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An Unforgettable Brief Encounter They were failures in gym class; Coach called Erik and Kay "girls" and that gave them an idea. By Katherine Day (Copyright 2006 by K-G Communications) I approached my first day of gym class in the 7th Grade with a trembling fear. When I was growing up in the day leading up to World War II, we stayed in grade school through the 6th Grade, and then we went to Junior High School. In our town, the Junior High School was attached to the Senior High School, where all the big kids were. Oh, I was scared! Was I going to get beat up? Were the kids going to laugh at me? How could I be one of the boys, when I was such a sissy. Why wasn't I like other boys, with hard bodies and rippling muscles? Why were my shoulders so narrow, my arms so slender and soft, my tummy so round and my hips so wide? My legs featured chubby thighs and slender ankles. I was known in my grade school class as one of the sissies. Well, in truth, the only sissy. I wasn't sure what a sissy was, except that I thought it was a boy who was weak and lousy at sports. Even though I rarely got teased, and got along OK with the kids, I was sure they all looked upon me with scorn. Always picked last in our pickup games and relegated to right field where I would do the least harm, it was a daily humiliation. I can still remember my futile efforts to swing a bat and actually hit a ball; my arms were too weak to handle the bat with ease. That summer, all the kids in the neighborhood were hanging around, and Billy Simpson decided to show off his arm muscles. He pulled up his t- shirt sleeve, and made a muscle. "Let's see who's got the biggest muscle," he challenged, looking at Wanda and Marianne, the two girls in the group, expecting their admiration. All the other boys, except me, did the same. I just tried to melt away from the scene, but Billy yelled, "Hey sissy, let's see yours." "Nah," I said. "Who cares?" "Bet you don't have any muscle," he said. "Come on, Kay," said Wanda. "Show us." Reluctantly, I quickly raised my arm, and tried to create a muscle. Nothing much happened, my arm stayed soft and flat. To my humiliation, Billy squeezed my upper arm, proclaiming, "It's a girl's. Come on Wanda, bet you got bigger muscles." And Wanda did. Her arm showed a firm muscular bulge. Then she looked at me, as if in pity, to indicate she didn't want to hurt my feelings. I left and ran home, tears filling my eyes, wondering why I couldn't be like other boys, why my body was so soft, so girlish. Should I have been born a girl, I began to wonder. Then I wouldn't have to have muscles, or be strong or able to hit a baseball. And now, in September, 1941, I had to go to gym class, strip down and show my soft, girlish body. I wasn't fat, but I had a layer of flesh that was almost squishy, and I even had the beginnings of breasts. (In fact, I had been teased about those breasts since 5th grade, when I may have had bigger breasts than any girl in the class.) I was able to put on my gym outfit, its white shorts and tee-shirt, quickly standing tightly against the row of lockers, facing them to hide my shameful breasts and my small, still maturing penis. Other boys proudly showed off their physiques and displayed their wangs like they were swords of battle. My breasts were framed by the tight cloth of a tight tee-shirt which was far too tight for my burgeoning bust and round tummy. My wide hips were accentuated by the shorts, exposing the white flesh of my thighs. But I survived without any embarrassing incident as we entered the gym, a dark, ominous place that had been built around 1900. It was full of chinning bars and ladders, and ropes and mats and other gymnastic equipment. Were we going to use all this stuff? I was horrified. Was I expected to use this stuff? How indeed could I, the biggest sissy of 72nd Street? The first day was easy; we did some simple calisthenics and I was able to keep up pretty well; that is, until we had to do pushups. The coach, a middle-aged man with huge shoulders, a chest that was bursting his tee- shirt and rippling biceps, demonstrated the proper way to do pushups, keeping your body straight and letting it down slowly until your chest hit the floor and then pushing up, repeating it many times over. He did about 15 of them without breaking a sweat. Now came our turn. I assumed the position awkwardly, and in trying to lower my body slowly, my weak arms went limp and I collapsed flat on the floor. No one must have been looking, and I was able to rise up, to try again. "You're cheating," said Timmy, a slender boy next to me, who was doing his pushups with ease. I reddened and tried in vane to do the next pushup properly, but again I collapsed on the floor. "You really can't do it," Timmy now said, with some sympathy in his voice, as he completed 20 without a problem. I felt totally humiliated. Perhaps Timmy's sympathetic tone made it even worse. I imagined he was looking at me with disgust, wondering how a 13 year old boy could be so weak. Things were no better as the class went on, even though until then I had been able to hide my humiliation from Coach, who had nearly 100 boys to attend to. But I couldn't hide my physical ineptness when it came to running laps. Almost as we began the run it was obvious I must have been the slowest boy in the class, my chubby thighs jiggling like jelly and rubbing together as I ran. Puffing, my breasts bouncing with each step, I felt so awful. What a sad sight I must have been! "Oh, we have a girl in this class." It was the voice of Coach, as he spied me. I tried to speed up my step, and moved a bit faster. It wasn't good enough for him. "Faster, faster, girl," he yelled. Try as I might, I couldn't speed up, my breath was falling short. The other kids running by me were laughing and pointing. He soon left me to my panting run and told all to hurry up. Oh, I was so devastated, and felt so inadequate. What was I to do? Was I the only one in the class so soft and without muscles? There was a temporary wall that cut the gymnasium in half, with the boys in one part and the girls in the other part. On that particular day a door in that temporary wall had been left open, and I could look in to see the girls in their activities, and when my exhausting run had ended found myself perfectly placed to look through the door. I had reclined, my soft, fleshy legs tucked under me in an almost girlish manner with my sweating breasts poking out of my tee shirt, looking intently at the girls in their blue gym shorts, white tee shirts, shoes and socks. They were doing simple dance steps in rhythm; some were chubby with wide hips and soft thighs, and I soon imagined how nice I'd look joining them, just another chubby girl puffing through the exercises. I yearned to place my soft round bottom into those girl shorts, to draw the stares of boys just beginning to feel the lure of a female body "Nice view," said Billy Jenkins, next to me. "Love to join in with them," I volunteered, then quickly realized what I said, and laughed, as if to join in a lewd boy's shared joke. Coach heard us, and quickly ran over to close the door. He stared at Billy and me, but said nothing, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Lying in bed that night I thought about those girls, and wondered if I could somehow be reassigned to the girls' gym. I knew that was not possible, but the thought kept cropping up, particularly on gym days when I would have to endure the horror of trying to all those things boys are supposed to be able to do. I knew some girls were stronger than me; it was a horror I first felt when Wendy -- the neighborhood tomboy -- was chosen ahead of me in pickup softball games. I was usually the last picked, although I was slowly getting better at the game. Being chubby and slow and weak left little hope of ever being athletic. But, as fate would have it, I was doomed to struggle through boys' gym, getting a requisite "C" for all my troubles. Though I continued usually to be the worst in the class, I always showed up and did my best. I would be shamed, but I was too shy and afraid to do anything but obey; I was too ashamed to tell my mother or anyone of my terrible feeling of weakness or of how much of a failure I was as a boy. Seeing the girls in gym class had formed a realization that I'd really look good dressed as a girl. After all, my body was shaped like a girl's, and I had arms and legs which were so soft and feminine. My mother had lots of old clothes hanging in an attic wardrobe, and I couldn't wait for a day when the house was empty and I could try them on. My mother and I were the same height and, I thought, about the same size in clothes. She was relatively slender, with just a hint of middle aged heaviness. The day finally came, and I cold hardly wait for my mother and brother to go. "You're sure you'll be all right by yourself?" my mother asked. "Yes," I assured her. "I won't do anything bad." "Don't worry, mom, about Timmy," said my younger brother. "He never does anything bad." It was said sarcastically since he was an active, wiry 12 year old, always challenging authority. His tone suggested disgust with me. I had always been a "good little boy" and rarely gave her any cause for concern that I'd smoke or invite other kids in. It was true, I had few friends then, having spent much of the summer avoiding the outdoors, chances to play ball or go swimming; I was a disaster in all of those, so retreated to my attic hideout to avoid those confrontations. Now, with mom and my brother gone, I could explore those attic garment bags for mom's stuff. The car was no sooner out of the driveway and I was headed for the attic; I had snuck peaks in the bags before and was particularly taken with a pink party dress that my mother had stashed away. It had a scooped neckline, and short puffed-up sleeves, and was fairly short, and would show my lower thighs and legs. I just loved the frills of the dress; it was so dainty and girlish, and I did want to wait to take off my boy's underwear to put it on. I tried to slip it down over my head, but I had problems slipping it over my round tummy and hips. Obviously, my mother was thinner when she wore this dress, and I silently cursed the fat around my waist. The dress was so lovely and I wanted to wear it so badly, when I wondered if mom perhaps had a girdle or corset... or whatever they were called... to hold my tummy in. I knew girls and women wore such things. I rummaged around a bit and found a paper bag (this was in 1940, and plastic bags had not yet been in supply) filled with women's undergarments, panties, bras, garters and a girdle. I think I actually giggled out loud; today, I could be real girl, fully dressed, I realized. Soon I had wriggled out of the dress, struggled at putting the girdle on, not quite sure which was the front or the back. I fastened it as best I could, and found it did indeed pull my tummy in. It did something else that excited me: it pushed my breasts up, creating a cleavage. "Shit," I said out loud, astounded at how round and full my breasts were. It took me some struggle to get the bra on; even though I had big soft breasts, like a girl, the bra's cups were a little too big, so I found some old stockings to stuff into the bra to firm it up. I ran to mom's room, where she had a full length mirror, eager and yet scared to see how I looked. What I saw amazed me. There before me stood a chubby girl, narrow shoulders, arms that were smooth and without muscle tone, breasts that were full, with the beginning of a cleavage showing atop the bra. The girl in the mirror had hips were wide, giving away to heavy, soft thighs and more slim calves and ankles. For the first time in my young life, I felt a stiffening of my penis. Fortunately, my penis was still small and didn't poke out from the panties much to spoil the effect. Before long I had the dress on, and except for my hair, which was short in the style of the era, I felt I looked totally like a girl. For several years now, I had cursed my physical weakness, my soft body, my tummy. It had made me a total failure as a boy, I thought. Why couldn't I be a girl? It was a thought that would taunt me the rest of my life? I was able to be a girl for only about 30 minutes, before I'd had to destroy all the evidence and return myself to my sorry male state. How I pranced about, and twirled and tippy-toed and flung myself about, trying so hard to be girlish. I hugged myself before the mirror, bringing my soft breasts together, forming a cleavage. It was so fulfilling. This is how I was meant to dress, I thought, in clothes that would show me to advantage. These thoughts stayed with me for the rest of the day after I put away the mother's clothes in their appropriate storage spots. About the second month of the school year, there was a new boy assigned to our gym class, and I found an instant connection with him. I first noticed him when I was struggling to keep up with the others while doing laps, as usual bringing up the rear. The new boy was trailing along behind the pack, but just ahead of me, also moving slowly. He was wide-hipped, and the cheeks of his behind filled the white gym shorts, and rippled as he laboriously placed one chubby leg in front of the other. His thighs shook like gelatin and rubbed together. "He looks like a fat girl," I said to myself, almost giggling out loud at the outlandish sight in front of me. Then, I realized: I must look like that to any runners behind me; fortunately, being last, there was no one behind me to see my sorry physique. As luck would have it, we ended up being matched together for some team exercises; those are the kinds which require two boys. There would be sit-ups, in which each boy would hold the other's feet as the other did the sit-up. There would others in which you'd compete, using pressure arm against arm. "I'm Erik," said the other boy as we sat heavily and awkwardly on the floor opposite each other. We both sat with our legs folded in front of us, our shorts riding up and exposing the white softness of our upper thighs. His belly was oozing out of his t-shirt and shorts, leaving chubby smooth arms and pudgy hands. His voice hadn't changed; it was still almost a soprano level. And my own still soprano voice replied, "Hi, I'm Kay." He smiled, probably seeing my sorry physical state made us equals. My own voice may even be a bit higher than his and definitely more girlish. "Kay? K-A-Y, like the girl's name?" It was always an embarrassment for me, but my mother had named me after a grandfather, and swore that it was a good name for a boy. I never believed that, but could never get anyone to call me by my middle name, Frederick. Maybe, I thought sometimes, my mother wanted a daughter. So I was Kay, with a lifetime of letters being addressed to Miss Kay or Ms. Kay or Mrs. Kay. "Yes," I said hesitantly. "Like the girl's name." Then came time for the exercises to begin, with the sit-ups first. Erik was to hold my ankles down as I struggled to lift my shoulders off the ground, with my hands linked behind my head, as I tried vainly to touch my knees with my elbows. It was a pretty sad effort, my chubby tummy making that accomplishment impossible. Erik's effort was even more pathetic. But, interestingly, I loved feeling his hands on my lower legs. I didn't mind it when he seemed to linger a bit on releasing his hold when the exercise was done. "This is the shits," Erik said as we struggled through the exercises. He had even more difficulty completing his sit-ups than I did. Actually, like me, he wasn't so fat; he was just very soft, almost girlish. He had chubby arms, totally devoid of any muscle tone. As far as I could tell, Erik and I were the only boys having such a difficult time; the others seemed to be handling exercises easily, and without too much huffing and puffing. "You new in school here?" I asked Erik as we left gym class and headed for the locker room and our showers. "Yes," he said in his high, thin voice. "My mom just got a new job in this town." "Oh, this your first week of school here then?" "Yup." "Where you from?" "Oh, from California. It's lots warmer there." He giggled. "That's for sure," I agreed. "And I didn't have to take gym classes there. This is the shits." "I know. I hate it," I agreed. Erik walked, taking short steps, holding his body somewhat erect, permitting his amply hips to sway. He walks just like a girl, I thought, and began to imitate him for a few steps. "How did you get outa gym class?" I asked, wishing I could do the same. "It's a secret," he said. "But, some day I might tell you." "Ok," I said. "I'd really love to know. I'm not really much into sports and stuff." "I can tell," he said, with a knowing smile. "I'll let you know soon." Then, we had to hurry to get showered and dressed for next class. Everyone was so rushed, they had little time to look at my sorry body and tiny cock. The next time I saw Erik was in the cafeteria and he came to sit next to me. I was happy he did so, since I hadn't made many friends yet in school, and was so shy. "Hey, Kay," he said, sitting next to me, our thighs actually touching. "Hey, glad to see you," I said, making room for him, welcoming the feel of his warm thighs next to mine. He was wearing black pants that were a little tight across his bottom and a light blue shirt. He had a round, sweet face, with full lips, which were so naturally red you'd swear he was wearing lipstick. How glad I was to see him! I felt drawn to him, his warm, luscious body and his smooth lovely face. He wasn't like any boy I ever knew, since the boys I knew we crude and strong and nasty; Erik was gentle and sweet and soft, just like a girl. And, it was how I felt, just like a girl, too, and now I had a friend. We talked a bit about school, where he moved from and where he lived. It turned out he lived only three blocks from me, and we could walk home from school together that afternoon. We agreed to meet at the front entrance after school. "Hey, look at the fairies," said Billy Hudson as we walked past. Billy lived near me, and had constantly bullied me. I began to retreat into my usual shell, to hide my humiliation, but Erik just reacted with great aplomb. He flicked his hand up, limp wrist and all, while exaggerating a fag like walk, swinging hips and all. "How do you like me now, sweet boy?" he taunted the heckler. I thought we'd get beat up right there on the spot. I never could fight and was beaten up more often than I care to mention, often by Billy Hudson. But Erik's challenge seemed to quiet the boy, a roughly clad, pimply faced creature. "Why did you do that? We coulda got beat up," I said. "He's just a bully. He won't follow up. You'll see." Erik then said, "Don't be afraid to show your true self. If you're a fag, play it up." "Oh, I could never do that." "Well, you'll have to learn, 'cause I don't seeing you ever being macho." "I guess." "You're a sissy, just like me." And I blushed and was quiet as we continued our walk. Chapter Two -- The Changes Begin It was on the following Tuesday as we were leaving school that Erik hailed me and asked that I walk home with him. "Wasn't that lousy?" he said. "Gym class, today?" "Yes, it was awful." On that day we all took turns doing chin-ups, or pull-ups as some call them. Two kids did them at once and Coach wanted each boy to do five, or at least three. I stood about 20th in line and Erik was well behind me. I swear my knees were shaking, since I knew full well I could never even do one. Boy after boy in front of me did five and some did as many as 12 or 15, their rippling arm muscles pulling them up easily. Even Petey Simpson, a skinny kid whom guys made fun of, did his three, though with some difficulty, but he did it. Then came my turn, we stood on a bench to reach to the bar, and we were to grab the bar and then step off the bench, hang straight down with our arms fully extended and then pull ourselves up high enough so that our chins got above the bar. I stood on the bench, my chubby body there for all to see. I grabbed the bar and let myself step off the bench. And, I just hung there, unable to lift myself even an inch. "Come on, let's try to do just one," pleaded Coach. My weak arms were not up to it. I could only hang there, and that was getting difficult, and I dropped to the floor, wanting to cry like a girl. It turned out that Erik was even more inept than I was. He couldn't hold on to the bar more than a few seconds when he crumpled like of ball of jelly onto the floor. "Well, we have a pair of girls in this class," Coach said. That was it, but the point was made. We were humiliated in front of about 80 other boys, and the sad fact was that we two were the weakest, most sorry excuses for boyhood in the class. "He called us 'girls'," said Erik. "He shouldn't have done that," I said. "Why not? We're like girls." "I guess." That was all I could say. Then I recalled how much I enjoyed dressing up as a girl, and that I really could look like a girl. I knew that as we walked home, my chubby thighs were rubbing together, my wide hips were swaying and my breasts were jiggling. "I sometimes wish I was a girl," I blurted out. Erik looked at me, not saying anything. I felt so embarrassed. Why had I said that? He must be thinking I'm weird. Then he smiled, and said, "Me too." "Really?" "Oh gosh yes. Did you see me in gym? I hate my body, but I keep thinking how nice I'd look in a dress." And, he would look better in a dress than in his boy pants, which were tight fitting, his cheeks filling them out to the point of bursting, his chubby tummy bubbling over his belt. "Oh, me too," I agreed. I knew my body was made to fit in girl clothes, after my recent venture into my mom's outfits at home. Erik stopped walking, grabbing my hand, pulling me back. "Look," he said, "I never said this stuff to anyone, never." "Me either, not even my mom," I said, realizing that we had both finally verbalized the feelings we had held most of our young lives. It was obvious that both of us, in that moment while walking home from school had shared a realization that had eluded us thus far, that we might be more girly than masculine. I had never really even considered the idea that I was anything but a boy, a male who would grow up to be a man and a father. Yet, I had wondered about the very feminine nature of my body, my physical weakness and my frightened shyness that seemed to mark me as person ill-equipped to ever be a "true man". I grabbed Erik by the hand, directing him to a park bench that sat at the edge of Nichols Park, a small park that rimmed the riverside, and we both sat down together, me still holding his hand. We sat, our knees held together, holding hands, without even realizing that to observers we may have looked like young lovers. He had small hands, slightly pudgy, but I felt they were very pretty and smooth. My hands were slender, very white and soft. My mother once had remarked that I had pretty hands, but then realized she may have embarrassed me with the comment and never said it again. "Have you ever wished you were born a girl?" Erik finally asked. "I don't know," I said honestly. "I never thought about it that way. I just wished I could wear girl clothes." "I have," Erik said softly. "I don't like to do sports or boy stuff like cars and trains. I like playing with my sister's dolls; I used to play with her a lot, doing girl things." "I don't have any sisters, only a younger brother. Does she let you play dolls with her?" "She used to when we were younger, but now she's away at college." "Oh, I read a lot. Even my mom's romance novels, and she wishes I didn't. She finally realized I liked them, and only makes sure I don't read any of the sexier ones." Erik laughed. "That's funny. I've been reading my sister's teen girl novels." I remembered how engrossed I'd get in the stories, even identifying with the young women protagonists. Sometimes my mother would catch me crying over a book, and say something like: "Kay, now, these stories are just fiction. Boys don't dry over that stuff." I turned to Erik and realized we were still holding hands. I felt so comfortable there with him, his softness feeling so warm and friendly. "Maybe we're really girls, but we got mixed up at birth, or something," I said. "I think like that always," he replied. "Oh, this is so weird," I hesitated. I wasn't sure what so say. Right now, I wanted to hug that soft, fat boy next to me; I wanted to kiss him; I wanted to feel like a girl in his arms. I was afraid to say anything more. "I know," he said, finally. "Maybe we oughta get home." We got up and walked to the block where he had to turn for home, not saying anything. I felt that I was now walking like a girl, cradling my books in my arms, like I saw the girls do, walking with shorter steps, permitting my hips to sway back and forth. I saw Erik was doing the same, and smiled to myself. It was a Friday afternoon, so I wouldn't see Erik until Monday, and I gave his hand a little pat, and began to turn to go up to my house, saying, "See ya' Monday." He held onto my hand, and said, "What you doing tomorrow?" "Nothin' much." "Can you come over to my house? We can have some fun. My mom's gone all day." "I guess, but I'll have to ask my mom." We exchanged phone numbers and I said I'd call him that evening. My mother was pleased I finally had another boy to play with; she had been so worried I was becoming such a loner, and when I told him he was new in town, she agreed I could go there, but just for two hours in the early afternoon. When I called him up later, it sounded like a girl answered, perhaps his mom or his sister who was home from school, and I asked, "May I speak to Erik?" I heard a giggle on the other end of the line. "Oh," said the voice in a high register, "Erik's not home, this is Connie." And then there was laughter. I now knew it was Erik, but he sounded so like a girl. "Hi Kay, I thought it was you." "It didn't sound like you. It sounded like a girl." "I often get told that, so why not be a girl." "I can come over. About 1 p.m., my mom said, for two hours or so." "Cool," he said. "We'll have fun." "What do ya' wanna do?" I asked. "Things. We'll have fun. You'll see." He giggled in a high girlish laugh. I responded with a similar girly giggle, which my mother heard, giving me a quizzical look. "Who you talking to, Kay?" she demanded. "Erik, my friend." "Ok." I have to admit I must have sounded like a girl to Erik, too, for when we were done, my mother said, "You're giggling just like a girl these days." "Oh," was all I said. She went back to sorting clothes, shaking her head. I'm sure she was worrying about me, and about the fact that I didn't seem to be very much of a boy. As we had talked, I found my penis hardening, and relishing in the feeling that I was a little girl. I was both embarrassed and, at the same time, strangely excited that my mother had detected that girlishness. And, I liked the feeling. I wished my mom wasn't home so I could sneak into her room and dress in her clothes. I had hidden in my game box in my room an old pair of panties and a piece of lingerie that I found in the attic, and I hoping Mom and my brother would go to bed early so I could prance about the room, flicking my arms girlishly, walking in short, dainty steps. Oh, how I loved do that, standing before the half mirror, pressing my skinny arms tight against my sides, pushing my fleshy breasts together to make a cleavage. Then I'd whisper to myself over and over: "I'm a girl... I'm a girl... I'm a girl..." I know my mother was beginning to worry about me. I wasn't going out to play ball or do anything with other boys; instead I stayed in my room, reading, or day-dreaming about being a girl. One day she saw me poring over department store ads for girl's clothing; I had found a flowered yellow and light blue print dress, with a low cut bodice, that I felt would look darling on me. I felt I could be as pretty as Corinne Jensen, who I thought was the prettiest girl in 7th Grade. I was thinking how dreamy I'd look, my soft girlish body framed by this pretty dress, when my mother's voice said, "Now what are you looking at?" I quickly tried to shut the paper, but she grabbed it before I could close it, and she said, "What are you doing? Looking at little girls?" "I guess," was all I could say, my face reddening, I'm sure. "That's naughty," she said. She proceeded to lecture me on how boys should not ogle at girls or have dirty thoughts. I was so relieved, since she didn't realize the real reason I was looking at the dress. It had nothing to do with desiring that girl model; I was secretly wishing I could be that girl, looking so feminine and pretty. Chapter Three - Some Sudden Surprises Erik was home alone, as he promised, when I arrived there Saturday afternoon. I was so eager to go there I left early, surprising him. He was slow to answer the doorbell, and when he finally did he was standing there in a pink, fleece robe, fluffy slippers and his hair brushed long and flowing. "Oh Kay, I had to be sure it was you." He hurried me in the house, obviously hoping no one would see how he was dressed. "I had hoped to be all dressed when you came," he said in his high voice, making it sound so girlish. "Oh you look fine as you are," I answered. His robe was loosely tied and through the opening in the front I could see Erik was wearing a bra and panties. His smooth white flesh bulged out from under the bra. He led me into the house and to what appeared to be a girl's bedroom. There were stuffed animals everywhere; the curtains were pink and frilly as was the bedspread. There was a cute vanity covered with cosmetics, a mirror, and a vanity chair. There was scent of sweet potpourri. "Is this your bedroom?" I asked. "No, I wish. It's my sister's; she's off to college." "What are we doing here?" "You'll see." I loved this room; it was so girly, and I found myself feeling right at home. There were two sets of clothing laid out neatly on the lovely bedspread; each set had a skirt, a blouse or camisole and undergarments. "Oh this is so cool," I said, with a light-hearted giddiness. "Are we both going to be girls today?" "Don't you want to?" he asked. "Oh yes. Will these fit?" "I think so. They're my sister's old clothes from high school. She was kinda chubby then." "Like you and me," I agreed. "See. Look how her bra and panties fit me," he said, dropping the robe off his shoulders, letting it fall to ground. He stood before me, his soft, white flesh seeming to ooze out from the restrictions of the bra and its straps, and over the silky texture of the panties, which held his ass cheeks. He twirled about, in an exaggerated girlish fashion, looking so much like a chubby girl. "I see," I said. I just stood and stared, feeling my penis beginning to grow between my thighs now. "You like?" "I do. You look so much like a girl now." "Yeh," he said. "Coach called us 'girls,' so let's be girls." Right then I wanted to go and put my arms around Erik, so hold his sweet body tightly, to work my fingers into his flesh and to draw him tightly to me. But, I restrained myself, wondering whether he'd like that. "Which set is mine?" I asked. Erik pointed to a set that included a plaid skirt, a lacy bra, some red panties, a white blouse, some pearls and clip-on earrings. There was also a pair of black girl's shoes, which I thought were called pumps, and some short white socks. "I think you'll look cute in that," he said. "Now, strip down, and take off everything, even your underwear." "Oh this is so cool," I said. I was so eager to get started dressing that I literally pulled my clothes off and was soon standing there totally naked. I felt awkward, and bent forward slightly, putting my hands in front of me to hide my male organ. Little did I know but that it would accentuate the flesh of my breasts, even to the point of creating a cleavage. Erik's eyes widened as he looked at me. "Kay, you're a girl! Look at those breasts." I looked down, and saw how pronounced my breasts had become. They seemed to hang down, and nipples seemed to be large. I was tucking my small penis between the fat of my thighs. I blushed. I felt so much like a girl. Before I could reply, Erik had come before me and was fondling my breasts, his hands cupping the flesh, his fingers playing with the nipples. He stood before, a chubby girl in bra and panties, his lips moist. I wanted to hug him so badly. Soon he was in my arms, feeling so warm and soft. Our tummies were touching, and I felt we were wallowing in our girlish chubbiness. And I was hugging him so tightly. "We better go to my room," Erik said breathlessly. "We don't wanna muss up my sister's room." We walked together arm in arm to his room and flopped on his bed. And he was on his back, and I was lying on top of him, one of my tits in his mouth. His hands were on my round ass, caressing it passionately. Soon he released my tit and soon we were laying side-by-side, our legs intertwined, our fat thighs together and our tiny cocks touching. Soon we were kissing, lips together and tongues touching and playing with each other. "You're so soft," I whispered to Erik. "You too, sweetie," he said, as we resumed kissing. My cock was now hard, and I was afraid I was about to ejaculate all over Erik. I loved him now so much, and my cock was so hard. I felt his grow hard too. "I'm afraid I'm going to jack off," I said. "Me too." "Should we?" He didn't responded, but just rocked back and forth harder and faster. We were shaking the bed, our rolls of fat and chubby thighs melded together. Soon I felt moisture coming from him and I couldn't hold back. I exploded with wetness, and we were both ejaculating, covering each other's flesh with our sweet juices. We collapsed in each other's arms. "I've never done this before," I said. "Me either. We'll have to clean up and fix the bed up too." We found we had covered ourselves with cum, and only a little bit dribbled onto the bed. That meant it would dry out quickly, and probably not be noticed. "Let's shower," Erik suggested. "Good idea. Who's first?" "We both are. Let's do it together." We both giggled. We showered, both of us washing each other down, getting hard again in the process. His fingers and hands moved down my body, pausing to cup my breasts and play with my nipples. I found my own hands becoming trapped into the softness between his upper thighs while his slender, short member throbbed. Soon we were hugging together again, tummy and breasts pressing together, our fat thighs linking against together. We were both enjoying the satisfaction that comes from learning to appreciate our soft feminine bodies. Clean and dry we went back to his sister's room where we began to dress up in the girls' clothes. Erik asked me to stand before him naked before putting on the clothes. "You really have a girl's body," he said. "You too." "Nah," he said. "I'm just fat. You should be a girl. Look at your narrow shoulders and your arms. Also, your wide butt. And your breasts. Wow." I looked in the mirror and agreed he was right. Erik's softness came from being fat and not very fit; he had the broader shoulders of a male, and his breasts were large, mainly due to fat. My breasts protruded and were more erect. Also, underneath my baby fat fleshiness was a more slender frame. "Face it, we're both sweet looking girls," I said finally. "Let's see how pretty we can really be," he said. I first put on the red panties; they were satin and had an embroidered border, with a cute little bow on the right side. They fit snugly, but felt so comfortable. Erik now had his white panties; actually they were thong-like, and his soft white flesh flowed out from the straps. "Let me help you with the bra," he said. "Then you can help me." We had showered and doused ourselves with a scented soap and his fresh bodily smell intoxicated me. Before he hooked the bra in the back, he again cupped his hands under my breasts. I loved the feeling the bra gave me; my breasts would bounce up and down when I walked or ran, and it felt so good to be supported. "You're sexy," he said. I helped Erik with his bra, and soon we were totally dressed. Both of us wore skirts that reached only our mid-thighs, exposing our soft, white thighs. I loved how my lower legs looked in their Mary Jane pumps and short white stockings. I felt I had really pretty legs; they were not heavily muscled, as most boys' legs were, but smooth and sweetly shaped. Erik, too, had lovely legs, though they were a bit thicker; yet, their softness showed sexily from under his skirt. I wore a red camisole, which helped push up my breasts to a most womanly position, and topped it off with a white fluffy sweater. Erik had a white blouse and pearls. He was most expert at brushing my hair and fixing it with barettes. "I used to brush my sister's hair a lot, and fix it up," he said. "I loved to do it, and she said I should become a hairdresser." I was watching him in the mirror; he was flicking his hands about airily and most expertly. "You look like you'd be great hairdresser," I said. "Not as fat as I am. Ever see a fat hairdresser?" I giggled. I could see him as a woman who was a hairdresser, but not as a male hairdresser, most of whom were always rather thin and effeminate. Then I took a turn at trying to fix his hair; with his direction, I didn't do too bad, and we giggled a lot. "We're like two girls now," I said. We put on makeup, and Erik was quite accomplished at that, too, obviously his sister had trained him well. "My sister treated me like a younger sister," he said. "When she baby sat for me, she'd always let me dress up like a girl." "Did you like that?" "Oh yes. I asked her to. At first she objected, knowing my mom would be upset. She told me to act like a boy." "Oh that's cool." "I loved those days. I just like doing girl stuff." "Playing with dolls, too?" "Oh, sis let me play with her's, too. It was cool." "Wished I had a sister. Only got a younger brother. I remember going to my cousin Sally's house and playing with her dolls." "I'm no good at sports and stuff. So, why should I have to? " "Me too." Soon we were all made up, and stood admiring each other for being such pretty girls. And, we were, I had to admit. Erik's face had a round cherubic look, soft features and full lips; he had a pert little nose which made him so cute. It was obvious I had a more delicately featured face, more oval and with the eyebrows darkened and lips darkly colored had the looks of a classic blonde girl. "Wow. We're beauties!" I said, still marveling at how totally girlish we both looked. "We could loose a little weight," Erik said, laughing. "Some guys like girls a bit chubby." "Oh, so we're going after guys, now?" I giggled and replied: "No, I think they'll go after us." I did a girlish twirl, noticing how sexy I looked in the mirror. The short skirt exposed the flesh of my thighs and my ass cheeks were held in tightly by the skirt. "You are sexy," Erik agreed, then ended the conversation suddenly. "I think we better keep this to ourselves. I have a bad enough time with all the bullies in school." "Me too." Both of us had been accosted by some of the bully boys, and I had had the further humiliation of being chased by a 7th grade girl named Naomi who tackled me and pinned me down. The boys stood around and laughed as I tried fruitlessly to get her to release me, but I just wasn't strong enough. She easily held my slender arms down, and I was helpless to do anything about it, except to cry, which I began doing. "She's crying like a little girl," one of the bullies said. "Let's call her Mary from now on," said another. "Yeah, Mary, Mary, quite the fairy," another began chanting, and soon that chant was picked up by all the others. I looked up at Naomi, tears running down my cheeks. She looked at me strangely, like to ask a question: "Are you really so weak that a girl can pin you so easily?" Was it a look of disgust, I wondered. I felt so pathetic. Naomi was a tomboy, that was certain, but the plain fact was that probably half the girls in my class could also have pinned me down. I was sniffling, trying so hard not to cry out loud, when Naomi let up her pressure and let me push her off me, making it look like I was strong enough to do it. She muttered something like, "I'm sorry," and got off me to the cheers of the bullies. She said, "Let him go home now" to the group. "Yes," I told Erik, "This is just between us two girls." It's so terrible being a sissy in a neighborhood of bullies, and because I was constantly afraid of meeting up with them, I stayed home so much, content to read and help my mother out. I loved helping mom out, particularly when it came to baking, and had baked some tasty cookies to begin with. Soon I was baking cakes and pies, which everyone said were better than mom's. I was taking particular pride in my baking, and my Aunt May had suggested entering them in the County Fair, but Uncle Frank scotched that in a hurry: "What will people think? He'll be the only boy there." I blushed during that conversation that went on at our Thanksgiving meal. Mom was quick to set the matter straight, saying: "The best cooks in the world are men." I'm sure mom knew what was going on with me, but she was probably wishing that I was just going through those very difficult years of puberty, and would soon lose my baby fat and become more of a masculine boy. Sometimes, I'd put on her pink, frilly apron; for some reason, I liked wearing it while I baked. I remember one time; I had completed baking a very delicious frosted cookie, and she hugged me, telling me what a good cook I was. "Having you here is just like having a lovely daughter," she said then. I must have looked funny at her then, because she quickly added: "You know honey. I just meant it as a compliment, since your cookies were so good." "It's OK, mom. I know boys can cook, too." I remember she hugged me so tightly that day, and I think she was even crying. I'm not sure why, but perhaps it was that she always wanted a daughter, and maybe I could be that daughter. Or, maybe, she was so worried about me, since I was really doing everything like a girl, and was not growing into a real boy. I loved my mom so much. Many nights, after my little brother was in bed, I'd nestle next to mom on the couch, and she'd talk about her time as a child with grandma and grandpa on the farm in Minnesota. I loved those stories about how she felt as a girl; it must have been so much fun being a girl in those times, I thought. My mom was a sturdy woman, tall as women go, with greying blonde hair that flowed freely when she untied it. She was a third grade teacher in the public schools here, and loved telling stories. I loved her smell; so clean and soapy. She wore little makeup and no perfumes. I thought she was the loveliest woman in the world. "That's me when I was your age," she'd tell me, as she pointed out a pretty little blonde girl with a silly grin on her face, standing in front of a frame house. She was always wearing a dress, usually a plain, one piece dress, sometimes smudged with dirt from playing outside. "I think I look like you, mom," I would often say. "No punkin', you're prettier than I was then." "Awwww, mom. Boys can't be pretty." "You're right, boys are handsome, and you're handsome." I knew that wasn't true. I was not handsome, like boys are. Boys had square jaws, strong faces and muscular bodies with broad shoulders, thick necks and well defined biceps. My jaw was a little bit receding, my face had fine delicate features and my body was soft, with narrow shoulders, a slender neck and soft upper arms. To myself, I lamented the fact that maybe, just maybe, I was pretty. It was a truth that I was beginning to live with, that everything about me was more girlish than masculine. That afternoon, at Erik's house, standing before the mirror in his sister's clothes, my hair pinned in barrettes, I knew I was right. It seemed that in every respect, save one (my male member), I was a girl. It was a frightening revelation, since it changed my entire expectation of my future life. And, it was so satisfying, too, to find out who I really was, and it felt so natural. I was shocked in my reverie by Erik, who approached me, and hugged me tightly, drawing me into his softness and then kissing me. It was a magical moment, his hands caressing my round bottom while our tiny cocks became erect. Suddenly, we heard the roar of an engine in his driveway. Erik froze in my arms, and then pushed away. "That's my uncle Harold, I think," he said, suddenly in a panic. He ran to the front room, and peaked carefully out the front window. "Coming here?" I asked in a sudden panic. "Yes, I forgot he was coming. You gotta get out of here." "Yes," I said, wondering how I would change in to my boy's clothes in time to leave. Erik literally pushed me back into his sister's bedroom, quickly gathered up my boy clothes, threw them into a gym bag he had there, and grabbed my jacket, putting it on me. "Now go, out the back entrance, and into the alley." "But... but... but..." I stammered. "I'm dressed as a girl. I can't..." "Here, wear this cap," he said grabbing a pink wool cap of his sister's. "But, what'll I do when I get home?" "You'll think of something," he said. "Go, hurry." Erik was in a panic, so I left, suddenly finding myself in the grey, cold November afternoon, standing in the alley behind Erik's house, dressed in a plaid skirt, covered by a short winter coat and with his sister's pink wool cap over my hair, still held by barrettes. Chapter Four - A Mother's Reaction I decided I better head for home, and hope that my mom and brother were gone or that I could sneak in undetected and change back into my boy's outfits. As I started, I suddenly realized that since I was dressed as a girl, I better walk like one. So I began taking shorter steps, walking with my toes pointed straight ahead and assuming a more erect posture. I learned that in walking that way my hips would sway a bit, like a girl. Then I realized, too, that I should be carrying my gym bag of clothes in my arms, rather than swinging the bag by its straps. I was frightened as I walked that someone would notice me and laugh at me; yet, I found myself totally enthralled with the idea of walking down the street as a girl. As I passed 69th Street, I saw a man approaching me on the sidewalk. Oh, what was I to do? I felt the only thing I could do was to continue walking as a girl, and see what happened. The man studiously avoided looking at me as we passed and I breathed a sigh of relief. Was his failure to greet me because I had been found out, that he knew I was a boy dressed as a girl? Or, maybe, because as an older man, he didn't want to be seen greeting a young girl in a means of making a lewd pass at her? I felt relief, however, in that the fact was that he took me for being a girl. I smiled to myself, and thought, "I'm a girl. Wow!" My feelings of joy were soon interrupted, when I saw Billy Hudson coming toward me on his bike. He lived down the block and I was scared stiff of him; he loved to chase me and all me a "sissy," sometimes pushing me around. He was sort of fat, too, but he was taller them me, and stronger. I always tried to avoid him. What was I to do now? He rode his bike toward me, slowed down, gave me a look-see and did a quick turnaround and rode by again, to get closer look. "Oh my god," I thought, "He's found me out!" He came closer to me, and rode this bike next to me, following along on the street. "Hi," he said. At first I didn't answer, having remembered seeing girls ignore boys who were teasing them or coming on to them. "Hi," he said. "What's your name?" I kept walking. "Not talking? You new here?" Still I said nothing. "I'm just being friendly. Tell me your name." I hesitated. He was being nice. "Celeste," I blurted my naturally high voice sound easily like a girl's. "Where do you live?" "Just let me be," I said. "Awwww, come on." "I won't hurt you." I kept walking, hoping the swing of my hips and my short, dainty steps were convincing to him that I was a girl. I moved so gracefully, I hoped, my chubby thighs rubbing together and my breasts secure in their bra. I finally told him in a scared, high voice, "I'm in a hurry. Please. Leave me alone." With an angry motion, he turned his bike and headed off, yelling something, "If that's how you wanna be." I kept an eye out, hoping he wouldn't follow me. But he was soon gone. I had fooled him into thinking I was a girl and not the sissy boy who lived down the block. It felt so good, being a girl, but now I faced the problem of getting into my house without my mom or brother seeing me, or without a neighbor wondering who that girl was entering the house. It appeared I was in luck; my mother was not in the kitchen, and I was able to come in the house through the back door, yelling out, "Hi. I'm home." Then I ran into the basement, and into the fruit cellar, where I quickly took off Erik's sister's clothes, and retrieved my boy stuff from the gym bag. I put her clothes carefully folded into the gym bag and stored it on a back shelf, high up, where I hoped I could retrieve it and get it back. I breathed a sigh of relief. I got home as a girl and turned myself back into a boy without being discovered. I went upstairs and said, "Hi, Mom," as she was darning socks in the living room. "Kay, did you have a good time at Erik's?" She continued to do her darning, not looking up. When she did, she looked at me, her facing turning into a frown, a questioning frown? "What's wrong, mom?" I asked. "What did you do to your face and hair?" At first I didn't know what she meant. Then I realized in my haste I had failed to remove the lipstick and eyebrow highlights, as well as the barrettes in my hair. "Look in the mirror," she demanded, crossly. "Tell me what you see." I didn't have to look in the mirror; I knew I'd see a girl looking back at me, but I did look as she commanded. Yes, there was a girl, a pretty girl, staring back at me. "What were you doing?" "Oh, this. Erik and I were doing a little play at his house. I forgot to take off the makeup. That's all." I started to hurry out of the room, hoping to get into the bathroom and wipe my face clean and remove the barrettes. "Not so fast, young lady." She emphasized the word "lady" and I knew I was in trouble. Mom had me sit down next to her. She took my hands in hers, and held them gently. "Kay...oh...Kay. I'm not sure what to say. Were you two dressing up like girls there, also?" "Oh mom." "I guess you probably were. Oh, honey, what am I to do with you?" "I'm sorry mom." "You're very pretty now. You look like a sweet girl in that makeup." "I do?" "But, Kay, you're a boy." "I know mom." She just held my hands and didn't say anything. I know she was thinking of the fact that my father had left the family years before, and that she wished she had a male in the house. She had said that many times before. "I wish I had a father here for you, darling," were the words. "You're such a help to mother," she said to me. "You so often cook supper so I don't have to when I get home from work. And you bake, and even sew." "I love you mom," I said. "But those are all girl things. I'd love to have you enjoy boy stuff too." I started to cry; I felt so bad. I could never be the boy she wanted. I was so weak and girlish. I would never be able to keep up with boys in gym class or in sports. Girls would never want me, I was such a sissy. "I like helping you, mom." "And you do help me, so much. You've really become like a daughter to me." I started crying some more, laying my head in her lap. She caressed me gently, now taking the barrettes out of my hair, and running her fingers through the fine, blonde locks. "My lovely daughter." She repeated the phrase several times. "Mommie, why wasn't I born a girl?" She didn't answer. She leaned over and kissed my cheek softly. "Kay, you better get yourself cleaned up now, and we'll talk more about this later." As I wiped off the lipstick and other makeup, I looked in the mirror, enjoying my look as a girl. I even pushed my arms tight against my sides, pushing my breasts together to form a nice cleavage. "Hi girl," I said to the mirror, and giggled. It had been a memorable afternoon. Erik had introduced me to the whole new world of girlhood, and I loved him for it. I didn't find out what happened to Erik and his uncle Frank until acfter school on Monday. We had had our usually humiliations in gym class that day, he and I being the only two who could not even go up one pull on a rope climb. "You two are hopeless," Coach had said. That afternoon, Erik told me that he tried to change clothes in his sister's room, after his uncle entered the house. His uncle, his mother had said, was coming over to fix a clogged kitchen sink. "Where are you, Erik?" he had shouted. "In sis's room. I'll be out shortly." Erik said he started to change back into his boy clothes, but his uncle opened the door and saw him there, still dressed so girly. "What's going on?" he asked. "Oh I was just playing." "In your sister's clothes?" "Well, ah, yeah." His uncle stood there looking at him, sizing him up. Erik said quickly, "I'll change, OK" "No," his uncle had said. "Stay as you are. You look just like a girl." "Oh uncle, please don't tell mom." "I might. What's your name, Little Girl?" "Oh uncle," Erik said. "Let's call you Erika." Erik said his uncle had him parade and prance about like a girl, finally taking him onto his lap, where he caressed Erik's soft body. "I think you're very pretty, Erika," he uncle had said. He held Erik on his lap for several minutes, then kissed him on the lips and let him go. Erik said his uncle told him they both now had a secret, which they'd tell no one, not even Erik's mom. The secret was that Erik sometimes dresses as a girl and that Uncle Frank felt him up and kissed him. And, he said, his uncle said he'd like Erik to dress up pretty for him again sometime. "Wow," I said. "Do you want to?" "I kinda do, yes. I love being treated like a girl." "I know, me too. But it's so weird." That Monday was December 8, 1941. The day before, on Sunday afternoon, the news came that the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor, and it was likely the United States was to be at war. Dark days were ahead, the fall of the Philippines, the loss of ships, the terrible fighting on the Pacific Islands, and the beginning of the War in Europe. My uncle Michael, who lived with us in those days, had been one of the first drafted, and was in Hawaii, obviously headed for action. Everything was turned to support the war now. There was no room for sissies, and I no longer dressed like a girl. I joined the Boy Scouts, developed an exercise routine to rid myself of my baby fat and become more masculine. I took a newspaper route, requiring the developing of muscles to handle the newspapers. Erik and I no longer dressed. He soon moved out of the city again, and I wondered about him for years. I firmed my body up, but kept a sort of girlish figure, slender arms and pretty legs. Nonetheless, I ended up being able to keep up with most of the boys; well, not the athletes, of course. I never, however, lost the feeling that deep down I really was a girl. It was a feeling that would haunt me, and also pleasure me, all of my life. That Saturday, Dec. 6, 1941, was a memorable day. But, the Japanese with their dastardly attack on Pearl Harbor on Dec. 7 forced me to try to be a man. I succeeded pretty well in becoming a man, but I'm not sure I really wanted that. Epilogue Sixty years later, on September 11, 2001, I was stranded in the Philadelphia Airport after the airlines had been shut down. There was confusion everywhere; no one knew what they should do. It seemed the best choice for me had been to see if I could rent a car and take the long trip back to Milwaukee. There was a long line at the car rental center, and it appeared there may not be enough cars available, so several of us started trying to find others who might be headed in the same direction. I yelled out, "Anyone headed to Milwaukee or Chicago or out that way? Wanna share a ride?" At first no one did; finally a man looked at me carefully, and said, "I'm headed your way to Waukegan, Illinois." I had noticed him before, looking me over carefully, and I thought he might look familiar. He was a soft, fat man, whose roundness seemed to take years off his real age. He had nice full lips. "I'm Erik Larson," he said, holding a soft, pudgy hand. I was disbelieving. "Erik Larson? Did you live in Milwaukee as a kid?" "Just briefly, in 1941." "Erik. I'm Kay. Remember your friend in 7th Grade?" "Kay, oh my God! I wondered about you so often." "Me too. Remember that Saturday?" "How could I forget it?" he said, smiling. Then he added, in a whisper, "We sure made pretty girls together." We were in luck and we were able to get a car; we had to share it with another man, whom we dropped off in Cleveland, after about a 10 hour drive. "So," I asked him as we turned toward Chicago on the Ohio Turnpike, "you ever dress as a girl anymore?" He smiled. "I quit for a while, you know, with the war and all. But, as you can see never did firm myself up. I dress all the time at home now. I'm single. Been doing it for years." "You feel like you're a woman then?" "Oh Kay. I've always felt I was a woman. I felt that way when we played that Saturday." "I haven't dressed much," I admitted. "Not because I don't want to. I think about it often." "You must be married?" "Yes, with four kids and grandkids. But, I have to admit to sneaking into my wife's things every so often." "Oh, I think you still would make a lovely woman." We decided to stop for the night outside of Toledo, and rent a room with a king sized bed. Erik had brought along some of his female clothes, and we dressed, kissed, cuddled and enjoyed each other's company. It was so great, being feminine again. Erik had worked hard on my makeup. "You know," he said. "You're still the prettiest woman." And Erik was still so soft and warm. We found ourselves renewing our friendship of 60 years ago, as if now time had passed. Now, instead of being 13-year-old girls, we were 72 year old women. It was as if my dreams had become reality. There was no doubt that my girl friend Erika and I, as Katie, would be together many times in our aging years: two lovely older ladies, deeply in love with each other. November 25, 2006