's the deal. You can go to school in your boy clothes . . . for now. I don't really have a problem with that. As long as you stay out of fights and keep your grades up and don't steal anything, I won't try to embarrass you. Well, not too much. However, you will continue with your chores and duties here at the house, and you'll do them in your girlie clothes, just like we did this summer. That seems to be the only way I can make sure you're not running off and getting into trouble with your friends."

"But, Mom . . ." I started to complain, but a sharp look from her told me to keep my mouth shut. Like I said, I wasn't completely stupid.

"There is one condition to all of this, though. Every now and then, you'll probably end up at school in a dress, just for fun." I felt a shiver run through my entire body. Mom noticed and smiled. "Like it or not, sweetie, that's the way it's going to be. For example, in two weeks your new high school is having a Sadie Hawkins Day celebration. If it's like when I went there, they dress up during the day and have a dance that evening. On Sadie Hawkins Day some of the boys dress up as girls and vice versa. So, here's the deal. If you’ll let me dress you up for Sadie Hawkins Day anyway I choose, then I’ll let you wear your normal clothes to school tomorrow and thereafter. You’ll just be considered one of the ones who have gotten into the spirit of the event. You shouldn’t stand out like last year."

I started to say something, but got a finger stuck in my face instead.

"But before you agree, I want you to agree to let me have full license to do whatever I want to make you look like a real girl. You think about it overnight and then you decide how you go to school in the morning. Just remember, that if you go in your normal clothes, you’ve committed to letting me dress you fully two weeks from now. Understand?"

I agreed that I understood, but the whole situation had my head spinning. Was she kidding? I already knew which choice I would be making in the morning.

Next morning I dressed for school as usual, sealing my fate for two weeks from now. Mom came into my room and saw me in my regular clothes.

"Hold on a minute," she said. "While I’m not going to make you dress outwardly as a girl you’re not getting off completely free. Here, wear these," she instructed as she pulled out a pair of panties and one of my long legged girdles. "Your jeans will cover them and you won’t have PE since it’s raining."

Grudgingly, I removed my pants and jockey shorts, put on the panties and girdle and redressed in my jeans. To my chagrin I noticed that the garter tabs could be clearly felt through the denim material, and if you looked closely they were just barely visible. At I didn’t have the sensation of the stockings pulling down on them.

As I was headed out the door on my way to school Mom stopped me and commented that I might want to remove my earrings before I left.

"Oh, God." I thought. I remembered just a few weeks ago when I got caught wearing lipstick to the ball field, "What if I’d worn my earrings to school?"

Mom helped me take them out and then put a touch of makeup over each hole and assured me that they weren’t noticeable. I wanted to believe her, but what choice did I have really?

That year I was taking the district bus rather than riding my bike, as the high school was across town. As I ran down the street to the corner where I caught the bus, I had to stop and pull the edges of my panty girdle down along the rear of my leg. Great. Something that I’d gotten used to while wearing my dresses was now a source of major embarrassment in my boy clothes. Was this going to be going all day? If so, would I have to put up with it lest someone notice what I was doing?

As the day progressed, I found that I could hide my actions beneath my desktop by smooth out the girdle’s edges after I had taken my seat. Those damn tabs were there every time. My terror had somewhat resolved itself by lunch time and I did my best to keep from fidgeting with my earlobes. All and all, I managed to get through the day without anyone seeming to notice.

Mom heard me come in the back door and called, "Greg, is that you?"

When I answered "Yes," I was directed to my bedroom. There laid out on the bed was an ensemble of clothes for me to put on, including my yellow sheath, stockings and high heeled shoes. I removed my school clothes, donned the selected garments and then find my Mom to have her button me up. She saw that I wasn’t wearing my makeup, I was sent off to apply it and then report back to her.

"Now, ‘Pamela', just because you’re going to school as a boy doesn’t mean you can skip your responsibilities." She gave me a warm, motherly smile. My knees went weak as she handed me a list of chores that would have made a brigade of maids tremble with fear.

I spent nearly two hours working on the laundry and the ironing, hand washing a huge pile of lingerie and pressing one nurse’s uniform after another. After that I had to vacuum the carpets and then dust the living room and dining room. Only then could I start my homework.
As much as I hated my summer vacation, it seemed that high school was going to be even worse.

For the most part, the next two weeks was pretty much a carbon copy of this first day after school. I made sure to conduct an inspection each morning before leaving the house, just to make sure all my lipstick was wiped off and I wasn’t wearing any earrings, and I learned that if I wore the panty briefs I didn’t have to deal with the legs rolling up. I also fell into the after school routine without having to be nagged through it daily.

The only really new twist came on Monday of week two, when a new pair of bright red four inch heels magically appeared on my bed after school. They were open toed and of a sandal-type construction with only a small ankle strap to hold them on. Mom insisted that I wear them as often as possible to get used to how they felt. Indeed, they presented a significant challenge in walking compared to the three inch pumps, but by the third day I was maneuvering quite well in them also.

 

Chapter 21 — Getting Ready

When the afternoon before the big day came, I arrived home to find the usual hot bath waiting and I just resigned myself to make it through the next thirty hours. While in the bathtub, Mom brought in a razor and shaving cream, telling me that she was going to remove the fuzz from my legs and underarms, not that I had any to begin with. By the time she was finished, both my legs were satin smooth and Mom said that was necessary because tomorrow, I wouldn’t be wearing any stockings with my outfit.

I dried and went to my room to find my usual bra, panties, and girdle waiting for me on the bed. After putting them on, I asked Mom what else to wear and she said whatever I felt like, except she wanted me in the red high heeled sandals. So I put on a white pullover and a pair of red print Capris, put on my face and went to find her in the kitchen ironing what turned out to be my costume. The top was a red polka dot sleeveless blouse that had ties in front for the front just under the bust line, thereby bearing the midriff. To my relief there was no skirt; instead, I saw a pair of cutoff denims made into short-shorts with loose threads. The outfit was what Mom felt Sadie herself might have been wearing that day in cartoon history when she went chasing off after a husband.

Mom put down the iron and draped the top over a hanger already sporting the full cupped bra that I’d be wearing. "You look very nice," she commented. "Get your purse and let’s go."

I didn’t know exactly where we were headed, but I can’t say I was really surprised when we pulled up in front of the place where I’d gotten my hair done earlier in the summer. When we walked in the front it was obvious that Phyllis was expecting us. She gave me a big smile and complemented me on my appearance remarking that I had grown even cuter than last time she’d seen me. I was directed to sit in her chair and make myself comfortable.

"Oh, Gregory, I’m just so thrilled that you agreed to let me work on you for your special day tomorrow," she started. "You’ve taken such good care with your hair and it looks so long and pretty, I promise you won’t be disappointed with the results." I wasn’t really sure what she was talking about, but I suspected that Mom had given her instructions on what she wanted done. I was just going to grin and bear it until it was over.

She started by wetting down my hair and then combing it down from a part in the center of my scalp. With the front combed forward down covering my face, she began trimming across at the level of my eyes. "Don’t worry," she consoled me, "With the proper amount of curl, your bangs will hang well above your eyes." Good grief; curls no less.

When she was done trimming, I was subjected to the expected shampoo and then told that she was adding some tint to "bring out my natural highlights." What followed was my hair being systematically segmented into strands that were then wound on rollers, which in turn were secured tightly against my scalp with bobby pins. Setting lotion was applied with its ever so pungent odor and a drier was lowered in place and set on hot-high. The accompanying roar of the drier effectively drowned out any further conversation.

Next came attention to my nails. They were washed, brushed and soaked. Following that, nail extensions were glued in place and allowed time to set before being coated with bright red lacquer. If I’d thought that my nails were obvious with red polish earlier that summer, these by comparison were now like flashing neon signs. My sandals were removed so that my toenails could receive the same treatment. With cotton balls separating the toes while the polish dried, I looked down and understood why Mom had chosen the open toed design for my heels. Even while just wearing the Capris, super sexy was the signal they were broadcasting.

My face burned as I realized I was getting an erection from just looking at my feet. Talk about being confused!

I hadn’t expected what came next, but Phyllis then turned her attention to my eyebrows, telling me she was shaping them for a more refined look. When I finally got a look at them, I was relieved to see that at least they weren’t the extreme fine arch that I had feared, more of a well defined clean tapered appearance with somewhat of an angle near the center.

Finally the timer on the drier clicked off and the hood was removed. Phyllis removed the rollers and then brushed out the curls. I could feel her preening the bangs on my forehead and then she brushed the rest of my hair back into the familiar ponytail, only this one had a tight wave to the portion beyond a cinched red ribbon.

The final effect was devastating when she turned the mirror for me to see. Where was the boy who had started high school in September? Was there any trace of him left? None that I could find. I was looking at a pretty young girl instead.

When Mom and I left, she tipped Phyllis generously and complimented her on my marvelous transformation. As I was trying to buckle my sandals, I got my first taste of how restrictive my nail extensions were going to be. How on earth did anyone fasten such small buckles with my half inch protrusions jutting from their finger tips? My fumbling efforts finally paid off, but not before providing Mom and Phyllis with a pathetic source of amusement.

"Cheer up, love," Phyllis comforted. "You’re not the first young lady to find that it takes patience to master having pretty nails."

On the way to the car, the pavement echoes of my heels attracted my attention and looking down all I noticed that my nails now matched the color Mom had chosen for my sandals. Color coordinated toes, shoes and fingertips I thought. How feminine. As if reading my mind, Mom remarked that she had gotten me a fresh lipstick in the same color as my new nails to use tomorrow. I could add it to my collection.

For the rest of the evening, everything I did seemed to reinforce that fact that my hand movements could no longer be taken for granted. Picking up a paper clip or a piece of paper took on a whole new dimension. Holding my fork or pen required a totally different grip.

Touching my face or other sensitive areas required a special attention to gentleness, as I discovered when I went to the bathroom; wiping myself was an uncomfortable and humiliating ordeal, and I made sure to wash my hands extra good. (Yuck!) Afterward I wondered what would happen if I tried to masturbate; the very thought of those long nails against my tender skin gave me the shivers! Was this another little way Mom had of curbing my boyish appetites?

I finally understood Mom’s snide comment from what seemed a long time ago about managing my bra with nail extensions. It was like having to learn it all over again. At least she wasn’t there when I was struggling or I might have had to undergo the on-off exercise I did when I was first introduced to the peculiarities of female undergarments.

Sleep that evening was another confused struggle between feelings of apprehension over appearing at school fully feminized and anticipation of an unwanted excitement I didn’t comprehend. More than once I awoke to the odd sensation of my newly exaggerated finger nails, only to be reminded that in the morning I’d being parading about in with bright red toe nails displayed atop four inch heeled sandals.

Suddenly Mom was gently shaking me awake and then I was jolted back to reality as I remembered where I was and the significance of the day.

"Come on, sleepyhead, time to rise and shine," she coaxed. "We’ve got a lot to do before you leave for school today and not a whole lot of time to do it."

I muttered something about feeling ill, but a quick look from my mother told me that probably wouldn’t be a good idea. The memory of what happened last time I tried faking being sick flickered in my mind, prompting me out of bed in record time.

"Start out by showering and then meet me in my room. Now off with you." She seemed in an unusually good mood for so early in the morning. I showered as usual except for the plastic cap I had to wear to protect my curled hair. I then returned to my room where she had laid out a pair of panties and a short panty girdle. I slipped on the panties and then tugged the latex garment up into place, leaving me girlishly flat in front.

When I got to her room, she gave me one of her frillier robes to put on and had me sit at her vanity table. She then proceeded to do my makeup in an overly elaborate fashion. First came a thick coat of pancake, then the rouge, followed by blush, plum colored eye shadow and dark eyeliner. I was told to do my own lipstick and mascara. I used my new tube of red lipstick and applied it as I had been taught.

"I want you to keep it looking fresh throughout the day," she said. "I’ll know if you do or not, but you won’t know how."

Then she brushed and teased my hair until it was a mass of curled bangs in the front and a tight ponytail at the rear of my head. I could watch as she worked, and the look she created was not of an innocent fourteen year old boy, but of a mature teenage girl, teetering on the edge of womanhood, on the prowl. I was definitely going to be attracting attention.

My mother produced a pair of very large gold hoop earrings — a pair that I'd never seen before — and secured them to my earlobes. I couldn’t believe the added heaviness compared to the light gold hoops I had worn up until then. They felt like they weighed a ton and I knew that they were going to be a constant distraction all day. With each turn of my head I could feel not only the tug on my lobes, but their light brush against my face. It also occurred to me that it was suddenly going to be obvious to everyone who saw me that I had my ears pierced. There was no way to pretend I was wearing Mom’s clip-ons.

My fairy pendent was secured about my neck and Mom gave me some gaudy bracelets to slip over my wrists. They were loose and tended to fall over my hands when I dropped them by my side. "Keep your hands higher than your wrists and you won’t have any problems," Mom coached. She didn’t add that holding them such caused me to assume a naturally feminine posture, which made me feel stupid. I figured that once I left the house, I could just push them up my forearms but I found later that they didn’t want to stay there, sliding right back down over my hands. I decided that once I was out of the house I’d stash the unwanted bangles in my purse.

Next I was allowed to don my bra. Mom watched proudly as I slid out of my gown and into my new brassiere, stopping me just long enough to examine my pudgy breasts. "Very nice," she said, her expression one of delight. "It looks like they are still growing, doesn’t it? Imagine that."


I shrugged my shoulders. She was right; ever since summer they’d grown considerably, for whatever reason. By this time I could almost cup one in each hand. Of course, this wasn’t something I was particularly proud of and I didn't feel much like talking about it. Anyway, with my bra in place and pulling my breasts together I appeared to have a rather noticeable valley above the supported mounds now decorating my chest.

Then Mom handed me the top and showed me how to tie the loose ends under my bust. The shoulder straps were not very wide and I began to worry that they wouldn’t conceal my bra straps. Mom wasn’t very reassuring, saying that I should check from time to time to see that my straps were concealed beneath my blouse. I hated wearing sleeveless tops and to say I felt exposed was an understatement.

The cutoff jeans Mom handed me didn’t cover much either. These were extremely tight, cut from a pair of hip huggers at least a size too small for me. When I finally got them buttoned up the front I was worried when I saw how much of my belly button and my midriff were exposed. With the low waistband they barely covered the top of my panty girdle, and they were so short that I had to poke and tug to keep the white lace and elastic from being seen through the leg holes. My smoothly shaven legs ran a long way down until they came to my feet with the bright red toenails.

Putting on the red high-heeled sandals remained a struggle as I still hadn’t adapted to the long fingernails. Between my manicure and the constricting girdle it was a challenge, but I finally got them buckled. When I stood up I was chagrined to find that the top button of my shorts had popped open. It took me a minute to refasten it and I realized that I was going to have to be careful if I didn't want to embarrass myself when I got to school.

When I finally looked in the mirror, the reflection was such a shock it nearly took my breath away. There I was, the picture of a seductive young woman, made-up and dressed to go on the hunt for a man. But instead, I was heading off to school where I would be seen in my feminine glory by all of my friends.

As if all that wasn't bad enough, I started getting an erection. The image before me was so sexy, so powerful, I couldn't help squirming. Oh god! I remember thinking to myself. I'm never going to live this down! I'll be lucky if I don't get the crap kicked out of me before the day's over.

I was thinking about crawling back into bed when I saw Mom coming up behind me. An unwelcome tingling sensation shot through my body as I felt and smelled the perfume she was dabbing behind my ears.

"Give me your wrists," she said and proceeded to place some there also. "You’re going to smell like a lady today, also."

I shivered as the cool mist was sprayed between my breasts and behind my knees. I prayed my arousal wasn't noticeable; that would be the end of me for sure! I guess I shouldn't have been surprised when Mom gave me that knowing look of hers and grinned. "What's the matter, sweetie? Got ants in your panties?"

We went into the kitchen and I ate breakfast, noticing for the first time just how 'in the way' my new bosom was going to be. Suddenly I was helpless to keep the milk that spilled from my spoon from dripping onto my clothes. Bending forward was a futile ploy. My breasts remained in the target zone. Special care in eating was going to be required or my top would have more than just polka dots spotting it.

"Greg's got boobies, Greg's got boobies," Dave said more than once. Mom shushed him, saying that little boys didn't say 'boobies'. I didn't mind that as much as I that idiotic giggle he made every time he looked at me. I couldn't say much, though; I would have done even worse if he had been the one Mom was torturing.

I was already dreading my fate when it came time to leave. Mom handed me my purse along with my books, wishing me a pleasant day. She smiled and gave me a kiss on the cheek.

"Oh, ‘Pamela', you look so lovely." Her eyes gleamed with, well, I wasn’t so sure it was happiness as much as it was mischief. I thought about giving her a kiss back, but I didn’t want to smudge my lipstick and have to reapply it. And with that I was out the door and on my way to the corner, my heels clicking with each step, earrings dangling stiffly from my ears and leaving a trail of syrupy aroma in my wake.

In my hurry to just get out of the house, I hadn’t calculated that I was going to have extra time standing alone waiting for the bus. There I was, loitering at the corner, bedecked in this outrageous attire. In addition, autumn had arrived, making for a chilly day; and there I stood with short-shorts and a bare midriff and naked shoulders when I should have been wearing long pants and a coat. Nonetheless, I think I shivered as much from anxiety as from the cold air. If it hadn’t been for my holding schoolbooks and the time of day, I feared I would be mistaken for a lady of the evening. The ten minutes I waited seemed like an hour. And then I caught sight of the yellow bus turning the corner four blocks away and heading toward me.

 

Chapter 22 — The Ordeal

When the bus door opened, I negotiated the steps carefully in my heels and looked around to see if anyone else was participating in the spirit of the day. Thankfully there were other kids also dressed for the occasion and it really didn’t make much difference to me right then if they were boys or girls. At least I wasn’t going to be made a total fool standing out alone at school. Still, I had to endure a gauntlet of smiling faces and whistles as I looked for somewhere to sit. I made my way down the aisle and took a seat next to Kathy Wade, one of the girls I’d known since junior high. I gave her a furtive smile.



"My mother’s idea," I said in answer to what I knew must have been her unspoken question.

"Very nice. You make a very convincing girl," she came back as she returned my smile. I was startled as she leaned close and sniffed carefully. "And you smell the part too. This must have really taken some doing. I’m impressed." Her tone wasn’t sarcastic but more of fascination or curiosity.

A polite "Thank you" was all I could return.

"So how do you like having to wear all this stuff?" she continued, not letting me off the hook.

"Well, as I said, it was my mother’s idea to have me dress up for Sadie Hawkins. I guess she went a little overboard."

She ran her fingertips over the tops of my thigh, sending a familiar shiver through my boyish region. "A little overboard, huh? Permed hair, shaved legs . . . pierced ears? You know, your ears don’t look like they were just pierced. Just how long have you been wearing earrings?" she pressed forward.

"My mom had them done last summer," I honestly admitted. I didn't know what else to say, so I just sat there with my sheepish grin.

My remarks were intended to divert her attention, but instead they seemed to whet her appetite. "And you seem to maneuver quite well in those heels as you got on the bus. You’ve worn heels before," she declared. It was a statement, not a question.

I told her that Mom made me wear them around home for the past week or so to get use to them. "I think she always wanted to see what I’d look like if I’d been born a girl and this was her big chance. She even had a name picked out. She likes to call me 'Pamela'." It was only part of the truth, but there was no way I was going to tell her the full story.

"Say, you got anything interesting in there?" She pointed to my purse. "I have to keep mine cleaned out weekly or I lose all kinds of things that I forget I even have."

"Only what my Mother has stocked in here for me," I replied.

"Mind if I take a peek? I’d love to see what she packed."

"Sure, help yourself." I handed her the maroon clutch that I’d been given to carry. I tried to remember what exactly I had in it, but it was too late

The first thing she found were the bangles I’d hidden away.

"You’re not going to wear these?" she asked.

I shrugged my shoulders. "They’re a pain. They keep falling off unless I hold my hands up like a fairy." I felt funny saying the word "fairy" while dressed as a girl, but as far as I was concerned, it was the truth.

Kathy gave me a curious look and then smiled. "Well, I think they’re neat. I can't believe you're not wearing them. Let’s see them on you."

I felt like I was putting on a pair of handcuffs as she slipped the collection of gaudy bracelets over my hands. She spent a moment or so arranging them and then made me hold my hands out so she could get a good look.

"See what I mean?" I dropped one hand and a bracelet almost fell off. I raised my hand back up in a girlish manner and rolled my eyes as I realized some of the other kids were watching.

Kathy shrugged her shoulders. "They don't look so bad. Why don’t you wear them? For me? Please?" Blushing deeply, I nodded. My new friend looked me straight in the eye, as though to challenge me. "Promise? Say you won’t take them off. I’ll know if you do, and then I’ll get upset."

"Okay, I promise," I finally said. A cold chill went through me. She sounded just like my mother. "I won’t take them off." I felt like an idiot as I held my hands up to keep the bracelets from falling off. I couldn't help noticing one of the girls across the aisle mocking me, holding her hands out in a limp-wristed fashion like she was gay or something, prompting her friend to giggle out loud. I felt like reneging on our deal, but faced with a smile like that, this was one promise that I would have to keep.

"You’re sweet," Kathy said with a wink. "Let’s see what else you have in here."

I felt my face turn red as my new friend produced the lipstick and mascara that my mom made me carry with me. She seemed especially impressed by the little bottle of perfume, saying that her mother had the same exact one sitting on her dresser at home.

"Do you do your own makeup?" she asked. I looked around to see if anyone was paying attention to us. The girls across the aisle giggled with delight, as were the two boys sitting behind us. The nod I gave could hardly be seen.

"I’d like to see that," my new friend said with a giggle. I heard the other children laughing in reply. She dug into my purse again. "Oh, my . . . look at this . . ."

Kathy’s face lit up. Her smile went from ear to ear as she carefully produced a familiar pink and white packet about the size of a candy wrapper. I blinked in disbelief as she waved the tampon under my nose. I grabbed at it, but she pulled away, her eyes wide with mischief.

"And just what do you think you’re doing with one of these? Do you even know what this thing is for?"

"Please, Kathy . . . somebody might see." I tried to contain my concern, but it was difficult considering the circumstances. The giggling around us turned to laughter, and my mouth went dry as cotton.

"Answer my question. Do you know what this is for?"

My face burning with shame, I lowered my eyes and nodded. Kathy nudged me in the ribs. "You do know what it’s for, don’t you? Did your mom tell you, or did you find out about it on your own?"

"Uh, my mom . . ." I could barely bring myself to say the words. "You know . . . She told me all about it. I guess she put it in there as a joke."

"Sounds like you two are pretty close." Kathy looked at me carefully. "That’s neat."

When she finished searching through my purse Kathy handed it back to me, saying that it was practical inventory but not very imaginative. I took it back and wondered she thought I could be carrying.

She pushed forward with more questions. "Do you like the way you look, all decorated like a Christmas tree? Do your heels hurt? Did your mother shape you eyebrows, too? Well, what do you think of all that girls go through to look pretty? By the way, your bra strap is showing. Let me adjust it for you," she offered.

I shrugged my shoulders, blushing as her fingernails traced a line on my bare skin. "I guess it’s all right, dressing up like this, I mean. I’ll let you know when I figure it all out. But you’re a girl. How do you like having to spend all the time it takes to get ready every time you want to go out to some place nice?" I prayed that maybe I could turn the conversation back towards her and away from me.

"Sometimes it’s really neat. Other times it seems a hassle. But then that’s the advantage of being a girl. You get to choose. You know where girls’ choices are more restricted? It’s when it comes to asking boys out on dates. Girls normally aren’t supposed to do that, are they? But today’s an exception, isn’t it?"

To make a long story short, Kathy’s fascination with my appearance caused her to ask me if I had a date for the dance that evening. I couldn’t believe it!

She was actually asking me out!!!

I didn’t know what to say. I'd never been on a date before and I was torn. On any other day I would have felt like the luckiest guy in the world. But . . . well, shoot . . . I was wearing a panties and a bra!!! How do you think I felt? On top of that, I was more than a little worried about what my mom would think when she found out. Taking the conservative route, I tried to act cool about the whole situation.

"Well, I’d love to go with you, but I have to check with my mother first to make sure she can drive. Let me have your phone number and I’ll call you and let you know. If she says ‘yes’ then you can give me directions to your home."

Looking the way I did, I couldn’t believe a girl would actually be interested in asking me for a date, especially not with me looking like some sort of fruitcake. But Kathy had. And from the look she kept giving me, she was more than interested in what she saw.

"Don’t worry about having to pick me up. My mother can drive if yours can’t. But I must admit," she confided, "I really want to meet your mother."

Call me paranoid, but instead of being elated that I’d been asked out, I was immediately wondering if she really had an ulterior motive. What did she mean about meeting my mother? Why would she want to meet her? Was there something about my dilemma that excited her? I could only speculate, which even caused me further worry.

The bus was pulling into the school turn-around and I had her number copied into my folder. We were picking up our books and binders when her parting comment left me speculating all the more.

"Now be sure you come as ‘Pamela’," she advised. "You promise?"

I wasn’t sure I heard her right. I made a face and swallowed. "Uh . . . as ‘Pamela’? Y-you want me to come to the party . . . dressed as a girl?"

My new friend nodded. "Absolutely! I think it’ll be fun. Remember, it's the Sadie Hawkins dance, so there’ll be other guys dressed up, too, right? So why not?"

I squirmed in my seat. My girdle was already killing me, adding to the discomfort of our conversation. "Ummm, no reason, I guess."

Kathy seemed to enjoy my confusion. She blew me a kiss and then winked. "Great! Then it’s a date! Don’t forget, ‘Pamela', all right? I want my little brother to meet her. It'll be lots of fun!"

Well, perhaps this has something to do with her little brother instead of me, I thought.

Once at school, I was relieved to see that besides girls, there were several other boys dressed for the day. Way less than half of the boys decided to join in, but it was better than nothing. You could divide them into two general groups. The vast majority were mere parodies of girls, and then there were those who actually could have passed as real misses. The first group had hairy legs showing beneath their nylons, grossly over-stuffed brassieres, garish makeup and were acting loud and obnoxious. Some just had makeup and a scarf on, the cowards.

The second bunch of boys, a much, much smaller group and the one to which I obviously belonged, looked rather feminine, acted demure, and presented a more quiet comportment. I made a mental note of who these boy-girls were, thinking that in some way I shared a common bond with them. I knew that I would eventually want to ask them what had led them to this point. If only I made it through this day.

Needless to say, my mother’s costume design attracted a good deal of attention. More than one girl complemented me on my appearance and commented on either my hair, smooth legs, nails or how well I managed in my high heels. Several seemed amused by the attention to detail in my costume, making sure to tease me about things like wearing a bra and having my hair permed.

The guys were another story. Those who didn't know me gave me a careful look and a smile and went on about their business. If they thought I was a boy they didn’t make a big deal about it, just a curious grin, a remark and that was about it. Those who knew I was a boy had to look at me twice to make sure of what they were seeing, and some of the comments weren’t very nice.

"Wow, Parker, you look really hot!" one of the more rambunctious guys commented just before our first class. Todd Haggarty and his friends had refused to dress up for the day, and they’d been harassing several of the younger ones who had. "Not bad for a little faggot. Maybe if you’re nice to me I’ll get you a date with one of the guys on the football team. I’ll tell ’em you’re my little sister so they won’t be too rough on ya."

"That won’t fly, dude," another boy shouted. "He’s too pretty to be your sister! Damn, that little fairy looks better than most of the real girls in this class!"

That got a laugh all around the room. Even from the girls. I felt the color rise in my face, but I said nothing. Trapped in my prissy costume, all I could hope to do was get through the next few minutes.

Todd stepped up close to me and flicked my fairy pendant with his finger. "Fairy boy! That's a good one! That's what we'll call you . . . Fairy Boy! Where'd you get the pretty necklace from, fairy? From your mama?"

He then elbowed me pretty hard, knocking my textbooks on the ground. "Uh-oh, Fairy Boy . . . you dropped somethin'. Better pick it up."

Without saying a word, I knelt down and gingerly picked up my books. With my high heels and the skimpy top and skintight shorts, I had to be extra careful not to tip over and fall flat on my face. 

Several of the boys hooted and made rude noises. "Did you see that? He even squats like a girl! Man, what a little queer!"

I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes, but I was determined not to cry. I knew from the very start that this kind of thing was going to happen. It was inevitable. As angry and frustrated as I was, I really couldn't blame the guys; I'd have probably done the same thing in their shoes. It was probably a good idea to keep my mouth shut, being that I wouldn’t have stood a chance against any of the bigger boys, even without my high heels and delicate clothes to impede me; with my nails so long I couldn't even make a fist! But that didn’t make things any easier.

All day long I had to endure similar whispers behind my back. Most everyone either ignored me, thinking I was either just another girl or assuming I was really into the spirit of Sadie Hawkins Day. But all it took to make me miserable were those one or two bullies. I don’t know which hurt worse, being called 'fairy' in front of my classmates or having my ponytail pulled and my earrings flicked by some jerk every time our teacher turned her back.

Mom would just love this, I remember thinking to myself at one point. "That's what you get for being such a stupid boy," she'd say if she could see me now. . .

Aside from the occasional teasing and bullying, I had other problems, too. Throughout the day I was constantly reminded of how restrictive my nails had become as I had to adapt a whole new technique of managing myself. In addition to writing and turning pages in my textbooks and manipulating the combination lock on my locker, I had to worry about little things like poking myself in the eye whenever I scratched my face. Small objects continued to present a challenge and I found that lightly rapping my nails on the wooden desktops provided an entertaining new sensation.

By lunchtime I was exhausted. Between keeping my hands bent up at the wrists to prevent losing my bangles and balancing myself in my high heels, I was worn to a frazzle! I was so tired, in fact, that I didn't bother eating. To make matters worse, my stupid shorts kept coming undone at the waist and I was afraid if I did eat anything I'd never be able to fasten them back. Instead, I opted to drink a carton of milk and share part of a dessert with one of the girls I had classes with. Leslie thought my predicament was hilarious, and she enjoyed hearing me complain about my tight shorts and my feet.

"Now you know what we girls have to go through, girlie-girl," my friend teased cruelly. "Having to watch your girlish figure and tripping around in high heels! Oh, Greg, you look so ridiculous with those silly breasts . . . they're almost as big as my sister's! Imagine if you had to wear a skirt and had to worry about showing your undies. Now that would have been really funny!"

This went on for the entire lunch period. Leslie had her reasons for being mean, I guess, since I'd given her a hard time when she'd first developed her figure. More than once I'd teased her about her boobs and snapped her bra. And now she was having more than her share of fun at my expense!

I was in too much pain to worry about such things, anyway. I had to go to the bathroom something terrible, but I didn't dare, not dressed the way I was! Going to the boy's toilet in such a feminine outfit would have just been asking for trouble; it was bad enough getting stared at in the hallway, I didn't dare imagine what someone would say if they saw my red toenails and those gaudy high heels peeking out from underneath a stall door. And slipping into the girls' restroom was definitely out of the question. As a result, I just had to hold it in until I got home, no matter how miserable I got. And believe me, that was pretty miserable!

My clothes continued giving me fits throughout the rest of the day. Even with my panty girdle on my shorts were so painfully tight I ended up leaving the top button unfastened. Fortunately no one seemed to notice it. What a relief that was! I just had to make sure nothing else came undone!

Then there were those stupid sandals. What a pain they turned out to be! I would have been slipping off my heels off each time I wasn’t standing if I could only have unbuckled those tiny clasps with a little more dexterity. By fifth period, my feet were killing me and at the risk of not being able to get them back on, I had to get out of those shoes. Beneath my desk I kept one foot in one sandal, held the other sandal in one hand and used my free hand to massage my aching foot. Then I’d slide my sandal back on and duplicate the operation for the opposite foot. At the end of that period I managed to refasten the buckles and make it the final assembly of the day. Finally, the end was nearing!

Unfortunately I had one final hurdle to overcome. During the last hour the entire school gathered in the auditorium for announcements and awards. We were supposed to be grouped with our home rooms, so I had to watch carefully to make sure I didn't sit anywhere near any of the boys who'd been teasing me earlier in the day; I was near the breaking point and another flick of the ear or getting tripped or pushed one more time would have surely set me off on a crying binge. I made a point to sit next to a couple of the student teachers who'd looked at my cross-dressing adventure with smiles and kind words.

I was pretty much in a daydream as the assembly got underway. I remember thinking about all I'd been through that day and how I was going to answer Mom when she quizzed me on my experience. I contemplated lying to her and saying "Oh, nothing," when she asked me how things had gone, but I knew I'd end up telling her everything. I always did. When I got home she was definitely going to have a field day at my expense. It wasn't something I was looking forward to.

Next thing I knew, a dozen hands were poking at me and one of my teachers was pushing me out of my seat, saying, "Come on, pretty boy . . . they're calling your name." Looking up, I realized that the principal of the school was pointing at me from where he stood on stage, just like the host of a television game show.

Oh, god . . . now what? Oh, no-o-o-o-o-o-o . . .!

As I made my way up to the front of the auditorium I realized in horror what was going on. There were at least four other kids on stage, all dressed up in country girl costumes. Apparently I'd been nominated for the Sadie Hawkins lookalike contest and didn't even know it! I glanced back at the kids in my homeroom and saw Leslie and Mark and some of the others waving and blowing kisses at me. I later found out that they'd all gotten together and convinced Miss Allen, our teacher, to put my name up for grabs. Miss Allen apparently found my predicament about as entertaining as did my so-called friends.


I don't remember much of what actually happened on stage. I do remember standing there like an idiot in front of more than two thousand kids, trying to act like wearing lipstick, heels and earrings was the most natural thing in the world for me to be doing. I was so nervous I dropped my purse at least twice, and I was so self conscious when I stooped to pick it up; a wave of giggles swept across the auditorium each time and I could just imagine that Todd and his gang were having a field day saying nasty things about me!

There were two other boys among the finalists, thank goodness, one a senior football jock wearing a potato sack over his jeans and a straw hat with a plastic flower and a tacky makeup job, making him the hit of the event. There was another boy, looking rather feminine sophomore in an old-fashioned country-style dress, his hair and makeup giving him a definite girlish appearance. Of the two girls on stage, one was a junior with a pair of funny glasses and had a tooth blacked out, while the other, a senior, looked like she stepped right out of a fashion magazine, clad in skimpy top and short shorts almost identical to my own. If I wasn't so miserable I might have thought the whole thing interesting and fun.

And then there was little old freshman me. My name was called — my boy name, of course! — and I minced out to the podium and stood there grinning like an idiot. The principal was savvy enough to know what was going on and he played up my girlish appearance while acting as though he didn't know I was a boy. I do remember him winking at me as I thanked him for calling me up on stage (Yeah, right!) and then dipped slightly at the knee. My girlish actions set off another wave of giggles, and I fought the desire to kick off my high heels and run off the stage.

In spite of the applause and laughter I garnered from the audience, I didn't win, thank goodness. The fashion model came in first while the jock won second place. The girl with the glasses and missing teeth came in third. I placed fourth, though, which was enough to set off a wave of laughter and wolf whistles among my classmates when I stepped forward to accept the little trophy I'd won. The shy sophomore boy came in fifth, by the way. Funny, I thought he looked rather cute, but hardly anybody applauded for him. Between you and me I sort of felt bad for him.

I was so glad when the final bell rang. Between having to go to the bathroom and all the teasing I'd endured, I was worn out and ready to go home. Unfortunately for me, two of the boys who'd harassed me at the beginning of the day just happened to catch me on the way to my bus.

I felt a chill down my spine as Todd and his partner, a tall black boy named Joe something-or-other, stepped along either side of me, as though they were walking me to the bus. Instead, however, the two ninth graders forced me into a dead end hallway, alone and far from the other kids.

Todd put his arm around my shoulders. It was a weird feeling as he put his mouth up to my ear; I felt sick as the warm air tickled the side of my neck. "Hello, Fairy Boy! How's it going, honey? You really looked good up on stage, sweetie-pie!" I clutched my books against my bosom, as though to protect myself.

Joe took his cue. He poked me in the side with his finger, just under the ribs, tracing a line all the way around to my bare belly button. "She sure did, man." I felt his fingertip travel up to the knot tied between my 'breasts'. Fighting panic, I bit my lip and stood perfectly still. "Did you notice she even walks like a girl? Man, that's sad. I bet this little girl wears her high heels all the time. Shows off that little butt when she does."

Todd laughed a mean laugh. "Come on, faggot, tell us the truth. Do you wear high heels at home? You like showing off your little ass?" He was working on making me cry, and I knew he could do it, given enough time. "You want to show us your pretty ass, Fairy Boy? We won't tell anybody."

I decided to at least make an attempt at getting away. "C'mon, guys, it’s just a stupid costume. Please, let me go. I'm gonna miss my bus. Please . . .?" I tried to step past my tormentors, but they were faster in their sneakers than I was in my high heels. Joe knocked my books and trophy out of my hands and gave me a hard look, daring me to pick them up. Todd reached around and grabbed my ponytail, laughing cruelly.

"You're not goin' anywhere, faggot! We want to see just how much of a girl you really are. We wanna see some more of that ass. I bet she’s wearing panties, right now, Joe! Whatchu think?"

"Hey, man, I think you're right. Look here." I winced as the smirking black boy pinched me on a tender spot just below my ribs and then slipped a thick, rough finger inside the waistband of my shorts. He tugged at where the top button had come undone and started fiddling with the next one. Closing my eyes in shame, I could feel it coming loose. I could also smell the aroma of his cologne. It reminded me of something I smelled at the barbershop. Funny, the things you remember when you're under stress.

Anyway, while I was praying for a miracle, Joe was busy tugging at my waistband. "C'mon, man. She's already popping out of them pants. Let's give her a hand."

I tried pulling away, but couldn’t for fear of my shorts coming undone. Tears welled up in my eyes and I was having trouble breathing. That really got Todd going. "The little fairy's cryin’, just like a little baby. Cool. Let’s see some more tears, you little faggot crybaby! Undo them shorts, Joe. Let's see some panties!"

Joe grinned really big. I felt his hand slide into the front of my shorts and I was about to cry out for help when a loud voice shouted out, "Hey, what are you three doing down there? Get out here and head for those busses. Come on, you know the policy. No loitering in the halls. Let's get a move on!"

It was, of all people, Mr. Landon, the vice-principal. He had a terrible reputation for a bad temper, but at that particular moment, I never was so happy to see his scowling face. I almost gave him a hug, I was so relieved! His expression told me he was in no mood for any more foolishness. He probably thought I was one of the boys' girlfriends or something. Not wanting to make a scene, I knelt quickly and grabbed my books and things, and then skittered along the tile floor toward my bus, my heels clip-clopping all the way to safety.

"Hey, pussy!" Todd hissed as I rushed away. "Don’t think you’re getting away with anything. You’ll get yours . . . I promise!"

A few minutes later I was climbing back up the steps of the bus that would deliver me home. I sat there in my lone seat, clutching my books close and hoping that Kathy would come sit next to me for the return ride; my biggest fear was that one of the meaner boys would try and give me a hard time all the way home. I was overjoyed as she appeared shortly after me and sat down next to me. Here I was, worn to the bones from my experience, desperate to go to the bathroom . . . and she was looking refreshed and energized in her white collared shirt and blue jeans, the choice of the day for most girls.

"I loved it when you were at the awards ceremony! That was so much fun . . . Can I see your trophy? Hey, what's the matter, sweetheart? Have you been crying? Your mascara's all smudged and stuff." The look on her face made me melt. I was so entranced, I almost forgot why I was upset.

"Um, I'm all right. Just had a long day," I said, my voice husky with emotion.


For the umpteenth time that day I remembered what Mom had said about keeping my makeup fresh and I figured that I’d better at least show up at home with my eyes done right and my lipstick freshened. Heaven knows what would happen if they weren't! I opened my purse to remove my compact and lip color and then proceeded to repair the afternoon's wear and tear. It didn’t go unnoticed by Kathy how I held the mirror and cap in one hand as I applied the lipstick with the other.

"You do that just like you’ve been doing it all your life," she joked. "Can I borrow your lipstick after you’re done? I didn’t bring any today and I can feel my lips getting chapped."

"Sure, here you go." I said as I handed it to her and pulled out a tissue to blot my own lips.

"I’ll need that too." She indicated as I started to return the tissue to my purse. She took it from me, blotted her lips and then stuffed it in her pocket. "Souvenir," she said with a smile.

I nodded. How humiliating, Kathy was using her pockets, while all I had was my purse.

"I missed wearing lipstick today," she commented. "Somehow I just feel kind of naked without it, but you probably wouldn’t understand that, would you?"

I just shrugged my shoulders and grinned sheepishly. I could feel Kathy watching me as I pulled out my mascara; I hated to put on a show in front of her like that, but I knew it wouldn’t do for me to face my mother with my eyes looking smeared and sloppy.
"Neat," Kathy said as she watched me touch up my eyelashes. "Most boys wouldn’t have the slightest idea how to do that. I wonder what else your mother taught you to do?"

I smiled mysteriously and put my makeup kit away.

When the bus came to my corner, I started to get up, but Kathy pulled me back by my arm and gave me a peck on the cheek. "See you tonight, sweetheart," she said. "Don’t forget. You’re coming as ‘Pamela', right?"

I nodded. "Sure. I mean, if that's what you want."

"That's what I want," she said with a smile worth dying for.
"'Bye, 'Pamela’,!" some of the other kids called out. Some of the boys whistled while the girls giggled. "Don’t forget your purse!"

Blushing warmly, I nodded, then made my way off the bus.

Continued on Page 51d

 

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