My Journey free porn video

Introduction Stories of gradual feminization always seem to be enormously popular, but there's so few of them! Why is that? There are so many stories posted on the web that differ from each other only in the most minute of details, the setting, the characters: unruly boy gets feminized, becomes demure, well-behaved girl, learns to like it. Period. Personally, I've always viewed stories in which the protagonist is feminized in the space of a few paragraphs to be rather artless and unsubtle, not very believable, and kind of, well... "male." You know what I mean. As a rule, men tend to want to get to their destination as quickly as possible. Women, on the other hand, tend to view the journey as a kind of destination in itself, and enjoyable in its own right. Getting where you're going is thus more like the icing on the cake, rather than the whole cake, icing and all. Or, to put it another way: women want foreplay, men want to leap straight to the big O... The following story is, I hope, a trip worth enjoying. I originally wanted to call it "My Life as a Girl" which ties in neatly with the ending, but that's not really what it's about, so instead I decided to call it... My Journey I wasn't a bad kid, not really. Oh, I've read the stories on the Fictionmania web site, the "bad boy to good girl" stories. I know that Moms sometimes feminized their sons to control their behavior, to tame them, to turn them from adolescent hellions to demure, well-mannered teenage girls. Or so the stories would have you believe. But that wasn't me. I was never "unmanageable," never irredeemable, never... what was the word they used in the old days? Incorrigible. Oh, I partied from time to time, stayed out past curfew now and then, drank occasionally, even smoked a little dope. But I was never a "bad boy," in the sense that most people meant it. Maybe my Mom just always wanted a girl. Or perhaps she just hated men. That was probably it. --- In the fall of my last year of high-school, my Dad left us; ran off with some floozy. My Mom's word, that: floozy. Whore sometimes, or slut, but mostly it was "that floozy." It had a quaint, almost archaic sound to it. Sometimes she would preface it with "fucking," as in, "that fucking floozy," with a certain unconscious irony. Fucking was undoubtedly what my Dad was after. He ran off with his secretary. The clich? of it was almost unbearable. After his impending departure was announced, I was given the requisite speech: "Sometimes, son, sometimes a husband and his wife just find that they can't be together any more. It's nobody's fault. It just happens. But that doesn't mean that we both don't still love you very much." I sat sullen and unresponsive through this, refusing to make it easy for him. He finished by promising to send money. He honored his responsibilities, he said. It was one of the most uncomfortable moments of my life. He and his new girlfriend quit their jobs and traveled for a while, a honeymoon of sorts, I suppose. He would email me periodically, and now and then I would receive a postcard from some exotic location like Costa Rica, or Hawaii, or Bali. They were always the same, hastily scribbled notes, some variant on the same theme: "We're having a wonderful time, but I miss you very much. Love, Dad." In due course, they settled down in L.A., the postcards stopped, and the emails became sporadic. He was always on the verge of "making it big," it seemed. He was involved in making a movie, with a host of "big name" producers I'd never heard of. He went halves on a franchise selling skin care products that were going to revolutionize the industry. He invested in some Silicon Valley startup that went bust. Eventually, the checks stopped coming. For a while, things were pretty bad. Mom spent a lot of time crying. I tried to console her, tried to do things that would please her and make her life a little easier, but she seldom seemed to notice, or if she did, it would be with such a detached air that I wondered if she really knew what was happening. The neighbors did their best to be friendly and supportive. After all, mother was the Wronged Woman. They would bring over casseroles and banana bread, cluck their tongues and shake their heads sympathetically at her listless attempts at conversation. Eventually they stopped coming too. --- She began to spend a lot of time with her with her sister, my Aunt Cynthia. I would come home from school and they would be sitting in the kitchen, my Mom sobbing quietly, Aunt Cynthia sitting silently at her side, an arm around Mom's shoulders. They were less than a year apart in age, but to look at them you would never know it. You would swear my Mom was at least ten years her senior. Her hair, once so thick and lustrous that she actually modeled in a shampoo commercial when she was in her twenties (grinning and tossing her shining, raven mane in slow motion to the strains of a harp arpeggio) now hung limply around her shoulders, streaked with grey. She had lines at the corners of her mouth and above the bridge of her nose. Only her figure remained unchanged, a figure that, according to my Dad in happier times, could silence an entire roomful of men when she made her entrance. Cynthia, however, looked even younger than her thirty-some-odd years. Her own honey blonde hair, often pinned in a businesslike up-do for work, fell in thick, shining cascades almost to her waist when she wore it down. The skin of her face remained unlined and unblemished; her figure, like my Mom's, still taut and youthful. She presided over a secretarial pool at a large, successful law firm in the city, and made, in her own words, "a shitload of money." She owned a condo in one of the ritzier buildings along the waterfront, a place of hardwood floors, shining chrome appliances, lush carpeted hallways, floor-to-ceiling windows, and air-tight security. Hers was on the top floor, and commanded a spectacular view of the city and the bay beyond. She must have spent a lot of money on clothes; she was always dressed in the latest fashions and expensive jewelry, her makeup and nails perfect. She remained unmarried. She had a string of boyfriends -- "arm decoration" in her words -- but earned my Mom's respect and admiration for refusing to become serious with any of them. --- Mom went from morose to angry so fast it made my head spin. Perhaps it was just the natural progression of those stages of grieving you read about: denial, depression, anger, acceptance. Or perhaps it was the realization that she would have to get a job. I don't know. Shortly after dad disappeared she'd liquidated a sizable insurance policy that was in her name; fifty thousand dollars, but the house still had a mortgage, and she knew the money wouldn't last long. Her depression was replaced instead by a kind of permanent irritation, which was hardly any better. Much of it was directed at me. Whereas before she seemed to scarcely notice what I did, now she scrutinized my every deed, usually to find fault. My grades weren't good enough (true); my room was always a mess (also true); I hung around with a bad crowd (true only in the most limited sense); I did a half-assed job on my chores (definitely not true). My grades did begin to slip. I couldn't help it. The upheaval caused by my Dad's departure, my Mom's depression-turned-anger, the uncertainty of what the future would hold, all joined forces to make me less than attentive in school. I knew it was my final year, that the grades counted, but it did no good. I began hanging around with my friends at the local mall after school, something my Mom didn't fail to notice. I started smoking more pot, staying out later, drinking. --- This likewise did not go unnoticed by my mother, despite my efforts to conceal it from her. Once I flunked a math test pretty badly, and the teacher told me I had to get my Mom to sign it. With my heart pounding, I presented the test, the "F" at the top blazing in red like the emblem of some rogue religion, to Mom. Her eyes blazed. "So!" she began venomously, "I guess you want to dig ditches for the rest of your life. That's certainly where you're headed!" It didn't matter that nobody dug ditches any more. I suppose it's something she heard from her own parents, their way of expressing disapproval. I knew better than to argue the point, though. "No, Mom. I..." "I suppose want to be a bum, like your father! You're just like him, aren't you?" It was hardly a compliment. "God!" she exploded, throwing up her hands in disgust, "God I hate men! You're all alike, aren't you? A bunch of self-absorbed, selfish, deadbeat... assholes!" "Mom..." "Don't 'Mom' me!" she ranted, "God, why didn't I have a girl? Why did I have to have a boy? I have no idea how to raise you. I just don't know any more. I just feel like giving up..." She threw herself down into a kitchen chair and hung her head morosely, her face still crimson. "Mom, honest... I'll try to do better. I'm sorry..." She looked up at me, her eyes red but tearless, and said nothing. --- One afternoon in the spring I came home and found a small baggie of grass sitting on the kitchen table. I knew instantly it was mine; I suppose I didn't hide it very well, or perhaps even left it in my jacket pocket by accident. And I also knew that the shit was about to hit the proverbial fan. Mom, on hearing me come in, roared into the kitchen like a Texas twister, picking up the bag of dope and waving it under my nose. "What's this?" she hissed, "What's this I find in your room? Marijuana!" "Mom..." I began. "Do you know what this stuff does to your brain?" Her voice raising, the storm about to break. "Mom, that's not true, that stuff you read. There's no evidence that occasional use is harmful..." I should have known better than to argue, but once down that path, I was committed, and I figured I should just see it through, "And besides, I just wanted to try it. I've never done it before..." "Don't you lie to me, mister!" she shrieked, "I've smelled it on your clothes! How dare you! How dare you! You're just like your father. Dishonesty comes naturally to you, doesn't it? God! Men!" She stormed on for over an hour. She threatened to call the cops. In the end I was grounded for a month. Then things got really bad. The atmosphere in the house was positively glacial. Mom's face seemed permanently set in a chilly mask of disapproval, her voice flinty and cold. My room constantly showed the signs of having been searched, signs she didn't even bother to conceal. --- Spring wore on. I spent most of it alone, grounded, sitting in my room doing homework or listening to music. The end of school loomed. The graduation dance would be the weekend following the end of my grounding month, so I figured there would be no harm in asking someone. I even -- oh the naivet?! -- thought I could win some approval from Mom by showing that I could be mature, and involved in school social life. I should have known better. "Mom," I began hesitantly over dinner, "I'm taking Janet Weiss to the grad dance..." I got no further. "You most certainly are not!" she snapped, "I'll not have you thinking that for the price of a corsage and a few dances you can drive her off to some sleazy make-out spot and get in her panties with a clear conscience. Not on my watch, mister." "What?!" I couldn't believe me ears. "You heard me." "But it's the grad dance! Everyone is going! And I don't want to get in her panties, honest, I just thought..." "Well, you can just un-think!" she fumed, "And that's final." We argued, but it was pointless. With tears of rage and humiliation in my eyes, and Mom standing over me, I phoned my date to inform her that we would not be going to the dance, after all. --- With Cynthia's help, Mom landed a job. She had managerial skills, though they were years out-of-date. The last time she'd held a job, computers in the workplace were rare. Now they were everywhere. She would need to get up to speed in a hurry. The office where she worked was in the same complex as Cynthia's legal firm, in an adjacent building. Mom came home that first evening, tired but in a good mood for the first time in months. Her job, she said, looked manageable; all she had to do was upgrade her computer skills. And the money wasn't bad at all, she added. "I think Cynthia should find you a job too," she went on, "God knows we could use the money, and I'll certainly not tolerate you lazing around here all summer long, doing nothing, getting into trouble. You'll have to start earning your keep, mister." "Mom..." "No arguments. Just what have you done about school next fall, anyway?" "Well," I began. I'd been dreading this conversation, "Well, I thought I would take a year off, like Sally did..." Sally being our next door neighbor's daughter, a couple of years older than me. She'd taken off to Europe for a year, working and traveling, then returned to enter university. "I really don't know exactly what I want to do, so I was thinking that if I took a little time to think about it, maybe get a job, or travel..." "I see," said Mom, "So, you want to be a bum, like your father. Well, I think not! If you're not going back to school in the fall, you're going to get a job. I'll talk to Cynthia and see if she can arrange something for you. At least you'll get some marketable skills; god knows you'll need them if you don't have a degree." "Mom!" I protested, "I'm not talking about not going back to school at all, just taking a little time off!" "Be that as it may," God I hated that expression. She always used it when she was lecturing me. "Be that as it may, I'll be talking to Cynthia tomorrow, and we'll see about getting you some employment in her office. I hear she's looking for someone." "Mom..." "I don't want to hear an argument!" she snapped, "The decision is made!" --- She and Cynthia continued to spend time together. About three times a week they would come home from work together, and I would return from school to find them sitting together, chatting and drinking coffee. Mom seemed much less unhappy these days. Sometimes, at least when Cynthia was around, she seemed positively cheerful. She seemed to reserve her irritation almost exclusively for me. --- A couple of days after the summer job discussion, as I entered the front door on returning from one of my last days at school, I was greeted by the sound of them giggling away in the kitchen. When they heard me, they shushed each other, but continued to giggle quietly. When I entered the kitchen I noticed an open bottle of wine between them, much depleted. With laughter still trickling from their faces, they looked at me, their eyes shining with some secret knowledge, and I knew somehow that they'd been talking about me. I'll never forget that look in their eyes, as they sat there, grinning. Just you wait, that look seemed to say, just you wait. Cynthia stayed quite late, and I would periodically hear them whispering conspiratorially together as I sat in my room studying for my exams, but whenever I came into the kitchen to get a drink or something to eat, they would stop talking and just watch me, that secret look still shining in their eyes. It creeped me out. --- The following day, Mom informed me that Cynthia had a summer job for me, and I would be starting immediately after the end of school. "You mean, I don't even get a week's vacation?" I said, pained. "No way, mister," she retorted, "We can't afford it. And besides, I'll not have you lazing about here, sleeping till all hours while I have to get up early and go to work. Cynthia's doing you a favor; she's got a good job for you, with decent pay, so you'd better be appreciative. And you'd better remember to thank her next time she's over!" "Yes Mom," I muttered, thoroughly depressed at the idea of working in an office for the summer... and without even a small vacation to unwind from school! The last day of school came and went. That Saturday night I went to a party at a friend's place, and came home pretty plastered -- thank god Mom had gone to bed already -- but as it turned out, most of my friends were dispersing for the summer, some to jobs, others to cottages or on family trips, and I realized that I would very likely be pretty bored with time on my hands anyway. Perhaps having a job, not to mention some disposable income, wouldn't be all that bad after all. --- The following Monday, I woke early. Or, more accurately, Mom woke me early: my first day at the office. I stumbled into the bathroom to take a piss and wash up, and heard Mom bustling about in the kitchen, then in her bedroom, then, it seemed, in mine. I headed to the kitchen in my dressing gown to wolf down some toast and a couple of cups of coffee, then back into the bathroom for a quick shower. "Wash your hair!" Mom called through the door. "I am!" I yelled back, somewhat irritated. My hair at the time was quite long, tending towards a kind of neo-hippie style, parted in the middle, straight, and falling well past my shoulders. Interestingly, there'd been no talk of cutting it for my new job. I lathered it, rinsed, and then ran some conditioner through it, as it tended towards dryness. I climbed out and dried off, then looked in the mirror, fingering my chin. No need to shave, I thought to myself. My wispy beard, such as it was, barely needed scraping more than once a week. Late bloomer, that's me. I suppose I should point out, since it's relevant to the events to come, that I've always tended to look rather androgynous, which my long hair did little to alleviate. Although I'm about average height for my age, I've generally been somewhat underweight, and slight of frame; 'willowy' is an adjective that's been used more than once, and usually not in a complimentary way. Also, I've always had a rather boyish face -- 'delicate features,' my Mom says -- and to my humiliation I've occasionally been asked for ID at R-rated movies, the legal age for which in our state is fourteen, a full three years less than my age at the time. On the compensatory side, one benefit of looking 'cute' in that way was that I had a number of girls interested in me, which was flattering, in its way. However, they were generally the type that still swooned over pre-adolescent boy-bands, and that type didn't interest me much. Oh I'd been on a few dates -- nothing serious -- but I'd yet to have anyone approaching a steady girlfriend. But, back to my story. When I emerged from the bathroom, drying my hair with a towel, and returned to my bedroom, I discovered that Mom had laid some clothes out for me on my bed. A white shirt, black pants, socks, black loafers. None of it was familiar. I put on some underwear, then began dressing. The socks were quite thin, stretchy, and came up almost to my knees. Oh well, I shrugged, at least they're comfortable. As I put on the shirt, I noticed immediately that something was different about it. First of all, it was a much softer, silkier fabric than I was used to. Second, although it had a collar, it didn't button up all the way to the neck; rather, the top button was just a little above mid-chest, creating a kind of plunging v-neckline. Also, the sleeves were wider than any of my other shirts, and gathered at the cuffs. And, what's this? The buttons were on the wrong side. Odd. I put on the pants and tucked in the shirt, and when I looked at myself in my full-length mirror, I could tell that something was amiss, but couldn't immediately put my finger on what it was. The pants were high-waisted, pleated, wider-legged than I was used to, with a narrow black leather belt, and made of the same sort of silky fabric as the shirt. Together with the loose, rather blousy shirt I was wearing coupled with my long hair falling around my shoulders, the cumulative effect was, well, rather effeminate, I thought. Certainly not masculine, anyway. "Mom," I called. "What is it?" she asked, from her bedroom. "Uh..." How was I to put this? "Mom, I don't think I like these new clothes, they make me look kind of..." "How dare you!" she suddenly appeared in my doorway, her face red, "How dare you! I spent good money on those clothes, so you could look respectable for your first day at work! More money than I could afford, let me tell you! And you 'don't like them!' You ungrateful brat! Well, that's too bad. You're just going to have to get used to it. I think you look very smart, myself. But I'm sorry I'm not wealthy and you can just throw away anything you don't like and run off to the mall and buy what you want, and then throw that away when you get tired of it...." "Okay, okay!" I protested, "I'm sorry! Geez..." Her eyes shot darts at me, then she was gone, back into her own room. The drive to work was uncomfortable, to say the least. In an effort to defuse the tension, I began hesitantly, "Actually, now that I'm used to them, I think they're okay. They're just a little different from what I'm used to, that's all." She looked over at me, slightly mollified. I fingered the fabric of the shirt. It had a silky smooth, almost slinky, texture. "They're actually nice and soft," I said, "Quite comfortable, really. What are they made of?" "It's natural rayon," my Mom said, "It breathes, and it drapes beautifully. I thought you might like it because of its comfort." "I do!" I said with all of the enthusiasm I could muster, "They are really comfortable. Which you want if you're going to be in them all day long," I added, smiling. Her gaze flickered to me suspiciously, but I looked back at her earnestly, and she eventually allowed herself a small smile. "Good," she replied, "I bought several outfits for you to wear over the next few days. At some point, though, we're going to have to go shopping. It's a law firm, after all, and they do like their employees to look smart." I met Cynthia in her office, where she explained my job to me. As I suspected, it was mostly clerk/secretarial work. The firm did not dedicate clerks and secretaries to individual lawyers. Instead, they employed a pool of about ten, who shared the workload evenly. All the work funneled through Cynthia, who would then distribute it to whomever she deemed appropriate to the task. After giving me a brief summary of my duties, she took me to meet the rest of my co-workers in the secretarial pool. It looked as if I would be the only guy in an office otherwise comprised entirely of women. There was Janice, in her late-thirties and the oldest in the office. Tall and attractive in a mature sort of way with honey-blonde hair in a fashionable shoulder length pageboy, she was sharp-tongued and witty, with a bluff, speak-my-mind attitude. She was the de facto "den-mother" to all the other girls, and Cynthia's second in command. Then there was Jill, young, East Indian, with dark good looks, gorgeous deep almond-shaped eyes and waist-length raven hair. She typically wore ethnic inspired clothing, or a mixture of traditional and contemporary items, a gold nostril stud, and sumptuous jewelry: long ornate earrings and armloads of bangles. There was Sonya, with a model's looks and body -- she actually had done some modeling before joining the firm -- with thick blonde hair and a spectacular figure. She always dressed in the height of fashion, expensive-looking dresses and suits, always impeccably made-up, with long, polished nails. Debbie, slightly plumper than current trends would dictate, but with masses of beautiful blonde curls, she had a ready smile and an eternally sweet disposition. Simone, with smooth milk-chocolate skin and a short afro, the silkiest voice you've ever heard; she almost always wore bold, African-inspired jewelry and striking batik print fabrics. Maria was an intern, like me. She was in her early twenties, Latino, with a passing resemblance to Jennifer Lopez, but painfully shy, in an endearing sort of way. Then there was Shayla. She was my age, or perhaps a year older, very pretty, with long, brunette hair almost always in a ponytail, a dazzling smile and effervescent personality. She was to be my "buddy"; she would stick with me for the first couple of weeks, show me the ropes, answer all my questions, and generally help me get acclimatized to my new job. "Okay Chris, let's get started, she said, flashing me one of her trademark smiles, "I'm glad they made me your buddy. I think we're going to get along great!" It was true. I took an instant liking to her, and she to me. She was very easy to be with, friendly, and always patient when teaching me some new aspect of my job. Fortunately, one of the few classes I'd done consistently well at in school was computer science. It seemed to come naturally to me, and as much of the work I was expected to do involved computers, I began to feel at home fairly quickly, and the stress I had been feeling, wondering if I would be able to do the job effectively, began to evaporate. If anyone noticed anything strange in my attire that first day, nobody said anything. The following day, Mom again laid some clothes out for me on my bed; the same black pants, and a different white top. This one had three-quarter length sleeves, and a wide v-neck, with a thin collar. Again, the buttons were on the wrong side, and again, as I looked at myself in the mirror, I couldn't help thinking that my appearance had a distinctly feminine undertone. This time I knew better than to say anything, however. That day, while Shayla was demonstrating one of their computer applications to me, a main file server went down, and Cynthia emerged from her office to inform us that most of the work would have to be put on hold until technical support could arrive onsite. "Why don't I look at it?" I suggested. "Well, I don't know..." replied Cynthia doubtfully. "Don't worry, I won't mess with anything I'm not sure of," I said, "I just want to see if it's something simple. If it is, I'll fix it, and if it's something I can't handle, we'll get tech support over here. Either way, we haven't lost anything, and just maybe I can get us back up and running in a hurry." Cynthia was skeptical, but after quizzing me for a while on exactly what I intended to do, she reluctantly gave me the admin password, and I logged into the server and began poking around. As it turned out, one of the database tables had become corrupted, so I just rebuilt the table and restored the data from the previous night's backup tape. Mission accomplished, and in under ten minutes, too. I returned to the secretarial office to cheers and applause, and Cynthia came over to thank me personally. It felt great. The following day, I helped Janice recover an Excel spreadsheet that she'd lost, and my reputation as a computer whiz was cemented. From then on, whenever anything went wrong with anything to do with any of our computers, they would call me first to troubleshoot, and only if I decided that the problem was too serious for me to fix would they call the company that provided tech support for our office. Some time later, I would learn that I had incurred that company manager's undying wrath, as his service calls -- he charged by the call -- were cut almost in half. Fridays were dress-down days in our office, and that first Friday, Mom laid out some casual clothes for me: tight hip-hugger jeans, and a top that was obviously a woman's blouse. It had short sleeves and a deeply scooped, embroidered neckline. "Mom! I can't wear this!" I complained, holding it up, "This is for a girl!" "Of course you can wear it," Mom retorted, "And you will. I'm simply trying to help you fit in. You're working in an office of women. You're invading their space, in a way; I don't want them to feel threatened by you. If you tone down your masculinity, just a little, they'll feel more comfortable around you. So put it on, we're late as it is." "Mom..." "I am sick and tired of your arguments!" she snapped, "I know what I'm doing. Nobody will see you except for your co-workers, if you're so damn worried about what people will think. And they won't mind. Now get dressed!" I put on the blouse; what else could I do? Anything to avoid my Mom's wrath. I looked at myself in the mirror, and managed to half-convince myself that it really didn't look that bad. More like an ethnic shirt, really. Kind of hippie-ish. No, not really that bad at all... That morning Cynthia called me into her office. "I've been hearing lots of good things about you," she began, smiling, "Your work is excellent, you're quick and efficient, and everyone says you're being really helpful. I also know that a few times now you've managed to really save the day by fixing some computer-related problem or other. I'm very pleased! The other girls are very happy to have you on staff." "Thanks," I said. I tried to look modest, but I realized that I was beaming in spite of myself. "Oh, and by the way," she added, "I like the way you've been dressing for the office. You look very smart! Keep it up." Later that afternoon, as we were packing up to leave for the weekend, Shayla came over to my desk. "I'm so glad you're working here, Chris!" she enthused, "I think we're going to be good friends! And by the way," she added, putting a hand on my arm, "I love the way you dress! You have such a great sense of style!" "Thanks," I replied, somewhat uncertainly. That evening, as we were driving home, Mom said, "I've made you an appointment at my salon tomorrow morning, to get that mop of yours styled. I case you haven't noticed, you're the poster child for split ends." "Styled?" I echoed, wondering, a little apprehensively, what 'styled' might mean. "Yes," she continued, "It's time you had something a little more suitable for work." Ordinarily, I would assume that meant a haircut, but recent events had put me on my guard. Oh well, I thought, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. The following morning we headed to the mall, the three of us. Cynthia had joined us for breakfast, and had decided on the spur of the moment to "tag along". I suspected this had been pre-arranged. Mom had insisted I wear a similar outfit to the one I wore the previous day, hip-hugger jeans and a blouse. Once at the salon, I was introduced to Lisa, who would be styling my hair. She was nice: bubbly, talkative, friendly. She chattered away non-stop while I leaned back into the sink and she worked the shampoo into a lather. Then back in her styling chair, she snipped diligently away with her scissors, but none of the length disappeared. I was apparently getting 'styled.' As she worked, another girl, who introduced herself as Jessica, sat down next to me after wheeling over a small table. "Your Mom wants me to give you a manicure," she announced, picking up my nearest hand and examining the nails intently. "A what?" I stammered. "Oh come on, silly!" she grinned at me, "It's no big deal. Lots of guys get them!" "Well..." "They'll look nice, I promise!" she said, patting my arm reassuringly. "What are you doing now?" I said, as I suddenly noticed Lisa working with her scissors along the front of my head. "I'm giving you bangs," she said, "The shape of your face just cries out for them! Honestly, it'll look so much better than the way you had it." Bangs? Guys don't wear bangs any more, do they? Well, maybe they do. I've seen some guys in rock bands with bangs... er, haven't I? As Lisa began blow-drying my hair, Jessica went to work with an emery board. Grooming had never exactly been my strong suit, and I'd let my nails grow carelessly long. I noticed that, although Jessica was filing industriously away, my nails weren't getting any shorter. Rather, she was shaping them into ovals, while keeping the existing length. "You're not going to trim them?" I asked dubiously. "Oh no!" she responded, wide-eyed, "You have such beautiful nails; it would be a shame to shorten them." "Um..." "Don't worry hon, I promise, they'll look gorgeous when I'm done!" That's what I'm afraid of, I thought grimly to myself. Meanwhile, Lisa had finished drying my hair, and was starting on it with a curling iron. "Wait a sec," I protested, "I want my hair straight, like I had it." "Mom's orders," Lisa said briefly, "She wants your hair to have some body, and I have to say I agree with her. Trust me, honey, you don't want it to hang limp like it was when you came in. It'll look so much better with some curl to it." "Some curl" turned out to be a lot of curls. When she had finished, I had feathery, eyebrow-length bangs that framed my face; my hair was fairly straight on top, but then cascaded in a mass of curls around and past my shoulders. "God!" I exclaimed, "I look like a girl!" "You look way cute!" Lisa retorted, "Honestly honey, you look soooo sexy!" "Totally!" Jessica said, "Really babe, you look awesome!" She fluffed my hair with her fingers. "God," she commented, "I'd love to streak it, put some blonde highlights in. Honestly, that would look so fabulous!" By this time, Jessica had finished shaping my nails and had produced a bottle of clear polish. "No way!" I said firmly, "Nope. That's going too far. No nail polish." "Oh come on, sweetie," she said coaxingly, "For me? Please? Really, lots of guys get clear polish. It's no big thing, really!" "Sure!" Lisa chimed in, "Lots of guys! Come on! Be brave." "I'd rather not." "Aw, pleeeeeese? If you don't like it, I'll take it off, really!" "Well..." "Great!" she said excitedly, "You're going to love it!" She began brushing the polish onto my nails. She gave them two coats. "There," she said when she was done, "That'll protect and strengthen them. Now don't touch anything for a few minutes until they dry." She held my hands up and examined them intently. "Well," she said decisively, "Personally, I think they look gorgeous! I hope you don't want me to undo my beautiful work!" "Well, I guess not." "Oh, one final thing," Lisa said, "Mom's orders, too..." She brushed something onto my eyebrows, then began pulling out hairs with tweezers. "What are you doing?" I asked, alarmed. "Don't worry, honey," she said as she worked, "Just giving them a little shape. Nothing drastic." She was done in a few minutes. When I looked in the mirror, I hardly recognized myself. My brows were shaped into thin, graceful arches, my face framed by masses of thick, lustrous curls. "Holy shit... I don't know..." I said, rather distressed. My god I looked so... so different! Mom and Cynthia came in just then. "Oh my! It's just lovely!" Mom said when she saw me, "It's just what I wanted." "Oh, Chris! You look great!" Cynthia enthused, "Just fabulous! Lisa, you did such a terrific job!" "Thanks!" she said, smiling, "I think he turned out beautifully!" "Let's see your nails," Mom said. Oh right, my nails. I'd forgotten about them. I held out my hands, displaying ten glittering nails, shaped into slim, tapered ovals that ended about a quarter of an inch past my fingertips. They were great looking nails all right, for a girl. "Mom, these look way too feminine," I protested. "Nonsense!" she scoffed, "What do you think?" she turned to Jessica. "I love them!" she responded, "Honestly, hon, I think they look beautiful. And they so suit you!" I was outnumbered. As Mom settled the bill, I kept staring at myself in the mirror. With my tight jeans, scoop-necked blouse and billowing curls, it was difficult to determine the sex of the creature that stared worriedly back at me in the mirror. I realized with a start that if I'd seen someone like that in the mall, I would probably have tried to get a better look, thinking it might perhaps be some really cute girl. My god. How can I show my face in public like this? Oh well, I hoped fervently, perhaps some people will think I'm a girl, and maybe not look too closely. Surprisingly, that appeared to be exactly what happened. As we walked down the mall and out to the car, I gazed around apprehensively, scrutinizing every look I got, but nobody stared, nobody did a double-take. As we left the building, an older man held the door for us and smiled politely. Did he think I was a girl? I wondered. The rest of the day, Mom was positively cheerful, and that evening she took us out for dinner. --- The following Monday, Mom laid out charcoal grey slacks and a sky blue long sleeved blouse for me to wear. The sleeves belled out at the wrists, and there was subtle embroidery around the neckline in the same color as the fabric. I didn't say anything. At the office, Shayla came over to my desk to greet me, and said, "That's such a great top! I love it!" "Uh, thanks," I said, as a sudden suspicion came over me, "Er, nobody's telling you to say that, are they?" "What?" she said, as a seemingly genuine expression of puzzlement came over her face. "Nothing." "'Telling me?' ...What do you mean?" "Never mind. Really." I received a couple of other compliments that morning, as well. I began to feel less self-conscious. Shayla and I got into the habit of spending our coffee breaks and lunch together, and gradually we became friends. She was really nice; I liked her a lot, and I think the feeling was mutual. Work continued to go well, and the money was great. On my first pay day, I received a check that was more money than I'd ever held in my hands before in my life. It was exciting. Later that week, Mom asked me to drive over to the mall and pick up some things for her. In particular, she had a long list of things she wanted from the drug store. She gave me a detailed list, shampoo, conditioner, skin creams, makeup and so forth. As I perused the makeup isle at the store, the cosmetics girl came over and asked if I needed any help. I had a few items in my hand that Mom had asked me to pick up, some mascara, foundation and a particular shade of lipstick that she usually wore. "That's a good foundation," the girl commented, "But you might want to try a different shade of lipstick. I think the one you have there might not really compliment your skin tone." "Oh, no," I protested, deeply flustered, "It's not for me! It's for my Mom." "Oh!" she said, looking rather flustered herself, "Oh, sorry! I thought..." "It's okay," I replied, feeling a blush rising to my features. If I needed any more evidence that my appearance was becoming increasingly feminine, that was it. But what could I do? I felt trapped. --- The next day Mom wanted to see my nails. "They're starting to look a little ragged," she commented, "The polish is on my dresser; would you get it please?" I complied, noticing as I did so that the label on the bottle described it as a 'nail strengthening polish.' "Longer, stronger nails in two weeks, guaranteed," the caption promised. But I didn't want 'longer, stronger nails.' Did Mom want me to? At this point, it was starting to seem likely. I handed her the polish, and she went to work on my nails, shaping them with an emery board, pushing back the cuticles, and finishing with two coats. "Now, be sure not to touch anything until it dries," she cautioned. As I stared at the ten glittering tips of my fingers, I resigned myself to the likelihood that Mom would probably insist I wear clear polish from now on. The rest of the week passed uneventfully. I began to look forward to going to work, and truth be told, I started to feel a little better about the outfits Mom choosing for me. Almost every day, someone had something nice to say about what I was wearing. Shayla and I became friends; everyone seemed to really like me, and went out of their way to make me feel at home. --- Sunday night as we were finishing dinner, Mom again asked to examine my nails. "They're getting chipped," she announced, "Go to my dresser and get the polish remover and the clear polish. I found the nail polish remover, but the bottle of clear polish was almost empty. When I informed Mom, her eyes flashed pure anger. "I told you to get some more at the drug store!" she snapped. She sighed in exasperation, then got up and went into her bedroom. I heard her rummaging around, then she returned a few minutes later with another bottle in her hand. "Well, there's definitely no more," she announced, "We'll just have to use this." She shook the bottle a few times, then placed it on the table between us. It was a vivid, frosted strawberry pink. "Mom!" I wailed, incredulous, "I can't wear that to work! Everyone will laugh at me!" "It's your own fault," she stated, fixing me with an angry stare, "You should have remembered to buy more when I asked you to. You're not going to work with ugly, dirty nails and that's final. Now hold out your hands." My nails were hardly dirty and, under Mom's care, far from ugly, but by now I had learned to be wary of her anger when she was in one of these moods. Hesitantly, I placed my hands on the table between us. As she brushed the polish on my nails I reflected that, while I could clearly remember the other items on the long list of things she'd asked me to buy at the drug store, I couldn't remember nail polish being among them. And the more I thought about it, the more I was sure that the last time she'd done my nails, there was still almost half a bottle of the clear polish left. What's going on? I wondered. She finished my nails, two coats again, which I'd decided was probably standard. By now, they'd grown to more than a quarter inch or so past my fingertips, and were still shaped into feminine ovals. They did look nice, I thought. Nice, that is, for a girl. How the hell was I going to hide them for an entire day at work? --- The following day, Mom had once again laid out clothes for me to wear to work. White sleeveless blouse, black dress slacks, the usual black loafers. I dressed, brushed my curly locks, and presented myself for her inspection. She looked me up and down. "Let me see your nails," she demanded. I held them out. "Okay," she said, "They look very nice. I don't know why you're complaining. The girls at work will probably love them." She looked at me speculatively. "Just a minute." She disappeared into her bedroom, returning a few moments later. "If you're going to have bare arms, you should have something to wear to dress them up," she announced, producing her silver Tiffany bracelet. She clipped it on my right wrist. I quailed, but at the look in her eye I swallowed the complaint I was about to utter. Throughout the drive to the office I worriedly pondered the day ahead, wondering how Shayla and the others would react to my frosted pink nails and my distinctly feminine bracelet. I could hardly keep them concealed for the entire day, I thought anxiously. The possibility of secretly removing the bracelet didn't even occur to me. If Mom found out, she'd probably have gone ballistic. --- I suppose, in retrospect, I need hardly have worried. As I settled in at my desk, Shayla appeared and put her arm around my shoulder, giving it a quick squeeze. "Hi buddy!" she exclaimed brightly, "How was your weekend?" "Okay, I guess," I mumbled. I was holding my hands underneath the desk. "Just 'okay I guess'?" she said, "Hon, we have to get you out some weekend, and show you some real fun!" I smiled wanly. "Anyway, Cynthia wants me to show you something new this morning, so log in, if you haven't already, and we'll get started." Well, there was no putting it off, I sighed inwardly, and put my fingers to my keyboard. Oddly, she didn't say anything right away. She walked me through the use of the citation database that the firm maintained, and showed me how to do complex searches, and to select references and insert them into the briefs I was working on. The time passed quickly and I began to relax. Finally, she said, "Well! You seem to have picked that up pretty fast! As usual!" she finished with a laugh, "So I'll leave you to it, but if you have any questions, just ask." I thought that was it, but as she stood she leaned over and whispered in my ear, "By the way, I just love your nails! They're gorgeous! You should wear polish more often; that shade totally suits you! And a Tiffany bracelet, too! I'm so jealous!" Then she was gone, back to her own cubicle. Well, I thought to myself, that wasn't too bad. At coffee break Janice came over to my desk. "Hey Chris! How's it going? Want some coffee?" she plunked herself down next to me, "Let's see those nails of yours. Shayla says you're wearing some really pretty polish!" Resignedly, I held out my hands for her inspection. "God your nails are gorgeous! I wish mine could look like that naturally. I have to wear acrylics or they break faster than a bad gambler's bank account. Great bracelet, too, by the way. Tiffany's so sexy, don't you think?" I mumbled something that might have been agreement, then when she waved her coffee cup inquiringly, I nodded. As sometimes happens on breaks, the girls clustered together in the clear space near my cubicle, chatting and drinking coffee. Oh well, I thought, might as well get it over with. It's the uncertainty that's the worst. I stood up and joined the group and, when I was sure several of them were looking in my direction, raised my cup to my lips, displaying my nails. "Oooh!" one of them exclaimed, "Shayla mentioned you were wearing nail polish today!" The others turned to look in my direction, and in moments I had a cluster of them around me, oohing and aahing over my nails and my bracelet. They all seemed impressed, and no-one seemed to think it was at all unusual for the only guy in the office to be sporting frosted pink nails and unmistakably feminine jewelry. The rest of the day passed uneventfully, and the following day I regarded the prospect of appearing at the office wearing nail polish with somewhat less trepidation. But Mom and Cynthia had more in mind. That morning I was wearing black slacks, sleeveless white blouse, a short-sleeved tailored black blazer and my usual black loafers. As we were getting ready to leave, I heard the doorbell, followed a few moments later by Cynthia's voice. As sometimes happened, she stopped by our house on the way to work if she had something to discuss with Mom. As I emerged and presented myself for my Mom's daily inspection, she, Cynthia, glanced at my hands and commented, "I heard you were wearing some nice polish! Very pretty!" She looked at me musingly, then said to Mom, "Hey Liz, don't you have some lipstick that matches that polish?" "I do!" Mom responded as I looked at her, stricken. Oh god, I thought, panicked, not lipstick! She rummaged in her purse for a few moments, then said, "Wait a minute," and disappeared into her bedroom, emerging a moment later clutching her makeup bag. She pawed through it for a few seconds, then said, "Here it is!" "Mom, please!" I begged, "Please don't make me wear lipstick!" "Oh god, here we go again!" she exploded, her anger still on a hair-trigger, apparently, "Listen to me, mister. You'll wear what I say you'll wear! Cynthia has suggested you wear lipstick to work, so she must think it's a good idea. Therefore you will wear lipstick, is that clear?!" "Yes ma'am," I muttered, staring at my feet. "Now, open your mouth a little, please..." She opened the lipstick. I obeyed, and she smoothed it over my lips while my heart plummeted into my feet. "Now, do this," she said, biting her lips and rubbing them together. I copied her, still looking at the floor. "Look at me!" she commanded. I looked up. She was silent for a moment, regarding me. "Hmmm..." she mused, "Something's missing." She rummaged again in her makeup bag, producing a tube of mascara and a compact. "Now, look up..." she said, brandishing the mascara wand. She stroked some on my lashes, upper and lower, then opened the compact and stroked a wisp of blush onto my cheeks. "Perfect!" exclaimed Cynthia, grinning. Oh my god, I thought despairingly, as I caught sight of myself in the hall mirror. There's no way I can get away with this! Before was bad enough. Before I looked like a sissy. Now I looked like a girl. It was true enough. With my thick tresses cascading around my shoulders, my short-sleeved women's jacket and now obvious makeup, the person gazing back at me with a frightened expression was, at best, of indeterminate sex, feminine more than anything else, a girl but for the lack of breasts. What next? I wondered. What would they want me to wear next? I knew somehow that my ordeal was far from over. But, though I may have regarded it as an ordeal, work was, in fact, far from unpleasant. Each new way they thought of to make me more and more feminine was greeted, somehow, with fresh enthusiasm and support from the women at work. Nobody ever expressed anything less than complete acceptance and approval. That day was a case in point. When I, with pounding heart, and tube of frosted pink lipstick in my jacket pocket (for touch-ups, Mom had said, clearly expecting me to be wearing it all day), I was greeted by no great uproar or shocked expressions, just the usual friendly greetings and casual chatter. During the mid-morning coffee break, as we stood around talking, Shayla stood next to me and I fancied that several times her eyes strayed to my lips, but she said nothing, just smiled. As we were wrapping up at the end of the day, she came up to me and laid a hand on my arm, saying, "Have a good evening, hon! And I hope you wear makeup more often. You looked fabulous today!" So she had noticed, and so, no doubt, had everyone else. As I rode home with Mom, I found myself, unexpectedly, feeling a little disappointed that no greater fuss had been made. Did I miss the more overt approval I'd received earlier? It's certainly possible, I admitted. It's kind of nice being the center of attention, particularly of a group of attractive women, even if it is for being almost as feminine as them. Wednesday brought no further changes, but on Thursday, a different set of slacks lay across my bed, along with a silky, wide-necked lavender blouse with bell-like elbow-length sleeves, perhaps the most feminine top she'd put out for me so far. Oh well, I thought as I slipped into it. It's not like it's completely unexpected. But the slacks were different from any that I'd worn so far. They were tight, hip-huggers with bell-bottoms. And they were way too long, the hems of each leg trailing on the ground. "Mom," I called, "I don't think I can wear these slacks. They're too long. They bunch up and drag on the floor." She appeared at the door to my room and assessed them. "They certainly are," she said, decisively, "Let's see what I can come up with." I thought she'd come up with some alternative slacks, but I was wrong. "Here," she said, appearing again in the doorway, "Wear these. They'll keep the hems off the ground." In her hand was her black high-heeled leather boots. "Mom!" I said anxiously, "I can't wear those. I've never worn high-heels before... And what will everyone think?" "Well, you're going to have to learn," she stated, "I don't have any other slacks for you to wear, so you're just going to have to make do. Unless you want to wear a skirt!" Oh shit, I thought apprehensively, I'd better keep my mouth shut. I wouldn't put it past her to make me wear a skirt, and that's the truth! "And as for what people will think," She went on decisively, "Probably nobody will notice. They legs of your slacks will cover them." Yeah, as long as I'm standing still, I thought, but when I sit they'll be visible, and anyway, everyone will know I'm wearing heels as soon as I walk, I'll bet.. There's no way I'd be able to hide it. "And besides," she concluded, "Has anyone laughed at you yet? Or made fun of you?" "Well, no." "Well then," she nodded, satisfied. Mom had me walk up and down the living room until I was able to walk in her boots without wobbling or stumbling. "Put your weight on the balls of your feet," she instructed, "That's it. Much better!" But my gait was much different, I knew. My hips swung from side to side in a distinctly feminine manner, my steps were shorter, and I knew that that was something anyone would notice instantly. I was right. As I entered the office, Janice greeted me and her gaze instantly pivoted downward to my feet. Determined to act as if nothing was amiss, I returned her greeting and sat at my desk. Her eyes were still on my feet, and as I sat the cuffs of my slacks rode up so that the slender heels of my boots were clearly visible. "Mmm! Sexy!" she grinned, "Love the shoes!" "They're boots, actually," I said, with all the nonchalance I could muster, acting as if wearing heels was nothing out of the ordinary for me, and slid my slacks up to show her. "Oh! Those are gorgeous!" she exclaimed, "Where did you get them?" "Oh... I forget," I replied evasively, not being able to improvise a response on the spur of the moment. "They look like they came from Aldo," Janice went on, "They always have the cutest boots! Well, aren't you the sexy little thing today!" she went on, grinning. By coffee break, it seemed that everyone in the office knew that I was wearing yet another new feminine item, high-heels. --- That day was payday, and on the way home, Mom suggested we go out for dinner to celebrate. Was it my imagination, or was Mom friendlier and, well, nicer to me the more I acquiesced to her attempts to make me more feminine? I pondered this as we drove over to Outback, a favorite restaurant of ours. Should I put it to the test? I resolved to do so. I was ravenous, and chose my usual steak dinner. "No baked potato, this time though!" Mom cautioned. "Why not?" I asked. I'd been looking forward to one, smothered in butter, sour cream, bacon bits, the whole nine yards. "Full of carbohydrates," she replied, "I want you to keep that nice figure of yours. You've been looking so nice lately, in those figure-flattering slacks and blouses. I don't want you to put on weight." "Okay," I replied easily, and she broke into an affectionate smile. "That's my g... That's my Chris," she said warmly. She reached over and fingered one of my ear lobes. A year or so earlier, in a fit of rebellion shortly before Dad had left, I'd gotten my ears pierced (the proverbial shit had hit the fan then!), and had worn tiny silver hoops in them ever since. With my new do, cascades of curls falling around my face and shoulders, they were all but hidden. "I think we ought to get you some new earrings," she mused, "You can't even see the ones you're wearing any more." Test opportunity number one, I thought. "Sure!" I responded with artificial heartiness, "I think that's a great idea." She broke into another smile of what seemed pure fondness. "I'm so glad you agree!" she gushed, "In fact, I think we ought to take a little of our paychecks and go shopping for some new clothes this weekend!" "Okay," I responded a little less heartily. What does she have in mind? I wondered, thinking that I might have to do a little pre-shopping intelligence work. What new levels of femininity did she have planned for me now? There was something else, too, I was concerned about. Up to that time, I'd only ever been to work and back, and to the restaurant, in my feminine attire. I thought it unlikely in the extreme she would consent to my accompanying her to the mall in my usual boy clothes. More likely she would come up with something that would carry my femininity to new heights. I was right. Saturday morning she laid out a pair of tight hip-hugger jeans that I'd never seen before (Cynthia's?) her high-heeled boots, and a powder blue baby tee shirt that left my belly exposed. The night before she'd redone my nails in a dusky frosted pink, and I fully expected her to insist I wear lipstick to match, and probably other makeup as well. Oh well, I thought, hopefully most people at the mall will just think I'm a girl. I was right, and wrong. I was right that Mom expected me to wear makeup, but wrong in thinking that I could hide behind the comforting fiction of pretending to be a girl. On the contrary, as we shopped, Mom missed no opportunity, when talking to sales staff, to make it clear I was male. Our first stop was La Moda, a hip new woman's clothing store. "He needs some work clothes," Mom announced to the saleslady who approached us, "Some tops, a jacket or two, and some dress slacks." "Certainly," she responded, not batting an eye, "These racks over here are our business attire. We have some lovely suits, in addition to some very smart tailored blazers, slacks and blouses. Is there anything in particular you were looking for?" Mom had me try on several tops, first. She selected a white linen short-sleeved blouse with a deeply scooped neck trimmed with lace, a pale blue sheer off-the-shoulder top that could scarcely be called "business" attire (for dress-down Fridays, she explained), some baby tees, a tank top, several blazers, and a couple of pantsuits. "That one looks very smart on him," commented the saleslady as I emerged wearing a navy blue suit with tailored jacket and matching slacks. I had on a sleeveless white blouse underneath, which showed just a touch of lace at the apex of the blazer's deeply veed neckline. "It would look lovely with a nice necklace and earrings, I think," my Mom remarked, and I felt myself blush. We left with a jacket, two pantsuits, and seven or eight tops of various styles, all quite feminine. Our next stop was the shoe store. Mom selected a midnight blue pump with tall, slender heels off a rack and examined it as a pretty young sales woman approached. "We're looking for some shoes suitable for business wear," Mom told her, holding up the pump, "for him. Do you have this in an eight and a half?" The next twenty minutes or so were embarrassing, to say the least. The woman, no doubt in exchange for some amusing stories to tell her co-workers after we left, exuded helpfulness, suggesting styles for me to try on, asking my opinion on heel heights and shapes, and generally getting into the swing of things. We purchased the navy pumps, some strappy black sandals, a pair of sling backs, and some tall black leather boots, all with high heels. A jewelry store was next. The sales girl, only a year or two older than me, was someone I thought -- with a pang of alarm -- I recognized from school. Whether or not she recognized me, she didn't let on. If the shoe store was embarrassing, our visit to the jewelry and accessories store was an exercise in humiliation. The girl could barely contain her amusement as Mom held various earrings up to my ears, and necklaces up to my neck, and solicited the girl's opinion on each. "Those are very in-style right now," she commented, as Mom selected some dangly chandelier-style earrings, "All the girls are wearing them." "Maybe they're not right for work," my Mom replied. "But they'd be perfect for going out," the girl maintained, "They'd be perfect to wear for a date." And her lips would tighten as she suppressed a smile. "Well," Mom countered, "I'm not sure he'll be dating any time soon, but they would be nice to wear out to dinner some time. Now, how about these sets over here?" "Oh yes!" the girl responded brightly, "This is our Career Girl line. They'd be perfect to wear with a suit, for example. "And of course," she went on, gesturing toward another display, "pearls never go out of style." "Now this will look smart with your new navy pantsuit!" Mom smiled as she held a pearl necklace up to my throat, "Do you have any matching earrings?" The girl showed us a pair of pearl studs, and some larger silver earrings with pearl centers. "Now this necklace is adjustable," she said, holding one up, "He could wear it cocktail length, or shorten it and wear it as a choker!" "Perfect," Mom responded, "Now, something a little more casual, perhaps." "Well, hoops are very popular at the moment," the girl said, indicating a large display of silver and gold earrings, "Lots of girls are wearing these," she pointed to some large silver hoops. We left with a half dozen pairs of earrings, several necklaces, bracelets, a small but ornate rhinestone brooch, a couple of silk scarves, and a little cloth hat. "Please come back any time!" the girl called after us, "My name's Mandy, and I'd be happy to help you again!" Our final stop was the drug store cosmetics counter. "Can I help you?" asked the cosmetics girl. She wasn't the same one who'd helped me before, but again I thought, as the blood drained from my face, that I recognized her from school. Mom was holding a compact up next to my face. "I'm trying to find a foundation that matches his skin tone," she said. "Certainly," the girl replied, smiling broadly at me, "Let's look over here at the Cover Girl line. I think they have something that will do nicely. At his age you want to go with something really sheer, since his skin is still beautifully smooth and clear." They selected some foundation and loose powder, while I stood awkwardly next to them, then they turned their attention to eye makeup. "With his beautiful blue eyes," she went on, "Something like this would look lovely. A smoky plum, with a tawny beige for highlighting under the brow line..." Lipsticks were next, and nail polish. They selected several, showing each to me and asking my opinion, to which I would respond in a low mumble, "It's okay, I guess." They chose some eye liner and blush, and finally Mom said, "He'll want his own makeup case, too, to carry it all in. Do you have anything that's pretty and feminine?" Later, at home, I decided to test my theory again. As we were putting all of my new things away, I turned to Mom and began, "Mom?" "Yes, hon?" "Thanks so much for taking me shopping today, and buying me all this stuff! I'm really looking forward to wearing some of my new clothes on Monday!" She positively beamed. "Well, you're very welcome, honey!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms around me and giving me a bone-crushing hug, "I'm so glad you like them! I'll be happy to help you choose your clothes and accessories, and makeup, if you like!" Bingo. --- Monday morning, Mom wanted me to wear my new suit, but I demurred, opting instead for a short sleeved white blouse, with charcoal gray slacks and matching vest, suggesting instead that I save the suit for Wednesday, when we would all be going out for lunch together to celebrate Sonya's birthday. As it promised to be a hot day, Mom agreed without a murmur of complaint. She selected my pair of black high heeled sling-backs to wear with it, and my new large silver hoop earrings. The previous night, having decided that I would likely wear open toed shoes at some point during the week, she'd insisted on polishing my toenails with a frosted polish the color of winesap apples, to match my nails. She did my makeup, commenting as she did so that I would have to learn to do it for myself sooner rather than later. At work, as I'd half-expected, nobody commented on my attire, apart from an occasional compliment that I 'looked very nice today'. It seemed that the periodic increments to the femininity of my look were becoming commonplace, and not worthy of excessive interest, which suited me just fine. Mind you, I was beginning to enjoy the compliments, and, truth be told, to my mild surprise I found myself rather missing the extra attention! Tuesday passed without incident, and on Wednesday I presented myself for Mom's usual inspection wearing my new midnight blue pantsuit and white blouse, which showed just a touch of lace at the bottom of the jacket's neckline. Mom selected the pearl necklace and earrings to go with it. For some reason, my heart did a back-flip at the though of wearing pearls. I wasn't sure why. Could it be that I was actually looking forward to wearing them, or was it that pearls were, in my mind, a quantum leap forward in the feminin