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A Tale of Two Sissies By Sandy Brown This story is a tribute to Sandy Thomas. For those of us who came of age before the internet and sites like Fictionmania, Sandy Thomas books were a lifeline for us. I sat at a small table in the dimly lit bar, sitting directly across from one of the most beautiful looking middle-aged women I had ever seen. She passed my most demanding standard, which was, "Would I would love to look like her when I am her age?" Yes, I had instantly decided; I most certainly would. In my left hand, I balanced a Grey Goose martini, my second one of the evening. My right hand lay on the table. My nails, which were painted a pretty coral color, and extended almost half an inch past my fingers, were gently touching the nails of this woman's hand. Her physical resemblance to her daughter, whom I had met in my spin class in the gym, was uncanny. It was her daughter Carla who had suggested we meet. She and I had become friends, going for coffee after our class. The first time she suggested it, she said, "How about we have a cup of coffee when we finish showering and getting dressed?" I actually had a little bit of a crush on Carla, and I liked the image of us showering "together". But, I told her that even though the coffee sounded great, I was not going to shower in the locker room. If she was still interested, I would explain why while we had our coffee. That was how Carla learned I was not 100% female. I had been a little nervous to share that information, not because I was embarrassed or ashamed, but because I had learned that you never knew how people will react, and I thought she and I could be friends (or more!), and well, I didn't want to lose that before it even started. Of course, once I told her, she had quite the opposite reaction. Her face lit up. She said, "Oh, I have someone I am very close to who I would love for you to meet!" My curiosity was piqued, but I hoped she wasn't trying to pawn me off on one of her gay friends. No, it wasn't her gay friend she wanted me to meet, it was her transgendered father! She told me that her father's secret had been kept hidden for many years, but a few years ago, when Carla was graduating from high school, he decided to 'come out' and dramatically changed his appearance, dress, etc. Since then, he had undergone a radical transformation, and was now stunningly beautiful. She said she would not have believed it if she had not seen it with her own eyes. Anyway, it took Carla a few years to adjust, and in the beginning she was actually somewhat hostile. She had resented 'losing' her father. But as she matured, and as she got used to this new person (who was really the same old person) they became closer and closer. Now, her father was her best friend, but their relationship was really one of mother-daughter. Of course, it wasn't always clear who the daughter was, since she had so much to teach him! She reveled in the role. She loved to share makeup and fashion tips with him, to go shopping etc. The one thing she had not discussed with him was his sexual preference. She was still not comfortable with that topic. But as far as she knew, he was not seeing anyone. Carla told me that her parents had divorced, and with a wink, she told me her 'father' was 'available'. I told her I was not interested in men, and she laughed and said, "He is about as much of a man as you are! Why don't you withhold judgment til you meet him?" So, mostly to please Carla, I agreed. And here I was, smitten with this elegant, beautiful, feminine woman. Well, obviously, I use the word 'woman' somewhat loosely. Like me, Charlotte was genetically male. Like me, she had had extensive plastic surgery, including work on her face to give her a slimmer nose, higher cheekbones and a more feminine brow line. Clearly, neither one of us would have been satisfied with merely 'passing'. We both had the desire, and the means, to be beautiful. Like me, she had been on female hormones for years. We both were at a point in our gender journeys where we looked, acted and dressed like women, but had decided to keep our penises intact. I did not really think of myself completely as a woman, but I certainly did not think of myself as a man. I was something else. I couldn't speak for the Charlotte, but I suspected that she felt the same. We both felt very feminine, but were attached (quite literally) to our 'boy parts' and could never see parting with them. I had never been attracted to genetic males, transgender or not, but this woman was different. Her delicate features were exquisitely made up. Her large blue eyes were accented with black mascara and blue eyeliner, and her high cheekbones were expertly highlighted by blush. I couldn't escape the feeling that she reminded me of no one so much as my mother. Yes, it was odd that a person with a penis would remind me of my mother. And yes, it was odd that I was attracted to a person who reminded me of my mother. But there is was. Like when I was with my mother, I found myself unable to resist Charlotte's charms; I was seduced by the mere fact that she was paying attention to me. She was a great listener; her eyes locked on me with an intensity that made me feel as if we were the only two people in the room. And she knew how to subtly elicit information from me. I hadn't realized it, but over the past hour, I had done most of the talking, with her gently prodding me and asking insightful questions. The martini had me feeling buzzed, and the touch of her fingers felt electric. I would answer anything she asked me. So, I told her my story. I had been a feminine boy right from the start. I was always attracted to my mother's things, especially her makeup. I loved sitting on the floor by her vanity when she did her makeup. In another era, I might have felt the need to keep my interest a secret; I might even have felt ashamed. But I was born in 1990; I am only 22. And at the age of 5, in the mid-90's, in an affluent and progressive neighborhood in New York City, there was no real stigma to a boy being feminine. On the contrary, both of my parents, especially my mother, encouraged me to "be who I was". When Halloween came around, my mother took me shopping for a costume. When I expressed an interest in the Cinderella costume, she did not even hesitate. If I wanted to be a storybook princess for Halloween, that was no problem. She would have fun with me getting me dressed up, putting makeup on me, and taking her pretty boy out trick-or-treating. It was the most fun night of my young life, and it made me realize how much I loved feeling pretty. I knew I was a boy, but I also knew I wanted to be just like Mommy. And the lovely thing was, no one seemed to have a problem with that. In kindergarten, I did not wear a dress to school, but I did have my nails painted pink, and I did wear feminine clothing, like corduroy shortalls in pretty pastel colors. My hair was long, and I frequently wore a barrette. For my sixth birthday, my mother took me to get my ears pierced, and I wore two little gold studs in my ears every day. The school had a zero tolerance policy regarding bullying, and I was never bullied or picked on. And in fact, I was not the only boy in my class like this. There were at least two others. As I got a little older, and some of the boys and girls started physically maturing, I realized that I identified more with the girls than the boys. It wasn't so much that I wanted breasts, it was that I dreaded beginning to look like a young man, with peach fuzz on my upper lip, hairy armpits, my voice changing, etc. That thought, the idea of no longer be able to look pretty, just made me shudder. Mom had bought me some training bras, which definitely made me feel better, but that was really just putting a band-aid on the problem. So, she took me to a doctor, and had me put on blockers. No one knew what my future would hold, but at least I did not have to worry about irreversibly turning into a man. Yuck! It wasn't just the increased tolerance that made my life relatively stress-free; it was also the availability of information and communication. At around the same time I started taking blockers, I started using the internet, and I discovered a whole world, a subculture, if you will, of people just like me. It was so nice to go into chat rooms with other gender-variant teenaged boys and share our stories. Just knowing there were lots of boys out there who were like me made me feel good. Of course, for all kids of my generation, we could not imagine life before the internet. It was almost as strange as imagining life without planes, or automobiles. Instant information and communication was just a fact of life. I wanted to know about the effects of blockers or hormones; I went online and in seconds, had the information. I wanted to 'talk' to other 'girls' like me, whether they be in Ireland or Islamabad, whether they thought of themselves as sissies or females who had been born in the wrong body, and all it took was the click of a mouse. I could instantly communicate with the whole world. I tried to imagine what it was like, say thirty years ago, growing up in a small town, with no internet, no parents or community that thought it was perfectly acceptable for a boy to be a sissy. What would it be like, to look like a boy, but feel like a girl, and wonder if maybe, you were the only one in the world that God made that mistake with? Oh my, I could only think that it must be the loneliest feeling in the world. I expressed that sentiment to Charlotte, and as she squeezed my hand, a tear fell from her eye. "Yes, Sandy," she said, "you are more right than you can know. It was the loneliest feeling in the world. I am so glad that you did not have to experience what I went through." I looked at her sympathetically, squeezed her hand back, and said, "Tell me about it. Please." And she began her tale. "Well, Honey, I suppose that when I was a little boy, I probably felt a lot like you did. I worshipped my mother, and I thought she was the most beautiful creature in the world." I nodded my head. Yes, it was the same for me. She continued. "To this day, I don't know what my mother knew. Part of me wanted her to know, and part of me was terrified that she would find out. I would lay in bed at night, fantasizing that Mommie would have walked in on me, say, while I was trying on her lipstick. But instead of her being angry, she would be thrilled, she would hug me and tell me that she was going to make me her pretty little girl, that it was going to be our special secret. That was how I would put myself to sleep every night, picturing me with Mother, at her vanity, putting her lipstick on me. By the time I was eleven or twelve that fantasy would end in a climax, and then I was off to sleep. It got to the point where that was the only way I could fall asleep at night. But I was too afraid to ever say anything to her. Because the idea that she might NOT react that way, that she would think I was some kind of pervert, and therefore might love me less, was so frightening that I simply could not take the chance. I mean, as a little boy, I inadvertently left plenty of clues for her. I'm sure I thought I was an expert at re-rolling her pantyhose, but now that I think about it, it must have been totally obvious to her that someone was in her things. Once, I was trying on her lipstick. I remember the color. Actually it is similar to what I am wearing today. Suddenly, I heard the garage door going up, and in a panic, I tried to wipe the lipstick off with the nearest thing I could find, which happened to be one of my parents' very best monogrammed hand towels. I remember my heart beating through my chest as I heard them coming in the house. I threw the hand towel in the hamper and prayed for the best. Mother never said a word, but she HAD to have known. Likewise, she would get mailers from makeup companies like Estee Lauder, with gorgeous models, perfectly made up. I would take them out of the trash after she had thrown them out. So, where other boys my age where sneaking Playboy magazines under their beds, I had these makeup flyers. I imagined that I was one of them, a gorgeous supermodel, desired by men and envied by women! When she changed my sheets every week, she had to have seen them, stuck between the mattress and the box spring. But again, she never said a word. One time, I stole a pair of her panties, right from her lingerie drawer. They were not very sexy - black, nylon, high-waisted with lace panel inserts on the sides. But when I tried them on, it was one of the most erotic experiences of my young life. For some reason, the fact that they were not particularly sexy made them even MORE sexy. Because they were so clearly a mother's panties, and I was wearing them! I knew I should return them to the drawer, but I just couldn't. I found a hiding place in the bottom of my closet, under my toys. Every night I would put them on before I went to bed, and dream my lovely dreams. I tried to use a tissue so as not to make too much of a mess in the panties. Every morning, I would wake up, hurriedly take them off under my covers, and return them to my hiding place. Once again, I never knew whether Mother knew they were gone, or if she found them in my hiding spot. She never said a word. In retrospect, I still do not know what to think, other than that she probably knew something. She could have simply been afraid to deal with it. She could have told herself that it was just a passing phase. Or, she could have thought that by not saying anything, she was in some way permitting me to continue with my secret. All I know is that I never got so much as a hint from her that I could share my secret with her. It is one of my great regrets that my mother passed away before I got the nerve to have the conversation with her. In my mind, I have played it over a thousand times. And yes, I still imagine her being lovingly accepting, telling me that yes, of course she knew all about it. So, yes, a regret, but I guess i am also glad that I never had to find out the truth. So, Sandy, not only was my mother not there for me like yours was for you, but there was no one else, either. No one, that is, except my imagination. I remember that as a boy, I had a newspaper route. Most kids thought it was drudgery, a necessary way to earn a little spending money. But for me, it was my escape. I would go around the neighborhood with my shopping cart, imagining fantastic stories, creating incredibly implausible scenarios where it was OK for me to be dressed like a girl or a beautiful woman. I remember once, passing a car in the driveway of a house that was on my route. I peeked inside the car and saw a metallic silver stiletto. That formed the basis of a week?s worth of fantasies. In my fantasy, I opened the car and stole the shoe, and was caught by the owner. She invited me into her home, where, in return for her not saying anything to anyone about my theft, she forced me to dress as her sissy maid and serve her. The fantasy was so consuming that, for a week, anyway, Mother was supplanted in my fantasies by the mysterious owner of the silver stiletto. Of course, Mother always returned. Even in the case of the silver shoe, in my fantasy the owner did end up telling Mother, and of course, Mother was thrilled with my new job as this woman?s sissy maid. In my fantasy, the first person invited into the mystery lady?s home, for me to serve tea to dressed in my pretty French maid?s outfit, and wearing red lipstick, was Mother?. I had another fantasy where I was fabulously wealthy. My wife and I owned an island with a house as big as a resort. Every year we would have a party and invite the ?A? list crowd. We would fly them to the island on our private jet. And the highlight of the weekend would be a fancy dress party, where everyone, guy and girls, had to dress like a beautiful woman. People would take it very seriously, with some even taking hormones or getting surgery in preparation for the big event. Why? Why would people otherwise not prone to cross dressing go to such lengths? Well, it was simple ? every year we would award a prize to the most beautiful and convincing contestant ? a prize of a million dollars! Sandy, for years I used to laugh at how outrageous this fantasy was ? the product of a feverish twelve year old mind! But now of course, we see transgendered people on Project Runway. We see Ru Paul hosting Drag Race. We see transsexuals competing in Miss Universe! I guess I was just ahead of my time!! But Sandy, sadly for me, there was no one to share any of these fantasies with. There was no Fictionmania for me to post my fantasies online. Not only that, I seriously believed that the way I felt was not only not normal, but for all I knew I was the only one like that. I mean, I had heard the occasional tales of people like Christine Jorgenson, and later Renee Richards, but these people were still viewed as freaks by society. Anyway, they had had sex change operations, and as I said, I never thought about parting with my penis. There were certainly no Andrej Pejics, gorgeous, androgynous boys who walked the runways of Milan in wedding gowns to the applause of society?s elite. Like many boys (but unbeknownst to me at the time) I went through occasional periods of guilt, self-loathing and purging of my little feminine collections. I just felt that there must be something wrong with me. What boy wants to be like his mother? It?s just not normal! But like almost all boys who went through these feelings, the urges were just too strong to repress for long. Sooner or later, they would return. And with the return of those feelings came almost a feeling of resignation. ?Yes, this is who I am. A freak, a pervert. It is my lot in life.? So, yes, I was a lonely, frightened boy, who loved feminine things, who dreamt that his mother would discover his secret and that it would become THEIR secret, who loved his time alone so he could create this alternative universe in his mind, where he could dress in pretty things, and wear high heels and makeup. And then, one day, it all changed?.. I was home alone. I did not know how long my mother would be out for, so I resisted the urge to go upstairs to her bedroom to try on some of her things. I did not want to be caught. Instead, I found one of her fashion magazines. This was almost as good, because I would take it to my room, take my panties out of their hiding place, get under my covers, and as I thumbed through the pages, I would imagine that it was ME in those pages, especially the makeup ads. In my fantasy, I was still a boy, but so beautiful that the talent agents had spotted me and decided that I simply must be one of their models. Before there was the real Andrej Pejic, in my mind, I WAS Andre Pejic. Of course, in the fantasy, I was resisting the offers of the modeling agencies, because I was not a sissy! But the money was so good, it would pay for my college education. How could I resist? Especially because Mother was pressuring me to accept. In my fantasy, she would say, ?Honey, I know it would feel strange for you to do this, but the money is so good. I think you should do it.? And then she would smile a little knowing smile, wink at me and say, ?Anyway, who knows, you may find that you actually like it! And just think about how much fun we will have putting on our makeup together! ? When reading these magazines, I would try to hold off for as long as I could ? after all, these were the best moments of my day ? but sooner or later, I would close my eyes, and release would come?. This one time, I held off all the way until I got to the back of the magazine. I had never made it this far before. There, they had all kinds of interesting, smaller ads. Machines to increase the size of a woman?s breast. Permanent hair removal. Exercise products promising miraculous results. And there, tucked into the bottom part of a page, was an illustration, of what looked like a young, pretty boy, with his eyes closed. Above his head was a cloud, as if he were dreaming. Inside the cloud was a picture of a beautiful girl, with long, flowing hair. The image of the girl bore a striking resemblance to the boy. Underneath the illustration was the following: ?Let your dreams come alive, at Michael Salem?s boutique.? Could this possibly mean what I thought it meant? Was the ad being intentionally ambiguous? Was it sort of a code? That only those who knew the code would know that this was a boy who was dreaming about being a girl? This was an ad in a big fashion magazine. It seemed impossible. And of course, it felt as if the tag line were speaking to me directly ? ?Let your dreams come alive.? Yes, if I was reading this ad correctly, that is exactly what it would be?. I knew that I just had to get to this store. I felt like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, and Michael Salem?s was my Emerald City. I lived on Long island, a suburb of New York City. The good news was that the address listed was New York City, not halfway across the country. The bad news was that, at 14, I had never travelled into the city alone, and I did not think my parents would give me permission. I would have to wait for the right time, and sneak in. I planned he whole thing with military precision. I knew what train to take, how long I would have before I would have to return home, etc. I had saved several hundred dollars from my newspaper route, so money was not an issue. And once I got into the city, I would not even try to navigate the subways ? I would just take a taxi. This was New York City in the Bad Old Days ? of Charles Bronson and Death Wish ? when it was a much more dangerous place than it is today. Furthermore, I did not know the city well, but I had a feeling that Michael Salem?s was not exactly on Park Avenue. Finally, opportunity knocked. My parents were to be gone for a whole day at a wedding. I was so excited I could barely contain myself. I was about to try to enter a forbidden world, a world I knew virtually nothing about. I literally had no idea what I would find at Michael Salem?s, or even whether such a place actually existed. Perhaps the ad was a way for a predator to lure boys like me?. I took my money and walked to the Long Island Railroad Station. An hour later, I trundled up the stairs and out of Penn Station, dazed by the enormity of the city. I jumped in a taxi, and told the driver the address. The address was on the East side of Manhattan. I got out of the taxi and walked up to the store. OMG, it was closed! I was crushed. All this planning, for nothing! Out of nowhere, a handsome, well-dressed man approached me. He spoke to me softly, almost in a whisper. He said, ?There is another store, son. Here is the address. ? And he wrote it down on a piece of paper. He continued, ?The neighborhood there is not as nice as this one, so be careful, OK?? I nodded in assent, and he said, ?Good luck.? And then he disappeared around the corner. I found a taxi, got in and read the driver the address. He gave me a doubtful look. ?Hey Bud, you sure that?s the neighborhood you want?? I wasn?t sure of anything, but I said, yes, it was. We drove west, all the way across the width of the city, and I got out in front of a tenement building, in a seedy neighborhood that did not look very safe. Now I knew why the driver looked doubtful. I was frightened, in part because I had a hundred dollars in my pocket. I looked up at the address on the building. It looked like an apartment building, not a place where there would be a retail store. The front door was locked, but there was a buzzer and an intercom next to it, with ?Lee?s Mardi Gras Boutique? written on a label attached to the intercom. I buzzed. A husky voice answered. My heart was beating a mile a minute. I was more scared than the first time I had tried on my mother?s lipstick. I could not believe I was doing this. The voice said, ?Yes?? I just stood there, speechless. I did not even know what to say. I then realized that there was a camera with the intercom. After a moment, the person answering on the other end clearly took pity on me and said, ?Honey, would you like to come upstairs and visit?? I was literally shaking. ?Yes,? I said. ?Yes, I would.? The buzzer buzzed, and I opened the door, and started walking up the three flights of stairs to the ?store?. I opened the door, and standing just inside was a man who looked like he was right out of La Cage Au Faux (which, as far as I know, had not yet been written!) Dressed in a man?s suit, on the surface he looked perfectly groomed. But upon closer inspection, it was clear that his eyebrows were tweezed into a thin arch, and he was wearing heavy foundation which hid any trace of a beard. Then I noticed that his dress shirt appeared to be silk, not cotton. The pocket square was pink. His hair was clearly dyed a lovely auburn. And on his feet were shiny black patent leather shoes. His nails were painted with a clear polish. In the same husky voice that answered the intercom, he said, ?Welcome Sweetie. I?m Lee. Is this your first time here?? I nodded mutely. ?Well, over on your left, we have everything you need to dress you up like a beautiful young lady. Oh, I wish I was a pretty young thing like you! I could make you look gorgeous! But if you?re not ready for that, over there on your right we have an extensive collection of reading materials. I?ll let you browse, and you let me know if you need any help.? On my left, I saw gowns, and boas, tiaras, and very high heels in very large sizes. It was still the days when men dressing like women looked like drag queens, not real women. I was definitely not ready for that, especially because there were two grown men who were shopping in that section. And there on my right, was the section of books ? dozens and dozens of lovely pink paperback books, all with the same name on the cover ? ?A Sandy Thomas Publication.? And that was the moment that changed my life. I looked at all these books, with the beautiful illustrations on the cover, innocent yet seductive, and the catchy titles that spoke directly to me. Oh my. The first one I noticed was ?Like Mother, Like Son,? and I had my epiphany. Like something out of a science fiction movie (or a Bible epic!) I could have sworn that I literally heard a voice speaking to me. ?You are not alone,? it whispered. Was Sandy Thomas a man or a woman? I wasn?t sure, but that was who I imagined was whispering to me. Yes, if there could be all these books, with titles like, ?My Son the Bridesmaid? and a store that was selling them, someone must be reading them. The voice must have been right ? I was not alone. I was very nervous in the store, even though the proprietor was as nice as could be. I wanted to leave, but I tried to calm myself down long enough to study the selection of books and choose some to buy. After a few minutes I looked at the pile of books in my arms: Mother?s New Daughter A Dress for Danny Manicured to Perfection A Tale of Two Mothers Jesse into Jessica Just Like Mom With Mother?s Help Every one involved a boy being feminized by his mother! I did not want to spend all of my money, but I had no idea when I would be able to return. I picked up a couple more: Like a Daughter One of the Girls, and A Living Doll. I had twelve books in all. The man at the counter giggled a little and said, ?Looks like you have lots of reading to catch up on!? Then he smiled and said, ?You might need to keep a few dollars in your pocket. I will only charge you for ten, the next two are on the house.? He put the books in a dark purple paper bag, and handed them to me. I thanked him, walked nonchalantly to the door, and then tore down the stairs and out the front door. I thought I was going to take a taxi to the train station, but I soon realized that there were no taxis in this neighborhood. In any event, I had so much energy that I just started running, and I ran all the way back to the train station. I got on my train, and it took everything I had to keep the books in the bag. I was dying to start reading, to explore this world, to see what other people had to say about girlish boys and their mothers. Mothers who knew about, and encouraged their sons! I tore through those books, reading them every chance I had. Each one was a gem, an entrance into a magic world. I must have read each book a dozen times. Some, like My Son the Bridesmaid, I read so many times that I probably had it memorized. I loved the gradual, incremental transformation of the boy by his mother, in a sweet, secret conspiracy with his sister. First a barrette and pony tail for his long hair, then nail polish, then mommy?s nightie, to be followed by an outfit that would be matching with his sister on her arrival home from college. And the reunion, brother and sister dressed identically in leather pants and pretty sweater, the brother wearing a touch of makeup and proper undergarments, ends up being witnessed by sister?s best friend, who is taken by this sweet sissy. The outside witness there to add just the right touch of humiliation. The story continues the escalation of feminization, moving onto the siblings wearing matching dresses to the Christmas formal (designed by the brother!) and culminating in him being the bridesmaid at his sister?s wedding. But the most precious moment ? one that stays with me all these many years later ? an early scene describing how he opened his mouth while applying mascara ? and mother and sister giggling, laughing at him just a little ? about how he did that just like a real girl! I read that and thought back to how I tried on my mother?s makeup, thinking about how I tried on her mascara, and yes, I did the same thing! That moment of recognition ? that this really could have been me! was so thrilling for me! The stories were all wonderfully sweet, and on the surface, there was no sexuality. But they were throbbing with sexual tension. Every time the mother took her son a step further down the path to femininity, it was an erotic experience for him (and for her? I could only hope!) The author did not have to spell it out, because I KNEW it to be the case, as every other boy reading this story knew it. Yes, I felt like they had all been written just for me. But the wonderful part was that I knew that was not true ? that there were others out there reading these same books. I was not alone. Now, when I went to bed at night, it was not with a flyer from Estee Lauder, it was with one of Sandy?s books. And every night, I said a prayer of thanks to this mystery woman who never met me but seemed to know me better than anyone. This woman who had the courage to publish these books in an age before it was all considered perfectly fine for boys to want to be princesses. And Sandy, those books kept my hope alive until the day when both I and the world changed enough for me to get the courage to show my real self to the world. So, Yes, Dear, count your blessings, and remember those who blazed the trail for you! You might not have even heard of Sandy Thomas, but trust me, you owe her more than you can imagine!? We were both crying. Fortunately, we were both wearing waterproof mascara. I started giggling, wondering if they even had waterproof mascara in the days when My Son the Bridesmaid was written! Charlotte laughed too, and said she had no idea!! I told Charlotte I was grateful to Sandy, and to her. I had no idea how I would react to Charlotte if things went further, but I knew that I wanted to find out. I leaned forward, and kissed her gently on the lips. I loved the feeling of lipstick on lipstick. ?Will you take me home with you?? I asked her. She smiled, said nothing, took me by the hand, and we walked out the door. Post Script: For those younger girls out there, Sandy is still in business: www.sthomasa.com And, look for this author?s upcoming book ? ?Jamie?s First Bra.?