AssignmentChapter 2
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SPECTACLE
Copyright Transfemme 2002.
PART ONE: THE ALCOVE
1.
There was a light April breeze gusting up the driveway as I
helped my mother load the bags into her '57 Chevrolet. Mum
had been a Chevy girl since her sophomore years, back when
Elvis was still young and beautiful and the Beatles were
playing art school socials in Liverpool. She'd aged well
through the intervening decades, looking no more than
thirty due to her fine bone structure and trim, svelte
figure. People often told me I got my looks from her, right
down to the opal-green eyes and platinum blond hair.
"You sure you'll be okay here all alone?" Mum asked as I
passed a well-packed hamper through to the back seat, "I'll
be gone for more than a week this time." Always the sceptic
in matters of the heart, she was fretting that I'd be the
victim of a home invasion or something while she was off
spending Easter at Aunt Lizzie's.
"I'll be fine," I replied for the umpteenth time,
straightening my spine with a series of audible clicks.
That hamper had been heavier than I'd expected. "Stop
fussing, Mum, I'm not a baby any more."
"You're my baby," she replied, brushing my hand with a
feather-light touch, "and this'll be longest we've been
apart, since... well, I just don't like leaving you here by
yourself. Sure you won't come out to Lakecrest with me?
Elsie's looking forwards to seeing you again."
This last statement chilled the marrow in my bones. Mum's
Aunt Lizzie was the stuff of nightmares; a woman whose
merest glance could reduce grown men to quivering
orthodontists. Then there was my cousin Elsie, a socially
challenged cyber-geek with coke-bottle glasses and an
eating disorder. Dinner with Dr Hannibal Lecter was
preferable to a week with Mad Lizzie Woodridge and her
nerdlinger daughter.
Besides, I had other plans for the vacation.
"Sorry, Mum - I've got that history report due after the
break," I answered, trying to hide my impatience, "Connie
Radcliffe's coming over on Thursday to exchange notes, and
I can't let her down, can I?"
"No, I guess you can't," Mum agreed thoughtfully, "in the
meantime, Connie Radcliffe will be spending Easter with her
own family; hunting Easter eggs, eating home cooked
meals..."
"Jeez, Mum, I'm not going to starve," I interrupted, almost
writhing with exasperation, "you left me enough of those
frozen dinners to last six months. I'm eighteen years old,
I won't burn down the kitchen. I know how to look after
myself."
"Yes, I know," she said, stroking my cheek warmly enough to
make me shrink with guilt, "I just can't help worrying.
Eighteen isn't as old as you think it is, sweetheart. I'd
never forgive myself if something went wrong while I was
away..."
"Nothing's going to go happen, Mum," I almost stammered,
looking down at my feet. Like most teenagers, I felt
totally mortified by maternal displays of affection. "I've
got Aunt Lizzie's phone number inside. I promise I'll call
you every night to let you know I'm okay."
"That won't be necessary, darling. I trust you." She gave
me a tired, happy look and leaned forward to kiss me on the
forehead. Her hair tickled my face. She had a clean, tender
smell about her, a mixture of carnations and lipstick and
Pond's hand lotion. A young woman-scent, much like my own.
I found myself smiling, despite my overwhelming sense of
embarrassment.
"Alright," she said, running her fingers through my hair,
"take care of yourself. I'll phone you up on Good Friday to
see how you're doing." She turned away, opened the door and
pulled out her keys. "No parties, no loud music and don't
stay up too late."
"Yes Mum," I replied automatically. She needn't have
worried, I'd given up sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll for
lent. Like I said, I had other plans for the long weekend.
I stood back as she turned the key in the ignition, gunning
the Chevy's engine the way she always did before a long
trip.
"Have a good time with Connie," she called over the eight-
cylinder roar, then fixed me with a mock-stern look: "but
not too good."
I nodded enthusiastically, trying to look as innocent as
possible - which, in fact, I was. Connie Radcliffe wasn't
coming over to exchange notes (or bodily fluids, as Mum
appeared to think). The whole story - history assignment
and all - was a lie, a red herring to legitimise my absence
from the Manson Family Reunion out at Lakecrest.
"Bye-Bye, honey." Mum blew me a kiss while she backed the
Chevrolet down the driveway, dual exhausts humming in deep
resonance. I followed her down to the street, keeping clear
of the car's wide turning circle. I lifted my right hand in
farewell, doing my best to look mature and trustworthy.
"Bye, Mum. Say 'hi' to Elsie for me."
"Will do." She swung away from the curb, gripping the wheel
with both hands, and thundered off in hail of gravelstones
and exhaust fumes. Top down, hair flying in the April
slipstream, she looked maybe half her age, a precocious
young cheerleader on her way to the Big Game. I stood in
the street, waving goodbye until the Chevy vanished over
the crown of Summerhill Road...
And literally bolted up to the house.
2.
I was almost fainting with excitement by the time I reached
the front door. It had been months since I'd had the place
to myself, and I was literally trembling with expectation
as I considered the day ahead of me. Locking the door with
a swift, loud clack, I scampered through the living room,
kicking off my sneakers without a second thought. I was
free, alone to do whatever I pleased over the next ten
days.
Loosening my T-shirt at the waist, I hurried past the
staircase, dodging though to the main hallway. My pulse
slammed into overdrive as I imagined all those delicious
satin treasures closeted away in the Back Room. The walls
seemed to flash by in a strobing montage of frames, prints,
and fashion illustrations.
The Back Room was a spacious, two-level extension with
picture windows, spotlights and high ceilings. It was
festooned with pot plants, drawing tables, dressing torsos
and sewing machines. Mum used it as both a design studio
and a reception area when she was meeting with clients. It
was a feminine, creative place, rich with her aromatic
presence: scented bath oils; long departed roses; a touch
of Red Door. I loved this room almost as much as I loved
her.
The back wall was lined with mirrors. They dominated the
studio from corner to corner, but were little more than a
facade for the long, walk-in closet, which housed my
mother's private collection. Very few people even knew it
was there, mainly because it contained the pieces she never
intended to sell.
Mum's design sense leaned towards the strange and the
fantastique. She often drew her inspiration from the
excesses of fashion history - La Belle Epoch, French
Rococo; anything with a Parisian flavour. Needless to say,
it had been an absolute wonderland during my early
childhood, seeding my dreams and igniting my most volatile
desires. In the course of years, the Back Room had become
my stage, the theatre on which I enacted my most secret
fantasies.
Did Mum suspect? Possibly; there was very little she didn't
know about me.
Halting by the wall of mirrors, I scrutinised my reflection
critically, putting a slim hand to the back of my neck.
Removing a sequined elastic binder, I allowed my thick,
blond hair to cascade past my shoulders. The image in the
mirror immediately began to alter. With my hair sweeping
down in a shimmering arabesque, I looked small and fragile;
a pretty teenaged girl in oversized blue denim.
A shiver swirled through my tummy like a dash of ice water.
Quivering with delight, I threw off my t-shirt and jeans,
tossing aside the meaningless vestments of my male
identity. Turning back to the mirrors, I adjusted my hair
to cover my slim shoulders, almost dizzy with anticipation.
I felt short of breath, my thighs started to shake with
high-wire tension. I was impatient to finish the change,
eager to climb into my costume and begin the afternoon's
performance. Stepping closer to the mirror door, I studied
my face and figure for imperfections. There were very few,
even at this range.
I was rather fortunate in this respect. Possessing a
sexually ambiguous appearance, I could easily pass for
female. I had the androgynous lines of the Waif, the huge,
liquid eyes of the Child. My Mother once remarked - in all
seriousness - that I could have modelled girls' fashions on
any local catwalk. Even lingerie.
I padded over to the closet, revelling in my bare thighs,
my smooth, ivory skin. It was so wonderful, so liberating,
to shed my male identity. Nearly three months had passed
since I'd emerged from my gendered prison; twelve agonising
weeks locked in a boy's rancid body, counting off the
empty, interminable days. Well, all that was finished now.
Literally.
Although I didn't know it at the time, this was the very
last hour I'd spend on Earth as Ben Woodridge.
3
Stepping through the mirror door was like entering a world
of whispering velvet shadows. The Walk-In was my portal to
another realm, a place of enchantment and silken magic, a
shrine to all things feminine. For me, it would always
epitomise the exotic and the mysterious; the questions I
could never ask, the knowledge I could never share.
My veins were throbbing with sultry heat, my belly felt as
tense as a coiled spring. Aroused, exhilarated, I wandered
naked along the rows of brassieres and corsets and garter-
belts and bustiers and luscious, gleaming panties, my head
spinning like a vortex. I was drowning in a whirlpool of
shame, bliss, and guilt.
And longing. Longing; vast and endless.
Reaching the end of that tunnel of forbidden pleasures, I
arrived at the Alcove. The Alcove was my Mother's private
dressing room, a little salon housing mum's favourite
pieces. Over the space of maybe a hundred visits, it had
become my theatre of dreams. Its charm and fascination were
bound up with its essential femininity; the room was heavy
with the presence of woman. I could almost taste my
Mother's perfume in the pastel-print wallpaper.
The Alcove was set out like a 1920s lady's boudoir,
furnished with art deco lamps and trinket boxes. A small
but elegant make-up table stood at the far end of the
chamber, its dark, enamelled surface littered with
cosmetics and picture frames. Next to the table was a hand-
carved chest of drawers. It was an antique, over ninety
years old according to my mother.
I knew from prior incursions that it was full of imported
hosiery; French Dior stockings, Spanish thigh-highs,
Italian lacetops. There was full-length mirror beside the
chest and low, padded stool near my feet. Overhead, a
flurry of European underwear hung from a customised
clothing rack set into the wall. The Alcove resembled a
high class lingerie store; tiers of shimmering
unmentionables seemed to stretch off as far as the eye
could see.
Mine.
All mine, for the next ten days.
To be continued.
E-mail at [email protected] for more
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