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Flamingo
By Cassandra Morgan
Even before I was a sissy, I was a sissy. Mock me if you will.
You know what I mean. Before I was a sissy with that word's connotations
of sexual byplay, a submissive sissy, I was a sissy of the grandest kind.
I was the frail child you see playing hopscotch instead of baseball, or
jump rope instead of basketball. I was the little boy playing with girls
long before he knew why. I was the boy with dolls.
The idea was never to be girly. It was never a conscious choice. But
girls were nicer, and prettier, and calmer. I wasn't strong enough,
sweaty enough, to play with boys. I liked to read. I liked to paint. I
liked dance class.
It wasn't about being a girl. It wasn't about rejecting boys. It was just
looking for where I fit. From the start, my world was pink.
And I was destined to grow up like this.
* * *
I sit at the bar, feeling like a mouse being studying by hawks.
There are a few of us, the prey of the evening, sitting and allowing the
eyes of the huntresses to scan us. I am wearing a pink golf shirt and
khakis, but still, I know how I come across. I am small and thin, and I
am soft in appearance.
I drink a Fuzzy Navel. Not because I particularly like the taste, but
because that's one of the concoctions that my kind drinks. I reach and
grab a fistful of peanuts from the bar. I have read that you should never
dip into a nut dish at a bar, because God knows what was on the last
guy's hands. But I am nervous, and I want something in my mouth, and my
Lord, do you have a dirty mind!
This is my first time in the Sin City bar. I look around. It is a typical
bar, except for the clientele. A lot of Mistresses here. A few of us
sissies. The huntresses and the hunted.
Hello, I'm K.D. Gardner, but for most of my life, I've been called Katie
out of derision. I live here in Cincinnati in the accounting firm of
Forbes and Johnson. They know about the g-rated sissy in me. They do not
know about the r-rated sissy.
I look nervously around the room. There are two couples on the dance
floor, those brave souls who always start the boogie. Most of us just
drink and exchange small talk. It will get more interesting as it gets
later.
I long for this like a drug dealer. Like an astronaut yearns for space. I
imagine myself in a dress, my lips red and my eyes accented. I imagine
hose on my legs and a bra around my chest. A lifetime has led me here.
No, I'm not gay. No, I'm not transgender. If I was, I suppose any pretty
dress would do. A wedding dress. A prom dress. A nice sundress. But I
want to be controlled, as well. I want someone who will spank me. I want
someone who will guide me.
I am a sissy. God help me.
There are sissies to come to a pick-up bar like this already dressed in
their pretty yellow dresses and their hair ribbons. I've never been one
of those. I always figured that sissies dress to make their mistresses
happy, and if it is about the pleasure of the mistress, then she should
be the one picking out the clothing
It is early yet. I should nurse my drink. Instead, I take a deep
mouthful.
I need the courage.
* * *
If you are different in life, if you are weak, the world will hurt you. I
know. It hurt me.
Bullies must have gotten my name from a newsletter, because they always
seemed to find me. They jumped on me about the clothes I wore, about the
way I carried my books against my chest instead of under my arm, about
the lilt in my voice. They would make fun of me, mincing and talking in
falsetto. They asked if I liked to bake or to play with dolls or to make
jewelry. I was afraid to tell them that I liked all of those things.
When I was 12, my father sat me down for a talk. He was an outdoorsy
type, a fisherman and a hunter who liked to kill things. I am sure he was
confused by a son who didn't know whether to throw a ball or to open it
up.
"K.D.," he said, and the sound of my real name sounded strange to me. "I
want to ask you something, and I want you to be honest with me, and it's
okay. Okay?"
I nodded.
"K.D., are you gay? Do you know what gay is?"
"Yes," I said. His eyes widened. "I mean, I know what it is. But I'm not.
I never..."
"You don't play ball," he said. "You don't get into fights. You're not
the most aggressive kid on the block. Are you sure you're not gay? Tommy
Johnson's boy, Steven, is gay. There is nothing wrong with it, I guess."
Steven Johnson is gay?
"Dad, the other boys call me names. They say I'm a sissy. I know I'm
smaller and weaker than they are, but I'm not gay."
"A sissy, huh?" he nodded.
"I wish they wouldn't."
"Well, K.D., you kind of have ... sissy tendencies, you know. You bake, for
instance. You take dance lessons. You take violin. You have to realize
that the other boys are going to call you names. You should get out, get
dirty. Roll around in the mud. Have fun."
I made a face. Getting muddy did not appeal to me at all.
My father looked at me and sighed.
He thought I was a sissy, too.
* * *
I sit at the bar, and a Mistress walks by. She looks at me and smiles. I
smile back. I get shivers all over.
I wonder if she can tell that I have never had a Mistress before. Or a
Master, for that matter. I am a 26 year old virgin, and it has not been
by choice. But it takes a while for a sissy to figure out what he is, and
why, and where to go to do something about it.
"Hi," she said. "I'm Mistress Veronica. And you are..."
"Katie," I said.
She smiled. "Not yet, princess.What is your male name."
"It's K.D., Kevin Dean. But everyone calls me Katie. It was their way of
calling me a fag and not worrying whether the teachers were listening."
"So, Katie. How long since you've had a Mistress?"
"Oh, ma'am," I said. "I've never had a Mistress. You would be my first?"
"Never?" she said.
"No, ma'am."
"Oh, Katie, that's too bad. I don't need a trainee, sugar pop. I need
someone who knows the rules. Someone who is used to getting her ass
spanked and then making me my breakfast. Beginners are just too much
trouble."
"I'm sorry, Mistress," I said. "I'm a quick learner."
"I'm sure you are. And I'm sure you'll find a domme who will teach you.
Maybe I'll see you again in, oh, a year or so."
"Yes, ma'am."
She stood and disappeared into the thickening crowd. She was tall,
pretty. Powerful, I am sure. I was disappointed.
"Ah, you didn't want her anyway, mate."
I looked toward the voice, and it was the bartender. "Hi," he said. "I'm
Colin. Can I freshen your drink for you?"
I nodded. "Do you know her?"
"Veronica? Everyone knows Veronica. Mistress Bladder I call her. She
likes to wee on her sissies. Unless you brought an umbrella, you don't
need Mistress Bladder. The weather report with her is always showers, you
know. Golden ones."
"Oh," I said, looking back toward her. But she was gone.
"You a submissive .... what's your name?"
"I'm Katie," I said. "Yes, I think I am. Really, I always have been.So I
thought it was time I took the lifestyle for a test drive, you know? I'm
sorry, Colin. This is embarrassing to talk about."
"Why?" he said. "It's all human frailty. You have something in your
nature that makes you this sort of creature. Nothing to be ashamed of.
Does a bird feel ashamed it isn't a cat? No, it just decides to enjoy
being a bird. Maybe especially the colorful ones, like flamingoes."
I laughed. "I guess I'm a flamingo," I said.
"There you are," he said. "To flamingoes! Especially the pink ones."
* * *
By the time I was 14, I was spending a lot of time with my mother. Part
of it was that I had no friends. The other part is that, well, mom was
great company.
We talked. We gossiped. We cooked. We watched chick flicks. I can't tell
you how many tissues I went through with Julia Roberts movies. Yeah, I'm
a cryer. Sue me. I found movies extremely moving, and with me, tear-
jerkers don't have to jerk very hard.
It was about this time I started to fix her hair. I started picking out
her clothing. I took jazz and tap and modern dance.
One night, we were making a casserole, and Mom turned to me and smiled.
"So, you're still insisting you aren't gay," she said.
"I'm not, Mom," I said.
"It doesn't matter to me one way or the other," she said. "I do know that
some boys dress like girls but they aren't gay. I saw that on Oprah."
"Oh."
"Look, sweetie, you're my love," she said. "My only child. And I'll love
you no matter what kind of clothing you wear. If you want to wear
dresses, it's okay."
I blushed.
"I've never worn dresses," I said.
"I believe you. I'm just saying. This woman on Oprah said that when she
was a little boy, she wore panties all the time. And if you want to do
that, I'll understand"
"Mo-om," I said, drawing it out in protest.
"Hey, we're just talking here, okay? You know I love your help around the
house. I love when we play bridge. I'm just saying that if you wanted to
be my daughter sometimes, that would be cool. I've always wanted a
daughter."
"No thank you, Mom," I said.
But I'll be honest. There was something exciting in the offer, something
sexy. I'd love to put on lipstick. I'd love to roll my hair. But I was
confused, and I was weak, and I let the offer slide past me.
If I had known then what I know now, I would have been wearing a maid's
dress by dinner-time.
* * *
I was still chatting with Colin when a figure plopped down on the bar
stool next to me.
It was a sissy, I assumed. He was a little taller than me, but not much.
His hair was in a high pony tail, and although his fingernails weren't
painted, they had an extra length to them. He was wearing skinny jeans.
He was sitting by now, so I couldn't tell if they were girls' jeans or
boys'.
"Hi," he said, a deliciously hoarse voice coming out of him. "I'm
Marlena."
"Hi, Marlena."
She leaned in. "It's really Marlon, but don't tell anyone," she said and
laughed. "I'm the Belle of the Ball. I have the glass slipper."
I laughed. I liked her. She had all the bravado that I lacked.
"I'm Katie," I said.
"Straight name?"
"K.D.," I said, and explained.
"Oooh, this is my song," she said, grabbing my arm. It was a Taylor Swift
song, something about a boy who did her wrong. Of course, that was two
out three of her songs. But a lot of guys do a lot of girls wrong, don't
they. I liked her, too. I've wondered if she liked sissies.
"So you don't have a Mistress, Katie?" Marlena said. "Cute sissy like
you?"
"No, I'm afraid not. You?"
"Well, how can I put this. I got fired," he laughed, a tinkling little
tee-hee that I found just adorable. "My mistress decided she wanted all
penis, all the time. She was the fucking Lincoln Tunnel of Mistresses.
She never closed. Not even during rush hour... ooh, how about that one?
God, look at those shoulders. I love shoulders on a woman."
She was a blur of motion, talking and gesturing and laughing all at once.
Her hand motions were feminine thought, and it made me wonder how often
her nails were painted.
"Are you in straight clothes to meet someone, Marlena?" I asked.
"Why else? I feel fucking naked without boy clothes on. But I am wearing
panties and a bra and hose. And these are girls' jeans."
"So a tube of lipstick..."
"...And I'm Miss America."
We laughed together. I'll be honest. We are all looking for our other
halves, the yin to our yang. We crave the authority, the power of a
Mistress. But if it isn't there, well, another sissy can be fun, too.
What did Colin call it? Flamingoes. That's it.
Birds of a feather.
* * *
Sometimes, you don't think about sex. Sometimes, you don't think about
love.
Sometimes, friendship is enough.
And so it was that I started to hang around with Jessi Parsons, a girl I
met in French lab my junior year of high school. Oh, it was obvious that
I had a crush on Jessi, and it was obvious that she didn't feel the same.
But she was my friend, and I could deal with it.
She laughed like wind chimes. I read that somewhere, a gentle tickling of
laughter that meant she had found the absurdity of a situation. We
shopped together. We talked together. We studied together. We were Damon
and Pythias, except one of us was a girl and other was halfway there.
Jessi always talked about boys. Should she like this one? Did I think
that one was smart? Was that one handsome? Do I think he had a big penis?
Had I seen his car?
Soon enough, I was into the game, evaluating all the boys with her as if
we were judges at a male beauty pageant. If a guy wore an ugly shirt, she
was going to giggle about it. If a guy had a hickey on his neck, she was
going to notice.
Finally, and it had to happen, she was talking about Rick Baker, the
quarterback. She was talking about his teeth, and how white they were,
and how straight. She talked about his arms. She talked about his
stomach.
"So, Katie," she said. "Would you suck his cock?"
"God, no, Jessi," I said. "I'm not gay."
"You're not?"
"You know I'm not. You've spent enough time with me. Have you ever seen
me with a guy?"
"Oh. I thought it was because you were in the closet. Besides, everyone
knows you dated Andy Johnson as a freshman."
"I did not. I like girls."
"The hell you do. You're my gay bestie. Everyone knows I'm a Fag Hag for
you. What good is it if you're not a fag? You like girls? Tell me one
girlfriend you've had."
A tear fell out of my eye. "I kind of thought..."
"What?"
"...that it was you."
Jessi burst into laughter. "Oh, baby. I think of you as my best
girlfriend. But I'd rather have sex with Margie Glennon than with you.
She's more masculine than you are, Tell me: Have you ever had sex with
anybody?"
I slumped onto a chair, crushed. I stared at the floor. "No," I
whispered.
"I think you have a lot of thinking to do, K.D. Everyone in school thinks
you're gay. Hell, I've heard girls tell their boyfriends not to beat you
up, because you can't help being gay. Ask yourself this: is it possible
you're gay and in denial? Cause if you ain't gay, you ain't trying. Don't
you think about naked men? About Andy?"
I didn't say anything. I stared at the floor, softly crying. I heard the
door open and then close.
Alone again.
* * *
The bar was crowded now, heaving. It is amazing how deep this need is for
some of us, not to mention the corresponding need for a Mistress.
I wondered about being a domme. Would the thrill be in the control? In
the authority? Hell, anyone can make breakfast, if you think about it.
Anyone can wash a plate. But the thrill of making a guy meet his nature
must be intoxicating. Dressing him, shaping him, molding him into the
perfect sissy.
I had read all of the fiction from all of those of us yearning for the
role, how we created situations where we would be forced or blackmailed
into our role. Often, those tales were obviously written from the
viewpoint of a person who wanted this to happen to them so badly. I knew
how they felt. I really hadn't gone that far from a toy vacuum cleaner,
had I?
A man walked up to me and sat on the other side of Marlena. He looked
like a cast member of Game of Thrones. Long hair, bulging biceps, a scar
on his right eyebrow. "Hi," he said with a gravelly voice. "I'm Apollo."
"Hello," I said.
"Are you looking for a master? Am I the one you've waited for?"
"I'm, uh, I'm looking for Mistress."
"Are you sure. Maybe you hunger for my cock, but you're just afraid to
admit it."
"Sir, it's very kind of you. But I prefer a Mistress. It's who I am."
He looked me up and down. "You'll change your mind," he said. "You'll beg
me to fuck you."
"Perhaps, sir, I will get there in my journey. I'm just not there yet."
He nodded, picked up my hand and kissed it. He ran his tongue over my
knuckles. He was handsome. If I wanted a Master, I would be very lucky to
have him. But I didn't.
I watched him disappear into the night. He wouldn't last long, I thought.
Some sissy would gobble him up.
"Hot," Marlena said, watching him walk away.
"Hot," I agreed.
A domme was on the other side of Marlena now, buying her a drink. She
dropped a pacifier on the bar, a little blue binky with the rubber tip
that babies suck on. "Look," Marlena said. "It's the same size as my
dick!"
The Mistress laughed, then leaned in and whispered something.
"No, Mistress Hannah. I'm not into that, I'm afraid."
Mistress looked disappointed. "Age play can be fun, sugar," she said.
"You would love being my baby."
"I'm sorry, Mistress, but I wouldn't. I'm an adult sissy. I like my
panties. I like my bras. I like adult dresses."
"Ah, but imagine the control you would surrender. You wouldn't talk,
wouldn't even go to the bathroom except in in your diapers. Until you
make boom-boom in your pampers, you have not lived."
"Boom-boom isn't a big thing with me," Marlena said. "I'd rather a
Mistress take her strap-on and go bam-bam."
It was that way for a while. I assume the bar didn't just cater to us,
but to all sorts of fetishes. There was a guy into pony play. A girl on a
leash. A man who was in handcuffs. A girl dressed as a clown. Lesbians.
Gays. Transgenders.
And me.
I asked Colin for another drink. He was busy, too busy to talk. But he
put his hand over mine to reassure me.
"It'll happen, Katie," he said. "Just hang in there. Finding the right
puzzle piece is never easy."
I grinned at him. I wonder who he was sleeping with. Man? Woman? Sissy?
Whoever it was was lucky.
* * *
When I was 19, as luck would have it, I found the perfect job for a
sissy. Lots of cleaning. Lots of sorting. Lots of panties.
I was a sophomore at UC then, up to my eyes in numbers. I had tried to
join the campus little theatre, but I was a lousy actor. It wasn't being
small. Hell, most actors are so tiny you could put them in your pocket.
There aren't many guys in Hollywood who were tall enough to ride this
ride, you know.
But I looked feminine, too, with my long eye lashes and my full lips. My
hair was pony-tail length by then. I was offered the part as a back-up in
the role of Angel in Rent. I could have tried out for Albin in La Cage
au
Folles. They talked doing a stage version of Wong Fu.
Was that it? Was I simply seen as a transgender performer? I wasn't
masculine enough to be leading man, and I didn't dance well enough to be
a backup dancer of either gender.
So I went looking for another activity.
Randy, a gay activist on campus, wanted me to join the LGBT club. But I
was straight, remember. The chess club seemed boring. The botanist club
worked with flowers, but except for smelling them and wearing them in my
lapel, I didn't know enough about flowers. There was even a hair-
dresser's club, but that was mostly women. Still, that was a possibility.
Then I found it. The women's basketball team needed a equipment manager.
I applied for the job. No one else did.
Oh, it sounds official, doesn't it. Equipment manager. You know what I
was. I was the towel boy. When there was a time-out, I rushed onto the
court with Gatorade. I made sure that players with sprains and pulls got
to the athletic trainer in time.
It was a maid's job, to tell you the truth. I washed the towels and the
uniforms. I kept scrunchies in case one of the players needed one. I
wrapped ankles. In other words, it was pretty perfect. In my second year,
I was told I would get a letterman's jacket. The coach referred to me as
"one of her girls." I can't tell you the thrill that gave me.
There was a lot of lesbianism on the team, of course. It didn't bother me
if Susan and Rose were into each other, or Rhiannon and Ruby. We were a
family.
Becky Harrison, a power forward from Dayton, was friendly toward me. I
didn't know if she was gay or straight, but she needed help with her
calculus, so I volunteered to tutor. She joked and laughed, and for the
first time since Jessi, I felt I had found a friend.
"You have pretty hair," she said to me one night. "Do you ever do
anything with it?"
"Me? No. Just a pony tail."
She dragged her fingers through it. "You should layer it," she said.
"Maybe some highlights. You'd be very pretty. You know the girls wouldn't
care."
I blushed. "I risk getting beaten up just by wearing it long," I said.
"Still, you should get dolled up some time. Wear a dress. A nice
necklace. You'd be gorgeous."
I didn't say anything. I looked at my calc book.
"Katie? Do you wear panties?"
"God, no," I said too quickly.
"Why not?" she said. "You spend enough time washing them. By hand, I
assume. And the fact is, women's panties are so much more comfortable
than boys' boxers. I know, I've worn boxers. But the material in panties,
the cut, the fit. It's all better. If you take the stereotypes away from
it, why wouldn't we all wear panties?"
And so, it was time. My mother had made a similar offer when I was
younger, but the way Becky put it, there was no reason not to wear
panties. So I slipped out that night and went to Wal-mart. I bought a
package of three. I tried on a bra - I had no idea what size I was - and
bought three of those.
I picked up a bottle of orange juice, and a DVD, and a stapler. Just
other objects so the cashier wouldn't notice. But she did.
She held up a pink bra. "Price check on cashier nine. How much for the
Maidenform?" she said into the loudspeaker. I died. I was blushing
furiously. "Sweetie, you really should buy some pantyhose," she said. "We
have them on special. How are you going to be girly without hose."
Right in the middle of the store, I shrank. Oh, I didn't go full femme. I
didn't buy skirts or makeup or hose. But I did start to wear panties and
bras, and I liked them.
During games, Becky would reach over and rub the back strap of my bra.
"For luck," she said. Then the other girls started it. My bra was called
the Victoria's Secret Weapon, even though I hadn't bought them at
Victoria's Secret at that point.
In early November, we had our team photo taken. I didn't realize until I
looked just how feminine I was, with my long hair and a slight swell at
my chest. I had my ears pierced - just once in each ear - and it further
softened the look.
Why not? I was one of the girls.
* * *
A tall black woman, her skin shiny and dark, was talking to Marlena now,
and Marlena was smiling and chatty. The mistress's teeth flashed,
wonderfully white against her dark skin. She dropped her hand over
Marlena's, and Marlena laced her fingers into hers.
I loved the sight of first flirt, when people who are attracted to each
other feel each other out, where they match chemistry and intellect and
desire. Marlena was such a pretty sissy. This new domme - Mistress Zoe -
seemed strong and assertive. I could imagine them hitting it off. They
headed to the dance floor. Marlena was officially picked up, and I was
glad for her.
I turned back to my drink. I was pleasantly buzzed by now.I glanced
across the bar, and two Village People lookalikes were kissing furiously.
They were both the motorcycle guy, I thought. How does that work? Well,
it appeared they would find a way.
Then there was a body squeezing in next to me. "Hello, gorgeous," a
familiar voice said.
Becky!
I grinned, then I got a bit embarrassed by my surroundings, as if she had
been going to church when she stopped in.
"What are you doing here, Becky?" I asked.
"I could ask you the same thing," she smiled. "I've been here before a
time or two. Just trying to meet people. Sissies."
I looked at her. "Busted," I said. "I guess you knew?"
"I kind of suspected," she said. "You're just too pretty to be a guy. And
you aren't as fully femme as a transexual. That whole equipment manager
thing is perfect for a sissy."
"Yeah? How do you know?'
"Baby, when you're a woman athlete, when you're 5-11, you date shorter
guys a lot. Frankly, given how much we work in the weight room, you date
weaker guys a lot. It isn't odd to find one who likes your underwear.
Shit, Katie, it doesn't seem like a big deal to me. There is girl sex all
around a woman's hoop team. You've seen the cuddling on the team bus."
"I've seen it," I said.
"You know how they have the mile-high club on planes? We have the back-
of-the-bus club. I'm been a member since Vanessa Holt took me back there
when I was a freshman."
I laughed. "I'm not a member," I said.
"We could make this our team bus," she said.
I grinned. "So you looking for a sissy?"
She reached up and felt for my bra strap, but I wasn't wearing one. "For
luck," she said. "So don't let me catch you not wearing one again."
"No, Mistress," I joked.
She reached in her purse and pulled out a tube of dark red lipstick. She
handed it to me.
"Ma'am," I said, questioning.
"Put it on. Here and now."
"Here? Now?"
A little test," she said. "I want you girly. Now, with everyone watching.
Show them you're a sissy. My sissy. And be glad I'm not asking you to
suck a dick. Even though I might."
I ran the lipstick across my lips. She handed me a compact with eye
shadow. I tried. She handed me a butt plug.
"Just carry it for norm" she said.
The bar was looking. The sissies acknowledged me as theirs. The
Mistresses and Master acknowledged me as hers.
"I'm your Mistress, Katie. I like how that sounds. Now, Katie. I think
you ought to grow into your name, okay? I want you in dresses. I love
hugging a girly-boy in a dress. I want you in make-up, because I deserve
candy on my arm. I want you in heels, because nothing is sissier than a
guy trying to walk in heels. Even if they're good."
"But..."
" Not for you. This is for me. I want my sissy in skirts to announce that
she's mine. I want her in makeup to say I'm in charge. Maybe a maid
dress
to tell the world you're submissive. Every ounce of humiliation feeds me,
Katie. And it will feed you."
She went on with her expectations, her conditions.
"I want you to cook and clean. I want you to iron and vacuum. I want you
to be my girl, Katie, and damn anyone who doesn't like it. I want you in
a butt plug and a cock cage. I want you to grow your little titties. I
want a dedicated sissy, someone who will turn their life over to me. I
want someone with a great mind and painted nails and a clever tongue."
She leaned in and kissed me, softly. She ran her hands down my chest.
"I've been a mistress before. I like it. Does that scare you?"
"A little."
"It should, Katie. There will be things you won't want to do. But I want
to be able to make you do them."
"Things?"
"The bartender here. What's his name? Colin? What if I wanted to watch
you suck his cock? What if I wanted to see your cheeks bulge with his
cum? I'd like that, Katie. Would you? I like the power that surges
through you when you make your sissy perform. What if I wanted him to
stick in your asshole? Or if I wanted to put a vibrator there? What if I
wanted you to kiss his feet? Or lick my ass? Think about it, Katie. Are
there lines you will not cross? As there commands you will not obey?"
I looked at her. "I won't hurt anyone," I said. "I won't mess with
children. Everything else is negotiable."
She nodded. She kissed me again.
She stood and extended her hand. It was a firm hand, a strong hand. I
could imagine it coming down on my ass. She was taller than me by almost
five inches. Stronger. In charge. She was my Mistress. I belonged to her
for her to love, to fuck, to guide.
"Come, my sweet sissy Katie," she said. "It is time to go home. For you,
and for us."
(c) 2015 Cassandra Morgan
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