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Emmy's Shining Moment By Katherine Day (Copyright 2013) (Dedicated to all those boys who were pathetic in doing pull-ups, rope- climbing and team sports in gym class. Here's how one such boy found beauty and joy.) I knew I couldn't avoid humiliating myself as I stood in a line in 7th Grade Gym Class. It was the first day of the semester in my new huge middle school, and I had been frightened into tears earlier in the day when I climbed aboard the school bus. I had enjoyed the comfort of a close-by neighborhood grade school where my difference had been warmly comforted. Now I was to go to this massive new school, where there were big kids, maybe even some "bad boys" who would beat me up and take my lunch money. We were in one of two lines in the large gym, awaiting turns at standing on a bench, grabbing the bar of a ladder suspending horizontally from an overhanging balcony. We were to do pull-ups. I looked in horror at the middle-aged man who stood before in a tee-shirt and slacks, his muscles bulging and straining the tightness of his clothing. Mr. Matthews was his name, and he seemed mean as he ordered us to line up. I looked at the boys ahead of me in line; they were already developing sinewy arms and strong manly shoulders on their 12- and 13-year-old bodies. The first boy had done five pull-ups, and the second one did seven, and when the third boy, a slender, seemingly undernourished kid struggled to do three, Coach Matthews scowled and yelled: "You'll have to build up those arms, young man!" I was horrified: I stood fifth in line and knew when my turn came I couldn't do even one such pull-up. My arms, I knew, were just too soft and weak to pull up my slightly chubby body, and I remembered how in grade school I shied away from the monkey bars since I remembered how pathetic I was in trying to go hand-over-hand along the bars, only to fall hopelessly to the ground after the second bar. Several girls followed after me that day, completing the task easily. How shamed I was that day. I vowed then, no more monkey bars for me! Finally, my turn came, and still shaking in fear, I climbed tentatively upon the bench, knowing the other boys could see my breasts protruding from my t-shirt and my flabby thighs jiggling as I reached out for the bar, grabbed it, holding on for dear life as I stood there, trembling and afraid to jump off the bench. "Just move off the bench, kid," yelled the coach. I did and found myself hanging helplessly from the bar; I tried mightily to try to raise my body, but all I could do was hang on, not moving myself upward by even an inch. I lost my grip and fell like a wet rag doll to the floor of the gym. "Get up," the coach yelled at me. He pointed at an empty corner of the gym and ordered, "Go stand over there and we'll see if we have any others like you in this class." I heard some faint giggles and knew some of the boys must have been laughing at how pathetic I must have looked; I put my head down and looked at the varnished wood of the gym floor, feeling I must be blushing noticeably as I walked to the far corner of the room. I knew my ass was larger than most boys of my age and that my gelatinous thighs must be jiggling so all could see as I walked. All I could picture in my mind was that it felt like I was walking to the gallows to be hanged for being such a failure. I stood there alone, my head down, not wanting to look up, since I was certain the boys must be looking at me, seeing how pathetic I was. I felt I should cry, and I began wishing I could turn and run from the gym and into the comforting bosom of my mother; I know she'd comfort me and let me cry into her own ample softness. I knew, too, she'd likely get out fresh-baked cookies and milk for me in an effort to cheer me up. I was not ready, I knew, to become a boy facing the cruel world of middle school, let alone high school a few years later. It seemed an eternity before I was joined in the corner; a tall, obese kid waddled over to join me; he was breathing hard and had obviously failed to complete the required number of pull-ups. "I was supposed to be excused from gym because of my asthma, but something got screwed up," he said. "Oh, that's too bad," I said. "I'm Chauncey," the boy said. He was African-American and he had a cherubic face. He actually was kind of cute. "Hi, I'm Emery," I said, looking up into his dark eyes. We stood there silent as the rest of the boys completed their time on the pull-up bars; no one else joined us. It appeared Chauncey and I were the only two boys who failed to complete at least one pull-up. I felt particularly shamed, since Chauncey at least had a medical excuse for failing. I had no such excuse; I was not grossly overweight. In fact my weight and height, according to the scales, was just slightly on the heavy side. The truth was, and I knew it, was that I was too weak and soft to do what boys of my age were expected to be able to do. Coach Matthews ordered the boys to start doing laps. "I've got to talk with those two in the corner now, but I'll have an eye on all of you, so I don't want to see anyone loafing. Go around the perimeter of the gym four times." I waited in terrible fear as Coach walked over, marveling at his heavy, muscular arms and his broad massive chest. How puny I was in comparison. He turned first to Chauncey: "You better start losing weight, my lad," he said. The coach's words were soft, almost kindly. "I know, sir," Chauncey said politely. "It's just my asthma." "Yes, I remember now," the Coach said. "There was some mix-up. You better sit out the rest of the class. Go back and get dressed. See Mr. Smith in the locker room; he'll have you assist in handing out towels." Coach Matthews' gentle nature changed as he looked to me. "As for you, what's your problem?" He asked sternly, examining me closely with his eyes. "I'm not very good at sports, sir," I said, trying to avert his peering eyes. "Well, a boy your age should get out and get some exercise," he said. "You've got arms like a girl." I nodded, but said nothing, moving my head so that I looked directly at the floor. He was right, of course, since I had always tried hard to avoid doing anything physical; I remember being challenged to an arm wrestle with Maryann Heller who lived next door and was a full year younger. It was particularly shaming, since she beat me. After joining other boys in pickup ball games where I was often the last chosen and usually shamed myself in some way, I found that if I stayed in the house I could avoid being placed in such situations. For some reason, I found it was nice and fun to help mom out with housework. I learned to bake and cook; she even had picked out a cute apron for me to wear in the kitchen. It was pink and frilly and I grew to enjoy wearing it for some reason. I guess that because of my longish, light brown hair I must have looked a bit girly in it, but I kind of liked how I looked. "Now join the other boys running, young man," Coach said. "I'll find something special for you and I hope you'll work at it. Your grade will depend upon how hard you work." I joined the other boys in the run around the track, and the truth was I wasn't much of a runner either and as I puffed up into line, I found myself being passed repeatedly by other boys. I tried to speed up, but knew I couldn't move much faster; I could feel my chubby thighs rubbing against each other as I struggled and wondered how the other boys perceived me. "Move over, girl," one of the boys said as he gave me a gentle shove, nearly toppling me into a heap on the hard floor. "You got an ass like a girl," another boy said softly as he passed, and I could swear I heard him laugh after he said it. I tried to move to the side, but seemed to merely put myself in line with other runners. Fortunately I had missed the first two laps of the run and I was able to continue to the end, breathlessly following up the pack as Coach whistled the group to stop. The following set of calisthenics proved only slightly less humiliating, since I was in the midst of the pack of boys, struggling to keep up with the squats, thrusts, arm waggles and pushups. (I couldn't do even one pushup either, but faked it.) Fortunately, all the boys were eager to run through their showers, dry off and put on their school clothes quickly so I seemed to be ignored as we all went through the mandatory showers. If any of them noticed my pathetic body, they said nothing that I could hear. I was grateful, and hurriedly dried myself and put on my Jockey briefs while I faced the lockers, hoping no one would see my smallish penis. The truth was that I loved school, except for this gym stuff and for a constant fear that I might get beat up by bigger, stronger kids. Why I was so afraid, I couldn't say, since I didn't see anyone being beat up, or even bullied too much in those early days of the semester. I was always an eager student, quick to raise his hand, but also realizing that I didn't want to look like a teacher's pet so I tried not to raise my hand too often. Yet, I realized I had to endure gym three days a week and I saw no way to avoid it; I toyed with the idea that I had asthma, like Chauncey, but knew that took a doctor's excuse, and the doctor said at the examination I had just before school started that I was healthy, except that I needed to loose weight and tone up my muscles. ***** Merrilee Wilson was a pimply-faced girl with stringy black hair that fell haphazardly about her head. She was thin as a beanpole, with skinny arms and a sallow complexion, and she seemed to be struggling to keep up with me as she carried a heavy backpack. We had been together all through grade school and she lived down the block from me; she was one of the few kids I could call a friend. We had played together as neighbor kids even before kindergarten when she began calling me "Emmy." In those toddler years she had trouble saying "Emery," and that's how she continued to refer to me. I kind of liked her calling me "Emmy," even though I eventually learned it was a name usually attached to girls. It seemed to create a fondness between us, something special since I had no other close friends. I knew Merrilee never meant to tease me with the name, since she truly was a nice, sweet girl and didn't seem to think bad thoughts about anyone. Yet, she was not popular with the other kids, largely because of her looks and the way she dressed. She was one of five kids who lived with their single mother in a tiny cottage-like one-story house. Merrilee was the youngest, and her clothes appeared to be all hand-me-downs, most of which fit loosely upon her skeleton-like frame. I learned that her older sister roused the kids for school everyday and got them off to school as best she could, since their mother worked the midnight shift at the truck stop as a waitress, along with some other odd jobs, to raise enough money to care for the family. I guess that's why Merrilee and I hung around so much together; neither one of us had any other close friends. Somehow, we both felt content with that and she spent lots of time at my house, where my mom would always make sure the girl got something to eat. "I don't think they feed that girl, Emery," she told me many times. Merrilee and I played house a lot, and we created make-shift dolls out of wash clothes and rags to represent our "kids," with Merrilee being the mother and me the father. I thought Merrilee had more fun being the mom, and suggested one time (we must have been about eight) that we switch roles and Merrilee agreed. We giggled a lot, particularly when I put on one of mom's old smocks. After that, I usually played the mother, particularly after Merrilee said, "Oh you make a good mommy." It was about the same time that mom and I were shopping at Target and happened to be walking near the toy section. She stopped at the aisle where there were stacks and stacks of dolls of all shapes and sizes. She said: "Darling, I think you and Merrilee should have some real dolls to play with. You've been struggling with all those rag dolls all this time." "Oh mommy, that'd be so nice," I answered with almost a giddy happiness. I had been eyeing this doll section for some time now, but had been afraid to go down the aisle, since after all, I was a boy. "I know her mother can't afford to buy many toys, but there's no reason she can't play with them at our house," mom said. "Now, help me chose the dolls you two would most like to play with." "But mom, I'm a boy, I shouldn't play with dolls," I protested. The protest, I must admit, was not too vigorous. "It's OK if you want to play dolls with Merrilee," mom replied. Mom had seen playing with our makeshift dolls in my bedroom. "She's a sweet girl, honey, and no one else will know. Besides, what's wrong with a boy playing with dolls?" "Nothing, mommy," I said. "It's kind of fun. We make up all sorts of games." ***** I was so happy that Merrilee was in my class as we both started in the new school, and we had agreed to walk home together. For some reason, I walked fast as we left; maybe I was afraid of being beat up. "Wait up Emmy. Not so fast," she said as she moved beside me, breathing heavily. "How was school on the first day?" "OK, I guess? How about yours?" "Kinda cool," she said smiling. "I really like Mr. Downey, my English teacher. He told lots of stories from classical novels and made them sound like fun to read." "That's nice," I mumbled, continuing to walk, my head down, eyeing the crumbling, uneven sidewalks. "What's wrong with you, Emmy?" Merrilee said. "You look so grumpy or something." It was obvious I was not my usual friendly self with her; she must have sensed how depressed I must have been. "Nothing," I said, the obvious answer of a young teen. "Don't kid me, Emmy. Something happened. Tell me, you'll feel better." "It's nothing." "Emmy, you seem so sad. Can't I help you?" I merely nodded and we continued on, both saying nothing. "I'll tell you what, Mar," I said, using my name for her, which I had to admit I stole from listening to re-runs of the Mary Tyler Moore show, where the actress was called "Mar" in the script. "What?" "Let's stop at the custard show," I offered. "I didn't spend all my lunch money and I can treat." "OK," she said. "I know that a custard always cheers you up." Merrilee was right, of course. Food brought me comfort; it's what mom had used to make me feel better. ***** We found a table at the rear of the patio of the custard store. Even though it was early September when the weather in our far northern city was already showing hints of the coming frigid winter, this particularly day was unusually warm. It would probably be the last day of the year when it would be comfortable enough to use the patio. "You know, Emmy, that some of the girls in our class already have boyfriends," Merrilee began. "Kari Jackson and Sandy Tremper have latched onto boys already." "Really, I haven't even begun to think about having a girlfriend. We're only in 7th Grade." "I know, but we girls seem to wonder about that before most boys, I guess." "I suppose," I said, and I noticed a sadness creep into my friend's face. "I shouldn't worry about boys, Emmy. I'm so ugly. No boy'll want to have me." "Oh don't be silly, Mar," I said, alarmed at her statement. "You're not ugly." "Don't lie to me, Emmy," she said, looking me square in the eye. "My God, you'd make a prettier girl than I would." I blushed; it was the fourth time that day that someone referred to me as being girly. "Not me. I'm too fat." "No you're not Emmy. You're a bit chubby, but boys like girls like that. And you have such a pretty face. I bet you'd be a hottie." "Oh come on, Mar." "No, I'm serious," she said. "Let's put a dress on you and see how you look." "No way. You'll never get me in a dress," I said firmly. "Never say never, Emmy." ***** In truth, I had wondered for a long time whether I should have been born a girl. The idea had intrigued me, since I had never really enjoyed the same things most boys seem to like. Try as I might, I failed miserably at baseball, even though at age 10 I was on a Little League team; it was a horrifying time and I lived in dread as each game approached. I was certain to humiliate myself and my teammates were none too kind. The sad part of this was that our team was one of the best in the league, and our coach was a "take-no-prisoners" type who berated any of us who committed a blunder, besides yelling unmercifully at the umpires. The rules were, however, that every boy on the team - regardless of how inept he might be - had to play at least two innings; thus I often sat on the bench until the last two innings before the coach realized I hadn't played and was forced to put me in. If the game was close, my teammates were irate when I was called on to play. I was put in right field - the usual spot for inept players in childhood baseball teams so that we'd do the least harm - but the fact was that I might be at the plate in a critical time in the game when I was certain to either strike out or if lucky to hit the ball pathetically into an easy "out." "Next time we have a big game, you better stay home, little girl," George Baker, the huge, home-run hitter on the team, yelled at me when I struck out in the last inning with two men on base, ending a critical game with a one-run loss. "Yeah, why didn't you join the girls' league?" another boy said. As might be expected, I began to cry, and I dropped the bat and ran off the field, failing to take part in the required after-game shaking of hands to show sportsmanship. Mom, who had been at the game, ran after me and grabbed my hand, walking me home. "I'm sorry honey," she said after we got home. "I thought you'd like playing with the other boys." She took me in her arms and drew me into her bosom, where I bawled uncontrollably. She caressed my head, brushing my long hair smoothly as I cried. "Darling," she said when my crying finally subsided. "I'm pleased that you at least tried, even though it was difficult for you." "Mommy, I wanted so much to make you proud of me, but I just can't do that stuff. I tried mom, I did, really." "I know, Emery, but you know, not every boy has to play ball," she said. "Now, what would you like to do now?" I decided not to answer her just then, since I was afraid she'd get mad. I knew my mother was concerned over my lack of interest in doing traditional boy activities, and the Little League enrollment was an effort on her part to get me involved. "What is it, honey?" she sensed I was troubled by her question. "You'll get mad at me." "No, just tell me. I'll understand what it is." What I really wanted to do was to learn how to use the sewing machine, but how could I tell her that? Merrilee and I had wanted to make some new clothes for the dolls that we'd bought recently. I was beginning to understand that boys shouldn't be playing with dolls, but I was so eager to create some new doll clothes. She prodded and prodded and finally I said: "Mom, can you teach me how to use the sewing machine?" My mother, who is a short, chubby woman, smiled at me. She didn't seem startled at all. "Well, of course, but first I want you to take a shower and get cleaned up," she said. I nodded, smiling. "Thank you, mommy." "That's better now, and when you're done I'll make you a nice ice cream treat, OK?" "You're the best mommy in the world," I said, hugging her tightly. Mom opened up her sewing machine and I settled down in front of it. Soon the memories of that horrifying time in the Little League game were gone and I was engrossed in my sewing. It was so magical, and within a couple of hours I had created a short pink skirt for one of the dolls. "My gosh, darling, that's lovely," mom said when I finished. "That's so difficult, dear, sewing those tiny clothes." "Thanks, mom," I said, as a slid the skirt onto Dolly, which was my name for one of the dolls. "You have such a dainty touch, dear," she said. ***** Thus, it was at the age of ten that I began to see that I was different from most boys. Other boys seemed to want to run around and push each other and get into fights. I, however, was afraid of getting into fights and playing tackle football. It just seemed so crude. I didn't like how boys my ages said that girls were "yucky" since I found that girls were just great to play with. In fact, I realized I loved to hang around with the girls, and remember playing jacks with them or doing hopscotch. In school and on the playground, I hung around with a group of girls who were in my grade, while the guys did their rough-housing. One day, one of the girls, Naomi Mitchell showed off the skirt she had made by herself on her Aunty's sewing machine; she had worn it to school, and it looked so cool. "You did that?" I asked her. "Yes, Emmy," she said, using the nickname that Merrilee had branded me with. "All by myself." "I love how you stitched the lace hemline," I said in obvious admiration. "Wished I could do that." "Why can't you?" she said. "Oh Naomi, that's silly," interjected Paula Prince. "He's a boy. Why would he do that?" All three girls in our small group, which included Merrilee, looked at me. I guess I turned red in the face. "You really want to learn to sew, Emmy?" Merrilee queried. I didn't know what to say at first, finally mumbling: "I guess not." "I would hope not. Boys don't sew," declared Paula. I felt disappointed. I really did want to learn to sew as well as Naomi; I had made a few doll dresses with Merrilee, but I was eager to do more, to create dresses in particular. I loved how colorful girls' outfits were. I never brought the subject up again with the girls. ***** I persisted, however, in trying to be a normal boy, but it was painful and often humiliating. I stayed in Little League, eventually becoming a good first baseman, since I could catch the ball as good as any boy, and my lack of speed on my feet was not an issue. Yes, I struck out a lot, but sometimes tribbled a ball through the infield for a rare hit. I even joined the cub scouts and at age 11 the boy scouts. I never felt comfortable doing all these boy things, but I did them, always looking forward to my playtimes with Merrilee. It was several months later at the end of summer, just before I turned 12, that I told my mother I wanted to make a full-sized dress or skirt on the sewing machine. Mom looked at me puzzled; she had seen me adjust into being a fairly normal boy, and had thought that my sewing of doll dresses was merely a passing fancy of mine. "What brought this on?" she asked. "Oh, I saw what a nice skirt one of the girls in my class made, I think I'd like to try, mom." "But, honey, are you sure about this?" "Maybe I can do a full-sized skirt," I said. "Ok, I guess you could, but who would you make it for?" "Oh," I giggled. "I don't know. Maybe Merrilee or Diane." "Oh, your sister might like that, and we know her size, too. Maybe it's best that you don't let Merrilee or the other girls know about this, though." "Why not, mommy?" (I don't know why I kept saying "mommy" some times and "mom" at other times. I just felt "mommy" seemed right.) "Oh, honey, you know how kids can get the wrong idea and start teasing you," she said. It dawned on me; yes, as Paula has said, boys don't sew. I guess I was a bit different. ***** Mom and I found a pattern we liked at the sewing store; needless to say I was the only boy (or man) in the store, which was fairly crowded at the time. We pored over the pattern books for a while, sometimes being forced to move over as several women and girls (some my age) gathered at the large table to search out patterns. I began to worry whether some girls from my school might see me there; I looked around guardedly but didn't see anyone I knew. I was relieved. "Mom, how about this one?" I asked, pointing to a pattern for a skirt that reached down to just above the knee. "I like that," she said. "The ruffles and the way it is gathered at waist makes it look so cute." "Let's get that." "Oh, honey, you'll have to sew in an elastic band, plus ruching. It might be too advanced for you just yet." "I can do it," I said firmly. Suddenly I heard a girl's voice behind me say, "You're going to try to sew that, Emery?" "What?" I said, turning to look into the eyes of Naomi Mitchell. "Do you sew, Emery?" the girl asked, her eyes showing astonishment. "He's just learning, young lady," mother said, coming to the rescue. I was too ashamed to admit that I liked to sew. "Ok, that's nice. You're the first boy I ever knew who likes to sew," Naomi said. I'm sure I must have turned beet-red, because I began feeling so hot. I'm sure my embarrassment must have shown. Mother was quick to defend me. "I know it's a bit different, but I don't see why boys can't sew. Some of the best fashion designers are men, and remember most tailors are men, too." "Oh, I'm sorry, ma'am," Naomi was quick to answer. "I didn't think there's anything wrong with Emery learning to sew. In fact, I think it's kind of cool." "Emery," mom said, looking at me. "Won't you introduce your friend?" Still recovering from the shock of seeing Naomi, I introduced Naomi to mother. The woman standing behind Naomi turned out to be her aunt and soon the four began to chatter, with Naomi volunteering that should Emery desire it, she'd love to help him put the skirt together. "I've done ruching once before myself," Naomi said. "It can be difficult to gather the cloth evenly sometimes." "I'd like to try," I said. "You can come to my place," she said. "Auntie has a nice sewing room set up." EDITED TO HERE ***** "I won't tell anybody that you are sewing a skirt, Emmy," Naomi whispered to me in the hallways at school on Monday morning, while I was opening up my locker. "Thanks, Naomi. I had so much fun Saturday," I replied. Mom had driven me over to Naomi's house the previous Saturday, where I took the pattern, the woven teal blue cloth, the elastic and some thread. I don't think I was ever any more excited about anything before as I was in sewing with Naomi that day. She had been so welcoming to me when she heard I liked to sew, and she rushed out to meet mom's car as we pulled into her driveway. "Oh goodie, you're here," she gushed as I got out of the car. Before I could respond, she wrapped her arms about me and hugged me, right out there in the broad daylight. It dawned on me as we hugged that she was treating me more like another girlfriend, where hugging seems to be common. We were about the same height, and like me, she was soft and a bit pudgy, and I smelled her soft, clean-scented flowing hair as we hugged. Perhaps, I wondered, with my long hair I might have looked to others like I was just a girlfriend of hers. It turned out Naomi was living with her aunt, since her mother several years earlier had suffered a severe mental breakdown, and was living in a group home and was unable to care for a child. Since her father had left the family shortly after Naomi's birth, it was left to the aunt to assume custody of Naomi, or else relegate her to a life in foster care. Naomi turned out to be a great mentor in my sewing, correcting me kindly as I plunged into the project and made some false starts. And, we giggled lots, particularly when I did something stupid. When the skirt was finally finished about three o'clock, we both clapped. Then we hugged, and in our happiness over the completion of the project, we hopped up and down in unison. "Let's see how it looks on you, Emmy," Naomi said. "On me?" I grunted. "No way." "Why not? Nobody'll see you except me. We need to see how it'll hang, and it won't fit me." "But me?" I objected, but in truth I didn't complain too hard. I was interested in how the skirt would look and Naomi was right; she was just a little too broad for the skirt. Beside, hadn't I been wondering how I'd look in a dress or a skirt? Finally I agreed, and she agreed to leave the room while I took off my jeans and stepped into the skirt. As it turned out, the skirt was too tight around my tummy, and the elastic was stretched to its limits as the soft white fat of my tummy oozed over it. "Can I come in now, Emmy?" Naomi yelled from behind the closed door. "I don't know, Naomi. This skirt is too tight on me. I guess I'll take it off." "No, I'm coming in," she said, and she barged into the room. "Don't," I yelled but it was too late. "Oh my," Naomi said. "This won't do. I thought you said you and your sister were about the same size." "We are, but I got a bigger tummy than hers." Except for my bigger waist, Diane and I otherwise had fairly identical bodies, so it was logical that the skirt might be tight at its top. "Let's see now," she said, coming over to me to lift up the shirt that covered me down to my butt. I know I must have grown red, because I got hot with embarrassment. I had always tried to cover my upper body, since it was so terribly soft and unboylike. As I said earlier, I'm not really "fat" in the classical sense; my weight is just slightly above normal for my height and age, but my body seems to be very fleshy, with lots of the fat distributed to my tummy, hips and thighs. My arms, shoulders and lower legs are relatively slender, but they too are a bit soft and without much definition. "Talk about love handles," she said, pinching a handful of the flesh that overhung the top of the skirt. "I should lose some weight," I said, trying to excuse myself. "Don't worry about it, Emmy. I need to lose, too," she giggled. She came over to hug me again, as if to comfort my distress. "I like you Emmy and so happy we can be friends. You're really very sweet." "I like you, too," I said, as we broke apart. I found comfort with her, since she seemed to take me as I was; she didn't look upon me as a loser, which, of course, I was beginning to think I was. For some reason, it didn't seem that she viewed me as a "boyfriend," but rather just as a friend. "I know how to make the skirt fit, Emmy," she said. "Oh?" "Yeah, just hang tight here. I'll be back shortly. Ok?" I wondered what she had up her sleeve. How could she "fix" my fat tummy so that I could fit into the skirt? It's not like I could magically loose that fat with a wave of a wand. She returned with an armful of clothes, some of which looked suspiciously like women's undergarments and such. She dropped them down on the sewing table. Naomi held up a pair of lacy, pink, satiny panties and a matching brassiere. "Here, take off all your clothes, and put on the panties and bra while I leave the room," she ordered. "Then I'll come back and help you with the rest." "But, Naomi," I objected, but she turned around and left the room. "Oh well, I may as well go through with this," I thought. I did as she ordered, and soon was standing there in the panties, while I struggled to reach behind my back to connect the hooks on the bra. I wasn't having much luck so I walked to look in the mirror that hunt on a closet door, hoping that might help guide me in the process. The sight I saw in the mirror almost turned me into shock; what I saw seemed to be a spitting image of my mother, who I have seen in her bra and panties more than once. She was a chubby woman (I guess chubbiness must run in our genes since Diane also had same body feature) and we looked very similar standing in a bra and panties. "You done, yet?" Naomi asked. "No. Having trouble hooking the bra." "Oh, I should have known. I'll have to help you." She reentered the room, took one look at me and smiled broadly, uttering the word "lovely." She came around behind me and I felt her fingers grab the hooks on the back of the bra. "Have you got your boobs placed into the cups, Emmy?" The word "boobs" surprised me, but Naomi was only being truthful. I indeed did have boobs and I know they were as big - or bigger - than most 12- and 13-year-old girls. She said the words very matter-of-factly, without any sense of criticism or judgment. "There, you go Emmy. They're hooked. Now we'll put on this foundation garment to draw in your tummy." "What?" I protested. "Put on that corset?" "Yes, honey, it'll give you a nice girlish figure by narrowing your waist, and we'll be able to see how the skirt hangs." Without waiting for me to agree, Naomi had the garment in her hands, and had opened it up for me to step into. She literally pushed me into position to receive the item; it looked weird, kind of an off-white tone with what looked like armor plate sewn into canvass-type material. Strings dangled from the back, along with a few straps. I obeyed Naomi; she was so demanding. "I can't breathe," I complained, my voice high and girlish by now. "Don't be such a sissy, little girl," she teased. "Now suck in a bit. I'm going to tighten this up. It'll take your breath away at first, but don't worry. You won't die." She tugged and pulled and I fought for air, but Naomi advised me to stop fighting her adjustments. She said: "Just relax as I tighten you up. You'll soon get used to it." "Ok," I said, still gasping for air. Finally she finished tightening the garment, and I continued to struggle to breathe, but soon I relaxed and I became more comfortable with the garment. I felt stiff and wondered how I'd be able to bend over; I knew I would have to change the way I walk. "Wow, look at your boobs, Emmy," Naomi exclaimed pulling me over to a mirror. Even before I got to the mirror, I look down to see my breasts protruding further out than they had ever done before. The foundation garment had pushed the flesh of my breasts upward into the bra cups, creating a noticeable cleavage. "Oh my God," I said as I looked into the mirror. "I look like a girl." I could see Naomi reflected in the mirror, standing behind me smiling. "See how nice you look with the tummy pulled in, Emmy. It really shows off your hips." Her hands ran down my sides, following the newly-formed feminine contour of my body, and briefly settled on my thighs. She resumed the caress of my body, moving back up until she settled on the boobs where she held each one in her hands, and leaned her head around to kiss my neck. It unsettled me and I could feel my penis becoming aroused. Fortunately it was small so that it didn't make to big a bulge in my panties. "Oh Emmy, I'm so jealous of you. You have such magnificent breasts. You'll be the envy of all the girls in our class." I quickly folded my arms over my breasts as if to hide them, but the effect seemed only to accent the cleavage, as I looked down "Don't say that, Naomi," I pleaded. "Remember I'm a boy." "I'll try to remember you're a boy, but it's so hard when I look at you now," she teased. "Naomi!" I yelled at her. I looked again into the mirror, and smiled at my full-length image; indeed Naomi was right. I certainly did not look like a boy at the moment, but rather like a rather fetching young pre-teen girl who still was in the "baby fat" stage of her life. The image excited me. "I know, Emmy. I won't tease you anymore. Let's get you into the blouse and skirt now," she said. Naomi held up a cream-colored peasant blouse with light pink fluorescent embroidery with short puffy sleeves and I fell in love with it the minute I saw it. She helped me slip it over my head and pull it down to even it off. It fit like a charm, and the bodice helped show off my breasts, a realization that at first excited me, but then the realization of my situation frightened me. A boy shouldn't have breasts like that, I knew, and shouldn't like dressing like a girl. But I loved what I had become! "Now, let's get away from the mirror, Emmy, while I finish with you." Naomi pulled me away from the mirror, and helped me step into the skirt. Now, with the foundation garment pulling my tummy in, the skirt fit around my waist perfectly. "Let me see," I said. "No, let's wait 'til we get you fully dressed so you can see the full effect." "What do you mean? Fully dressed? Aren't I dressed now?" "No, Emmy. Trust me. You'll want to see the full package," Naomi said. The "full package" meant white ankle socks, with a pink trim and a pair of cream-colored sandals with a short heel, which she helped be put on, since it was so hard to bend over because of the stiff corset. She had me sit down on a vanity bench, turning my body so that I could not see into the mirror while she busily brushed my hair. She fussed over the hair for a while, and I could sense that she was fashioning a bang that hung over my forehead and to the left, while letting the hair hang freely. "There," she said. "That should do. And Emmy, I just love your hair. It's so full and easy to manage." "Are you done?" I asked. "Not quite. We need to do your face." "My face?" She ignored me, and reached over onto the vanity to get something. "What color lips you want, Emmy?" she asked, showing my three sticks of lipstick of varying shades of pink. "How about this one?" I pointed at a light pink stick, which I thought would match the pink embroidery of the blouse. "Good choice. You have a great color sense, Emmy. Hold still while I put this on." I did as ordered, wishing I had the courage to tell her that I had already learned how to wear lipstick, having experimented several times with mom's sticks; I had long been fascinated by watching her to her makeup and found the act of putting on lipstick stirred up a marvelous sensation in me. I just loved how feminine an act that was. After applying a few hints of eye liner and eye shadow, along with the application of foundation and a bit of color in the cheeks, she completed the makeup. "Can I look now?" I asked eagerly. "You're really getting into this, aren't you Emmy? I think you like it." I started to turn to look into the mirror, but she stopped me. "No, not yet. Just two more things. Don't move." She produced a paid of pearl-colored tear drop clip-on earrings, and expertly clipped them onto my ears. I reached up to finger one of them, letting my fingers play gently with them. "Oh my God, Emmy, what you did right now. That's so girl." "What is?" I said shocked. "The way you fingered that earring, just like a girl would. You're a natural." "Oh Naomi, please don't say that!" "Oh posh. I can see you like this, Emmy. You can't kid me, but don't worry; this is just between you and me." She was right: I was enjoying it and it was the most fun I've ever remembered having in my young life. Being a girl just seemed to come naturally to me. "Now, let's put this on, and I think we're done," she said, displaying a small heart-shaped locket and a gold chain, which she proceeded to pull around my neck and clip in the back. I could feel the cool metal of the locket as it touched that softness of my cleavage. "Is that me?" I said as I looked into the full length mirror. "That's you, Emmy," she said. "But that's a girl. A girl." "Yes, I think her real name is Emily, not Emery," she giggled. "Emily, I like that. Emily." With that I struck a number of girlish poses in the mirror. I had heard boys talk about girls who were "stacked" and "well-endowed" and it appeared I was just one of those girls. "This is too good, Emily. We must get some pictures. I'm going to call Aunty." I was horrified. "No Emily, you can't. This was just between you and I and it was just to check out my skirt, but now look what you've done." "Don't worry, Emily. Aunty won't mind and she takes good pictures. You'll want to save this moment, don't you?" Before I could object, Naomi burst to the door and yelled: "Aunty, can you come here and bring your camera?" ***** I tried frantically to find a place to hide before Aunty entered the room, but there really was no where to go. How could I show myself to another person like this? Aunty burst into the room, holding a camera; she stopped short and looked, her face registering full surprise. "I didn't know you invited a girlfriend here today. What happened to your friend, Emery?" she asked. Naomi giggled. "This is Emery, Aunty, or should I say Emily." I stood there almost in paralysis, not knowing how to react, as Aunty's eyes ran up and down, examining all of me. Finally, I managed a dainty wave, and squeaked out a "Hello" in a high, girlish pitch. Aunty - a tall, statuesque woman in her 40s with strikingly attractive features - looked sternly at her niece, saying: "What are you doing to him? His parents will be livid with you, Naomi." "Oh that's Ok," I said quickly. "Mom won't mind." It might have been a bit of an exaggeration, since I knew mom was cool with me sewing and even playing with dolls, but she'd never seen me dress up as a girl. "But Emery," she replied, looking at me critically. "Are you sure she won't mind? And what about your dad?" "There's no daddy," I said, blushing and suddenly feeling ashamed and pathetic, realizing I was not fulfilling the picture of what a 12-year- old boy should be. "But, Aunty," Naomi pleaded. "Not every boy has to be a football hero. We, all of my friends, we like Emmy. He's one of our best friends." Aunty nodded. "I know Emery is a nice boy, dear, but this could cause him trouble if other kids found out. And what do you call him, Emmy?" I quickly interjected: "Oh that's because my best friend from even before kindergarten couldn't say Emery and called me Emmy. It just seemed to stick, I guess." With Aunty's apparent rejection of my appearance as a girl, I began feeling foolish, if not a bit humiliated. For a moment, I had loved how I looked; now Aunty's reactions brought doubt into my mind and I began feeling worthless and ridiculous. I suddenly began to cry. "Oh Emmy, don't cry dear," Naomi said, rushing to my side and hugging me, handing me a tissue. "No, dear, please understand that I was not criticizing you," Aunty began to explain. "I was just worried about what your parents . . . ah . . . your mother would say if she knew Naomi was helping you dress." I looked up at her, and she smiled. Her attitude softened immediately. "Emily you're lovely, so pretty," she said finally. "Would you mind if I took a few pictures so you can save this moment if you wished? They'll be just for you and Naomi, but never to be shown to anyone else without your permission, Emily." "That's Ok," I said, wiping my eyes. "But I'll have to fix my makeup. I must have ruined it crying." Naomi giggled. "Just like a girl, Emily, worrying about her makeup." I continued to dab at my face, trying to clear off the marks of running tears; Naomi helped me a bit. "You do that like a girl, dear, like you've been doing it your whole life," she said. I must have blushed noticeably since Naomi said: "She's so easily embarrassed, Aunty." With Naomi's use of "she" I became even more shocked. She said it so easily, just as if she's only seeing me as a girl, with all signs of my boyishness totally gone. This was totally getting out of hand, I feared. 'Emily, you are all girl, honey," Aunty said. "I can't sense there's any boy there at all. You're really too precious, honey. You don't want to forget this moment." Aunty left the room to get her camera and other paraphernalia while Naomi and I worked on repairing the damage to my makeup. "This is so weird, Naomi," I said as we worked on the makeup. "I feel like it's so wrong, like I'm being naughty or something, but I like how I feel all dressed up and pretty. So you think I'm pretty, Naomi?" "There's not a prettier girl in our class," she said. "I'm jealous." "But I'm a boy." "You could fool me," she said. And we both began giggling. Just then Aunty returned and proceeded to prepare for the photo session. "I called your mother, Emily," Aunty said, continuing to address me as if I was a girl. "I felt she needed to know what we're doing; she's most concerned that this be private, just between us girls, and that no one else knows." "You called mommy?" "Yes, and once I explained how this all happened, she was Ok with it, and in fact she'd coming over now since she's interested in seeing how her new daughter looks." Aunty finished, giving me a wink. "Oh my," I said, worried that mom should see me like this. "I think she'll like what she sees, dear. Now let's get started. Let's call this a 'photo shoot,' like it's for a fashion magazine, or a teen girl's magazine,'" Aunty said. I blushed. This was getting serious. "Come on, Emily," Aunty ordered. "Let's move you over here where we've got this nice background with the shelf of dolls and fluffy bunnies." "Just a minute. I need to check my looks," I said, suddenly feeling enthralled by the attention I was being given. "Just like a girl," Naomi repeated with a giggle. Another look in the mirror confirmed everything Aunty and Naomi had said about me. There was no sign of a boy in the image; there was just an image of a plump girl with a noticeable bosom, soft arms and pretty, but fleshy legs. I primped myself in front of the mirror, moving into several different girlish poses before Aunty ordered me to move into the assigned spot. There was no question about it: I was an adorable girl, and I liked what I saw. It was a far better feeling than reflecting on myself as a boy who looked pathetically chubby and weak. Aunty must have taken 30 pictures of me with her digital camera. She was a most demanding photographer, and I could tell she had professional experience. I later learned that Aunty had been a fashion photographer who had built up a good clientele before leaving to enter the business world. I found myself responding eagerly to her demands, even lying provocatively on the bed so that a hint of cleavage showed as well as a small bit of the soft flesh of an inner thigh that emerged from a hiked- up skirt. I posed as well with several dolls or stuffed bunnies in my arms. None of these poses was pornographic, but I had the feeling I was being photographed as a Hollywood starlet would have been. In just a few minutes, she had loaded the pictures onto her laptop and returned to the room to show them to us. "There you are Emily," she said, running through them in the slide show mode. "Oh my God, you'll have every boy in school after you, Emily," Naomi said. I couldn't believe what flashed before me on Aunty's monitor: the girl in the pictures was the picture of innocence, a soft, fetching fresh- faced girl with blue eyes and strawberry blonde hair. She looked like the 'tween girl she was, looking forward to a happy future. Her smile was particularly captivating, as if she was the happiest girl in the world. "You look so sweet, Emily," Aunty said. I guess for the first time in my life I saw a photo of myself that I liked; before, when I looked at snapshots my mom took of me as a boy, I felt embarrassed and ugly. Now, I was proud of the image before me. Suddenly being a girl seemed like heaven; how could I ever think of being a boy again? ***** The doorbell rang at Aunty's house, but neither Naomi nor her aunt seemed to seek to go to the door to open it. "It should be your mommy," Aunty said, addressing me. "You go and answer it." "Like this," I said. "Of course, honey," Aunty said. "She's coming to meet her new daughter." I blushed, and moved off to the door, worried about mom's reaction. The corset was forcing me to hold myself stiffly as I walked requiring shorter steps and I got the sense I was probably walking in a feminine fashion. I was still getting used to walking in heels, even in the short-heeled sandals I had on, probably making me look even more girlish. It seemed to come naturally. I opened the door slowly, still trembling in anticipation of what mother would think. I loved my mother so much, and had always felt that she must have felt cheated that her only son was such an awkward failure. Now, what would she think? That I was a pathetic sissy? Or, that I was a lovely young girl? The woman standing before me as I opened the door was mother, of course. She looked at me, and got a quizzical look on her face, as if she wasn't sure she had come to the right house. She was frozen in place. "Hi mom, won't you come in?" offering her a slight girlish curtsey as I held the door open for you. She said nothing, her look growing troubled as she stepped by me into the house, where Naomi and Aunty stood awaiting her. She nodded greetings to them and then turned to me: "Emery?" "Yes, mom," I nodded, still not sure how she was responding. "Oh my God," she said, breaking into tears. "Mother, mother, don't cry," I pleaded going to her and letting myself be drawn into her soft ample bosom. "It's just for fun, Mrs. Tracy," Naomi volunteered. "We'll clean her . . . er . . . him . . . up so you'll see your son as he was before." "Emery," mom said, still holding me. "She asked us to call her Emily today, Mrs. Tracy," Aunty said. Mom pushed me away. "Now let me get a good look at you, Emily," mom said, and I began to feel better. Mom was smiling, and smiling broadly. Aunty led us back into the sewing room where the light was better and I went through the various poses, trying to emulate what I'd seen in the "runway" shows and fashion presentations on television. "My darling, you're gorgeous," mom said, even applauding at the end of my little performance. "She is," echoed Aunty. Mom had me turn several other poses for her, giving me nods of approval as I finished each one, her smile brighter than I think I had ever seen it. "What a daughter you'd make, Emily, and such a pretty daughter, too," she said finally. Then, she shook her head, seemingly in despair. She gave me a kindly smile, drew me into her softness, and held me tightly. "I'm sorry, Emery," she said, her words coming slowly and deliberately. "I guess it's just not to be, but honey I love you, my son. You're such a special son." I quickly understood what my mother was saying. In a few minutes I'd be reverting into Emery, her son, a teenaged boy who would continue through school as a pathetic boy and would soon become a man. It was a prospect that scared me; I had doubts that I could ever be a man. I had heard of boys who had become girls and were transgendered, but that seemed so remote and radical, I just couldn't imagine undertaking such a step. I stepped back from my mother, and with tears filling my eyes, I said: "Mom, I love you so much. I'll make you proud of Emery, too. I promise." "I know you will, son," she said. "It's just that . . ." Her sentence trailed off and I wondered where it had been headed, but I think I knew. ***** On the following Monday, I returned to school as Emery, dreading third hour - my gym class period. I knew I'd humiliate myself that day - just as I seemed to do every such class period - in some pathetic way. That day Coach Matthews lined us up in four rows to take turns at climbing the four thick ropes that dangled from the ceiling. Under each rope was a mat which would cushion the fall of any boy who might lose his grip and fall. Coach showed us how to climb the rope, using feet and hands to move a person up the rope. "It's easy, boys," he said, as he climbed the rope expertly and quickly in his demonstration. "So how simple it is," he said. "I'm sure most girls could do it, too, so all of you boys should do fine." I watched as boy after boy took to the rope, some easily scampering up as if they were monkeys, while others having difficulty coordinating their feet and hands but all got at least up to the third knot in the rope. I watched in awe as each boy made the climb, their arms displaying bulging muscles. I knew, just knew, I could not do it. But didn't Coach say even a girl could climb? Well, I thought, maybe I might just be able to do it. I noticed Coach eyeing me closely as my turn came; I approached the rope gingerly grabbing on to the first knot in the rope that was located just above the height of my head. I put both hands on the knot, and tried to lift myself up a bit so that I could take my feet off the ground and position them on the bottom knot to provide the boost that Coach demonstrated. Though Coach said "even a girl could do it," I found my arms were too weak to lift my body enough to fit my feet onto the rope, which seemed move each time I tried to put my feet onto it. I struggled and struggled, growing short of breath, my arms able to lift me only slightly off the floor, but finally weakening so that I lost my grip and stumbled off the rope, thankful only that I could remain standing, but breathing heavily. "Move on there," Coach said gruffly. "Let a real boy get his turn." I know tears were beginning to form, but I strained to hold them back trying not to embarrass myself anymore than I had. I looked at Coach as I moved to join others who had completed their turns. I swear he mumbled something that sounded vaguely like "such a girl." Fortunately, no boy said anything to me as I joined the group, still breathing heavily from my failed try at rope-climbing. I kept my head down, not wishing to meet the eyes of another boy. Finally I looked up, at the portable wall that separated the large gym. Boys' classes were on one side and girls' classes on the other half of the room. There was a door in the portable wall, and I noticed it stood open. I could see into the other room where the girls in their gym outfits (they looked so cute in their blue gym shorts and yellow tank tops) went through calisthenics. Briefly I saw Naomi - chunky and soft - going through her exercises. She was struggling a bit, I could see, as she did jumping jacks, her thick thighs jiggling and her wide bottom filling out the blue shorts. I began imaging as I looked at her that I might be seeing myself as one of the girls in that class, puffing my way through the exercises. I smiled: Wasn't that the class I belonged in? With the girls, as a girl? Well, maybe someday it'll come true. The End