The Skirts Of God free porn video

THE SKIRTS OF GOD by Howie Reid Copyright 2001 by Howie Reid. All rights reserved. (This is a semi-autobiographical story of an 8-year-old boy confronting the extremely rigid clothing conventions in America circa 1950, whose chance encounter with cross- dressing develops into an unfulfilled passion for male skirt-like garments. Although the story involves cross-dressing, its theme is not sexual transformation, but rather a boy's desire to expand male clothing to include skirt-like garments for comfort and other functional reasons.) 1. Short Pants Young people in the twenty-first century may find it hard to comprehend the restrictive social attitudes that prevailed in America when I was a boy. Far more than now, we were burdened by prejudices based on race, religion, sex, sexual orientation, and many other stereotypes. Men and women found themselves locked into rigid gender roles, which determined what they could do and what they could wear. People didn't have nearly as much freedom in choosing their clothes. Their options were limited by strict rules that made no sense at all. On more than one occasion, these rules caused me a heap of trouble. For example, there was a time, back in the 1940's and early 1950's, when you rarely saw men or older boys wearing short trousers. Short pants were just for the younger boys. Very little boys were expected to wear short pants all the time, even in the winter. When you got to a certain age, somewhere around ten, it was embarrassing for a boy to wear short pants at all. An older boy wearing shorts was likely to be ridiculed and called a sissy. So the big boys wore long pants all the time, even in the sweltering heat of summer. This didn't start to change until about 1955, when Bermuda shorts became fashionable for men. Now you see older boys in shorts almost all the time. But before then, it was just the opposite. When I was a little boy, I rebelled against wearing short pants, even when other boys my age were wearing them. I wanted to be like the big boys, like the men, like my Dad. I didn't want to be a little boy in short pants taking orders from my father. I wanted to be the boss. However, Dad had been a drill sergeant in the Army and wouldn't tolerate disobedience. Our dispute over short pants was a continuing power struggle. The first battle I remember happened when I was about five years old. My father, mother, younger sister Betsy, and I were visiting Grandma - my father's mother - who lived a few blocks from us. Grandma had been a widow for many years. She was a small but rugged woman, with short reddish hair and a firm jaw, who worked along side men in a machine shop. I was wearing long pants as was my preference, and Grandma had bought me a present. It was a new Sunday suit, with a jacket and trousers - short trousers. In keeping with the style for little boys in those days, the short pants were really short, with an inseam of only about an inch or so. When you wore them, your legs were almost totally bare. Dad told me to go to upstairs to the bedroom and try on the suit. After one look at the short pants, I threw a temper tantrum. My father slammed the bedroom door. He was livid. "Why do you always give me a hard time? Why must you embarrass me in front of Grandma? Your cousin Donald wears short pants. Why do you have to be different?" The mention of Donald threw me into a rage, and I started swinging my fists. I was always hearing Donny this and Donny that. My cousin Donald had always been Grandma's favorite. He was born about a month after me, and I had been competing with him all my life. Donald was good looking, well- behaved, and popular with the other kids. In contrast, I was red-haired, freckled, temperamental, and always getting into fights. I continually envied Donald and couldn't stand losing to him in anything. Once when he beat me at a board game called "Chutes and Ladders," I began hitting him and was severely punished. Now I was in my grandmother's bedroom, being thrown face down on the four-poster bed. My father was forcibly pulling off my long pants, taking off his leather belt, and soundly thrashing my buttocks. I was screaming uncontrollably. I could hear my mother pleading, "Don't hurt him, George!" "Marge, get out of here!" my father snarled. I sensed that I was now causing friction between my parents - further embarrassing my family in front of Grandma. "Had enough?" my father bellowed. "Yes, yes!" I finally squealed in defeat. "Good! Now put on that suit." I pulled the shorts over my legs, dismayed at how the ends of the pant legs did not stop at my ankles, but kept sliding up over my shins, over my knees, and nearly all the way up my thighs. They left my bare white legs sticking out for all to see. I put on the jacket. I was all dressed up like a little man, except that I was showing off my legs like a little boy. As I walked down stairs I was acutely conscious of the nakedness of my lower extremities. I posed in the living room for Grandma, showing off the new suit. "Oh, it fits him so well," Grandma declared. "He should wear short pants more often. Donny does." "Howard has a reason for wearing long pants," my mother said, coming to my defense. "He gets sunburned easily because of his sensitive skin." "That's from our Scottish side of the family," said Grandma. "My parents had red hair and fair skin just like him. Donald's lucky in that regard. He has dark hair and gets a nice tan like his father." I sat quietly for the rest of the evening, staring down at my white knees. When we returned home I quickly changed into my long pajamas. Despite losing the battle at Grandma's house, I was never forced to wear the suit again. While my cousin Donald and other boys my age were wearing shorts, I continued to wear long pants all the time, just like the older boys, just like my Dad. 2. Halloween In those days, trousers were a symbol of manhood. Women weren't allowed to wear them unless their work required it - such as Grandma's job at the factory. The new fashion of slacks for women was still considered scandalous. As a general rule, females were expected to wear skirts or dresses at all times, even in winter. Girls might occasionally wear shorts in the summer, but usually they wore light cotton dresses. The most popular dresses for girls had short puffy sleeves, with a loose, gathered skirt that hung to about knee length. Often there was a sash around the waist that was tied into a bow at the back. Sometimes they wore petticoats underneath that caused the skirt of the dress to puff outward. I was fascinated by the girls in their dresses. I especially liked to watch Patty, the girl next door, and the way her skirts swished and swayed as she walked. Although we were both eight years old and in the third grade, she was bigger than I, because girls grow faster than boys at that age. We used to walk to and from school together. On the way we would pass by Donald's house and he would join us. Patty and Donald were friends and often played together without me. Patty and Donny usually paired off in animated conversation, while I walked behind them. As I watched Patty and her swaying skirts, I sometimes wondered how it would feel to wear a dress. Would the loose skirt be more comfortable than trousers? How would it feel brushing against my legs as I walked? But normally I thought of dresses only in terms of their most obvious drawback: girls constantly had to be careful not to expose their underpants. Attempts at modesty were futile in certain activities, such as hanging upside down on monkey bars. Considering the way shorts made me feel overexposed, I assumed that wearing a dress would be far, far worse. Furthermore, just as long pants symbolized manhood, dresses symbolized exactly the opposite - the complete negation of masculinity. Therefore, no self-respecting male would even think of putting on a dress. Except - for some especially brave ones - on Halloween. The subject arose while Patty and I were walking to school in October, discussing costumes for the school Halloween party. I was complaining that my mother wanted to save money by dressing me up in the same old bunny rabbit costume as last year. I was envious that Donald always had a better costume than mine. The previous year he had won first prize dressed as Uncle Sam, with white whiskers and all. I was trying to think of something better to wear without spending anything. Patty started giggling. "Well, I have some old clothes you could wear. You could dress up as a girl." I felt my face turning red. "No, no, that wouldn't work." "Sure it would. I have a nice blue dress that I've outgrown, that my mom is planning to give away. It should be just the right size for you. I even have things to go with it." "I'd be too embarrassed." "No reason to be embarrassed. I think you'd make a cute girl." "Forget it!" I shouted. I wondered how Patty could have suggested such a thing. Had she no respect for my masculinity? Did she view me as some kind of sissy? Did she want to humiliate me? I was sure she wouldn't treat Donny this way. If any of my classmates saw me in a dress, I would never live it down. Besides, what would Dad think? My father's opposition to boys in dresses was something I already knew, because of a peculiar remark my mother had made. One day she told me that Dad always wanted me to be a "real boy," and that he never wanted me to wear a dress. At the time I didn't understand why Dad would have bothered to make such a remark. Was there ever any question about it? For whatever reason, I assumed that I must avoid dresses at all costs. Halloween morning came. Since I hadn't figured out what else to wear, Mom dressed me in the same bunny rabbit suit as the previous year. Unfortunately, the costume was now quite tight and starting to come apart at the seams. It was raining heavily, and Patty's mother offered to drive the kids to school. We were all wearing yellow rain slickers over our costumes - I in the front seat and Patty in the back. Patty was dressed as a Western cowgirl. We then drove to Donald's house, where he was waiting outside in his yellow slicker, rain hat, and boots. I noticed that Donny had bare legs, and I assumed that he was wearing a costume with short pants. That would not have been surprising, since he didn't have the same qualms about shorts that I had. But I was not prepared for what was to come. "Let's see you!" urged Patty, as Donald got into the back seat. Donny opened his raincoat to reveal a fluffy blue dress. I stared in amazement, struggling to comprehend this strange apparition. Where I should have seen trousers dividing at his crotch and covering each leg separately, I saw the gentle folds of a skirt covering both his thighs together. His bare knees and shins were sticking out from under the hem of the skirt, surrounded by the lacy fringe of a petticoat. Sure enough, Donald was wearing a dress! I was dumfounded. Patty and her mother not only had known about Donald's costume - they had supplied it. "Patty's old dress looks great on you, Donny," Patty's mother gushed enthusiastically. "I'm so glad you decided to wear it!" "Now put on the bonnet!" urged Patty. Donald pulled a girl's blue bonnet out of his raincoat pocket and put it on in place of the rain hat. He tied the ribbons of the bonnet under his chin. "That's perfect!" Patty applauded. I didn't know what to say. I just kept staring, trying to make sense of it all. When we arrived at school, Donald's classmates eagerly asked to see his dress. He was in a different classroom than I, and he had apparently told them what he was planning to wear. In the hallway, he removed his raincoat and displayed the dress. His friends gathered around laughing, giggling, and cheering him on. He then removed his rain boots to reveal lace-trimmed ankle sox and girls' Mary Jane shoes with a little strap across the top. I could not understand how Donald was getting away with this. Surely some of the boys would start making fun of him. In fact, I was kind of hoping that they would. But Donald was too popular for that to happen. The other boys just laughed approvingly as Donny clowned around, basking in the favorable attention. Later that morning, during one of the bathroom breaks, I glimpsed Donald in the hall, a picture of loveliness in his puffy dress and bonnet. I felt a wicked urge to provoke laughter at his expense. Turning to the boys near me, I remarked sarcastically, "I wonder if Donny will be using the girls' room!" But nobody laughed. Suddenly, I was the one who felt stupid. That afternoon, our elementary school presented its Halloween parade in the gym. Many parents had come to watch. Patty's mother had brought my mother, my aunt, and Grandma. As we children marched around and around, I felt ridiculous in my outgrown bunny rabbit costume. Meanwhile, Donald received nothing but smiles and applause. As the judges prepared to announce the best costume awards, I went back to join my mother. Grandma could not stop talking about Donald. "Wasn't Donny a good sport to wear that dress? Wasn't he pretty dressed as a girl? I can't get over how well he did!" I listened with a sense of foreboding as they announced the winner for the third grade. Sure enough, it was Donald. All his classmates cheered as he skipped up to accept his trophy. He curtsied theatrically to the applause, and then skipped back toward us, his dress dancing around his legs as he came. He was thoroughly enjoying the experience. Until I hauled off and punched him in the face. When my father came home that night and learned what I had done, he took off his belt and strapped me so hard that I couldn't sit down for dinner. He was outraged at my behavior - not so much because of what I had done to Donald - but because it had reflected badly on him. Once again my misbehavior had embarrassed him in front of his mother. Everyone assumed that I had hit Donald due to my jealousy over his winning first prize, but this was only part of the story. I was also envious that he had the courage to venture across the gender line and learn what it was like to dress as a girl. The fact that I felt envious about this was troubling. I knew that dressing as a girl was supposed to be shameful. On some psychological level, I imagined that Donny had actually surrendered his maleness and had temporarily become a girl. This scared me. I wanted to keep my boyhood pure and unfeminized. Therefore, I had to suppress any curiosity I had about wearing a dress. And so I asserted my masculinity and hit him. But I still couldn't stop thinking about it. While riding with my father a few days later, I must have been carrying on about Donald and his dress, because Dad became annoyed. "Why do you keep talking about this?" he asked abruptly. "Would you like to wear a dress?" I was taken aback. "No, of course not," I protested. "Then let's change the subject." Dad stopped the car at Grandma's and went inside to help with some repairs. Grandma glared at me from the doorway. I stayed outside and found Donald playing in the back yard. I figured I might as well get it over with. "Hi," I said. "Hi," said Donald. "I'm here to apologize," I said dutifully. "For hitting you." "That's okay," he shrugged. "It didn't hurt. You got the real beating." "Yeah, but I shouldn't have hit you. Especially when you were wearing a dress." "It was just a stupid Halloween costume." I desperately wanted to find out more about his experience wearing the dress, but I didn't want to let on that I was at all interested. "Do you still have it?" I asked. "No, we returned everything to Patty's mom. She wants to give it to someone as a hand- me-down." I was surprised at how disappointed I felt about not being able to see the dress again. The strength of my feelings disturbed me. So I dropped the subject and never mentioned it again. But when we arrived home, I was in for another surprise. "Guess what," said Mom, pointing to an array of girls' clothing on hangers, draped over the living room sofa. "Patty's mother brought over some clothes that Patty has outgrown. Since they don't have any more girls in the family, she thought that Betsy might be able to use them in a few years." I looked at the clothes and my heart began pounding. There among them was the blue dress that Donald had worn. "Howie, would you be a dear and carry these to the attic closet. I thought we could store them there until Betsy grows into them. Right now they're more your size than hers." I carried the clothes up the stairs, careful to hold the dresses as far from my body as possible. I hung the clothes in the closet while trying not to look at them. Especially not the blue dress. I was not interested in dresses, I told myself. I was a real boy. But I could not contain my curiosity. I stared at the blue dress and imagined Donald wearing it. I ran my fingers over its skirt, marveling at the soft, light fabric, and wondering how Donald had felt as it danced over his bare legs. Then I abruptly came to my senses. "This is stupid!" I said to myself out loud. I slammed the closet door as hard as I could, stomped down the stairs, and ran outside to ride my bike. 3. The Dress Autumn, winter, and spring passed. I continued to wear long trousers - as did all the other boys my age during the cold weather. But as summer vacation arrived along with a sweltering heat wave, more and more of the boys my age began appearing in shorts. I no longer had any shorts that fit, but that was fine with me. None of the men or older boys were wearing shorts, and neither would I. But one day while we were visiting Grandma, she had a present for me. I opened the box and found a new pair of short pants. "It's been so hot, I thought that Howie would be needing these. It doesn't look right for him to be wearing long pants in this weather. All the other boys his age are wearing shorts. People will think you can't afford to buy him proper clothes." "I like long pants," I insisted. "But it's not healthy for a boy to be so hot and sweaty," counseled Grandma. "That may be true," Mom added. "Remember the terrible heat rash you had last summer, all over your privates?" "Mom!" I interrupted, embarrassed. Dad thanked Grandma and assured her that I would be happy to put on the shorts as soon as we got home. I was preparing for another fight, another beating, and more pleading from Mom for him to have mercy on me. However, after we returned home, Dad didn't mention the shorts at all. He and Mom had a long talk in the kitchen while I undressed, put on my pajamas, and went to bed. The next morning was a Saturday, and it promised to be another scorcher. My father knocked on the door and said it was my turn to wash up. Like many families at that time, we lived in a one-story ranch house with only one bathroom, so everyone had to take turns. After brushing my teeth, I caught a glimpse of Dad lugging a large suitcase down the hall. "Is Dad going on a trip?" I asked Mom as I entered the kitchen, still in my pajamas. "No dear," my mother answered nervously. "Eat your breakfast. We'll explain later." A few minutes later, Dad appeared. "Okay, you can get dressed now," he told me. I went to my room, took off my pajamas and got some underwear and sox from my drawer. I found a clean, short-sleeved shirt. But I couldn't find the blue jeans that I had left on the floor the night before. I figured that Mom must have put them in the laundry. I looked in my closet to see if any pants were hanging up, but there weren't any. I opened my pants drawer and it was empty. "Where are my pants?" I yelled out the doorway. "They've all disappeared." "Laid out on your bed," Mom answered. I turned back into the room and, sure enough, there was something on the bed. It was the pair of shorts Grandma had given me. "I can't wear these!" I said, examining the little-boy shorts, with their two-inch pant legs. "Yes you can," replied my father, suddenly filling the doorway. "It's about time you got used to wearing shorts. I'm tired of you running around in long pants in this weather. It's not healthy." "Then why aren't you wearing shorts?" I demanded. "You know that men don't wear shorts. But you're not a man, you're a boy. And all the boys wear shorts in the summer." "Only the little boys," I corrected. "Not the big ones." I reached for my long pajamas bottoms, which I had dropped on the floor. If I couldn't have my pants, then I would stay in pajamas all day. But Dad saw my intention and snatched them from my hand. "No long pajamas either," he said. He carried them to my parent's bedroom and placed them in the large suitcase that I had seen him carrying. I could see that all my long pants were in there also. "Give me my pants back!" "No." He shut the lid of the suitcase, locked it, and put the key in his pocket. "They're going to stay locked up. I don't want to see you in long pants until you go back to school." "No long pants all summer!" I exclaimed in horror. "That's not fair! I won't do it!" "Yes you will," said my father. "I'm the boss around here, and you'll obey me or else." "I'll call my friends. They'll lend me their long pants." "Go ahead, but if I ever catch you in long pants this summer, whoever they belong to, I'll cut off the pant legs with a pair of scissors." "I still won't wear shorts!" "Yes you will. You have no choice. There's no way you can get out of this." "I hate you!" I yelled. "You'd better get dressed," he said, going out the front door. "It would be a shame to stay in the house on a nice day like this." The screen door slammed. I hid in my room for a while, wearing only my underwear, sox, and sneakers. My open bedroom window looked onto our back yard, which merged into the yards of other homes in the housing development where we lived. My sister Betsy and her girlfriends were playing with dolls on the lawn. In the next yard, Patty supervised her younger brothers. The little boys were in shorts and the girls wore cotton dresses. All the boys my age had left, either to ride bicycles or to play baseball at the athletic field. Betsy saw me at the window and approached. "Won't you come out and play, Howie? We're having lots of fun. Dad went to the drugstore to buy a Donald Duck comic. He's gonna read it to us." This news struck me like a dagger. Back then, Disney's Donald Duck comic books were very special. The adventures were clever and exciting and the artwork outstanding. One of our father-son rituals was to drive to the drug store every month and to buy a new Donald Duck comic when it hit the newsstands. Then Dad, Betsy, and I would sit together, looking at the pictures, while Dad read the story aloud. Now I could read the books perfectly well by myself, but I still loved hearing Dad do it. I couldn't stand the thought of him reading a new comic book to other kids without me. Dad figured that I had no choice but to give in, put on the shorts, and come outside. Now I quickly had to find some other option, something that would force him to abandon his plans. There being nothing else in my room to wear, I climbed the stairs to the attic. I opened the door to the clothes closet and saw the blue dress. A plan immediately crystallized in my mind. I knew that if I hesitated, even for a moment, I would lose my nerve. And I had to do it now, before the other boys my age returned from their ball games and bicycle trips. With my heart pounding, I quickly took the blue dress from its hanger. I maneuvered the dress over my head, as I had seen my mother and sister do. My hands and arms groped their way through the puffy short sleeves, and the lace collar came down around my neck. I pulled the garment over my body. Suddenly I realized that I had done it. I had put on a dress! I twisted my arms behind me and fumbled with the rear buttons and sash, but it was taking me too long to fasten them. I hurried downstairs into the kitchen, where Mom was starting to prepare lunch. I saw through the window that Dad had returned with the comic book and was gathering a bunch of kids to hear him read it. "Button me," I asked hurriedly. Mom took one look and dropped the loaf of bread she was holding. "Howie, why are you wearing Patty's dress? We were saving that for Betsy." "Please help me. I can't reach the buttons or tie the bow in back." "Well, just this once," she agreed as I turned my back. "I guess if Donny got to wear this dress, you might as well too." I felt the bodice of the dress hug my chest as she fastened the rear buttons. Then she tightened the sash at the waist and tied a big bow in the back. "Turn around," she said, stepping back to look at her son in this strange attire. "Come to the bedroom," she said playfully. "You've got to see yourself in the mirror." I followed her into my parents' bedroom, where a full-length mirror hung on the closet door. The sight was incongruous. I was clearly a boy, with a short haircut, masculine features, and boys' sox and sneakers. But covering my body, from my shoulders to my knees, was this beautifully feminine blue dress. Nothing I had imagined came close to the physical experience of wearing a dress. Only now did I realize how much more exhilarating it felt than being encased in trousers. The skirt was much longer than the short pants, covering my thighs all the way to my knees. But it was so loose that my legs felt completely bare. And my crotch felt open and airy, without any trouser material bunched between my legs. My legs were free and unconfined and experiencing new sensations: my inner thighs touching each other, without any fabric between them, the folds of the skirt gently caressing my legs. I knew that, as a boy, I shouldn't be enjoying this, but it really felt good. I couldn't resist the temptation to twist my hips and watch the skirt flair out around my bare legs. "You don't look much like a girl," Mom remarked. "How about some lipstick?" "No, Mom! I don't want to look like a girl. I just wanted something to wear outside." "Won't your father be surprised!" "That's my plan. Dad said that he didn't want to see me in long pants. He didn't say anything about dresses. When he sees me outside in a dress, he'll be so embarrassed that he'll have to give me back my pants." "Aren't you afraid that the other boys will tease you?" "They won't see me. Just the girls and little boys are out there now. I'll be back in pants before the other guys get home." The kitchen screen door rattled open. It was my sister Betsy. "Hurry up, Howie, Dad's about to start reading." Then her mouth dropped open when she saw me. "Look at what your brother's wearing," Mom announced. "Oooooo . . . . Is that a dress?" Betsy burst outside with the news. "Howie's wearing a dress! Howie's wearing a dress!" Now there was no turning back. I casually sauntered out to the back yard, trying to hide my anxiety with an air of confidence. With every breeze, I felt a delightful airiness under my skirt and around my legs. The children laughed and giggled. My father was sitting on the lawn, glowering ominously, trying to assess this new development. "I recognize that dress," said Patty. "Why are you dressed like a girl?" one of her brothers asked. "I'm not dressed like a girl," I said. "I'm just wearing a dress." "But why are you wearing a dress?" another child inquired. "Yes," my father asked sternly. "Please tell us why you're wearing a dress." I knew I couldn't let Dad know my real strategy. Besides, none of the other kids would believe that any boy in his right mind would put on a dress to avoid wearing shorts. So I quickly began to think of other rationales, pretending that I was actually serious about them. "Well, I could have worn shorts today, but then my legs would be all uncovered and could get sunburned. This dress has a nice loose skirt that comes down to my knees. See how it gives shade to my legs when I'm standing? And look . . . ." I sat down on the grass, crossing my legs and arranging my skirt over them, as I had seen girls do. "When I sit down, the skirt is big enough to cover my legs completely." I looked down and realized that the story I had just made up was true. My legs were completely protected from the sun. I continued to spin my explanation. "This dress is much more comfortable than pants. My legs are cool and free. There's none of that sweaty cloth in my crotch or between my legs to irritate my skin. Nothing to give me a heat rash." I felt proud of my cleverness. Although I wasn't serious, everything I said sounded so logical that I almost believed it myself. I could see Dad gritting his teeth through all of this, and I awaited his reaction. Would he be angry, or would he be a good sport about my little joke? How long would it take him to hand me the key to the suitcase and say, "You win. Go put on your damn long pants!" But Dad was still plotting his own strategy. It was Betsy who triggered his reaction. "Daddy," she asked innocently, "what do you think of Howie wearing a dress?" Dad thought for a moment. He apparently realized that I was putting on an act, and now he countered with a joke of his own - one I had failed to anticipate. "I think that Howie's idea makes a lot of sense," he said, trying to keep a straight face. "Shorts give him sunburn, and long pants give him a heat rash. Wearing a dress is a perfect solution for the summer." "You mean you'll let him wear a dress?" asked Betsy. "Didn't we tell you?" Dad said, looking me directly in the eye to drive home his point. "Howie is going to be wearing nothing but skirts and dresses all summer long. He has a whole wardrobe of clothes that Patty outgrew." My stomach dropped. Dad had taken this game to another level. And I couldn't object without contradicting everything I had just said. "Is it true?" Patty whispered to me. "You're going to wear my clothes all summer?" "I'll explain later," I said. "It's very complicated." Dad proceeded to read the comic book with his usual flair, as the kids crowded around to see the pictures. I kneeled on the grass with the skirt covering my bare legs, wondering how I would solve my new dilemma. Over lunch, Betsy eagerly told Mom how I would be wearing dresses for the rest of the vacation. Sensing that this was just a game, Mom joined in the fun. "Well, Howie, if you're wearing dresses all summer, we'd better find you one that's more appropriate to play in. You'll need to wear that pretty blue dress when we take Grandma out to dinner tonight." I had forgotten about our Saturday night restaurant ritual! This was becoming more complicated than I had bargained for. Mom and I went to the attic and carried all of Patty's old dresses and other clothes to my room. Mom picked out a yellow dress with flowers for me to wear that afternoon. Later I knocked on Patty's back door. Her mother greeted me. "That dress fits you perfectly," she remarked with amusement. "I never dreamed that Patty's old clothes would be put to use so quickly." Patty came out, and we sat on lawn chairs on her patio. I was quickly learning things about sitting in a dress, like reaching back to sweep the folds of the skirt under me before I sat. Thankfully, the skirt was loose enough that I didn't have to cross my legs or hold my knees together to be modest. I just spread my legs apart and pushed the front of the skirt down between them, to make sure Patty wouldn't see my underpants. First, I explained how I had ended up wearing her dresses. The next problem was how to avoid humiliation when the other boys saw me like this. "You were too embarrassed to wear short pants, so you decided to wear a dress instead?" Patty was incredulous. "That's crazy. Nobody will believe it. They'll think you're a sissy who likes to wear girly things." "Right. So what can I do?" "Well, we could find you a wig and pretend that you're really a girl. Maybe a visiting cousin from out of town." I quickly squelched that idea. "Or we could make up a good excuse for wearing a dress. Like you lost a bet. Or you're being punished. I heard that they once made my uncle wear a dress when he misbehaved." Patty and I finally devised a story: I was being punished for having punched Donald at the Halloween party. The principal had been planning to expel me, but agreed to let me stay in school when my parents promised to make me wear dresses during the summer vacation. Patty stayed by my side when the other boys returned. After overcoming their initial shock, they began teasing me unmercifully. "Look at the little girlie! Where's your doll? Why don't you show us your panties?" One boy lifted the back of my dress. "I see London, I see France, I see Howie's underpants!" "What are you, some kind of sissy?" "Stop it!" Patty shouted, stamping her foot. "He's not a sissy! Didn't you hear that Howie's being punished? The school was so mad at him for punching Donald at the party that they're forcing him to wear dresses all summer long!" The boys seemed impressed. "Whew!" "All summer in dresses?" "That must be tough!" "Yes," Patty confirmed. "How would you like it? If you keep teasing him, maybe they'll make you wear a dress!" This shut them up really fast. Rather than being an object of ridicule, I suddenly became a curiosity - an example of what might happen to boys who misbehave. The enormity of my punishment inspired awe and wonder. The boys anxiously asked what it was like to wear a dress. I told them that it was embarrassing and a nuisance, but otherwise quite comfortable. Then we got our baseball gloves and played catch. I enjoyed running to catch the ball without the restrictions of trousers, and my self- consciousness gradually disappeared. Soon it was time to go home and get ready for dinner. After taking a quick bath, I went into my room and found Mom laying out articles of girl's clothing on my bed. The blue dress, of course. But there were other things as well. "What's all this?" I asked. "Well, Howie, if you're wearing a dress for dinner, you also have to wear everything that goes with it. Otherwise it won't look right." To start off, there were girls' panties and a lacy white petticoat. And fancy white ankle sox with a lace trim. And then the black Mary Jane shoes with the strap on top. Finally Mom lowered the blue dress over my head, buttoned up the back, and tied the sash. Wearing a dress had been comfortable, but the rest of these clothes felt ridiculous. Next Mom brought out a blue bonnet, the same one Donald had worn on Halloween. "Mom! I don't want to look like a girl!" I complained. "Well, you certainly can't let people at the restaurant know you're a boy. Boys don't wear dresses, only girls do. This is a very proper restaurant, and if they see you're a boy in a dress they might not let us in. So you must pretend to be a girl." Mom tied the bonnet around my neck. "It would be better if we had a wig for you, but this will have to do." I looked at myself in the mirror, wearing the same clothes that Donald had worn for Halloween. Somehow Donald had looked a lot cuter. I tried to imagine myself as a girl, but it was no use. I was just a boy in a dress, feeling more foolish every minute. "You look pretty," said Betsy, who was wearing her own fancy dress. "It'll be fun pretending you're my big sister." "I'm not your sister," I said. "Come on, girls," said Mom. "We'll be late." "I'm not a girl," I insisted. I followed Mom, Dad, and Betsy to the car and climbed into the back seat. Because of the petticoat, the skirt of my dress puffed up in front of me. "Push down your dress," instructed Mom. "Sit ladylike." "I liked this dress a lot better without the petticoat," I complained. "That's all part of being a girl." "But I don't want to be a girl," I grumbled. 4. Grandma We stopped at Grandma's house and Dad escorted her to the car. She slid onto the back seat next to me. "Ooh, Howie, what a pretty dress!" she cooed. "That's the same one Donald wore, isn't it." I confessed that it was. "You look so charming in it," she complimented. I was surprised at how easily she was taking this, but even more surprised at what she said next. "You remind me of your father when he wore dresses." This remark took Dad by surprise also. "Mother, do we have to discuss that?" "It's nothing to be ashamed of, George." Grandma turned to me and explained. "All the little boys wore skirts and dresses back then. Your father wore them until he was about four years old. Your grandfather wore them even longer. Then your granddad also wore a kind of plaid skirt called a kilt. He grew up in Scotland where all the boys wore kilts in those days. A lot of the men wore them too." I tried to imagine my Dad wearing a dress. I tried to picture a world where boys wore skirts, dresses, and kilts. The idea of boys wearing anything but long or short trousers was astounding. "When we get back from the restaurant, I'll show you some old photographs in my albums." The restaurant was a fancy one, with everyone wearing their best clothes. I felt that people were staring at my dress, all puffed out by the petticoat that bounced and rustled as I walked. The hostess smiled at Betsy and me. "Both you girls look very pretty tonight. I love your dresses." "Thank you," Betsy replied happily. I said nothing, but tried to smile. The five of us were seated at a round table in the middle of the room, where I felt very conspicuous. I scanned the room, in fear of seeing any boys who might recognize me. When the waiter came to take our orders, he turned to Betsy and me and asked what the "girls" would be having. I was shocked when Grandma corrected him. "Only one of them is a girl," she explained. "The older one is my grandson." "Oh, I'm sorry," said the waiter, acting flustered. "Howie, why don't you take off your bonnet. Gentlemen don't wear hats in a restaurant." "But Grandma, they'll know I'm a boy." "Of course you're a boy. There's no shame in that." Mom and Dad seemed dumbstruck at this development. They were clearly worried about their son being publicly displayed in girls' clothing, but even more reluctant to draw attention by having an argument with Grandma. Dad nodded his assent. I untied and removed the bonnet. I felt more comfortable and natural without it. But now it was obvious to everyone that I was a boy in a frilly dress, petticoat, and girl's shoes. I wanted to hide under the table. That not being an option, I would have to be brave. "Sit up straight," Grandma admonished me. "Act proud and confident, and no one will give it a second thought." This turned out to be good advice. Throughout the meal I kept reciting in my mind, "I'm proud and confident wearing a dress!" As we were leaving the restaurant, I saw a few children staring at me. Some pointed. I overheard a girl ask her mother, "Why is that boy wearing a dress?" The mother shushed her. I just stood as tall as I could and thought, "I'm proud and confident wearing a dress!" I told myself that any boy could wear pants, but few were brave enough to wear a dress. I was one brave boy. We returned to Grandma's house, where she removed an old photograph album from her cabinet. "Here's a picture of your father as a little boy." This confused me, because all I saw was a little girl, about two years old, with long curls and wearing a white dress. "Yes, that's your father." My Dad's face was turning red. "That's how all the little boys looked in those days," she explained. As Grandma turned the pages, I saw my father when he was somewhat older. His hair had been cut short, but he was still wearing dresses and skirts. Finally, at around age five, he was wearing knee pants. Grandma opened the next album, which began with pictures of me as a little baby. "Here you are in your christening gown." I saw my mother holding a little baby. The baby was in a long, white, lacy dress. "That's me?" "Yes. Now here you are a few months older. See what you're wearing?" The picture showed Grandma holding me as a baby. I looked carefully and saw that I was wearing a little dress that came to around my ankles. "When you were born, the stores still sold dresses for baby boys. Believe me, they made it much easier for changing diapers! I bought you and Donald several dresses. Your cousin Donald wore them until he was toilet trained, but your father would have none of it. He thought dresses were only for girls. He didn't want to see any son of his in a dress." Now I finally understood my mother's earlier remark about Dad not wanting me to wear dresses. He probably wanted to spare me the indignity that he had suffered as a little boy. Grandma closed the album wistfully. "It's a shame that little boys never wear dresses any more. I thought they looked so cute and angelic. But today people are afraid to let their sons wear skirts. They can't wait to put little boys in long pants, like grownup men, just to prove that they're 'real boys' and not sissies." She peered at me over the rims of her reading glasses. "You're not a sissy, are you?" "No Grandma," I answered honestly. "I'm a real boy." "You don't want to be a girl, do you?" "Of course not, Grandma. I like being a boy." "But you also like wearing dresses?" I nodded cautiously, unsure of where Grandma was going with this questioning. "You would rather wear dresses than short pants?" I nodded again. "Why is that?" she asked. For a moment I wondered what to say, but because Dad was right there listening, I figured it best to stick with the same reasons I had previously given. "Well, dresses protect my legs from the sun better. And they feel so comfortable. They're nice and loose and won't give me a heat rash." "If you find dresses more comfortable than shorts, then you must find them even more comfortable than long pants, isn't that so?" I felt cornered by this question. Grandma was making a good point. "Weren't you wearing long pants last summer when you got the heat rash on your privates?" "Yes . . ." I admitted. "Then you must find it more comfortable to wear dresses than any kind of trousers, especially long pants." Grandma had me there. I was inescapably trapped by her logic. I couldn't think of anything to do but go all the way with this and see where it led. "Yes, yes, Grandma, you're right!" I exclaimed, overdoing my enthusiasm a little. "Dresses are more comfortable than anything. I used to wear long pants all the time so I could look like Dad. I never knew how uncomfortable they were, because I had nothing to compare them with. But now I hate wearing pants! I wish I could wear dresses all the time!" To illustrate my little performance, I skipped to the middle of the room and spun around, letting my dress and petticoat flair outward. I looked at my parents, who were not amused. Suddenly I felt really stupid. What was I doing, dancing around in a frilly dress and petticoat like a little fairy? "I just wish I could wear a dress without all this sissy stuff," I complained, lifting up my skirt. "This petticoat, these stupid shoes and lacy sox. And this dress, even. Why does it have to be so girlish? I wish they made dresses especially for boys!" "If you lived in Scotland, you could wear a kilt, like I talked about in the car." Grandma reached into a cabinet and retrieved a dusty photo album that looked older than the rest. She opened it reverently. "These are your ancestors from Scotland." The yellowing pictures showed people posing stiffly for formal portraits, wearing old- fashioned costumes like I had seen in the movies. The women wore long, fancy dresses and big hats. But of greatest interest were the men. Instead of trousers, they wore knee-length skirts with furry pouches hanging in front, and thick knee sox. "These are kilts," Grandma explained, pointing to the men's skirts. "The pouches are called sporrans." Grandma showed me pictures of her father, uncles, and cousins, all wearing kilts. There were soldiers in kilts. There were boys my age in kilts. I gazed at the men and boys with their kilts and bare knees. "Do the boys in Scotland wear kilts all the time?" "Not any more. Nowadays the kilt is saved for special occasions. But there are still some private schools where boys wear kilts every day as their school uniform." "I wish I could wear a kilt," I said. "We don't live in Scotland," Dad interrupted. "In America, men don't wear kilts unless they're playing bagpipes. Around here, kilts are for Catholic schoolgirls." "But they look so cool." "Actually, kilts are probably too heavy for our summers," said Grandma. "They're made of wool - which is fine for Scotland, but not for the kind of heat we had today. And they're very expensive. You wouldn't go playing baseball in one." I was disappointed that I couldn't have a kilt, but seeing the photo albums filled me with ideas. Not having my pajamas, I went to bed that night wearing one of Patty's old nightgowns. I dreamed I was outside playing catch with my friends, feeling cramped and confined in my trousers. Then I noticed the insides of my pant legs opening up, spreading out, and joining together to form a loose, comfortable, knee-length skirt. It looked something like a Scottish kilt, yet it was new and different - a boy's skirt made especially for me. 5. Revelation The next day was Sunday, which brought the unanticipated question of what I should wear to church. My Sunday trousers were locked away in the suitcase, and Dad had not yet given in. Even if I had been willing to wear the short pants, they were not formal enough for church. So Mom and I searched through Patty's old clothes hanging in my closet. We settled upon a knee-length, pleated, navy-colored skirt. It was the closest thing to a kilt we could find. I wore it with my usual Sunday attire - white shirt, tie, suit jacket, sox, and shoes. Except for the skirt I looked like an ordinary boy. As we entered the church, I saw Donald with his family. He was wearing his Sunday suit with short pants. He stared at me strangely. "Is that a skirt you're wearing?" "It's a kilt!" I announced, although I knew it really wasn't. Grandma complimented me on my outfit. "How does it feel?" "Great!" I exclaimed, really meaning it. The pleated skirt was extremely comfortable. It was full enough to give my legs total freedom, and I loved the sensation of the pleats swinging against my thighs. I was also relieved that it did not look nearly as sissified as the dresses. I sat in the pew next to my parents and Betsy. The pleated skirt spread lightly over my lap and between my open legs. I felt much happier sitting through the service than ever before, and I wondered why. Suddenly it dawned on me. This was the first time that the seams of a trouser crotch weren't cutting into my privates. This realization exploded in my mind like a revelation from God. When God made boys, He put penises and balls between their legs. Boys have these things in their crotches and girls don't. This was obviously how God planned it. However, boys were now forced to wear trousers that cramped and cut into these God-given appendages. In actuality, boys were the ones who would benefit from the freedom and openness that skirts provided. Girls didn't need extra room in their crotches, and yet they were the ones forced to wear skirts. It didn't make any sense. People had gotten things totally backward from the way God had intended. Reverend Brimstone droned on and on from the pulpit, but I wasn't listening. I was gazing at the stained glass windows, which depicted familiar scenes from the Bible. The images now displayed themselves in a new light. There was Moses holding the Ten Commandments - and wearing a dress! There was our Lord Jesus - the Son of God - wearing a dress! There were the twelve Apostles - all wearing dresses! There were the angels in heaven - all in dresses! My Sunday School teachers had skirted around this fact by calling the garments "robes" or "tunics" or whatever, but in reality they were simply dresses for men. Not a single one of those holy personages wore trousers! For the first time in church, I felt that God was speaking directly to me. God was revealing His divine plan that men and boys should wear skirt-like garments that did not encroach upon their privates. Trousers were an abomination - an insult to the male anatomy that He had created. If God wanted males to wear trousers, He would not have given them penises! Furthermore, I now realized that anyone who called me a "sissy" for wearing a skirt would be committing blasphemy - because God's son, Jesus, wore skirt-like garments also. I felt the warmth of the Holy Spirit pulsing under my skirt, filling my body, and dispelling all my doubts and fears. After the service, I walked from the pew assured that I and my skirt had been blessed by the grace of God. But my parents seemed worried. Their uneasiness increased as they moved up the aisle to shake hands with the minister, an old-time religionist who preached incessantly about sin. As I stuck out my hand boldly to Reverend Brimstone, he stared at my skirt in disgust. "What in God's name have we here?" My father whisked me out the door. "Of all the things for him to preach about today!" exclaimed my mother. "I hope people don't take him seriously." "What?" I asked, having paid no attention whatsoever to the sermon. I had been too busy communicating with God. "Reverend Brimstone doesn't like this new fashion of women wearing slacks," Dad explained. "He based his sermon on a passage in the Bible - something from the book of Deuteronomy in the Old Testament. He said that God forbids us to wear clothes of the opposite sex. Therefore, it's a sin for women to wear trousers or slacks, because trousers are male clothing. Just as it's a sin for males to wear skirts and dresses, because they're female clothing. " I began to see red. This couldn't be true! "What about Moses and Jesus and all the men in the Bible?" I asked. "They wore dresses! What about the men in Scotland?" "The preacher said that the definition of male and female clothing depends on the society we live in. It doesn't matter what people wore in olden times or what they wear in other countries. In our society, trousers are male and skirts are female. It's as simple as that." "Then it would be okay for me to wear a kilt in Scotland, but not here?" "Right," said my Dad. "The Bible says, 'When in Rome, do as the Romans.'" Grandma was unconvinced. "I can't understand why God's law would be any different here than it is in Scotland. I think the preacher's twisting the Bible to suit his own prejudices." One of the deacons, an important man in the church, pulled Dad aside. I could hear him muttering sternly. "George, why on Earth did you bring Howie to church in a skirt? Reverend Brimstone is furious! He thinks you were deliberately trying to mock his sermon!" Meanwhile, other parishioners were frowning at me and shaking their heads. Dad looked pale when he returned. "Let's go home right now. Our little game has gotten way out of hand." As soon as we entered the house, Dad ordered me to take off the skirt. "But I like it!" I protested. "Do as I say!" he commanded. "Now!" As I regretfully slid the skirt off, Dad swept through my closet and drawers, scooping up all of Patty's skirts, dresses, and other clothing. "Marge," he yelled to my mother. "Take all these girls' clothes back to Patty's mother right away." Then he dragged the suitcase into my room, unlocked it, and threw my trousers onto the bed. "Here's all your long pants back. I hope you're happy now." He stalked out of my room. I stared at my once precious trousers and felt utterly depressed. I selected what had been my favorite jeans and, sitting on the edge of the bed, pulled them up over my legs. My legs felt imprisoned in the two tubes of fabric. I buttoned the jeans at the waist and zipped up the fly. My crotch felt hot, confined, and uncomfortable. My mother and Betsy were in the midst of preparing dinner while Dad read the Sunday paper in the living room. As I walked through the house, I was acutely aware of the fabric bunching in my crotch and the seams rubbing between my thighs. All my life I had accepted the constant constriction and friction as the price of wearing trousers. Now that I had discovered an alternative, I found it to be terribly irritating. My annoyance increased as I ferried items from the kitchen to the dining room table. I was grumpy and unpleasant as I sat through dinner, being constantly distracted by the cramped feeling in my crotch. That afternoon I went out to play with my friends. "Where's your dress?" they asked. I told them I had been given a reprieve and tried to joke about it. But for the rest of the day I longed for the freedom, comfort, and airiness of the skirt, and for the pleasant feeling of pleats brushing my legs. I hated the way my legs felt isolated from each other in their prisons of cloth. I missed the fresh feeling of my bare thighs touching together. Throughout the week, I complained to Mom and Dad about my discomfort in trousers. I begged them to send me to live with relatives in Scotland, so I could attend a school where all the boys wore kilts. I searched through old copies of National Geographic and other magazines, clipping out every picture I could find of men and boys wearing skirt-like garments. There were Scotsmen in kilts, Arabian men in caftans, Greek soldiers in fustanellas, Japanese men in kimonos, and Pacific islanders in sarongs and lava-lavas. There were Roman gladiators, Viking warriors, and other ancient men in various tunics, skirts, robes, and togas. I mounted the pictures on poster board and hung them on my wall. I began drawing my own designs of kilt-like skirts for boys. When no one was around, I dug through bags of old clothes in the basement, looking for material. I found a pair of khaki work pants that my Dad had discarded. I ripped out the inseams and began fashioning the material into a boy's skirt. It would have roomy pockets, a front fly, belt loops - all the practicality and masculine appearance of pants, but with the comfort of a skirt. Mom and Dad caught me working on the skirt and were very upset. They sent me to Dr. Moyle, a child psychiatrist, to try to straighten me out. He asked me endless questions about whether I got excited wearing girls' panties, whether I felt I was a girl trapped in a boy's body, and whether I ever thought about kissing boys. He couldn't believe that a boy would wear a skirt just because it was comfortable and felt good on the legs. He kept asking why I wanted to be a girl. Dr. Moyle did nothing to reduce my interest in wearing skirt-like clothing. He just made me feel abnormal and ashamed. He told my parents that I had a "gender identity disorder" and that they should do everything possible to discourage my obsession with skirts. Dad stripped the pictures from my wall and confiscated my drawing and sewing materials. I was encouraged to engage in "masculine" activities, like competitive sports. That summer, I finally agreed to wear the short pants. (After appearing publicly in dresses, I could no longer feel too embarrassed about wearing shorts.) Unfortunately, while riding my bike one day, I developed such a bad sunburn on my thighs that I could hardly walk. I then switched back to long pants, and soon developed a severe heat rash in my crotch and on my scrotum. Our family doctor said that I needed to allow more air in my crotch. (No big surprise there.) He advised that I wear boxer-type underpants rather than briefs. However, I found that the inseams of the boxer shorts irritated my crotch even more than the trousers had. Why couldn't the doctor simply have told me to wear a skirt? So I found myself lying naked on my bed, with my door closed, trying to air out my painful red crotch. I gazed at the only picture Dad had left on my wall - a picture of Jesus in his robe. God never made His son wear trousers, I thought to myself. And I knew that God had been right.