Like Father Like Son
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[Author's note: This is more of a scene than a story.]
I was walking out of my bedroom when I heard a peculiar noise coming
from my daughter's room. I walked towards the room slowly, knowing that
my son was in it.
My 12-year-old daughter was away on a school trip that my wife was
chaperoning. It was only me and my 10-year-old son in the house. I
figured he was preparing to play some cruel prank on her or was trying
to read her diary again.
I crept up to the door and swung it open as I heard a rustle deep
inside. I glared into the room and saw my shaking son in his sister's
cheerleader uniform. I froze, unsure of what I should do.
A lifetime of memories came rushing to the forefront of my brain. I
started to take quick breaths and looked at the equally frozen child
staring back at me with fear in his eyes. It was a fear of judgment that
I was fully familiar with.
I lost control of my voice and shouted at him to take his sister's
clothes off and go to his room. The rattled child did as he was told. He
ran by me with his eyes fixated on the floor and looking on the verge of
tears.
I walked out of the room and headed for the couch in the living room of
my three bedroom ranch. I was in shock. I was sure my deviant gene had
been passed on to my son.
I had fought against my urges to dress for decades, and, now, he was
succumbing to them just like I had when I was young. I could not believe
it. I felt as if I was reliving my youth. Except, now, I was the yelling
father and not the scarred child.
I could not believe it. He had somehow caught it from me. The sick urge
that never left me for long, it was passed on to him. I didn't how it
happened. I had hidden it for so long, could he have picked up on it?
Was it genetic? Are we prone to this aberration?
I started to pace as I tried to figure out a way to put a stop to it. I
was desperately searching my mind for a way to make sure that he'd never
dressed again. It's not acceptable. I knew it wasn't. I had learned that
lesson decades earlier.
Dressing in skirts was for girls and sissy queers. I was raised to be a
strong man, a strong heterosexual man. We don't have these urges. It's
not for us. It's for the fags. I couldn't have raised one. I figured
that even if my son liked girls, he'd never get one if he put on a
skirt. He'd just fall into the gay circle. I had to put a stop to it
before he turned gay, just like my parents did for me.
When I was a kid, I was attracted to girls. Too attracted it seemed at
times. I wanted to be there boyfriend, but I wanted to be like them. I
mimicked some of the girl's I liked. They would give me quick verbal
potshots about it, but smiles followed. I guess we were too young to
realize the full significance of what I was trying to do.
My father put a stop to that. I knew I had taken it too far when he
caught me in my twin sister's clothes on one of our vacations. I can
still see the disapproval in his eyes. I can still feel the horrified
way I felt at that moment. It was the moment that I realized that my
urges were not just unusual, they were wrong. My father was quite
insistent on that, as was my mother when she was called in to see me.
My father said that if I wanted to be a girl, he'd let me. He kept me in
my sister's dress and grabbed my mother's makeup. He swiped my mother's
red lipstick on my lips as tears ran down my cheeks.
He pulled me outside in the dress with the Robert Smith-esque smeared
lipstick on my face. I remember the laughter of the other children at
the hotel. It was cutting. I saw grown men and women sneering at me and
shouting humiliating things at me. I knew just how wrong my feelings
were at that moment.
I learned that the minute I put on a dress, I stopped being a boy, but I
didn't become a girl. I became subhuman. I was a thing. I existed for
the mockery of others so that they could feel good about themselves. I
could feel the witnesses to my humiliation all thinking to themselves,
'At least I'm not the Jones' boy.'
From that moment forward, I resolved to never be that thing again. I
devoted myself to proving to my family that I was a boy. I
overcompensated in every way possible. I played every contact sport
there was. I went out with my friends and harassed and beat up
effeminate guys. I scored with as many girls as possible before I got
married. I treated all women like meat until my daughter was born.
After all that, I could not believe that I had to deal with it again. I
felt that this was a sick joke played on me by a higher power. I had
spent my whole adult life denying this side of me so I wouldn't have to
deal with it, and then my son goes and brings back the memories and the
meaning of my urges.
I wondered what I could say to him. I had spent most of my life living
with my own self-loathing because of what I desired. I didn't want him
to go through that, but I knew that my wife would be terribly upset if
she knew of his dressing or my urges. My daughter would probably kill
him for going through her stuff, and there was no telling how she would
retaliate against him for putting on her uniform.
I didn't know what to do. I couldn't look to my parents for an example
because I felt it was too cruel. I understood what he did too much to do
something that traumatizing to him. I knew I couldn't humiliate the urge
out of him. I could only suppress it, and I always figured that was good
enough. I guess it was good enough for my parents.
I did not want to be like them though. I was a strict father like my
own, but I always let my kids be themselves. However, it's hard to deal
with your kid being themselves, when you know that society will the
scorn them for being true to themselves.
I figured that was reason enough to discourage my son, but I wondered
what message I would be sending him. What would I really be saying to
him? What would he hear? If I was listening, I would hear what those
people told me when I was kid. My desires made me a freak or something
worse. They made me not a man. It's hard enough to go through this world
without someone calling you a sissy because you happen to have an
affinity for women's clothes.
I couldn't really support it. Could I? No, that would allow a stigma to
attach to him. It's a vicious stigma that would give kids a reason to
scorn him. Not like adults are that much better. I can hear my friends
making fun of me now for my sissy son. They'd probably tease him too.
I'm supposed to protect him from making choices like that. I'm old
enough to know that the world is populated by people that throw stones
at others even while they harbor their own urges that others find worthy
of disdain.
But then I then thought to myself, what if I tried the middle ground?
It's the least pleasing path quite often, but it seemed the best. I
could tell him he wasn't alone and that I wasn't angry with him, but
that it had to be our secret. I wondered if he was old enough to
understand.
I decided to talk to him. I walked up to his door and knocked. I entered
and saw him sitting under the covers of his bed with the look of fear in
his eyes.
I sat on the end of his bed and told him I wasn't angry with him. I told
him plenty of other people do it. His face kind of grew more relaxed as
I talked. I asked him how long he'd been doing it.
He told me that he had been doing it since he was 6. I nodded and told
him it was okay. I was kind of surprised that he was able to keep it a
secret so long, but my daughter was not the most observant person. I
guess that's a trait that runs in our family.
I asked if anyone but me knew. He told me that I was the only one. I
nodded to myself and thought about what the kid had to be thinking all
these years. He knew that something was wrong with what he was doing. He
knew enough to hide it, but like me he got caught.
I told him I understood. I asked if he could keep a secret. He said he
could, and I knew he could. I told him about my own youthful cross-
dressing. He was surprised to say the least. He told me he thought I'd
kill him if I caught him. I knew he thought that I would react in the
way my old man did, with rage and vicious reprisal. That wasn't me
though. I let him know what my father did to me. He was horrified, I
believe because he figured I was going to do it to him. The minute I
said I wasn't, the horror left his face.
I smiled at him and said, "I'll keep your secret, if you keep mine."
He took me up on the offer. I explained that we could not tell anyone
about it, not even his mother. He accepted that. He understood it. She
was too much of a Christian woman to understand. I could hear her if she
told him. It would be God's word, God's word. She'd berate that boy into
thinking his urge to wear a dress made him the devil incarnate.
I made him swear that he would not dress when his mother or sister was
in the house. He promised it to me. I stood up from the bed and told him
they'd be gone the whole day. He realized I was giving him the green
light, and he scampered off for his sister's room. I peered into her
room and saw him put the uniform's skirt back on. I walked down the hall
unsure if I made the right decision.
Maris
- 26.06.2022
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